3 Cili’s blessing

They emptied Atasiag’s cabin—in the meantime, Rokuish and Zaadma came down to the dock with their sleeping newborns. When the Xalyas entered the captain’s cabin, they found Fayrah giving Lanamiag Korfu a syrup. Kuriag was there too, with his two companions, folding a worn bandage. A glint of concern shone in his eyes, and Dashvara worried. Was the young Korfu’s wound having trouble healing? It was the first time since last month that he had seen Lanamiag, and his appearance did not seem very encouraging. As far as he knew, one of the Unitarians had stuck a sword in his stomach. Fortunately, Kuriag and his two friends were medical students, and they had taken care of him very quickly, managing to stave off death with spells and poultices. But this last trip, obviously, had done him no good. And neither had Fayrah, Dashvara observed with a sinking heart. His sister had lost weight, and her pallor frightened him a little. I’ll end up having to take her by force to get some fresh air and forget about so much worry, he thought. When he met her questioning gaze, he realized that he had been standing by the door. He brightened up and explained:

“We’ve come for your things.”

They set to work without getting an answer. Lanamiag’s eyes had been closed when they entered, but unfortunately, he opened them just as Dashvara passed by the bed to pick up a box of books that Kuriag had wanted to take from Matswad. The expression that twisted his face then alarmed them all.

“Lan!” Fayrah whispered as she leaned towards him.

“This… savage,” Lanamiag articulated.

Dashvara sighed. Under Fayrah’s pleading gaze, he hurried to lift the box and leave the cabin. He found Atasiag on the platform, near two large carriages and saw that the Xalyas were helping the two coachmen hoist all the luggage onto the roof of one of the vehicles. His eyes were instantly drawn to the horses. They were sturdy, well bred… but they were not steppian.

And what does it matter whether they are or not, Dash? They’re not the ones Atasiag’s going to buy you.

He saw that the huge caitian, Atasiag’s acquaintance, was still chatting with Atasiag near the gangway. He was very smiling and loud and making great gestures. As they passed by, Dashvara noticed that they were not speaking in the Common Tongue. Nor was it Ryscodranese. Nor Diumcilian.

“Philosopher!” Atasiag called suddenly. “Come here. I present to you Asmoan of Gravia. From Agoskura,” he specified. “He is an old friend of mine and a great scholar. Meeting him here was one of those pleasant surprises that rarely happen.”

“As they say in my country, surprises are life’s gifts!” Asmoan exclaimed, beaming. He had a horrible accent.

Atasiag smiled.

“Asmoan is researching the pagan beliefs of the north. He would like to learn more about your Eternal Bird, and since he so generously invited me to the theater tonight, I promised him that tomorrow three of you would be available to answer his questions. Choose them and send them to the Great Library at ten in the morning. Did you hear me?”

Swallowing his surprise with difficulty, Dashvara replied:

“Yes.”

He watched the Agoskurian curiously. He was wearing tight blue pants, a bright green shirt with an elegant white collar, and a black hat with pearls on it. From his ears hung blue curls that were anything but discreet.

“You don’t look at people like that, Philosopher,” Atasiag muttered, his eyebrows furrowing. “Finally. I think I’m going to need a good nap to get me in shape tonight,” he added, addressing Asmoan in a light tone.

The scholar let out a loud laugh.

“This time you won’t fall asleep, my friend! The Srad Andal troupe is excellent.”

“The Ryscodrans are renowned for their artistic gifts,” Atasiag acknowledged. “I look forward to seeing their prowess.”

“Believe me, you’ll like them,” Asmoan assured, “So, I’ll see you tonight. I think I’ll follow your lead and take a nap. You don’t know how glad I am that I got to meet you!”

Laughing happily, he patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. Dashvara saw the two friends greet each other warmly before the tall Agoskurian walked away in a hurry and melted into the crowd that came and went on the wide dock.

“Well, well,” Atasiag sighed with a satisfied smile. “One other thing, Philosopher. Unfortunately, my weapons license does not extend to my servants. I would have to buy one for each of you… and that would be expensive. So I only bought one for you. And one for Yira,” he added, gesturing with his chin. Dashvara gasped as the sursha pulled up beside them. With an amused glint in her slanted eyes, she handed him two swords in their scabbards. Dashvara recognized them as he took them: they were the ones the Xalyas had used at Titiaka. As soon as he had fastened them to his belt, Atasiag handed him a paper. “This is a copy of the license. Keep it safe.” He then turned to the others and called, “Wassag, Dafys, Boron, Arvara. Come along. You will carry the injured youth to the carriage.”

The transfer was made quickly. They took Lanamiag on a litter and installed him as gently as possible on the benches of the car. Fortunately, the syrup seemed to have put the Legitimate into a deep sleep. Meanwhile, Zaadma and Rokuish climbed into the other carriage, and the former announced cheerfully through the window:

“For now, we’ll stay at the Golden Dragon. Feel free to drop by there. And be careful that Atasiag doesn’t overstep his bounds. I know how insufferable he can be sometimes. He may be a good man, but he’s a Titiaka to the core, and he gives orders like a damn Shalussi chief,” she smiled.

She and Rokuish greeted them, and the Xalyas responded in a friendly manner.

“Take care of our little sisters!” Miflin exclaimed with a broad smile.

“Yes; and let them keep bawling verses like the Poet, they’re doing pretty well,” Zamoy joked.

The coachman spurred the horses on, and the carriage pulled away down the harbor street. After exchanging a brief conversation with the ship’s captain, Atasiag climbed into the other carriage with his daughters and the young Titiakas, and finally they too set off, followed by the steppians.

The blue afternoon sky had become overcast, and a cold wind had risen. All the passers-by were bundled up in their capes and their faces were barely visible under the wide-brimmed republican hats. In a corner of his mind, Dashvara found himself missing the warm winds of Matswad.

Ha. Well, you’ll have to get used to the cold, steppe lord, because, if you remember, your home isn’t precisely warm in winter…

After making sure all the Xalyas followed the carriage, he began to look around the Republican capital. It hadn’t changed much in three years: it smelled bad, the main streets were crowded with people of all kinds, and the buildings were still as imposing as he remembered. Dazbon breathed a freedom one couldn’t find in Titiaka, but at the same time, there was more poverty than in the federal capital. As the carriage drove down a street in the Autumn District, Dashvara saw two street musicians playing guitars and singing in the open air while a girl collected coins. Later, he saw a group of men sitting in a square, looking as if they hadn’t eaten a bite in days. When he recognized one of them, he almost stopped dead in his tracks. They were Titiaka’s slaves, he realized, stunned. He didn’t know them personally, but he had seen them more than once near the Arena Square, cleaning the cobblestones. They were public slaves of the Council and, presumably, had fled during the Unitary Rebellion. At the moment, they didn’t look very happy with their lot.

The inn at The White Pearl was at the end of a wide street that led directly to the Stairs. They entered a large courtyard full of carts just as it began to rain. The regularity of the late afternoon thunderstorms hadn’t changed either, Dashvara deduced with a grimace.

The place at where Atasiag Peykat intended to be staying was not exactly cheap. The building looked like a real castle. The main entrance had an imperial stoop with two lion statues and two guards posted on either side of the door. When Dashvara followed the whole party inside with the trunks, he found himself in a huge reception room with splendid vases, hangings, and carpets.

That damned snake could have saved up to buy us a horse instead of getting us into an inn for kings, Dashvara grumbled. The Xalyas fidgeted, worried at such a display of wealth.

While Atasiag chatted with the owner of The White Pearl, an employee kindly led the others upstairs and into a spacious lounge.

“Here are your chambers,” he declared in a jovial voice. “Come, carry the patient through here. This is the hallway that leads to the rooms.”

As Wassag, Dafys, Boron, and Arvara walked behind with the litter, followed by the Titiakas, the Xalyas who remained behind put down all the trunks and exchanged looks of pure amazement. The living room was majestic. There were several screens, magnificent paintings, sofas, armchairs and two enormous fireplaces… The captain whistled.

“Damn master.”

Several laughed in their beards. The employee returned after a few minutes.

“Say, good man,” the captain challenged him. “What about us, where do we put ourselves?”

The employee smiled. He seemed to be taking life in stride.

“You are Atasiag Peykat’s servants, are you not? Normally, servants are not so numerous, and they sleep in the hallway, but… in your case, I thought it would be best if you moved here, into the living room. The pile of mats is over there. Place them as you like, and if there are any missing, ask for more. We’ll put the screens in front, so that if your master has visitors, they won’t mind.”

Dashvara looked at him in amazement.

“Are there many Titiakas staying here?”

The employee huffed as he nodded.

“Quite a lot, yes. To tell the truth, the majority of Titiaka traders stay at our inn.” He clapped both his hands together. “I’ll let you get settled in. If your master needs anything, feel free to come down to the front desk and ask for me or a colleague. My name is Dilen. Good afternoon.”

They greeted him, and as soon as he left, they began to set up the straw mattresses and screens. They were in the midst of setting up when Atasiag arrived, whistling a merry tune. He passed by under their surprised looks, and as he came near the corridor of rooms, he turned round.

“What do you think of your new home, Xalyas?”

He asked the question in a light voice. He was in a good mood. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Pretty big. You seem to be in a good mood.”

Atasiag smiled.

“Really? Well. I have several reasons to be in a good mood, after all. First, I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. Then, at The White Pearl, I ran into a messenger from the Yordarks who gave me more than one piece of good news… And, on top of that, I got a note from Sheroda saying that she agrees to come with me to the theater tonight. Yes, Philosopher. I am in a very good mood. Settle down for the night. Yira will accompany me to the theatre. Will you come, Philosopher?”

Dashvara gave him a mocking look.

“Are you asking for my opinion?”

Atasiag shrugged, smiling.

“Actually, I’d like you to come. That way you can give me your impressions of the Srad Andal troupe. They’re very famous artists. It would be a shame if you missed their performance.”

Dashvara looked meditative.

“Oh, in that case, if you really want me to, I’ll go, Eminen… master,” he corrected with a weary sigh.

“You’d better get used to it once and for all,” Atasiag scoffed. “For you to call me Eminence when I’m no longer a magistrate might be considered… a lack of humility on my part. And the Republicans would be able to mistake me for a Legitimate or who knows. At the stroke of eight, wake me up. We leave at nine. The show starts at ten, and I have to pick up Sheroda at her house. I already wish you all a very good night.”

He smiled broadly at them before whistling away down the hall. Dashvara shook his head in bewilderment. Despite his sixty-something years, Atasiag looked more like a young lover eager for new adventures than a leader of thieves or a slave master.

Well… I guess after so much tension and hassle in getting us out of Titiaka and restoring his reputation, our generous father deserved a little rest.

With a half-ironic, half-amused smile, Dashvara sat down on one of the comfortable sofas and placed Tahisran’s bag beside him.

“Are you going out tonight?” he asked him.

The shadow smiled mentally.

‘Sure! I’m so sick of the boat I could walk for days without stopping,’ he replied.

Dashvara had to admit that the same thing was happening to him: he still had the impression that the room was pitching like a ship.

They spent the afternoon playing katutas, and the innkeepers even cooked dinner for them. The garfias were not nearly as good as Uncle Serl’s, but, used as they were to eating them cold and unseasoned, the Condemned did not protest. The Xalya women were less understanding, and the Honyrs, as usual, waited until everyone had eaten before taking their turn at dinner in respectful silence.

When Wassag went to wake Atasiag at eight o’clock, he was already awake and ready to go. The problem was that there were still two hours left for the show, but he said he wanted to take a walk around Dazbon, and when Dashvara and Yira saw him leave without waiting for them, they girded their swords again and followed him out of The White Pearl.

Outside, it was no longer raining. It had long since darkened, and the Stairs, almost deserted, were lit by a line of lanterns. Dashvara laughed softly as they walked several paces behind Atasiag.

“He’s happy as a colt,” he commented. “Have you ever seen him like this?”

Yira laughed quietly.

“He was the same the last time we were in Dazbon. I think deep down he feels more free, and he likes it. Even though he’s a Titiaka, he has more of a Republican soul.”

“What are you whispering about back there?” Atasiag said. He let himself be caught up and added, “Have you seen the Temple of the Eye? It’s wonderful at night, with all the lights. In fact,” he said, “I’d like to see Dazbon from above. It’s been three years since I’ve seen it.”

He turned back to the Stairs and began to climb. Dashvara huffed but followed him. They passed The White Pearl again. A few steps up, Atasiag stopped.

“I wish Sheroda were with me to see this. But of course,” he thought aloud, “it’s not polite to drop in on her too early. And I don’t think she wants to climb all those stairs.”

After his reflections, he continued to climb, and Dashvara chuckled.

“You wouldn’t be laughing at me, Philosopher, would you?” Atasiag asked in a quiet tone, without stopping.

“Not at all. I want to see Dazbon from above, too,” he admitted.

“Ha. Of course you do: the view is beautiful.”

He climbed faster, and his energy impressed Dashvara. Halfway up the Stairs, they were both panting, but Atasiag barely slowed down. The little sursha seemed to be keeping up effortlessly, though once they reached the top, Dashvara heard her gasp with them. When he finally turned back to the city, he was left speechless. Dazbon was like a sea of lights and rooftops descending to the ocean. A Gem half visible between the clouds illuminated the waters of the canals amidst the darkness. Leaning his baton on the last step, Atasiag stood facing the city as if he had come to conquer it.

“Behold the republican capital,” he pronounced. “It is not so orderly nor so perfect as Titiaka, but it is beautiful in its disorder.”

He sank into a contemplative silence, and Dashvara dared not interrupt him. The crashing of the water of the Great Cascade sounded not far from where they were. When he saw Yira shivering under the cold currents of the wind, he reached out to embrace her, and her eyes smiled. At that moment, Dashvara regretted not being able to send Atasiag away to protect himself. He wanted to spend the night with his naâsga. Remembering their happy walks in the woods near the pirate city, his heart quickened. If only they could finally be completely free… Suddenly, Atasiag turned around. Dashvara couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness. After a moment, the Federate broke the silence.

“Have you ever seen the Great Cascade up close, Philosopher? Come along,” he said, without waiting for their reply.

At the top of the Stairs was a long, completely deserted cobbled walkway, and they had only to follow it eastward to approach the waterfall. They soon came upon a stone balustrade which continued through a narrow crevice, passing behind the curtain of water. The passage seemed to continue across the river, but Atasiag went no further, and Dashvara leaned on the parapet to peek cautiously down. By the light of the Gem he could see how the water came down and down, thundering like a distant brizzia smashing trunks.

“It’s… impressive,” Dashvara admitted. It even makes you dizzy, he completed inwardly.

He was admiring the curtain of water when, suddenly, Yira jumped up and pulled away from the edge.

“By the Serenity, father… what are you up to?”

His voice showed exasperation. Dashvara turned as a faint ray of light flashed in Atasiag’s hand. He had taken out his thieves’ lantern. And in his other hand, he held some sort of red ribbon. Dashvara frowned.

“What are you doing, Eminence?” he asked, suspiciously.

Atasiag handed the ribbon to Yira and replied in a serene voice:

“Don’t look at me like that, Philosopher. I’ll just marry you off.”

For a moment, Dashvara thought he had misheard. The crash of the waterfall must have distorted his words, he decided. Atasiag disabused him of his suspicions when he said:

“I will marry you according to the Titiaka tradition, with Cili’s blessing.”

“Cili’s bless…?” Dashvara huffed, pulling himself together. “Tell me, Eminence, are you joking? We’ve already been married for a month—”

“According to your tradition,” he cut him off, “not according to Yira’s tradition. She is Cilian. Bodily union proves nothing before Cili.”

The sursha cleared her throat.

“I—”

“You are a Cilian,” Atasiag repeated sharply. “And, sorry if this sounds like religious nonsense, but I’m a good Cilian, and it seems important to me that my daughter be married according to rules that I feel are valid.”

“So the fact that our Eternal Birds fly together, to you, is not valid,” Dashvara concluded with some irritation.

“It’s not enough.”

Dashvara looked annoyed. Atasiag continued:

“I know that, in principle, a worker cannot marry, but I am willing to make an exception and perform a basic ceremony myself. And now stop protesting, Philosopher, and take this.”

Dashvara shrugged and accepted the black ribbon that Atasiag handed him. The situation seemed ridiculous to him, but as a good Xalya, he tried to understand it and came to the conclusion that it probably wouldn’t seem so ridiculous if he believed that, without Cili’s blessing, the couple was doomed to failure. As if I didn’t have enough with Xalya traditions already, he snorted inwardly. But he made no complaint when Atasiag asked them to tie the ribbons around one hand. Yira chose to remove the glove from her left hand, for the other was pure bone and mortic energy and, as Dashvara had ascertained, it took a good five minutes to undo all the knots that held the glove in place. Atasiag himself finished tying the bonds with the agility of a Cilian priest and said:

“Yira. Take off your veil.”

The sursha sighed but withdrew it with her free hand. Her long white hair swirled in the wind, and in the dim light of the thieves’ lantern, her undead self glowed, wrapped in energy. Faced with an embarrassed smile that more or less seemed to say “the idea didn’t come from me,” Dashvara rolled his eyes and opened his mouth.

“Shut up, Philosopher.”

Dashvara closed his mouth without making a sound.

With a solemn expression, Atasiag placed a hand over their knotted ones and began to recite a religious poem in Diumcilian that spoke of faith, trust, and happiness. When he finished, he stepped back to the railing and leaned over, reaching out an arm to touch the water.

“Is jumping into the waterfall a custom, too?” Dashvara growled.

Yira laughed quietly, but Atasiag returned safely and sprinkled their foreheads and hands before declaring still in Diumcilian:

“Cili blesses your union, Yira Peykat and Dashvara of Xalya. As long as you truly love each other, Cili will make you both happy in Hareka and eternal in her kingdom.”

He smiled, extinguished the thief’s lantern and declared in the Common Tongue:

“I have to admit that, at first, I had some reservations, but now I know that Cili created you for each other.” Though he was turning his back to the Gem’s light, Dashvara guessed his broad smile. “Well, young people, now you are officially married. I hope you enjoyed the view. Let’s go to Sheroda’s. We wouldn’t want to be late after getting out so early.”

The Titiaka stepped out from behind the waterfall and walked away down the boardwalk, between the shadows, whistling happily. Dashvara shook his head with a smile.

“Your father never ceases to amaze me. But, you know, I’m glad he did.”

“Really?” Yira gasped. “But you are not Cilian.”

“No,” Dashvara admitted. “But it wasn’t really Cili’s blessing that he gave us, naâsga—but his own.” He paused and observed, “Of course, I would have preferred it if he had blessed us with forty horses.”

Yira laughed, and smiling, Dashvara helped her put her veil back on. Then they put the matrimonial ribbons in their pockets and hurried to follow Atasiag, because after all, they were his bodyguards and they were supposed to be there to protect him.