Navon heaved a sigh. “What other book could I be referring to?” he retorted, puffing out his chest.
Jikun cuffed him on the ear.
“Ouch! Damn you, Rulan!”
“Still have enough wits to maintain that lie, at least. I suggest you keep focused on your role lest I strike you again.”
“Here we are,” Esra interrupted as Navon withdrew his palm from his throbbing ear. She had stopped before a curtained doorway and was pushing the heavily ornate fabric aside, unaware of the spat behind her. “In here. My home. Wait. I’ll see what I can do for the two of you.”
“You have the mental capacity of a dwarf,” Navon muttered.
“And you whine like a whore,” Jikun jabbed back.
And then they ducked in truce beneath the curtain into Esra’s quiet home.
The building was of simple stone and underdressed: a single vase on the low dining table was the sole decoration. ‘So… empty,’ Navon reflected with an internal grimace. He had spent so long enfolded in the radiance of the Sel’vi that he had nearly forgotten that such baseness existed in most of the world. Like where he had been raised. Against the farthest wall a fire burned, fending off the chill of the night with an amber glow. It was also the only source of light in the otherwise darkened home. He shoved his own character aside, quick to shield his emotions with Riphath’s stoicism.
“Wait,” Navon heard Esra’s distant command, and refocused in time to see her vanish into the street behind the curtain.
“Who do you think she is?” Jikun queried after a moment. “Not even a family name attached to her introduction.”
“Someone you cannot bed,” Navon reproached. “That you can even consider such a notion while in our circumstances—and in your condition in particular—would be impressive if it wasn’t such a glaring problem.”
Jikun returned a shameless smirk, and, rather than offer his usual caustic retort, surveyed the dimly lit kitchen.
Navon had already absorbed the sight of the worn cabinets. Empty counters. A spider web bridging the cracks of the un-swept corner. And there was no character to play—not even a self-assured Helven like Tiras—that could elevate Navon past his own resentment of the nakedness. If he had any affection for a life alone in squalor, he would never have left home.
The Sel’vi would certainly never demean themselves to such a state of oversimplification.
Across the kitchen, the uncultured general was settling in with ease. He slammed one cabinet door and flung wide another. “So we are sell-swords who procure items for the black market?” he was asking. “What do we know about ourselves? What’s our family name? Are either of us wed? Are we related?—I hope not because we look as alike as a cavalier and his horse. Do we have children? Where do we live? Have we been here before?”
It was the last question that caused Navon to writhe past the jest. He watched as Jikun bent down to a drawer and slid it open to survey the contents. In tales, lying about one’s identity never ended well; but by Jikun’s relaxed approach, he clearly was not much of a scholar.
As though this instance was necessary to reveal such a truth.
Navon cleared his throat loudly. “We’ll decide that information now,” he informed as he knelt down on a large seat cushion at Esra’s table. “I am Bastin of Alaris and you are Rulan of Venmore. We do business everywhere and so we aren’t ‘from’ anywhere; experience says people generally accept a mercenary’s secrecy. I’m recently wed and you can’t sit on one woman long enough to achieve that. I don’t want children and at the rate you’re whoring, you don’t have a choice.”
Jikun’s eyes narrowed, unappreciative of Navon’s wit, and he jerked open a second drawer.
Navon accepted his partial attention. “As for having been to… Dahel… There, we’re just going to have to gamble. We must try not to sound committed on the matter. If someone recognizes us, we can feign memory loss caused by errant magic. It happens frequently enough when steali—procuring magical artifacts. A strike or two in the head—they’re not going to condemn us on the mere grounds of suspicion… but try to not get carried away. And may I repeat myself once again, General: NO whoring—in your fits of ecstasy, who knows what information you might divulge.”
Jikun pillaged noisily through the contents of the next drawer. “I’m impressed, Navon—you didn’t need more than a moment to devise an entire slew of lies. You would make a fine sell-sword.”
Navon huffed indignantly, feeling a score of his heroes gasp in offense. “You say it with such a negative connotation, and yet you are aware that Eraydon was a mercenary and the pinnacle of accomplishment. Just as with all matters, there are heroes amongst the thieves, Jikun. I would imagine we both can avoid devolving into the latter.” Jikun snorted, and Navon snapped his fingers in a futile rebuke. “For now, we just happen to be masking as two slightly shady individuals.”
“I’m fairly certain that you have branded us as thieves.”
Navon paused, watching Jikun’s hand surreptitiously slide from the drawer as though he was trying to hide his action from the Helven’s perceptive gaze. “…What did you just take?”
Inconspicuousness foiled, Jikun raised a small kitchen knife and slid it snugly into the side of his boot.
Navon regarded him flatly. “I branded us as thieves?”
Jikun closed the drawer forcefully, startling Navon from his ease. “Let me be plain,” he began sourly. “I did not exchange my army to do a novice’s work. We can masquerade as these two miscreants for now, but if the Eph’vi refuse us aid, I am not taking chances that I am trapped as a groveling thug.”
‘And that little knife is our salvation?’ Navon wanted to challenge, but he wisely held his tongue. His general’s gaze had begun to shift deliberately about the room and there could be no doubt that the conversation had come to an end. Navon reprioritized. ‘Food, water, clean wounds,’ he reminded himself, scanning the kitchen in hopes of uncovering any such assistance. His eyes bulged suddenly as a shimmer emanated from the table’s single decoration.
Jikun spied the water at that same moment and as one, they sprang for the vase.
“I saw it first!” Navon cried, all semblance of sophistication and maturity lost in his frenzy to quench his thirst.
“Frozen tits,” was the culturally vulgar response the Darivalian chose as he swung out to snatch the water.
Navon flung himself over the table, jerking the vase free of Jikun’s grasping fingers. ‘Frozen tits to you,’ he thought triumphantly as he tipped it back… but nothing flowed free to satiate his thirst. He lowered the stoneware and glowered contemptuously at the block of ice. Then he shot Jikun a defiant glare as he extended his tongue and slowly slid it across the surface.
“You think that will stop me?” Jikun leaned casually across the table and plucked the vase from his hands. “Thank you.”
Navon watched the vase leave his grasp with an impatient twitch. “You’re so very welcome,” he grumbled as the Darivalian gulped the contents down.
Jikun sank wearily into the comfort of the cushions across the table and passed him the remainder with a shameless belch.
“And you could turn away when you decide to act like a repugnant dwarf.”
“Is there any other type?”
Somehow he had even forgotten that Jikun was his constant representative of the world’s primitiveness. Navon rolled his eyes and drank until his thirst dissolved—but it passed only to be replaced by his still-existing trial. His scorched feet seared once more in pain and as though he had not already violated Esra’s property enough, a thought entered unhesitatingly into his mind. There was still some clean water left. ‘Jikun may be accurate about aid… We should clean our wounds in the event the Eph’vi do not offer any such assistance.’
Riphath would insist so.
Navon slid to a sitting position upon the cushions and peeled the shirt from the blisters on his feet. The puss had oozed out and sealed the wounds to the salt-coated fabric. As
Navon tore the bandage free, his loose skin ripped away with it.
“That looks severe.”
Navon did not lift his eyes. “The appearance sells the suggestion.”
Silence.
“Jikun,” he began, trying to conceal Riphath’s nagging, “you may be correct about the Eph’vi’s lack of generosity. The kitchen knife is surely a worthy addition to our company, but might I suggest you focus on your more immediate care? Balior could take you any minute.”
The male immediately prickled, wise to Navon’s intent. “I’d like to see him try,” he muttered, glowering once toward the sky in visible defiance.
Navon glanced up as well, seeing past the roof of auburn stone and starry sky, to the realm of Emal’drathar. He could imagine Sel’ari beholding their state with a stony gaze. Jikun was certainly not winning her or any of the deities’ favor with his continual blasphemy. And yet here he stood. “I told you the gods have a plan for us. You will discover that we were wrecked upon this land for a reason,” he countered as he rubbed a moistened hand across his foot to dislodge the flecks of sand. “But not if you don’t tend to your wound.”
Jikun groaned.
How could such a brilliant male be at the same time so foolish? “General,” Navon barked sternly, giving way to Riphath’s nagging. “You were nearly gutted back on Sevrigel and it’s a miracle you have survived this long without proper care. At any moment, even your adrenaline shall perish and Esra will find you sprawled out on her kitchen floor.”
Jikun patted the silken pillows once. “I’ve already planned to do the sprawling here,” he laughed.
Navon smacked the table sharply. “Take your health seriously, damn it! You are not going to be able to survive on luck forever. We are on the human side of the world, Jikun, and it is far more savage.”
Jikun gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh Mother, please stop fretting.”
Navon snatched up a nearby pillow and hurled it at Jikun’s face. “You’re fortunate I was never the general on Sevrigel because I would have bled that Darivalian arrogance right out of you!”
Jikun caught the pillow and hurled it back, skirting the side of the vase and smacking Navon in the face. “Father will most certainly hear of this abuse.”
Navon let the cushion fall aside, forgotten. His mouth opened and closed twice. “Good gods, General—your behavior would put the worst sprite to shame. You are a bloody adult!”
“No,” Jikun feigned a gasp and struck his wrist dramatically across his forehead. “I am? What a shocking revelation!”
Navon pounded the vase several times in silent anger, the remnants of water sloshing about. “If you make me come over there and strip your shirt off—”
Jikun grabbed another cushion and chucked it at the male. “Control your lust—I’m not going to loiter with a bloody injury exposed. I’ll take my chances with Lady Luck.”
Navon shook the vase as though it were Jikun’s neck. It offered him only paltry relief. “You had best start addressing your wound this very moment, General, or—”
“SH,” Jikun hissed as a soft thud sounded from beyond the room. He leaned forward sharply to shove the vase toward Navon’s lap.
Navon was forced to cut his words short as he hastened to balance the teetering stoneware. He had barely succeeded when the curtain slid aside and Esra stepped into the room. She paused, eyeing the churning vase and the two dirty males lounging about on her finely woven and scattered pillows.
* * *
Jikun awarded her with a subtle smile—one the women on Sevrigel would have paid to receive. It was worth the attempt.
He was half naked already, after all.
Perhaps the female had noticed his charming address or perhaps she had not, but if she indeed had, she was clearly not attracted to the opposite sex. She offered no reaction to his comment, or to her guests’ intrusive behavior. “…I come with good news. Do not fret. The council is eager to grant you aid… if you can prove that you are who you claim you are. You shall do so by completing the task provided to you by the council tomorrow morning. Until then, you shall be housed at our community inn.”
A community inn was squalor Jikun had never experienced the likes of before. And judging by the placement of Dahel in the scorching desert with naught but the sea for company, the general had no doubt that only smugglers would pile in for the nights—or weeks—their ships lay docked along the eastern coast.
The notion of a group of sex-deprived males crowding into a single room to while away their time was not exactly Jikun’s preference.
Despite Jikun’s outward misgivings—a curled lip, flared nostrils, and a deeply furrowed brow—Esra was predictably curt.
The captain shot him a warning glare.
“At my heels, minabi,” she tutted at the door as Navon finished rebinding his feet.
Jikun briefly speculated what insult he had been thrown before he stepped onto the street behind her where his offense was promptly swallowed. ‘What in the great tundra…?!’ Dozens of creatures of various species roamed and idled about the paths as though they were merely the adorable household wolf. But they each could have crushed Nazra beneath a single, massive paw.
“Beast taming is an innate skill found in all Eph’vi,” Esra beamed as she strutted toward the center of Dahel. “You Darivalians have thakish you ride into the hunt, do you not?”
“Yes,” Jikun lied. Responding with, ‘Actually, the thakish hunt us’ was mildly less impressive. He watched as a row of carefully painted vases and flickering evening lights were lost in the presence of several massive forms tromping alongside their tiny masters. Upon passing a blackened beast with glistening, scaled skin and lumpy, spiked hindquarters, the creature sucked itself into the nearest wall and grew as watery as its master’s bloodshot eyes. When Jikun had hurried past, it fattened once more and the pair disappeared down the street.
“That was an agretha,” Esra spoke as she noticed the subject of his gawking. “They are one of the most deadly. And my favorite.”
Jikun’s lips managed a slight twitch. “Delightful.”
And she did not charm him again until they arrived at a long, flat building shimmering with an orange hue from the nearby lights. The exterior was seamless basalt, as though hued entirely from the face of a single, colossal stone.
This might have impressed Jikun if it was not ultimately a lump of rock.
“Here we are,” Esra announced as she swept the curtain before the door aside. It was only slightly less gaudy than those that dangled before the windows. “On any given night, Keshal was bustling with foreign merchants. Since the arrival of the hel’onja, no one dares to travel from the coast.” She ducked inside and continued in rough Highstead, “You shall have Keshal almost for yourself.”
Jikun followed, ignoring the fact that she had brushed over an obviously sinister matter.
Navon, however, had curiosity to quench. “What is the hel’onja…?”
Esra trailed alongside the wall, past pillars carved of red sand and a slew of vividly painted murals. Her voice was softer in its reply, a hush not wholly formed by the distance. “The creature appeared two weeks ago, and since, travel to and from the city has stagnated,” she began solemnly. “We call it ‘hel’onja’—the black serpent—but it bears little resemblance to others of its species except in size. It is marked in strange symbols unfamiliar to our kind. It will not be controlled or pacified. It is a great bounty of luck that the two of you managed to arrive,” she finished as she stopped before a mauve curtain at the far wall. “Someone must have need of you.”
Navon smiled in his smug, little way and Jikun shoved an elbow staunchly in his side. “Contain your glee. We still have to get out of this damn desert.”
“Esra, I am here,” a new voice declared, and a male swept from behind the curtain with his arms spread wide. This Eph’ven was slightly shorter than the female—a rarity amongst males to be certain—with hazel eyes and a thin, dimpled smile. He was the very essence
of an innocent elf, plucked straight from the pages of a Sel’varian children’s story.
If he was of fairer skin, Jikun was quite certain his cheeks would have been rosy.
“This is Khatja,” Esra spoke stoically. “He shall care for you until the council determines Epherphese’s will.”
The newcomer flounced into the large room with a generous bow, flashing the female a glamorous smile that signaled his eagerness to please. His gaze was disappointingly personal; it was quite possible he had already gotten his cock wet. “A deep pleasure to meet such distinguished males as yourselves,” he began with a stupid grin. “I have heard a fair share of your adventures across the seas and, while I can in no way condone all of your actions, more than one item in my possession has been acquired from your work. Find a place to rest and I shall bring food, water, and aid to bear you ’til the dawn.”
Jikun turned with the encompassing motion of his hand. ‘Not as empty as suggested,’ he grouched as he inspected a large group of humans skulking along the left wall. The mass of them were drinking and eating and mumbling to one another in the Common Tongue.
Smugglers.
And along the rear curve of the wall was yet one more man. His solitude was distinguishing, and Jikun found his curiosity piqued enough to study him more closely. His skin was weathered, sun-beaten, and browned, but he appeared aged no further than his late thirties. He was exchanging a small bag of coin for a leather-bound book with one of the hairy crew members. ‘An outcast smuggler, perhaps…?’ “And who is that? Part of that crew…?”
Esra cocked her head, as though baffled that she should have to explain. “No—the crew is from The Ire, unable to return to their ship because of the hel’onja.”
Navon gave a nod, apparently familiar with yet another unsavory group.
“That man is Relstavum. He is a prestigious mercenary from the north, most famous for his work culling the bloodthirsters and lycanthropes.”
On cue the man looked up, a leather-bound book in one hand, a heavy bag of coins in the other. His attention flicked across the room to meet Jikun’s gaze, as though he had heard his name at that considerable distance; but as the mercenary was human, that was impossible. His eyes were dark, solid, and hollow, and yet they searched the Darivalian with unnatural intensity—a surveillance far too intrusive.
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 9
