It didn't make intuitive sense. If you gave a skilled-enough silversmith a hunk of metal, he could do just about anything with it. With the nether and ether, however, it was as if the gods would only grant you so much talent. Perhaps they were afraid of being rivaled by a human—or of what a human might do with such power.
Yet he thought there might be more to it. Most lands only possessed a fraction of the many talents he'd discovered across the world. As far as Dante knew, he and the People of the Pocket were the only ones who could move the earth. He'd never heard of harvesting before arriving on the Plagued Islands. Mallish ethermancers crafted a number of trinkets such as torchstones that could be found nowhere else, and Dante himself had invented loons. There were times when he wondered if the only limits were what you'd been brought up with, and what you could imagine.
Whatever the case, he knew one thing for certain: he was off to an inauspicious start as a Harvester.
Winden's hold on the shadows slipped, but he pressed on. As he fiddled and futzed, she wandered off, returning several minutes later.
"Are you hungry?" she said.
Dante rubbed his eyes. The light through the canopy had the piercing glow of late afternoon sun on the sea. Hours had slipped away from him. Now that his brain had returned, his stomach seized the opportunity to alert him that it was starving.
"Sure." He stood, knocking dirt from his pants. "Got any of that paste kicking around?"
"Why don't we go into town?"
"Isn't there plenty of fruit right here?"
"You work too much. Besides, it's not permitted to take from the Basket." She grabbed his arm. "Come on."
She led them toward the calm surf of the bay. The path meandered through the trees, opening to grass and the beach. A second Basket had been built into the tide pools, housing oceanic plants of every shape and color. Winden walked past it and around a spar of rock reaching down to the water.
Down the shore, white smoke whorled from small fires burning on the sand. Dozens of people milled around, tending to the fires, slicing the rinds of fruits, scaling fish. The smell of grilled meat wafted on the air. It wasn't fish, but it wasn't beef, venison, chicken, or anything else Dante's nose could place. He wondered if it was one of the curiosities they'd seen in the jungle. Rather than their typically drab clothes, today the Kandeans wore wraps and skirts of purple, orange, and green.
"Is it some kind of holiday?" Dante said.
"It certainly looks like it," Winden said evenly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was for Larsin—and for you."
He laughed. "Is that why you kept me at the Basket all day? To keep me from finding out about this?"
"I didn't have to work very hard to distract you, did I?"
As he neared the locals, several broke his way, speaking excitedly in Taurish. Grinning, one of the men extended a cocked elbow.
"Link with him," Winden said. "It is our handshake. For someone you want to honor."
Dante clasped elbows with the man, somehow managing to acquit himself with minimal awkwardness. The man blurted something. Dante leaned closer, as if that would help him understand.
"He's thanking me?" Dante said. "For saving Larsin?"
"That is right," Winden said. "And for saving Kandak."
"Thank you," Dante replied in Taurish. "But still much to do."
The man looked surprised to hear Dante speaking the island's language. If he had any misgivings about hearing such words from a foreigner, however, he hid them, bowing and lowering his hand to the earth. He turned away. Dante walked on down the beach. He'd hardly made it ten yards before another group of townsfolk stopped him, offering the same elbow-clasp, and refusing to disperse until, relying heavily on Winden for translation, he relayed the events of their return through the Dreaming Peaks. When Winden finished explaining, the Kandeans questioned her some time longer. From what Dante picked up, they were trying to figure out if any of the details had been embellished. When they finally left, they did so shaking their heads, grinning in disbelief.
The next person to intercept him was Blays. He was gnawing on a rib that may or may not have been pork. "Have you tried the food?"
Dante glanced down the beach. "The attentions of the locals have been occupying my attention. It would appear that we're heroes."
"Well, the fare is incredible. Back home, you're a king, right? Why don't you throw yourself a feast every day?"
"I've been a little busy staving off invasion and treachery. But if I ever go insane, feel free to remind me of the benefits of fiscal irresponsibility."
There were at least two hundred people on the beach, with more trickling in by the minute. People played their carved bone flutes while others accompanied them on handheld drums little thicker than plates. Dancers paired up in two lines, facing each other from just out of arm's length. When one reached out to touch or grab their partner, the partner backpedaled, hands thrust out, face filled with longing and regret.
A middle-aged woman approached bearing skins of the pale, tough leather the people often used for purses and such. These turned out to be filled with a very fruity, very strong wine. This was the best thing Dante could have asked for, as over the next hour, he had to repeat the story of their journey to three more groups of listeners.
As he addressed the receiving line, people dragged furniture and torches down to the tideline. Dante kept an eye on the activity. The seating arrangements used in feasts could provide deep insight into a land's political structure—how many layers of aristocracy did they host; were the gentry or the peasants allowed to participate; was the festival more about celebration and entertainment, or the spectacle of the event.
There in Kandak, they were laying blankets on the sand, with people drifting to them in no obvious order or hierarchy. After Dante concluded his latest retelling of the story, Winden led him and Blays to a blanket, seating herself. Men moved from blanket to blanket handing out seamless wooden cups of wine. Rather than servants, the wine-bearers included some of the warriors Dante had seen battling the Tauren on their arrival to the island. Larsin was among them, too, grinning and clasping elbows. He made his way to their blanket, but remained standing. Annoyed, Dante rose to meet him.
"No need to get up," Larsin said. "I'm just making a toast."
Suppressing a sigh, Dante sat back down. Larsin held up his cup. Speaking in Taurish, he called his people to attention, words booming over the sough of the surf.
"I'm looking at my friends." Winden quietly translated his words. "I'm tasting my wine. Normally, this isn't cause for celebration. It's common. But tonight, it is a miracle. A miracle that I'm cured after being certain I was dead—and that this cure came from my son."
He gestured to Dante, then Blays. Still translating, Winden said, "They ask for nothing, but have given me everything. Tonight, then, let us give them the most valuable gift we can: our thanks, our gratitude, and our loyalty."
Larsin lifted his cup, sloshing wine on the sand, and drained it. The people whooped and clapped. Being feted always made Dante feel awkward, but it was hard not to be charmed by the genuineness of the Kandeans.
Larsin waited for the applause to die down. Soon, all that could be heard was the whisper of the surf. He lowered his gaze. "Few days pass without clouds. Today is no different. An hour ago, I was informed that the Tauren have taken the Dreaming Peaks."
Outraged calls rang out across the beach, followed by babble. Larsin let this take its course, then lifted his hands for silence. "Aye, you hate it. You know what that means? It means the Tauren have made one hell of a mistake. They've profaned the only sacred place left on this island. And they'll die for it. My life has been given back to me just in time for me to spend it driving the Tauren back to their tower."
He stalked down the sand, a smile fighting its way past the sternness of his expression. "Kicking the Tauren's asses in half can wait until later. Tonight, we celebrate. As two of the bravest warriors I've ever seen join our family in Kandak. No mo
re rixen—Dante Galand and Blays Buckler are now rixaka."
There was a moment of silence—hard to tell, but Dante thought it was shocked—and then a new wave of cheers. Winden's throat worked, but she said nothing.
"Mind translating your translation?" Blays said.
"Rixen are foreign liars," she replied. "Rixaka are foreign family. The highest honor. No rixen has been named rixaka since Larsin himself." She gestured up the beach. On the grass near the edge of the jungle, a hastily erected hut stood propped up on short stilts. "That house. It's yours now. Whenever you come back, you can stay there. And when you are away, anyone who looks at it will remember that you are a part of us." She met their eyes in turn. "This gift, it's not given lightly."
Dante looked up to Larsin. In Taurish, he said, "Thank you."
Larsin shook his head. "Thank you."
The older man turned back to address the crowds. This time, his words were met with a wave of laughter; every eye on the beach turned toward Dante and Blays.
"There is a second declaration," Winden said. "As rixaka, you are also eligible to be married."
"I'm not," Blays said. "I already have a wife."
"In our lands, yes," Dante said. "But not here."
Blays snorted. "You should be the one seizing the opportunity, Mr. Eternal Bachelor." He glanced toward the hut. "Though if you do wind up married, I'm going to have to demand a separate house."
Larsin wrapped up his speech. This was followed immediately by servings of barbecued red meat that Winden claimed was from the brisket of something called a fodder, and grilled fish whose flesh was even redder. Every blanket was given a heaping bowl of san paste and a tray of tiny bowls containing various chutneys and pastes. The onions, chilies, and spices within them should have been overpowering, but they were so well-balanced Dante suspected they'd been developed by Harvesters, which Winden confirmed.
After the meal concluded, people wandered up to their blanket in a steady stream, welcoming them to Kandak. The well-wishers didn't slow down until the sun was long set and the night's breeze had gone quiet. Larsin went off to speak with some of his warriors. With Blays off fetching more wine, and Winden making her way to the privy, an old man approached the blanket and sat across from Dante.
"Larsin says you are rixaka," he said in accented Mallish. He had a curly white beard, a bald scalp, and eyes so pale blue they nearly looked blind. "Before I agree with him, I say you play Woten."
"Truth-lie?" Dante said.
The man nodded slowly. On the blanket, he laid out a set of bone dice inscribed with Taurish numerals, setting two wooden cups beside them. "Woten, it is vital. Its gamble is not for money. It is for truths. If you win a round? You ask me anything. And I must answer."
"What happens if you lie?"
"Those who lie are damned. They are…" He gestured, searching for the word. "Marked. Stained. Kaval sees this. Knows you're guilty."
"This sounds like a strange game," Dante said. "Who would want to play it?"
"Enemies who wish peace talks. Two families whose young wish to wed. When you think a man has stolen from you. All disputes solved through Woten."
"Next question. Why do you wish to play this with me?"
The old man smirked. "To get answer? You must play."
"Tell me the rules."
The old man's name was Stav; he was the one who'd promised to look after the infant Blays had rescued. The basics of Woten were similar to many games involving dice and cups: both players rolled their dice, keeping the results hidden from each other beneath the cup. This meant bluffing was an integral part of the game. Whoever won each round was allowed to ask one question of the loser.
But there were three wrinkles. First, you didn't announce your results out loud—you wrote them on a scrap of paper, only comparing them after both players had written down a number. Without knowing in advance what number you needed to beat, bluffing was complicated by how likely you thought your opponent was to have bluffed, which depended partly on how desperate they were to receive—or avoid giving—answers.
The second wrinkle was this: if you suspected your opponent was bluffing, you could call them on it. But if you were wrong, then you had to answer a second question as well.
The game had to last at least seven rounds. After that, if you won a round, you could choose to end the match rather than asking a question. This made it sound like a game of Woten might finish in just two or three minutes, but Stav said that many games were played with advisors who (depending on the arrangement) could help you decide when to bluff, whether your opponent was bluffing, what questions to ask, and so on. These discussions could make a single game endure for hours.
The third and final wrinkle: though the dice had six sides, they weren't numbered one through six. Some showed special numbers as high as thirty, meaning that with five dice, your results could sound preposterously high.
Overall, the game was simple. But Dante could see that the psychology behind it was fiendish.
They gathered their dice in their cups, shook them, and slammed them to the ground. Dante's added up to 23. A good score overall, but it would be beaten easily if Stav had any special numbers. Even so, he thought it was strong enough. Using a bit of charcoal, he wrote 23 on a scrap of a pale leaf that felt exactly like paper. When they revealed their scores, Stav had thirteen.
Stav examined Dante's face. "You have 23?"
"Correct."
"I think," Stav said after a short hesitation, "you bluff."
Dante lifted his cup, revealing he'd been telling the truth. "I win. Twice over. First question: why do you want to play this game with me?"
"To learn why you have come here."
"What, nobody told you?"
The old man smiled thinly. "They did. Next round."
Dante swore at his foolishness; he'd had several cups of fruit-wine and had blurted his second question without thinking. This round, Dante got lucky with one of the special dice, picking up a 49. He wrote as much on his leaf. Stav had fourteen. As per the rules, they read their scores out loud, watching each other's faces.
Stav folded his arms. "I accept."
"Good for you." Dante swept the cup away from his dice. "I win again. So you have heard I came here to cure my father, but you don't you believe it. Why not?"
"Two reasons. For Kaval, I answer both. First: I doubt because I doubt all outsiders. Second: I doubt because I heard you are bad."
"What exactly did you hear about me?"
Stav made a cutting gesture. "You earned one question. You have asked it."
"I thought you might want to answer that one out of the kindness of your heart."
The old man straightened his spine, mustering his considerable gravitas. "Roll."
Dante came outwith a twelve. Maintaining his best gambling face, on his paper, he wrote a 21. When they made their reveals, Stav showed a six.
"You bluff," the old man said.
"Hang on," Dante said. "Surely you're bluffing."
"That is so. And you?"
"Yes. No questions this round, then?"
"None."
As they rolled their next, a man and a woman drifted up, observing in silence. Dante tallied his score (an even twenty) and wrote it on his leaf.
"Eighty-seven," Stav said.
"Eighty-seven. As in eighty. Plus seven." Dante stared him down. It was an outrageous number that relied on maxing out nearly all his dice except the smallest ones. "You're bluffing."
He showed his dice. "Wrong. Two questions. Why did you come to the island?"
"It's just as they say," Dante said. "To cure Larsin."
"What does he matter to you?"
"He doesn't. I came here because that would mean I'm a better man than he is." He gazed over the milling crowds seated around their blankets and laughing in the torchlight. "But the trip was worth it in its own right."
Stav won the next three rounds in a row, asking Dante whether he'd had any contact with the Tauren prio
r to his arrival in Kandak (no), if he had any enemies in Kandak (also no), and whether the Mallish had any role in his presence here (again, no).
Dante won the next round with a lucky roll that Stav mistakenly called as a bluff. "Does my father actually care about me? Or did he only summon me here because he knew I was his only chance?"
The old man quirked a brow. "Larsin, he searched for you for years. Long before he came sick. Never stopped."
"Why did he come here to begin with?"
"To trade metal. Iron. Earn you a fortune. First war with Tauren, this delayed him. By the time he finished, you disappeared."
Dante took the next round via bluff. "Now that my father's well, do you think you can defeat the Tauren again?"
Stav bared his teeth and turned to stare out at the dark waters of the bay. "I doubt. They have more weapons. Armor. Shaden."
"Second question. If Blays and I stayed, would it make a difference?"
"Hard to say. If anyone can kill Vordon? It is you."
After that, Stav took round after round. After the fourth one—he asked if Dante thought Winden was pretty, which Dante was obliged to confirm—Dante finally won, and declared the match over. Stav gathered his things.
"Find what you came here for?" Dante said.
"Yes." The old man bowed his head. "Welcome to the family."
He ambled away. None of the others had come back to the blanket, so Dante wandered north, away from the torches, seizing the chance to think.
In time, a young man found him, pressed a cup of wine into his hand, and asked if he and Blays would show them how to fight with swords. This drew a significant crowd and resulted in multiple additional cups of wine. There was much laughing and the scraping of knuckles (though at least they'd had the sense to switch to bamboo practice swords).
Dante glanced up and noticed the moon had advanced a remarkable distance across the sky. Most of the torches had been snuffed, leaving the beach dim. Blays was having trouble walking. Dante helped him to their hut, then returned to the beach to try to clear his head. The sands were all but deserted. Recognizing Larsin's silhouette, Dante made way toward the taller man, only stumbling once.
The Red Sea Page 13
