16 Arrival: Atasiag’s villa

When he opened his eyes, he did so, shaken by a whole troop of arms and scolded by exasperated exclamations.

“Get up, Dash!” Zamoy shouted.

“Huh?” Dashvara replied confusedly.

“He’s completely out of it,” another voice said.

They had to get him out of bed to wake him up from his deep sleep. Dashvara realized this when he found himself lying there on the floor, wrapped in his blanket.

“Eternal Bird,” he murmured, massaging his head; it was numb as if he had drunk an entire bottle of wine.

Finally, he straightened up, and seeing Zamoy coming with a bowl of water, he leaped to his feet and exclaimed, holding out a hand:

“I’m awake!”

The Baldy threw the water at him anyway. Dashvara spat, considered for a second the possibility of rushing at his cousin, then sighed when he realized that the coward had already run away.

“Poor me. Miflin, how do you stand him?”

The Poet replied wisely:

“O sovereign foolishness! Unhealthy brain, wordy in vain: listening to his madness is not worth the pain.”

Dashvara blew out several breaths as he picked up his clothes. Zorvun was explaining the whole story of the contract to the others.

“But who does this man think he is?” Sashava was indignant. He was red as if he had been stung by a pitcher. Sedrios the Old was running a hand through his white beard, looking gloomy, Maef and Orafe were in a bad mood… The morning was promising.

As Dashvara fastened his belt, he frowned.

“Where is my belsadia?”

Nobody listened to him, except Tsu. The drow approached him, explaining:

“I took it from you. One thing is that you chew a leaf a day, and another is that you binge on belsadia.”

Dashvara’s face flushed.

“The doctor in Akres said—”

“The doctor in Akres is a Diumcilian. And anyway, I doubt he told you to chew several leaves at once. The effect is amplified. Five or six of these leaves together can put a man into eternal lethargy.”

Dashvara took a deep breath. He hadn’t even bothered to count how many he had taken. He assumed no more than two, but…

“You can’t mess with remedies,” Tsu concluded harshly.

When he stared at him with those unyielding eyes, he looked like he was scolding a little child. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“It’s okay. Get rid of it. I don’t need plants to heal anyway, I just need time.”

The iron glint in Tsu’s eyes faded.

“Of course. So… does this Atasiag really claim to be freeing us?”

Dashvara glanced at the other Xalyas. They had been brought a whole bag of bread for breakfast, probably in order to save time. This meant that, in just a few minutes, they would be on their way again, and if he didn’t hurry, he would be left without a loaf of bread.

“He will set us free,” he finally said, trying to sound convinced.

The answer drew a grin from Tsu, and Dashvara smiled back before hurrying off to grab one of the last remaining rolls. Chewing, he returned to his bed where he found his bouncy bag.

“How did it go in town, Tah?”

The shadow laughed mentally.

‘Superbly! You don’t know how interesting a nightly round in Seraldia can be. Too bad I missed your conversation with Azune. Sounds like it was interesting, too.’

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“As interesting as signing a contract can be.”

He noticed that one of the slaves at the back of the room was watching him in amazement. You think I’m talking to myself, good man? Dashvara smiled and snatched another bite of his bread.

He had to finish swallowing the rest while walking to the wagons. The sun had not been up for more than two hours, but carts were already coming in and out of the northern city gate. Titiaka’s road ran northwest along the Satil River for hours and then away through the Crystal Forest toward the Great Wall. They had just left Seraldia when the captain asked one of Titiaka’s couriers who was driving them how many hours it would take to reach the capital by cart.

“Between eight and nine theoretically, if we maintain a good pace,” the Titiaka answered. “But with the break at the Great Wall and the traffic, we must calculate about twelve hours. We will arrive at sunset.”

These soldiers were very different from those of the day before: they dressed in uniforms with the elegance of heralds, wore sword scabbards on their belts covered with embellishments, and several of them displayed other very artistic crests on their tabards in addition to the insignia of the conveyors. Intrigued, Dashvara showed it to Tsu.

“These belong to more than one guard group at a time?”

The drow shrugged his shoulders.

“These are coats of arms of the powerful houses of Titiaka who have their own personal guard. They like to send some of their men on patrols from time to time to show off their wealth.” A smile flitted across his face. “Don’t try to understand them: it’s useless.”

“Foreigners,” Zamoy muttered with a sigh.

The wagons were moving slower than between Akres and Seraldia because they kept passing other carts, horsemen, and people on foot. Makarva and Dashvara had resumed their famous card game. Finally, the first one let out a little mischievous laugh and showed his hand:

“I’ve been wanting to do this for over twelve hours.”

Dashvara examined the cards with a horrified expression. He had a straight of Senators!

“Let me see yours,” Makarva said triumphantly.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he waved. He scanned his cards, then looked at his friend with the face of a wary adversary, and finally showed his cards and proclaimed, “The hand is mine!”

Makarva lamented while Dashvara laughed. He wasn’t winning the game, but neither was Makarva. In principle, one could not draw when playing republicans, but they were not exactly playing republicans, but a variant that had been perfected over the years and had been unanimously given the name Xalyans.

Dashvara boasted for a moment about his game, and Makarva grumbled.

“You’d think he won the game.”

“Didn’t I?” Dashvara replied cheerfully.

“You didn’t.”

“Bah. That’s the great thing about Xalyans: both opponents can win. Isn’t that wonderful?” He gestured enthusiastically. “If only there were no losers in this world. If only we could—”

“Aaaarh!” Zamoy interjected, with an air of martyr. “Don’t ramble, cousin, I know you.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“Oh no, not at all.” He smiled mischievously and elbowed Makarva in the arm. “Hey, Mak, how do you put up with him?”

The latter seemed to be trying to remember something and finally said:

“O sovereign stupidity: listening to his madness is not worth the pain.”

Dashvara laughed softly and elbowed Miflin, who was sitting next to him.

“What a pair of parrots, huh?”

The Poet’s spirit descended from the stars; he muttered between his teeth.

“This is like a curse! How to find inspiration in such company. I was in one of those states that only happen from time to time.”

“Again?” Dashvara inquired. “You said the same thing a few days ago.”

“Mmph. Time does not work the same way for a poet, Dash. I think I already explained that to you.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and suggested another game of Xalyans. Zamoy joined them, and they played several quick games as the sun began to beat down on their heads with increasing force. At one point, Tahisran thoughtfully intervened:

‘Sometimes I think it’s a shame to be a perceptist. I could never play like you.’

Dashvara raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“You mean you would know the cards without looking at them?” He perceived his assent and exchanged a wide, impressed smile with Makarva. “Demons. You should become a professional gambler then. You could become rich. They say that in Titiaka a lot of money circulates in the gambling houses.”

‘Mmph. No, thanks, Dash. The truth is, I prefer katutas. There’s no mystery with cards.’

“I’ll tell you another game,” Miflin interjected in the same low tone he used to take when he was going to throw out one of his great phrases: “It’s called the game of poetry. To play it, you need syllables, rhymes, and strong emotion.”

“Oh my! Watch out, Tah,” Zamoy said quickly. “Miflin can be more persuasive than an Essimean priest. Don’t fall for his inspiration or the wildest rhymes will follow you for the rest of your life. I’m telling you, believe me, I’ve known the individual since before he was born. It is said that when our mother gave birth to us, the Poet made his first cries in verse, counting syllables to eight. And it rhymed: Waaaaaah! Waaaaaah!” The Baldy shouted with such mastery that, taken by surprise, Makarva and Dashvara burst into laughter.

“Bah!” Miflin protested. “Have brothers and they’ll slander you,” he grumbled.

Dashvara heard quick hooves against the pavement of the road, and his smile faded as he saw a figure in a bronze mask gallop past them, past the carts, and quickly away toward Titiaka. Silence fell in the wagon.

“Was it her, Dash?” Lumon asked.

Dashvara cleared his throat and sighed.

“It was her,” he confirmed.

It took them over five hours to reach the Crystal Forest. It was the largest forest Dashvara had ever seen in his life, and he remembered being impressed three years ago when he had walked through it. In any case, it was far less intimidating than the inextricable tangle of the Ariltuan swamps. The sparse undergrowth was covered with moss, and vines of crystallized sap fell from the trees, glistening softly in the sunlight. As soon as the path turned north, Dashvara saw the Great Wall, but it took the wagons another hour to reach it. The wall was about ten steps thick and fifty feet high. It was one of the Five Great Sacrifices of Titiaka, built more than a century ago when Diumcili was still a kingdom and the three Cantons had not joined in a federation. As they approached the imposing structure, Dashvara noticed Tsu’s sullen face and asked him about it.

“I was thinking of all the slaves who died building this,” the drow explained. “We’re talking thousands of deaths.”

Dashvara shuddered and looked back at the Great Wall, suddenly feeling much less fascinated.

Outside the gates, guards stopped them and made them all get off the wagons, grunting like foremen used to dealing with all kinds of people. They led them to a courtyard on the other side of the walls, and while a scribe checked their arm marks, one of the Titiaka patrolmen distributed the meal. In the area, there was a constant flow of people. Dozens of carts stopped in the courtyards, near the taverns that lined the road. Travelers were entering and leaving the establishments, groups of guards were lazing between the carts, and some thrifty merchants, having brought their own meals, were sitting on the grass and low walls that surrounded the large courtyard. Dashvara had just sat down with his bowl of garfias when he saw a family with five girls getting off a stagecoach dressed as if they were going to a ball. When two of them chuckled quietly, he realized that he was looking at them brazenly and turned his attention back to his garfias. He coughed:

“Makarva.”

“Mm?” this one said. Sitting with the forgotten bowl in his hands, his friend smiled at the girls, giving them his most seductive smile. Dashvara stifled a teasing laugh.

“Your garfias will get cold.”

Makarva looked down at his bowl and rolled his eyes.

“They were already cold when they were served to us.” He resumed his contemplation without breaking his smile. “Ah, Dash! What a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

Dashvara did not respond immediately. He watched the five girls as they entered a tavern, laughing and chattering like parakeets. Dashvara smiled. Hell, it seemed like millennia had passed since he had gazed upon such innocent expressions as these. The milfids were spiritually twenty miles away from these happy young girls. A beautiful day, Makarva had said…

“Quite magnificent,” he agreed vivaciously.

He was distracted by a contained laugh and noticed that Lumon, Alta, Boron, and Tsu were looking at them with mocking expressions. He snorted.

“What’s wrong with them?” Makarva grumbled.

Dashvara shrugged.

“Bah, let them. As Miflin says: sovereign stupidity, listening to it is not worth it.”

They had more time than the day before to stretch their legs, and by the time they got back into the wagons, they felt ready for the remaining five hours of travel. The sun was beating down hard, and the drivers set up the hood before resuming their journey. From then on, it was all barns, groves, streams, and hills. From time to time, they saw large houses and castles. Sitting in the back of the wagon this time, Dashvara observed the landscape. Most of the fields were covered with vines and vegetables, and he guessed that the people growing them were most likely “workers”: he had been in Diumcili long enough to know that the economy of the entire Federation was based on slaves.

With the canvas, an asphyxiating heat soon built up in the wagon, and Dashvara began to cook like a garfia in the boiling water. His skin, where the mark of the red dragon had been applied, began to burn to the point where he could have sworn that an entire nest of saravies was treacherously attacking him. He soon realized that his companions were facing the same problem and that, like him, they were about to melt, especially Tsu. Dashvara became concerned when he saw the sweat dripping off the drow’s forehead; normally he only sweated when he was at his wit’s end. Twice a patrol handed out water bottles, and twice they gave Tsu two full bottles, dousing him with one and making sure he drank. At one point, the drow mumbled something about hyperthermia and added incomprehensible terms; Dashvara feared he was starting to get delirious.

However, his fears vanished when, after three hours of travel, a fresh breeze came up, sweeping the air of the oven in which they were. It was like a liberation. They went from a heat-induced daze to a state of drowsiness. Within minutes, Miflin and Kodarah found themselves leaning against each other, sharing their dreams. Arvara the Giant was about to crush Lumon under his weight, and Boron sat placidly asleep with his chin pressed against his chest. More asleep than awake, Dashvara absorbed himself in contemplating the path they were leaving behind. At one point, he met the dark eyes of a passerby and almost jumped up, thinking it was Zaadma. Then he called himself a fool when he saw that the woman’s face bore no resemblance to hers. May the Eternal Bird restore my sanity, he sighed, regaining his composure.

The East was already darkening when Atok woke him up from his torpor.

“Tell me, Dash, this contract. How do you feel about it?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow at the Xalya’s calm, emaciated face. He didn’t know why, but Atok had always valued his opinions; perhaps because, after becoming orphan at the age of ten, he had been taken in by Lord Vifkan and had developed a kind of hereditary respect for his son. Dashvara did not know exactly the reason.

“How do I feel about the contract?” He shrugged and yawned. “That it’s a good joke. This new master must have a good sense of humor.”

“A good sense of humor?” Atok repeated, without understanding.

Dashvara smiled.

“Well, yes. Think about it. What humorless person could ask his slave to recognize that he is signing a contract voluntarily? You’re absolutely right, Atok,” he added, although he didn’t say anything. “It’s sick humor, but it’s humor.”

Atok remained silent for a moment and finally shook his head gently.

“If you say so. Do you know if this new master belongs to the Brotherhood of the Pearl?”

Dashvara winced. At Azune’s request, he had not revealed Cobra’s identity to his brothers.

“No, I don’t know,” he lied. “But I don’t think so. Atasiag is a Diumcilian name. He probably has his own organization. I have a feeling he’s a much more powerful man than the Brotherhood of the Pearl.”

He crossed his legs over the edge of the cart, trying to find a more comfortable position. Only then did he realize that everyone who was still awake was paying attention to what he was saying. Did they think he knew more about the subject than they did? No, maybe they don’t, but they still want to hear you say something comforting, like that Atasiag is really an ally. To reveal to them that he is a thief would completely undermine their morale. He sighed inwardly and added gently:

“We are doing the right thing, brothers. Atasiag will set us free. Do not doubt it.”

Or, at least, doubt in silence, he added to himself.

They arrived at Titiaka when the sky was already turning a dark blue. They passed what Tsu called the Black Fortress and headed for the gates of Ashagod. The fortifications of Titiaka would have impressed an army of dragons: they consisted of double walls surrounded by a ditch of about thirty paces. Even back in the steppe, people had heard about the defenses of the federal capital. Dashvara glimpsed the many towers over the heads of his companions, and the only thought he had was: If it comes to it, we may have a harder time escaping from here than from the Border…

When they entered, he could not see the bridge that joined the two mountains, Mount Serene and Mount Courteous: he could only see an infinite flow of busy or idle people zigzagging nimbly along a wide crowded avenue. They turned left, away from the avenue, and entered a courtyard surrounded by an elegant white-walled building. For a moment, Dashvara thought it was Atasiag’s house, but one of the patrolmen disabused them of their suspicion when, as the wagons stopped, he forbade them to set foot on the ground.

“Stay there,” the Titiaka said. “The city guard will come to take care of you soon.”

As soon as the patrolman walked away, Zamoy sighed and commented through his teeth:

“We’ll end up knowing the federal barracks courtyards inside and out.”

Dashvara could almost feel the tension in the air. Logically, everyone was anxious to know what the hell was going to be done with their lives now in the middle of this monstrous city.

‘Hey, Dash,’ Tahisran’s voice said suddenly. ‘I almost left without saying good night. I’m going to take a walk around the city,’ he informed him.

Dashvara looked down uselessly at his bag to see that the shadow was already gone. He scanned his surroundings and shook his head. It was useless to look for a shadow in the dark. He had the impression that Tahisran was already far away when he whispered:

“Good night, Tah.”

A few minutes later, the carts left the barracks. They passed through silent streets, and finally, after more than thirty hours of travel in the cart, they reached the home of Atasiag Peykat.

“Get off,” a voice called out to them as the carts stopped.

Dashvara was the first to get down with his bag on his back, and while the others descended, he examined the surroundings. The house was large, and he bet that if he had seen it in daylight, it would have looked sumptuous. The back building had an upper floor, the courtyard was surrounded by a corridor with columns, and a small fountain stood in the center, illuminated by a soft light that seemed to emerge from nothing.

And why does a thief keep stealing if he already has all this? Dashvara wondered, bewildered.

He heard the drivers spurring the horses and turned to see the city guards riding away with the carts. They left behind a courtyard with twenty-two Xalyas from the steppe, a drow, and a small group of Atasiag’s men. Dashvara scanned the latter with curiosity. There were four of them, and they carried only a staff on their belts. They seemed quite relaxed, as if they hadn’t even imagined that the Xalyas might try to rebel. He didn’t know any of them, and he wondered if they were members of the Dream Brotherhood. Thieves, perhaps. Spies. Or who knows?

“Come in here,” one of them said in a softer voice than Dashvara had expected. He was human, and his hair was even darker than the Xalyas’. His quiet demeanor and slight gait reminded Dashvara of a lone old wolf.

Expectantly, the Xalyas did not even murmur. They simply followed their new guides.