“Not even 200 miles away,” Oaka muttered, rolling his eyes.
“We need to send word back that Sir Nickleby is dead, and that we are fine. I do not think they expected us to make it even this far.” Basha said.
“They were almost right.” Oaka said.
“I’m going!” Basha said, turning to the door.
“Try not to get lost!” Oaka called.
Basha managed to find a vendor, with directions from the innkeeper, that sold writing supplies, and then returned back to the inn. Oaka was downstairs in the common room waiting for him, and together they ate dinner and composed the letter. Early the next morning, Basha went out and found the post office of Coe Anji, which surprisingly was not that much bigger than Coe Baba’s post office.
“How much does it cost to deliver a letter to Coe Baba?” Basha asked, as a vendor down the road called out “Parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme!”
“Coe Baba? It depends.” The postmaster of Coe Anji said.
“Depends on what?” Basha asked.
“Slow or fast.” The postmaster said. “Slow means we throw your letter into this bag marked ‘Coe Baba’,” The postmaster said, holding up a near empty bag, “and wait for the bag to fill up with letters and packages people want to send to Coe Baba before we deliver it. Could be, on average, somewhere between two to three months.” The postmaster said.
“Three months?” Basha cried, and shook his head. “Fast?” He inquired.
“We send it straight to Coe Baba by special courier, who will hand it over to the postmaster once he or she arrives there. Maybe even into the hands of the person the letter is meant for.”
“Price?” Basha asked.
“Five coppers for slow, 40 coppers for fast.”
“Forty? Why?”
“We have to pay the courier, and cover the expenses of their travel, room and board, food, horse, extra expenses have to be paid by the receiver of the message.” The postmaster said with a shrug. “Frankly, it is a loss of profit for us.”
Basha sighed. “Slow it is, then,” He said, handing over the letter and counting out the five coppers. It probably did not matter if the letter arrived in Coe Baba two or three months from now, perhaps it was even for the best, because he suspected that he and Oaka were going to have a tough time from here on out, especially if the Black Wolves returned to chase them. Perhaps their parents, receiving some word that he and Oaka were all right a few months ago, might forget their fears and anxieties for just a little while, and remember that once they were very happy together. Any sort of news was better than none, after all, and time softened the blow of loss.
“Come one, come all, come see the fight of the year, Cegiloni and Puyeti!” The town crier cried, standing by the tent with the sounds of the fight warming up inside, and the crowd roaring even louder.
Basha and Oaka had been wandering around the market town for most of the afternoon, having purchased supplies in the morning. They debated whether or not to stay another night. Fato had not returned at all, and while Oaka was glad of this, Basha was worried that perhaps they had been too harsh on the falcon.
“Too harsh? That falcon…” Oaka shook his head, and then glared at the town crier. “Cegiloni and Puyeti…pugilist fight?” He yelled back.
“That’s right, come step right up, only two coppers per admission!” The town crier declared, pulling the curtain aside.
“Two coppers? That’s not too bad,” Oaka said, starting forward with his sheathed sword swaying at his side.
“Come on, Oaka,” Basha said, trying to stop him with his own sheathed sword swaying as well. “After what happened with the brawl yesterday and Sir Nickleby the day before, do you really want to…”
“Basha, we might have to,” Oaka said, turning towards him. “I’ve never been afraid of anything before in my whole life, but these last few days…Basha, I’m afraid that I might not be able to make it through all of this.” He said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about home.” He said.
Basha sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I suppose I have been thinking a lot about home, too, and Jawen, but I don’t want you to go. I’m still thinking about going on. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but…”
“Then let me handle this, Basha,” Oaka said, turning towards the tent. “Let me face my fears, and decide for myself if it is worth the risk,” He said, paying the admission fee and going in.
Basha hesitated, and then followed suit. They had seen sparring matches at home before on festival days, just a couple of fellows hitting each other about before one of them fell over and the other one was declared the victor, nothing to get upset about.
One, two, slam! punches to the face, with the third knocking the other man’s head back; blood spurted forth from the man’s mouth as a tooth fell out. Basha choked on some vomit threatening to issue forth from his own mouth as he heard the townspeople and visitors gathered around him shout, “Make him pay!” “Finish him!” or just cheered at the sight of blood.
Basha looked about, hoping to see any other sign of sanity, someone else who was as disgusted and horrified as he was with this display. But the only other person here who seemed to be suffering just like he was Oaka, who gagged a little bit as well. Perhaps they were the only ones here who had ever seen such kind of violence and bloodshed in the death of Sir Nickleby, of someone they knew, or at least a hint of what sort of death it was when the Wolves were howling, and the horses were galloping so fast to get away from the scene.
He hoped that was the case. He hoped that no one else here was immune to the effects of that sort of violence.
Basha knew that they had to get out of here. Even though they had come in here to face their fears, and maybe even get to see what all of the fuss was about, he worried that the people screaming and yelling, stirred up into such frenzy, would turn on themselves.
He tapped Oaka on the shoulder, pointed to the nearest tent wall once he had Oaka’s attention, and told him, “Go! Go! Go!”
Even though he couldn’t hear himself think straight over the crowd noise, Oaka seemed to get the message. Soon they both were leaving, trying to push and shove their way out of the crowd without offending anybody. They would not get caught up in something terrible again.
Basha felt embarrassed about leaving like this, as if he wasn’t man enough to face the crowd and this fight, but he knew that it was for the best. Once they were outside in the alleyway between the tent and a one-story building, having pushed aside a tent flap that hadn’t been tied down properly, then they both started throwing up.
He had run away before, Basha realized, from the mud-ball turnip fight, from Jawen when her father came, from Sir Nickleby when the Black Wolves devoured him…had he ever stood up for anything? Maybe when he had made his oath to Jawen, but otherwise…
“Basha, what was that in there?” Oaka asked, wiping off vomit from his mouth. The crowd on the other side of the tent was only slightly muffled by the amount of canvas covering them. The rest of their surroundings, the warehouse district of this town’s port, was oddly quiet as Basha and Oaka were the only two people to be seen outside these squat, unassuming buildings that seemed to be lined up, row after row, for a mile around. Where was that town crier that had lured them inside the tent? Basha thought, he couldn’t hear him. He felt bad about everything, about everything he had ever run away from.
“That was something I hope never to see again,” Basha said, staring down at the bricks he had just splattered with vomit before he shuddered all over. He hated himself for getting so sick, but it was a natural reaction, was it not? Why was no one else as sick as him and Oaka? He hated himself for reasoning like this, just like he had tried to reason with himself after leaving Jawen’s house, excuses for cowardly behavior.
It didn’t make any sense to him that they had to be the ones to sneak out, and throw up like a bunch of girls. HeHHe shook his head, and said, “I don’t know, I suppose that is what you would call a ‘bloodbath’.”
Basha hesitated.
Oaka sighed. “Basha…”
“Hey! Boys!” They heard a loud whisper that they recognized, as who could not, once you got to know it so well, that screeching voice was not something you would forget. They looked up to see Fato perched on the ledge of a high window into the building that they stood beside. Basha was surprised to see him up there, so close to where they were before. He wondered if Fato had tracked them down, if falcons like him had a sense of smell like a dog.
Oaka looked stunned as well, although a bit green. Hopefully he wasn’t going to throw up again.
“Where have you been, Fato?” Basha asked, out of obligation, and curious as well when he wanted to find out if the falcon had traveled far. “And what are you doing up there?”
“I’ve been looking around, now keep quiet!” Fato hissed at him, never minding that the sound of the crowd swallowed up just about everything else around. The bird was hunkered down, looking into the dirty little window, except for when he turned his head around to face the two young men below. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s something you two should see in here.” He said. “It involves that girl from yesterday, and it could be very dangerous.”
“Monika?” Basha said as he and Oaka looked at each other, both taken aback by Fato’s statement. The roar of the crowd seemed to be getting louder, as if there might be a victor after all.
“That girl?” Oaka asked, horrified as he turned away from Basha. “The one that tried to beat me up? No thanks,” He said, shuddering. “I don’t want to get involved with her again,” He said, turning to his younger brother. “Right, Basha?”
Basha frowned, however, and turned to ask Fato, “What is she doing?” He did not want to get involved in this, whatever it was, any more than Oaka did, but he just had to know what was going on in there before he decided.
“She’s talking to a couple of guys, four or five, six.” Fato said, tense as he frowned at what he saw happening inside. “They don’t look very smart, nor do they look very friendly. She’s got a sword, but she’s definitely outnumbered by these six other men and they have swords too.” Fato said.
The falcon usually seemed not to be perturbed by anything, except for what was dire. Basha thought Fato had taken a keen interest in this case, and perhaps they should as well. He wondered again what Fato had been doing this past day, if he had been following around Monika instead.
The crowd started growing restless, chanting something over and over again.
“Oh, come on, you don’t think we should…”
“Are they just talking?” Basha asked Fato. If this was serious, if they should act like Fato seemed to want them to…he was not sure that they were ready for such a fight. He did not pay any attention to Oaka just now.
“It looks like they’re just talking, but, you know, it looks like the type of talk you have when you are about to face an opponent,” Fato said, turning towards Basha with alacrity. “Sizing up their strengths and weaknesses, determining where to attack first, that sort of thing.” He said. Fato seemed to be challenging them.
Basha felt his hand slipping down towards the pommel of his sword in its sheath, fingering it.
“Basha, you don’t think…you don’t want to get involved in any of this.” Oaka said, laughing nervously. “You don’t want to get involved in any sort of fight where you might actually get hurt, do you?”
Basha said nothing as Oaka exclaimed, “We just got out of one like this!” pointing back towards the tent, where it seemed like another fight had broken out, this time in the crowd with the way the tent-sides were wavering back and forth. But he also meant the inn brawl, and the Black Wolves. Basha stood there, thinking to himself how had he gotten here in the middle of all this, with everything breaking down around him?
“Basha, she’s stepping back, and reaching for her sword!” Fato exclaimed.
Basha said, “But that was a brawl, not a fight, a brawl of pain and pleasure, not for anything significant.”
“Basha, she’s saying something sternly.”
“And the inn was the same, but the Black Wolves…Sir Nickleby saved us so that we might be safe, and continue on,” Basha said. “And Monika, what is she doing here? What is she doing here that could be so important as to risk her own life?”
“You don’t know anything about this.”
“Oaka.”
“It might not break out into a fight.” Oaka said. “It could be meaningless, and not at all important for what you know.”
“They’re reaching for their swords, boys!” Fato exclaimed.
“It could be her fault!” Oaka shouted. “It might be that she deserves to be killed!”
“Oaka, shut up!” Basha shouted back at him. “No one deserves to be killed, especially if they have done nothing wrong, nothing important, that is,” He said before Oaka could object that she probably had done something wrong. “She is a person like any other.”
“They’re doing it, they’re doing it, they’re attacking her!” Fato cried, turning around to face them. “Help her!”
“We have to help her!” Basha shouted at Oaka. “Malakel it, it’s a matter of courage and honor!” Basha said before he quickly unsheathed his sword and opened the warehouse door.
Basha and Oaka charged into the warehouse, Oaka convinced more by Basha’s action than by his speech, when Basha was doing exactly what he said he would do, and someone needed to be by his side for this, to protect him from his ‘idiotic failings’. The others looked up and turned their heads, surprised and staring. There was a sound then, somewhere in the warehouse, perhaps a hush descending over the proceedings? The six fellows toward the back of the warehouse stood at attention with their swords drawn, and Monika stood at attention in front of them as well with her sword drawn, but this time she definitely was outnumbered and she also had a different stance. The other fellows were sort of lopsided and hulking, always with one shoulder blade raised at least, but Monika stood in a manner similar to Basha when he was prepared to attack, though her sword arm was lower.
“What are you two doing?” Monika cried.
“Get them!” The leader of the six-some cried, and the others charged forward as well.
“We are here to rescue you!” Basha yelped as they clashed, sword upon sword. Was someone screaming?
“Oh, that’s sweet, now get down!” Monika cried as the leader, having diverted them, knocked down some crates to obliterate them. Basha and Oaka both just managed to escape, with Monika having already jumped out of the way, just in time with one of the other fellows getting hit instead, smashed into by heavy debris.
“Emph!” Basha said, slamming against a wall, with Monika shouting, “You two should never have come in here!”
“We already figured that out!” Oaka shouted, getting up as he was forced to defend himself again. “Fire! Fire!” He kept repeating, for some reason, but nothing happened.
“Follow me!” Monika cried, advancing on the enemy as Basha lied there, stunned and unable to move for a moment. He wished that he was somewhere peaceful instead, a place where he wouldn’t be disturbed; someplace where he wouldn’t have to fear or worry, someplace where he could feel safe, warm, and welcome instead. He didn’t even get that at home. He turned his head, and saw that a crate had busted open next to him. Something was sticking out of it, something that he needed in that moment.
Basha crawled over there, and reached in, grabbed it, a black sheath, and removed a sword, but unlike any he had ever seen. The blade was curved like a fang, a saber-tooth thick in width even down to its tip with a broad sloping arc, although it was short, barely more than two feet in length. The blade was sharp and seemed to be made with the finest quality of steel available. Wavy lines seemed to be forged within the steel itself, although it was a bit faded with age. What was this thing? For some reason, despite its grim exterior and purpose, it comforted him, made him feel safe.
High above, Fato looked down upon the proceedings. “
Is that…no. No way, no, no, no.” Fato hissed to himself, watching Basha unsheathe the new sword from its scabbard. He did not even realize what he was saying, but he knew that this was wrong, that this should not be happening, that…Fato closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sense that he was reliving one of the worst moments in his life.
Basha dropped his old sword, which did not bother him in the least, as the old sword did not fit him, nor did it feel comfortable enough for him anymore, it did not feel safe. There was a guttural sound, as if people were talking in the distance. He beheld the blade of his new sword, which felt right to him, his hand grasping the leather grip that seemed to be almost black, and he felt something that he had not felt since the first time he had kissed Jawen, or the last time; he felt something roar into life inside of him.
“I am Basha, and I bind this sword to me, and I need help.” He said, as he turned and twisted, striking the blade of the sword being swung at him by one of the bandits with his new sword’s blade. He got up onto his feet and swung back, without much effort, using the skills taught to him by Sir Nickleby, yet he was guided by something else.
The blade of the new sword he used just seemed to know when and where to strike, to topple down the bandit, the man, within a matter of moments, bleeding all over the floor. Basha gasped, looking down at the man…was he dead? Fato screeched. Another man…Basha defended himself again, this time not quite trusting the process as he was hesitant in his moves, yet still he understood; this blade seemed to know how to dispatch an opponent, not quite kill him, but still severely wound him. Basha saw the actions, and he did not recognize one or two of them, advance moves he had not learned from Sir Nickleby…what was this?
Fato flapped his wings, and continued screeching, panic-stricken. Why wouldn’t he shut up? Basha wondered. It was starting to get annoying.
Two men down, one…Basha turned, Oaka was severely pinned down, he could sense that even before he saw it, and he rushed over to attack the man attacking Oaka.
Servants and Followers (The Legends of Arria, Volume 2) Page 7
