22 The Poisoned-woman

He did not find Almogan in his house but in the gambling house. The young man was getting drunk, and while walking closer between the tables and the noisy gamblers, Dashvara guessed that his relationship with Wanissa wasn’t prospering in the right direction.

“You gamble?” a woman inquired, a greedy glint in her eyes. She was asking that to Almogan. The youth sighed, staggering backwards.

“I’ve lost all my money,” he stammered.

Everybody lost interest in him, and the circle closed around a table. How sympathetic those people look. Frowning, Dashvara took the last steps and grasped Almogan by the arm.

“Sit down, good man. We need to talk about something.”

Perhaps he was too drunk, or perhaps his memory wasn’t just very good—the fact is that Almogan did not recognize him. Of course, Dashvara told himself. He had been wearing a veil in Rocavita. Anyway, the man let himself be dragged to an empty, small table, and once there, he asked with a furred tongue:

“Are you going to buy me a drink?”

Dashvara decided it was time to wake him up, and he held up a hand to call a waiter.

“Please can you bring a big glass of fresh water for my comrade?”

“Water?” Almogan echoed with displeasure.

“Water,” Dashvara confirmed. “You’ve already drunk enough filth.”

Almogan squinted his eyes, detailing his censurer’s face through a veil of alcohol. The waiter brought the glass with a foreseeable smile.

“It’s on the house,” he declared.

Dashvara thanked him. In a heartbeat, Almogan’s face was completely soaked. He gave a cry of surprise that only drew some teasing smiles, and he cast an irate glare at Dashvara.

“Who do you think you are?”

“Your savior,” Dashvara replied. “You will marry Wanissa, and I’m going to make sure you will.”

That, along with the water, woke up Almogan utterly.

“Who are you?”

“I’ve already answered that question. Look, what I’m going to propose to you is a bit out of the knight code that you and I like to follow, but seeing your state, I think it’s necessary to take drastic decisions. Yet, before everything else, one question: how much do you love that woman?”

For an instant, Almogan waffled, both suspicious and hopeful. Then, his face flustered, and an intense woe appeared on it.

“Wan is the light of my way,” he answered in a choked whisper.

“Sure. I guessed it was. So you’re willing to do whatever is needed to keep this light from disappearing from your life.”

“Yes,” Almogan affirmed. “No… it depends. I don’t want to prejudice her.”

“And you’re not going to prejudice her. You’re going to act in such a way that Arviyag will not want to be interested in her ever again.”

Almogan Mazer’s eyes bugged out.

“Are you suggesting a duel to the death? He would never keep the appointment.”

Dashvara puffed out.

“No, of course he wouldn’t. You see, as you well know, Arviyag is a slave trader.”

The secretary got troubled.

“I know.”

“Don’t you think it’s horrible?”

“Despicable,” Al agreed. “Everything that man does is despicable.”

Dashvara gave him a satisfied smile.

“Good. Think a little further: if you get clear proofs of Arviyag’s activities, wouldn’t you bring them to the Court?”

Almogan stared at him thoughtfully.

“I would, without a doubt,” he finally answered. “Do you have those proofs?”

“Not yet,” Dashvara admitted. “But I will have them soon. I only need you to do me a favor.”

He explained the idea about the letter, and Almogan’s face became gloomy, though, after, it gradually lit up.

“I understand your idea. But,” he smiled darkly, “what proof do you have that those proofs actually exist?”

Dashvara remained startled. He hadn’t thought about that. Had Rowyn and the others ever thought about it?

“No proof,” he confessed.

“Ah.” Almogan was clearly disappointed. “Let me tell you that a man as cunning as Arviyag never puts his accounts down on paper. And if he does, everything must be encrypted. Believe you me: I am the secretary of the Faerecio. You never leave traces of any shady deal.”

Dashvara pondered, and then he shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. The fact is that we’re going to try it. You just speak with Wan. And my comrades and I will take care of the rest.”

“What if we kidnap Arviyag?” Almogan abruptly asked. He looked almost ashamed that the idea had ever occurred to him. Dashvara considered it anyway.

“No, I don’t deem it doable,” he finally said. “He’ll probably go out with his henchmen. We don’t want to make an uproar in plain sight, in the street. Besides, then, maybe we would have a hostage, but the slavers have twenty-five.”

Almogan nodded.

“I guess those twenty-five prisoners aren’t strangers to you, sir.”

Dashvara estimated that he had talked enough.

“That’s right,” he answered, standing up.

“You are not a Dazbonish, are you?” Almogan kept asking.

“I am not. And now, dear secretary, see that Wan sends that letter in time.”

Almogan put a determined face.

“No. I won’t do it unless you tell me your name and your origins. I don’t make deals with strangers.”

Dashvara gave him a look of approval.

“That’s a good rule to live by. My name is no secret. I am Dashvara of Xalya.”

Almogan’s lips slightly stretched into a mournful smile.

“Do you know what? I had already guessed it. I know—because I heard Arviyag himself saying it—that the prisoners are Xalyas. Only another Xalya would be capable of risking so much to free them.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Only a Xalya… or a true knight with just principles,” he replied.

Almogan flinched.

“Fair enough. I’ll tell Wan to set a date with Arviyag for this midnight, next to the grating. But she won’t go there,” he said clearly.

Dashvara shrugged his shoulders.

“As long as he goes there, I don’t care about the rest. Let me know that the letter is sent. Go to the Golden Dragon. I will stop by there in the afternoon… say, around eight o’clock, at nightfall.”

When he left the gambling house, he got a nasty feeling, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps because he was neither used to planning thefts, nor machinations, nor that kind of stupid things.

Before becoming aware of his surroundings, he had already crossed the large Liberty Square, and he found himself walking along an adjacent street. This one looked familiar to him, and he soon realized why: it was Aydin’s street.

He didn’t hesitate long before knocking at the office door. Hadriks opened the door, and on seeing him, he looked upset.

“Is Aydin here?” Dashvara asked.

“No… Well, yes,” Hadriks rectified, recovering himself. “But he’s busy crafting a complex magara. Come in.”

Dashvara vacillated.

“I only want to apologize, actually.”

Hadriks smiled.

“Azune dropped in here yesterday evening. She explained to us that you didn’t know what that magara was. Come on in.”

“I did not know,” Dashvara affirmed, entering at last. “Truly, I feel—”

He fell silent when he saw Aydin standing by the other door. His face was stern, but his claws weren’t bared.

“Ashamed?” the ternian helped him in an even tone.

Dashvara blushed.

“Yes.”

The healer pointed at Hadriks with his forefinger, and then at the adjacent room with his thumb. Hadriks left obediently.

“You know, Xalya,” Aydin went on, “healing ignorance and foolishness is beyond my power. So I’m afraid you’re wasting your time coming here.”

Dashvara felt like a little child lectured by his father. He cleared his throat.

“I suppose that apologies won’t help.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions. Making an apology is a good step forward.”

Dashvara perceived the subtle change in his tone, but even so, he didn’t feel less contrite.

“That thief lantern… Is it truly so bad?” he asked.

Aydin let out a sigh, and he sat down at the table.

“They are illegal. And, obviously, they are used for contemptible purposes. No honest man carries one of those lanterns. Just after I chased you out, it occurred to me that you may have not known what it was, but… I was angry. And that doesn’t happen to me very often.”

That sounded quite like forgiveness. Dashvara relaxed.

“Well. I’m happy the misunderstanding is solved, though I’m afraid that my ignorance is still likely to cause great damages. Well,” he repeated, uneasy. “Can I do something for you?”

Aydin peered at him, and he shook his head, smiling.

“The only thing that comes to my mind is to free those poor prisoners. And I know you are capable of doing that.”

Dashvara smiled back at him.

“Count on me, ternian. Are you sure you don’t want something else?”

“Go to see Doctor Fenendrip as soon as you can. He will heal you,” the ternian assured.

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“I will. Nothing else?”

Aydin thought more thoroughly.

“Well. Keep an eye on Tildrin, will you?”

Dashvara eyed him, slightly startled.

“Of course I will, but… why Tildrin more than another?”

Aydin shrugged.

“Because Tildrin, that damned Tildrin, needs it more than anyone else.”

Precisely, to Dashvara, Tildrin and Rowyn seemed to be the most normal members of the team. Could it be that—? Yeah. Tildrin, the reformed thief, was a ternian, as Aydin was. Therefore, it wasn’t impossible that he belonged to the same family. He could be his uncle or maybe his father. He considered the possibility, and it didn’t seem so extravagant to him. Something had to have happened to make Aydin hate all the thieves so fiercely. However, it was clear that the healer wasn’t willing to be more specific.

“I’ll keep an eagle eye on him,” Dashvara finally promised. He gave him a parting wave, and deciding that renewing his apologies would only devalue the ones made before, he left his home promising himself not to trouble the healer’s life anymore, unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Hey, Dash!” a voice suddenly called out.

Hadriks caught him up in the street. He looked much more relaxed than before, as if the peace between his master and him had freed him from a heavy burden.

“What do you want, Hadriks?”

The boy got to the point:

“When I went to draw water from the well, I saw your brother. Well, you know, the comrade of your cousin who isn’t your cousin.”

Jerking up, Dashvara looked at him with an eager impatience.

“Where did you see him?”

“On the Liberty Square. But that’s about an hour ago. I couldn’t speak to him. There were a lot of people, and I lost sight of him. Do you want me to let you know if I see him again? I can try to find out where he stays.”

Hadriks’s excitement was obvious. Dashvara took a glance at Aydin’s house and stiffened.

“No, Hadriks. You’d better not do it.”

Hadriks looked as if he had received a cold shower over his head. He sighed, exasperated.

“Aydin is my master, not my father,” he said. He shrugged before Dashvara’s comical expression. “Say what you want—I will try to find him. Come to the tavern of the King Count at six o’clock in the afternoon. You’re likely to meet your brother, and perhaps even your cousin.”

There is nothing worse than a fifteen-year-old boy who begins to make his own decisions. Dashvara sighed.

“Where is that tavern?”

“In the Liberty Square,” Hadriks exulted.

“I will be there. And spare me your smile. You do that only because you want to. And, by the way, he’s not my brother, he’s a Shalussi, is it clear?”

Hadriks grinned from ear to ear.

“Inescapably clear.”

Dashvara did not wait for seeing him go back home: he turned his back on him and headed again to the Refuge. That boy will end up getting himself into a mess, and then I’ll have to get him out of trouble… He sighed patiently.

When he went into the room, this one was still plunged in the dark. Kroon was there, of course, but Rowyn and Tildrin had left to carry the ladder to the Docks District. Dashvara told the dragon-monk about his conversation with Almogan.

“Well, well,” Kroon merely replied. He had put a blindfold on his eye again, and the other eye was scarcely open. “Do you want a bit of wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“Teetotal?”

“Not exactly, but where I come from, we don’t drink with such a profusion nor with such a regularity.”

“A moderate barbarian, then,” Kroon qualified, before he took a sip from his bottle.

Dashvara raised his eyes to the ceiling, more amused than offended.

“What’s your definition of barbarian?”

“Whichever I like. The dictionaries have never been my friends. But it is widely known that we name the Northmen ‘barbarians’.”

“And what about the ones who did this to you?” Dashvara asked audaciously, casting an eloquent look at his missing legs.

He instantly regretted having spoken. For a second, he feared that Kroon would throw the empty bottle right in his face.

“That was a damned rock,” he finally growled. “Thrown by a band of damned orcs. Pass me another bottle, will you?”

He indicated a sideboard where the bottles were, and Dashvara, desirous of avoiding his surly one-eyed gaze, brought him one, though randomly, because it was impossible, with the dark, to see the color of the contents. Anyway, Kroon didn’t seem to care. He opened the bottle and took another sip.

After a silence, Dashvara asked:

“Where’s Axef?”

“Don’t ask me. That fool always has things to do.”

“Is he really capable of opening a trapdoor?”

Kroon’s mouth stretched into a wry grin.

“Of opening it? I dunno. Of disintegrating it, of course he is. Axef studied at the Bastion. They used to consider him the best, according to him. Till they considered him the worst.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“What happened?”

“Mph. They expelled him, and nobody knows why. Don’t you have seen the orange tunic he wears?”

“What does that have to do with the expulsion?” Dashvara replied, bemused.

“Bah. I forget who you are, barbarian. They dressed him in that long orange tunic he wears to punish him publicly. He had to wear it for two years, but they’ve already expelled him four years ago, and he still wears it. He has become enamored of it, and he has even given it a name, go figure.”

An orange tunic so as to be punished publicly? Never in his life had Dashvara heard of such a crazy idea.

“I may sound ignorant, but what’s wrong with an orange tunic?”

Kroon was twiddling the empty bottle on the table.

“Orange is the color of shame. Historically, it was the color of the Real Guard. When the republicans crushed it, four hundred years ago, the color was finally considered negatively. That’s also why red-haired people are thrashed with priority. Truly, Axef has got it all.” He paused. “Are you going to annoy me much longer? I’m sure you have far more interesting things to do rather than speak with a crippled drunk.”

Dashvara stood up hastily.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. But… know what? I’m not sure you should drink so much.”

“If you’re not sure, then shut up, barbarian. Come back at around five o’clock, in case there’s something new.”

Dashvara was about to ask him if he needed something: leaving him there alone, in his armchair, made him feel a bit concerned; however, the monk was very busy with his new bottle and his thoughts, so he shut his mouth, left him, and headed directly for the Golden Dragon.

That day was not as hot as the day before. In fact, a fresh and gentle breeze blew, sweeping the streets of the Dragon District. Dashvara hoped that this night it wouldn’t rain… and that no storm would come. He hated storms.

It had to be lunchtime, because the streets were relatively calm. When he arrived at the inn, however, he noticed that there was as much noise as the day before, if not even more.

He found Fayrah, Aligra, and Lessi in the room, sitting with a steaming tray between them. Good.

“Dash!” his sister exclaimed in Oy’vat. “We’ve just ordered a meal. Since we didn’t know when you would come back—”

“Or if you would ever come back,” Aligra amended without lifting her eyes from her pasty.

Dashvara ignored her.

“You did very well. I’m afraid that, today, I’m going to be a little busy. How much money is left?”

“Four dinars,” Fayrah answered. “We’ve gotten a discount thanks to Darlan, because he says that the innkeeper doesn’t take a hint.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Darlan?”

“The waiter. For a stranger, he’s a very sympathetic man. He was truly kind, eh, Lessi? He even brought us a flower.”

She showed it to him. It had blue petals. Dashvara sighed, and he sat down, snatching a pasty.

“And Tahisran?” he inquired.

He caught the glance his sister cast to the plumped bag. No way… Had the shadow put himself inside again?

“He’s sleeping,” Fayrah answered.

“Sleeping?” He didn’t know why, but it hadn’t occurred to him that a shadow could need to sleep. He cleared his throat and spoke in Common Tongue. “I see he’s kind of in love with my bag. And I see you three are somewhat partial to pasties.”

Fayrah and Lessi exchanged a smile.

“Now, the other plates have odd names,” Fayrah explained. “So we don’t take risks. Did you see the Supreme?”

Hearing about the Supreme immediately reminded him of the golden eyes, and he shuddered.

“Aye. I saw her, and I talked with her. I’m going to join the Pearl Brotherhood as an acolyte. This way, I could work with them to free our folk. According to Rowyn, they are twenty-five.” The three Xalyas jumped.

“Twenty-five?” Fayrah whistled.

“Well, perhaps not all are Xalyas. We’re going to move into action tonight,” he explained. “We will enter Arviyag’s house, and we will steal some papers to prove that they are slavers.”

He wasn’t more explicit because, just as he never spoke about the way he had killed this or that red nadre in the steppe, so neither it seemed to him adequate to let the three Xalyas in on that matter. They had already suffered enough from being prisoners for three weeks.

“So you’re not going to free them tonight,” Fayrah concluded.

Dashvara tried to ignore the disappointment vibrating in his sister’s voice, and he took a second pasty.

“The Tribunal will take care of condemning the slavers. No slavers, no slaves. And the question is settled.”

“The Tribunal,” Aligra echoed in a ghastly voice. “Is it trustworthy?”

“I don’t know,” Dashvara admitted, embarrassed. As no better answer came to his mind, he focused on chewing his pasty.

“What sort of punishment does the Tribunal use against slavers?” Fayrah asked after a silence.

“Why, demons, I don’t know. Death, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Aligra grumbled in a more normal voice. “So it could be that those slavers won’t die.”

Dashvara would have gladly killed Arviyag with his own hands, but hell, at this moment, the priority was to free the prisoners without those being harmed.

Saying nothing, Dashvara took a third pasty, gulped it down, and went to lie down on his straw mattress, not forgetting to pat gently the bag when passing by, out of purely scientific interest. That damned shadow really seemed to be sleeping.

Fayrah cleared his throat.

“Lessi, are you coming? I’m going to bring back the tray,” she said.

They both went out, leaving behind a room as placid as a deserted battlefield. Exuding waves of tension, Aligra lay down on her own bed, her gaze fastened on the ceiling. Dashvara could almost hear her blaming and accusing him: ‘You’re the firstborn son! You should have died! Don’t offend your Eternal Bird…!’ But Aligra did not open her mouth. It was almost even worse when she didn’t speak.

Dashvara sighed silently, and he had started to ask himself what the hell Lessi and his sister were doing, when Tahisran said:

‘I have a question.’

Dashvara opened his eyes, feeling grateful to the shadow for his intervention: as the drowsiness was stealing over him, he had been about to fall asleep.

“What’s your question?” he inquired in Common Tongue.

Aligra and he sat up to see the shadow slipping out of his nest. It was hard to determine the expression of such a creature, but Dashvara was almost sure to perceive curiosity.

‘I’ve had a dream, and you were in it, Dashvara,’ Tahisran announced peacefully. ‘We were both walking along a long paved path in the midst of the desert. You looked back regularly as if you were searching for something. And then I ask you, ‘What are you looking for?’ and you answer, ‘I’m looking for what I have lost forever’.’

Dashvara stared at him, perplexed.

“It’s a dream, Tahisran. What I have answered came from your mind, not from mine.”

The shadow nodded.

‘I know. But that gave me food for thought. Why a person would be looking for something he can’t recover? That’s my question,’ he pointed out with earnest curiosity.

Dashvara breathed out. Good grief! Do we have to deal with a philosophic shadow now? He felt Aligra’s cloudy gaze, and he fidgeted, awkward.

“Well, er… I suppose that person must have lost his good sense,” he only said.

“Or maybe that thing he’s looking for is the only one he can look for,” Aligra added in a throaty voice.

Tahisran showed his disagreement with a mental snort.

‘Neither. That person is looking for what he can’t reach to copy it and then blaze a new trail,’ he opined.

Dashvara guessed that his words had some deeper meaning, but as the torpor was overcoming him, he preferred not to reflect, and he said:

“If you already had the answer, what’s the point of asking us, shadow?”

Tahisran squirmed.

‘Oh… Well… It was just to debate, I suppose. And I never said my answer was the right one, just for being clear.’

Dashvara smiled when he saw the shadow crossing his arms. He looked like a child who had just been caught cheating. Suddenly, Tahisran raised his gaze up to the door. Seconds later, this one opened, and Fayrah and Lessi walked in… followed by Azune.

Dashvara leaped to his feet, and so brusquely that he even perceived an odd twinge in his wound. Ashen and with her eyes fixed on the shadow, Azune looked as if she had just swallowed a stone. Dashvara understood with some surprise that Tahisran had stayed in plain view, sitting on the bed, on purpose so that she could see him. To what end, he could not guess.

Fortunately, Fayrah and Lessi reacted promptly, and they tried to calm and reassure the half-elf before this one could do anything; Dashvara couldn’t help but admire both friends’ synchronized explanations. They clarified where the shadow came from, and Tahisran himself made his introduction with sheer elegance. Finally, Azune commented something about the spirits of the dead and her ancestors, and she said in a strained voice:

“Dash? Come with me. I’d like to have a word with you.”

She hastened to leave the room, as if a sanfurient wolf was running after her. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Know what, Tahisran? I guess the sajits generally don’t appreciate the shadows a lot. I dunno, that’s the impression I got. Perhaps you’d better be a bit more discreet, don’t you think?”

Tahisran smiled.

I am a sajit, Dash. Besides, Azune is a friend, isn’t she?

Thoughtful, Dashvara didn’t answer. He gave an apologizing look at the Xalyas, he took two dinars of the four ones that remained, and he followed the half-elf outside. Her face had not recovered its normal color yet.

They settled down in the tavern, at a table away from the others, and the first thing Azune said was:

“You have to get rid of that thing, steppeman, whatever it is.”

“You mean the shadow? He decided to follow me on his own. When he gets tired of sleeping in my bag, I suppose he will leave. Don’t worry about Tahisran,” he added, as he saw her opening her mouth again. “Why weren’t you at the meeting?”

Azune gazed at him for some seconds. And then, at last, she sighed and responded:

“I was busy. And I regret it because I have the impression that I’ve lost the most important meeting of the year. How can you propose that we act this very night? I’ve rarely seen the Duke so upset.”

Dashvara shook his head slightly.

“Well. The plan seemed to me quite well elaborated. Now, I wouldn’t mind some sabers, but perhaps I may get them this afternoon. Apart from that, if that girl sends the letter in time, everything else depends on our ability and our luck—”

Azune hushed. At that moment, Darlan, a young, good-looking man with a beaming smile, came over. A sympathetic man, Fayrah had said. Dashvara tried to suppress a grimace but didn’t totally succeed.

“Would you like to eat or drink something?” the boy asked.

“A plate of garfias,” Azune ordered.

As Darlan moved away, the half-elf let out:

“Letting you go in there with a pair of sabers doesn’t look to me like a good idea. You guess why, don’t you?”

Dashvara gave back to her a bored look.

“You think I’m going to spoil your operation again. Well,” he breathed in. “I don’t deny it: my main objective is to save my folk, logically. Anyway, I suspect that the Supreme has accepted me in her Brotherhood in case everything turns badly and we need to fall back. Am I right? So if you want me to protect you, I need some sabers.”

Azune remained silent a long while. Darlan came back sooner than expected, holding a plate full of strange red little balls, and he seemed to even give a bow when he said:

“Enjoy your meal. Would you like something el—?”

“No, thanks,” Dashvara cut him off.

Darlan blushed, took the two dettas Azune offered him, and moved on with a nervous step. So that was the little man who had given a blue flower to the Xalyas, huh? Those republicans sure had odd ideas. As soon as he lost sight of him, Dashvara focused his attention on those red garfias. He picked one and twiddled it with his fingers, curious.

“Have you never eaten a garfia, Xalya?” Azune asked, swallowing one. “Over here, they call it the food of the poor.”

Dashvara tried it, and a sweet-and-sour flavor spread in his mouth. It wasn’t bad, and at least it hadn’t pepper. Azune joined her both hands on the table, and she went on in a slightly teasing tone:

“Rowyn told me your encounter with the Supreme made a strong impression on you. Axef says you were drooling.”

She smiled naughtily, and Dashvara snorted.

“Axef wasn’t in the room. How could he know if I was drooling, yawning, or dancing the dianka?”

Azune kept smiling.

“True. So you’re planning to obtain some sabers. And would you mind if I ask you where you intend to find them?”

“Rokuish and Zaadma are in the city,” Dashvara explained. “Hadriks told me. I gave my sabers to Rok when I entered the temple of Rocavita. He probably still has them.”

“Or not,” Azune contradicted him. “If he didn’t conceal them, the urban militia must have requisitioned them. May I remind you that you need a license to bear weapons? Or perhaps you didn’t know.”

“No, I already knew that,” Dashvara assured. “Thanks to a book of that mysterious patron of yours. Incidentally, who is he?”

Azune shrugged and answered laconically:

“A member of a patrician family.”

They both stretched a hand toward the plate of garfias, and Azune withdrew her own with an uneasy grimace.

“At eight o’clock, to the Refuge,” she declared, standing up. “And don’t be late.”

“Impossible,” Dashvara hastened to say before she moved away from the table. “I told Almogan to come here at eight o’clock to confirm that the letter was sent. So I will be late.”

Azune raised her eyes to the heavens.

“You won’t be the only one, I’m afraid.”

She was turning away again when Dashvara, out of an impulse even he couldn’t understand, asked:

“Why do they call you the Poisoned-woman?”

Azune stopped short, and when she looked at him, her brown eyes struck him almost as strongly as Sheroda’s eyes. She didn’t even bother to answer.

Now then, Dash, he told himself patiently as Azune left the tavern. Will you one day stop being a damned meddler?

When his gaze turned back to the table, he noticed the almost full plate of garfias. He shoved the red peas into his pockets, and after a hesitation, he decided not to return to the room: he needed calm, and he knew that it would be hard to obtain it with Fayrah and Lessi. So he went out for a stroll. He still had three hours before going to the Refuge, since Kroon had asked him to stop by again only at around five o’clock. He went to the Beautiful District and could see enormous mansions with gardens. He was almost sure to recognize the Faerecio’s house, but he wouldn’t have bet his life on it. He retraced his steps, crossed the canals again, and walked along the Autumn District, southward, through a swampy esplanade more deserted than inhabited. The Docks District, where Arviyag’s house was located, was very different from the rest of the city: it had houses with flat roofs, its streets were dirtier, and the people did not dress so richly and colorfully as the folk of the Dragon District. Even so, some buildings occupied a wide surface. When he saw some men entering one of them, bending under the weight of huge sacks, he understood that those buildings were used as warehouses.

And, in one of those warehouses, Arviyag was hiding twenty-five brothers.

Dashvara didn’t last long: he knew full well that staying there, besides being a waste of time, was no good for his nerves. He returned to the Dragon District and stopped by the Refuge. He found Tildrin and Kroon. The thief, sitting at the table, was sharpening a dagger while the dragon-monk was snoring in his armchair, completely oblivious to the reality. From what Tildrin told him, Rowyn was buying some “tools”, and Axef was still with his “lot of things to do”. Dashvara noticed that the old ternian looked more excited than frightened of the looming night expedition. Then he rectified: actually, perhaps he was too much excited. Luckily, he would stay at the foot of the ladder.

“Why are you sharpening this dagger?” Dashvara asked, putting aside the plan. He had studied it once again, but the lines indicating the rooms were simple suppositions, as Tildrin had affirmed. As soon as they passed through the trapdoor, improvisation would be their best guide.

Tildrin laid his dagger on the table while confessing:

“A sheer habit. I sharpen it for thirty years now, and I only use it to cut the bread.”

Dashvara smiled.

“If only we all used the daggers just to cut the bread.”

Tildrin raised an eyebrow, and after a thoughtful silence, he kept on sharpening his dagger. As it was almost six o’clock, Dashvara said goodbye to him and headed for the Water Square and the King Count. Aydin had better not find out anything about all this…

The tavern was roomy and relatively calm despite the hour. He shut the door behind him and scanned around while stepping forward. He imagined the healer gripping him by the neck and saying he had caught him again giving tasks to his apprentice… He heard someone clearing his throat.

“Hey, are you purblind, friend?”

Dashvara turned to his right, and for some seconds, he stared at a cleanly shaved, styled-haired man with a wide-brimmed hat in his hands. A beaming smile was lighting up his face. Dashvara choked.

“Rok?”

He whistled under his breath and sat down in front of him.

“You’re—hell—you’re different. You look like a republican.”

“And you, like a steppeman,” Rokuish replied, extending his hand.

Dashvara shook it happily, and he felt surprised. He would have never imagined that, one day, he would feel happy to meet a Shalussi.

“I really believed I wouldn’t see you ever again. Where’s Zae?”

“At work. Since yesterday. She got a job in an apothecary’s shop,” he explained, and he lowered his voice. “Odek, it’s madness. The Dragon of Spring—you’ve heard about it, haven’t you?”

“Ahem. How could I have not heard about it, Rok?”

“Do you know who stole it?”

Dashvara silently blessed the Shalussi: he did not even consider the possibility that he himself could be the thief.

“Two of the slavers did it. Those who were watching the Xalyas in the catacombs. Either Arviyag has it, or that Vand has it. In any case, it doesn’t matter whether it is a dead or a living man who has it, as long as it is not me.”

Rokuish made a face, and he gave an awkward glance around him before saying:

“We saw the Xalya girls lighting out along the streets. We guided five of them to the Cathoney. But we don’t have the other five ones.”

Dashvara was astonished.

“What? You have taken five Xalyas to Dazbon?”

A satisfied smile spread over Rokuish’s face.

“We took them here by Shizur’s wagon. The poor man was as frightened as a sheep in a volcano. As for me, I wanted to stay and try to know if you were still alive, but I just couldn’t let Zae taking care of five Xalyas alone.”

“I understand you perfectly,” Dashvara murmured. He breathed out, blessing the Shalussi once more. “Where are they?”

“In Shizur’s house.”

Dashvara’s eyes got wide.

“Is that man a saint or a fool?”

Why on earth would a wine merchant be willing to lodge five lost Xalyas? Rokuish cleared his throat.

“He is a saint, Dashvara, make no mistake about it. He’s a man of those you can push into committing the maddest things if you win their confidence. But, in this case, it’s for a good cause. I only lament we were not able to save the other Xalyas. From what those we saved told us, you had to struggle with four slavers, and you were hit by two poisonous darts and an arrow. It’s simply unbelievable that you survived.”

Dashvara chuckled.

“Unbelievable indeed. They were two, and not four, and only one dart hit me. As for the arrow, I personally didn’t notice it.”

“Oh. Well, it’s still impressive, anyway,” Rokuish assured.

“Mph. In any case, out of the other five Xalyas, three are with me.”

“Well.” Rokuish looked relieved. “And… your sister?”

“With me,” Dashvara confirmed. He pondered for some seconds. “So only two are missing. Either Arviyag caught them again, or they managed to escape by themselves.” He looked around. The nearby tables were empty. Beyond those, two women were, like them, talking in whispers. “Where is Hadriks?”

“The boy?” A teasing sparkle fleetingly lit the Shalussi’s eyes. “He just came over me, grasped me by the arm, and told me to go to this inn at six o’clock because you would be here. He said nothing more.”

“Well, I hope he will no longer meddle in affairs that are not his concern,” Dashvara said, clearing his throat. Though, of course, he ought to thank him for that.

Rokuish leaned back on his chair and put his hat on with such an elegance he seemed to have trained since he was five.

“So?” he said. “What’s the next adventure?”

Dashvara smiled, deeply amused.

“You’re late, Shalussi: it has already started.”

Rokuish raised his eyebrows.

“For my mother’s sake, that sounds interesting indeed. By the way, before I forget,” he added, putting his hand in a pocket of his tunic. “Hadriks asked me to give you this.”

Dashvara examined the small wooden box curiously. After struggling a bit, they managed to open it, and an amazed smile curved Dashvara’s lips when he could finally see the contents.

“Sailor cards,” the Shalussi noticed, meditative, as Dashvara kept silent. “Andrek had a deck of cards like this. You look surprised.”

Dashvara shook his head, moved, and then he started to laugh.

“That blessed boy… May the Eternal Bird watch over him.”