16 The Malaxalra

“Come on, shoot!” we cried.

Rogan flicked the cork, which flew past the leading cork by a few inches. He generated appreciative shouts among the cork race participants.

“Owey, owey, owey, victory for the Priest!” I cried, and I took advantage of his distraction to steal his top hat and run off.

It was dark, but in the wide street that bordered the canal, we could see perfectly well thanks to the street lamps and the light of the Gem. We were about twenty boys in all. And all of them, except my companions and me, were sons of families. Many of them came from Fairbank Pension and gathered to have some fun after a day’s work.

It was another world, different from that of the newsboys and different from that of the gwaks. Our new companions had a different vocabulary, many came from the countryside or were simply foreigners and not all of them could speak Drionsan. This did not prevent us from playing cork racing with them and teaching them some gwakery.

“Damn gonnof!” Rogan snapped, chasing after me without running. “Come on, don’t piss me off. Give me that back.”

I stopped under the light of a street lamp, and putting my hand to my hat, I put on a nail-pincher air; jumping back as the Priest approached, I sang:

Rogan reached me, but instead of forcibly retrieving his hat, he crossed his arms and looked at me patiently. I smiled broadly at him.

“Can I hold to it for a few more minutes?”

“No,” the Priest refused.

I sighed, took off the hat, and pushed it down on my friend’s head, drawing a mocking smile from him.

“Candid soul,” he said in a priestly tone. “You should have bought yourself a hat with those five goldies!”

“If only I’d had enough,” I said dreamily.

But I hadn’t had enough. In fact, only two nights had passed since my enrichment, and I had nothing left. I had spent it all on gifts. The most expensive had been the harmonica for Yerris—the thought of giving it to him filled me with excitement. Then I’d bought Yal some gloves, invited Rogan and my comrades over for ice cream, and… by that point, my savings were gone. After all, I had thought, before some meddling fly or Swift or some scoundrel stole it, I might as well spend it all.

“A Cat’s money comes singing and goes singing,” Rogan quoted, and turning on himself, he added, “Funny. All of a sudden I remembered the night they kicked me out of my first gang for busting their chops with my preaching. About a year and a half ago. I was wandering down this very street, sad and distressed,” he said, walking with a theatrical step, “and I was thinking how unhappy I was and all that sort of thing when, all of a sudden, I came across a little savage covered with rabbit skins, looking completely lost, and I thought, ‘Blasthell! And there I thought I was a poor wretch!’” He flashed me a smile of the kind he would display when he was about to announce a particularly good moral. “However miserable a gwak is, he will always find another even more miserable. That’s why I have a hat and you don’t,” he concluded.

I was speechless. A little savage covered in rabbit skins? And in this very street, near the river of Estergat? Suddenly, I realized the obvious and let out a loud laugh.

“You bastard, you stole my blanket!”

Rogan looked at me, looking confused.

“What…?” And, then, he seemed to understand, and his face filled with bewilderment. He exclaimed, “No way! You mean you’re that idiot who didn’t even know what a kabor was? You’re kidding me!”

I was laughing hard as I remembered my first day in Estergat, and I stammered that I was not, that I was serious. Rogan shook his head in disbelief.

“Say, I didn’t mean to steal nothing from you,” he said. “But I lost sight of you. Holy Spirits, that’s worthy of a verse in the Holy Book! The meeting of two prophets! Our ancestors must have planned this, for sure.”

I rolled my eyes and, still smiling, shoved my hands in the pockets of my new coat. It was old and a little large for me, but it was warm. I walked away to the river bank and climbed up the rail to look out over the cold, dark waters that flowed into the canal. I looked up at the night sky. I remembered that the first night I had spent in Estergat I had tried to look for the stars and had not found them. This night, however, they were slightly visible. I jumped down the railing and stopped by an unlit streetlight, saying:

“We met right here.”

I wasn’t so sure, but Rogan didn’t contradict me. His attention seemed to have turned elsewhere. He raised the brim of his hat along with his eyebrows.

“Blasthell,” he let out. “That bearded fellow there, isn’t he one of those weird guys who pulled you out of Carnation? I mean, that brother of yours.”

When I saw Kakzail walking towards the entrance to the courtyard of Fairbank Pension, I felt a keen curiosity. Had he come to see me? I bit my lip and approached quickly. I caught up with him as he was about to enter the inner yard.

“Sir!” I shouted sharply. I startled him. “Are you looking for my cousin? He’s not here, he went to the theatre.”

I did not add that I suspected that Yal’s new interest in the theatre had to do with a certain lady friend with whom he seemed very much in love. The former gladiator looked me up and down and smiled.

“Actually, I was looking for you. Yalet sent me a message this morning and said you were living here with him. Do you mind if we take a walk?”

I nodded and followed him back into the street. He walked with long strides, and I had to try hard not to fall behind. From a distance, I waved to Rogan and glanced at the bearded man with a puzzled look as he took a street that led up Tarmil Avenue.

“So, how’s your messenger job going?” he inquired after a silence.

“Things are going well,” I replied with a smile.

Kakzail asked me no more questions, and curious, I asked:

“Where are we going?” We were already walking up Tarmil Avenue, and I immediately added, “Are we going to The Ballerinas?”

“No,” Kakzail replied calmly. “I’m not staying there anymore. You know? Last night, we stayed at a house in Atuerzo. A nice house with a garden, kind of like the one Zoria and Zalen used to have, apparently,” he smiled. “That’s where Dessari Wayam was.”

I didn’t stop exactly, I just forgot to move forward and looked at Kakzail, wide-eyed. The bearded man turned and gave me a half-smile.

“Just as you guess, kid. Zoria eventually discovered the right trail. The gnome told us that he wasn’t lacking for anything, but that he was feeling some pressure, from what he said, from someone asking him to do some other extra work that had nothing to do with that sokwata thing.”

Under his watchful gaze, I blinked. Demons, did he mean Korther?

“And I learned something else of concern,” Kakzail continued, his expression serious. He glanced around to make sure no one could hear us and then came closer to whisper to me, “That you and Yalet are part of a gang.”

I frowned and shrugged, reserved.

“And who isn’t?”

Kakzail rolled his eyes.

“Mmph. A trained gang, capable of using harmonies, blowing up a mine, and buying hydra blood. With a kap willing to rent a house in Atuerzo for, I bet, a good amount of money.”

I bit my upper lip, not knowing what to say. Finally, I recognized:

“Okay. So what?”

Kakzail huffed softly and continued up the Avenue as he replied:

“So your ‘cousin’ Yalet lied to me brazenly.”

I trotted after him, and for a moment, we said nothing. My mind was racing, and I could hardly put my thoughts in order. The gladiators and the twins had found the alchemist, and he had told them all he knew, and what could Korther think of all this? If he knew about it, he must surely be upset, especially if he had asked the gnome for a particular job other than the sokwata. With two celmists and three warriors protecting Mr. Wayam… they were the ones with power over him now, not Korther.

“What about the cure?” I asked in a choked voice. “Will he stop looking for it? Are you going to leave the Rock?”

A chill ran down my spine at the thought. Kakzail sighed.

“I didn’t know Mr. Wayam until yesterday…but he doesn’t seem like a bad guy. I’m sure he’s put all his willpower into looking for that cure.”

This didn’t tell me if he was going to keep looking for it, I noticed. I swallowed and said in a neutral tone:

“He’ll find it, won’t he? He can’t leave Estergat without finding it.”

We came upon a big group of people coming down the Avenue, and we went around them before Kakzail could answer me:

“Listen, kid. Don’t get your hopes up. The gnome says he’s swamped after so many experiments, and Zoria and Zalen suggested he take… a vacation. I think it’s best for everyone. Dessari says he can’t think straight with so much… uh… pressure.”

I gritted my teeth. Pressure, yeah, sure. In the three weeks I’d lived with him, let’s just say I hadn’t seen him under much stress. Good mother…

“I just need to know,” Kakzail continued, “who these people who helped deliver Dess really are. And I know you know who they are because you lived in that house for several weeks.”

When I did not answer, he stopped at a carriage door and said:

“Listen, kid. If I gave you some brotherly advice, would you take it?”

I shrugged, puzzled, and leaned against the wall.

“Natural. Let’s hear it.”

Kakzail ran a hand over his chaotic tresses and declared:

“Well. Here’s what I propose. I’ll ask Dessari Wayam to keep making sokwata for you, and in exchange, you leave that bunch of delinquents forever and don’t set foot in the Cat Quarter again. I’m serious. It’s the best you can do. Our parents will never recognize you as their son if they find out… about this.”

He looked at me gravely, and at the same time anxiously, as if he feared that I would take his words badly. For a few moments, I said nothing and was tempted to leave without saying a word. In the end, to my own surprise, I burst out laughing. The more I thought of Kakzail’s proposal the louder I laughed, so much so that a few passers-by glanced curiously at the shadows of the doorway.

When I calmed down, Kakzail commented:

“I wasn’t kidding.” I pouted and he added, “Come on. I’ll introduce you. And then I’ll let you think about it, and you can come tell me your decision. How about that?”

I became confused.

“Introduce me?”

“To the family,” Kakzail explained.

And he walked away up the street. I’m not sure what made me follow him. Curiosity, perhaps. We didn’t exchange a word until we reached Sunset Street. By this time, the barber shop had long since closed. Kakzail knocked on the door and turned to me, perhaps to make sure that I had not run away. Through the drawn curtain, I saw light appear in the shop, and a figure came to open the door.

“Good evening, Father,” Kakzail greeted cheerfully. “You were at dinner, weren’t you? Sorry to interrupt. May we come in?”

The barber frowned, nodded with a pout, and stepped aside. Kakzail invited me to go in, and I entered without daring to say a word to my presumed father.

“The kid is…?”

The barber did not finish the question, and Kakzail nodded as he entered.

“Ashig,” he confirmed.

A candle in hand, the barber scanned me with furrowed eyebrows, then glanced exasperatedly at Kakzail, and observed:

“You could have told me in advance that you were bringing him.”

His voice was slightly accusatory. Kakzail snorted.

“It only seemed natural to me to bring him here.” And, pushing me towards the door at the back of the shop, he added cheerfully, “Is the bridegroom here?”

He did not wait for the barber to answer, he opened the door, and we entered at once into a simple dining room with a large table and more or less improvised seats. Almost all were occupied, and I was busy observing the people sitting there while Kakzail cried out:

“Hello, family! Good evening, Mother. Skelrog, so how’s the bachelor party going?”

He gave a friendly pat to a youngster who was much more puny in comparison to him. Skelrog smiled and replied in a serene, happy voice:

“Quite well, thank you.”

I counted them. There were eight of them. Plus a woman, sitting at the end of the table, whom Kakzail had called Mother. All of them had tan skin like me and black hair. But to go as far as to say that they were really my family… Well, why not?

Kakzail’s arrival had elicited enthusiastic shouts from the younger ones. It was obvious that they liked the older brother they had only known for a few moons. If another brother showed up before them, perhaps they would be pleased too, I thought. I found myself imagining myself sitting among these people, and for the first time in my life, I had a slightly clearer idea of what a family was like for “normal” people. However, I immediately realized that I didn’t belong here.

“Mili, Nat, will you be quiet?” the Mother gestured to two of the younger children. Her voice, though quiet, seemed authoritative and imposed silence immediately. Once calm was restored, she gave her eldest son an embarrassed look. “Kakzail. Who’s the boy?”

The bearded man smiled and, rounding the table again, gestured towards me, declaring as if he were going to present a trophy:

“Your son, Mother. Ashig Malaxalra.”

Faced with the curious looks of the Malaxalra, I forced an embarrassed smile and said:

“Ayo.”

And I glanced at Kakzail as if to ask: Can I go now? The barber was only a step away from me, and I was nervous. He sighed and said:

“Can we talk for a moment, Kakzail? In private?”

He had not finished his question when he was already heading for a door. Kakzail looked patient and, passing by me, said:

“Don’t worry.”

I arched a casual eyebrow as if to say, “Pff, I’m not worried at all”. Nevertheless, I realized that my presence was not especially welcome. The mother rose to her feet and, after glancing at me hesitantly, she too disappeared into the adjoining room with a quick step. The door closed. And an awkward silence fell in the dining room as the animated conversation behind the door was heard. I recognized the words, “prison”, “thief”, “chance”… And, under the curious looks of my brothers, I came to the point where I said to myself: “What the blasthell am I doing here?”

Suddenly Skelrog, the one who was to be married the next day, stood up and said to me gently:

“Do you want to sit down?”

I looked at him in surprise.

“No.”

Skelrog pouted in understanding and commented:

“Kakzail told me you were working as a messenger at the Swallow.” I nodded, and he continued kindly, “I have a student who works the posts in the afternoons. With a job like that, you have to stay in shape, that’s for sure. I guess if you’re a messenger, you must be able to read.”

“Dead round,” I replied. And I looked at him curiously. “Are you a schoolmaster?”

He smiled and sat back down.

“That’s right. I’ve been working at Passage School in the lower Tarmil Quarter for two years already. Right next to the glassworks where Skrindwar works,” he observed, gesturing to a brother who must have been Yal’s age. “You sure you don’t want to sit down?”

At that moment, we heard the barber raise his voice, and though I could not make out what he was saying, it confirmed my conviction that my presence, far from being welcome, was creating a conflict I never wished for.

“Don’t worry,” a boy assured. “Father gets angry sometimes, but it never lasts long.”

I recognized him. It was Samfen, the one who had given me back the signed receipt two days earlier. Despite his sincere and sympathetic look, I couldn’t help but feel increasingly uneasy, and hearing the mother’s annoyed tone in the adjoining room, I unconsciously backed away towards the door that led to the shop.

“Hey, where are you going?” Skelrog protested.

I shrugged.

“Well… I’m leaving. You know, I mean, thunders, I only came to take a look. I ain’t here to stir up trouble. So I’m leaving. As they say, bad blood can’t fix a rug. Ayo.”

At that moment, the little girl of about six, surely the one called Mili, fell from her chair with a crash, and after I had stretched my neck and seen that she had not been hurt, I took advantage of the distraction to move away quickly towards the exit door. I opened the lock.

“Ashig!” Skelrog called to me in a huff. “Please wait.”

I did not wait. I walked out, not forgetting to close the door politely behind me, and almost ran away, fearing that my brothers would try to convince me to turn back, which would be in vain anyway. I had seen the whole family, and my curiosity was satisfied for the moment. I didn’t want to stay and wait for the barber or his lady to kick me out themselves because I was a bad gwak or whatever. The truth was, until then, it hadn’t even occurred to me that it was possible for me to live with them. Not until I saw Skelrog and Samfen being so kind. Not until I saw all my brothers and sisters looking at me with undisguised curiosity.

Instead of returning to Fairbank Pension, I entered the Cat Quarter and walked kicking a stone along a street, deep in thought. Then, finally, I said aloud:

“A gwak is a gwak, Mor-eldal.”

And, thus convinced in the face of this great truth, I kicked the stone and lost sight of it in the dark; I thrust my hands into the pockets of my coat and continued forward.

By the time I reached the Grey Square, my thoughts had turned to the story of the alchemist and his “vacation”. What if I went to the gnome and asked him to make an effort to continue searching for the cure?

“Yes, of course, like he will listen to me,” I muttered sarcastically.

If he refused, what would I do? Kidnapping him maybe? Then I imagined that the gnome, frightened by a band of angry gwaks, was giving us all a poison to get rid of us, and I saw him smiling sadly at our graves, saying: Good-bye, cursed sokwata… I shook my head. My imagination was terrifying.

And so was my sense of direction. I slowed down suddenly when I realized that I was heading for the Hostel. Still, I did not stop. I turned into the Bone Street and walked into the dead end. I looked up at the door, which in the darkness of the corridor was barely visible. I reached out and touched the wood. I stood there for some time, and was about to turn and leave, when suddenly I heard a muffled cry, and the door flew open.

“I’ve never known a more isturbagged man than you!”

I looked wide-eyed at Sla’s angry face, blinking against the light. The dark elf walked past me with her red hair tousled, and she snorted, as if trying to calm down.

“Ayo, shyur. Let’s hope you can restore the Black Cat’s sanity. Apparently, he lost it the day he took that damned cure. I’m going to wring that alchemist’s neck right now, wherever he is.”

“Sla, you can’t be serious!” Yerris’ voice protested inside. I caught sight of him, sitting in front of the table, looking as lost as the last time.

Sla did not deign to answer. She tilted my cap, looking at me with an expression that seemed to say, “You and I both know that the Black Cat has a loose screw,” and left. After a moment’s hesitation, I entered the room.

“D-Draen?” Yerris asked, restless.

I closed the door and asked:

“You alone?”

The semi-gnome sighed.

“I was all alone until Sla came to scold me. She’s been scolding me a lot lately. She doesn’t like it that I volunteered.”

I bit my lip, walked over and sat down at the table. The fire in the fireplace lit up the whole room.

“Where’s Rolg?”

“Eh? Oh, in his room. That old man is going to bed earlier and earlier.”

I frowned, worried, and hoped that Rolg was not having a relapse. Then, promptly, I took the harmonica out of my pocket and put it on the table.

“It’s for you, Black Cat.”

Yerris arched his eyebrows and fumbled on the table until he found the instrument. An expression of disbelief and surprise appeared on his face, then finally a big smile.

“I can’t believe it! Is that a gift?”

I smiled.

“Yeah. So you don’t get so bored. Hey, it’s just that you seem to sit around here all day doing nothing.”

Yerris laughed as he turned the harmonica over and over in his hands.

“Wow. Thanks, shyur.” Smiling, he brought the harmonica to his lips and played a note before slowly pulling the instrument aside. “Did you hear about the alchemist?”

I made a tight face.

“Hear what?”

Yerris hesitated.

“Whew. You’ll love this. That crazy guy ran out of the house with a bunch of friends looking for him. Sla says he left the cure for my eyes in Atuerzo’s house with a message saying he hasn’t forgotten about the sokwatas. That’s why Sla got in such a state,” he explained, clearing his throat. “She thinks the alchemist is messing with us and that, in fact, he’s run away from the Rock.” He sighed. “And Korther says yeah, yeah, that he’ll try to talk with him if he finds him, but he’s got his own stuff and let’s just say he’s leaving us out a bit, you know. I don’t know what he’s up to with that story about…”

He fell silent, and the features of his night-black face relaxed. I was worried.

“That story about what? Yerris? Yerris, are you okay?”

The Black Cat, however, remained as if paralyzed and did not answer me. He bobbed his head slowly, and I shook his shoulder, becoming more and more scared.

“Yerris!” I cried.

I shook him more vigorously, and at last, the semi-gnome blinked and stammered:

“W-what? What’s going on?”

I swallowed.

“Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”

“Shyur?”

He breathed in and out several times, and I think he understood what had just happened. Shyly, I asked:

“Does this happen to you a lot?”

The Black Cat clutched the harmonica more tightly. His hands were trembling. He did not answer; he merely brought the instrument to his lips and began playing a peaceful melody.

I sighed and stood up. I wanted to go, not because I wanted to leave the Black Cat alone, no, but because I didn’t want to run into Korther. And even less so now that I knew he wasn’t willing to waste time on the alchemist’s case.

I went to the fire in the fireplace, added a log, and stirred, not daring to interrupt Yerris to say ayo. Finally, I sat down again and, with my head between my folded arms, listened to the melody intermingled with the crackling of the fire. The Black Cat played well. I did not know where he had learned to play, but he played well.

Lulled by the music and caressed by the pleasant waves of heat from the fire, I finally fell asleep.