32 The Honyrs’ dignity

Dashvara finally understood why Atasiag Peykat had asked him about the Xalyas’ horsemanship. As the annual civic elections approached, the Legitimates and other wealthy citizens had planned daily parties, and one of the activities the Yordarks funded was the so-called solfata game, which was basically an archery race on horseback.

“This is our specialty,” Makarva said when Yira had finished explaining the rules of solfata in the courtyard of the house. “Ride, shoot, turn around, and disappear like lightning.”

“Mm,” Orafe confirmed. “But we couldn’t always do that. With red nadres, it was more efficient to charge with spears and swords,” he explained to Yira.

“And you say only three of us are going to participate?” the captain questioned.

Yira nodded.

“The race will be in groups of three. In addition, His Eminence has rented ten of you to the Steliar for hand-to-hand combat duels. If you win, the Steliar family will take the prize, but the prestige will also be for Atasiag. And if you lose, the Steliar will have lost money, and you will lose value,” she added.

She did not ask who volunteered for the solfata or the duels: the Legitimate himself would choose. In the late afternoon, Shaag Yordark arrived at Atasiag’s house in a litter, accompanied by his escort, his steward… and his son Faag. When Dashvara saw the captain of the Compassion Company, he exchanged a thoughtful glance with Zorvun before lining up properly in the courtyard. Faag recognized them at once. Without coming closer, he gave them a small smile in greeting, to which Dashvara responded in kind. It’s almost as if this citizen has taken us for his equals, he observed with some mockery.

Shaag did not talk for long with Atasiag Peykat and quickly became interested in the Xalyas.

“Who are the most skilled with the bow?” he asked Atasiag.

His Eminence gave Yira an encouraging look.

“We’ve only been able to do an archery test once, Your Excellency,” she replied, “but in my opinion the most skilled are this one, this one, and this one,” she pointed to Lumon, then Makarva, and finally Dashvara. Dashvara raised an eyebrow in surprise. He was certainly no slouch with the bow, no Xalya patroller was, but Alta or Boron were undoubtedly more skilled than he was. Anyway, he didn’t protest: it was always a relief to know that instead of hitting warriors, he would be shooting arrows.

Shaag Yordark agreed with Yira, looked satisfied, saluted Atasiag gravely, and climbed back onto his litter. Then, unexpectedly, the steward beckoned Dashvara, Lumon, and Makarva to follow them.

“What?” Dashvara murmured. They were going to the Yordark castle at this hour? After glancing up at the darkening sky, he glanced at Atasiag, confused. Atasiag smiled at him.

“Behave yourself during training, Xalyas.”

He said no more. Without a word, Dashvara, Lumon, and Makarva followed the small procession through the Passerines and up the mountain to the Yordark’s black castle. When a still-beardless teenager pointed to a place to spend the night near the stables, Dashvara sighed and finally broke the silence.

“Tell me, boy. Do you know how many days the training will last?” he asked.

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

“The solfata races begin in a week and a half. That is, in nine days. Until then, you will stay here.”

He had a deep Bladhy desert accent. He said nothing more, and when he left, Makarva muttered:

“They didn’t even give me time to pick up the cards. They could have warned us.”

Dashvara sat down on a pile of straw and thought that the bed was more comfortable than his straw mattress at Atasiag’s. Finally he replied:

“Since when do we need cards to play cards, Mak?” He turned to Lumon. The Archer was fiddling with Licentiate Nitakrios’ iron bracelet. He seemed unusually nervous, and Dashvara became concerned. “What’s going on, Lumon?”

The Xalya shrugged his shoulders and did not answer immediately.

“I don’t know, Dash. Lately I’ve been turning my thoughts around in my head too much.”

Dashvara exchanged a puzzled look with Makarva.

“What thoughts, Lumon?” he inquired.

“Boh. Do you really want to know?” the Archer sighed.

Dashvara raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not in the habit of asking things I don’t want to know, brother,” he replied, mockingly.

Lumon made a half-smile but wiped it away when he explained:

“I was thinking about what the federates are doing to us. At the Border, we were fighting monsters. We were doing something useful. In Titiaka, we fight slaves like us. Just to entertain. What does that make us, Dash?”

Dashvara smiled wryly.

“Fairground beasts that bite to avoid being bitten?”

“It seems that way,” Lumon conceded.

Dashvara sat comfortably on the straw and put his hands behind his head.

“Well, don’t beat yourself up. The first step is to accept what we are,” he considered. “The second is to enjoy it as much as possible. And the third is to consider the seventh escape. For the moment, I am on the second step,” he informed. “And you, Lumon?”

The Archer laughed softly.

“You just put me on the second one too, Philosopher. And, by the way, I wonder if those Yordarks have a kitchen somewhere.”

Only then did Dashvara realize that he was starving after all the afternoon’s training. They came out of the small shelter and passed Durf and other slaves in the large courtyard of the castle. Thanks to them, they found the kitchens at once, where twelve guards were already finishing their meals. When his gaze fell on three unfamiliar but clearly steppian faces, Dashvara stopped for a second, went to get his portion of bread and cheese, and finally sat down facing the three men with a broad smile.

“Thieves of the Steppe,” he said. “Glad to see you in this beautiful region.”

Of the three Honyrs, only one showed surprise in his expression. The other two frowned. On their right arms they bore the clear mark of the green scorpion of the Yordarks, accompanied by the black cross of the captured and pardoned fugitives.

“Xalyas?” the one in the middle asked. His tanned face was furrowed with wrinkles, but Dashvara bet he couldn’t be much older than fifty.

“Xalyas,” he confirmed in a friendly tone. “I am Dashvara of Xalya. And these are Lumon and Makarva. Apparently the six of us are going to play solfata for the Yordarks.” He smiled. “What a glorious task, isn’t it?”

The Honyr had not yet touched his meal. His gray eyes detailed the three Xalyas, but he did not utter a word. Dashvara did not wait for them to introduce themselves by name: he knew, for he had once spoken to a Steppe Thief, that names were a sacred thing to them. No outsider to the clan should know them.

He took a bite out of his bread before adding while chewing:

“Apparently you escaped and Captain Faag captured you again. You’re lucky you’re still alive. We ran away too,” he observed. “Six times. But they didn’t have to capture us: we returned from the Border of our own accord. Some people call that a sense of honor, others call it practicality,” he joked. Then he realized that, like Zaadma, he did not let a word get in, and he added: “Out of curiosity, how many Thieves are you in Diumcili?”

“Thieves, none,” the younger man replied. “We are Honyrs.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Very true. You’re right to point it out. Forgive me if I have offended you. I have always known you as the Steppe Thieves, but from now on I will call you Honyrs. And you too,” he warned, addressing Makarva and Lumon. They shrugged and nodded as they ate.

“Dashvara of Xalya,” the third Honyr repeated. He had a huge scar on his face, and from the marks, it looked like it had been caused by an animal with fangs. His eyes studied Dashvara’s features intently before he blurted out, “You are the son of Vifkan of Xalya.”

Dashvara made a meditative pout.

“I see that my reputation precedes me. But, from the look on your face, I get the impression that it’s not very flattering.”

Honyr gave a torpid smile.

“Your father was not a very respectable man…” The old Honyr must have kicked him under the table because the scarred one gasped and fell silent. Dashvara wondered if he should feel indignant or not at the insult. In any case, there was no doubt that the Steppe Thieves knew about the fall of the Xalya clan. The old man shook his head in disbelief.

“It is no use speaking ill of the dead, Cloud.” And he pronounced: “Forgive, Xalya, the exaltation of my brother.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Forgiven. So you give each other nicknames?”

The old man watched him with some curiosity before answering:

“That’s right. I am Hoof. This one is Sann, and the other is Cloud.” He paused. “So, in the end, the zoks let you live.”

Dashvara understood that by “zoks” he was referring to the Shalussis, Essimeans, and Akinoas. It must mean something like “savages”, in their language.

“They left me alive unwittingly,” he explained. “I pretended to be a Shalussi.”

As the Honyrs were not very talkative and seemed interested, he began to tell them about the adventures of the Xalyas, helped by Makarva. He was already swallowing down his last bite when he finished his story and asked:

“Uh… aren’t you going to eat?”

Hoof, the old man, smiled. The conversation seemed to have softened him a bit.

“We Honyrs do not eat when someone talks to us. And we do not talk with our mouths full.”

Dashvara flushed, bewildered.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat, hesitated, and finally stood up. “Then we’ll let you eat. It’s been a pleasure talking with you. We’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. Good night, Honyrs.”

“Good night, Xalyas,” old Hoof said.

“Good night, zoks,” Cloud murmured, the one with the scar, as Dashvara was already walking away.

Zok yourself, Dashvara gasped.