36 The King of the Eternal Bird

When he awoke, he felt oddly well-rested. He reached out and listened to the characteristic scratching of a quill against parchment, and the distant hubbub of an awakening city. He opened his eyes and found the library illuminated by the sun’s rays; its flames danced silently over the books on the shelves. He heard a distant bark, blinked, and sat up on the bed, rubbing his face to chase away the last fragments of sleep.

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” Atasiag’s quiet voice said from his office. Dashvara turned to him and met his smiling face. “How are you, Philosopher?”

Dashvara did not answer immediately.

“In great shape,” he said at last. “Three o’clock in the afternoon, you say?”

“The third Autumn Coorsyn,” the federate added, letting a scroll fall back onto the table. “A little water?”

Dashvara nodded absently. If he counted correctly, he had been living in Titiaka for almost a month. As Tahisran said, time flew. Only when Atasiag handed him a glass of water did he realize it was rather strange to be served by his own master. Dashvara took the glass in front of the benevolent eyes of his master.

“Thank you, Eminence.”

Atasiag shook his head thoughtfully.

“I haven’t touched the meal Norgana brought me yet. And the truth is, I’m not very hungry. I’ll bring it to you.”

He set down a tray with a plate of pasties and a glass with a dark liquid. Dashvara watched the Diumcilian curiously before actually turning his attention to the meal.

“Is this wine?” he asked.

Atasiag huffed.

“No. It’s chocolate. It comes from Agoskura. It should be still warm. Enjoy,” he added, returning to his desk.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Reassure me, you didn’t take me for a king, too, Eminence?”

Atasiag sat down with a laugh.

“It would not occur to me to take you for a king, Philosopher! Now eat up.”

Dashvara didn’t need him to say it again and began to gobble down Atasiag Peykat’s meal. When he had finished his last snack, he glanced warily at the hot chocolate. He tasted it cautiously, expecting to find an earthy taste. He was pleasantly surprised. He took another more generous sip and said:

“It’s damn good, Eminence.”

Atasiag smiled and observed from his writing desk:

“I have the impression that you call me Eminence with more and more naturalness.”

Far from being offended, Dashvara replied frankly:

“It’s just that before I didn’t think of you as such. Now I still doubt, but I recognize your right to ask me to call you what you like, and based on my generous tolerance as a savage philosopher, I see no reason not to make you happy. Eminence,” he concluded, smiling.

Atasiag looked at him, half amused and half surprised.

“You’re making fun of me.”

Dashvara’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling.

“If it’s any consolation, I assure you that I make fun of myself a lot more often,” he confessed. And he finished the glass of chocolate in one gulp before repeating, “Damn good.”

Atasiag shook his head.

“I’m going to ask you a question that may seem ingenuous, but what leads a Xalya to respect another person?”

Yet another philosophical question, Federate? And you call me a philosopher?

Dashvara sighed.

“According to the Dahars, all Xalyas respect others, as long as others respect them in return. Have I ever said that I don’t respect you, Eminence? At first, I confess, I felt some contempt for you. Because you are a slave owner. Because you are a thief. And because, despite everything, you managed to get the love of two Xalya women. Now…” he hesitated and admitted: “I respect you because, all in all, you are a good person, but I can’t consider you a brother because you don’t act like one. You love your slaves like sons, but you know, one mustn’t lock up a son, nor forbid him anything, nor give him orders or tell him what to do. That’s why, because of your lack of trust, I can’t call you brother.”

Just as I could never call brother my lord father, a small voice completed in his head.

Atasiag remained silent for a long time. Finally he stood up, walked slowly into the library and said in a calm tone:

“I would like to change things. Make Titiaka a free city, with people who would only follow that thing you call Dahars. Lock up Menfag Dikaksunora and the Telv, the Nelkantas and the Kondisters. Actually, there are many more that should be locked up,” he corrected and turned to Dashvara with a sardonic smile. “But that is not feasible, my friend. Because the citizens are not willing to change their way of life and yet they are willing to take up a sword to maintain it. Because slaves fight each other to win the favor of their masters. Because mentalities simply prevent this from being possible.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“No need to lock anyone up, Eminence. I only need a ship and sailors to take my people back to the steppe.”

Atasiag made a mocking pout.

“I saw you coming, Philosopher. But I repeat my refusal. Patience will give you freedom,” he promised. “However, the Korfu hope that I will make good use of you all, and I cannot disappoint them now by releasing you. Simple politics. It may seem selfish to you, I understand, but I don’t want my house to lose what little support it has and sink into misery again. I will get married. I’m going to start a family again, and I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.” He looked meditative as he continued, “You probably heard about the bankruptcy of my company four years ago.” He smiled. “Did you know that I recovered a bit thanks to the Dragon of Spring?” Dashvara squinted an eye, amazed. “The name rings a bell, doesn’t it? When I heard about the disappearance of that artistic gem, I thought it was a perfect opportunity. I finally tracked down the slave thieves of Rocavita and sold that gem to a prince of Agoskura. Call me a thief if you like, but don’t they say that the one who steals from a thief gets a ray of compassion from Cili? This jewel, in all seriousness, was worth far more than what the prince deigned to give me…” he murmured with a grimace. “But it is not easy to argue with an Agoskurian prince.” He shrugged. “In any case, my financial situation is not completely restored. It’s still unstable. And, to be frank, I have little hope of being elected Councilor. It’s not that I particularly want to be, but the Korfu are trying to get all their allies on the Council.” He moistened his lips and admitted, “Yes, in practice, I am a dog of the Korfu. Slavery doesn’t just exist in the registrar’s papers…” He suddenly shook his head. “Why on earth am I telling you all this, Philosopher? I bet it matters to you as much as a drop of water.”

Dashvara looked at him sadly.

“Why should it not matter to me? To use your expression, know that in the steppe, a drop of water is not a small thing.” He observed with sincerity: “Believe me, I see no reason why I should be indifferent to your life.”

Atasiag looked at him. He smiled. Then he laughed.

“You amaze me, Dashvara. Your compassion is admirable.”

Dashvara returned his smile.

“I lived in the Tower of Compassion for three years, Eminence. Besides,” he continued more seriously, “in a way, you saved my life from that… from your future wife. And that is something a Xalya does not easily forget.”

The federate shook his head thoughtfully. After a serene silence, someone knocked on the door.

“Ah!” Atasiag said. “That must be Tsu. Come in.” The drow opened the door and bowed slightly. “Rejoice, doctor. Your patient is getting better and better.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Indeed, I think I’m doing well enough to…”

He was about to get up, but Tsu forced him to sit down again.

“I’m the doctor,” he grumbled, “just lie down and we’ll see.”

His red eyes shone, firm and uncompromising. Dashvara clicked his tongue in annoyance, but he lay back down and sighed when he saw an amused glint in Atasiag Peykat’s eyes. Tsu’s diagnosis was concise: he would stay in bed at least four more days. Dashvara protested, and Atasiag settled the matter with these words:

“Tomorrow you will return to your brothers. In the meantime, you will stay here.” And he added: “Do you want me to bring you a book?”

Tsu opened his eyes wide. Dashvara acted as if he was used to being served and asked:

“You have The Adventures of Shepherd Bramanil and his Cat Mawrus the Wrecker?”

Atasiag raised an eyebrow.

“This is Lessi’s favorite reading. A recommendation from that Rowyn the Duke. Of course I have the book. Do you want it in Common Tongue, Ryscodranese, or Diumcilian?”

Dashvara huffed. Did you take me for a great polyglot, federate?

“In the Common Tongue, by the Liadirlá,” he replied. He smiled when he saw Atasiag turn his back to get the book.

Tsu was right, of course. After spending several hours with the storybook, Dashvara eventually felt tired again, and he slept through most of the night peacefully; not a nightmare came to bother him. It was perhaps two hours before dawn when he got up and went out into the yard. He found Yira sitting on the edge of the fountain, playing with a harmonic butterfly. The illusion flew to Dashvara, fluttered around him, and disappeared when he reached the fountain.

“I bet you’re the best guardian in all of Titiaka. Do you really think someone could get in to steal?” he asked her after greeting her and sitting down next to her.

Yira shrugged.

“You saw the man from yesterday: he got in without much difficulty. But usually there aren’t many thieves in Titiaka,” she admitted. “And we owe it to the head of the Militia. I suppose you’ve heard of her… Right?” Dashvara nodded. “Well, she’s made quite a name for herself. Shishina Dikaksunora cleaned up the city two years ago. She executed a major smuggler in the public square, along with his associates, and the next day she ordered the hanging of eleven thieves, so she scared the whole underworld. Since then, Titiaka has been one of the safest towns you can find on the whole eastern coast of the Pilgrim Ocean.”

Dashvara smiled.

“And they call us barbarians. Back at home, we used to whip the harmless thieves. Then we would give them enough food and chased them out of our lands.”

“And did they always diligently leave?” Yira asked in a tone of purely scientific interest.

Dashvara winced.

“If they didn’t, then either the whip was used again or the swords were used. Depending on the mood of our captain. Uh… can we change the subject, naâsga?”

“I was going to suggest it to you,” Yira replied, her eyes smiling. “Tell me, who was that man you spoke with yesterday? He was a steppeman, wasn’t he?”

Dashvara nodded and then began to tell her about his conversation with the Honyr. He joyfully stated that the Honyrs would probably join the clan and finally concluded:

“All we have to do now is wait for your father to give us our freedom.”

Yira remained silent for a while, and Dashvara wondered what she could be thinking. No, are you really wondering? You just told her you want to get away and go to the steppe, Dash. Nothing she doesn’t already know, true, but… what if she doesn’t want to leave Titiaka with you? Dashvara suppressed a sigh and added gently:

“But, at the moment, we can’t leave, so there’s no point in thinking about it until it’s time.”

Beware, lord of the steppe. You’ll end up enjoying being a slave so you’ll have an excuse to stay here…

Yira shook his hand and reasoned:

“You are right. Like Taymed said, don’t use up all the bone’s morjas before time.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow… and he let out a sudden burst of laughter.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat.

But Yira was already laughing.

“It’s my turn to ask your forgiveness,” she replied, amused. “I suppose that was a bit of a macabre remark.”

“Slightly,” Dashvara agreed. Gently, he kissed her, glanced at the Scorpion constellation, and smiled, thinking: My father loved a naâsga who collected bones. I love a woman who brings them to life.

Finally, the next morning, he returned to the dormitory with his brothers, and they welcomed him with great joy.

“It took the Eminence a long time to get you out of his library,” the captain commented when Dashvara had settled down on his pallet. “You didn’t try to read all his books, did you?”

Dashvara looked down at The Adventures of Shepherd Bramanil and his Cat Mawrus the Wrecker. He had borrowed it to finish it; since Tsu always insisted that he rest…

“Not at all,” he answered casually. “His Eminence has been entertaining me with philosophical questions, and he has not given me time to become more learned.”

Zorvun smiled.

“But, from what the very discreet Zamoy told us, you had time to sympathize quite well with one person,” he observed.

Dashvara then realized that several Xalyas, including Makarva and the Triplets, were looking at him with small, friendly smiles. He played innocent.

“With His Eminence?” He took on a meditative expression. “Well, he’s not my type, frankly. We get along well, but from there to—”

The laughter of his companions stifled his mocking words. Zamoy exclaimed:

“Oh, come on, Dash, tell us a little about her. Did you see her face?”

“Baldy, don’t be a busybody!” Miflin said, running a hand over his own bare skull. “Just as the poet makes verses in his corner, the lover enjoys his love alone.”

“Not so alone,” Makarva corrected him with his wolfish smile.

“Besides, afterwards, the poet recites his verses aloud,” Kodarah added. “Come on, Dash, we Xalyas are not selfish.”

Dashvara huffed and exchanged a look with Lumon and Captain Zorvun that more or less meant, “Ah, those kids…”.

“Listen, my friends,” he said. “The only thing I can tell you is that our Eternal Birds fly together. And now—”

“And now let’s get out,” the captain interjected with a broad smile, while Zamoy and Makarva put on falsely disappointed faces. “It’s the Hour of Constance, boys. Let’s leave our lord with his book and get to work.”

Dashvara winked at Makarva, and his friend pointed to the book:

“Are there any sea tales in there?”

Dashvara nodded.

“I’ll read one to you tonight,” he offered. “Since Tsu is going to keep me chained up all day, I must at least do something useful.”

Makarva smiled.

“Pick a good one, then.”

His friend patted him on the shoulder and walked out with the others. With a sigh, Dashvara watched them line up in the courtyard. That morning, Atasiag did not go to the Homage Square, and the adulators left early. Soon after, the foreman Loxarios appeared and led all his brothers out with a quick gait.

“Where are they going?” he asked Tsu, breaking away from the jealousy and returning to his pallet.

“To lay stones,” the drow replied. And he smiled at Dashvara’s curious look. “They are helping to build more bleachers in the Arena. Tomorrow is the opening of the games.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“What about the Shyurd? Weren’t ten of our own supposed to be training for them, normally?”

“Mm,” Tsu affirmed. “They’re going to fight for them, but let’s just say, these days, they haven’t practiced much.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows.

“Let’s just say, huh? Tell me, my friend, you’re not by any chance taking on Wassag’s habit, are you?”

Tsu shrugged.

“I have my own habits; I don’t bother adopting those of others,” he replied; and he stood up. “Rest. And don’t force yourself to read if you’re tired.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“It’s always good to try a little harder. If I hadn’t tried so hard in my coffin, I wouldn’t have moved and I would have woken up in the catacombs or wherever… It’s okay, Tsu,” he sighed at his patient look. “I won’t move from here. Where are you going?”

“Atasiag wanted me to tutor Fayrah and Lessi,” he explained. “I’m supposed to give them lessons in mathematics and celmist arts, but in practice… Mmph. They’re not very effective.”

Dashvara smiled broadly.

“Fayrah almost drove our shaard crazy with her questions. So take care, Tsu.”

The drow smiled, revealing his white teeth, before leaving the dormitory. Dashvara spent the rest of the day reading. He behaved like the best patient in the world. The Xalyas didn’t return by noon, and before he could even think of getting up to get something from the kitchen, Norgana arrived with a tray. Dashvara was surprised when he saw a glass of hot chocolate on it.

“Apparently chocolate is good for your lungs,” Uncle Serl’s daughter said, in a slightly questioning tone.

Dashvara smiled.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

He thanked her, and after eating, continued to read the adventures of the shepherd Bramanil to the last sentence. Three o’clock in the afternoon had just struck. Norgana had left the door open, and a warm air ran through the room, bringing a rumble of distant voices and noises of all kinds. He was seized with a sudden inspiration. He took the piece of wood and his chisel, and forgetting his promise, he got up and went out into the courtyard. He found the old belarch Leoshu sitting on a chair near the entrance gate. He greeted him kindly, and while sitting on the ground on the opposite side, he noticed that Leoshu was repairing a strange circular wooden utensil with a kind of canvas in the middle.

“What is it?” Dashvara asked with interest.

“A sieve,” the old man replied. “It belongs to a friend. It broke, and since he doesn’t have time, I’m fixing it.”

Dashvara wrinkled his forehead.

“And what’s it for?”

Leoshu arched an eyebrow, puzzled.

“Well… you use it to separate flour from bran, for example. You throw it on the mesh, shake it up, and separate the finer particles from the coarser ones. That’s all. You’ve never seen a sieve before?”

Dashvara took on a pensive expression.

“I suppose I did. But I never bothered to find out what it was for.” Suddenly he felt a little ridiculous with his piece of wood and his little carvings that only served to look pretty. Then he remembered something Morzif the Blacksmith had said a long time ago, when he had taught him to forge his own swords: ‘Every object must be born of a need. Shovels to dig the earth. Swords for killing. Musical instruments for entertainment.’ But did this mean that every natural object was born of a need? Or did the sajits invent a need from it? He found himself smiling to himself. You’re crazy as hell, Dash. You always have to turn everything around in your head.

He took his chisel and continued to shape the wood. After a while, Leoshu asked:

“And you? What are you making?”

Dashvara twirled his piece of wood, looking thoughtful.

“The truth is, I’m not quite sure. What would you do with it?”

The old man’s face reflected a mixture of surprise and amusement.

“Well. A bowl, maybe.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“We already have dozens of bowls. Why make another one?”

As Leoshu pondered, he realized what he had just said. We have? he repeated. Did he now consider Atasiag’s property his own?

“A teetotum?” Leoshu suggested.

Dashvara looked at him without understanding.

“A what?”

“A teetotum. It’s a typical Ryscodran toy. It’s shaped like a ball or a cone balanced on a point. You spin it on top and…”

The old man then began to explain to him what a teetotum was used for, and Dashvara finally understood that it was simply a top. He thanked the old man for his advice, and excited about his new task, set to work. The six bells of the Happy Temple caught him polishing the wood. Did time go by so fast? Shortly thereafter, he heard an exclamation.

“Everyone, come, come! The King of the Eternal Bird is here!”

Dashvara saw five young men appear in the street, wearing wigs and the brown tunics of students. Five others of the same age followed them, carrying large scrolls of parchments and a bag. Their slaves, Dashvara realized.

They were all looking at him, striding closer.

“By all the demons,” he breathed out. Were those Maloven’s hot-headed disciples? Mmph. I have a bad feeling about this…