Chapter Thirteen—Adventurers on the River

Shiro growled, his stomach starting to heave. He hated this rocking.

“What is this grumbling, man?” Ali asked. He was lying down, his ankle sitting atop his knee while his head was propped up atop a sack of rice.

“Why did you have to choose a boat?”

The awning kept most of the sun off of them and the coolness of the river did make travelling this way more bearable as far as the heat was concerning, but damned if Shiro wasn’t going to lose his breakfast.

“It is faster,” he said, not opening his eyes. He had a wheat strand hanging out of his mouth. Had it not been for his expensive silks, he’d have looked like a lazy farmer.

And Shiro had seen lazy farmers when he had first arrived in these lands, isekaied by some unseen force with no apparent motives whatsoever.

It all irked him.

He was not rich. He managed the wondrous good luck of finding Jessamine, and surviving the dungeon guardian Akarilion. But she had been taken away from him.

Part of him still blamed Debaku, but when Shiro gave it more thought, to the top-tier adventurer, taking the bag away had just been a job. He hadn’t even tried to kill Shiro until he attacked the Black Cobra that final time.

What was more, Shiro still didn’t know who brought him here, or why. Nothing had really gone his way in the long run.

He took pause for a moment.

That is not true, he thought.

I have friends.

Nodding to himself, he suddenly needed to bend over the side of the boat and retch his breakfast into the river.

Ali chuckled. “Be careful,” he said. “There are crocodiles in these waters. I hear some of them grow to monstrous proportions as well—especially in the south of Kulush.”

Shiro wiped his mouth, then unstopped his water skin. Putting some water in his hands, he rinsed his face and mouth.

“Then I will kill it and sell its hide,” Shiro said, his throat burning and his voice raspy.

Glancing up, these waters did have a greenish cast to them near the banks where the reeds and the lilies were. On the shore, there was white sand and palm trees—a very rich environment for farming.

This close to Darshuun, there were mountains and grassy steppes as far as the eye could see. To the south were the jungles where monsters not seen in hundreds of years existed.

Far too dangerous for most to traverse.

A part of Shiro wanted to see those lands, to explore the lost kingdoms.

But not now.

Perhaps not ever, he thought. But If I don’t, I may never get the chance again if I leave these lands.

Nothing in his life seemed to go the way he planned. But he would continue striving. He sat down next to Ali and glanced about. The boat had a sail. But also six pole bearers that pushed the ship along and kept it away from shallow areas.

“I suppose this is not a bad way to travel,” Shiro said.

“What?” Ali asked. “That is one of the reasons why I chose this method, Shiro. I do not much like the sores from constant riding.” He chuckled.

“Your friend, Razul,” Shiro said. “How do you know he will be in this place?”

Ali turned his head and looked at Shiro. “You and I,” he said, “never bothered. But there is a way to keep your locations known. You send letters, either by courier or by bird to the nearest adventurer’s guild. That guild then publishes an almanac of adventurer locations. It is updated every month.”

Shiro looked at him, surprised.

“Shiro, do you really not know this?”

“I have never heard it before.”

“Gods, man, you really are an infidel.”

Shiro chuckled. “What does being an infidel to your gods have to do with this?”

“Not that kind of infidel, my friend. You are an infidel to the ways of the adventurer.”

“I think ignorant is a better word.”

“Ha!” Ali scoffed. “I like my word better, eh?”

“Did you know that I was not an adventurer in my own lands?”

“No?”

“No.”

“Were you a carpenter?”

“Nani?”

“Hahaha!”

“I was—I am a samurai.”

“What is this samurai business?”

Shiro glanced off at the waters as he thought about how to explain it for a time. “Hmm. I would say a samurai is like a soldier.”

“A soldier?” Ali asked. “How common, my friend.”

“Samurai are soldiers bound to honor, to serve the daimyo of the land.”

“What is a die-me-oh?”

“Dai-m-yo,” Shiro corrected. “They are like the viziers,” he said, “but more formal. It is a position of the nobility in my lands.”

“Ah,” Ali said.

“And is there anything special about being a samurai?”

“We are not just soldiers,” he said. “It is our life’s calling. It is our noble position.”

“Wait!” Ali exclaimed. “You are a noble?”

“Hai.”

“Gods, man,” Ali said. “I always thought that I was above you in social stature.”

Shiro chuckled.

Don’t you wish, my friend…

“Well,” Ali said in correction, “I am rich!”

“Mmm.”

“Hahaha!”

“So,” Shiro added. “How long will our boat ride be?”

“Well, maybe four or five days,” he said, closing his eyes again as he leaned his head over his weaved fingers atop the rice sack. “And then when we reach Darbusa, we saddle up our camels and cross the flatlands. But we must be careful. There are Urutai raiders in these parts.”

“Raiders?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “They hate Abassir Imperials. Still bitter about being conquered by Darius.”

“Then I will tell them I am paying you to take me through,” Shiro said. “Then they can let me go and kill only you.”

Ali looked at him. “You are lightening up, my friend.” He smiled. “I like to see this.”

“I am still very troubled, Ali.”

“I know. That is why I am here—to help you. Do not worry. We will get Jessamine back.”

“And speaking of this,” Shiro said. “I need to do something with Debaku.”

“With Debaku?” Ali asked. “Do what? His eyes give me the slithers.”

“I think you mean ‘shivers’. Don’t let him hear you say that,” Shiro said. “He may gut you.”

“What?” Ali leaned up. “Are you serious, Shiro?”

He nodded, completely composed and serious, except for the smile underneath.

“Gods,” he said. “I better be careful. Shiro, you know I talk a lot, right?”

He nodded. “Mm.”

“So… if I start to say something… you know—“

“Stupid?”

“Ah, yes. Just stop me, okay?”

Shiro nodded. “All right.”

With a sigh of relief, Ali went back to sleep and Shiro regarded Debaku on the prow of the ship as he sharpened his scimitar. It looked to be a high quality weapon, perhaps something he had raided in one of his dungeon crawls.

The Mar’a Thulian had said he would help him attenuate. Shiro understood it to be some kind of magical ritual. He would ask Debaku to help him soon.

But now did not seem a good time.

Debaku was quiet, deep in his own thoughts, it seemed.

I do not want to bother him.