by Erik A Otto
The boy seemed to have a limitless repertoire. He could juggle, balance ten bones at once, dance to a rhythm, and drum a number of catchy melodies. When a bone would fall to the ground it always looked planned—like part of the show. He would cast comical expressions each time, and each time it would result in snickers from the crowd.
Nala watched for a while. Despite the fact that her clothes were drenched and her body shivered from the cold, she couldn’t pull herself away.
Eventually the boy stopped and took a break. The Fringe began to disperse. No one gave the boy any money, as they would in Pyros or Esienne. No, it wasn’t the Fringe way to pay for something as frivolous as entertainment.
Even though he had no money the boy still looked happy, an indomitable smile on his face.
She wanted to give him something, but she knew her stamps weren’t her own; they were the Purveyor’s. Instead she just smiled and clapped heartily. He nodded and smiled back in thanks.
Eventually the moment passed, and she left to face the rain once again.
Occasionally Nala would come across a difficult clump of flesh, steeped as much in cartilage and ligament as in bone. The Fringe described it as a foot. The number of feet a bone cleaner had in a day was a good metric for how challenging the day had been. They weren’t referring to a real mammalian foot, of course. The mound couldn’t produce anything as anatomically organized as that, but it was an appropriate analogy because bone cleaning a real foot would be just as difficult.
It was as she was working on a particularly tiresome foot that she saw the Yensuni boy again. He was prancing down the street with a bone sack on his back while juggling bones across his front. His face was filled with a plastered grin, just as she had remembered it from days ago. He was looking at the bone cleaner desks and smiling at their patrons, but they wouldn’t engage. Instead they shrunk back from him as he came close.
Maybe they hadn’t seen him in the collection tent, or maybe they were just being Fringe. Either way, Nala felt she deserved a break, so she motioned for him to come to her.
He scurried up to her table and began juggling in front of her. He would occasionally tap a bone against the table rhythmically while maintaining a fluid juggling motion. She clapped along with the tapping, nodding in encouragement. He finished with a flourish of percussion on her table as he caught all the remaining bones in the air.
“Well done!” Nala said.
He did a sort of exaggerated bow.
“What’s your name?” Nala asked.
“I’m Gun-shi. Thank you.”
“Do you speak Belidoran, Gun-shi?”
“I’m new Fringe so only little. You like my bones? I perform in Yensun.”
“Yes! I’m very impressed.” Nala nodded to be sure he understood.
He nodded back. “I do more.” He smiled and collected his bones again.
This time he did a series of throws up in the air from behind his back that he would catch on his front. Next, to make it more complicated, he would bat a bone on the table every time he caught one. He began going in a circle, around her table, each time batting on the wood when he caught one, and occasionally spinning around. She clapped along happily while Gun-shi smiled with glee.
She expected to see people gathering around, curious to watch this marvel in action. People were watching, to be sure, but they weren’t gathering around. Some moved by quickly on the street. The nearby bone cleaners watched with furrowed brows, barely glancing up from their work. And then she saw the Purveyor. His was lurking in the opening of his tent flap. He was also watching Gun-shi, but without affect. One of his subordinates stood beside him, and at times they would whisper to each other.
Something about their reaction disturbed her. Was it only her and Gun-shi that knew how to enjoy life? Was it possible they even thought she was doing something wrong by encouraging this good fun? It was enough for her smile to dissipate, and then finally wane altogether. Gun-shi noticed and concluded his latest performance with another bow.
“Thank you Gun-shi. Unfortunately, I’m under indenture, and I have nothing to give you, but I appreciate you brightening my day.” She forced her smile back and he returned the sentiment as he backed away, nodding. She couldn’t be sure he fully understood but he must have known enough of the words. At least that’s what she hoped.
He began walking forward again, arcing around Round Top as he juggled his bones.
She sighed and stuck her fork deep into the foot of flesh on her desk. Then she used her dagger to pry and cut at the gap the fork had created. She managed to separate a miniscule bone fragment after a few aggressive cuts. When she looked up toward the Purveyor’s tent she was surprised to see he was still there, talking avidly with his colleague, his eye tracking the progress of Gun-shi around the mound.
The announcements were always so boring, but everyone was supposed to go. They took place on the other side of the mound, where there was a ramp that led up to a speaking dais just below the main entrance to the mound itself. Here there was a square big enough to fit a few hundred people. The square was usually mostly filled.
The speaker would mouth off about a flurry of numbers relating to bone production and bone chuckers and inventory and shipments that all went in one of Nala’s ears and out the other. The Fringe crowd would stand there stoicly absorbing the information and then return to their duties.
This time it was different.
The speaker spouted the same boring numbers, and most listened, but Nala’s attention was wholly absorbed by the boy tied to a pole below the dais. It was Gun-shi. His wrists and ankles were shackled with thick silverstone cuffs. He had no bones to throw and no plastered smile to brighten her day. He would occasionally yell out in his native Yensuni tongue, his body bracing fiercely against his restraints.
What could the boy possibly have done to deserve this?
Nala reflected on the looks of the Fringe around her when Gun-shi did his performance at her desk. Is it possible they feared Gun-shi? Were they unable to tolerate his exuberance, or the fact that he didn’t act like a Fringe drone? The thought of it made her simmer with rage.
Her eyes tracked down the Purveyor in the crowd. He was absorbing the numbers dutifully, as if they were important. She walked up to him and hissed. “What is this…soulless nonsense. How dare you tie up poor Gun-shi.”
The Purveyer only showed a glimmer of a frown. “Don’t judge unless you have all the facts Nala.”
“Don’t judge? You claim your people are so fair, that you never take sides, but here you’re tormenting this boy simply because he’s different.”
The Purveyor took her arm and guided them away from the crowd toward an untended stack of crates. “Calm down Nala. We Fringe have been the victim of misunderstanding and disrespect as much as any other people, so we know a thing or two about this. It’s when people think they know a people, without truly knowing who they are, that there are terrible consequences. That’s what causes schisms to propagate like the one between the Jawhari and Belidor. Don’t let yourself fall into that trap.”
“What trap? I’m talking about the boy! This has nothing to do with Jawhar or Belidor. How can you justify this?”
The Purveyor still wouldn’t answer her question though. He sighed and said, “Nala, how many stamps did you get yesterday.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“How many stamps?”
She threw up her hands. “Fine, only nine, but I had a two-foot day. I can’t be expected to do twenty stamps a day every day.”
“I know how fast you clean Nala. I keep track every day. I also know how fast most bone cleaners clean. Even on a two-foot day you should have had at least 12 stamps.”
“Yes, I had less bones than usual. So what? Why are you turning this on me? Are you going to put me in chains too?”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Why do I think what is?”
“Why do you think you had less bones t
han usual?”
“I don’t know, because I was distracted? Is that what you think? It was just a one minute interlude with Gun-shi. I worked just as hard as usual, harder even because I was happy for once, for a small part of my day. How dare you acuse me of slacking—just because I enjoyed a moment of peace with this boy. But I don’t care. Acuse me of whatever you want. You’re no better than the Jawhari if you’re going to torture a boy for being himself.”
“For being a thief?”
“For…what?”
“You’re working hard Nala. I know that. The reason that you had nine stamps yesterday is because Gun-shi stole your best bones. I saw him do it—he’s quite quick—and I don’t blame you for not noticing. He did it at two other bone cleaning desks as well.”
She remembered Gun-shi circling her table, twirling about. His hands were everywhere, so it was entirely possible he stole from her cleaned bones when she wasn’t paying attention.
“But…he’s just a boy.”
“Yes, he’s a boy. Gun-shi was also an adept thief in Yensuni, but he has declared himself Fringe. Many come to us who have worse pasts than Gun-shi. Many have better pasts. But the past shouldn’t matter. Once you are Fringe you simply cannot be both a Fringe and a criminal. The two do not intersect, for if they did, we wouldn’t be anything at all. We make our livelihood being merchants. If the other nations doubt our integrity we would lose our livelihood, and then we would fall apart into anarchy. This is why criminality among the Fringe is a tumor that must be excised immediately, or the host dies. So, if Gun-shi wants to be a Fringe, he can’t be a thief. It’s that simple.”
She pondered his words for a moment. It made sense that they would have to be harsher on criminals. She still felt silly for not noticing his slight of hand.
“What will happen to him?” she asked.
“He will lose a toe on each foot. If there is a second infraction we take fingers.”
Her mouth dropped open. “But…”
The Purveyor shrugged. “We can’t make exceptions.”
“When?”
“In a few minutes.”
There was no debating the issue, she knew. She was an indentured servant to a Fringe—a bone cleaner in a village of heathens. What standing did she have to argue?
“What if he does it three times?” she asked.
He looked at her and shook his head.
Nala felt profoundly ill at ease. More than that she felt responsible, as if smiling and clapping had goaded Gun-shi into stealing. The rational part of her brain knew otherwise, but she couldn’t overcome the feeling of guilt that pervaded her.
“Purveyor, may I—”
“Yes, Nala.” He interrupted, reading her mind. “The Fringe are required to watch the amputation, but you are not. You may take your leave.”
Nala nodded and then slowly moved away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gun-shi brace against the restraints again. She forced herself to look away and returned to her bone cleaning desk on the other side of the mound.
Chapter 9
The Good Son
There was no sign of the Sambayan regiment they were supposed to be pursuing. In fact, they saw fewer and fewer signs of life the farther east they went. Most farms and villages had been previously pillaged and razed. Even game was hard to find. The army had to rely almost completely on their supply lines for food.
Why didn’t they continue toward Ghopal? Shouldn’t they at least investigate?
Baldric tried to push his questions aside, for he knew he should be a loyal soldier, unflinchingly supporting the Thelonian cause. In so doing, he would be rewarded, and the Bronté name would be bestowed honor. And surely Granth knew what he was doing. He might in fact be investigating Ghopal with his secret privateers. Or maybe there was a hidden alliance with the Cenarans that Granth didn’t want to reveal.
No matter the explanation, it seemed that ripples were evident in that portrait of the world. The tapestry seemed fragile, about to tear. It was the brutality of what he’d witnessed. The maimed children and…Granth’s slaying of them and the scout. It was so callous. Was that really necessary to win this war?
In the end, he filed it away as an aberration so he could properly focus. Baldric knew he would see atrocities, and he forced himself to accept them. “Always look ahead,” Father had once said, “especially when there are horrors behind you.”
All this introspection had made Baldric less watchful of his brothers in the last few days. That needed to change. They were his responsibility, and for Darian, at least, traumatic events like these could trigger a worsening of his disorder. In hindsight, Baldric was surprised and relieved Darian hadn’t exhibited any outburst when Granth slayed the scout and the children.
Baldric waited until late evening when most were asleep. That way they could be separated from the squad. Baldric cut through the cool evening air toward Darian’s tent. To his surprise, Darian was still up. He was sitting alone by the fire. A stream of hot fog flowed out of his mouth as he whispered his mimicry into the night.
Baldric sat on the log next to him. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Darian.”
“And I you,” Darian replied in his own voice.
“Really, and what about?” It would be better if Darian brought it up.
“Do you think what Granth did was right?” Darian asked.
Baldric’s first instinct was to say no, but he couldn’t say that to Darian. He needed to make sure Darian followed commands without hesitation.
Baldric responded slowly. “What Granth did was horrific, and I’m sure he derived no enjoyment from it. We cannot know about all of the general’s concerns. He has to weigh the lives of so many men every day. I’m sure by killing those people, it has saved countless other Thelonians and Belidorans.”
“How does killing children save anyone’s life?” Darian asked.
“I…I’m not sure, but there must be a reason.” But Baldric couldn’t think of one as an example.
“We shouldn’t sit idly by,” Darian said.
Baldric looked into Darian’s eyes. “Now wait a minute, Darian. What would you have us do? Would we report the general? Would we flee the army? This is war, Darian. Things like this happen. Fleeing or reporting the general will do nothing. Instead, it will get us court-martialed and cast dishonor on our house.”
“This is war, Darian,” Darian whispered. Then he said it again. “This is war, Darian.”
He snapped out of it, and his chest puffed out. “We should do something.” It sounded firm and confident, like the one called Reniger he often emulated.
Baldric grabbed Darian to shake him out of his mimicry. “No, we shouldn’t, Darian. We should do our duty to protect Thelonia, and that’s all. Do you hear me, brother?”
Darian’s expression shifted. He said, “The trail to Matteo’s moon is elevated on pillars of virtue.” It was said with a slight Belidoran accent. “An apprentice can learn, and a Sandalier can teach, but only the most devout can find the effervescent moon.” Now it was the one named Sebastian, Baldric guessed. The quote sounded familiar, like the Canon of Virtue, but it didn’t matter. Darian was lost again.
Baldric shook him some more. “We do nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing!”
Darian didn’t respond. He looked…sad? It was hard to tell with his chameleonic personas shifting in the firelight. Finally Baldric let go of him. Then Darian said in his own voice, “I’d like to go to bed now, Baldric.”
The discussion didn’t go the way he’d hoped, but it rarely did with Darian. Baldric had to let him go. So he left Darian’s tent, scratching his head in confusion, then went to check on Clyve.
Chapter 10
The Jailor
The outgoing inspection of the Winter Solstice went smoothly. Their search seemed to focus on looking for stolen items, whereas the Winter Solstice carried only wares the Fringe had imported from Niknak. Zahir and Hella had been adeptly disguised as deckhands, and the inspectors didn’t take no
tice. Hella looked barely recognizable even to Zahir in the grease-stained outfit and brown makeup they’d given her. And perhaps the inspectors cared less about escaped political criminals when their city was on fire.
The ocean wasn’t for Zahir. The waves and wind rocked the boat frequently, and he felt ill much of the time, vomiting almost every day. He wanted to keep watch of the Fringe and Hella but was afforded little opportunity on account of being laid out.
Hella was quieter with Zahir than on the road. She seemed to have taken to the Fringe and dialogued with them often. They shared a form of sophisticated banter that Zahir hadn’t been schooled in and couldn’t reciprocate. It concerned him how collegial she was with them, especially with their leader Krish.
She had signed a generous contract, bestowing the Fringe with all sorts of wealth for successfully delivering her to the Belidoran authorities. Maybe the contract would be enough, but Zahir knew this man’s type. If Krish could get more, he would.
It wasn’t until a week into the voyage that Zahir’s sickness abated. The sun replaced the wind and rain, and the ocean became calmer. His appetite returned, and he ate so much that he thought the Fringe would ask to amend their contract on account of the dent he was creating in their food stores.
On a moonlit evening of one of these better days, he approached Hella when she was alone. The low swells hitting the boat rocked the moon and the surrounding wispy clouds up and down. It reminded Zahir of Gharam; the way she rocked Shimah or Fanan in her arms many years ago.
“Hello, Jailor,” the princess said.
It wasn’t a good start, but Zahir had to say his piece. “Hella, you can’t trust these men.”
Of course Hella had a ready counter to his comment. “And why is that? They’ve agreed to help us at their own risk. They’ve not hurt us or threatened us in any way. Is it because they are naustics? Is it impossible for you to conceive that naustics can be reasonable?”
