14 A diner among brothers

The reaction of the Ruhuvahs was noteworthy.

As the Baldy’s sneeze reverberated across the mist of the Whispers and faded, the federates turned as white as shrouds, and their horses began to buck as if in panic. One man gestured rudely to the Baldy, and Dashvara glared at the triplet in case he thought of getting angry. But the young Xalya didn’t even notice: he was too busy preventing another sneeze. Demons, if I start coughing now, that would be the icing on the cake… Suddenly, Dashvara discerned a movement in the middle of the mists. Then… he thought he saw himself. He blinked, confused, and was sure he saw the wagons and horses reflected in the mist before the vision faded. He gasped.

Oh, demons… Now I understand. Mirror-specters are like walking mirrors, aren’t they?

He did not ask Tahisran, of course; he just pursed his lips and stared around. As the shadow had said a few days ago, there was nothing more disconcerting than something that didn’t make sense. And to Dashvara, these magical creatures lurking behind the mists made no sense. Magic, he spat mentally. The tension in his nerves flared, and he was barely relieved when he saw Zamoy silently controlling himself.

Later, Tahisran announced that he could no longer perceive the creatures. Dashvara relaxed as best he could and wondered how the hell simple perception spells could allow the shadow to know so much without even needing to get out of his bag.

It was already getting dark when they reached the western cliff of the Whispers, but the Ruhuvahs did not light the torches until they began to climb the slope. They were already almost at the top when one of the patrolmen intoned:

Dashvara could not remember ever hearing anyone sing so badly. The Ruhuvah continued to shout while his companions laughed at the sudden outburst. After a few long seconds of comical dissonance, the patrol leader intervened:

“Silence!”

“Yes, sir?” the soldier replied with a small innocent smile.

The chief sighed.

“Don’t torture us any further, will you? My hearing is the little I have left in good condition.”

Some of the patrolmen finished the sentence at the same time as he did, as if it wasn’t the first time he had said it. There was some mocking laughter. After a silence, another one said:

“Are we going to take a break at Melex?”

Melex was Swadix’s twin village, but on the west side. The chief shook his head.

“No, in two hours we will arrive at Seraldia, I do not want to linger. The boys must arrive at Titiaka tomorrow according to what I was told.”

Apparently, the Ruhuvah used to call the slaves “boys”, Dashvara observed. He smiled. Of the twenty-three Xalyas, only twelve were under forty. He would have liked to know what Sashava thought of such a name.

They passed through Melex without stopping to greet a patrol of guards. They entered the lands of Ruhuvah as the moon was already rising in the sky, and the first glowing rays of the Candle were pointing north.

“Eternal Bird,” Zamoy muttered in Common Tongue, fidgeting on his pallet. He tried to stretch his legs, and Miflin grunted.

“Stop moving, brother. Did a saravy sting you or what?”

“Worse. It was fourteen hours sitting that stung me,” the Baldy grumbled. “I feel like I’ve got four milfids biting my butt and a brizzia crushing my back,” he declared in a dramatic tone.

He tried to stand up to stretch, but the movement of the wagon made him lose his balance, and Dashvara and Miflin held him down, forcing him to sit down with a grunt.

“If you want some belsadia, just tell me,” Dashvara muttered.

“Well, keep your remedies to yourself. The doctor at Akres told me that I was in perfect health. And yet, I told him about my colds.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and massaged his neck. Everyone was fidgeting in the wagon, anxious to finally leave those pallets behind. Even Tahisran began to complain and reminisce about his years in his crate on the pirate ship. His comments did nothing to calm the nerves of the nearest Xalyas who heard him. Miflin began to rant and rave, Kodarah uttered a series of curses when Atok moved his bag, and a silly argument ensued that Lumon ended with a simple “enough”. Makarva and Dashvara had just pulled out the sailor cards when the Archer quietly added:

“You’d better calm down a bit. We’re almost there.”

However, the “almost” took longer than Dashvara would have liked. The moon had time to rise a few degrees before they saw the lights of Seraldia in the darkness. Most of the city was on the south bank of the Satil River. The northern part, however, was full of activity even at night. Seraldia had become a commercial meeting place and was thriving day by day; it didn’t seem to be disrupted in any way by the endless war against the drow of Shjak. Dashvara looked up as they passed through the gate of the thick wall, then down to observe the faces of the people of Seraldia as they walked down the avenue. Both the Xalyas and the Ruhuvah patrolmen were exhausted, but Dashvara guessed that they were nonetheless keeping a close eye on their charges.

As soon as the wagon stopped in the barracks yard, fatigue fell on them like an anvil. Instead of getting out in a rush, as they probably would have done two hours ago, they set foot on the ground slowly, their muscles aching and numb. I almost wish I had traveled on foot, Dashvara grumbled inwardly, as an official led them inside.

“Please,” the man said, pointing to an open door in a wide hallway.

He ushered them into a large, noisy dining hall crowded with guards eating. When they settled down at the designated table, Makarva sat down next to Dashvara and commented:

“I feel like they’re nicer than last time. Don’t you think so too?”

With a crooked pout, Dashvara watched the soldiers eating at the other tables. He seemed to recognize some of the faces from their previous visit.

“Last time, we weren’t so docile, if you remember,” he replied.

Quite the opposite: we almost all got hanged, remember, Mak?

Makarva cleared his throat. Yes, Dashvara thought with a chuckle. How could his friend not remember the altercation: he was with the ones who started it, along with Maef, Atok, Shurta, and Orafe. The Triplets had been quick to join in the fight, of course, and Dashvara would surely have joined in out of solidarity if Captain Zorvun hadn’t had the presence of mind to calm things down.

“Right,” Makarva murmured, “there are some faces that look familiar. Look, over there, they seem to be laughing at us,” he pointed to a table and frowned.

Dashvara followed the direction and found that indeed a group of three guards were looking at them brazenly. One of them, with a crooked nose, was smiling as he spoke; another was chewing on something, and the third was running a thoughtful hand over his beard as he examined the Xalyas. Suddenly, the first one stood up.

“Oh, oh…” Dashvara muttered. Three guards weren’t going to take on twenty-three Xalyas, were they? He saw them approaching their table, and he and Makarva exchanged an indefinable look.

“Dash! Wake up,” Zamoy exasperated. Sitting across from him, with his back to the Ruhuvahs, he handed him the ladle to help himself to his share of soup from the pot. Dashvara had not even taken out his bowl yet. He took the ladle and leaned under the table, whispering:

“Tah? My bowl, please.”

The shadow gave it to him at once. He knew his house by heart, Dashvara smiled.

‘You’re worried,’ he observed. ‘Trouble?’

“Could be.”

Dashvara raised his head and quietly began to help himself. It wasn’t that he was really nervous: he was just afraid that one of his more spirited brothers would lose his temper again. Makarva wasn’t usually especially touchy, and Shurta wouldn’t get upset unless he was insulted directly, but Maef… He glanced at the Xalya, who was gobbling down his soup. The man was special, sympathetic in his own way, judging people by labeling them “good” or “bad”, and acting accordingly without skimping on the punches. In the end, Maef was as self-controlled as a feather in the wind. That’s precisely why Captain Zorvun had taken him on his own patrol in Compassion, along with that grumpy fellow, Orafe.

The three Ruhuvahs stood at their table as Dashvara tasted his first spoonful. The conversations died on the lips of the Xalyas.

“Hey, Xalyas. Don’t you remember us?” asked the one with the crooked nose. His voice clearly indicated that he was looking for a fight.

Dashvara hissed through his teeth.

“Zamoy, pass me the salt, will you?”

Baldy passed it to him without looking at the salt shaker and almost spilled it. Dashvara grunted as he picked it up and waved it over his bowl while Arvara, who was closest to the Ruhuvahs, replied:

“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember. Should I?”

The Giant gave them one of his thoughtful, mocking expressions. Dashvara hissed again.

“Dammit…”

He had put too much salt. The soup was going to be undrinkable. He tasted it and made a disgusted face, but nevertheless continued to drink it while the one with the crooked nose said:

“You, maybe not, northerner. But the bald one, there, for sure. He only has to see how he broke my nose.”

Zamoy turned to Miflin, but then realized he was talking to him. He gave a casual pout.

“Are you sure it was me? Well, you know, it looks good on you.”

Dashvara nearly spat out his soup. Surprisingly, the Ruhuvah just smiled.

“My fiancée feels the same way. How did it go during those years at the Border?”

“Edifying,” Zamoy replied.

“Very didactic,” Makarva supported.

Dashvara laughed, and the other two Ruhuvahs were puzzled, but the one with the broken nose just put his hands in his pockets.

“I almost envy you. I spent two years in the front row fighting drows. There were damned skirmishes all the time with twisted traps. By the way, I see you still have your doctor.”

His voice became disdainful. Tsu, sitting next to Boron, did not look up from his bowl. The captain intervened:

“The war has been going on for eight years on your land. Don’t you ever think you’ll reach an agreement?”

The Ruhuvah snorted.

“Ha! Are you asking me? No idea. Yes, there are rumors that there will be negotiations, but they are always negotiating anyway. I don’t care about that anymore: now I have a permanent position in the city guard. And you? Where are you going now?”

“To Titiaka,” Zorvun answered.

“And what are you going to do there? Sweep the Bridge?” he smiled.

The captain swallowed a spoonful before answering.

“Probably serve as bodyguards.”

“Wow.” Ruhuvah hissed through his teeth. “Sounds interesting. Still, I wouldn’t go myself to that crazy town even if they gave me a lifetime salary. Good luck, northerners. Especially to the bald guy, who made me so attractive. What’s your name, anyway?”

Dashvara couldn’t believe it. This Ruhuvah was treating them as if they were old friends. Obviously, the beating had messed with his head. The Baldy ran a hand over his neck, as surprised as the others.

“My name, huh? Um. Zamoy.”

The Ruhuvah held out his hand.

“I am Mithan. Nice to meet you.”

After a brief hesitation, Zamoy shook his hand warily as if he feared that this man named Mithan would return the blow on his nose, but he did not.

“Uh… Likewise.”

Mithan rolled his eyes at the surprised expressions of the Xalyas. He saluted everyone before walking away with his two companions.

“A curious fellow,” Zamoy pondered. “I smash his face in, and he shakes my hand. If only the orcs would do the same thing at the Border. Anyway… have you tasted the soup? It’s undrinkable compared to the one I make, isn’t it?”

“Taste mine,” Dashvara growled. “I put more salt in it than I put in the pork. I could eat dirt, I wouldn’t know the difference.”

Zamoy seemed to think, “That’s not a bad idea”, and asked for the salt. After shaking the salt shaker a few times, he took a sip and spat out what he had swallowed without any elegance, raising laughter and protests from the whole table.

“Eternal Bird!” Alta muttered. “What are you doing?”

“A strategic approach,” Zamoy replied in an expert tone. He raised his bowl and threw the entire contents into the pot. He stirred it all together and poured himself a second helping. “Exquisite,” he agreed.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and imitated him, helping himself again. If the soup was still salty, at least it was drinkable.

“Demons! It’s impossible to eat with you at the table,” Alta sighed. “Hey, brother!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Is that bread you’re eating?”

Arvara the Giant looked up in surprise.

“Well, yes. A boy passed by, and he left a whole loaf of bread.”

“A loaf of bread for twenty-three?” Taw said indignantly. Shurta’s uncle did not speak often, but when he did, it was almost in a shouting voice: he was half deaf.

“Well, go and ask for more, foreigner,” replied a soldier from a nearby table. “Nothing is given to those who ask for nothing.”

This left all the Xalyas both confused and hopeful. A few minutes later, Pik and Kaldaka returned from the kitchen with three loaves of bread.

“We can’t get any more,” Pikava apologized.

No one protested this time, and everyone was skipping their bowls with the last crumbs of bread when an elf in a red hat and guard uniform stopped in front of their table and announced that he had orders to take them to the dormitories. It was late, and the dining hall was already almost empty. They washed their bowls and put them in their bags before following the elf to the same room where they had slept three years ago. Nothing had changed, Dashvara noted.

“We have company,” Lumon observed.

Indeed, several slaves were already sleeping in bunk beds at the back of the room. Without waking them, they settled down, and as soon as he had taken off his boots, Dashvara patted Tahisran’s bag and murmured:

“Be careful if you go out.”

A mental smile answered him.

‘I’ve been training to be inconspicuous for years, don’t worry.’ He slipped out of the bag. Dashvara could barely make him out: the guide had gone out, locking the key to the entrance, and he had left them in the dark. ‘I’m going to visit the city. I’ll probably find some interesting things.’

“What kind of interesting things?” questioned Dashvara.

The shadow was already moving away towards the small barred window at the back of the room. Dashvara perceived a shrug of the shoulders.

‘Things.’

Mmph. Dashvara did not insist and lay down. The Triplets were talking on their nearby couches, and since they were unable to whisper, Dashvara was almost surprised that the men who were asleep didn’t wake up. Makarva clicked his tongue on the top bunk.

“Hey, Dash, we’re not done with the game yet,” he reminded him.

Dashvara had his cards in one of his pockets. Makarva had kept the rest.

“It’s too dark to see anything,” Dashvara objected.

Makarva gave a soft laugh.

“So what? All the cards are marked, anyway.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Whose turn was it?”

“Yours.”

Dashvara checked his cards by touch and tried to remember the last card played.

“Blue Dragon?” he asked.

“Yep. And I bet on the Stewards.”

Dashvara grunted as he went over his cards and the bets they had already made. The sound of a key snapped him out of his thoughts. Soon a lantern lit up his cards. He closed them like a fan and blinked into the light. It was the elf.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” he whispered. “Who is Dashvara of Xalya?”

Dashvara felt his stomach churn. Seeing that he didn’t respond, Makarva pointed out:

“That’s him.”

“What do you want with him?” Captain Zorvun inquired, sitting down on his bed with a tired sigh.

“A lady wants to see him. From what she said, Dashvara of Xalya is your chief.”

Dashvara suppressed a hiccup of surprise that turned into a small sarcastic laugh.

“The chief, eh?” he repeated.

Zorvun had frowned.

“Put on your boots, Dashvara. Don’t keep that lady waiting.”

Dashvara reluctantly obeyed even though, as he got dressed, the prospect of finally getting an answer to his questions animated him a little.

“Forward, lord of the steppe,” Makarva laughed in Oy’vat.

Dashvara glared at him and muttered:

“Don’t take this opportunity to touch the cards, eh? I remember every hand.” Makarva smiled at him: for some mysterious reason, his companions smiled every time they remembered that Dashvara was the son of Vifkan, lord of the Xalyas of the Rocdinfer steppe. Well, let’s say that they smiled because they could see that Dashvara was not at all pleased to be called that.

“I would not dare to make makarvaries with you, my lord,” that cursed brigand whispered.

“Go to hell,” Dashvara growled.

He fastened his belt and followed the elf outside. As soon as the elf closed the door behind him, a thought flashed through him. Who could this lady be? For a moment, he thought it might be Azune. Or Fayrah. Or someone unknown. Or Zaadma. Eyes as black as the beetle on his arm came to mind, and he shook his head, laughing at himself. How about he stopped imagining things and just followed the elf to see who it was? Remember, sometimes being a philosopher means stopping thinking. So he stopped thinking until the elf invited him into a room that looked like an administrative office with a lot of papers, drawers, and files. Sitting behind a large table, he saw a figure with a bronze mask. Azune, he realized. He felt strangely relieved.

“Thank you, Falfir,” the half-elf said firmly. “You may withdraw.”

The elf bowed and left. Without coming closer, Dashvara looked at the mask. It looked like Azune, but he couldn’t be sure unless she… The official took off her mask and revealed the face of the Sister of the Pearl. Her brown eyes studied him in turn, then she said:

“Sit down, steppeman.”