Chapter 7

Day Three – Morning

After Father Sun greeted his daughters farewell, Zaber had to acknowledge that he had failed once again. A brief moment passed during which he slept for a candle or two, but there was no more rest to gain. His head still ached but was more so filled with thoughts. Thoughts he had never learned to shut up. Every night was like this, but the voices had been especially intrusive this night. They gave him horrible ideas… and at times, horribly good ones.

First, as always, he checked on his weapons. They were still there, right next to his bundled-up gambeson that became a headrest at night. He had been huddled beneath an old woolen blanket for long enough. Slipped into his wide breeches, over the old braies, put on his scuffed riding boots, and armored up with the gambeson. Slow and tired. Next, he had to examine his belt and weapons. Make sure his canteen from boiled leather was refilled and nothing hung loose. Only now did he have a cleared mind to get rid of the crusty bandage around his head.

Torm was already up when Zaber came out of his chamber, the old sacristy. A grim-faced groan greeted the apprentice, who retorted with a smile and nod. The boy was washing his face, neck and privates. He had already emptied the night bucket into the sewage and chewed some bread. While Zaber was still readying himself, Torm was about to roll out.

The pair had one last exchange of words and coin before the apprentice left. “Later,” were Torm’s last words.

Zaber gave Torm a lot of space to be free, to be himself. On the days the mentor was alone, he barely spoke any words. It was the boy who forced him to think like a human and say his first words of the day. Every day.

The veteran knew that constant solitude would ruin him. But, sometimes, he needed that. He just sat down for a good long moment, picked up a piece of jerky and buried his face in his hands to take a long breather. His eyes were closed and he listened to the merls.

Calmed down, he checked one more time on the hatch. That smooth-faced motherfucker had gotten the better of him. Zaber had stood up more than once that night to look around to see if anything was missing. But nothing could be done about this anymore. Zaber had to move on… move out.

He stepped onto the front yard of the old temple and his eyes wandered left and right. Where Torm had to go northeast to Magpie’s, Zaber headed southwest to Shean’s Burn, named after some poor fella they torched to death.

When he hit the streets, he felt eyes on him; they stung like needles. There were many familiar faces, very few friendly ones. Zaber knew that many of them didn’t look at him. A fleeting notice at best, but his shoulders tensed up. His hands wandered to his belt. Thumbs stuck in. Very close to his weapons.

What Zaber loved about Westwatch was when the charm of the old shanty town came through. Hammered together architecture, wonders of the rule of thumb. It even made the vast alleys and dark corners he obsessively observed bearable. But it was a matter of time before the guild masters would swoop in and try to civilize this place. Asher and Marghe had shared rumors about it.

Two patrols crossed each other when Zaber turned into the main road. One returning, the other with their backs in front of the greasy and unkempt veteran. His eyes met those who walked past him and he saw a glimpse of arrogance smiling at him. These guards really thought they’d won.

The other patrol advanced further. Ahead of Zaber, a group of five crawled out from one of the dark corners. All wore a hatchet with a thin axe blade.

“Oi, oi,” yelled one of them at a fella with a wheelbarrow. “This' Morell’s turf.”

As with the guards before, Zaber’s demeanor was unchanged. His hands were ready, his body tense to a burst and his eyes radiated danger. But his pace kept steady and there was no need to give them active attention. They were barely younger or older than Torm and one of them was a real kid. Zaber did not halt or falter, nor did he try to evade those who blocked his path.

The young men took a couple of turnips from the wheelbarrow and the man fiddled a broken groschen out of a pocket. Not much else happened, except for pompous posturing. Until one noticed Zaber coming at them, but he got held back by the youngest. Before he did something stupid.

“Not him,” said the youngster.

The axeman looked down at his companion. “What?” he asked, baffled. “We all new here, why you bossing us around like this, half-pint?”

“Listen to him, Timmens is a native,” said another one and stepped to the side.

“Big Morell gave him a pass, let him be”, said Timmens, smiled at Zaber, and tipped his forehead as a greeting.

“What the fuck?” The fella was befuddled until Zaber’s shoulder bumped into him. Hard. Pushing him to the side. “Wha–” He raised his fist, but more of his company held him back. “Damned be, we’re Morell boys. Since when we taking shit like this? Just because he’s packing good steel?!”

“Listen,” said Timmens and moved closer. “You’ve seen Elder Morell’s gold teeth? That was him. Now shut your damned face or I’ll.”

Zaber couldn’t hear much of the conversation anymore… but the mere mention of that facejob he gave the Morells forced a smile onto him. The brothers were real scum, but damned did they know how to throw hands. Way better than the Red Mob.

The patrol walked far ahead of Zaber by now and he tried not to lose sight of them. Their path ignored Red Cat Alley, so Yesilian Street had to be their goal. Which was also Zaber’s. Under normal circumstances, he would neither back down nor avoid them. But there was a need for secrecy with what he had on his mind.

The deeper parts of Shean’s Burn were the worst area of Westwatch, very close to the city walls. It was swarmed by guards and members of the Sellsword Guild, on top of plenty ill-minded folk that looked for an easy picking. When Zaber reached Red Cat Alley, he took a sharp turn and entered it. A many ramified passages led to Yesilian Street from here.

It was still early in the morning and many were working or sleeping. This meant Red Cat’s was less crowded with the drunk and horny, but harbored a lot of pent up frustration. Right around the corner from the enslaved, a recipe for trouble. And a lot of ancient folk were still reminiscent of when Shean’s Tavern used to be here. They say it held the whole quarter together and that he cursed the whole place.

The big house at the end of Red Cat Alley, nowadays, was The Red Carpet. The whores had settled in and it was a jolly old street for it, filled with hammered folk from all over town. If you wanted a good time and had coin to spare, this was the place where a pepper sack, peon or soldier on leave could sink their pay.

Two rows of shacks stretched out into the street, with vulgar decorations and wooden signs depicting the kind of service one could expect inside. More customers were leaving than entering, often looking either very well-rested or not at all. Even this early, some of the whores were already presenting their goods in the most profound ways. Very few directed their words and bits at Zaber. They didn’t dare to greet him, and the greasy and unkempt man’s eyes were fixed to the end of the alley. More than once did he scratch the scar along his jaw.

“Out, out!” A short blonde pushed a man of considerable height, in his undergarments, onto the street. A nasty scar ran along his shaven hair and uneven beard. His legs were shaky, but he kept himself from falling. “Get out!” The woman threw the rest of his belongings after him and covered up her most prominent features.

“Damned, I paid you for five days, whore!” The man shouted back, trying to stand tall. Among his possessions, Zaber noticed, was a baldric with a sword of the local fashion. One handed, but the length could only be worn by a man with special privileges like Zaber himself. A freeman for sure, mercenary or guild guard. The way he stumbled back at the whore, he surely had an illustrious night to recover from.

“Ya agreed to the rules of my house and broke ‘em,” she said in a thick isles accent. “Now get your bum out, or I’ll scream.”

“Whore, don’t tempt me.” The tall customer lurched down to grab his belongings. “I’ll pay you extra, I have good coin. Or–” Interrupted by a swift straight punch, his head hit the ground with a loud ‘crack’ and his blade bounced across the pavement. With all his attention directed at the whore, the tall man was caught off guard and Zaber straightened his posture back to normal. The veteran wiped his hand and sought eye contact with the woman. He maintained strict eye contact, as if a steel pole was directing his gaze to avoid wandering downward.

“By the Stars, thank ya,” said the whore. “Ya never know what they’re capable of, until–” She rolled her eyes and giggled nervously, because she did not know how to say it otherwise. “The door ain’t too thick.”

When she came closer, Zaber’s gaze broke and he looked at the ground. For just a moment. He did not know where else to look when the blonde whore grabbed her customers shoulders and lifted him chest high. “Name’s Clory, mind carryin' the bastard off to the main road with me?”

“Gotta go,” said Zaber clipped and scratched the scar along his jaw again.

“Uh–, I’ll tell Marghe ya were around,” said Clory and struggled to lift a man several heads taller than her. “Thanks again.”

Zaber turned away from her, but halted his steps after just one. He exhaled and his shoulders slouched for so short that it could be missed in a blink. Another woman had arrived and with her was a man that was more than just in good shape for his age. His gray hair was well maintained, as was his uptwirling mustache. He wore a tailor-made gambeson with jack chains along the arms and a feathered hat. His boots were as good as the arming sword and rondel dagger at his hip. The only messy thing about him was the scar that had split his nose open at the ridge.

“Not needed,” said the woman. “And what kind of reaction is that?” She smiled and walked up to Zaber.

Her strawberry blonde hair was brushed out and uncovered, as was the hair of most women here. She was in her thirties and her face and movements were full of energy. The fabulous dress she wore wasn’t cheap, even though it didn’t use a lot of fabrics at the right places.

“I don’t have time for this, Marghe,” said Zaber, but his feet stood still.

“Ruwer, will you take that gentleman away?” Marghe’s presence was not commanding. Her pleasant face alone was enough to manifest her will.

“Aye, Madam,” nodded Ruwer. Not only to confirm, but also to greet Zaber, who returned a nod.

“What made you fall out of your bed?” Marghe laid a hand on the veteran’s tense shoulder and acted surprised. “Something happened?”

Zaber closed his eyes and sighed. “Can we not do this today?” He tried to move past her. “I have to–”

“You’re heading to Hanifa’s place?” she asked and stepped aside to not bother him anymore. “Can you please come by and talk to me when you’re done?”

Even the thought of what had occurred made Zaber’s fists clench again. He tried to walk away, but something kept him. The hint of concern in her voice drove him crazy, knowing what he knew – not just about the past, but the future he had in mind. His teeth were grinding against each other before he turned his head ever so slightly at Marghe. “’aight,” was all he could manage. Enough for the woman to pad him on the back and relieve him.

“She’ll tell me anyway.” Normally, her mocking tone would have made Zaber smile, but this time he looked grimmer than before. Yesilian Street was just around the corner, he had one narrow alley between two shacks to navigate. The building of their meetings was known to Zaber, even though he never entered it before. It was placed between other shabby houses so that the guards wouldn’t know of its existence. It was made to blend into the adjacent walls and not stand out when viewed from above the walls.

Every Yesilian had to live in this street or in the households of their owners. None of the shacks were in a good shape, riddled with leaks and rot. At the entrance to his destination sat the stout bear of a man, hairy and big. His dangerous timber rested next to him at a wall and he stared at Zaber from afar. Chewing on cured beef. If any man in Westwatch was able to outstare Zaber, it was Kovada.

The greasy and unkempt man felt no need to ask for permission. He was told to come and already felt late. The gate keeper grunted at him and held his heavy arm in front of the door to block it.

“I’m expected,” grunted Zaber back. His instincts made him build up, even though he could never outbulk a man of this stature. All he got as a reply was a rhythmic knock on the door.

“Come in,” said a woman’s voice from the other side. The tone and accent gave Hanifa away, even if it took a while. And Kovada followed, as if it was an order.

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The door opened and the veteran stepped into a creaking corridor. There were a couple of doors, but Hanifa waved him to follow her to the last on the left. After she entered, Zaber leaned into the frame and assessed the room. At a patched together, round table sat a total of four folk. Hanifa took her seat furthest away, making it five. Next to her resided another woman in a dark veil. She was around Hanifa’s age, older than Zaber, and had multiple small scars dotted all over her face. If it wasn’t for those, she would be considered a highly sought after slave for many masters. Of the three men left, two were approaching the end of their life. Both had equally thick beards, but in different shapes. One long and pointy and the other round and bristled. The third was an older man with a young face and the most magnificent mustache. All wore wide clothes and vests and the two old men had colorful turbans wrapped around their heads. The last man wore a simple felt cap.

“Welcome Zabir, you are early,” said the man with the magnificent mustache. He smiled and pointed at a small stool at the side of the table. “Please, sit down. I will make Kavhe for you.” He stood up and walked to the oven in the room. A tin pot was brewing on it and the smell of roasted nuts filled the room.

“A what?” Zaber raised an eyebrow. “Please no, I don’t need–”

“Sit down,” ordered Hanifa. “Don’t take this away from us. We have one more matter to discuss, we’ll make it quick.”

The man with the magnificent mustache pushed the stool between the two old men for Zaber to sit. He then returned back to the stove, but stayed involved in the ongoing discussion.

The bearded men to Zaber’s left and right gestured a lot with their thin and bony hands. Not a single word was understood by their guest, but his eyes switched between whoever was talking. It was, often, everyone at the same time. The most reserved was the fella preparing a meal or beverage, or whatever. Second least was the woman with the dotted face. Her clothes had lost a lot of color and thus was brighter than Hanifa’s. All of them tried to incorporate at least minor aspects of their native fashion. But, in the end, their veils were not too different from the kerchiefs of peasant women from Albion, Galázion or Krasnia.

The discussion was not too heated, even when one raised their voice. Neither Sagir nor his brother were mentioned, which was the only thing Zaber tried to pay attention to. Hanifa talked the most, by far, even though the bearded duo tried their best to not fall behind. The bristle-bearded one emphasized every word he spoke by hitting the table ever so lightly.

After a while, the fifth member of their round returned to the table. He placed a tin cup with a dark and hot liquid in front of their guest. “Savor on this, dear Zabir,” he said and sat down. “We are greatly thankful of your joining.”

This kind of welcome was a surprise. The man’s face was as open as they got and Zaber bowed his head grateful before looking at the drink. “Oh, I know this.” He wrapped his hands around the warm cup and took a sip. It was bitter and the smell was better than its taste.. “Hmhmm–” Zaber tried to smile, but was sure he failed. “This is expensive, how did you get your hands on it?”

“We do not have much. It is from one of our brethren who works in a guild storage.” The woman next to Hanifa spoke softly and tried to hide her amusement at Zaber’s reaction. Her accent was similar to that of Hanifa.

“This is Dīnyā, she joined our Maǧlis in loss of Ḥafar”, said Hanifa. Everyone at the table raised their eyes and mumbled foreign words.

“The jolly fella with the missing eye?” Zaber lowered his voice. “I think I met him with Ceyhan and Sagir.”

“His master decided he was too jolly,” said Dīnyā and clenched her fist on the table. “The children took a liking and said words in our tongue.”

Zaber did not know how to reply. An awkward silence filled the room, so the veteran took the initiative and laid his hands open. “I have sent Torm to talk to his friends at the Watch. Soon we’ll know more about Sagir’s whereabouts.” He looked at each and everyone of them. “He will not be executed, I will get him out.”

“These,” Hanifa closed her eyes in pain before she continued. “Are Yarış, Namak and Qōzān. We handle the affairs of our kin together.” She lead Zaber’s eyes with her hand, starting with the man who made the kahve. Next were the pointy and the bristled beards. Hanifa waited for everyone to nod or bow and for their guest to return the gestures. “Please, continue.”

Zaber turned his hands, showing the scar at the back. He formed fists, and his brows narrowed with each subsequent word. “I’ve thought about this, and I have a plan. When Torm returns with what I need–”

Qōzān interrupted him and placed a hand on Zaber’s scarred hand. He also had numerous small scars running up his forearm. “We have our own ways,” he said in perfect Upper Albinian, the regional dialect. “A sister of ours told us that he won’t be executed. The next batch of trials, accused of murder, rape and crimes against the crown, are fated for hard labor in a mine far away. Something about the Margrave’s need to meet a requirement by your King.”

The veteran leaned back on his stool and his eyes widened before they darkened even more. “This ain’t good. This is damned worse.”

“Why?” Namak stroked his pointy beard and bent towards Zaber. “He will live and it will give us more time.”

“Y’all have no idea. He will be sent to an Arcanium mine. The shit that’s in an officer’s arms and their dumb trinkets,” said Zaber.

“What does that word mean?” Namak folded his hands and looked at the rest of the round. His Albinian was good, but not without flaws.

“We call it Sirriyyūm,” said Hanifa. “Or Gizliyūm for you.” Her words were directed at the men at the table.

“What is this about? The mines back home were also worked by outlaws and prisoners of war,” said Yarış, confused. “My Dede was sent there before I was born.”

“We–” For the first time since Zaber knew her, Hanifa was reluctant in her speech. “We might want to consult Kovada on this.”

“We ain’t, I know everything we need,” said Zaber. “It’s a poison, even more so before they work it. This’ as much a death sentence as a proper execution. Just longer and less pleasant.”

Hanifa’s jaw was pressed together, causing the muscles in her chiseled face to stand out even more. “Then tell us your plan,” she said with grinding teeth. “This is your fault, but we will provide you with everything that does not endanger our community.”

“Manpower,” said Zaber curtly and let the word seep in. “I will have Asher provide us with all we need and I have friends outside the wall to assure our getaway. When Sagir gets transported to the courthouse, we will ambush it and bust him free.” His voice was filled with cold anticipation and he linked eyes with everyone. They looked shocked, as if Zaber was a madman. And frankly, he might’ve been. “Asher and I’ll spearhead, fully tinned. I need two to protect our flanks, but we will bear the brunt of the work. One more, for a total of five, that is good with a crossbow.”

“Inanılmaz,” said Namak and punched the table. “Aklını kaybetmiştir!” He was furious and cursed, unintelligible to Zaber. Namak’s arms flailed in anger.

“And what then?” Qōzān’s shoulders trembled. The two men on either side of Zaber moved in dangerous ways, but their guest remained unfazed. “If five of our kin were caught, they’ll punish all of us. How can you believe you will get away with this?” He took the hot beverage in front of Zaber and drank from it to calm down.

“It will be one or two caged wagons, towed by two or four horses. An escort of six, two on each flank, one crossbowman on top of the cages. And one man-at-arms next to the coachman. The rest will be clad in maille or paddings. Asher and I handle one flank each and they will be cut down before they realize what is happening.” Zaber was confident and painted the scenario with his fingers on the table. “Just guards, no sweat. If you have any among you with a professional background, this ain’t hard. I’ll scout the escape routes ahead.”

Dīnyā had folded her hands in front of her chin and mustered Zaber. The gears in her head shifted visibly before she laid her palms on the table. “Seeing a man plan his own death with glee is exciting, for sure. But even if you succeed, Zabir, what will this do for Sagir and our kin who aids you? If he is already dead, we can’t sacrifice five more.”

“We’ll cross the river to the east and escape through Galázion. We’ll have everything prepped, and with my friend’s help, we can live off bark and berries,” said Zaber and straightened his posture. For the first time, he did not look tense and uncomfortable. “Asher has plenty contacts in Galázion. We’ll reach the sea, I will pay for a boat, and we will sail to your homelands.”

The woman with the dotted face reached out at Zaber and grabbed his hand. She looked him deep into the eyes in search of reason. The veteran flinched at first, but he let it happen. The moment was only interrupted by the hard knock of a tin cup. Hanifa had snatched it and emptied it in one go.

“Ceyhan would have liked that. Loved even. I vote in favor of it,” she said and looked at the rest. “We won’t force anybody to join you. If none agrees to your madness, none shall be at your side.” She smiled and raised one eyebrow at Zaber. “Which does not relieve you of your promise.”

“Agreed.” Zaber smiled back. “I am sure you can make their disappearance plausible. Their faces will be covered.”

Even while he was still talking, a chaotic conversation broke out around Zaber. It was hard to figure out who was on whose side, but soon the two women were yelling at the two beards. Yarış fell silent and refilled the cup with more kahve. He only said an occasional word or two that did not gain a lot of attention from his peers. Zaber could do nothing but listen. He remained calm even when Dīnyā pulled out a knife and jammed it into the table.

“You two are so clearly from Yaylalar, all you know is hiding! Old cowards, the ways of us are beyond you,” she yelled so loud that even Hanifa tried to make her sit down again. “I don’t know who this Ceyhan was and I do not care. If Hanifa’s words can be trusted, so can the words of the beyazı. If he is willing to kill himself for us, I will not stand in his way.”

“We have been here much longer than you, we know–” Namak stood up and grabbed the knife. Before he could pull it out, Hanifa and Dīnyā interrupted him. The latter grabbed the old fella’s hands across the table and led them into her face, making him feel every marking.

“Tell me they don’t deserve it. Tell it to my face,” said Dīnyā in pain.

Zaber had expected controversy. If he was a different man, he might not believe in it either. But this was not his first fight, not his first raid and not his first war. He and his friends had been behind enemy lines before, and survived. All he needed were his comrades and Zaber knew that they would stand with him. He just needed to ask and they would come.

“I wish to see my wife and sons again,” said Yarış from behind the stove. It was barely visible behind his facial hair, but he bit his lips and his eyes had watered up. “I will be your first volunteer. You need capable warriors and I have been a Yaya on two campaigns. Provide me with arms and I’ll do fine work.”

“If you’ve served, I know you can fling a javelin,” said Zaber. “Thinking about it, I am a dumbarse. Surely, you need a bow, not a crossbow.”

Namak and Qōzān fell quiet and looked at their own laps, ashamed. The bristle-bearded one choked up at the words of his friend. Hanifa, though, ignored them and spoke out.

“Three against two. That means all of us will support the plan.” She nodded determinedly. “You have to give us all the details up front, so nobody we approach will feel tricked.” Hanifa stood up and held her hand in front of Zaber, who shook it without a second thought.

The old pair exchanged foreign whispers. Then, the pointy-bearded member of their council leaned onto the table to look at Hanifa and Dīnyā, not Zaber. “Nazik and Van were Sekban back home,” he said. Zaber did not know many of their words, but Yaya and Sekban were well understood. The latter were peasant mercenaries, like him and his friends. “They are the kind of youthful fools you are looking for.”

“They tend horses for the Carters Guild. They are excellent riders too,” added Hanifa.

“I want you to take my sister, Seyfe, with you,” said Dīnyā. “We were–”, she halted in a struggle to find the right words. A look at Hanifa for help followed. “How do they say?”

“Bandits. You were bandits.” Hanifa looked very serious at Dīnyā. “Are you sure you want her to go without you?”

“Yes. I see how our master looks at her.” Dīnyā’s eyes flickered like flames. Her lips trembled in wrath. “If I don’t get her out now, he will do to her as he did to me… which means his wife will too.”

Zaber had not foreseen the kind of emotions displayed. Seeing Dīnyā and Hanifa like this made him feel even more guilty. They would have made formidable soldiers in his plan, but too many gambled their success at withdrawing. The thought had sprung up before, but he knew his limits. All he was capable of, how to fix things. What he was taught. The only thing he was good at.

“One more,” said Zaber. “And I know who I want.”

“It is not on you to demand any–”, Hanifa raised her voice, but couldn’t finish.

“Ask that bear outside.” Zaber pointed with his thumb behind him. Roughly in the direction of the door he came through. “The way he follows you around, he’s your best, ain’t he?”

Hanifa sighed and closed her eyes. The rest of the table exchanged nervous gazes, as if a taboo had been broken. “His name is Kovada and he does not appreciate to be named an animal,” said Hanifa after regaining her composure. “He is a proud man. And he hates you.”

“His value is beyond the Stars, the gallant Kovada cannot be bothered with–”, Qōzān spoke mild mannered, but in great fury.

“If I ask him, he will follow,” interjected Hanifa. “And I will ask him. This is what he has awaited for a long time.” She stood up and walked around the table. “The meeting is over. Come with me,” she said. “You will speak to him with utmost respect. You will never order him around like a mere soldier. You will call him by his name and nothing else.” She put her hand on Zaber’s shoulder and dragged him up. “Do you understand?”

“Understood,” nodded Zaber and followed, just like he used to.

“Let’s not waste any more time. You have work to do.”