31

(Smallpools- Dreaming)

Tells

The first few weeks were painfully tedious. I was thrust into being Lady Simira’s full time servant. She trained and quizzed me on noble customs, the current affairs and the important people within the city and household. I had so much one-on-one time with her that being with her started to feel normal. It was strange, but around the second week I stopped thinking about it and I never saw her temper flare as violently as before. She was, for lack of better words, normal. Intense at worst and micromanaging at best, but I grew accustomed to her mannerisms slowly and learned when to and not to approach her.

I didn’t see Adam or Vetia, nor did Simira answer me when I asked about them.

Every morning at the asscrack of dawn, the corty handler woke us servants up with a swift kick to our door, which usually knocked it right open. I was to immediately wake Lady Simira. I would knock and wish her a good morning. If she wasn’t awake, it was my duty to wake her by knocking on the door. What a joke that was. Firstly, her room was through another door in her study, so hearing me knock was already impossible. Secondly, she was an abnormally heavy sleeper who wouldn’t wake up most of the time. The second day of being there, I wasn’t loud enough, saying her name for probably an hour outside her door before another servant got annoyed by my constant repeating her name, and kicked Simira’s door, screaming loudly to scare her awake. So I started doing that. She would scream at me with some variation of “shut the fuck up” and glare at me like I was disturbing her for doing my job when she finally let me in, but it worked.

For the first activity of the day, she joined the guard for their armored formation run around the quarter, taking half the guard on different days, alternating days between Simira or Zev leading. Simira’s group was made up of distance runners like her, but she was a well-oiled machine that never needed to stop unlike the rest of us humans. No distance, incline, or obstacle could break her breath or stride. Low and behold, she dragged me along for it. She threw a brass chestpiece, a belt with a scimitar and dagger, and a chainmail shirt on me, then we ran. We did a loop around the quarter, starting at the manor, which had to be about twenty miles. From the manor down the hill to the market to the factories to the residential zone and pleasant way, across the farmland, then back up the hill to the manor. That fucking hill. I’d never cursed a hill so much in my life until I had to run up that one every other day after already feeling dead at the end of the run.

We returned to her study, where she lectured me on Vehfirn and Triala history and politics while she trained in her personal dojo. Her routine was a mix of intense stone throwing and lifting, bodyweight exercises, and sparring with Captain Zev on her run leading days, or me when Zev was off leading the run. Despite him being a giant compared to her, she’d learned how to take him down well in hand-to-hand combat, though she only managed to execute it about every one in ten attempts. Not to mention the constant complaints that he was pulling punches, which he would then correct, promptly winning nearly every bout because his reach and sheer power was ridiculous compared to her. She always said “If we were using sigils, it’d be different.”

Surprisingly though, she rarely lost to him when using a Triali scimitar and dagger, being nimble and agile, able to read Captain Zev like a children’s book. They played a point game similar to fencing, where points were scored based on where they struck each other with wooden scimitars and daggers. Those other days, my sessions, were when she’d use me as a punching dummy while quizzing me on her lectures. I ended up with more bruises than correct answers, but I couldn’t deny that I was learning.

After my daily lessons, she washed in her personal quarters and I washed in the servant’s shared baths, then I worked with the other servants while Simira reviewed the quarter’s legal work. Strangely enough, Lady Simira kept me away from the other servants as much as she could, saying they would “taint me.” However, I did learn how to act as a servant. Servants greeted people of higher status with a military salute and a slight bow of the head.

It was considered rude to look nobles in the eyes, so I didn’t have anything to worry about there. What was a hell of a time was breaking the habit of putting my hands in my pockets, though. Lady Simira was very adamant on an old Triali philosophy that the way in which one carries oneself is reflective of one’s disposition. The belief went: traitors, thieves, and cowards walked with their hands in their pockets or sleeves; merchants, money lenders, and swindlers walked with their hands folded; soldiers and guards walked with hands ready, but idle on their weapons; common people walked with open hands; and the dutiful walked with closed fists. I didn’t really understand how it worked in really cold weather or if somebody was carrying something, but I figured it wasn’t worth arguing. Lady Simira instructed me to walk with fists because it apparently inspired self confidence and demanded respect. The uniform seemed to have this idea built in. No pockets except on the inside of the shirt and no sleeves except in winter.

Honestly, I didn’t use the salute much. Lady Simira didn’t require my formal greeting because we were in constant proximity, the other servants and guards weren’t in a position to require it, I rarely saw the Captain outside of the dojo, and I never saw the Viscount. Everything else was pretty standard. Stand up straight, be polite, don’t talk out of turn.

After she was done working on law, just before noon, I became Lady Simira’s pack mule. She spent a good deal of time out of the manor visiting tradesmen, who all seemed to know and respect her from the military. They’d salute her when she entered their business or knocked on their door, and she’d return the salute, then she’d be invited in to talk and have tea. She knew most of the farmers, artisans, craftsmen, and tradesmen we passed quite personally, stopping to inquire about the quality of crops or surpluses, shortages of materials, tax adjustments, and running potential laws by them to discuss how their livelihoods may be affected.

I carried the thin planks that she took notes on in a giant backpack. She used a brass rod that glided across each plank, applying precise burns just as a pen wrote on paper. Throughout the whole process, she was extremely pleasant, even kind. Everything she did was organized and exact. If it wasn’t, she would make it so. I didn’t know what would happen if she couldn’t control something, but I imagined it would look a lot like Vetia. The biggest gripes she encountered were directly related to her father, who she did not talk about or talk to unless absolutely necessary.

If we didn’t go out during the day, usually due to rain, I would spend the time cleaning her chambers or doing her laundry. It was a lot, and I’d never been so constantly exhausted that I would simply fall into my cot and wake up the next morning on the spot. Over the course of those few weeks, I started to look forward to going out for the day to learn about the business of the quarter, mostly because it was less monotonous than cleaning and doing laundry all day. The city was more beautiful than I expected, and we’d often stop by the market to buy bread and fruits for a midday snack while we walked. And that was the kicker. Simira was always going somewhere, doing something, walking at her quick, dutiful pace. I, of course, had to keep up. She basically never sat down and it was, again, beyond exhausting. If she wasn’t moving, she was talking to somebody, and if she wasn’t moving or talking, she was chugging water or wolfing down a snack. I actually never saw her eat unless we were together, and I got into the habit of asking if she had eaten when she was particularly prickly, to which the answer was always “Oh, I forgot to eat.”

In the evenings, I was mostly free to do personal business aside from checking in with her once at sundown to see if she needed anything. Her door was usually cracked, so I’d peek in when she was reading or copying a book before her nightly meditation.

She started speaking to me casually when we were together. Well, not exactly personal. It was more like she would think out loud while I listened, but she’d ask for my opinion on which scents she should mix into her meditation candles, input on random philosophical ideas she’d been studying, or which of the seasonal wines she should have. I was still conflicted on what to feel toward her, but she had an openness about her that insisted you feel comfortable around her, and it worked on me. Maybe it was because she was always smiling when she was out making the rounds, running, or reading, like she genuinely enjoyed everything she did.

It didn’t take long for me to see glimpses of her more troubled side, though. While in the downtrodden factory section of her quarter, she was always scowling and cursing her father. The factories were rudimentary work lines with simple machines. The people worked on an assembly line, making weapons and armor to be sold to the Triali government. This provided a massive source of income to the quarter, but the quarter never seemed to improve from it. They used sigils to heat the metal and press it in a mold, then pass it down the line. The sigil was apparently simple enough that any commoner could use it safely, so it went one step per person. Armor would start as a sheet of brass or steel at one end and be a fully constructed chestplate by the end of the line. Linking the chain armor was more tedious, but the chain links were quickly and easily constructed from molds. Even though the sigils were safe, the machinery was far from it. Workers frequently had their fingers, hands, or entire arms crushed and severely burned in the molds due to shoddy construction and no upkeep. The factories were filthy, dangerous, and never stopped running, reminding me of the textile mills I’d learned about in school.

Simira frequently demanded the conditions be raised, but the laws she wanted to implement were always rejected by her father. Because of that, she did what her power allowed her to do: go there and take information, release it to the citizens, then to try the businesses. While she was speaking with a factory owner from another city, he laughed in her face because she was inquiring about the allocation of money. Most of them accommodated her demands, but he said “my operation is too large to concern the daughter of a Viscount.”

She didn’t see it that way and challenged him to a fisticuffs duel on the spot, right in front of the entire line. If she won, he’d turn over the information, adhering to the rules of her city, and if he won, she would stop prying. He accepted for the sake of his pride, but being a portly man who only knew business, she beat the ever-loving fuck out of him. The audience, his workers, were cheering too loudly for Simira to hear him yelling in concession and she broke his nose, several of his fingers, and his left arm. There weren’t many duels, but damn did they get bloody when they happened. That was just the way of life in Vehfirn. So long as a guard or members of the public witnessed a formal challenge, people could duel to settle personal disputes.

Following the incident at the factory, she presented a law to her father concerning the safety of laborers, but he shot it down because the owner of the factory was a former colleague to his old mining business and the beatdown was enough. Simira always claimed the real reasons he shot down her propositions were because they would limit business profits and force him to reduce spending. She had a journal, though, and she wrote every law down for when she would eventually take power.

I spent most of the nights in my quarters. It was the size of a walk-in closet, but it was private, which was a small win. Thinking about it, I didn’t really speak to anyone other than Lady Simira. I was starting to wonder about a lot of things.

Why is Simira so mad at Vetia? They’d probably get along really well, all things considered. Hell, I’m even starting to like her against my better judgment. Even back in Poikla I kind of liked her.

Sitting alone in that cramped room had me thinking a lot. More than I was used to. A lot of self reflection when I would have been on my phone or gaming before. I missed my friends way more than I expected. Brenden and Desmond were still MIA, but I’d heard good things about Adam. How he was doing well with the guard and all that, but Vetia was a completely different story. She’d apparently been refusing to heal anyone once she got tired, so the Viscount told the guards to give her the wounds that she wouldn’t heal. It was all hearsay, but last I’d heard, she started healing the guards after an incident on a really rough day of training. And they didn’t refer to her as a person, they referred to her as “the half-breed” or simply “it.”

I hadn’t challenged Simira at all. I’d been completely compliant since arriving because she offered a way out given the right circumstances and if I proved loyal. I just missed my friends. I hated being alone. I wasn’t praying or doing anything for myself. I wasn’t Tells. I was Simira’s servant, and that didn’t sit right with me.

I was so torn every time I looked at Lady Simira. Part of me wanted to stab her in the back or push her off the manor wall. The other part genuinely respected her. That may have been the difference, though. Despite how she was as a leader, I would always hate her as a person, but even that was falling away as I got to know her. Being at that manor brought about some of the darkest thoughts I’d had in my whole life. I’d never fantasized of killing anyone legitimately before, but if there wasn’t really a way out, would I eventually have to commit murder? Between crying myself to sleep and working myself to death, I was just becoming more and more frustrated and miserable.

It was another normal morning for me. I got dressed in my light orange vest and baggy cloth pants, fastened the belt around my waist, and tied my hair back. I knocked on Lady Simira’s door and she was already up, ready to test me.

“Enter.”

I opened the door, stepped in, and shut it while looking at the ground. She was sitting at her desk in her absurdly wide throne, finishing a passage in her journal. I presented an upward right fist as if stabbing my chest, and quickly slapped my left hand flat on top, holding it straight. This was the salute. She always corrected me because I held my fist too high instead of aligning my first thumb knuckle with the bottom of my sternum. I lowered my head slightly and put my arms back at my sides.

She got up, saluting me, cracking her neck, and casually pulling off her sleeveless tunic. Loose, light orange pants and a tight chest wrap, barefoot and tied hair was the sign that I was about to be her punching bag. “Let’s move, you’re already late.”

I bowed my head and lowered my hands, following her through the door in the back left of her study. The room was spacious, wide, organized. She opened the windows to the courtyard on the long far wall, then tossed me gloves and a helmet. Gloves, helmets, wraps, stones, training weapons, actual weapons, several battered dummies, and first aid materials were neatly organized along the wall I walked in through and the right wall. Off to the left was a wallwide mirror. Simira smiled, gently bouncing back and forth on the tan straw-like material that was woven into a firm mat covering the entire floor. I kept my tunic and pants on for sparring.

Then it was down to business. “Your entrance, greeting and posture are acceptable. Your attire is acceptable, but your hair is disorderly and should not be covering your face. Tying your hair back will not continue to work if you let strands come loose in the front. Speak with Kaijan about shaving your head or styling it differently after our meeting.”

And there’s the micromanaging side of her again.

I finished wrapping my hands, then put my spongey cloth gloves and helmet on and got into my fighting stance.

She gracefully stepped forward, fists clenched at her side. “As of today, you have served me for fifteen days. In that time, I have taken great care to educate and prepare you for serving me as long as you remain at the manor. I will now question your retention of historical knowledge. Tells Samson, why do we serve Emperor Senik Gossam?”

“After the coup against his father 238 years ago, Emperor Gossam united the city states and kingdoms to make Triala what it is now. The empire doubled in size and now spans the entire eastern-”

She shot forward, sending a light punch for my core, which I hopped back from.

“-half of Peturi. Since the empire was formed, the people have lived in prosperity under his just and gracious rule.”

She nodded, suddenly letting loose two hooks, which I ducked away from, stumbling off balance. She sighed, stepping forward with little effort and sweeping my feet out from under me and knocking me flat on my ass.

“As for Vehfirn, outline the order of noble families and what powers they hold.”

I grabbed her hand, which pulled me to my feet. She always seemed bored fighting me, but we began circling each other.

“Vehfirn is split into four quarters. Three of them are ruled by Viscounts of three noble families.”

She thrust her fist for the center of my face, but I managed to bat it aside.

“Amien,” Another.

“Hallax,” Another.

“and Muria.” A final punch, much quicker, and directly into the center of my helmet. My head reeled back, trying to dodge, but she leaned in further than I expected, knocking me off my feet, a flash of white halting my thoughts.

She smiled like she was somewhat impressed. “Quicker dodging than usual, and correct. Now finish your answer.”

I racked my brain, trying to recall where I was in thought.

“Uh, Amie… Ha… Muria- oh. Each Viscount is tasked with keeping order in their designated quarter, levying taxes, and creating laws. The Viscounts answer to the Count Jeun Wey and receive funds or land depending on their success. The Count oversees the county at large, with the power to grant and take land from Viscounts at will, and sets the county-wide tax minimum that each Viscount must adhere to. The Duchess Ori Kalesi has similar powers and answers directly to the emperor. Each level may create laws that those beneath must follow and implement into their own rule.”

“Sufficient enough.” She pulled me up again, stretching her arms and casually swaying as if dancing. “I want you to land one clean, solid hit on me before you finish your next answer. Now what country are we fighting in the war?” She rushed me, so I sent my right fist at her core, but she caught my arm before I could pull it back and spun around my left hook, twisted with my arm, then kicked my knee out, pinning me to the ground.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

A country? I don’t remember a specific country. Or is it… yeah, it is.

She let go and hopped off me, so I twisted around, catching my foot on her knee. She stumbled asI pushed forward and caught both of her ankles with my feet, sweeping her off balance. I lunged up, clambering to my feet and pulling my fist back to hit her in the face. I stumbled over her, her determined, excited, intense orange eyes urging me to fight, catching my attention. She was a fighter, but she was also a woman. And I was on top of her, lightly sweating as a cool morning breeze blew over me. I couldn’t bring myself to hit her, so I bonked the front of her helmet with my glove.

“There is no one country Triala is conquering, but a coalition of jorlad and trideski kingdoms and city states that occupy the mountainous region in the west of Peturi and the archipelagos off the coast.”

I sat there on top of her and dropped my arms to my side, unsure of what to do.

She stared up at me, her impressed expression withering. “Good. New question. What do I say to pulling punches?”

“You always say not to-”

She slammed her fist into the side of my helmet, another flash of white and I was on the floor. A sigh from above me pulled my eyes up to her standing with her hands on her waist, disappointed.

“What’s the difference between a dummy and a servant who won’t fight back?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Lady Simira.”

“Clearly.” She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t working. Up.”

Once again, she pulled me up, then dragged a dummy into the center of the floor and crossed her arms to question me.

“Tells, why do you refuse to hit me?”

“Because you’re the daughter of the Viscount, Lady Simira.”

“Why would you not hit a daughter of the Viscount?”

“Because I’m not allowed to.”

“Who says you’re not allowed to?”

“The laws.”

“So then, because of the laws, I should be allowed to assault, batter, or kill anyone I please?”

I hesitated, wanting to say “you already do” but knowing that was probably the wrong answer. “If it is within the laws, then the laws say it can happen?”

She noticed my confusion and sighed, pulling off her helmet and gloves. “So if I make a law saying that I can do whatever I want, what would you do?”

“Try not to get on your bad side.”

“Why would you not fight against that law?”

I paused. “I- I don’t know.”

She closed the windows. “No. Do not claim ignorance. Find the answer. Why would you not fight?”

My lip quivered. “I might die.”

“Oh, well then I suppose I have nothing to worry about then. I can do whatever I want.”

“I- I…”

A grim smirk crept across her face. “So if I started beating you to death right now, as you’ve seen me do to others, as I will continue to do, would you grovel and beg for mercy, or fight for your life?”

“L-lady Simira, I-”

She stepped toward me apathetically. “I’ll kill you regardless. It’s up to you if you want to fight for a chance to live, even if you have little chance of beating me.”

A creeping fear crawled up my spine as she took another step toward me.

She’s being totally serious.

Simira took a final step, then raised her fists. I didn’t even see her move before I found myself on the ground. My stomach wrenched, air pushed from my lungs and my eyes caught her standing over me, pulling her foot back. Another burst of searing pain shot through my stomach. She raised me, holding me against the wall as I gasped, gagging on my own saliva trying to get a breath in. Her cruel eyes burned like hellfire glaring at me. Her hand wrapped around my throat, forcing my windpipe closed. My lungs burned for air and then a switch I’d been holding back flipped in me. All that resentment I’d been holding back boiled up.

FUCK THIS BITCH

I pulled my right glove off and whirled my fist into her nose. Her hand fell away from my neck and both of my hands swung out blindly, aggressively, wildly at her face. She threw her hands out, blocking them with ease and trying for grabs like Desmond would always do back then, so I threw two wide punches and when both of her hands were out blocking, in went my head, right for the bridge of her nose.

She reeled backward in a short blackout. I slammed her temple with my fist and she collapsed on her side. My hands shrunk and clenched madly for something, anything. They found a jzonuto on the weapons rack.

I swung around and she was already on her feet, but I had the scimitar pointed directly at her. I had her. I could kill her. But I held it there, chest heaving, mind racing, trying to contain myself.

She blankly stared at me, reeling, swaying, caught off guard and then stilled by the underside of the scimitar I held to her chin.

Just leaning forward would do it. A quick thrust. A slash.

…

But I shouldn’t… but it would be so easy… but I won’t.

The pressure in my ears was too much to handle. I couldn’t hear, my stomach and neck were aching horribly, air couldn’t stay in my lungs long enough to get a full sentence out without turning into a messy storm of bloody saliva.

“I ain’t here for your games, your shit! I’m here because you cut my fuckin’ best friend’s tongue out and locked her up! You don’t know how many nights I went to sleep and dreamed about killing you for that shit! But you wanna know why I won’t kill you?! BECAUSE KILLING YOU DOESN’T DO SHIT! EVEN IF IT DID, I’D HAVE A WHOLE CITY HUNTING ME! I’M HERE FOR YOUR PLAN! BECAUSE YOU TOOK HER HOSTAGE! You gave her away to your dad and if I kill you, it don’t change shit! And you been dragging me around, training me, testing me, actin’ like I’m your friend, but I’m waitin’ for you to tell me what I can do ‘cause my real friend is collared and beaten and used for her fuckin’ magic ALL DAY EVERY GODDAMN DAY! I’m done playing these fuckin’ games! God, why’s every rich bitch gotta be the same two-faced uppity bitches?!”

She finally lifted her simmering eyes from the sword with a guilt hiding in her cunning stare. Her braid was a mess, bloodied nose, bruised head, almost leaning into the blade like she wanted me to kill her.

Oh, so NOW she wanna start actin’ humble.

“WHAT?! Gonna beat the shit outta me for tellin’ a bitch off?! Gonna cut my tongue out cause I hurt your little fuckin’ feelings?! She din’t do shit and you collared her and locked her up! Come on! What’s it gonna be?! You got the power! You the one in charge! Go ahead! Beat me to death ‘cause I don’t like hittin’ women! Cause I can’t talk unless I wanna knock a mothafucka’s lights out! I got issues too, but I’m tryna fix ‘em ‘cause I’m not a fuckin’ kid! WHAT, BITCH, am I too big for you to pick on?! Can’t handle gettin’ told you’re wrong unless you can fuck her up afterward?! C’mon! Fuck me up! Throw me in prison! Collar me! What’s it gonna be, bitch?! We both know I got lucky and I ain’t gettin lucky again!”

I threw the scimitar at the rack, puffing out my chest while she stood in place, unfazed, completely still, eyes locked on mine intensely.

“Go ahead, Lady Simira! I’m at your all-wise-all-powerful-Viscount’s-daughter-ass mercy! I can’t do shit to help Vetia or Adam without your plan! Go a-fuckin-head and work your magic! What’s the plan?!”

I couldn’t keep my teeth from gritting, lips moving like I wanted to talk, infuriated scowl on my face.

Her voice was quiet, sincere. “I can’t tell you the plan, bu-”

“Why?” I stepped forward.

Lady Simira sighed, shaking her head. “Because I’m trying not to get you killed by people who would wish to prevent it.”

“How long’s it gonna take?”

She pursed her lips. “Before winter, at least.”

“At least?” My eyes shot open, baffled, exhausted. “Is Vetia even gonna live that long?”

She closed her eyes, biting her upper lip. “Should my father’s health hold, yes.”

“You didn’t think about that before givin’ her up?!”

“It was a lapse of judgment.”

“It’s my best friend’s life!”

“Don’t tell me what I already know!” She threw her hand out to the side, clenching her face. “I know! I am aware of my slant toward conceit, to prideful rage! I am not in denial of my own shortcomings! I’m trying to make this move as quickly as possible, but my father is the one who declares when her trial will be if the plan takes too long, not me!”

I shook my head. “This city’s fucked if you’re the next viscount.”

She clenched her jaw, rage seething through her. “Everything I do… is for this city.” She stepped forward, slamming my shoulders back and forth again until I was against the wall and her wide-eyed, grim, bleeding visage was in my face. “For my people. If you think there wasn’t a reason for my rage at that woman, that there was no reason to protect my brother, then you are a blind fool. I do not want collateral damage, but there are blades at my back like you would not know. I am imperfect, but within the confines of law, I cannot afford any imperfections, no matter how many good people I must step on to achieve perfection. Those above me do not value life, so I cannot value life if I am to match and overcome them for the sake of all of us.” She took in a sharp breath. “Even… if that means your friend dies, if I have to hold her hostage for even the tiniest victory over the evil at large. I will bear that if it means saving my people and preserving their future.”

She breathed slowly, backing away and recollecting herself. I did too.

“I refused to tell you because when I am eventually retaliated against, you will be safer in ignorance. I did not make that decision lightly, I made it for your sake, because this isn’t something you survive knowing and I don’t want you to also become collateral. I’m doing this because I care about my people, but I am doing everything within my power to minimize harm to you, I only ask that you understand. You don’t have to trust me.”

I shrugged and turned away. “Ain’t got much of a choice now, do I?”

Her hand clenched my shoulder. “I wasn’t going to kill you, but I needed to know what kind of person you were, and that was the quickest way I would be able to find out.”

I stared at her, my face lightening, but still peeved. “That’s a fucked up way of askin’.”

Conviction grew in her eyes. “Words aren’t enough in the war I’m fighting. I… we… everyone fighting it must be unrelenting in their ideals.” She paused, taking in my bloodied face and softening her tone. “But I hadn’t realized the damage I’d inflicted, nor the monster that this war… that my eternal teacher has been making me.”

A poignant silence took hold of the dojo as she lightly prodded her nose with bloodied, shaking hands. Those pools of cooling magma turned to the mat and she brushed her unfurling braid back, glancing up at the hair falling into her face and clenching her swelling fists with a light groan.

I stepped up to her and silently rebraided it. She was still as ice the moment I touched her, like she didn’t know what to do. And when I stepped away, she was silent, gently feeling the retightened braid.

“My dad always told me that you can’t know what you’re fighting for until you know who you are, and our enemies are always trying to change who we think we are. Always tryna change what being good means.”

Her eyes rose to meet mine again. “And? What do you think it means to be good.”

“Good is just helpin’ people be better off than they were yesterday.”

She sighed. “Charitability is virtuous, but it’s not practical.”

“Did I say charity?” I tilted my head, still a little pissed at her. “It’s showing people, teaching them how to better themselves. It’s showing them out of a hole and guiding them toward where they need to be, and that ain’t always where they wanna be.”

Her voice softened, still skeptical. “Even after I threatened your life, what, you’re so quick to forgive that you’d overlook everything I’ve done.”

“My dad learned from a Lord’s book, who I learned from too. The book says to pay attention to yourselves. If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him.”

“That’s a naive way of seeing the world. Some people, some things cannot be forgiven.”

“It also says the face of the Lord is against those who do evil, to cut off the memory of them from the earth. Some people won’t ever be perfect, but the point is that we’re trying to be better. I want you to try to be better, because even though I’m still pissed, I see what you do for your people. I don’t know if I like you, but I’m trying not to hate you.”

She paused, pulling her head back, thinking deeply as though she knew the answer to her next question. “Then what is evil?”

I thought for a moment, unable to remember the verse verbatim. “It’s what comes from within. The bad things we’re tempted into that defile us. The easy things in the moment that you don’t think about. Like cutting somebody’s tongue out because you gave up trying to hold your anger in. Like when I wanted to stab you in the throat. I got a lotta anger in me, but we ain’t all allowed to just hurt people when we want.”

Simira’s face twisted with a slight sneer. “You must be from a much nicer place than here. To have a loving father, people who taught their children such morals.”

“I only had a good dad who taught me the good book.”

“And this ‘good book,’” she raised an eyebrow, “what, is it the law of the land or some such?”

I shook my head. “Kind of. Not much anymore. Most people back home stopped reading the book because they don’t think the stories are real, because there’s magic and miracles.”

Her eyes glazed over. “So there’s a book with stories of moral teachings, and the people don’t read it because the stories are of a fantastic nature? Are they all daft? Are they unacquainted with the meanings of stories and words? Implied lessons? Symbols? Are they illiterate?” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re heckling me aren’t you?”

I half-chuckled. “No, I’m not. Actually, almost everyone can read. They just don’t like reading.”

Bafflement overtook Simira’s face. “They don’t- what?”

“It’s not a fun book, it’s hard to read because it makes you face those bad things inside of you.”

“Well, I suppose we’re all fucked, then, since even the nice places are wrought with self-indulgence.” She threw her hand up in conceit. “I should simply give up trying to better Vehfirn because it isn’t fun! It’s not easy either. Maybe… maybe I’ll lobotomize myself so I can enjoy life more simply without having any pesky self-reflection or morals.”

“To be fair, it’s a religious book from a long time ago, and people stopped believing in it.”

Realization dawned on her. “Ah, yes, call a philosophy of ethics what it is, and it’s too high brow for the common man. Call a philosophy a religion, and suddenly you’ve attracted the crazies. They’ll diminish the value of any teachings and stories through their own hypocrisy.” Simira picked up the jzonuto and placed it back on the rack. “Well, I’d like to read it. Your answer to evil… it sounded quite similar to the results of my contemplative meditations. And the teachings, though fantastical in nature, sound grounded in good faith.”

“I don’t have it, wish I did, though. But I don’t think it’d fit here. Things are too different.”

Lady Simira nodded gently. “Well, I’ll likely spend the day in, so you can take the day off. And-”

I couldn’t help my eyes glaring.

She sighed. “I cannot make this stage of the plan move any faster, Tells. I’m waiting for a signal, correspondence, which should be arriving any time now. Things will move quickly from there. However, I’ve been meaning to give you a book you would likely take interest in after our conversation in Poikla, and now I’m certain.”

Lady Simira stepped out of the dojo, wincing as her knee popped, went into her study, rifled through a drawer of her desk and came back in with a blue leatherbound book. “I’ve made copies already, so consider this a gift, an apology, and a promise that I will not let my temper get the better of me again.”

I shook off my boxing glove, then took the book in my clean hand, its smooth leather binding comfortably resting against my fingers.

She continued, “I write small to reduce parchment, so it may be difficult to read at later hours without a bimunaekat. One moment.” Bimunaekat, or a combination of the Triali words for fire (bimuo) and crystal (naekat). They were the orange glowing crystals around the city and in the halls. She stepped out again, then returned with a tiny bimunaekat attached to a brass clip. “You can clip this to the page if it’s too dark.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I have bimunaekat’s all around me and an old clip with a crystal that’s not yet disintegrated. You don’t.” She forced the clip into my hand and closed it. “There are some lovely spots out in the city or the courtyard. The leaves will be changing soon, and it’s quite a wonderful place to read, to relax.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

We parted and I cleaned myself up, unable to walk far enough to make it to the clinic, not that I even knew where it was. My injuries weren’t bad enough to warrant going, though. Just light cuts, bruises, plus my aching head and a core I could barely stand up straight with. My body didn’t hurt as bad as I expected, like I was more durable than I was expecting, and my wounds never took long to heal, so I stayed in my quarter and rested my body. I pulled out the book, titled “Djoteided’s Beat” and opened it to the first section. It was titled “A conversation in the forum of Yazjikurn” and went as follows.

The lasting stupor of wine and kun is one which every human need feel once. Bumbling legs and flighty head, having drizzled away come morning and become flighty legs and bumbling head. For upon such a sorry day of ash, as I trudged forward in strange tidings, beyond the Children of Ashe parading the streets, I stumbled upon a beggar, a wretched man, a mess of frightful unkempt hair, brashly odorous loins, and a face the like of a gontab whose mother was a corty and whose father reeked of briques. Truly a detestable sight, alas, my faith in the Heart be unswayed, I approached the creature.

“Man! If you be man and not beast, prove it and I shall a golden coin bestow upon thee. Firstly, declare thyself.”

“Many thanks be upon ye for such a chance, Wise Djoteided, but may I call thee Djo, for my tongue has swelled upon a mighty blood fever.”

“Ay, shouldst thou tell me thy name, but call me not wise, for none may be so wise as the Brain.”

“A fool, I must be, but a beast I am not. I was Larmeonip the man, but now I am Larmeonip the beggar.”

“Humble Larmeonip, I have none more but a second question, though thy claim to foolhood distracts mine attention, for if a fool is so foolish he cannot write or read, is he not but a beast of the mob?”

“Curious Djo, is a man who cannot read a man who cannot think? I reckon beasts be only those who are as unthinking as those beneath beggars.”

“Inquisitive Larmeonip, I have met many a man who speak and yet act as beasts, in a stupor rustling the feathers of unwanting unwanton women and not a day later celebrated for declaring victory upon enemies of the Body who would decimate our land! How canst thou prove thou art man if even the virtuous act as beasts?”

“Cynical Djo, thy answer lies in thy question, but pose I a question for thee?”

“Ask, Larmeonip!”

“Which way do we read?”

“Soil to sky, dawn to dusk of course.”

“Beasts hold their heads down, searching the soil for nourishment and prey, no?”

“Correct.”

“Thus Elysians hold their heads high, watchful of our domain, no?”

“Correct again.”

“Dawn is a fresh babe, but not bright enough to know, no?”

“Correct again, Larmeonip.”

“Thus dusk is a wishful remembrance of day, having no more to know, no?”

“Correct again, Larmeonip, and?”

“Therein lies the answer, Djo.”

“Circular Larmeonip, tis thine answer to thy question!”

“What witness I between beast and Elysian, dawn and dusk, is that of Larmeonip. I cannot answer for Djoteided.”

“Deceitful Larmeonip, thou’rt of blood tongues!”

“And yet I speak”

“Foolish Larmeonip, thou canst read!”

“And yet I see.”

“Bumbling Larmeonip, thou listen not!”

“And yet I hear.”

“Rash Larmeonip, thou thinkst not!”

“And yet I have fooled the stuped unwiseman.”

In a flight of rage, I dropped a gold coin politely in that dreadful man’s hand and cursed the wine and kun which curdled my veil of wisdom.