by Kevin Hearne
Well, my life is certainly different now. I’m so glad I took time to write down something before I left the walls of Khul Bashab.
Our wagons are pulled by wart yaks, and since they are notoriously slow, we are hunters built for defense rather than speed. We never sneak up on anything and never outrun anything. We make a lot of noise, try to smell delicious, and the predators of the plains come to us, leaping onto our spears without ever thinking that perhaps they might be the prey.
But for three days we trekked south from the city with very little to show for it. My father grew more annoyed with each passing day and my mother and sisters grew more sullen, and I supposed I joined them in a sulk, Father’s annoyance hanging over all of us like grim thunder-clouds exhaled from the Godsteeth.
My uncle Navir tried to cheer Father up last night by pointing out that his “shitty ass was more attractive than his face lately.” His gambit failed to improve my father’s mood somehow, but the rest of us found it amusing and laughed about it once we were safely out of Father’s hearing.
We’ve seen no kherns and very little else to hunt, so I’ve had no opportunity to address my desire to be anything but a hunter.
Well, that’s not true; I could bring it up at any time. But my thinking is that if I bring it up as they’re going to hunt, they won’t be able to discuss it for long. They’ll have to go after the prey before it escapes, and that will be my escape. Besides, I still have to think of what else I want to be. Maybe I could go to the university in Ar Balesh—or almost anywhere else—and find something worthy of study. I’m beginning to think that hunting for a livelihood will be more difficult than hunting on the plains.
What’s changed for the better is that I won’t have to hear about choosing a bride anymore. Over breakfast this morning Uncle Navir was talking about my cousin Favoush getting married soon, and inevitably his eyes slid over to me and a grin spread across his face. “What about you, Abhi?” he said. “When will you pick out a woman?”
“Never,” I blurted out in front of everyone. “I’m sakhret.”
It wasn’t the way I’d planned to tell them, but their reaction wasn’t what I expected either. A great cry went up from everyone around the campfire, not in outrage or shock but in appreciation and with many congratulatory slaps on the back for my uncle. Everyone was smiling but me. I didn’t understand what was happening until people started handing my uncle money.
“Wait,” I said. “Did he just win something?”
“We’ve had a standing wager for a year now,” Father answered, smiling for the first time in days. “We had to get you to admit you’re sakhret without directly asking you.”
“What? You mean you knew?”
“We’ve known a long time, Abhi,” Mother said, and she stepped around the campfire to embrace me and kiss my cheek. “We were just waiting for you to tell us.” As soon as she released me, Uncle Navir crushed me in his arms to thank me for ending the suspense and filling his purse while I was at it.
I was happy for Uncle Navir and grateful beyond words that my family loved me unconditionally. It should be a gift freely given to all, a thing taken for granted, but I knew many sakhret never felt such acceptance. Quite the opposite. And that made it so much harder for me to tell them that I never wished to hunt again, to reject their way of life and a large part of their identity when they had already given their blessing to a large part of mine.
But the day would come, and it would come soon. We would find the kherns, and when that happened, I would wager my family had never thought to place another wager on my refusal to pick up a spear.
“What happened next to Abhi and his family will take up the majority of our time tomorrow,” Fintan said. “And I assure you that none of them would have bet on it happening.”
Agroan accompanied the creak of the door when Elynea returned from her first day of work. She had a hand on her back and a wince of pain crinkling her brow.
“That bad, eh?”
With her free hand she pulled out a small leather bag and shook it. Coins made music inside, and she managed a tiny smile. “Not that bad.”
“Good. Save it all. Eventually you’ll be able to get your own place somewhere.”
“I think there’s a mariner waiting for you outside,” Elynea said.
“What?” I peeked through the window, and sure enough, there was a blue and white uniform. Maybe he wasn’t there for me specifically but rather was a security detail. He was smiling and nodding at passersby on the street. “I’ll go see what he wants. It’s time for me to go anyway.”
I gathered my paper, quill, and ink pot and left Elynea in the kitchen with her kids, making them lunch from a few staples I had ventured out to get that morning. The mariner was indeed waiting for me.
“Master Dervan, good day. I’m to escort you to the bard.”
“No need. I already know my way to the Siren’s Call.”
“He’s not there. He was moved to a safer location last night.”
That stopped me. “Safer location?”
“I don’t have many details, unfortunately, but I’m sure he can fill you in.” He pointed in the opposite direction we would have taken to the Siren’s Call. “This way if you’re ready.”
“Absolutely. Lead on.”
The benefit of living in a city blessed by the Fourth Kenning is that the streets and buildings are usually clean, disguising some of the markers of poverty one might normally see in other cities. One has to look at the size of the homes, then, the lack of decorative touches, the hollow cheekbones, the worn hems, and the baggage hanging under the tired eyes of the citizens to spy their struggle. It was into such a neighborhood that the mariner led me; some of them were no doubt longtime residents of Pelemyn, but others were refugees like Elynea’s family. Curious eyes followed our progress, and a few children asked for coins; I had nothing to give them, unfortunately.
Fintan was waiting for me, scowling, outside an inn of questionable structural integrity. Again, like all things in Pelemyn it was fairly clean, but the wood trim was rotting and in need of new paint at the least, if not replacement; I guessed that at one time it had been blue. The second floor appeared to sag somewhat in the middle to my eye, and I would not like to set foot in there without some advanced carpentry to repair it first. The shingle outside was also faded and in need of paint, perhaps fortuitously so. The chipped and weathered sign depicted a silhouette of a cloven-hoofed animal in a state of nearly supernatural arousal, which made more sense once I squinted at the faded words underneath until I could make out that we had arrived at the Randy Goat.
“Why am I at this festering sore of an inn?” Fintan demanded of me, dispensing with his usual greeting. He was accompanied by a pair of mariners, who stood at rest behind him.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” I said.
Fintan cursed and rounded on the mariners. “You told me all would be made clear once Master Dervan arrived.”
“Apologies, sir,” one of them said, a hulking lad who spoke softly. I think his arms might have been thicker than my thighs. “I should have said all will be made clear at your luncheon. A third party will join you.”
“Which third party?”
“Will you follow us, please,” the mariner said, ignoring Fintan’s question. Having little choice, we trailed after the mariners to one of Pelemyn’s celebrated luxury establishments along the docks called the Steam Spire Loose Leaf Emporium. It was in fact a series of small tearooms clinging to a central tower with two elevators inside controlled by steam-powered hydraulics, one for diners and one for service. Bell-pulls let the workers in the elevator room know where and when to take the elevators, the steam for which was generated by thermal vents on the ocean floor. Those who preferred the stairs could take them if they wished.
Each of the tearooms held only four tables, all windowed and suspended over the bay, affording beautiful views. Much of the city’s—or indeed the kingdom’s—expensive business got handled there.
The menu offered the finest imported Fornish and Kaurian teas and delicacies as well as the best local seafood available. Usually there was a wait of an hour or more even with reservations. We were ushered immediately to the topmost room, the Kraken Tea Suite.
The pelenaut’s Lung, Föstyr du Bertrum, sat behind a round table covered with a white cloth, which appeared to have been composed for a still life painting with tea service, silver bowls of fruit, and miniature frosted tea cakes that I could not believe anyone still had the ingredients to make. Föstyr looked uncomfortable and almost afraid to touch anything. Or perhaps I was projecting my own feelings onto his face.
His bottom lip, jutting out like a pink precipice, stretched into a joyless smile at our entrance. “Masters Dervan and Fintan!” he boomed. “Come, join me. Can I pour you some tea? It’s the Sif Tel variety grown by the Red Horse Clan in the southeastern lowlands.”
Dazed, we both nodded to him, and he visibly brightened at the opportunity to serve us. Porcelain clinks and liquid sloshing noises filled the room as we took our seats, which were upholstered in the tanned hide of some unfortunate creature from the Nentian plains, no doubt. Three other tables occupied the room, but they were empty. The mariner escorts exited via the elevator so that it was just the three of us. The bay stretched out below, jewels of sunlight winking from the surface of a rippled ocean.
Föstyr set our tea before us, a rich golden brew, and exhorted us to enjoy it.
“You first,” Fintan said. The Lung grimaced but said nothing as he sampled the tea and something from each bowl as well as a bite of each cake. That task done, he spoke.
“An unfortunate necessity, for which I apologize.”
“What is going on?” Fintan asked. “Why was I whisked away to a sty like the Randy Goat with no explanation?”
Föstyr sighed and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin before answering. He deliberately placed his palms on the table and looked directly at the bard. “For your own safety. We received threats against your life and wished you to see the sunrise, so you were discreetly relocated and an impostor spent the night in your room.”
“And what happened to the impostor?”
“He lives, but only because he was expecting the visitor who tried to slit his throat as he slept.”
“No!” I exclaimed, but the other two men ignored me.
“Start at the beginning,” Fintan said, crossing his arms and pointedly not enjoying the repast laid out in front of him.
Föstyr looked as if he’d been asked to eat something repellent, but after a short pause he began. “Very well. About an hour after your tale yesterday we received an urgent visit from the Nentian ambassador, who said that the few Nentian nationals we have living in our fine city did not take kindly to your portrayal of either Melishev Lohmet or Abhinava Khose.”
“I assure you that my portrayal of Viceroy Lohmet was as kind and generous as I could make it.”
“I have no doubt. But the idea that one of their leaders might be a heartless shitsnake disturbed some of them greatly, and they decided they would rather not hear you speak of it anymore.”
“That comparison,” Fintan pointed out, “is somewhat disrespectful to shitsnakes. But the best way these citizens thought they could ensure that I never spoke of it again was to kill me?”
“You have a quick mind. They fear you will tarnish their good name in the city. The ambassador warned us that your life might be in danger, and they were very anxious to add that the Nentian government was not to be held responsible.”
“I fail to see what good name these Nentians might have if they’re the sort to hire assassins. You have no other details?”
“There was the suggestion that your portrayal of the viceroy either is an outright fabrication or that you somehow gained unauthorized access to his private documents, since there is no way he would share such sentiments with you freely.”
“It is true that he never asked me to read his diary, and it was in fact stolen from him, but not by me, and I only read it because I was bored. Anything else?”
“Nothing except complaints about the obvious anti-Nentian slant of your tale.”
“I don’t understand. How was the portrayal of Abhinava anything but positive? He’s thoughtful, properly respectful of his family—”
“The ambassador claimed that some small-minded Nentian citizens were not so accepting as the young man’s parents were about his sexuality.”
Fintan pressed his palms into his eyes and muttered, “Goddess give me patience!”
“They don’t serve patience here, but this tea really is quite lovely,” Föstyr said, picking up his cup and slurping from it. “You should try some before it gets too cold.”
The bard dropped his hands. “Well, if they objected to what little they’ve heard so far about the viceroy, they’re going to soil themselves over what’s to come.”
“I imagine they will,” Föstyr said, nodding agreeably. “So we must move you around, you see.”
“I’m not changing my tale to please them. That would betray my duty to the poet goddess.”
“You will note, Master Bard, that I did not even suggest it.”
“I’m not here to promote the agendas of any government—even mine. I’m here to tell this story, and it’s going to be uncomfortable for everyone because war is bloody uncomfortable.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? What happens to me when I present some of Brynlön’s closer allies in a less than favorable light? You have little to do with the Nentians, but what if I offend the Black Jaguar Clan in Forn or point out some embarrassing facts about Kauria? That might threaten your little tea party here. You’re already dependent on imports for food and other necessities with most of your economy wiped out. They could put pressure on you to silence me.”
“My government won’t hurt you.”
“But it might cease to protect me from others; is that it?”
Föstyr deliberately dabbed at the corners of his mouth before replying, perhaps to give himself time to think. “We are not so unworthy as you suggest. The pelenaut is invested in your tale, and so are the people. It’s all they talk about, and it’s frankly a relief, because they’re getting answers from you that we could never give them. They’ve stopped asking what we’re going to do next, and that’s giving us time to work instead of answer questions all day. We’re very grateful to you, Fintan; you are the finest of distractions.”
It occurred to me that we did not know for sure that any of this was real. We had no proof except the Lung’s word that the Nentians objected to his story or that an attempt was made on Fintan’s double last night—or even that they put a double in place. I was not about to bring it up, however. Instead I asked, “Am I still allowed to take him wherever I wish in the days ahead?”
“Yes,” the Lung replied, and reached for a tea cake that no one else seemed intent on eating. “It’s good that you visit the city and that Fintan talks about it, beneficial for everyone to hear that we still have a functioning civilization, however strained. We will, however, discreetly follow and provide some extra protection.”
“I’m already being followed everywhere,” Fintan said, his voice rising, “and you’re not very discreet about it.”
Föstyr appeared not to notice Fintan’s irritation and replied affably. “It’s for your own good. Can’t protect you if we don’t know where you are.”
“You could protect me better by simply housing me in the palace.”
“Please forgive us for that,” the Lung said. “We would not want to accidentally leave any private or sensitive documents in your view when you were bored. Can’t be too careful around someone with a perfect memory.”
Fintan’s face twisted in disgust as if he had smelled something foul while Föstyr favored him with a tiny smirk.
“I think I will have some of that cake,” I said, desperate to break the tension.
“Excellent,” Föstyr said, placing his hands flat
on the table and pushing himself up. “I’ll leave you two to your work. You have the room to yourselves until it’s time to perform this afternoon. Farewell.”
“Thank you,” I said, and Fintan remained silent. He sulked for a while, and I let him. He could sit there with his arms crossed and listen to the clink of my fork on my plate if he wished. I set aside the dishes when I finished and moved myself to the next table, getting out my materials. When I had my ink pot uncorked and my quill ready, I looked up to see Fintan staring out at the ocean.
“It’s strange,” he said, his voice soft. “Looking out this window, you’d never think there was anything wrong with the world, that everything’s a blue-green paradise watched over by clouds. You’d forget that people are absolutely miserable starting ten lengths behind us and extending far inland.”
“I suspect that’s one reason this establishment is so popular.”
Fintan snorted. “Too true. When your only view is one of such peace and beauty, you can believe the happy lie that the rest of the world is just so. Well, my duty—our duty, I suppose—is to make sure people look through plenty of other windows. Let’s be about it.”
We climbed the steps up to the wall a bit earlier than usual, and the stands were not quite filled when Fintan hopped onto his makeshift stage. He employed his kenning and broadcast his voice across Survivor Field and the city. “Friends! My tale is going to be somewhat longer this afternoon, so I’ll be starting directly. It will be so long, in fact, that I worry about your health, sitting down for so long. So let’s get plenty of exercise now, shall we? Instead of singing today, I’ll be playing a Raelech instrumental guaranteed to get you dancing and lose a stone or so of weight in the process.”
He got everyone clapping—a magnificent sound to hear thousands of people clapping in unison—and then performed a scorching number on his hand harp while singing a wordless percussive beat that complemented the clapping.
At first I was too shy to dance myself because everyone could see me on top of the wall. But soon I realized no one cared and flailed about with everyone else, albeit with my upper body only; my knee wouldn’t take much else in the way of dancing. When the song ended and the bard called out for fifteen minutes’ rest until he began his tale, we were all sweating and out of breath and needed the break.
