An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  He cut the thought short. Algat put the faction's interests above all else. Kefier had once seen him dole out justice to a man who had stolen from a client: he had his eyes cut out before sending him home. That happened often in Kago, where the only law was the bite of iron and steel. Algat would have been away when Gaven had captured him. Kefier would be dead otherwise.

  He took the steps as slowly as he could and still nearly crashed into Jerisi on the way down.

  “What are you doing awake at this hour?” he grumbled, rubbing his elbow.

  “I forgot to put the laundry in. The pigeons ruin them in the morning. Oh, and this is for you.” Jerisi held up a hefty coin-purse.

  Kefier refused it. “I can take care of myself. Tell your mistress not to worry about me.”

  She shook her head. “No, it's not from her. Someone came by earlier, after you'd gone to bed. See? There's a letter.”

  He took it, went down to the sitting room and held the letter over the lamp. For a moment, he stared at it, and then he gave it to Jerisi. “Read it,” he grumbled. She looked confused for a moment, and then obliged.

  “The following funds are for Kefier of Gorent: two hundred ril for the safe passage of Mr. Boras Leg'mor to the Hollow Hills. Fifty ril for delivering Mrs. Ada's fourteen head of cattle. Three hundred ril for five months' work with Mr. S and Mr. O.”

  “But that's—nearly a year's worth of backed up pay!” Kefier exclaimed, jumping up. He looked at the letter again. “I didn't think I'd ever see a single coin, let alone all of it.”

  “There's another letter, Mr. Kefier.”

  “Thank you. Can you read it for me, too?”

  She pursed her lips. “It only says, Mr. Oji Kaggawa's family will be informed of his unfortunate passing and given the sum of...”

  “No, that's all right. That's enough.” He took the letters and folded them over his knee. “Did you see what he looked like? The man who sent all of this?”

  “Oh, him? It's just the baker's boy. He said somebody else paid him to take it here.” She glanced up. “Is there anything else you want me to read for you, Mr. Kefier? It's nearly dawn and I have a lot of work to do. The mistress, she likes her hot bath before the temple bells.”

  “No,” he said. He tried to think. Algat wouldn't—but what if the man was learning? You catch a dog by throwing a hunk of meat his way, not pelting him with stone. More likely they wanted to avoid the hassle of Cairntown guards and a quadruple murder in the home of a famous singer and were waiting, even now, at the inns, the stores, and the roads.

  He clasped his hands together as he considered his options. He had coin; he could go anywhere. Whoever sent him that money was telling him as much. He reconsidered that it was Algat—Algat wouldn’t have bothered with Oji. He wasn’t that smart, wasn’t that sort of man at all. Hadn’t Lisa said as much about the mercenaries? Ruthless, cold, with no ounce of subtlety or cunning.

  Ylir yn Garr, on the other hand, wasn’t one of them. The money would’ve come from him. But Kefier doubted it was from the goodness of his heart. Mentioning Oji was the clue. It was deliberate, a signal telling him, Kefier, to give up. To let it go. Oji was dead. Move on with your life, boy. What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this what you wanted? Enough coin to carve something of your own, to be whatever sort of man you want to be.

  He closed his eyes, remembering how light Oji felt in his arms as he died. A strange thought to be having now. Shouldn’t he have been heavier?

  Another thought drifted into his head. The strange things in the Kag. The monster in the forest. The thing in the cave back in Hartmur.

  Ylir yn Garr didn’t want him dead, but he wanted Kefier to look away. The coin he was holding was to buy his silence. Whatever he had hired the faction for was something Kefier and Oji were never supposed to see.

  The fucking bastard.

  “Actually, Jerisi!” he called out, following her to the kitchen. “Have you got a map somewhere? Grab a candle and help me read it, won't you?”

  ACT TWO

  To My One and Only Sister, Sume,

  I'm sorry for not writing to you in a long time. I had a bit of a hiccup with the job in Lon Basden.

  Long story short, I sort of found a pet. I'm calling him 'Kefier'. He is a young lad who was having a tough time as a slave in Lon Basden. He'll be one of us from this point on. He's a little on the thin side and he doesn't talk a lot. The men tell me he's from Gorent. His skin is the same colour as the royals from Bara.

  I will write you some more later to tell you all the details. I have to show Kefier where the bathroom is.

  Ha, ha. I know. Your brother has the strangest sense of humour.

  I miss you, too.

  Your Brother,

  Oji

  Dear Sume,

  Kefier told me a little about himself the other day. He was born in Gorent and lived there for many years. For some reason, I thought he was born in Lon Basden.

  He is getting very good at speaking in Jinan. You'd think he was a member of our family! I can't wait to take him home and watch the elders go into spasms. You and him would find a lot in common, I think.

  I showed him your letter to him but he finds it difficult to read right now. He is too ashamed to write back to you.

  I saw the largest cat in the alley the other day. I swear, for a whole moment I thought it was a dog. I wish it was safer here so you could visit. Remember how we used to chase cats when you were little?

  Your Brother,

  Oji

  Dearest Sume,

  I was so excited to read your letter yesterday that I nearly ripped it in half. Kefier liked hearing about your little adventure in the market, but he wants you to explain something.

  How many rats, exactly, and what was the man's reaction after you told him?

  We had an interesting job the other night. A group of us were hired to wait around for a sheep thief. Imag-ine our surprise when we realized the sheep had been letting themselves out to feast on the neighbour's pas-ture, not returning until two days later!

  The good news is we still got paid. I've sent last month's wages along with this letter.

  Continue making me proud. I love you.

  Your Brother,

  Oji

  My Sister Sume,

  I had a bad dream about Mother the other night. Do you get them too? It must be so much worse for you, considering what you saw. But you were always so much stronger than me. If you get them at all, just remember that I'm still here and that together, we can get through this.

  Kefier gets bad dreams, too. He panics in the dark and will lash out if you touch him. I think some very bad things were done to him in Dageis, though you wouldn't know it when you talk to him. I've had to stop the men from making fun of him. It's cute now, but he's getting a lot stronger.

  Tell Father not to make you worry so much.

  Love,

  Oji

  -letters found in a dilapidated boarding house in Akki

  Chapter One

  Above the taste of last night's wine and the feel of silk around his bare legs came the unmistakeable sound of the morning prayers from the street below. Ylir groaned and tried to shut the window behind the bed, eyes still closed. It wouldn't budge. He gave up, slumped back into the mattress, and tried hard not to gag on the incense.

  “Honestly,” Dalna said, moving about him. She slid the windows closed. “For a man so charming in the evenings—”

  “It was only my intoxication for you, my love.” He snatched a pillow and placed it over his face.

  She removed it just as quickly. “And now you aren't, I suppose?”

  He cracked one eye open and grinned. Somehow, while he slept, she had gotten up and dressed. Her hair was held up in that absurd Caelian fashion and her gown was so ridiculously frilly he longed to rip it off her right then and there. He nearly said so. But she could read him better than he thought and pushed him back into the pillows with her finger over his lips. “There's meetings I have to atten
d. Some dispute over our land near Vildar.”

  “It will wait for you.”

  “It took me an hour just to get into this corset!”

  “And it will take me but a few breaths to unlace it.” He placed his lips over the thin fabric around her shoulder and began kissing her, moving slowly up to her neck. She made a soft sound. He took that as an assent and gently pushed himself over her.

  “Ylir—” She smacked him away, though it seemed to him it was done with much regret. “There's breakfast to be had downstairs. You'll send me a message when you can?” When he didn't reply immediately, she drifted next to him and placed her hand over his. “Will you? Ylir.”

  “Of course I will. As soon as I can.” He pulled himself up, lifted her chin to him, and kissed her. She flushed.

  “There's a function tomorrow evening, at the Grand Swan, that I have to...” she started, uncertainly. For a woman who could be so feral in bed, she was surprisingly shy in their conversations. He couldn’t help but smile at that.

  “I'll see what I can do.”

  She left, and he closed his eyes and dozed off long enough for him to hear her carriage leave the street. Someone knocked at the door and the maid's voice was hushed, as if she was afraid—really, at this day and age!—that the neighbours might hear. “Breakfast is ready, sir. Please get ready soon.”

  He sighed. Did she think he was planning to stay in bed until the next Yohak's Day? But he grinned and said, “Of course, miss,” in as placid a tone as he could muster. He got up, stretched, and began the laborious task of putting on his clothes.

  Rikel was at the table when he appeared. He looked up from his plate of black bread and sausage and narrowed his eyes. “I wasn't told you were here,” he said.

  Ylir took the seat right across from his and clapped his hands. “Oh? Well, I'm sure it was only because your mother didn't want to bother your sleep. Don't you have lessons?”

  “My master is ill,” Rikel said. He paused while the maid placed another plate on the table. When she returned to the kitchen, he grumbled, “My father will be home any moment.”

  “Perhaps. The winds are fair this season and I'm sure his ship wouldn't run into any trouble with the Dageians.”

  “Why, you stupid gasa!”

  Ylir ignored the outburst and started cutting a sausage into tiny pieces. He could hear Rikel's breathing, though. The twelve-year-old inherited his father's temper, if Dalna's stories were anything to go by. Of course, Ylir didn't have the pleasure of first-hand knowledge, and was glad if things remained that way. He popped a bite of sausage into his mouth, chewed, and only once he'd swallowed did he turn back to the boy and say, “Sit. You might upend the table, pressing on it like that.”

  “You're Gasparian. You don't have the right to tell a Caelian anything.”

  “I am not Gasparian and even if I was then my kingdom would rule half the continent your puny country is in. No one is above being told what to do, boy. Sit and don't let me upset your meal.”

  Rikel sat, but he continued to glare daggers at him. “My father will find out, someday,” he said.

  Ylir gave him a bored look. “Oh? And I'm sure you'll tell him, of course? Watch him hit your mother? Maybe they'll get divorced and you'll have the pleasure of spending summer festivals in two houses.” He laughed. “Your anger is wasted on me. I've got no desire to be friends with you, boy, nor will that stop me from seeing your mother if she wants it. Have a good, long chat with your father instead, if you can keep him around long enough. You probably shouldn't cry, either. This sausage is way too salty as it is.”

  That did it. Rikel finally shoved his plate aside and stomped off. Ylir smiled from the corner of his mouth and continued eating. Someday, he thought, that boy really ought to learn patience. Preferably before it killed him. Not knowing how to deal with people did that, sometimes, especially since his father repackaged Kiel ore as Caelian.

  The door-bell rang. Ylir looked up curiously, but he wasn't worried. Sagnor yn Arom had only sailed three weeks ago and even that he could deal with if he had to. The maid hurried past the dining hall. He heard the door click open and a few hushed voices, and then Jarche strode in, her sun hat almost covering, but not quite, the angry look in her eyes.

  “You!” she hissed. Her greyish skin was tinged with red.

  “I do have a name,” he said mildly. “Even if hardly anyone insists on using it these days. Won't you sit and join me?”

  “You have been late,” she retorted. “Eight days. Eight days. I've sent out men scouring the roads for you, thinking perhaps you've been taken by bandits or worse, and then I find you here, here, of all places!”

  “I did send a letter from Cairntown informing you of my plans.”

  “What plans? All your letter said was, I'm heading back. That's it! You should've been here eight days ago!”

  “I was. The Grey Rose opened four days ago and I'd have been home then, only Dalna couldn't see it until last night. So.” He broke a piece of bread and carefully nibbled on it.

  Jarche's eyes looked like they would pop out of her head. “And so?” the ka-eng hissed. Her narrow ears were drooping behind her, the way they always did when she was angry. It reminded him of a wolf before it struck. “A retinue from Barun arrived here soon after your last contact with us. Nearly two weeks ago.”

  “Barun?” he asked, wiping his lips with a towel. “Concerning our Gasparian project, then? But I thought that's already been approved...”

  Jarche shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, it's been approved, but that has nothing to do with that, I don't think. Lord Azchai of Barun himself—in person. He's at home right now, sitting there, waiting for you.”

  “Azchai? I don't think I've heard of this fellow.”

  “He's a minor k’an of some farming province bordering Jin-Sayeng. Are you even listening to me, Ylir? He's waiting for you.”

  “Yes, I got that the first time. What in heaven's name does he want?”

  “He didn't say.” She took a sausage from his plate and chewed it thoughtfully. “He arrived with his men—a dozen of them, mind you—and demanded for Hertra Ferral. When I told him you won't be back for a few days yet, he demanded we house him, as is his right as a Lord of Gaspar. Even now they're sitting there eating our way into the poorhouse.”

  “Goodness, Jarche, don't be so dramatic. Yn Garr knows?”

  “I sent him a message right after, and his reply was, 'Humour them.’”

  Ylir snorted. “So he means for me to take care of this one, too. Well.” He slid on his gloves. “Did you bring a carriage, or do you intend for me to walk?”

  Jarche laughed. “A carriage? After I spent the last week sniffing about Cael City for you? Please.”

  “Lead on, then,” Ylir said, sighing.

  Yn Garr's estate stood in the middle of a sprawling acre of land, enormous by Cael's standards. Ylir wasn't quite sure what he hated the most about it—the winding stairs or the numerous rooms, most of which contained nothing but dusty old books that fell apart when you touched them. He'd spent a great deal of his youth agonizing over some of those tomes and perhaps part of the reason he detested coming home so much was the fear that Yn Garr would require him, yet again, to memorize them.

  “Nice touch you've done with the place,” he said. Jarche pursed her lips. Signs of their visitors were strewn across the yard in the form of horse dung, trampled brush, and piles of weaponry which, Ylir assumed, Jarche had not allowed inside the estate for fear of her precious vases. A couple of tents were erected right beside the orange trees.

  “Half the lot can't speak Kagtar,” she said while she unlocked the front gate. “I've had to learn Gasparian on the fly, just so I can tell them to please, don't eat the cat. Didn't do a damn thing.”

  He arched his brows. “Really? The cat is gone?”

  “Don't look so happy. I lent her to Mrs. Crawne in the meantime.”

  “Pity.” He glanced around the footpath. “I'm surprised the guards hav
en't come poking their nose into this mess yet.”

  Jarche sighed. “Oh, they have. ‘Campfires aren't allowed in Cael, Ms. Jarche. We thought a house was being torched over here, Ms. Jarche.’ I just directed all the fines to the master's account—let him deal with this humour. Tsah! Do you want to wait in the study? I'll send him up there.”

  “Please.” Ylir undid his cloak, draped it over his arm, and proceeded with the nasty business of stomping up to the third floor. He had forgotten how much trouble his heavy boots had with the slippery steps. He managed to enter the study without too much affront to his dignity and took the seat behind the table. There was already a pile of paperwork for him and Jarche, bless her, had purposely neglected to organize it in any way. He started fingering through them without really meaning to do anything about it.

  The double doors opened and Jarche walked in, her face taut. “Lord Azchai of Barun,” she announced, bowing. She rolled her eyes at Ylir and stood aside.

  Ylir got up just as the man—the tallest man he must have ever seen—walked in. He didn't really mind dealing with Gasparians, but their height always took him aback. And of course, Jarche wasn't kidding when she said this one was a lord, even if it was of nothing but a scattering of farmlands here and there. He looked like it, with the white robes that contrasted against his sun-browned skin, the golden rope around his waist, and the garnet set in the middle of his turban. “You,” he said, as soon as his eyes landed on Ylir. His eyes were like slits and his fierce expression was made even sharper by the pointed edges of his moustache and beard. “Hertra Ferral?”