19 The Most Illustrious Republic

“How come I can’t go out with my father?” Dashvara asked, unhappy. He was sitting on the top of the shaard’s tower, and he was looking at the old man, his head up. “How come you confine me here, master?”

Maloven, as usual, gazed at the faraway horizon, lost in thought. He answered in a quiet voice:

“No one confines you anywhere, child. There are simply some things a person cannot do. Just as my leg stops me from running, neither can you ride by your father’s side to defend our lands. But you shall, son.” He turned to him, his hands on his back, and his eyes twinkled. “I feel that, someday, you will defend the Xalya lands from an atrocious storm. But” —he smiled— “you still have to grow up and learn…”

When he awoke, Dashvara got the impression he had just emerged from an endless hole. He was lying on a quite comfortable mattress, and the light was shining through his eyelids. He felt… fine. He was soaked in sweat, though.

Coming from not so far away, he heard voices and noises he wasn’t able to recognize—among them some strange cries of birds. He half opened one eye, and he looked at the room for a long time. The sunlight illuminated it harmoniously. He opened the other eye when he perceived some footsteps. Aydin appeared in a doorway. He stopped short on seeing him awake.

“Oh,” he just said.

He walked forward, and after filling a glass with water, he handed it to Dashvara. This one sat up. It was hot in the room. That was why he was sweating. Of course.

“Ternian. Please tell me I am not in your house.”

“You are in my house, human.”

Dashvara looked at him for some seconds before draining the glass and pointing out:

“You’ve saved my life.”

“Again,” the healer smiled.

Dashvara made a face.

“Sorry for what I said in the temple. You’re not a scoundrel. I take it back.”

“Only that?”

Dashvara gave him a grim look, but this time Aydin did not look daunted. The Xalya shrugged his shoulders.

“A wise man once said that he who saves the life of someone who insults him is either a madman or a knight. But actually, according to him, both things are the same.” As he saw Aydin’s face frowning, he added teasingly: “I take back everything you want, healer. How the hell did you get me out of that?”

“You didn’t get out of anything,” Aydin replied. “Your body energies are still a mess. The poison of that dart should have killed you, and something in those powders has saved your life, but it has caused serious lesions in your inner energy. You’re unbalanced.”

Dashvara would have rather never heard his words. He felt energetic and fully recovered. Or, at least, he felt much better than when he was dying, he rectified.

“Unbalanced, huh?” he echoed back at him with sarcasm.

“It’s just a medical term,” Aydin clarified. “You suffer from a lack of inner energy balance, and I don’t know how to cure it.”

If there wasn’t a cure, why worry? Dashvara changed the subject.

“Where is Azune?”

“I have no idea. She left shortly after you arrived.” Aydin rose to his feet. “Do you want to eat something?”

Dashvara nodded and stood up too. Soon, both of them were settled down at a small table with a plate full of delicious cookies set on it.

“So you’re a member of the Pearl Brotherhood,” Dashvara hazarded.

Aydin rolled his eyes.

“Not at all. I’m an acolyte of the Dragon Brotherhood. But I’m a sympathizer of the Pearl Brotherhood.”

Dashvara chewed his cookie thoughtfully.

“A sympathizer and a collaborator,” he observed. “You were spying on Arviyag, weren’t you?” Aydin didn’t respond. A faint smile stretched across Dashvara’s face. “Maybe you’re not such a coward, after all.”

The ternian shook his head.

“Are you a Pearl member? No, right? So then, don’t meddle in affairs that are none of your concern.”

Dashvara didn’t like his tone at all.

“I’m afraid that’s more my concern than yours. The prisoners that scum bought are Xalyas.”

“Yes. That’s what Azune told me,” Aydin replied with his claws bared. “She also told me you have spoiled their plans. Now it will be more difficult for you to free the new prisoners.”

Dashvara then remembered that the second slave caravan would arrive in Dazbon around noon. He wiggled impatiently.

“Have they arrived already?” he inquired.

A sarcastic light sparkled in Aydin’s eyes before darkly fading away.

“It’s quite likely.” He raised his head, and his face lit up when he took a glance through the window. “Ah. Here’s your savior. It’s a doctor, not a simple healer, and believe me, if he doesn’t manage to heal you, no one will. Go on, lie down on the bed.”

Dashvara swallowed his impatience and obeyed. Soon, the door opened, and the boy, Hadriks, came in with a face strangely reddened by irritation. Behind him, was a gray-haired man scrawny like a stick. Only a thick silver chain broke the monotony of his black dress.

“Where’s the patient?” he asked, as he walked into the room acting like he owned the place.

Aydin had remained stunned for a reason that Dashvara didn’t quite understand. Before anyone was able to answer, the new arrival came quickly by the bed and laid his bag on a stool while talking in a continuous stream.

“For the Divinity’s sake, is it hot! I’ll be glad when the autumn actually comes. Why didn’t you ever decide to live in the Beautiful District, Aydin? These tiring walks take it out of me. Well, well, well. What do we have here? Haw! He doesn’t look like he’s about to die. I should have guessed you were exaggerating, boy. From how you described him, I was nearly expecting to find him dead! These youths and their fantasies,” he guffawed with a sharp laugh. “Sit down, citizen, and keep still for a moment, will you?”

Dashvara looked at him in the eye, but the doctor wasn’t looking at him: he laid his lanky, bony hands on Dashvara’s chest and began to examine it as if he was searching for some remedy hidden under his skin. Aydin and Hadriks were watching them uneasily. Dashvara could hear the ternian whispering to the boy:

“And what about Doctor Fenendrip?”

Glancing above the doctor’s grayish head, Dashvara saw Hadriks’s apologizing face.

“He’s on vacation, master. Only Doctor Exipadas was on call in his office. He asked me what I was doing here, and I—”

Aydin had begun to nod, and gulping, Hadriks fell silent. Dashvara sighed. He was starting to get really bored with this Doctor Exipadas and his palpating.

“I see,” the doctor muttered. “Yes. Come on, hold this bowl tightly under your forearm, like so, very well.”

He took out of his bag a small, cutting tool. Aydin’s expression alarmed Dashvara immediately.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, withdrawing the bowl.

“I’m going to bleed you, nothing more,” the doctor assured calmly. “Just a little cut to make you expel the bad humors.”

Dashvara gaped at him, and he finally understood his purpose. Something inside him burst into blazing flames. He hardly mastered himself. It was a long time since he had spoken so icily.

“Get out at once,” he breathed.

The doctor paused, and for the first time, he looked up at him. What he saw in Dashvara’s eyes made him turn paler than he already was.

Aydin cleared his throat, extremely embarrassed.

“Doctor. Doctor Exipadas, I don’t think bloodletting is the most appropriate remedy. I actually think that—”

Doctor Exipadas’s face hardened.

“Am I dreaming or are you questioning my way of working, healer? And you, stretch your arm!”

When Doctor Exipadas got his knife closer, Dashvara couldn’t suppress his impulse: he grabbed the bowl and smashed his face in with it. After that, he stood up, flung the knife into the bag with some pieces of the broken bowl, closed it, and began to drag the doctor toward the open door. Exipadas was shrieking like a hog on the way to the slaughterhouse. Dashvara ejected him outside, with his bag.

“You criminal!” the scrawny doctor howled, covering his bloody face. “You’ll regret this, believe you me, and a lot! I have powerful friends!”

“Be happy I haven’t bled you, you leech,” Dashvara spit out, disgusted. He noticed that several people passing by in the street were glancing curiously at the scene. He closed the door just as the other one was yelling:

“You shall pay for this!”

Dashvara turned to Aydin and Hadriks. They both were staring at him mutely. Only then he thought that perhaps his hurried action was likely to get Aydin into trouble. But at the same time he bet that, if he had not reacted, Aydin wouldn’t have done anything to stop that smug idiot. Breaking the silence, Hadriks let out a guffaw. He immediately repressed it under his master’s glare.

“I don’t know how to take it,” Aydin confessed.

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Yeah? Well… Was he some important person?”

With a calmness only apparent, Aydin informed him:

“Exipadas Andeyed is the brother-in-law of Altagar Parvel, the master senator of Dazbon.”

Dashvara pondered for some seconds, not knowing exactly how to interpret the case. The only thing he could finally think of was to justify himself:

“I wasn’t going to let him bleed me, right? Bah, besides, I did nothing to him.”

“Oh, you did nothing to him!” Aydin echoed with a burst of sarcastic, nervous laughter.

“Well… My method wasn’t that bad,” Dashvara defended himself. “I’ve only put him out of your house.”

“Of my house. Oh. Yes. Yes, your method was straightforward. Effective. I think you’ve forgotten the detail about the projectile.”

“What projectile?”

“The bowl you’ve hurled to him.”

“I didn’t hurl it to him, I smashed it on his face,” Dashvara specified.

“You do well pointing out the nuance,” the ternian replied ironically. “When the Mestre comes with all his officers to interrogate you, don’t forget to mention it.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows, alarmed.

“The Mestre?”

“The one who’s in charge of arresting people.”

“Ay. I see.” Dashvara felt ashamed. “I didn’t mean to get you into trouble, Aydin.”

“Neither I meant to let this louse enter my house.” Hadriks paled, and Aydin laid an appeasing hand on his shoulder. “Never mind, Hadriks. Now you know that the less you see Doctor Exipadas, the better you feel. Indeed, the less you see the doctors of the Hospital, the better. You can only trust Fenendrip and a few more. What are you doing?” he suddenly asked, surprised.

Dashvara had just put on his tunic, and now he was slipping his boots on.

“I leave. I don’t want to cause you more problems. Besides, I have things to do.”

He was heading for the door when Aydin barred his way.

“No way. If Azune comes back and learns you have left, she will condemn me to hell. I won’t let you leave until she comes back.”

Dashvara looked at him, startled. At this moment, he heard hard knocks at the door.

“Urban Militia!” a powerful voice shouted outside.

“A thousand dragons…” Aydin cursed. He opened the door. A strapping human appeared in front of them. Behind, was the bloody face of Doctor Exipadas, who seemed to flaunt his wound as if it was proof of his innocence. The fact was that he only had a small cut on his cheek—the rest of the blood was coming from his nose. The militiaman greeted:

“Good afternoon. Just a question. Has this man been in your house recently?” Aydin nodded. “He says that one of your patients has hit him in an abusive way. Can I speak to him?”

Dashvara hardly suppressed his laughter. Hit him in an abusive way? Aydin stepped aside, letting the militiaman and Dashvara see each other. The guard was dressed in a gray uniform; on his chest, he had a badge with the picture of a black hand.

“Tell it like it is,” Aydin advised him.

“This man nearly killed me!” Exipadas shrilled.

Dashvara snorted lowly, and he explained every last detail of the case, like a model victim. The militiaman listened to him calmly, without paying any attention to the doctor’s moans. Finally, he gave a short jerk of his head.

“According to the Law, if the patient refuses to be bled, the doctor has to accept it. I consider that you acted in self-defense and that the doctor had no right to force you to do anything. End of story.”

The doctor was open-mouthed. Dashvara smiled, pleasantly surprised.

“Thank you, militiaman,” he said.

The human bowed his head slightly as a parting greeting.

“Whaaat?” Exipadas snorted. “No! Militiaman!” he called out. “I command you to arrest him! Militiaman!”

He grabbed him by the sleeve, and the militiaman’s face became cold as ice; the doctor cringed.

“I suggest you move away from this street, Doctor,” the officer said.

“How you dare—!”

“Please don’t utter insults you might regret later,” the militiaman cut him off with a deadly serious expression. “Law is Law.”

Exipadas’s pale face crimsoned, and he looked as if his ears were going to puff out steam. I bet those are just the bad humors he wanted to free me of, Dashvara thought sarcastically.

“That boor shall pay anyway,” the doctor grumbled before turning around and walking away through the street with a quick step. When Dashvara looked at the other side of the street, the militiaman was already far away.

With a sigh, Aydin closed the door.

“Well. Let us hope the case is settled.”

Hadriks giggled.

“You’ve made a patrician bite the dust!”

“Yes, what a success,” Aydin told him back ironically. He had bared his claws. Dashvara felt concerned.

“Do you think that idiot could try to take revenge for such a petty accident?”

Aydin raised his eyes to the heavens.

“Petty accident? Remember you’re not in your wild lands, Xalya. In Dazbon, there is a Law. And a Court. Perhaps Exipadas is an “idiot”, as you say, but if he has friends among the Council of Seven, he could make your life hell, believe me.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it. Okay, perhaps my inner energy is unbalanced, but I feel just fine right now, so—”

“So you’re going to lie down without complaining,” Aydin retorted.

His uncompromising tone proper to a veteran healer had some effect on Dashvara. They looked at each other, and finally, the Xalya mumbled:

“At the end of the day, I suppose I owe you that.”

He lied down back on the bed, and Aydin, after asking him whether he knew how to read, brought him a book. Dashvara grinned on reading the title. The Adventures of the Shepherd Bramanil and His Cat Mawrus the Wrecker.

“Do you know Rowyn the Duke?” he asked.

The ternian’s joking expression led him to understand he was treading on shaky ground once again.

“I know him. Hadriks, stay here, will you? And don’t talk too much.”

He left the room, and his footsteps fell away. The boy sat on one of the two chairs beside the small table, on the other side of the office. He was playing cards alone. Dashvara craned his neck. Obviously, he had never seen such pictures on a deck of cards.

“Are they Dazbonish cards?” he inquired curiously.

Hadriks shrugged.

“Sailor cards, they call it. Now I’m playing solitaire.” He was grinning more and more widely. “Do you know how to play republicans?”

Dashvara shook his head and sat up on the bed, putting aside the book.

“The cards I used to play with weren’t like that at all. In fact, we used to play katutas quite more often. You play it with a board,” he explained. A sudden wave of memories came over him. Makarva, Lumon, Boron, Sigfen… my patrol brothers and I were inveterate katutas players. Dashvara stifled a sad smile. And yet, what an awful band of players we were. Damn it. He blocked his memories.

“I know what the katutas are,” Hadriks mocked. “It’s a Dazbonish man who invented the game.”

Dashvara jerked up, astonished. The katutas were a Xalya ancestral game. Demons, it was as if Hadriks had told him the republicans had invented the Wise Tongue.

“Nonsense. The Ancient Kings are the ones who invented the katutas. That Dazbonish must have imported the game.”

“I swear it was a Dazbonish man,” Hadriks protested. “Ask Aydin. He’s a keen katutas player.”

Still with his skeptical pout, Dashvara got up.

“I sure will ask him. How do you play republicans?”

During the following hours, Hadriks and he played several games of cards.

“It can’t be!” Hadriks growled at some moment.

“Bad cards, huh?” Dashvara asked with a satisfied tone while watching his own cards. This time, he had good luck.

“Mph,” was all the boy said, focused on his cards.

He threw a low card, his lips pressed. Dashvara smiled, and he played his turn. The more cards they played, the more Hadriks darkened. He lost the Golden Ace in an avalanche of Clerks. And then he exclaimed:

“Aha!”

He put his last card on the table. A District Magistrate. Dashvara frowned. He had only an Administrator left. With that play, Hadriks prevented him from winning the hand, he realized.

“You bastard,” he growled, throwing away the Administrator while the boy was laughing. “Didn’t you say you had bad cards?”

“I did have. Haven’t you seen my disastrous hand? The only valuable thing was my Magistrate. You simply shouldn’t have parted with the Senator so soon. Such things will happen when you play with a novice.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, amused.

“Hey, and aren’t the senators annoyed about this ‘republicans’ game? Because some people must swear profusely at their cards, I suspect.”

“Bah! The senators the firsts,” Hadriks replied. “Look, once, a captain of the militia went into the Senate to warn about some matter, and he caught them all playing republicans, and one of them was just yelling, ‘A senator! Deal me a damn Senator!’.” Dashvara let out a guffaw just imagining the captain’s face. Hadriks grinned broadly. “I swear. Well, it’s a popular legend,” he admitted, “but that must be true, wanna bet?”

Still smiling, Dashvara turned his eyes away when he perceived footsteps near the door.

“I don’t bet on popular legends,” he replied.

Someone knocked at the door, and Hadriks hastened to open it. It was Rowyn and Azune.

“Where is Fayrah?” Dashvara asked before neither of them could even utter a word.

The blond was sweating profusely, and he was shaking his tunic to get some fresh air. However, his face relaxed when he saw the Xalya standing.

“I do see Aydin has saved you from hell. I advise you not to go out to get into another one: the demons are burning the air out there. How are you feeling?”

“I’d bet it’s the twentieth time you ask me that question since I know you, republican.”

Rowyn smiled at his reply. Azune asked:

“Where’s Aydin?”

“In the market, in his magaras stall,” Hadriks answered.

Rowyn’s face lit up when he sat down at the table.

“Playing cards, huh? Republicans game?”

Hadriks nodded.

“I was teaching him, but he still gets easily tricked like a beginner.”

Dashvara sat down again, insisting:

“Where is my sister?”

“Eh? Oh. The three of them are fine,” the kampraw assured in a light tone. “I left them in an inn. The Golden Dragon. Well, Lessi feels a little dizzy because of all the hustle and bustle of the city, and because of the bad smell.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. The daughter of the indestructible Captain Zorvun. Of course.

“And what about the caravan with the other prisoners?” he inquired.

Azune growled ironically:

“What do you know! I wasn’t aware that the Supreme had a beard. Come on, Duke, answer to our leader’s question.”

Hadriks burst into laughter, and Rowyn assumed a patient expression. Dashvara wasn’t so understanding.

“I’m sorry, Azune, but I remind you that those prisoners are my people. It’s no laughing matter.”

Azune breathed out.

“I spent all night riding to save him, and not even a word of gratitude. Haven’t you been taught to say, ‘thanks’?”

Dashvara didn’t know how to respond. After a silence, he cleared his throat.

“Thanks.”

“If you say it in such a tone, you’d better keep quiet,” Azune snorted.

Dashvara began to feel irritated.

“I used no particular tone, republican woman. What do you want me to say? I’m just not used to thanking foreigners, okay? Don’t push me. I need time to adjust.”

All signs of offense faded away from Azune’s face; only that teasing sparkle remained.

“You call us foreigners, and you’re in our city. Did I miss something? Okay, frankly, Rowyn, the less we say, the better.”

The Pearl Brother was twiddling with the deck of cards thoughtfully. At that instant, he let out a long sigh.

“Azune is right. You’d better not meddle in our affairs now. It’s too late. We have a plan to rescue your companions. We’ll free them, and we’ll put an end to the traffic of Arviyag and his henchmen. But we can’t allow you to interfere in our task.”

The Duke wasn’t going to answer his questions, Dashvara guessed. He felt heavyhearted. He would have been able to get some weapon-like object and to threaten them, but the mere thought—unless it was the unbalanced inner energy—gave him a cramp in his stomach that forced him to remain stiff like a statue.

“I’m sorry, steppeman,” Rowyn sighed after an embarrassed silence.

He did look sorry. Actually, he looked as if he were acting despite himself. Azune, on the contrary, looked satisfied.

“Don’t be sorry, republican,” Dashvara responded. “Tell me, what about this conversation you promised me, with your Supreme?”

Azune let out a forced laugh.

“My brother promised you nothing. He said you will go to see her. That’s that. Don’t distort the words.”

Dashvara gave her a grim look.

“I’m getting the impression that you have taken a dislike to me, half-elf.”

“I’m getting the impression you don’t care a frog if Arviyag is or not in jail as long as you rescue your people.”

Dashvara glared at her.

“That’s not true! And if the favor I owe to you is to eradicate all the slavers in the Republic, so be it. I will accomplish it.”

Azune’s face quivered, and her ironic mask crumbled away for an instant.

“Enough,” Rowyn intervened in a tired voice. “If I let you two continue, you would end up promising to wipe out the slavery all along the Pilgrim Ocean’s shore—or even in the whole Hareka! Come on, Azune. We have work to do. Steppeman,” he told him as he strode to the door. “I’m happy you feel better. Get some rest, and tomorrow we’ll come back to take you to see the Supreme, and after that, we’ll guide you to the Golden Dragon.”

“No. I’d rather go to the Golden Dragon right now,” Dashvara assured.

“I’m sorry,” the kampraw sighed. “We don’t have enough time. Perhaps Hadriks might guide you. But I suppose Aydin won’t appreciate it. He doesn’t release his patients until he pronounces them completely recovered,” he smiled. “Keep playing cards. Have a good afternoon.”

The two Pearl Brothers were already leaving when Dashvara asked:

“You’re not going to act this very night, are you?”

Rowyn closed the door without a word. Dashvara swore under his breath. He snatched the cards again to shuffle them with nervous movements. If Rowyn and Azune intended to sneak into the slavers’ hideout this very night… he was going to miss something he wouldn’t miss for the world.

“Damned republicans,” he swore again.

“How long do you intend to shuffle the cards?” Hadriks inquired, sitting in front of him.

Dashvara began to deal.

“Tell me, Hadriks. Do you know where the merchant Shizur lives?”

The boy frowned.

“The wine merchant? The friend of your cousin who isn’t your cousin?”

“How do you know Zaadma is not my cousin?” Dashvara replied.

Hadriks showed a naughty smile.

“Well. First, because the cousin’s name is Zaetela and not Zaadma. Secondly, because Azune said you were a Xalya. And thirdly—”

“Okay, okay,” Dashvara cut him off. “So?”

“So what?”

“Shizur,” the Xalya grumbled.

“Oh. He lives in the Autumn District. Beside the Amethyst Canal.”

Dashvara tried to recall the city plans he had studied in the house on the Pearl patron.

“Next to Shubor’s candy shop,” Hadriks specified after a pause. “Why do you ask? Do you have some score to settle with him?”

On seeing the sparkle in his eyes, Dashvara guessed he was already fantasizing about some incredible fight. That boy looked not quite as reserved as before but unmistakably more hotheaded, he noticed with a grimace.

“No, I have no score to settle with Shizur.”

Hadriks glanced at his own cards, then lifted his eyes, met Dashvara’s… and he bit his lips.

“What?”

“I would like to ask you a favor.”

As he sadly expected, those words lit up the boy’s face.

“Truly? What favor?”

“Go to Shizur’s and ask for Zaadma and Rokuish. Try to learn whether they live there or they are staying somewhere else. But, if they are there, don’t tell them where I am.”

“Quite difficult—they will guess it just by seeing me,” Hadriks pointed out shrewdly.

Dashvara licked his dry lips.

“That’s true enough.”

The door burst open, and Aydin hobbled into the room, holding a fainted woman.

“For the Dragon’s sake!” Hadriks called out, rushing to help him. Taking a look at the rather plump woman, Dashvara decided to lend a hand. “She’s Lira, Tantoro the Tanner’s wife, isn’t she? What happened to her?”

“Faintness. Heat,” Aydin explained with difficulty. His forehead was sweaty. He laid her patient on the bed. “Get me some water.”

Hadriks obeyed hastily. Aydin gave a slight slap on the woman’s cheek, then snorted, and flung himself down on a stool next to the wall.

“If this heat continues just a few days more, all the Dazbonish people will end up melting into a pool.”

Dashvara had sat down back at the table, and now he was wondering whether, with this new guest, the ternian would approve of him going out of his house. Hadriks finally brought the water, and before anything else, Aydin swallowed a large gulp. Then he drew a glass closer to the patient and wet her forehead, her neck, and her ears. As soon as Lira moved her head, Aydin waved Dashvara and Hadriks away.

“Go out of here,” he whispered.

Hadriks grasped Dashvara by the arm, and they both went to the adjacent room. He led him farther, to the kitchen. A detail intrigued him.

“Where’s the family?”

Hadriks was wetting his head with water to stand heat better.

“You mean Aydin’s family? Well. His two sons are studying in the Citadel. One is going to become a magarist, and the other one wants to become a celmist warrior.”

Dashvara knew that these jobs had something to do with magic; well, with the magic that some didn’t call magic because they thought it was an uncultured term. He followed Hadriks’s example, soaked himself with water, and then went on:

“A magarist is a magic object maker, isn’t he?”

Hadriks had an indulgent smile.

“Yes. He makes objects enchanted with asdronic energies. Aydin lives by doing that, but he uses simple enchantments. I learn from him. When I have enough level, I will be able to ask the Citadel for a scholarship to study there.”

Dashvara nodded thoughtfully. Maloven had already explained to him several times how the asdronic and darsic energies did work. He remembered the lessons, and not with a great delight. As Maloven was no wizard, all his explanations had always remained vague theories. In any case, Dashvara had the feeling that, even if Maloven had been the best magician in all Hareka, he wouldn’t have felt more attracted to the subject. As he himself used to say to Fayrah when they were little: nobody can know everything.

Dashvara thought back of Hadriks’s words, and he smiled. He had said, ‘when I have’; he didn’t even consider the hypothesis he could fail in his attempt.

“I have no doubt you’ll become the best object enchanter wizard,” Dashvara commented, comfortably leaning back on a wall. “And what about the celmist warrior? What does he do? Does he cast some asdronic bolts? Acid punches?”

Hadriks shook his head at Dashvara’s joking tone.

“Some are shield maker celmists, and others are conjurers—among other things,” he added, after a hesitation that gave the impression he didn’t know much about the subject. “The shield makers make shields, and the conjurers make… plenty of conjurations. Among them, there are the perceptists, the disintegrators, the invokers, the… Well,” he interrupted himself. “As I say, there are plenty. They say the best celmist warriors spend their last years of study at the Bastion. Those ones move in a… different sphere. You won’t see them very often walking in the street.”

“And what do they do with their conjurations?” Dashvara asked curiously.

Hadriks twisted his mouth to gesture his ignorance.

“They defend the Republic, I suppose.”

Dashvara made a smiling face. He almost identified with those celmist warriors.

“That’s as good a way as any to enjoy your life,” he approved. “And what about Aydin’s wife?”

Hadriks was looking at him, obviously amused at such an amount of questions.

“She’s a sculptor.”

“Oh.”

Dashvara tried to conceal his curiosity, but he failed. He couldn’t help but think about Bashak and his wooden figurine. He had always liked the idea of shaping a piece of material, even though he did not consider himself patient enough to carry out such tasks.

“She mostly sculpts in marble,” Hadriks continued, maybe guessing the Xalya’s interest. “But she also sculpts ships. Some months ago, she finished sculpting the prow, the edges, and the cabin of the Alamagna. It’s the private ship of the Parvel family.”

Dashvara nodded, his arms crossed. After a hesitation, he took Zaadma’s light disk out from his pocket, and he showed it to Hadriks.

“It belongs to my cousin who isn’t my cousin,” he explained with a playful smile. “I would like you to bring it back to her for me. Don’t rub it with your hands or else it will light up.”

Hadriks’s eyes had widened.

“Is it a magara?”

“I suppose. Could you bring it back to her? I can’t do it by myself, because Shizur could recognize me. You do understand, don’t you?”

Hadriks nodded.

“You mean the Dragon of Spring? It must be frustrating to be falsely accused,” he sympathized. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Frustrating, I don’t know. At least annoying.”

“Annoying,” Hadriks repeated, looking not altogether convinced. “Yes. At least. I’m out of here,” he declared more briskly. “If she’s at Shizur’s, I should be back in less than an hour. I run fast.”

Dashvara was tempted to tell him that it was no race, but he saw him so cheerful he only gave a pat on his arm and said:

“You’re growing bolder than I was expecting. Remind, boy: be bold if need be, but never act rashly.”

Hadriks was already rushing out of the kitchen when Dashvara stopped talking; he doubted the boy had listened to him. He sharpened his ears. He heard a door slamming… and suddenly he heard a shout and voices. Maybe some problem with the spouse of the tanner? Dashvara headed hurriedly toward the door, but Aydin popped up before, his eyes colder than a north wind. He was holding up Zaadma’s metal disk as though he were seizing a red snake. Dashvara shrank back involuntarily.

“What does this mean?” the healer exclaimed.

Dashvara stared at him, amazed. He only knew the ternian a short time, but he certainly wouldn’t have imagined his look could get so terrible.

“I lodge you, I heal you, I feed you, and after all that, you pay me back this way?” He threw the disk in his face, and Dashvara, astonished as he was, did not even try to dodge it.

As he was a Xalya and had patrolled his lands for years, he was quite accustomed to facing surprises. But the ternian’s mood swing took him completely unaware. What had gotten into the healer all of a sudden? In dead silence, he leaned down and picked up the disk. This one was gleaming softly.

“I really don’t—”

“Get out of my house,” Aydin thundered.

Dashvara peered at him. He looked like a man whom someone has just threatened to kill his son. It wasn’t the finest moment to discuss, he understood.

“Okay. I’m going. But—”

“Get out of my house,” Aydin insisted in an icy tone. “And leave Hadriks alone.”

Dashvara did not delay. He passed by the healer and went to the living room. There, he bumped into the boy, who was as pale as a sheet.

“May the Eternal Bird guide you, boy,” he murmured.

He headed for the office and saw that Lira was already gone. He opened the door and then looked back. Aydin had followed him as if to make sure he wasn’t going to cause another incomprehensible disaster. Dashvara mustered up his courage.

“Could I please ask you why you are—?”

His question died in his throat, quenched by that frosty look. Aydin seemed to have turned into a cold statue of snow. Not even the wave of heat coming through the door was able to melt him. He had already caused him too much trouble, he determined. Asking a favor to his apprentice had tried his patience, apparently. He gave him a stern nod, and he went out.

The sun was beating down on the paved street. Dashvara got to walk, not knowing where to go. He wandered for a long time, among people, carriages, and noise. Without a doubt, Dazbon was more impressive than Rocavita. It had no end of alleys, canals, bridges, workshops, and squares with small parks… But Dashvara just couldn’t be impressed with anything. It smelled bad, it was hot, and everything was too big.

When something seems too beautiful or too “whatever”, it doesn’t seem attractive anymore. Lost in philosophical thoughts, Dashvara was roaming in the long street of a wider canal, observing his surroundings as if in a dream. I don’t act like I am in Dazbon, he realized. In his heart, he was still on Lusombra’s back, riding up and down the hills, scanning the horizon.

He sighed. He listened to the high-pitched cries of some big and white birds. Seagulls, he deduced. Maloven had lived in Dazbon for a year; he had told him a bit how it was. But, as usual, the little Dashvara did not take interest in what, in his view, he would not actually know in his lifetime.

He arrived at the end of the canal, in a square, in front of an elegant building which entrance door had the shape of an eye. The river forked off in two big streams flowing into the sea. Looking in the opposite direction, toward the north, Dazbon was climbing steeply up a hill. On one side, the Great Cascade was within sight, white and foamy; on the other side, were the Stairs: an endless stairway about fifty feet wide, with sand-colored stone, and with regular steps, was going up and up to the top of the hill, far up away. The houses of the Autumn District were stacked on both sides.

Dashvara looked down again, blinded by the sun, which was just beginning to come down. He had to find that Golden Dragon and make sure that Fayrah, Lessi, and Aligra were doing fine. And once done, he would go find the Pearl Brothers. If they didn’t want him to interfere in their task, they would have to let him in on their plans. He only had to find a way of forcing them to let him in on it.

Dashvara smiled slightly while looking for some kind soul willing to show him the right track.