30 Cheerful slaves

Dashvara had plenty of time to verify that, all things considered, life as a slave in Titiaka was undoubtedly pleasant. Compared to life on the Border, that is.

In the morning they got up early, had breakfast in Uncle Serl’s kitchen, attended the Hour of Constance, and during the rest of the morning they performed the most varied tasks. In two weeks, Dashvara placed three orders in various stores, brought a message to a port controller, a letter to a lieutenant of the Urban Militia; he helped to thoroughly clean one of Atasiag’s boats, twice accompanied His Eminence and his followers to the Homage Square and saw a dozen Legitimates there with all their pompous escorts of slaves and citizens. One morning Atasiag gave him a small job to scare a citizen who was harassing Dafosag, one of his followers, and wanted to prevent him from going to his house at the Hour of Constance.

“That fool hopes to replace him and take the denarius in his place,” Atasiag snarled. “If you have to give him a good beating, go ahead. I’ll gladly pay the compensation.”

Dashvara took Arvara and Maef to support him, and they only had to look at the individual and display the Red Dragon crest to make him understand that, from now on, it would be better for him not to disturb Atasiag’s friends.

Even so, he usually had some free time in the morning, and he took the opportunity to visit Zaadma in her herbalist shop first. He hoped to find Rokuish as well, but the Republican explained that the Shalussi normally worked as a groom in the headquarters stables and got up very early to tend to the horses. For two hours, Zaadma spoke in an almost continuous stream that she only interrupted to serve her customers. She told him about the successful sale of her moon narcissus, about the garden she was growing on her terrace, about some buyers who were sometimes very unbearable and about some special kalreas that were very annoying because they never decided to bloom. She hardly let him get a word in edgewise, and Dash walked out of the store, his ears ringing.

Definitely, Rok, keep her for a hundred years, I beg you…

He smiled to himself. When, on his way back, he passed the Iron Tornado, moved by a sudden burst of conscience, he entered the tavern to leave Sotag four sildettas in exchange for a good beer that soothed his headache. He asked about his wife’s health, and looking a little pale, the tavernkeeper assured him that she was much better. Dashvara did not doubt it. He was tempted to ask about his blind nephew, but he restrained himself. When he left the establishment, he thought that four sildettas was more than enough for a liar.

For two days, at mealtimes, the foreman Loxarios instructed them in the rules of good conduct. Then he got bored, and when he asked if they had understood his instructions, they all nodded, happy to be free of his lessons at last. Lox was not a bad guy: he let them laze around after lunch for a good hour before reminding them that they had to train and put on a good fight for the curious citizens who loved the arena.

On the first day, Dashvara refused to take the swords. It was a sudden impulse: he had decided not to shed even a drop of blood. He wanted to be a good man and live as peacefully as some of the Steppe sages whose names were beginning to get confused in his head. Imbued with the pacifist doctrines of a certain Moarvara, centuries old, he got up from the table and began to preach about good example and the power of diplomacy. Makarva and Zamoy laughed, Orafe called him an enlightened man, the captain sighed, looking at his spoon, and Atok listened with fascinated eyes. Only Miflin intervened to support him and declare:

“That’s what I’ve always said. Forget the steel, let’s breathe out peace!”

Finally, as Dashvara tried to justify his point of view to foreman Lox, Lox threatened him with the whip, and this, coupled with the reasonable comments of his brothers, finally made him give up. He girded his swords with a low growl.

Dashvara soon discovered how much the Titiakas enjoyed close combat. They didn’t always train in the arena: in two weeks they made several trips to the headquarters and were invited on two occasions to the Yordark’s special training grounds in their imposing black castle on Mount Courteous. Their personal guard was small, there were only twelve of them, but they were good wrestlers, and Dashvara, who was used to not moving more than necessary for the sake of his lungs, had to try hard not to let himself be crushed.

One day, Atasiag gathered the Xalya warriors, asked them to put on their official uniforms and led them all through the city to Mount Serene to celebrate a birth in the family of the Kondister Legitimates. The Kondister Legitimates had organized a lavish celebration in a large central courtyard, buzzing with fights, archery and other “spectacles”. Dashvara won against all his opponents, and despite the ridiculousness of the show, he felt proud when he saw the impressed looks of the citizens riveted on his clan. With an amused pout, he pushed his sword away from his last fallen opponent.

Before, you wanted to lay down your arms, and now you’re proud to wield them like a champion, huh? Well, swallow that pride, Xalya. You’d better ignore these citizens.

As he left the field to join his brothers, he saw Atasiag Peykat sitting on the stone bleachers with other citizens. He met his gaze and thought he saw a glint of apprehension in his eyes. He smiled wryly. Had he just realized that the Xalyas who served him were not an ornamental personal guard?

He knew that Fayrah and Lessi had come to attend the celebration by carriage, and he looked for them for a good while, in vain. Does that surprise you? Duels have never interested them more than a grain of sand. If only it were the case with all these citizens and we didn’t have to fool around with the swords! I’d even bet that Fayrah is talking with her artist friends. Maybe even with that Lanamiag Korfu that you like so much. He huffed and decided to leave his sarcasm out for the rest of the afternoon.

All the fighters had the privilege of congratulating the newborn by bowing to him, and the winners received three denarii each. Atasiag won a total of thirty-six denarii, and theoretically, he could have kept them for himself, but he did not: he simply advised the Xalyas not to spend it all in the taverns. With such a fortune, he said, he feared they might drown in a barrel. Dashvara bought himself a knife, a chisel, and a whetstone, and that very afternoon he began to carve the piece of wood he had brought from the Ariltuan swamps. The others also made good use of their earnings: Miflin bought a notebook with a pencil, Zamoy bought a pack of sweets, Makarva gave flowers to a young slave girl he had met at the big market, and the captain, Taw, and Sedrios bought themselves a special bath at the thermal baths with flavored water, which—they mockingly claimed on the way back—was blessed by Cili.

Finally, to spite His Eminence, Makarva, the Triplets, Atok, the Grunt, Shurta, and Dashvara decided to go to the Joyful Nadre. The tavern was crowded with militiamen. There they found Brohol, the pirates’ son who had helped Dashvara get up after the beating by Lanamiag Korfu. He was accompanied by a whole troop of fellow southerners, and after introductions, they soon became friendly as they began to poke fun at Diumcilian customs. They talked about the way of dressing, the wigs, their stupid parties, and Shurta concluded:

“They are good-for-nothing people who cannot even scratch their ears without the help of a slave. Just yesterday, when I passed by the Homage Square, I saw a citizen who dropped a key on the ground, and his servant, who was loaded like a mule, picked it up without the other stopping for a second! I was flabbergasted.”

“Well, there are worse things that will blow your mind, friend,” Brohol assured. “Listen to this, just a few months ago, I heard about a citizen family who whipped their slaves every day out of pure sadism. As a result, one of them ended up dead, and it just so happened that a neighbor found out about it, filed a complaint for wrongful punishment, and the boss had to pay a hefty fine.”

“The Shifderest,” another militiaman confirmed after resting his empty cup on the table. “They’re a family from the country. They have bad habits. These people never know where the limits are. After the fine, they sold several workers to pay debts. Now one of those is a night Watcher, right, Brohol? He walks like an old man, but he smiles all the time. Trajdra!” he suddenly exclaimed in his native tongue. “Another beer, boy!”

Always generous, Makarva offered a round of drinks, and the militiamen became even more enthusiastic and cheerful. The three denarii they had gained melted away; at least the beer was cheap, though particularly bad. Waving his cup in the air, one of the foreigners began to sing a sailor’s ballad, and in turn, the Xalyas sang several love songs and war songs from the steppe. Orafe had a baritone voice that vibrated and echoed throughout the tavern, and he played with the tonal changes so well that some of the theoretically romantic songs ended up making everyone laugh. He was yelling:

Orafe prolonged the last note much more than Dashvara, one hand raised and the other on his chest. All the militiamen clapped and called for another one. Clapping his hands, Makarva stood up and began to dance the dianka in front of a young girl who, perhaps ashamed of him, covered her face and walked away laughing. Makarva was not discouraged and pulled Dashvara to dance.

“Makarva!” he protested.

“Come on, brother, get up! The lord of the Xalyas orders that all Xalyas dance the dianka while singing!” Makarva exclaimed.

“What the hell…?” Dashvara laughed. “You’re my spokesman now?”

“Only when I feel like it!” Makarva observed with a big smile.

After singing along with the others to The Rider without a Horse and The Dream Weaver, Dashvara slipped away and sat down next to Brohol while his brothers put on quite a show, singing, dancing, and clapping. They liven up the whole tavern as if they’d been paid for it…, he smiled. He watched them with the impression of being back in the dungeon celebrating some particularly successful hunt.

“Cheerful fellows,” Brohol appreciated, leaning toward Dashvara so he could hear him over the din. He watched the commotion with a smile that was more sober than tipsy. “I have to admit, from what I’ve heard about you, I imagined you to be more… rough. Now I see that we’re not so different.”

Dashvara smiled at him. His head was quite numb, and an inner voice warned him not to finish the cup he had in front of him, but he finished it anyway.

“We are sajits,” he answered at last. “And we are slaves. You have a home to come back to and so do I. You are right, foreigner: we are very much alike.”

Brohol shook his head.

“It’s obvious that you haven’t been in Titiaka for a long time. True, I too have dreamed of returning to my home one day. For many years. Then I realized that, in reality, I didn’t have a home anymore. And I made another one here,” he said, gesturing vaguely to his fellow militiamen. “Consider yourself lucky to have some of your people with you, Dash. You’ll get used to this life eventually. Anyway, if you don’t, your master will send you to the mines or the countryside, and you’ll regret not listening to reason.” He smiled. “In the past, I too was proud. I received more lashes and canings the first year I was captured than all the other years until now. And so much pride has done me no good…” An explosion of laughter prevented Dashvara from hearing the next sentence, but then he heard him say, “… leave this place, of course. I’m not going to be a pirate like my parents, no way. I’m going to be an explorer. You know? Some say that beyond the Golden Heart Islands, the Pilgrim Ocean stretches endlessly. But others think that there are other lands out there. Virgin lands that are full of riches and where you don’t have to work for food. I’d like to see for myself if these legends are true.”

Dashvara smiled.

“In this, we are not alike, then. I prefer to explore the soul, as my ancestors did.”

Brohol raised his eyebrows, and after a long pause during which Dashvara began to doze, the militiaman stood up.

“Well, I’m going back to the barracks. I’m glad to have talked with you, Xalya.”

“Me too,” Dashvara said.

Brohol smiled.

“A word of advice: tell that Xalya who likes to dance so much that he shouldn’t get too used to giving away rounds of beer. Some of my companions are quite the freeloaders. And I don’t say it with malice because…” his smile widened “I’m like them.”

Dashvara thanked him for the advice, responded to his greeting, and realizing that he was dozing again, he pinched his cheek and stood up, saying:

“Xalyas, we’re going home.”

With all the commotion, no one heard him. He sighed and stumbled to Zamoy, who was closest. He grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the door. Then he grabbed Shurta by the arm and said:

“Help me get all these drunks out of here. It’s not like we don’t have to get up early tomorrow.”

Shurta helped him, and finally they greeted the militia, said goodbye to the tavernkeeper, and Kodarah nearly collapsed as they descended the staircase. They left the Joyful Nadre without a single sildetta in their pockets and without knowing exactly where Atasiag’s house was.

The first thing Dashvara did when they arrived at Homage Square was to stick his head in a fountain to snap out of it. The bluish light of the Gem illuminated the cobblestones and buildings that surrounded the enormous plaza. Midnight had passed, and the square was relatively deserted except for a few patrols of Watchers and foreigners who slept in their carts among the goods, horses, and donkeys. An autumnal wind swirled gently between the kiosks and their columns, rising to the stone steps and wrinkling the water in the fountains. It was laden with a strong aroma of jasmine and salt.

Humming, the Baldy stumbled over the edge, and Dashvara helped him regain his balance.

“Cheerful fellows indeed,” he laughed.

He pushed Zamoy away from the fountain to keep him from drowning, staggered, and Orafe supported him, though he too was not thinking clearly. Leaning on Kodarah, Miflin rambled on, declaiming verses:

The poet finally sat down on a stone bench, and Dashvara looked at him, impressed.

“Say, cousin, did you just improvise that?”

The poet blinked.

“Huh? Oh… Maybe. I don’t know. Hell, I’m dizzy,” he complained, taking his head in his hands.

Dashvara looked up at the dark sky but lowered his eyes when he heard voices approaching. With the help of the Gem, he immediately saw the black faces and tall stature of the five men crossing the square. A wave of panic swept over him. He couldn’t have imagined a better way to get out of his daze.

“Xalyas,” he hissed.

The tone of his voice must have been explicit enough because his seven brothers seemed to understand that something was going on. Immediately afterwards, Dashvara knew he should never have alerted them.

With a roar, Zamoy charged at the Akinoas, followed by Orafe and Kodarah. As he charged, the Baldy intoned verses of the usual war song, but he did so while shouting at the top of his lungs:

Dumbfounded, Dashvara took off running behind them.

“By the Eternal Bird, stop!” he shouted. “Remember the agreement!”

By the time he reached them, the fight had already started, and incredibly, three of the Akinoas had run away. The other two were cowering on the ground, protecting their bellies. When he saw them up close, Dashvara couldn’t help it: he burst into a thunderous laugh.

“Stop it,” he gasped, laughing. “You’re such a bunch of idiots… Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed even harder. “Liadirlá, these are not the Akinoas! They are drows.”

Zamoy, Orafe, and Kodarah remained perplexed. Finally, Orafe reacted.

“Demons,” he breathed. “That’s stupid. Excuse me, friend,” he said to one of the two sajits. He helped him to his feet in a friendly manner. “We have confused you with the Akinoas of the Korfu.”

“With… the Akinoas?” the drow breathed, catching his breath. “Those colossal humans that go to the Arena? Do I look human to you?”

His high-pitched voice let his fear shine through.

“Dash, stop laughing, will you?” Zamoy growled.

Dashvara finally understood that the situation was not so funny, and he calmed down before approaching the drow. Indeed, this one was far from looking like an Akinoa: he was of average height, thin, and rather ungainly. He didn’t understand how he could have mistaken him for an Akinoa. Very easy: because you are drunk, Dash…

Zamoy helped the other drow companion to his feet, and this one spat out:

“Bloody humans.”

Dashvara patted the shoulder of the one who was obviously appalled.

“Is everything all right?” he inquired, solicitously.

The drow stammered:

“Y-yes. Can we go now?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Of course. But I wouldn’t want you to leave without receiving my most sincere apologies on behalf of those three boors who jumped down your throat. Their reflexes are not very lucid.”

The two drows seemed surprised, but understanding that the Xalyas had no intention of hitting them further, they hurriedly backed away.

“We’re really sorry!” Zamoy said as the drows were already moving away, half running and half limping.

Silence fell, interrupted only by distant music from the still full taverns. Dashvara turned to the three exalted ones with an eloquent pout, and embarrassed, Zamoy cleared his throat.

“That look means you’re congratulating us on our amazing performance, right?”

Dashvara shook his head. The incident no longer seemed amusing to him.

“You’re supposed to have some control over yourselves, Xalyas,” he commented. “Even if it had been the Akinoas, you shouldn’t have reacted that way since I gave my word to Raxifar that—”

“Yes, yes, we know,” Orafe cut him off, looking grumpy. “We’re drunk, Dash. I think it’s best we go home.”

Dashvara breathed in, then out.

“Yes, I think that will be best. It’s a good thing no Watchman saw us.”

They walked through the market caravans in silence, and a few minutes later, they arrived at the gate of the house. Logically, the gate was closed. Zamoy opened his mouth as if he was going to serenade, and Shurta hit him on the head.

“Have a little respect,” he warned him in a wise tone. “They must be sleeping.”

Atok stirred.

“Well, what do we do?” he whispered.

Dashvara shrugged, walked along the house and finally sat down against the wall, just under the window of the Xalya dormitory. The window was closed by a beautiful stone blind, full of small holes and drawings, which served only to let in air and light.

“We’ll sleep here,” he declared. “And let this punishment be a lesson to us.”

“This is the last time I’m going out with you guys,” Kodarah breathed, as he settled down.

“And the last time I’m going out with you, Hairy,” Makarva replied. “You don’t even know how to dance the dianka.”

“What do you mean, I don’t know—?”

“Shut up,” Orafe growled.

Dashvara was trying to find the least uncomfortable position possible when he heard a voice behind the window. He was startled.

“Here come our victorious youths again,” came Sashava’s whispering, sarcastic voice.

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and stood up to try to see through the holes in the stone. The light from the Gem and the muffled sound of voices told him that many of the Xalyas were still awake.

“He doesn’t seem to be with them,” Alta muttered, his nose pressed against the window.

Dashvara frowned, and Alta answered his question before he could ask:

“Tsu is missing.”

Dashvara was stunned.

“What?” he said stupidly.

“He didn’t go to the Kondister celebration,” Lumon’s calm voice completed. “And Wassag hasn’t seen him since.”

Dashvara swallowed his saliva and leaned against the wall, confused.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “If he had wanted to run away, he could have done so in Ariltuan. He would have stayed with those drows and that Hakassu. He wouldn’t have come to Titiaka.”

Since none of the Xalyas were aware of what had actually happened during that night in the swamp, Dashvara explained it to them through the window, finally confessing:

“I don’t know what they said to each other, that Hakassu and him, but what I do know is that Tsu decided to stay with us.”

“Which is strange, you have to admit it,” Alta reflected in a calm tone. “Tsu is sympathetic to me, he’s a good Xalya in his own way, but think about it, Dash: if he gave up his freedom, maybe he didn’t do it for us, but because this Hakassu asked him to perform a task in Titiaka.” He shook his head with absolute conviction. “Remember that Shjak and Diumcili are at war. Tsu may be acting as an undercover agent.”

Dashvara massaged his temples. After so many duels and such an evening, he couldn’t think clearly.

“It could be,” Captain Zorvun’s voice conceded. “But perhaps we are rushing to conclusions. Anyway, we’re not going to fix anything this late at night. Let us sleep, since our young people are finally back.”

Dashvara perceived a mocking accent and rolled his eyes.

“The beer was also blessed by Cili, Captain,” he said.

Amused gasps were heard. Kodarah muttered indignantly:

“Are you going to leave us out here?”

“We don’t have the keys,” Sashava replied with obvious satisfaction. “And we’re not going to wake the Wolf because of latecomers who can’t walk straight, are we, guys?”

Dashvara winced but accepted his verdict.

“Good night, secretary,” he grumbled. He added the name only to enrage him a little: everyone knew how much Sashava hated his new job. For the past two weeks, he had been serving a renowned professor at the university, who was in turn a slave of the Dikaksunora, albeit a fairly wealthy one thanks to his inventions. According to Sashava, he was a machine fanatic, and the old Xalya spent his days transcribing in a notebook all the genial or stupid ideas that passed through the inventor’s head. Frankly, Dashvara didn’t know which was more tedious: having to give fighting shows for a few citizens or having to scribble incomprehensible calculations and assessments for hours on end.

The eight Xalyas sat down again on the edge of the wide street, and exhausted, Dashvara soon fell asleep. He still had time to think that this would be the first night he would not talk to Yira. He had become accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night, tormented by ridiculous nightmares that he couldn’t shake off, and he would sit on the low wall of the fountain until Yira appeared. As long as he didn’t mention anything about her veil, the young woman was happy to engage in philosophical—or not-so-philosophical—conversations that occupied them for hours. They talked about the Eternal Bird, the steppe, pirates, and the sea; they shared stories of different cultures, and Dashvara had even learned a few words of Ryscodranese, Yira’s second childhood language. The quiet chatter was refreshing. It was as if he was in a timeless bubble in which he had no pressure to act, no one to fight, no one to obey, just enjoying the moment. Yira was a soul as dreamy as Miflin, as attentive as Makarva, and as joyful as Zamoy. And, at the same time, she had, indeed, principles at least as firm as his. From the very first days, Dashvara had felt a growing respect for her that had turned into a real affection. It had nothing to do with the idealistic feelings he had harbored at the Border to kill time. He wasn’t sure if it could be love. Nor did he think much about this riddle during the rest of the day. Sometimes both of them would be silent and gaze at the stars, musing, like two innocent, carefree steppe children. Dashvara had asked her one night if she ever slept. Yira’s eyes had smiled, and she had answered: ‘I sleep as much as I need’. Her answer had left him thinking. Yira was supposed to be a sajit, or so it seemed from the little he had seen of her. However, a new prudence advised him not to affirm it, at least until he had seen her face uncovered: he remembered Sheroda’s transformed face all too well. Half lying on the cobblestones of the street, he drifted off to sleep with the disturbing image of Yira showing sharp blue teeth.

That night he did not speak with Yira, but the nightmare came as punctually as usual. And the worst thing is that this time he did not wake up, so that, for hours, he could see the streaked eyes of the shixan and hear his own voice shouting again and again: I am unworthy! I am guilty! Suddenly, Sheroda’s golden eyes reddened and her white face darkened, replaced by Tsu’s.

“What are you doing here?”

The drow’s surprised voice pierced through Dashvara’s dream.