by Kara Timmins
“What can I do for you, tute?” Nicanor asked, putting a silver cup down on a paper-strewn half-moon table. “Is there something you’re here to tell me you didn’t know yesterday?”
“I’m not here by my own design.” The tute’s voice blubbered like a scared child.
Nicanor raised an eyebrow and turned his body to give Eloy, Neasa, and the tute his full attention. Eloy tensed and scanned the people in the room. The fighters turned their focus to the tute, their faces tight, curious, and confused, ready to act at Nicanor’s word.
“These two put a sword to my back and brought me here to you. They didn’t tell me why. They told me they were working with you. I knew that couldn’t be true, but I was too scared to say otherwise. I mean, who would dare threaten a tute? Someone capable of any kind of horror, that’s who.” The tute’s words came out fast and frantic, as if he was on the brink of crying.
Nicanor motioned for his fighters who flanked the entrance to restrain Eloy and Neasa.
“Why in the name of all things would you do that?” Nicanor asked Eloy. His eyes were wide in an almost childlike wonder, an expression Eloy didn’t expect.
Neasa let out a moan of expected defeat, and her arms went limp in the warrior’s firm hands. The men stripped off Eloy’s sword and worn fur bag and dropped the items on the floor a few steps away. The men did the same with Neasa’s bag and sword. But Eloy was caught in the sound that had come from Neasa, the moan repeating again and again in his mind. The sound made him think of Critiko, and Eloy knew he couldn’t fail at his promise to keep Neasa safe so soon after leaving Valia.
“I’ve been told by someone of a higher authority that this man was to be brought to your attention,” Eloy said.
“This man is well known to my tent,” Nicanor said. “He has guided me for many years. This higher authority of yours has put you on a wrong and dangerous path.”
Nicanor held the look of confusion on his face, and Eloy knew he had a small advantage in the absurdity of the situation. Nicanor was curious, and his curiosity alone was keeping Eloy and Neasa alive, the only thing that separated them from success and death.
A heat of anger radiated from the offended warriors around him, and they seemed ready to act on their emotions, their eager intent showing as they shifted their weight from one foot to the other. They were ready to punish. Just one word from Nicanor, and they would fall in. The grip on Eloy’s arms was so tight his hands throbbed with the strain of his heartbeat and then went numb.
“I’ve walked into the center of the forest of Valia and met with a Seer of true and undeniable foresight,” Eloy said, “and this Seer told me of a man who is not what he seems.”
“I don’t believe you,” Nicanor said. “Are you an assassin? If you are, you’re not a very good one. You’ve failed, though your tactic was a brave one. In all my years, this is a first time someone has tried taking a tute. You’re going to die for this. You had to know this is how it would end for you. Then again, maybe intelligence of foresight isn’t your strength.”
“I can prove that we’ve been to the heart of the forest,” Eloy said. “Maybe then you’ll believe me. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you. Will you let me try? Please.”
Nicanor inhaled, held his breath, and released the air in a burst. “Fine. My curiosity is getting the best of me.”
“Your warriors need to let me go,” Eloy said.
“Fine,” Nicanor said. “But know that these warriors are equipped in combat. You’ll die before you even think of closing the distance between us.”
“Noted,” Eloy said.
Eloy felt the blood rush back into his hands as the grip of the warriors loosened.
He moved past his bag and made his way toward Neasa’s. He tried to steady his shaking hands as he rummaged through its contents until he found the pouch he was looking for.
Eloy removed the bark with the colors of the rainbow ribboned on one side and held it up. “This is a sliver of the bark from the mother tree that grows deep within the forest of Valia.”
Nicanor squinted and then motioned to one of his warriors. “Bring it here.”
Eloy handed it over and waited as Nicanor turned it over in his hand. Eloy’s attention flashed to the tute, and he saw doubt for the first time.
“This is definitely strange,” Nicanor said. “Say I believe you, just for the sake of conversation. Say that you really did speak to someone—this Seer—who told you to bring our tute back to the tent and you’re not, in fact, here to kill me. What comes next in this discussion?”
Eloy looked at the tute and thought about what the Seer had said. You’ll be brought to the heart of it all, and it’s there that you’ll peel away the illusion of his power. That is the crack that will get you in.
The illusion of power came from the tute’s position, and the only way his position was clear was through his uniform. At the thought, Eloy noticed the tute in relation to his garments and finally saw the detail that seemed out of place. The more Eloy spoke, the more the tute clutched at his long sleeves. The tute had the fabric of his cuffs crumpled into balls in his hands.
“Have him roll up his sleeves,” Eloy said. He was dizzy with confidence and relief, euphoric in his sureness that he had found the thing the Seer knew he would see. He didn’t know why the tute pulling on his sleeves was important, but the behavior was the only detail that gave away his anxiety. Calling attention to the movement was the crack that would get him in. Eloy knew it.
“You’re going to listen to him?” the tute yelled. “You can’t put your hands on a tute. Think of the mar it will streak across your destiny. Your plan of battle success with undoubtedly fail!”
Nicanor turned his attention to the tute and looked down at the balled-up fabric in the man’s pudgy hands.
“I won’t touch you,” Nicanor said. “Pull your sleeves up, tute.”
“I won’t,” the tute said. “I am controlled by a power greater than you, Nicanor, and I’ll not do as you say!”
Nicanor moved from behind the desk and walked up to the tute. “Pull your sleeves up.”
The fighters were still shifting, now out of confusion.
With a quick scan, Eloy saw the whites of many eyes moving between Eloy, Neasa, Nicanor, and the tute.
“I will not,” the tute said, staring up at Nicanor.
Nicanor gave Eloy a sideways glance that showed his surprise at the shift in the situation.
“If you don’t lift your sleeves,” Nicanor said, “my warriors will do it for you.”
“You wouldn’t,” the tute said. “Don’t play with your fate. You have too much to lose.” The splotches of red that had colored the tute’s cheeks since his excursion back into the camp were now growing and connecting. The feigned panic he had adopted from the beginning of his performance was becoming more believable.
Nicanor stared at the tute, watching him wiggle in the silence.
“You won’t lift your sleeves, then?” Nicanor asked.
“I won’t!”
Nicanor looked at the two warriors who had been standing closest to him at the desk.
Eloy used the distraction to move back to Neasa. He leaned next to her, his arm against hers, and he felt her do the same.
The warriors—two men who looked to be at least forty—looked at each other before moving in.
The tute pulled back his lips to bare his sharp, crooked teeth as he hissed. “You put your hands on me, and I’ll use all of my abilities to destroy everything you are and everything you want to be,” the tute cried. “Keep your blood-soaked hands off me.” The mask of innocence sloughed away to show what Eloy had glimpsed back at the fork. The tute’s bulbous cheeks jiggled as he tried and failed to beat away the trained fighters who grabbed him.
“Pull up his sleeves,” Nicanor instructed.
The tute tried to ke
ep the balls of fabric secured in his hands, but one good tug pulled them free. Underneath the coverage of his clothes were two pale, chubby arms marred by black ink. Nicanor moved closer and squinted at the crude drawings and words.
The muscles in Nicanor’s face went lax. The creases of curious amusement were long gone. “Take off his tunic,” he said, his voice as cold and terrifying as a sharpening stone against an executioner’s blade.
The tute cried out, struggling, but the two warriors lifted his attire over his head as if he were a child. The rest of his skin was inked the same as his arms. With the exception of his hands, neck, head, and what was covered by his cotton undergarments, every spot of him was blackened by inked notes.
Nicanor circled the tute, as an almost tangible sense of fury filled the tent. “These are our plans of attack, everything I discussed with you. You were to be trusted above all others—a tute, a man of foresight and guidance—and yet here you are: betrayer of my trust, deceiver of my warriors. Now I see why I haven’t been able to get my footing in these battles for so many years. You’re responsible. It seems so obvious now. Only a tute could walk between camps so easily. No one would guess. No one would even look twice. What have you done? Why have you done this?”
“Do I need a reason?” Spit flew out of the tute’s mouth in sticky strings. “No one even suspects that I’m the one who controls everything. I’m the one who holds the lives of those who smile at me as they pass. No one even knows, but I know. I alone control the actions of the two men who control everything else.”
Neasa was breathing fast and heavy against Eloy’s arm, her eyes wide in shock.
“Your time of control is over.” Nicanor turned to the warriors who held the tute by his marked arms, his soft skin bulging through their firm fingers. “Gag him and keep him in the back of the tent until nightfall, then take him to the far end of the encampment and slit his throat. Bury him deep enough that nothing will catch his scent and dig him up. Most importantly, don’t let anyone see you take him. No one can know that we’ve killed a tute in this camp. If I hear even a whisper of it, I’ll make sure everyone in this tent dies for it.”
The tute flailed against his constraint, his legs kicking at the air. “No one can kill a tute and not feel the consequences.” His voice cracked.
“Why can’t you see it?” Nicanor said. “Every well-thought plan went straight out of here etched on your belly. I’ve already paid that price. Now it’s your time to pay.”
One of the warriors shoved a piece of the tute’s tunic into the doomed man’s mouth, but his screams still filtered out through his nostrils. Eloy heard it as the men moved behind a sheet of animal skin and faded. Four of the warriors followed.
“You two.” Nicanor’s attention was back on Eloy and Neasa. “This Seer who gave you this information didn’t happen to have any other pieces of valuable insight, did they?”
“No,” Eloy said. “She only told us about this.”
“Unfortunate. For me.” Nicanor rubbed his eyes. He looked red and tired when he lifted his head back to Neasa and Eloy. “You can relax. Leave if you’d like, or stay and have a drink with me.” The remaining six warriors who encircled Neasa and Eloy and hadn’t left to secure the tute were slow to drop their guard. Many were still looking at the place the tute had stood.
Eloy looked at Neasa, but she still seemed to be in a state of disbelief. “We’ll stay,” he said.
Eloy followed Nicanor past the half-moon table and sat in a chair facing what was once the base of a very large tree. Its top half having been cut off long ago, leaving a stump with a surface worn smooth by years of use. Nicanor poured something crimson from a pitcher and handed it to Eloy, poured a second one for the empty place meant for Neasa, and finally a third for himself. Eloy sipped it and was momentarily transported to Midash and Kella’s home and another drink from a different glass bottle.
“Who are you?” Nicanor asked. “What’s your name?”
“Eloy.”
“Neasa.” She took her place at the stump. She sounded distant, perhaps deciding that the emotions she had about the tute would be better dealt with at another, safer, time.
“Where are you from?” Nicanor asked.
“Valia,” Neasa said, playing with her cup, but not picking it up.
Eloy took another sip of his drink and looked at Nicanor over the lip of the glass and focused on picking his words. “I’m from a place that didn’t have a name, but I spent most of my time in the Bowl next to your camp at the bridge.”
Nicanor stopped, cup almost touching his lip for his first sip, and put it down. “Maybe I was too quick to sit down with you.”
“My time at the Bowl is a part of me,” Eloy said, putting both palms down on the table, the base of the cup in the diamond of his hands. “I learned a while ago that looking to punish those who hurt me doesn’t end in satisfaction. At least you know enough of what happened there to be worried. I guess that’s something to your credit.”
Nicanor took a long drink and sighed. “The one in charge of the Bowl, Tudek, took things further than I had asked—or wanted—but the Bowl was necessary.”
“I don’t doubt that you see it that way, but people died there. A lot of young people met horrible deaths in the Bowl.” Eloy was careful to keep accusation out of his tone. To his ears, he sounded like someone arguing against the idea of the Bowl instead of someone who had lived it.
“A lot of people, a lot of young people, have died at my order.” Nicanor sounded tired. “It simply is. I did what I thought was right for the greater good.”
Eloy looked down at the rings in the cut tree.
“So,” Nicanor said, “what would you like as compensation for your assistance on this issue with the tute?”
“Just conversation,” Eloy said, looking up. “Answers.”
“What would you like to know?” Nicanor asked, reclining back in his chair.
“What happens next in this war with Anso?” Eloy asked.
“Normally,” Nicanor said, “that question would be too big to answer, but it doesn’t really matter now. It’s all over. It’s probably been over for longer than I want to think about.” Nicanor motioned to the place where the warriors had taken the tute. “Anso has everything he needs to take the advantage. We’ve been cut off from supplies for a very long time. We were reaching for the last resources we could think of to regain our footing. Many of my warriors are hungry and go into battle without the things they need. The grain is bad. We can’t figure it out. For years, we’ve never had a problem keeping fighters fed and ready.” He motioned to bloated sacks in the opposite corner of the tent. Pellets of grain spilled out of the top of a tan sack, an image of three lanky human forms set in a triangle branded on the front of the thick weave. “Now they eat it, and it goes right through them, doesn’t sustain them.”
“What about food from Valia?” Neasa asked.
“The only good food the camp gets is from Valia, but it isn’t enough to feed everyone. Those at the farther camps are doing much worse. I’ve heard that some are now abandoned or commandeered.”
“But we always seem to have enough food in Valia,” Neasa contested.
“If the people of Valia go hungry,” Nicanor said with a forlorn sigh, “then we lose what little we have. We need the people of Valia fed and working.”
“Does that mean the fighting is coming to its end?” Eloy asked.
“I suppose it has to,” Nicanor said. “Though I advise you to reconsider that look of satisfaction on your face. It’s clear you’ve never had contact with Anso. He has no interest in the well-being of the people. He won’t simply recline in his victory. He’ll kill anyone who occupies the lands he wants. His warriors are made of entitlement and rage, and they’ll tear through everything looking for the things that suit them. This is not good news for you. It’s not good news for anyone.” Nicanor gu
lped at his drink.
For a moment, Eloy had thought it had been enough to just bring the tute to Nicanor. When Nicanor said the battles were done, Eloy had a moment of disillusionment that the land would be cleared of the blight that afflicted it, but the assumption was naïve. The Seer wouldn’t have pushed him toward the task if it were that simple.
Eloy sat up straighter. “What will you do next?”
Nicanor refilled his cup. “Nothing. Wait here for him to come to me. I’ve been here sketching plans, throwing lives, sacrificing bodies at this insatiable struggle for so many years. I have nothing left—no possible strategy—that he wouldn’t already know or see coming.”
“What will happen to everyone under Anso’s rule?” Eloy asked.
Nicanor dropped his head and slumped his shoulders, but straightened himself again, as if remembering his place. “At best, people will be under his rule. At worst, they’ll die. Then again, I suppose that has something to do with perspective.”
“There has to be something more to do,” Eloy said.
“There isn’t,” Nicanor said. “Not as far as I can see. I’ve tried every tactic I know. I had a faction of fighters twice his size, and now it seems he’s bested me with the sheer power of insanity.”
Eloy thought about Roch and his family, layering the images of their suffering across all the other lands he had been since that day. “We can’t let him take over.”
Nicanor put his chin in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest of his chair, and ran his fingers through his beard at his jawline. His eyes were getting heavier. “If I couldn’t get the advantage on him after all this time, no one can. Do you think you, some castaway who managed to wiggle away from the Bowl, can do better? You’re nothing. If I couldn’t do it, there’s no way you can.”
“That may be true,” Eloy said. “Or maybe I can do something that’ll work because I’m not you. Anso doesn’t know you’ve discovered the tute. There’s a small window where he’ll be waiting for your plans that the tute was on his way to give him. It’s likely that he won’t take action while he’s waiting. That’s something.”
