Tales Of Grimea (14 page)

“We won’t. Our plan will probably be based in
Regalia. Best market for good tastes that aren’t necessarily the
best for you.”

“Regalia!”

“Take advantage of the continued peace we
helped create, you know.” This time it was Percy’s smooth vigorous
voice that spoke out, although the man did indeed sound tired. He’d
explained that taking control of another man’s actions was no mean
feat, especially when the person in question was a psionic, drunk
or not.

“I would think that a plan most wise,” came a
voice from beyond their campfire’s orange light. Hwosh leapt to
take up arms and Percy went to pour water over the flames, but the
person said, “I mean no harm. Please, no violence, and put that
bucket away.”

“Show yourself!” exclaimed Adra, and black
shod feet stepped into the fire’s light. The lady was blonde and
dressed as a captain, with red stripes down her leather armour.
Despite her size, she stepped silently, and she cast a longer
shadow than was strictly natural. A pale scar ran horizontally
across her neck, and smaller vertical scars crossed that one to
mimic bad stitching. Hwosh did not often see black leather armour,
but knew that only a specific type of city guards were allowed to
wear them it. Was it desert patrols?

“I am Haq Ramad, captain in Lor’s reserve
regiments, assigned to Lor’s special assault corps.” Percy looked
confused, although Hwosh and Adra showed signs of dismay.

“What? Why would someone in the back lines be
here?”

“In Lor, they let the inexperienced fight. We
leave our best for last, and only those with exceptional records of
service are allowed in the reserves,” explained Adra while Hwosh
thought slowly, at once playing with his now returned bandanna and
checking up on the armour strapped onto his body. He could hear
others behind her, and even as close as his broadsword was, there
would be little chance to block multiple arrows. Then he saw
something golden and his temper flared.

“Service indeed,” he spat. “She’s with
Mikhlab!” Percy and Adra tensed up, and the lady moved her cloak a
bit to the side, showing her claw medallion. “A high ranker, too.
Here to get revenge for your failed assassination? You’ve got your
tentacles everywhere.”

The woman grimaced, and Hwosh heard an arrow
being pulled back somewhere. His eyes were now better used to the
darkness, for he’d avoided looking at the fire and tried his
peripheral vision. The assassins, all dressed in dark colours and
crouched down, looked more like crawling demons than anything else.
They were like shades on a jet black desert, and sent a shiver down
his spine. Haq stepped forward, closer to the trio. Her scar now
came into painful relief, and Hwosh could hardly believe just how
powerful her frame looked. She reached behind her shoulder and
pulled out a long, thin sword just as tall as she was. The blade
was called a needle, and was akin to an iron spear with sharpened
edges. It required immense dexterity to use, added to the sheer
strength needed to handle it nimbly. This one was of black pig
iron, and ornate writing decorated it in what seemed like faded
golden ink. Instead of attacking, the tall woman placed her weapon
almost reverently on the ground before raising a fist. The whine of
taut arrow strings ceased.

“You have displeased my masters by
interfering with their plans. All of you,” she said, pointing to
the three in turn, “are guilty of this. However, there will be
peace, and Lor is saved. Moreover, I have a bigger debt here.
Larger loyalties.”

“What debt?” Asked Hwosh. He looked to his
companions, and both seemed confused. “I don’t think I’ve met you
before.”

“I did not say the debt was to you. But it is
large, and demands immediate service and my life, if need be. Here,
take this. It is from Murata. You may leave with your friends if
you so choose, but neither have you been recognized today. I think
his offer is worth considering.” She handed Hwosh a piece of paper.
“The other two must leave, and may return when the stones have
settled back and water runs clear.” As she spoke, Hwosh read the
letter. It was an invitation from Murata for him to go on
expeditions west for the man, three months at a time, and to bring
him ingredients from the caves and wastelands there. There were
also signed papers from the tavern owner for three separate supply,
weapon and armour shops, vowing to pay for anything the warrior
takes from them. It was a tremendous offer, as if a star from the
black sky above had descended and brought him its boons. And he
didn’t know what to do. “The way I see it, you can go with them as
a friend, or take this job and live your own life. It is up to you
to decide which the path is. Decide with the light of dawn, and if
you re-enter the city, we will know what you have chosen.”

For a few seconds, no one said anything and
Haq picked up her weapon, satisfied that her job was done. When she
turned to leave, however, Percy remarked, “I think you’re
lying.”

The woman froze. Turning deliberately, she
stated, “That is not true. Upon my honour, your safety outside Lor
will be-“

“Not that.” The man began to stroke his
beard, thoughtfully and slow. Adra shifted in her position. “About
your masters being upset. There have been too many coincidences.
Why did Wedd choose Murata’s tavern? Perhaps to mask his hate of
Regalians, but we all know how much he cares about decency. Why was
Uncle Salim allowed to warn me? And the sheer coincidence in
Mekhlab never going after us, then Hwosh suddenly stumbling into
the grand plan? Hah!” The man clapped his hands together. “Each man
and woman I questioned had never heard of me, so I never thought
anything of it. But everything fits in place if someone had been
playing us the whole time, giving everyone just enough information
for me not to notice. It was old Salim, no? He needed to help them,
but never wanted the assassination to succeed, so he arranged for a
psion from Indellekt to expose a psion from Indellekt. That way,
the discrimination would be minimal.” For once, Percy actually took
off his spectacles, and his blue eyes showed open admiration. “That
coot actually made me into a pawn!” Hwosh could not tell if Haq was
furious or impressed with Percy, stony as her face was, but at
least she didn’t order anyone to shoot him. Adra, silly as always,
thought it a proper time to clap.

“That settles it, these ones here wouldn’t
kill us,” she said with a shrug.

“Don’t be too sure,” retorted Haq quietly,
cutting the gambler’s mirth in half.

There was one thing Hwosh didn’t understand,
though. It was like one last crucial piece of the puzzle, and he
looked into the fire as if to find it there. “Why would she side
with uncle Salim over Mikhlab?” he asked.

“She said it herself. Owes her life to him.
Apparently, honour is bigger than criminal organizations. Maybe I
should say it’s gratitude, though. Want to show him?” This question
was aimed at the woman, who sighed and took a glove off after
glaring, showing off a white ring. It was just like the one Hwosh
kept in his pocket. The warrior was speechless.

“How could you?” he asked finally, “How could
you be in Mikhlab? That’s not what uncle would have wanted! Don’t
you know anything about him?”

That seemed to strike a nerve, and the level
headed woman snapped. “Enough!” she yelled, taking everyone aback.
“It’s you who doesn’t know anything about him!” apparently catching
herself, the woman went back to her calm mannerisms with sudden and
terrifying speed, “You must decide by morning. I have wasted enough
time here already. I bid you all goodbye, and wish you many
bounties. And you,” she added to Percy, who was looking curious,
“Would do best to leave that mind of yours out of such things. And
my mind!” with that, the captain walked out from the circle of
light, and with her Hwosh felt the presence of those shadows
withdraw.

For the longest time, nobody said anything.
There was too much to think about, and not enough time. Hwosh was
almost starting to catch a headache, and barely knew what
foundations he stood upon anymore. There were life changing choices
to make, added to Haq’s words about uncle Salim. He was a pebble
jostled along, and there were so many secrets that he couldn’t even
tell where the river started or would flow. He needed years to
figure everything out.

Slowly, Percy and Adra started to talk. It
seemed that to them, there was little choice other than going with
their original plan. They would catch the first caravan towards
Regalia and start fresh. Hwosh envied them the simplicity of their
choices, as well as the decisive nature each seemed to have.
Lastly, he wished he had someone to rely on like that. Then he
realized that he did, and always would.

The sun rose without anybody sleeping at all.
They had spent hours talking of many things, but mostly about the
past. It was another night of friendship, and none wished to ruin
it. When the three went towards the caravan stops, Percy finally
stopped them. “It’s time to decide, buddy. We’d love to have you
with us, you know.”

“I know… and I’d love to be with you guys.
Here,” he said, a sudden idea coming to him. “Try reading my
mind.”

Adra frowned. “Now?” she asked with worry,
but Percy assured her he had enough strength. His eyes went blank,
and Hwosh started.

I like my bandanna, but it’s a little too
empty. The best part is the string, and I really want to add things
to it. Maybe Percy and Adra can add something. Locks of hair? Nah,
maybe from her, but his hair might start to fall off. Oh, one of
those small stars on his hat. If he gave one to me, I’ll put the
two next to each other. But then again, I hope the stars aren’t too
big or get ripped or something like that. Maybe they’ll say no.
About saying no, what if the line for the western city gate is too
long? That would be rea-

“Enough!” exclaimed Percy Verde with a laugh.
“You almost gave me a headache, you damn worry worm! And we’d love
to give you exactly what you want. Adra, he wants a lock of your
hair for his string.” The two gave Hwosh a lock of hair and a small
silvery piece of cloth shaped like a star, although he almost
managed to nick Adra with his sword and got yelled at. After he
affixed them where they belonged, Hwosh felt much better.

“Well?” asked Adra expectantly. She was
crying a little bit, and so was Percy. Hwosh decided that old men
shouldn’t cry, because it’s highly infectious.

“Friendships are strings between hearts,”
Hwosh Ru’ub recited, “and ours are made of steel. The times spent
with you were some of the best of my life. Just come to visit,
guys. I’ll do well here, and work hard and be the best I can be. I
can do it, I think. But I’ll always be with you.”

Year: 879 Post Kerallus. 171 Pre Adventus

M’kousi was barely past eight years old when
she was forced to grow up. It was a universal truth that did it,
but it could also be said that a child’s innocence was precious, so
perhaps she should have been spared its bite for a few years
longer. Still she saw and learned, eyes going red with the wetness
of tears as she did. Her mother was not spared the noble woman’s
whip, and young M’kousi was not spared the bitterness of this one
truth: All men are not born equals.

Forever after, her mother was marked a thief
by brutal tradition requiring a branding, and the young child had
been required to attend the ceremony, for it was believed that
wickedness was an illness that could be passed on by unqualified
parenting, and the only cure was the cold fear of hot iron. Sanapi
was given one tiny bit of mercy, for the noblewoman’s husband had
known she only stole bread to feed her child, and so allowed the
brand to be put upon her calf rather than her face. Still, although
both men and women showed off the back primarily, seeing a strong
worker’s bulging calves would have delivered her more opportunity
than was given.

In the five years after that, Sanapi’s coal
black skin, formerly smooth and the envy of villagers for miles
around, began to gain a hardness like old leather after being
battered by sun, worry, and hard labor. Her face drooped into an
almost permanent scowl, and premature aging caused her back, once
corded and shown off by the open backed yellow tunic that had
dubbed her the nickname “Night’s sun”, slumped slowly and
irreversibly forwards as if to drag her down towards the mud.

One night Sanapi came back to their single
room clay home in pain, her intricate braids a mess. M’kousi had
been by the hearth, then eleven years old but a competent cook
already in hopes of lessening a mother’s burdens. When she heard
Sanapi’s grunts of pain she sprang in fear, for the once black
skinned beauty worked construction sites more often than not and
fatal injuries were not uncommon in Ghouti tribes, deep within
tundras in the southwest of Baku. However, what she saw caused her
both horror and rage, for her mother’s back, when revealed in the
firelight, was crisscrossed with fresh horizontal slashes. “Who did
this?” asked the girl, reaching for a knife.

“Peace, child,” scolded Sanapi quietly
whilst seating herself on the one and only stool in their house.
Ghouti tradition dictated that mothers were to have their own
personal chair, and so its smooth wooden surface had only ever been
touched by Sanapi.

“How did this happen? Uncle Asali is a good
man!”

“He is, but he has a new deputy called
Adabu. Old Uncle Asali is good but old, and Adabu is tempered like
a bat at noon but he gets work done and has energy aplenty. It was
my fault, thinking I was still young and insisting they still give
me a young man’s share of wall to push. The thing came down and I
had to be whipped.”

“But that’s not fair,” wailed M’kousi.
“You’ve been doing good work for a year now!”