“It is what happens when fools meddle with things they should not meddle with. They have been warned to not draw the attention of the Sanctum Order. But it doesn’t look to be them this time. The scale is beyond their capabilities. I worry that…”

The first part of a reply from Nahar

Zuma

Zuma awoke to shouts outside. He almost fell from his bed. Bandits. Bloody bandits. Only a little light got through the window's slit. It wasn’t even early morning. As he opened the window to take a better look at the commotion, he could see people gathering near the bridge and beyond where lay the doctor’s house. What is going on? Guards and hunters milled around, both confused and aloud. People trying to get some sleep! Zuma wasn’t stupid or blind for that matter and he noticed—technically it was Izin-Pil who noticed the guards watching the inn—and Zuma knew right then and there that the mayor wouldn’t let him go. And in truth, how could he go? Alone? He’d die within a day or two without a proper caravan. As his thoughts wandered around his plans of leaving Cape Town, three men broke off the group of guards and strode toward his inn.

A sudden knock on the door shook him off the dreamy state, and like an idiot he so often has thought himself, he ran down to open the barred door. The inn was empty save for him. Even Izin-Pil and her insufferable mother had retreated to their huts.

Zuma slide the wooden locks and not for a moment it occurred to him that he wore a simple loincloth, he so much liked to sleep wearing. He wasn’t asleep any more as he swung the door open, letting the humid and warm air inside. There were architects there who could build a house in a way that the air was always fresh and cool inside and there were plants that filtered this heavy almost unbreathable air. Zuma neither had money to contract such an architect nor he could afford to buy a plant like this. If such existed, most of the stuff, mystical and extraordinary, was made up and fictional. Spurred up in the drunken minds or told by countless travelers whose stories fuddled their listeners. It wasn’t that Zuma was immune to such practices because he was far from it and hence he ended up, chasing a foolish dream. But the innkeeper’s learned that some of the lies held a grain of truth. And now, watching the three men before him, a similar sense returned to him like a boomerang used by the clans of the Third Region.

The three men before him made up a motley that almost pushed him to close the door and retreat into the embrace of sleep. Unfortunately, the years he’s spent as an innkeeper humbled him. It was his anathema and badge of honor, extending a hand to those in need.

What kind of need these three had, he could only guess but if they came here, it meant they needed a roof over their heads. The first man with skin a shade lighter than the two behind couldn’t be real, an abstract or much more likely a satire. His clothes were torn down to his garment, but Zuma judged that they had been elegant clothes. What shredded the man’s outfit, Zuma was only mildly interested in. Maybe it was the lateness of the night or the faces of a man’s companions. One grinned and his face twisted something in the innkeeper. He’d known (as a boy) faces like this. He could smile all he liked but the blunt cruelty was plainly attached to this face. Zuma’s ‘friends’ had worn them as they hunted snakes and frogs at the Three Claws peninsula, later to cause them needless suffering. The third man—with the face of a boy—was clearly of some tribe origin. There was nimbleness to his slim silhouette.

They looked at Zuma, Zuma looked at them and for a moment they stood in the confused silence. Then the man in the front shook off whatever had been grasping his mind and said, “we are looking for a shelter house.”

His accent was vaguely familiar, he spoke like a trader. His mustaches twitched and his hands reached to his waist and there he stopped them, remembering the state of his clothes. It was a nervous tick.

As Zuma opened his mouth to lie – per mayor’s order – that Cape Town didn’t have a shelter house anymore he hesitated. The ragtag group didn’t look like they had much money.

“The shelter house is in the southern part of the village,” Zuma replied hoping to get rid of them.

“What about this inn? How much for a night and a meal?”

“And booze,” added the one with a cruel smile.

Some unknown force almost pushed Zuma’s foot back. A memory of his ‘friends’ misbehavior was stronger than he’d expected. It took him a moment to compose his thoughts and answer.

“It’s cheap,” he lied again. Nowhere near a village could say to possess the standard of the Fisherman – his inn. But he didn’t feel like overcharging them. Maybe it was the affair with Giliad or fear of the mayor, he couldn’t say. “Please come inside.”

Only after they entered, Zuma began picking up details, the two of them had a military outfit. Is that Imperial sigil and armor? He couldn’t quite see as their clothes were stained. It was enough though, to seep unease into his bones. I should have said it’s expensive! Idiot.

Their eyes swept the common room and the cruel one whistled.

“That’s a proper place to sleep! Dry and hole between planks.” The man with the shredded clothes shook his head. There was a weak smile in his eyes that didn’t touch the rest of his face. Alert, Zuma quickly corrected the man. “This isn’t a sleeping room. We have rooms with beds. I have a room with three—”

“There’s five of us, though I can’t say for the fifth man as he was wounded.” Wounded? Finally, some of the interest started to ferment in Zuma. Maybe it was their smell that dispersed Zuma’s sleepiness, but once it was gone, he stared at them with lucid eyes and he didn’t like what he saw. They looked like two guards and a trader. Only that Imperial sigil didn’t fit the narrative. He could ask them or even demand an explanation. The mayor’s people were close, some perhaps observing his inn right now.

“Where are the other two?” He eventually asked as he led them up.

“With your healer,” replied the tribesman. “My name is Emm.”

Healer? You’re a hundred percent from some tribe, boy. Though the name ‘Emm’ sounded made up.

The second floor was a long corridor with doors on both sides. Floorboards squeaked and they did so on purpose. The last thing Zuma needed was a sneaking thief. He showed them two rooms. The cruel one picked a room for himself, while Emm and the ‘trader’ took a room with two beds. He didn’t ask questions nor appeared surprised. When the door on the left closed, the man with mustaches asked him for a drink and a quick meal. His companion didn’t want anything. When Zuma returned with a jug of melon beer and dark bread, the man thanked him and introduced himself.

“Harvey Logan.” A tremor shot through the innkeeper for having two names meant this man must be a Royalblood. And if he was one of those Imperial-blessed ‘monsters’ and wore clothes like this, it indicated deeper troubles than the mayor had expected with Giliad. At least, his friend didn’t parade with the second name. For a moment, Zuma raked his mind in search of proper conduct in the presence of a Royalblood. Many believed that Royalblood were gods born mortal.

“My name is Zuma…” He almost added ‘my Lord’ but at the last moment, his voice failed to make any sound as if saying these two words made his fears come true.

“Zuma,” Harvey Logan tasted the name while his eyes judged Zuma with diligence. “You aren’t from here, are you?”

“Red Cities.”

Harvey Logan’s eyes brightened and he smiled, though there was an unspoken shadow in this strained expression. Harvey Logan nodded and without further world disappeared inside the room. A moment later a knocking sounded downstair and Zuma cursed.

“Are my fellows here?” the man in a torn military outfit said. It was not easy to not recoil in the presence of this scrawny man whose visage was one of the ugliest Zuma has seen in his life. The innkeeper nodded. All the pity he’d felt earlier, now evaporated. The man carried thick leather bags with him. They looked heavy and when he noticed Zuma’s attention, the newcomer snapped, “something to drink, innkeeper. Make sure it contains red leaf.”

Red leaf, eh? Not that Zuma didn’t have any. It was the most common stimulant in the empire and one which wasn’t illegal, yet. But the long tradition has pushed the red leaf into the sphere of taboo where one didn’t ask about it openly as this man just did. Zuma glanced at his customer as he retreated into the farthest corner of the common room. This isn’t a soldier, Zuma told himself. And these bags. They look suspicious. They were no longer in Zuma’s sight. The man hid them, which wasn’t difficult in a badly lit common room.

It took Zuma a minute to prepare a drink that would make the man run for a night, but there were things which the innkeeper’s kept for himself since coming to Cape Town and so the drink he served the newcomer had a pinch of Ammila bark. It’d make the man nice and talkative. Suddenly, Zuma wished that Izin-Pil was here. Her ability to sneak around his inn was unparalleled. She was aided by many alcoves without good lighting and thin corridors inside the walls. The Fisherman man was built this way on the demand from the mayor when Zuma had arrived at Cape Town seven years ago.

He put the drink on the table and asked, “anything to eat?” The man needed a moment to respond as he sniffed at Zuma’s drink. At first, the innkeeper almost snapped at the man for the rude behavior but then cold sweat showered him. What if can sniff it out? It was unlikely because Ammila bark possessed barely any scent and even less taste, but the Fifth Region was home to strange people and creature stranger still.

“Is something wrong?”

The man looked up sharply, Zuma made a step back. Nothing followed it up except for the oppressive silence. The customer didn’t look much like a fighter, but one didn’t need to look like anything to him in the guts.

“What’s this place?” Judging from his tone, Zuma concluded that whoever watched his inn wouldn’t make it in time. He was either insane or a criminal. With such sort, there could be no debate.

“Cape Town or the inn?” Zuma asked unsure weighing his options. He should get to the front door first, but the lock … it’d cost him precious seconds to open it.

“Never mind,” the man replied coolly and took a sip. It was enough to pull the palette of flavors from the drink. Everything Zuma needed. The ugly face twisted in something akin to shock and the man forced his expression to stillness. Zuma knew he’d be hard-pressed to do so. The innkeeper knew his craft well. The man lifted the cup with his tattooed sinewy arm and asked, “what’s this?”

“It’s my secret recipe, but there is mango, papaya, red leaf, and dozen of flower extracts.” And Ammila bark, but this, you shouldn’t know. Five seconds later the content of the cup disappeared and the man barked his name, “Perkins.”

“Zuma,” the innkeeper replied, following the tradition of not introduction himself before the guest. Perkins’s name was clearly fake. Tribes were known to pick old and nature-derived names. There was a slim chance that Perkins came from a city, bastarded by a dumb merchant who sought a tribeswoman. Such a merchant was dumb because the tribes preferred to keep their bloodlines pure and would kill the merchant, the woman, and the child without a second thought. Stirring out of the gloomy train of thoughts, Zuma apologized to the man, took his cup, and retreated to the bar where he began crafting another drink.

“What happened?” the innkeeper asked, finishing the drink with a hint of purple pepper. And when there was no reply he looked up. The spot in the corner was empty. Zuma’s heart lodged in his throat and his eyes swept the common room again. The chamber was very straightforward ensuring the barkeeper a good view of the entire room. Perkins had nowhere to go without Zuma noticing him. Unless the hidden corridors! They were well maintained to keep the planks from making any noises.

The innkeeper put his hands down and attempted to steady his pulse. The freaking corridors ran up. And one led to his office. My savings! Zuma moved, then stopped. The motion drew his attention.

“This inn, what is it called?” Perkins stood in the middle of the common room. He must have used one of the alcoves to hide.

“The Fisherman.” Zuma’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Dumb name.” Perkins approached him, bags on the man’s shoulder. “But it’s a good place. Show me the sleeping room, man.” Zuma nodded, calculating his chances of getting out of the village alive. He couldn’t know how slim they’ve become.