57. Verbal attack

“What are you doing here?”

Dashvara blinked, but it took a few more seconds to realize that the drow was not part of the nightmare. The sky was clearing, and Tsu was there, leaning next to him, as inexpressive as usual.

“Tsu!” he exclaimed, and he winced in pain as he stood up. His head was as heavy as a sack of lead. There’s a reason the sages from the Steppe have never been great drinkers, he thought. He glanced around. The Triplets, Shurta, Makarva, Orafe, and Atok were still sleeping. Finally, he said, “We celebrated our life as slaves and stayed out voluntarily to enjoy a pleasant night. And you, Tsu? Where have you been?”

The drow shrugged, looked to one side of the street, and asked:

“I hope you weren’t out looking for me, were you?”

Dashvara looked guilty.

“Well… we weren’t, actually. I didn’t even think about it. sorry. Did you have a problem?”

Tsu shook his head and smiled.

“No at all. Actually, my only concern is whether Foreman Lox or Wassag will ask prying questions.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and smiled back.

“Don’t worry. You’ve been partying with us, right?”

An uneasy glint passed through Tsu’s eyes.

“Thank you.” He paused for a moment. “Aren’t you going to ask me anything?”

Dashvara made an amused face as he massaged his head.

“Do you want me to ask you intrusive questions? Well, I don’t see why I should, knowing you’re not going to answer them.”

This time, Tsu clearly showed his embarrassment.

“True enough, but…”

“Mm?” Dashvara encouraged him.

The drow began to search for his words, and meanwhile, Dashvara tried to stretch his stiffened body. Finally, Tsu said:

“You are right. It’s better if you don’t know more about it, and it’s also better for me if I don’t talk about it. So just like that, Atasiag gave you money?”

“Ah, we won it with swords in hand,” Dashvara assured.

And then he began to tell him about the celebration of the Kondisters and the different kinds of duels.

“I was lucky I didn’t run into any particularly strong soldiers,” Dashvara finally admitted.

Tsu smiled.

“The truth is, such a soldier would have to be particularly strong to beat you, my friend.” The drow patted him on the shoulder before standing up. The others were beginning to awaken, and Dashvara finished waking them from their slumber by clapping his hands.

“Come on, get up, brothers!” he urged them cheerfully.

“Daaash,” Zamoy grumbled. “It’s no longer time to dance the dianka, you know?”

Dashvara smiled and headed for the portal. They didn’t have long to wait before Wassag appeared. He received them with a half-smile, half-exasperated pout.

“You could have woken me up,” he pointed out.

“You must have a good reason to wake up a sleeping man,” Dashvara replied in a solemn tone. “For us, sleep is sacred.”

Faced with this almost religious reason, Wassag found no reply and limited himself to informing:

“Yesterday, there were quite a few leftovers at dinner. We’re going to have lunch like kings.”

His assertion was confirmed when they entered the kitchen and found Uncle Serl, always anxious to please his flattering guests, laying out many leftover chicken meats on the table. Dashvara opened his eyes wide and looked at the dish as if he had never seen anything like it. The Xalyas took their seats without daring to touch the meat.

“Uh… is this really for us?” Ged the Armorer asked, looking indecisive.

Uncle Serl showed all his teeth.

“Yesterday, the eldest son of the Korfu came here as a guest, and Miss Fayrah ordered too much meat. She also ordered a lot of cakes, but there was not a single one left,” he apologized with a small smile.

“Bah, such gluttons!” Zamoy laughed, and he got up first to help himself to a chicken breast.

Within minutes, the Xalyas devoured everything. Dashvara smiled to himself when he saw the Triplets so full of energy. He had almost forgotten about his headache.

“By the way,” the captain interjected, “you people don’t know about this. Yesterday, Sashava spoke with our shaard.”

Dashvara gasped and looked expectantly at Grumpy.

“Did you see him at the University? How is he?”

Sashava nodded.

“He’s fine. He’s half blind, so he had a hard time recognizing me. But you don’t know how happy he was when he finally recognized me. I told him about our adventures. He didn’t say much. Apparently, the Akinoas almost killed him, but then they decided to sell him to the Essimeans when they found out he was a shaard. And the Essimeans sold him to the Master. This is unusual because, usually, the Essimeans have always done everything to annihilate the shaards of the other clans. They must consider that a single shaard can no longer resurrect the Eternal Bird in the steppe, who knows. Anyway, at the University they treat our old man as a wise man. He asked me to repeat some words to our last lord of the steppe,” he added with a small smile. “He said, ‘May Dashvara remember what I told him that day when he came to offer me the golden petals of a flower and did not bring me the stem.’”

Dashvara looked at him, perplexed, and faced with the curious looks of his brothers, he finally confessed:

“This may sound silly, but I don’t remember that.”

Several Xalyas laughed.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I guess our shaard has a better memory than you, my lord!” Zamoy chuckled.

“You were giving flowers to our teacher?” Makarva teased.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Well, apparently. I don’t know, the episode rings a bell, but in any case I couldn’t have been more than six or seven. It’s hard to remember a philosophical lesson from Maloven at that age. So he’s half-blind?” he continued. “Well, as long as he’s happy and they treat him well…” he pouted and asked, “Is there any way to talk to him?”

“From what I understand, he often goes out for a walk in the afternoon,” Sashava replied. “But that just coincides with your training schedule.”

Dashvara looked disappointed, then smiled.

“Well, if you see him again, tell him that the Lord of the Steppe has a memory lapse. No,” he waved his hand, “now seriously. Tell him that I have not forgotten his wise lessons and that I am following them to the letter. More or less.”

“Shall I add this ‘more or less’?” Sashava asked mockingly.

Laughter ran through the table. Dashvara nodded without hesitation:

“One of Maloven’s lessons was: never consider a lesson as perfect, otherwise one day you will end up applying it without reason. The lessons of a shaard guide the Eternal Bird, the lessons of life shape it, but in the end, the Eternal Bird, we create it ourselves.”

Sashava smiled, and his eyes reflected approval, which was rare of him.

“If I see him again, I’ll tell him,” he promised.

A few minutes later, they emerged into the courtyard, where Atasiag’s six adulators were already waiting for the Hour of Constancy. As soon as His Eminence came out, the citizens vied with each other for his attention in obsequious praise and servility. That morning, Atasiag asked Dashvara to accompany him and Boron. He was very pleased when his six loyal customers complimented him on the good image he had left the day before at Mount Serene during the dueling games. All the way to the Homage Square, the hobbit babbled about the excellent relationship Atasiag was building with the Alfodrog Legitimates and talked about a younger son who had finished his military service as an assistant to the Ragails.

“I believe that now his parents are looking for a good match to marry him,” he said. “And I have heard that the young man has good relations with your two daughters, Eminence.”

Atasiag did not lose his smile when he replied:

“Well, they’ll probably marry him off to the Terowalds’ daughter. The two houses get along wonderfully and are Legitimate houses. It is not proper to be too arrogant and greedy, is it, my friend?”

The hobbit’s face flushed.

“Of course, Eminence. Arrogance is a sin. May Cili keep us from it,” he prayed.

Dashvara suppressed a smile. As always, Atasiag was having fun teasing his followers like a puppy.

It was a summer day, and by the time they reached the boxes in the square, it was already packed with people. Several of Atasiag’s merchant associates appeared and bowed to him, making it clear that they recognized his superiority as a magistrate. Then the Legitimate Shaag Yordark arrived. He was a black human, a bit old; he wore the blue and white tunic of the Councilors, and although he wore no jewels or other pomp, his presence was imposing. This time it was Atasiag’s turn to pay his respects before everyone took their seats on the stone bleachers. Imitating the other slaves, Dashvara and Boron took their seats near the box.

“I’m afraid today’s talk is going to drag on,” Durf commented, one of the Yordark slaves. “Yesterday a whole shipment arrived, and now it’s time to divide the profits. Tempers flare quickly when there’s money involved,” he smiled.

Dashvara returned his smile, and pulling out the sailor cards, said:

“Since I was taught to be forward thinking, I brought something to keep us busy.”

This was the second time the Yordark slaves had played Xalyans, and they only needed to explain the rules to two elves who were serving a merchant from Agoskura. They came from a far away forest and barely spoke Common Tongue, but since Durf knew Agoskurian, they were able to communicate.

As Durf had predicted, the conversation in the lodge dragged on and on as the sun began to seriously blaze over their heads. At one point, the Agoskurian trader barked something at one of the elves, and that one quickly got up and walked over to a water carrier. Immediately afterwards, the others followed suit, and responding to a silent command from Atasiag, Dashvara sighed, put the cards in his pocket, walked to another water carrier, and for half a detta, borrowed a glass for His Eminence. When he handed it to him, the federate smiled:

“Thanks, Dash. How’s the game going?”

Dashvara looked comical.

“Much more interesting than your business, I suppose,” he whispered.

Atasiag rolled his eyes.

“Right away, we’re talking about nominations to the Council. I find this rather interesting. Tell me. You can ride a horse, can’t you?”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement. And what did that have to do with anything?

“All Xalyas can ride,” he replied. “Even among the old clans, we were considered the best horsemen on the steppe.”

Atasiag looked satisfied, finished his glass of water and turned to Shaag Yordark.

“Excellency, I think I have found the men you need.”

Shaag examined Dashvara briefly before nodding.

“Good. We’ll talk about that later. Now that I remember, my son Faag captured the Honyrs who fled the Shjak border. He spared their lives, so they’ll probably be part of the lot too.”

Dashvara gave Atasiag a look of incomprehension, but Atasiag did not deign to explain and waved him away with a mysterious smile. Well, surely you know what you’re doing, federate, he sighed, walking away with the empty glass.

It was only when he resumed his card game that he thought of Yordark’s words. Had he said “Faag”? Could he be referring to Captain Faag with whom he had spoken at Compassion? It was likely. In any case, except for the fact that they were both black and had blue eyes, they didn’t look much alike.

He spoke about the Honyrs, he remembered then with a shiver. If it were true that they had taken Steppe Thieves to Diumcili… He sighed. When we return to the steppe, there will be nothing left but ruins, ilawatelks, and wild horses.

Boron the Placid won the game, and Dashvara let someone else take his place to stretch his legs. He was walking along the cobblestones, hands in his pockets, strolling among the nearest market stalls, when he heard, above the usual din, an exclamation followed by more shouting. For a moment, he thought that an argument or a fight had broken out between Unitarians and Federates or who knows, but when he finally made out the words, he realized that it was not the case:

“Out, foreigners! Out, barbarian workers!” the voice shouted. “We don’t need you!”

He finally saw an old caitian with a sign hanging around his neck that said: «For a dignified Titiaka: foreign workers out!». Most of the passers-by looked at him, bewildered. Others smiled mockingly. And still others watched him with polite curiosity. Dashvara was one of the latter.

“Out, you barbarians!” the enlightened one shouted. “You are stealing the work of our workers! We don’t need foreigners! Pagans! Profiteers! Unbelievers!”

He stopped whenever he saw a slave who looked like he had been imported and pointed to him as if to put a divine curse on him. When he stopped in front of Dashvara and shouted his refrain again, Dashvara opened his mouth; he couldn’t help it.

“You want me to leave here, citizen? Nothing would please me more,” he assured with irony, “believe me, I would gladly leave my work to a slave raised in Titiaka so that he could enjoy it as much as I do. But, you know, old man, it is rather my master that you must convince, not me.”

The enlightened one looked at him with bulging eyes, but the surprised expressions of the nearest passers-by reflected rather amusement. Dashvara tilted his head mockingly and was already turning his back when the curmudgeon bellowed, his complexion flushed:

“Insolent!”

Why, in the name of the Eternal Bird, could you not hold your tongue, Dash? Dashvara sighed and returned to the lodge where his fellow slaves were shaking their heads, half in disbelief and half amused.

“One day your ingenuity will get the better of you,” Durf of the Yordarks kindly warned him.

“There always comes a day when something gets the better of us,” Dashvara replied.

In any case, the cries of the exalted one were not heard again all morning in the market.

In the afternoon, after the training, Dashvara learned that the cursed caitian had had the brilliant idea of denouncing Atasiag for verbal attack. His Eminence had to pay two denarii of compensation, and when he summoned Dashvara to his office, he only said:

“You shouldn’t pick on the citizens, Philosopher. And certainly not on those who have seen their rents collapse. Some people are only interested in picking fights and raking in money wherever they can. Next time, I trust you to be a little more… reserved.”

Perhaps he expected Dashvara to look contrite. If so, he must have been surprised when he saw him laugh.

“A verbal attack,” Dashvara guffawed. “That’s the first time I’ve heard about such a thing! Someone insults you and gets excited, you answer him kindly, and then he denounces you. Well, no, he doesn’t denounce me: he denounces you for not knowing how to train your puppies well!” He continued to laugh heartily. “You’re totally crazy, Federates. I love your society. So logical, so rationale, such sanity. Ah…” He shook his head. “There I go, rhyming like Miflin. Anyway, don’t worry, Eminence, I won’t speak to a citizen again unless he expressly asks me to. That way, I won’t have the terrible feeling of provoking the ruin of my master… by verbal attacks!” he burst out laughing.

Atasiag seemed to want to suppress a smile, but he only half succeeded. He made a vague gesture with his hand to dismiss him.

“Barbarians,” he heard him sigh, as he walked out.