74. Demons and embassies

“Ph-Philosopher. Oh… merciful Cili. I hurt all over.”

After sheathing his swords mechanically in the darkness and descending the stairs cautiously, Dashvara finally reached the bottom and heard Atasiag’s ragged breathing. The kraokdal had stopped banging on the door.

“Of course you hurt all over,” Dashvara muttered. “It’s a wonder you’re still alive after a fall like that. How can you risk our lives for a damned chest, Eminence… Where’s the lantern?” he asked.

At last the light illuminated the hallway. Atasiag was sitting on the trunk, massaging his shoulder and head. It was bleeding.

“You look terrible,” Dashvara gasped.

“Speak for yourself. With those jellyfish, you look like you came straight from the monster bestiary.”

And you’re one to talk, Dashvara thought, looking at Atasiag’s reddened eyes and glowing marks. Come to think of it, it was a miracle Atasiag wasn’t in worse shape after rolling down those stairs.

“Demon skin is tougher than a sajit’s,” Atasiag explained, as if guessing at his thoughts.

Dashvara let out an indefinable guttural sound, and after making sure that Atasiag’s wound was superficial, he proceeded to dispose of his jellyfish. One by one, he tossed them up the stairs. Perhaps they would be able to get under the door to return to their home.

“It’s much better this way,” Dashvara sighed, relieved. “I hope your trunk was worth it. We should get away before the kraokdals come back and break the door down.”

Atasiag shook his head.

“The door is enchanted: the kraokdals will not be able to destroy it. Or at least I hope not. Anyway, we can carry the contents and leave the chest here for now. It will be quicker. I’ll send my men to get it one of these days.” He stood up. “Open the lid. Here’s the key.”

Dashvara took the key and opened the trunk. There were three bags. After glancing at the first one, he huffed, stunned.

“I risked my life for some bloody books.”

“These are precious books,” Atasiag retorted. “Some are unique copies, and the cheapest one is worth no less than a hundred dragons. Perhaps you will be interested to know that one of them was written by an Ancient King of the Steppe.” Hearing this, Dashvara widened his eyes in amazement. “As you can hear it. See that sword there?” he added.

Dashvara bent down to pick up the weapon from its sheath. In fact, it was a saber. And as he could verify, the blade was as black as coal.

“It is like Yira’s sword,” he remarked, surprised.

“Black steel,” Atasiag agreed. “It is an unusual metal, as light and strong as the mythical sethrag steel. Both sabers belonged to the same king. If you look closely, his family motto is inscribed on the pommel, as well as his name, Siranaga, who was—”

“I know who he was,” Dashvara cut him off in disbelief. “Siranaga the Adventurer. He was an Ancient King who decided to go off in search of a myth and didn’t return. Does this chest belong to him?”

“No, it doesn’t. The chest was given to me by friends in Agoskura when I left there. Since then, I’ve been using it to put precious items I don’t need,” he grinned. “I acquired the swords from a cash-strapped merchant who sold them to me for a pittance. He was Agoskurian, and he did not recognize the name Siranaga engraved on the blades. He didn’t understand that he had just sold me a real relic.” His eyes sparkled. “I got his diary for the same price. It’s written in Oy’vat, so, I could never read it properly. Here it is,” he said, pulling an old notebook out from between the books. “It’s in relatively good condition. The Ancient Kings of your steppe used quality paper.”

He handed it to Dashvara who, putting down the black sword, accepted the diary with a mixture of respect and unease. By the light of the lantern, he could read the handwritten title: Meditations Of A Steppian. It was signed “Siranaga of Rorsy”.

“Why did you buy it?”

“I find the diary of a king and you expect me to leave it in the hands of a merchant who doesn’t even know what he’s selling?” Atasiag laughed. “I’m not a scholar or scientist like Asmoan, but I can recognize the value of an item. I could sell it back to a museum in Dazbon for over two-hundred dragons. At first, I had thought of giving this book to Asmoan… but I think there is someone who has more right to read it than he does.” He paused, and Dashvara looked up from the diary to see that the Titiaka was watching him with a small smile. “From now on, this sword and this diary belong to you, Dashvara of Xalya. Do with them as you see fit.”

Dashvara did not know what to say. He already had swords, and he’d read a lot of books about the Old Kings, but the mere fact that Atasiag had thought to give him such a gift meant a lot to him. It was almost as if, at that moment, he recognized that he was more a Xalya than a slave. He bowed as any Xalya would have done under such circumstances.

“I accept the gift and thank you, Atasiag Peykat.”

Titiaka shook his head gently, smiling.

“Thanks to you, son. I only wish I could get some horses out of the trunk.”

Dashvara laughed, because he had just thought the exact same thing.

“They wouldn’t fit in those tunnels,” he joked and pointed to the three bags. “What’s inside?”

A teasing glint gleamed in Atasiag’s eyes.

“Things of my own. I’ll take them to Sheroda’s. I don’t put a single bit of trust in those employees of The White Pearl.”

Dashvara shrugged and took the first two bags. Atasiag hung the other one on his belt, letting out a grunt of pain as he straightened up.

“Damn kraokdals…”

* * *

The next day, the first thing Dashvara wanted to do was to go to Sheroda’s house and make sure Yira was okay. However, Atasiag had other plans. First, Dashvara had to send three volunteers to speak with Asmoan of Gravia, as promised: in the end, it was Miflin, Lumon, and Sedrios the Old who went. He didn’t like the idea of sending his people to speak with a demon without even warning them, but he couldn’t find a way to refuse without complicating things. Then he escorted Atasiag to the Merchant House, a sort of luxurious tavern where merchants gathered to sell and buy items. There, Atasiag greeted several acquaintances and sat down at a table with a Republican, who Dashvara understood to be the brother of a prominent patrician.

After some questions and courtesies, they began to talk about prices. Leaning against a wall, Dashvara listened with one ear and occasionally let his gaze wander over the distant tables of the room.

“It’s Blue Country wine, my friend!” Atasiag Peykat protested. “The finest wine on the whole west coast. I don’t know if you know that in Titiaka such a treasure sells for thirty dragons a barrel, at the very least! I know a rather impulsive fellow countryman who had a slave beheaded on the spot for spilling a glass of this wine. In Dazbon, when accounting for taxes, thirty-two for a barrel is an excellent deal. I’ll give you an even better deal: all the goods, including the bags of herbs, for one thousand two hundred. That’s a more than generous price.”

The patrician gently shook his wine glass and surprisingly stopped haggling:

“So be it! I’ll buy you everything. My brother will surely be pleased.”

Atasiag smiled.

“He’ll know how to appreciate wine and herbs, if he’s a fine connoisseur as I’ve heard.”

Both were satisfied. The patrician invited him to the Festival of the Constitution the following week, Atasiag accepted, they signed papers and said goodbye. The rest of the morning, the Xalyas spent loading and transporting barrels of wine to the Parvels’ house in the Beau Quartier. When they returned to The White Pearl Inn, they were exhausted. Miflin, Lumon and Sedrios had already returned, as had Yira, Dashvara noted with relief. The sursha was in the middle of a conversation with Alta’s cousins, and Dashvara thought he heard the words “cut and thrust” before the noisy arrival of Xalyas’ troop drowned out the other conversations.

“You got lucky, Poet!” Zamoy exclaimed, giving his brother a pat on the head. “We’ve suffered more than the donkeys of Symjablas!”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Well, I would have preferred to be with you guys,” Miflin replied. “That Agoskurian got on my nerves. He’s been riddling us with questions. I can’t understand how a guy who comes from so far away can be so interested in our culture.”

“What did he want to know so badly?” the captain inquired.

“Things about the Eternal Bird, mostly,” Lumon replied. “And about how the Ancient Kings fell.” He smiled mockingly. “He asked us if the Tower of the Eternal Bird existed.”

Several gasped, and the captain let out a small laugh.

“And what did you say to him?”

“That we had seen it from a distance,” Miflin said. “We had to explain to him that the Essimeans were scoundrels and wouldn’t let us pass to go and see it up close. The damn fool says he intends to go and see it.”

Dashvara choked on his saliva.

“He wants to go to the steppe?”

“Yeah,” the Poet affirmed with a big smile. “He said he was willing to pay for an escort. But, when we told him yes, yes, and that we’d need about forty horses, weapons and supplies, he said he’d think about it. Truth be said, I’m afraid he doesn’t have enough money for all that.”

Dashvara couldn’t help but smile.

“If only we could find three or four more Asmoans, we’d be on the steppe in less than a week.”

His statement drew many smiles. The captain rolled his eyes.

“It’s not easy to find two fools who want to go to the same place,” he considered. “But, if Asmoan wants to see that tower, maybe Atasiag will give him a hand…”

The Xalyas’ hopes had soared. Dashvara felt sure that they would not take as long as he had expected to leave Dazbon. They would find a way, whatever it was.

In the afternoon, Atasiag reappeared from who knows where and asked Dashvara to accompany him to the Titiaka embassy. The embassy was in the Dragon District, on the seashore. When they arrived, the gate was guarded by three Ragail guards.

“Atasiag Peykat,” the Titiaka introduced himself. “I have received this invitation from the great ambassador.”

One of the Ragails glanced at the document, handed it to another, who examined it carefully and nodded.

“You may pass, Sir Peykat,” the former said. “I regret to inform you that weapons are not allowed in the compound without prior permission. The guard accompanying you will have to leave his weapons or wait outside.”

Atasiag frowned.

“He’ll wait here,” he decided.

Dashvara saw the Titiaka disappear as the gate closed behind them. After looking at the Ragails with a patient pout, he crossed the street and sat on the third step of the stairs of a house. It was a long wait. Fortunately, he still had Siranaga’s diary under his uniform.

In reality, as he could tell from the first few pages, it was not a diary but a memoir. The Old King was beginning to talk about his early years and his first impressions of the royal family. Although he had read a lot of books from that time, Dashvara was surprised by the crude style with which Siranaga explained the family conflicts. The prince deplored the moral decay of the kingdom’s capital and the increasingly frequent betrayals between the royal family’s cousins. He described his rise to the throne with more irony than illusion, wondering at all times whom he could trust.

«The family lost its cohesion,» he wrote. «It was dying slowly and continued to die during my reign. I could do nothing to ease the strife, and I could not discover a cure for our curse. When my fifth son, Shaotara, was born in the third year of the Falcon, I hoped that the Eternal Bird would rise from the ashes, and with it, our kingdom. Of the twelve sons I had, only he was born awake and blessed by the Liadirlá. I educated him from childhood and brought the most competent shaards from the four corners of the steppe. I sent him to study for three years in the Republic of Dazbon, and then he traveled to distant Agoskura. I thought he would never come back, but he did, and he is as loyal to our family as ever. I soon found that my son Shaotara had grown into a confident and independent man, ready to lead. I appointed him captain of my western armies, and he effectively crushed the revolts of the Essimeans and Shalussis. I rewarded him with land and allowed his marriage to Princess Aodorma. Just two months later, Captain Shaotara obtained the surrender of the Amystorb and the Xalyas when they tried to betray us. All the peoples of the steppe celebrated his name. At no time did he come to me to claim the crown, a great proof of his loyalty to the Eternal Bird of the family! I decided to make him king three years after the birth of his first son, whose Liadirlá also beat awake. Shaotara assumed his new position with greater skill than I had ever done. The barbarians were again expelled or subdued, and trade with the Republic flourished daily. People came from all over the world to buy salt from our saltworks, salbronix, silver and gold from our mines, tools from our factories. Rocdinfer was once again a happy kingdom. And now my own children dare to turn against a brother! Odlokara, my first-born son, has not only sought the support of several lords of the steppe, but has also allied himself with the Essimeans. May you, reader, never feel the desire to murder one of your own sons as I felt in those days! Odlokara had sworn to kill all the blessed of our family. The Essimeans converted him to their religion of Death, and like them, he called us demons…»

Dashvara shuddered. With each page he read, he felt more confused. According to the other versions he had read, Shaotara was a tyrant, and Odlokara the Bloody had taken advantage of the hostility of the steppe lords to stir them up against his brother. Odlokara had died in battle, and it was said that Shaotara had managed to flee with his wife and children. However, according to Siranaga, Shaotara had been imprisoned and beheaded by one of his own brothers. There followed pages explaining how Siranaga had decided to leave the steppe with his youngest children. The lord of the Amystorb had succeeded in taking him prisoner, killed his offspring, and demanded a ransom for Siranaga. Princess Aodorma had paid the amount, and both had been able to leave the steppe. The end of the book spoke of how he and his daughter-in-law had settled in Agoskura, and he continued with various meditations on the real suicide that his sons and the lords of the steppe had perpetrated. He would end with a bitter exclamation, «May the Eternal Bird watch over you, poor beloved steppe that I had to see die!»

Dashvara breathed in and came back to reality. How many hours had he spent sitting on that stairstep, absorbed in his reading? He put the book away and looked up at the embassy gate. The three guards were still there, talking to each other from time to time, eating fried garfias and following passers-by with their eyes.

When the six bells rang, Dashvara began to worry seriously. He saw three more guards coming out of the embassy to relieve the previous ones. Something must have happened to him, he thought. Who knows, maybe the ambassador was a Dikaksunora or a Korfu or just an enemy of Atasiag Peykat and…

Suddenly, the gate opened, and Atasiag Peykat came out, carrying a good deal of paperwork, his baton under his arm. Dashvara leapt to his feet and crossed the street.

“I was beginning to think they’d kidnapped you,” he threw at him.

Atasiag placed the papers in his hands as he replied:

“We haven’t finished our tour yet.”

Dashvara followed him with a grunt.

“What have you been up to so long at the embassy, if I may ask?”

“Sending letters, negotiating with the ambassador, and other things that would bore you to tears if I told you about them. This way,” he said, indicating a street with his baton.

They had to stop by the bank and an acquaintance of Atasiag’s before they could finally return to the inn. When they arrived, Asmoan of Gravia was already there, deep in animated conversation with Kuriag Dikaksunora and Lessi. They had settled down at a table and looked as if they were waiting for Atasiag Peykat to start dinner. Atasiag smiled as Asmoan stood up to greet him.

“My friend! I had forgotten the Titiakas’ schedule and came at the Agoskurian meal time. I hope you won’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Atasiag assured. “It is I who should apologize. I’m glad you got to know young Dikaksunora.”

“So am I!” the Agoskurian laughed. “Guess what: he’s a fan of northern cultures like me. I feel that we already get along wonderfully.”

Kuriag put on a very courteous expression.

“I can’t deny that your friend’s conversation is fascinating, Atasiag.”

“Then proceed, gentlemen, I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Atasiag clamored as he sat down at the table.

The Xalyas were silent behind the screens. Most were dozing after an afternoon of sightseeing. Yira was sitting next to Zamoy and Lumon, playing katutas. After glancing at the game, Dashvara frowned and flicked one of the Baldy’s pieces, which threatened the Cricket, Yira’s most vulnerable piece.

“It’s much better this way,” he considered as Zamoy and Lumon protested. “What, what’s the matter? It’s not proper to attack my naâsga, brothers.”

“That’s not playing fair,” Yira reproached him, amused.

“Boh,” Dashvara minimized, mockingly.

“Real life,” Zamoy said, putting the coin back in its place, “is cruel and unforgiving. Say goodbye to your Cricket, Princess of the Xalyas.”

Yira held up two fingers in an eternal salute. Dashvara rolled his eyes, and after watching the game for a while, began to reread bits of Siranaga’s memoirs. There was something about the book that bothered him. In particular, the frequency with which the words «blessed,» and «demons,» appeared. If he hadn’t met two demons in real life the day before, he probably would have attributed it to a metaphorical style. But, now, he wasn’t so sure. Obviously, the mere thought that the Ancient Steppe Kings might have been demons seemed ridiculous to him… Because that meant that the Xalyas were descended from monsters.

Come to think of it, that might be a reason why Asmoan of Gravia is so interested in us… Dashvara pouted, Nonsense, Dash. The Ancient Kings were not demons. If they had been, we would have known about it. The Essimean may call us demons, but that means nothing. He bet that these sons of the God of Death were capable of calling anyone who didn’t worship their god a demon.

With that certainty in mind, he reached out and listened to the conversation of the foreigners behind the screens. Fayrah had joined them, and they were now talking about the Titiaka Rebellion and Lanamiag Korfu’s injury. From what her sister said, this afternoon the young Korfu was doing much better.

“Just this afternoon I received a message from the High Priest,” Atasiag said. “He gives you his blessing, and he says he will send a priest from Cili with all speed to consecrate your union. It will be celebrated within a week. Here is the guest list. What do you think?”

“Long,” Kuriag breathed out. “I thought this was going to be a private ceremony.”

“And it will be. But it would be a diplomatic mistake for us not to invite our allies.”

“Our allies,” the Legitimate repeated. He cleared his throat and observed in an amused tone, “I see you didn’t invite the Nelkantas.”

“Should I have?” Atasiag laughed.

“Mm… One of the Nelkantas’ sons is a good friend of mine.”

“Excellent, you can always invite him,” Atasiag offered. “What’s his name?”

Dashvara stopped listening to them when little Shivara came up to him and whispered in his ear:

“Can I ask you something?”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows, smiling.

“Sure, kid, ask away.”

The child bit his lip before leaning back into Dashvara’s ear.

“Is it true they whipped my father?”

Dashvara huffed.

“Yes.” Shivara opened his mouth, but Dashvara beat him to it: “You just have to see his scars to believe it, right? Tell me, kid. Do you like this town?”

Little Xalya pouted.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why did they whip my—?”

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Dashvara interrupted, rising to his feet. “I know a great place to play spinning top.”

The child immediately became enthusiastic, and under the amused gaze of the Xalyas, they both walked out. Dashvara completely ignored Atasiag Peykat’s silent question as they passed by the table.

This is a matter of Xalyas, federate. Don’t meddle.