23 Citizen Life

The first thing Dashvara did the next morning was to make a speech to all his brothers, asking them that none of them should have the idea of acting without thinking from now on.

“We gave our word, and as long as we keep it, everything will be fine,” he insisted.

Some were already starting to snort and get up from their pallets.

“Yeah, boy, everything will be fine,” Orafe growled, exasperated. “And now, let’s have lunch.” He went out, followed by a noisy troop of Xalyas.

Sedrios the Old gave Dashvara a pat on the shoulder before leaving with the others. The captain approached, shaking his head.

“Dash, I’ll give you some advice. You can’t worry about what each of your men does or stops doing. I tell you from experience: a master-at-arms trains a man and then leaves him to fight for his life, considering that he is ready to do so. Our brothers are already grown up. Most of them were already serving Lord Vifkan when you were not yet born. They know how to recognize the orders and follow them. They don’t need to be told for… fifteen minutes,” he esteemed, hiding a smile.

Dashvara’s face flushed.

“I…” He huffed and made a vague gesture. “That’s the problem with philosophers, Captain: they repeat themselves a little too much.”

Makarva laughed and threw an arm over his shoulders, dragging him towards the courtyard while the captain continued to shake his head with a smiling pout.

“Come on, Philosopher,” his friend said. “Let’s let Tsu work with the Blacksmith and let’s go have lunch. You’re the first to say that a hungry mind is more likely to rave than a well-fed one.”

They left the drow to change Morzif’s bandage and joined the others in the kitchen. Uncle Serl seemed relieved to see that the Xalyas had recovered their good humor. Sitting across from Makarva, Dashvara was holding his fourth piece of toast in his right hand, watching the checkerboard of katutas and thinking about his next move, when Dafys, Yorlen, and Wassag entered. The Wolf, as Zamoy had nicknamed the latter, went straight to the captain and spoke in a low voice. News, Dashvara guessed. He moved a piece on the board without taking his eyes off Zorvun. The captain shook his head several times in different directions before standing up abruptly. Immediately, the conversation died down.

“Listen up everyone. Today, Foreman Loxarios has several tasks for us. I want ten volunteers to follow Yorlen to the docks in Alfodyn. I believe you will be unloading cargo.” He waited barely a second before listing, “Maef, Shurta, Lumon, Pik, Kaldaka, Ged, Maltagwa, Kodarah, Orafe, and Zamoy. You are volunteers. Stand up.”

The ten stood up amidst muffled grunts but headed for the door without further protest. Dashvara raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help noticing that the captain had singled out all the Xalyas who had some tendency to get excited, except for Lumon and Kaldaka. This gave him a bad feeling about the “task” that Foreman Lox had set for the others.

“What about the rest of you?” Nervous Pik asked, stopping in the doorway.

The captain made a guttural noise, and Pikava hurried out with the others without asking any more questions.

“Two more people to go see Foreman Loxarios. Makarva, leave this part and follow Dafys. You too, Taw. Did you hear me?”

The half-deaf Xalya nodded. With a hopeful pout, Makarva rolled the dice. Double two. He let out a sigh and stood up.

“This is what happens when you play in a hurry. But I would have won the game anyway.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Luck has nothing to do with patience or haste, Mak.”

As Makarva and Taw left, the captain returned to his seat and took another piece of toast. Dashvara glanced at the abandoned checkerboard of katutas before turning to Zorvun with an inquisitive expression. What now, Captain?

It was Sashava who finally asked:

“What about us, Zorvun?”

The captain looked around the half-empty table while chewing his teeth. There were only nine of them left: Atok, Alta, Boron, Miflin, Arvara, Sedrios, Sashava, the captain, and himself. After swallowing the last bite of his toast, Zorvun gave Wassag an inquiring look. The Wolf shrugged.

“It’s almost the Hour of Constance,” he said. “His Eminence probably wants to show you to his followers. Let’s go out into the courtyard.”

“What is the Hour of Constance?” the captain inquired as everyone stood up.

Wassag explained:

“Every day in the morning, those who seek the favors of a rich man go to his house to receive a denarius or a half-denarius, and in exchange, they owe him respect and support and they escort him to the Homage Square when he wishes it. Have you really never heard of the Hour of Constance?”

Zorvun huffed.

“Never, Wassag. In the Border, we don’t even know what time it is. To be honest with you, I have no idea how things work in this crazy town. I don’t care much about that, either,” he added to himself in a whisper.

The captain’s words were like a detonator for Wassag. As they sat near the outer corridor adjoining the dormitory, the Wolf began to talk about the daily life of the wealthy citizens of Titiaka, the long conversations that Atasiag Peykat used to have with his acquaintances in the Homage Square, and the business acumen of His Eminence.

“He is a great merchant,” he said with obvious respect. “He owns a merchant ship and rents two others from the Korfu. He has very good relations with the Golden Heart Islands, and Legitimate Rayeshag Korfu considers him his trade representative in Agoskura.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. According to what Yira had said, Fayrah and Lessi had stayed for two weeks in the country house of a certain Lanamiag Korfu, right?

“So the Korfu are a Legitimate family?” he asked.

“Absolutely. And a family very friendly to our master. The Korfu have always been a very honorable lineage. The High Priest of Titiaka is a Korfu. And Rayeshag Korfu’s sister is a prominent poetess at the University.”

Wassag continued to perorate about the Korfu family’s excellence for several minutes. He was silent only when he saw Dafys coming out of a side door, followed by Makarva, Taw, and a radiant elfocan with golden hair. Dashvara guessed that she was Uncle Serl’s daughter. If he remembered correctly, her name was Norgana. Advancing in front of the elfocan, the two Xalyas carried two long sticks with a large board attached to it with several empty baskets. Makarva turned to Dashvara, vigorously pulling his load, Tawrrus behind him. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“We’re going shopping,” he announced. It seemed that the idea amused him immensely. “Dafys has a whole list of items. I don’t know what half of them mean, but I have a feeling Atasiag is going to prepare a banquet.”

Wassag smiled.

“Let’s say it’s not just an impression. Today is Sursyn. It’s the last day of the week. We always celebrate parties on the last night of every week. And this time it’s His Eminence’s turn to entertain.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and exchanged a puzzled look with Makarva.

“To each people its customs,” the captain smiled, with mocking tolerance. “We in Xalya used to have parties when the flowers bloomed in the dungeon gardens.”

“And when we nailed the heads of our enemies to spikes,” Dashvara observed casually. “Afterwards, my mother would get the skulls back.”

He smiled at the horrified expressions of Wassag and Norgana. Dafys wrinkled his nose and ended the conversation by prodding his troop.

“Come on, move it. We don’t have all day.”

Dashvara wished Taw and Makarva a good walk through the big market, and seeing that Wassag continued to scrutinize him, he gave him a quizzical pout. The Wolf swallowed.

“Is what you said true?”

“About the heads? Absolutely,” Dashvara confirmed.

Sashava and the captain half-suppressed mocking smiles. Dashvara smiled broadly. Eternal Bird, we are but cursed savages. We laugh at a man who is frightened by violence, as if we were not horrified by it too. Come to think of it, Dash, the cursed savage is you. Who talked about skulls to scare the federate, eh?

Miflin rolled his eyes.

“We are not as barbaric as you think, Wassag,” the Poet assured with the voice of a wise man. “For twenty years we were the only clan to survive that was heir to the ancient kings. Our neighbors were only waiting for the right day to annihilate every last one of us. In such circumstances, our best weapon was the horror we could cause our enemies.”

“It worked for a while,” Sedrios said, his eyes lost in the distance.

Arvara shook his head darkly.

“But, in the end, it was useless.”

“Yeah, it was useless,” Atok muttered.

Sashava and the captain were no longer smiling. Disturbed, Wassag opened his mouth, and Dashvara gave him a discreet pout to let him know that it was better not to ask questions. In three years, the Xalyas had had time to overcome the trauma of the fall of the Dungeon, but it was one thing to overcome it and another to forget it. As Lumon had said in Compassion one day when he was in one of his rare melancholy states: ‘We came out of it alive, but we’re not living anymore. Not quite.’

Suddenly, the door to the Xalya dormitory opened, and Tsu stepped out into the courtyard. Immediately, the past flew away from Dashvara’s consciousness.

“How is Zif?” the captain asked.

The drow shrugged his shoulders.

“I gave him belsadia, and now he’s sleeping like a lazy bodun.”

Dashvara smiled. It was rather uncommon to hear a drow use steppe expressions; not to say unique.

“Let me guess,” Tsu added, sitting down. “You’re waiting for the Hour of Constance, right? Where are the others?”

“At the docks, with Yorlen,” Dashvara replied. “Looks like today is a day of great deployment.” He watched him curiously: the drow looked agitated. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

Tsu shrugged his shoulders without answering, but after a few seconds, he got up and went to the kitchen to get a piece of toast. He was just returning when the light sound of a small bell tinkled at the entrance. It was probably Leoshu who had rung it: the old belarch was still guarding the gate.

Dashvara soon saw a human with a wig and a white tunic appear in the courtyard. It took him a few seconds to realize that he knew him: it was no less than Licentiate Nitakrios. On the opposite side, the main door opened and Atasiag Peykat came out, alone, also wearing a wig, and carrying a black baton under his arm.

Dashvara then witnessed the strangest ritual he had ever seen. First, the guest crossed the courtyard, bowed his head respectfully, and greeted Atasiag in the Diumcilian language, calling him Eminence and using convoluted formulas to which Atasiag responded with the same verbosity. Finally, the Licentiate looked around the courtyard with concern before muttering something quietly. Atasiag smiled.

“It was a pleasure to help you, Nitakrios. I only hope that from now on you’ll be more careful with your accounts. Oh, here comes Dafosag,” he added.

In the next few minutes, other citizens arrived, half a dozen in all. All of them followed the same rites, and then they began to talk, paying careful attention to Atasiag Peykat’s words every time he spoke. They were about to head for the living room when one of them called out:

“Eminence, on my way here, I came across the Doomed that were brought to you. I assure you that, just by seeing them, I thought: His Eminence could not have chosen better. They look robust.”

Atasiag’s face lit up with a smile.

“Yes, I sent a trusted man to Rayorah to personally ensure that they were all in good health.” He gestured toward the Xalyas, asking them to come closer. Puzzled, Dashvara stood up with the others, stepped forward, and as soon as Atasiag raised a hand to halt them, he obediently stopped. The look of approval in his eyes crushed his heart like a hammer blow.

“One of them is a cripple!” one of the citizens, the one called Dafosag, exclaimed and covered his mouth, as if repenting for having spoken impulsively. As Sashava’s face hardened, Atasiag nodded calmly.

“Yes, from what I was told, it was a brizzia that crushed his leg.”

Dashvara frowned for half a second. There was only one way Atasiag could have learned about that: he must have questioned the guards or his former spy, Uncle Serl.

“The advantage,” Atasiag said, “is that he can read and write. I wasn’t going to abandon him. They all come from the same village, and it would have been cruel to separate them,” he reasoned in the tone of one who knows he is immensely generous.

“This is an attitude worthy of a Blessed One, Eminence,” bowed the citizen who had made the remark.

Another one pointed at Arvara the Giant with enthusiasm.

“Some coaches in the Arena would fight to get this one!”

Atasiag smiled as he looked at the big Xalya. One of his followers even dared to reach out to feel Arvara’s muscles, and taken by surprise, the Giant did not react. In an approving voice, the Titiaka commented:

“All they need is a little weight. As soon as they get a little stronger, the whole Council will envy you, Eminence,” he exaggerated.

“They’re adorable!” a hobbit babbled with a huge smile.

“When I get rich, I’ll buy a Border Doomed,” a freckled human added with a smile.

He stopped in front of Dashvara and patted his shoulder as if he were stroking the side of a horse. Dashvara was thunderstruck by what was going on. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Atasiag; His Eminence welcomed the shower of praise with a thin, satisfied smile. Mmph. You’ve surrounded yourself with a bunch of fools, snake…

He was patient. At least no one approached the captain or Sashava; otherwise, who knows how they would have reacted.

“Come, let’s go in,” Atasiag said. “We’ll be out in a moment. Today I have business at Homage Square. I will bring two Xalyas to make a good impression. Legitimate Korfu has expressed his desire to see them.”

“Take the big one, Eminence,” suggested the one that got so excited about Arvara.

Atasiag hesitated with a mocking smile.

“I wouldn’t want to scare the passersby, Dafosag.”

Many laughed and begged him to bring Arvara along. Finally, Atasiag gave in as a little king gives in to the whims of little children.

Pathetic.

When they had entered the living room, probably to retrieve that famous half-denarius that was the prize of so many adulations, Dashvara sat down with the others on the edge of the courtyard. A movement on the second-floor balcony suddenly caught his attention, and after scanning the blinds, he was sure that Fayrah and Lessi had spied the scene. He shook his head several times and finally let out a sarcastic laugh.

“I can’t believe it. Who could possibly enjoy playing such a comedy every day?”

“Surround yourself with fools and you will become one,” Sashava muttered.

“Well, to each people its customs,” the captain relativized again.

“Yes, and they enslave themselves with them,” Sedrios the Old meditated.

Miflin declaimed:

“O supreme eminence in grand display, shameless comedian every day.”

Dashvara and Arvara smiled and looked up in surprise as Wassag leaped to his feet. The Wolf looked angry.

“That’s enough!” he protested. “I will not allow you to mock His Eminence. Don’t you Xalyas respect anything?” He huffed indignantly at their puzzled looks. “You would do well to learn not to oppose the one who feeds and houses you. Atasiag is a benevolent man.”

He was serious. After a surprised silence, Dashvara shook his head.

“Wassag. Your Eminence forced me to give forty lashes to one of my brothers who did not deserve them. He can’t be such a benevolent man as that.”

The Wolf squinted.

“That brother of yours tried to kidnap the son of a citizen,” he replied. “The Shyurd would have had good reason to kill him on the spot. Fortunately, the Shyurds are friends of Atasiag Peykat.”

Dashvara looked up to the sky.

“Morzif didn’t try to kidnap anyone, Federate. He simply wanted his son back.”

Wassag shook his head as if he had just thought he was talking to a moron.

“He’s a citizen’s son,” he repeated, obstinately. “And even if your brother was not crazy and had really seen his son, it would not change that fact. As workers, we have no rights over our lives or our children’s lives.” He sighed and continued more gently, “I understand that you are not yet used to this. I understand that, for you, accepting to lose something you have always had is hard. But believe me, of all the masters I have known, Atasiag Peykat is the most permissive and generous of all. I have served him for eight years and have only been whipped once, and I deserved it: I tried to run away six years ago. He could have killed me, but he didn’t. Four years ago, his trading company went bankrupt. The associated traders sold almost all their slaves. Atasiag sold none. Instead, he cut back on his own consumption, sold his house and land, and rented us out to the Yordarks with a promise to take us back. Then he left on his boat to get back what he had lost, and when he returned, he kept his promise. Believe me,” he persisted, looking at the nine Xalyas, “His Eminence does not deserve your contempt, but your deepest respect.”

Dashvara remained impressed by Wassag’s vehement apology, but he couldn’t help but feel a certain disgust for his role as a loyal dog. How could he feel loyalty to a master simply because he had not killed him? Simply because, instead of selling him, he had only “rented” him? The guardian’s arguments were beyond his comprehension.

The captain coughed gently.

“It’s okay, Wassag. We won’t joke about His Eminence in your presence anymore. Satisfied?”

Wassag hesitated but finally nodded. Before sitting down again, he simply added:

“His Eminence rescued you from death and adopted you. Now we are a family. And he is the father of us all. That’s the way things work.”

No one answered. Dashvara looked at Tsu out of the corner of his eye: the drow’s expression was darker than ever. On his deep blue and rough face, only a bitter glint in his eyes betrayed his thoughts. Wassag’s devotion surprises you, doesn’t it, Tsu? After all, you have hated all your masters. Though it’s true that you didn’t have much luck with them. Dashvara met his gaze, and uneasy, he averted his toward the main door. Several minutes passed before Atasiag and his followers reappeared. At the hobbit’s request, in addition to Arvara, they wanted to take Miflin. When they called for him, the Poet reluctantly rose to his feet.

“May the Liadirlá give me strength to endure them all,” he murmured in Oy’vat.

The hobbit frowned, and with polite interest, the freckled human asked Atasiag:

“What did he say?”

Atasiag shook his head.

“It’s their native language. Answer the question, soldier.”

Miflin blushed, probably cursing himself for opening his mouth. He glanced quickly at the captain before replying in a hesitant Diumcilian:

“It was only a prayer from my homeland.” A little late, he added: “Eminence.”

“A prayer from your homeland?” the hobbit echoed, interested. “Does that mean they are still pagans, Eminence?”

Dashvara saw an impatient glint in Atasiag’s eyes.

“Unfortunately, they may still be,” the snake admitted. “They still need to be educated and integrated. There are no miracles with workers, my friends. One thing at a time. And now let’s move on, or we’ll never get there.”

“Oh!” the hobbit exclaimed. “Of course, of course. You’ll have to excuse me, Eminence, but I’m a sucker for barbaric beliefs.”

“Wassag,” Atasiag said, resuming his walk. He motioned with his baton to the eight remaining Xalyas. “Give them something to do. I don’t want to see them idle. It’s a habit that easily sticks and is hard to get rid of.”

As soon as Atasiag and his escort disappeared, Dashvara turned to the second-floor balcony. Everything was still, but he could have sworn that behind those blinds his sister was watching them. Why wasn’t she coming down now that Atasiag was gone? And why don’t you go upstairs? he asked himself.

“Dash?” Atok said, surprised.

Only then did Dashvara realize that he had gotten up and taken a few steps toward the main door. He met Wassag’s frowning gaze and stopped with a sigh.

“All right, Wassag,” the captain growled, rising to his feet. “Tell us what we’ve got to do now.”