13. The combat of the feather

He awoke hearing bells, and for a brief instant, he believed he was with captain Zorvun and his soldiers, sleeping under the stars in Xalya lands, in some pasture with flocks. He opened his eyes and came back to reality. The sun illuminated everything, even through the thick tilt of the carriage. It was stiflingly hot.

The wagon was rolling slowly, and the wheels creaked and screeched. Aydin and Hadriks were both sitting in the front, and they were whispering at each other without breaking the calm of the atmosphere.

Dashvara dropped a look at his wound. He was shirtless, and his skin was sweating hard. A big, white bandage was tightening the top of his abdomen. As he saw no blood upon it, he felt relieved.

Hadriks laughed softly at some words whispered by the ternian, and he put up an arm to point to one direction. As he did not want to interrupt them nor to talk with them for now, Dashvara leaned his head again on what seemed to him to be a folded carpet. A bag, on his right, looked familiar. Lying on it, he recognized his shirt, still bloody, and his Shalussi headscarf. So he had kept his effects, he observed gladly. He stretched a hand and opened the bag. There inside, there was a piece of rope he had gotten from the stables, as well as some rags, a clay bowl, and dried fruits. He also recognized the steel bar stolen in Orolf’s store. He wasn’t the one who had placed it here, and he supposed that someone else had retrieved it from his boot and put it in the bag. He did not see the water bottle, though. At the bottom, his hand came across the small, wooden figure that Bashak had given to him. He grasped it from the bag, and for a long time, he stared at the serene solemnity of the sculpted face.

“I forgot there was the Feast of Gifts in Rocavita,” Hadriks’s voice commented. “Do you think it would be worth trying to sell some magaras?”

“If you want to try,” Aydin shrugged. “But, as for the carpets, we will sell them in Dazbon.”

Dashvara put the small figure back in the bag and sat up. Immediately, Hadriks, warned by some sixth sense, looked back at him.

“Master,” he whispered. “He’s awake.”

Aydin Kohor followed Hadriks’s gaze, and he nodded briefly.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Dashvara answered. “Much better.”

“We’ve almost arrived at Rocavita,” Aydin informed him. “Once there, I recommend you should stay in the inn until the wound heals up completely. I will tell a healer about you and he will change your bandage.”

Dashvara didn’t reply at once. He had just neared the front of the wagon, and the sight awed him into silence. At one side, there was a large field covered with weird, twisted bushes. At the other side, a grassland stretched far away, with several sheep flocks led by shepherds. And ahead, a small, rugged hill was full of houses even whiter than those of the steppe people. They weren’t made of stone extracted from Padria Mountains but from the southern quarries of Maeras, he guessed.

“It’s a big city,” he observed. Dashvara had never seen so many houses together.

He noticed the ternian’s slight smile.

“More exactly, it’s a small town,” this one corrected him with a cheerful tone. “It has two thousand inhabitants at most. Dazbon had sixty thousand.”

Dashvara quivered with a strange feeling of smallness in his heart. He knew, thanks to Maloven, that Dazbon was thought to be one of the biggest cities of the Walker Ocean’s shore, but he had never imagined that, one day, he would find himself so close to it.

Suddenly, the stillness was interrupted by exclamations of surprise and joy. The two wagons heading the march stopped, and after leaning riskily over one side, Hadriks cried with a wide grin:

“It’s Atisua’s caravan!”

“Atisua,” Aydin smiled. “I haven’t seen her for maybe a year! She’s a very well-known magarist,” he explained to Dashvara as he halted the carriage. “Hadriks, stick around. I’ll be right back.”

Leaving a moody Hadriks, he got down and passed by the other wagons to greet his coworker. Dashvara put on his boots, shirt, and headscarf, he took his bag, and he got down too, carefully. Hadriks considered him with an unsteady look.

“Er—” he said, coughing softly.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow once he had the feet on the paved road.

“What is it?”

Hadriks shook his head wordlessly. The Xalya rolled his eyes, and he was about to tell him he didn’t intend to bite him if he dared speak when he saw Zaadma getting down the following wagon, and he completely forgot the boy. The Dazbonish woman had changed her red dress into a blue taffeta, puffed pants, and a white tunic. She didn’t look anything like her.

“You shouldn’t move, cousin!” Zaadma rebuked him, drawing closer. “For the Divinity’s sake, go up back. Why have we stopped, Hadriks?”

Dashvara looked at her thoughtfully while Hadriks was explaining that they would go on in no time. He opened his mouth, and Zaadma pinched his arm.

“Not now,” she whispered. “How are you feeling?”

Dashvara’s mouth twisted. He didn’t understand what was the point of that masquerade about cousins.

“Marvelously,” he replied. He squeezed her arm and took her apart from the road, whispering: “And now do me the favor of explaining to me why on earth you pretend to be my cousin.”

Zaadma gnashed her teeth.

“Please don’t speak so loud.”

“I am not speaking loud,” Dashvara retorted.

Zaadma screwed up her face and glanced at Hadriks. This one was looking at them out of the corner of his eyes with a curious expression.

“Look,” Zaadma whispered. “I—”

She fell silent when they both saw Rokuish getting closer with a jovial expression.

“Wow, you look just fantastic!”

Dashvara stared at him, astonished.

“I’m glad to see you, Rok, but… exactly what are you doing here?”

“I’ve already answered that question some days ago,” the Shalussi replied. “I’m taking care of two hopeless, crazy fools. And visiting the world,” he added, grinning broadly. He turned to Zaadma. “Have you already explained your problem to him?”

“I’m on it,” she replied, and she took some steps farther from the road. “Look, Odek. I apologize for taking the liberty of lying about that, but I had a strong reason for acting this way. I’ll get to the point. I’m the illegitimate daughter of a senator from Dazbon called Sarfath Andeyed. Sarfath is a man very upright that hates the uproars, and therefore, he hates me because he is scared that I might mess up his career if I reveal the affair he had with the Countess of Twach. When my mother died, I found myself out of money and couldn’t afford the enrollment in the Citadel. He offered me an income of thirty gold coins per year, but he offered it in such a contemptuous way that I didn’t accept it out of my stupid pride. The last time I saw him, three years ago, the Tribunal had shut me up in a monastery for an offense I committed. My father told me that I would have been confined for five years without his intercession. And as I ran away with Aldek…” Zaadma paused, took a glance at the wagons, and added quickly: “If the guard or my father finds out that I am in Dazbon, they will order to capture me because of my escape. But… we don’t have to tell them anything about it, right?” she smiled. “If I pretend to be a pure steppewoman that travels to Dazbon with her two cousins, no one will be able to find out who I am. From now on I am Zaetela of Shalussi, Zae for you two. I hope… that you don’t mind. Rokuish says it doesn’t bother him, eh? You don’t have to do anything more than usual,” she assured. “You even may return to the steppe whenever you like. Shizur, the wine merchant, promised me he would help me find a job in an apothecary’s shop introducing me as Zaetela of Shalussi. Shizur is an awesome man. He forgave us for having banged up his wagon. And, well, I just… I mean…”

She fell silent and swallowed under Dashvara’s fixed look. This one was pondering over the strange acts of Zaadma when Aydin beckoned them over. Several wagons were already passing by, in the opposite direction, and the first wagon of the Dazbonish caravan got going.

“So. How do you feel about it?” Zaadma hurried him.

Dashvara waved his hand.

“I will answer as soon as we arrive at Rocavita.”

Dashvara got up back to the wagon with his bag, and Zaadma and Rokuish returned to their own. The horses kept advancing, and soon, they reached the first houses of Rocavita. Dashvara clearly felt that his strength was failing him, but he was sick of staying lain, and thus he settled himself near the front to view the city. He had never seen anything like that. There were people dressed in richly adorned, long tunics; others wore puffed or tight-fitting trousers; and most of them had covered their head with bright colored turbans and hats. The majority were humans, but not all. There were elves, tiyans, and he even saw a little figure that he mistook for a child at first sight and that turned out to be a halfling. There were paved streets, shops, and even three-storied houses with engraved, stone columns, and artistic sculptures on the doors. The Dungeon of Xalya had always been thought by the steppe people as an imposing building with an ancient and tough architecture; Rocavita wasn’t imposing: it was beautiful. He rectified himself soon when they passed through a square and he saw the statue of an enormous dragon built of white marble. In awe before such a wonder, Dashvara felt his eyes mist up. He knew that, in Dazbon and the neighboring cities, people were strong believers in the White Dragon, which was also called the “Divinity”. No doubt the artists who had built this sculptured White Dragon had succeeded in inspiring, at the least, an utter respect for it.

“This is amazing,” he commented.

“Ha!” Aydin laughed. “If Rocavita seems to you amazing, Dazbon will seem to you a divine gift.”

The horses didn’t ascend to the top of the hill: they passed around, crossing a street, and stopped in the southern part of the town, before a high build with open gates. They got in a court where six merchant wagons were already lined up along a wall. Several cats, lying comfortably in the shade of a wall, observed the sudden hustle and bustle with lazy eyes.

As soon as the caravan stopped, Aydin went away to pay the wagon space with the other merchants. The village rumble was very different from the one Dashvara was accustomed to. Curious to see more, he took his bag again, and he was getting down when Hadriks, who had stayed on the wagon bench to stand guard, asked briskly, as if screwing up his courage:

“How did you get this scar?”

Dashvara gave him a surprised look.

“Which of them?”

“The one on the shoulder. Master Aydin says that this one couldn’t be caused by a weapon edge.” He averted his eyes and hastened to say very formally: “Sorry for my indiscretion.”

Dashvara smiled. For some reason, Hadriks reminded him of Saodar, his youngest brother.

“Your master is right. A furient wolf caused me this wound when I was fifteen.” He leaned against one of the carriage lower boards and told: “One night, I was standing guard when I heard the beast. As I was an utter fool at that time, I did not scream right away, and I wanted to frighten away the wolf by myself. I didn’t know, then, that the furient wolves do not get frightened even before a dragon. When it got too closer, I make my second mistake: I turned my back on it, and I ran to the camp, screaming like a madman. By chance, I was struck by a lightning of lucidity, and I turned just in time to avoid being devoured by the wolf because it was just springing on me. And I killed it.” He smiled before Hadriks’s stupefied face. “So from now on, boy, you know that you’d best never turn your back on a wolf, and if you see one, go back cautiously, and scream.”

Hadriks nodded, open-mouthed. An amused cough sounded just beside the wagon, and Dashvara turned. Zaadma and Rokuish had heard the story, and both were looking at him with entertained faces.

“Did you really kill it only by yourself?” Rokuish asked skeptically.

A slight smile stretched across Dashvara’s face.

“If I hadn’t killed it myself, it would have killed me. My comrades would have arrived too late.”

“So the story is true?” Hadriks said, excited.

Dashvara’s smile widened.

“As true as my scar. Is that the inn?”

The boy nodded and pointed out a door.

“There’s the lodging entrance. And, out of the court, you’ll find the door of the tavern. It’s called the Cathoney. It’s a good place, and it’s quite cheap for Rocavita. You can order a meal for three people for the price of twelve dettas.”

Pleasantly surprised, Dashvara could notice the abrupt change of Hadriks’s attitude.

“Thanks,” he told him.

As soon as they moved on, getting out of the court to go to the tavern, he commented:

“If my memory doesn’t fail me, the dettas are silver coins, aren’t they?”

They walked slowly, at Dashvara’s careful pace. Zaadma nodded.

“Aye. A detta is a tenth of the dinars. And there are also the dragons, which are gold coins.” She sighed. “It will take me a while to get used not to seeing so many gold coins. With those five hundred dragons I gained with the Shalussis, I’d be able to spend ten years in Dazbon living rather comfortably and not even worrying about money. But, hell, surprises in life are worthier than five hundred dragons,” she added, smiling.

Dashvara and Rokuish exchanged an amused look. Jingles of cutlery came from within the tavern, as well as a moderate noise of voices. The two steppemen were going to enter when Zaadma held up a hand to stop them. She gave Dashvara an eloquent look.

“You still didn’t answer my question, cousin.” She made an embarrassed face and looked at them both with an honest light in her dark eyes. “I don’t mean to get you into trouble, believe you me. But you’d do me a great favor just by pretending to be my cousins, without doing anything more.”

Dashvara had reflected a bit about the matter, though the problem in itself was easy to sort out. He joined his both hands and said calmly:

“I don’t deny your reasons make sense. The only weak point in your plan is that you assume that I will go to Dazbon.”

Zaadma shook her head vigorously.

“Dazbon is just a few hours away from Rocavita on horseback. And if you haven’t ever seen the City of the White Dragon, it would be nearly a sacrilege to turn back now we are here, don’t you think?” She gave him an innocent smile.

Dashvara rolled his eyes, amused.

“Let’s go settle down. And if, by any chance, you have money, I would be grateful to you for paying these four dettas for the favor of being called cousin.”

Zaadma grinned from ear to ear.

“For my cousin, I would buy the whole inn if I could.”

“Haw!” Rokuish smiled. “Beware, don’t make promises that might tempt me.”

“I was speaking to Odek, not to you,” Zaadma retorted naughtily.

Dashvara shook his head wordlessly. The pain of his wound had gotten worse with the movements, and when they entered the tavern, he felt so dizzy that he staggered and flopped down into the first empty bench he found. Rokuish and Zaadma had to turn back, surprised.

“The cousin is not quite up and about yet,” the Xalya explained.

They both sat down at the table, and while Zaadma was reading to Rokuish the daily special menu, which was written in chalk next to the bar, Dashvara let a faint gaze sweep all around as he rubbed his beard absently. The expressions passed before his eyes: smiling, half-asleep, naughty, or severe. One old couple was playing cards at a nearby table; farther, some youths with turbans were about to have dinner and were chattering calmly; in a corner, two men with their faces hidden under a black scarf were scrutinizing the customers, as if they were looking for somebody. Dashvara met the gaze of one of them, and he furrowed his brow. He turned to Rokuish when he saw this one shaking his head briskly.

“I must learn to write,” the Shalussi affirmed. “It can’t be that I’m not able to understand these weird drawings when they seem to mean so many things.”

“I could teach you,” Zaadma suggested.

Rokuish looked at her, agreeably surprised.

“Are you seriously proposing it?”

Zaadma made a face as if she was musing on the matter, and she finally confessed:

“Mm. It depends. If it turns out that you’re as useless at wielding a quill as at wielding a saber as Odek said—”

Dashvara jerked up.

“I never said he was useless,” he protested.

Rokuish had turned pale. Zaadma rolled her eyes.

“Perhaps you didn’t say it, but it showed in your face whenever I asked how the training went. What?” she added with a laugh as she saw them both embarrassed. “Why, there’s no reason at all to feel ashamed! In my view, it’s not because a man knows how to wield a saber that he seems more appealing or cleverer to me. That’s why I was never able to completely get along with Walek. Or with Nanda. The two of them have always thought that the respect to themselves increases proportionally to the number of defeated enemies. It’s another culture—” She closed her mouth and glimpsed at the old couple at the nearby table. “Ahem, I mean, technically, it’s our culture,” she rectified, “but I will never be able to understand it.”

Dashvara and Rokuish looked at each other and smiled.

“You’re absolutely right, Zae,” the Xalya commended. “Killing doesn’t produce respect. At most, it may save your life.”

Zaadma’s expression changed.

“Or it may help carry out a revenge,” she whispered.

Dashvara frowned.

“Or dispense justice,” he replied.

At that instant, a dwarf with a colored tunic came up to them. He wore a characteristic bracelet around his arm, and in hand, he held a small book and a black graphite pencil.

“Welcome to the Cathoney! Come to have dinner?” he asked, and as the three of them nodded, he recited: “Here’s the daily special menu: paste of wheat with vegetables, pumpkin, and fried eggs seasoned with premium-quality olive oil from Kwata. It would be four dettas per each. Would you care for a special drink? We carry white wine of Hikutia, black wine of Atalbella, and red wine from our best vineyards of Rocavita,” he enumerated in an enjoyable voice. “One bottle costs eight dettas. For the dessert, we also have fresh lemonade, coco wine, goat milk, apple liquor, tea of—”

“No, thanks,” Zaadma interrupted him, smiling. “A bit of water with the menu will be fine.”

The dwarf performed a quick bow.

“Anything you want.”

Obviously taking his job with an exemplary happiness, the dwarf moved on; Rokuish whistled.

“Well, this menu seems to be somewhat substantial.”

With a broad grin, Zaadma just said:

“That’s the way a republican menu is.”

Thoughtful, Dashvara saw the old couple at the nearby table withdrawing the cards and getting up to pay for the beverages. All the people in the tavern paid for eating. That was… a confusing idea. He himself had never cared about money. In Xalya, after all, he had never had to pay for food or lodging. In his lands, the commercial exchanges were rare, and the metals were barely used but for making weapons or tools. What was the good of using money when, all being brothers, they shared their products according to their needs? It was true his ancestors had hoarded a considerable gold reserve in the dungeon, and it was also true that this reserve had saved them a lot of trouble when, ten years ago, a cattle flu had forced Lord Vifkan to part with half of the gold to buy food to the Shalussi and Essimean merchants. The other half, by now, had to be shared all over the steppe between the clans.

If only they had just settled for taking possession of the gold…

Zaadma’s voice recalled him from his thoughts.

“So,” she said in a low voice, leaning over the small table. “Now that our neighbors are gone, I’d like to ask you a question, Odek.”

At that instant, a movement drew Dashvara’s attention: the two face-hidden men had just got up on seeing a bearded man with a black turban come in from the door leading to the lodging part of the inn. Dashvara hardly didn’t bare his teeth like a sanfurient wolf when he recognized him. This man was one of Arviyag’s guards, the slave-trader that had bought the Xalyas for one thousand seven hundred gold coins. The one who imprisoned Fayrah.

He forced himself to turn his eyes away and not to get upset.

“Please call me Dash,” he said.

Zaadma looked troubled.

“All right. Dash then. Look, I’m dreadfully sorry for what happened to your clan. I can imagine your despair and… well, I’d better not talk about it because you’re surely going to tell me that I’m not able to imagine something so gruesome, so I simply wanted to know whether—”

Zaadma stopped speaking, nervous. Meanwhile, Dashvara saw the veiled men leave the inn. They hadn’t said any word to that Arviyag’s man, but even so, he had the certainty that it was his presence that had caused their sudden leaving. They didn’t look like bodyguards, but if Dashvara really wanted to save the Xalyas and succeed, he had to make sure he wouldn’t have any pursuer; and he had to make haste, because he had no doubt tonight would be the best moment to carry out his plan, before arriving at Dazbon.

Good. Now I’ve just got to elaborate a plan that will work and that will not bring any problem to my sister and the others, he reflected. He turned to Zaadma, and as he saw her still wavering, he encouraged her:

“What do you want to know?”

Zaadma gave a quick glance to Rokuish before going on:

“Look, Rokuish and I have thought hard. If you really are the son of the Xalyas’ chief, that means your father delivered you as a false prisoner to save your life. And he saved only you?”

Dashvara didn’t answer at once because, at this moment, the dwarf came back with a big, steaming tray that contained three large bowls with eggs, pieces of pumpkin, and other vegetables put on a pancake.

“Specialty of the Cathoney. Enjoy your meal!” he exclaimed happily.

They thanked him. Dashvara salivated: he was starving. When Rokuish and he tilted their heads, examining the plate, Zaadma asked, startled:

“What are you looking for?”

They both lifted their eyes and answered as one:

“The spoon.”

Zaadma chuckled.

“You don’t need a spoon to eat this plate. You take it with both hands, like so, you fold the extremities, and you eat it like a sandwich.”

As she spoke, she had put into practice her own words, and she took the first bite into her portion. She let out a cry of pleasure.

“It’s been three years since I last ate a dinner so delicious!” she said, excited.

Dashvara took his own sandwich, and when he began to eat, he had to admit it was not bad, and yet… it had a taste really, really special. Soon, his mouth was on fire. He snorted and cursed, hastily poured himself a water glass, and drained it.

“For my mother’s sake!” Rokuish exclaimed.

Zaadma burst into laughter as the Shalussi snatched the water bottle to drink straight out of it.

“It must be the pepper,” the alchemist mocked. “In the Most Illustrious Republic of Dazbon, almost all the plates carry pepper.”

Dashvara snorted again. He took some more bites of that treacherous fire, and he finally left it on the plate and drained the remaining water of the bottle while giving another glance around him. He noted that the Arviyag’s man had gone without having dinner. Laying the bottle again on the table, he guessed easily that both Zaadma and Rokuish were waiting for him to speak.

What’s the point now, he thought. Let them know what I am and what my purpose is. Both of them have saved my life.

He leaned back on the wall that was beside the bench where he sat. The pressure against his wound diminished a bit, and he felt more relaxed.

“You asked me why my father saved only me,” he started to say calmly. “The reason is simple: it was because he thought I was the only one capable of carrying through on what he ordered me to do. It would be easier for me to die beside him than to watch from the enemy camp how a clan alliance was massacring my own family and my people.”

He perceived a slight flinching movement from Rokuish, and he turned to him.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, Rok. I lied to you when I told you my family was murdered by the Xalyas. I stole your saber like the worst thief among all. And then I half lied to you when I told you that a true Xalya would never attack a man from behind. I apologize, as you have proven yourself to be a true brother when you spared my life that day.”

Rokuish shook his head.

“Zae told me how Nanda died,” he replied. “Perhaps someone like Walek would not understand, but I would have acted the same way you did… assuming that I’d have been able to gather enough courage to carry out my revenge. Honestly, if I’d ever had the slightest clue about who you are…” he blushed, “I really don’t know what I would have done then,” he admitted.

Dashvara smiled faintly.

“You’d probably have wanted to make sure I was a Xalya by asking me directly. And then you would have forced me to escape or to kill you.”

Rokuish rolled his eyes and quoted:

“‘If you want to kill a criminal man, and you have for it to kill innocents, you have to give up killing him or choose another way.’ You were the one who said it.” He smiled. “I know you wouldn’t have been able to kill me.”

Dashvara gave him back an unsteady smile, amazed by his confidence.

“Maybe not,” he admitted.

His conscience would have prevented him from doing so, to be sure, but sometimes even conscience wasn’t able to appease a mind overwhelmed by panic and by the thirst for revenge. Hellish demons, he thought. An innocent’s life was infinitely worthier than a murderer’s death. Letting the instincts lead him in acts that were likely to bring big consequences was always not only dangerous but also completely foolish; and a Xalya never bowed to anything, even to the passions of his own mind.

His smile stretched.

“Surely,” he added. “Anyway,” he continued, “my father did not let me alive out of compassion, and if I renounced to die with dignity, it was only out of a sense of duty, because a Xalya son had to obey the wishes of his parents and his ancestors. If it wasn’t for Lord Vifkan, I would have died to defend my family. Though I’m well aware that, in that case, I would have acted like a coward for wanting to accompany them on the road to death and avoid the suffering.”

Zaadma bit her lip, and she made as if to speak but Rokuish spoke first:

“And, despite everything, when I nearly finished you off, you said that Xalyas’ revenge was pointless. So that means you have given up on killing them all. Am I right?”

Dashvara looked him in the eye, stupefied.

“You’ve hallucinated if you heard me say that I gave up on the revenge, Rok. I said the greed of the Shalussi, Essimean, and Akinoan chieftains had caused the death of my clan. And I said that, if they died now, there would be others to replace them. But I’ve never said I gave up on anything. I am the heir of the steppe lords, and my sabers will dispense the Eternal Bird’s justice.”

There was a brief silence at the nearby table, and he became aware that he had raised his voice. Fighting against exhaustion, Dashvara stood up.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go to sleep.”

Zaadma nodded, and she stood up too. Anxiety showed in her eyes.

“Yes, I think you’d better go to sleep. I’ll pay for a room for three people. And I’ll look for Aydin so that he will examine your wound again.”

Dashvara nodded, and he was heading to the lodging door when he sensed Rokuish’s words:

“We have to get him to reason, Zae. Or else he’ll wind up killing himself.”

Dashvara smiled slightly as he was moving away. Don’t worry, Rok. I have no intention to die. He passed by the men with turbans, and he saw them fixing his shirt still stained with blood. He crossed the room without hurry, and he was pushing the door when Rokuish reached him. Silently, they went into the lodging part of the inn. The Shalussi looked as though he was struggling to find his words. Dashvara stopped before the open door that led to the court, and he glanced at the wagons. He counted them. There were nine. How to know whether the wagon that had carried the Xalyas was among them?

Rokuish laid a brotherly hand on his shoulder.

“I think that what you need is to sleep in a good bed,” he remarked. “After a good rest, you’ll surely see the situation more clearly.”

Dashvara glanced at the sky. It was getting dark. Abruptly, some words came to his mind, and he pronounced:

“Sdatalon Ohode’l masja saari ilsiuatar.” He gave a glance to Rokuish and then remembered that this one was a Shalussi and therefore could not understand the ancient language of the steppe. “Fleeing sun’s shadow never reaches the soul,” he explained. He vacillated and then added: “Except when the soul dies.”

Rokuish stayed silent for a moment.

“What’s this language?” he inquired curiously. “The Xalya?”

Dashvara smiled. There was a small stone edge beside the wall, and he sat down to rest while explaining:

“In some way. It’s the Oy’vat. The Wise Tongue. The language of the Ancient Kings. In the dungeon, most of the books were written in the Wise Tongue.”

He smiled slightly on seeing the Shalussi listening with interest, and he let his gaze stray to the shadows shrouding the court, absorbed.

“There were… great wise men among the ancient steppe people, Rok,” he murmured. “Each individual had a different view of life. But everyone shared the same fundamental values. Everyone respected each other, and everyone gave an essential relevance to dignity, to confidence, and above all, to brotherhood, because it’s the mother of all the True Life existing in this world.” He smiled, amused, when he saw Rokuish’s fascinated expression, and he resumed: “One day, while we were training, I told you that the main combat is fought inside oneself throughout the whole life. Perhaps you don’t remember.”

Rokuish nodded.

“I do remember.”

Dashvara bowed his head briefly.

“The great wise people said that the combat consisted more or less in keeping, with your willpower, a feather standing at the brink of the abyss. When the wind doesn’t blow, the feather stands easily, but it has neither to get distracted even once nor to bend toward the abyss because, as soon as the storm approaches, the feather will have to fight against the wind if it doesn’t want to be cast into the depths.”

Rokuish made a skeptical face.

“Er… How could a lone feather fight against the wind, Odek?”

Dashvara joined his both hands before himself. Why the hell am I talking to a Shalussi about the Eternal Bird? Life’s mysteries, without a doubt.

“That’s precisely the key,” he answered. “A person who doesn’t believe that a feather can fight against the wind will be dragged believing that it’s impossible to fight against the impossible.”

Rokuish shrugged his shoulders, frowning.

“Uh. Fighting against the impossible seems impossible indeed.”

“Indeed it does,” Dashvara smiled. “An impossible thing won’t cease to be so, no matter how hard you’re persuaded of the contrary. But what if it was just very hard and not really impossible? In that case, if the feather doesn’t let itself be bent from the beginning, it will be more likely to overcome the force that is threatening it,” he smiled, looking at Rokuish with a convinced expression. “If you have no choice, it is better to be positive and think that your feather can resist a gale. If you think it can, that may become true.”

Rokuish was pondering over his words when the door leading to the tavern swung open and Zaadma appeared holding a key.

“Room number ten!” she declared. “It’s on the first floor. Give me this bag, cousin, I’ll carry it. Shizur says he can wait one more day in Rocavita so that you can rest as much as you need to, and so we will be able to travel by his wagon. He says that he has a friend here and that he would like to pay him a visit.”

Dashvara nodded, and he stood up without giving her the bag.

“It’s very kind of him to do that,” he said.

“Shizur is the kindest man I ever knew,” Zaadma affirmed while passing them both to head for the corridor and open the right door.

The room turned out to be small, but tidy. Zaadma sniffed the air, pleased.

“There’s a smell of thyme,” she noticed. She turned to Dashvara with an authoritarian face. “Well. Lie down at once, cousin, and rest how much as you can. And don’t play at being the hero. I’m going to recover my moon narcissus from the wagon. Rok, don’t move from here. I’ll search for Aydin straight after.”

Dashvara observed her going out of the room with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“She gives more orders than a captain,” he commented teasingly.

After laying his bag on the floor, next to the bed nearest the door, he sat down then pulled off his shirt to look over his bandage. No sooner had he begun to remove this one than Rokuish lunged at him.

“What are you doing?” he protested, nervously agitated. “You can’t take off the bandage!”

“It doesn’t seem to be that impossible,” Dashvara replied calmly without stopping.

Rok stared at him, annoyed.

“If a catastrophe happens, don’t come blaming me later.”

“No catastrophe is going to happen. Tell me, Rok, did you keep my sabers?”

The question surprised the Shalussi.

“Oh, well, I did, apart from Nanda’s. Walek kept it. I have Orolf’s sabers and mine in Shizur’s wagon. But what—?”

He fell silent when Dashvara, putting the bandage aside, bared the poultice. It was half-transparent, and it could be seen through. The wound looked well healed up, and Dashvara, who had enjoyed the privilege of examining his wound before anyone, had to admit that Aydin had performed a miracle.

“Darn,” Rokuish muttered, impressed. “It looks like completely healed. But looks can be deceiving,” he added. “I remember that, five years ago, a man received a wound pretty similar. Vika took care of him, and two days after being considered healed, the man died. So don’t cry victory, lie down, and stop thinking about your sabers.”

Dashvara lay down cautiously, and he judged that he had never tried a mattress so comfortable. He joined his both hands behind his head and said:

“I need answers. That Arviyag,” he clarified. “He travels with the caravan. And he holds my sister, as well as nine Xalyas that belong to my people. I have to stop him before he arrives in Dazbon,” he declared.

Rokuish looked as though he had received a pot right on the head.

“W-what?” he stuttered.

The door opened at that instant, and Zaadma came in crooning and holding her narcissus. A tender smile was lighting up her face. She laid the pot by the window, and only when she turned her expression became stern.

“You took off your bandage?” She hurried toward him to inspect the wound. “For Divinity’s sake! I didn’t know Aydin was so skillful. It looks like it’s scarring over quickly.” She moved her face closer to sniff the product. Her nose screwed up. “It stinks of Isakia flower.”

On seeing her inspecting him from so close, Dashvara made an embarrassed face.

“Please, Zaadma…”

“Zae!” she corrected him, straightening. “I’ll call Aydin right away. And I’m telling him you have taken off the bandage without my permission. Rok, keep an eye on him. Don’t let him remove the poultice.”

She lightened a candle to illuminate the room, and she left again, walking with quick, long steps. When she closed the door, Rokuish flopped down into the sole chair of the room, and he snorted.

“The Xalyas,” he whispered. “Of course. I had completely forgotten about them. So your sister—?”

“Is alive, and I swear on my honor that I will rescue her from the claws of this slave-trader this very night,” Dashvara vowed. “I’ve already waited too much time.”

Rokuish bit his lip, stunned.

“I dunno, Odek—”

“Call me Dash.”

“Dash.” He smiled. “I’ll have to get used to it. Anyway—” He frowned. “Dash, listen to me. Arviyag is a dangerous man. From what Andrek told me, he is a relative or some favorite worker of a man known as the Master, the one who leads all the traffic. If you annoy Arviyag, you’ll be in trouble with the worst people of Diumcili. If I were you, I would rather go back to the steppe and kill the clan chieftains than annoy this trader,” he assured.

Dashvara shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. The candle illuminated the room, and shadows were dancing smoothly on the walls.

“I can do both things,” he said finally. “The shaard that educated me traveled to Dazbon, once, more than twenty years ago. He told me that slavery was forbidden and severely punished. If that’s still true nowadays, Arviyag has probably taken the Xalyas to some secret place.” He paused. “That’s what I am going to do: I’m going to get Arviyag to free the Xalyas or at least to tell me where the girls are. And if he doesn’t—but I doubt it—I will free my people anyway. I only need you to do me a favor.”

Rokuish raised an eyebrow without changing his reluctant expression.

“A favor, eh? And what do you want me to do? Hold you standing while you threaten the trader, perhaps? You’re recovering from a wound that nearly killed you, friend. If I were you, I would wait some more days, and I would think thoroughly about the question—”

Dashvara interrupted him briskly.

“I have thought about the consequences. If I wait for Fayrah to go to Dazbon, I’ll probably never find her track in my life. I would be pleased if you find out in which room Arviyag lodges, that if he really lodges in this inn.” He hesitated. “However, if you don’t want to help me, I will understand. You just have to tell me that’s too much to ask of you.”

Rokuish stared at him fixedly for some seconds, and then he sighed.

“I suppose that, if I don’t do it, you will.”

Dashvara gave him a twisted smile.

“Your supposition is right. Find out where the Xalyas are, if that’s possible. Ask Hadriks; perhaps he’s aware of something. Hold on a minute, Rok,” he called him, as he saw him standing up. He nodded gratefully. “Telling you ‘thanks’ wouldn’t be enough. Trust me, after that, even if you ask me to cut my own arm, I would do it.”

Rokuish made a grimace of disgust.

“What the devil are you saying?”

Dashvara gave him an innocent face.

“Excuse me. But I really meant it.”

Rok shook his head in amazement, and while opening the door, he let out:

“I will do what I can. As for you: rest.”

Dashvara held up his forefinger to his lips and withdrew it with a solemn gesture:

“I promise.”

He waited for a time, and after a hesitation, he got up. He took on the bloody shirt and left the room, closing the door without locking it. The tavern was considerably noisier now than before; anyway, he did not go there but to the wagon court. Outside, it was dark, and the portal was closed. That probably meant that the boys who took care of the wagons had been allowed to get out and have dinner, including Hadriks. However, when he passed by Aydin’s wagon, he saw the boy sitting on the bench, holding a still lute in his arms. He was asleep.

Dashvara went to the next carriage, and he got up stealthily, squinting at the inside. Where might Rokuish have put the sabers? He searched several bags full of dried figs, jarred on something metal that turned out to be a nail badly spiked, and he finally stumbled on a blanket that wrapped three long objects. Three sabers. Dashvara drew them, examined them in the dark, and thought he recognized the red snake engraved in two blades. He put the other one back in its place, and he was getting down from the wagon, bearing the two weapons, when he spotted a quick movement on the right. Wanting to avoid any brusque jump, he just raised his weapons.

“Who’s there?” he grunted.

He perceived a panting breathe.

“It’s… it’s meee, Shalussi,” a scared voice stammered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

It was Hadriks. Dashvara sighed and lowered his arms.

“Don’t fear, Hadriks. I’m just here to take my effects. Go back to sleep without worries. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The boy was half-hidden under his wagon. He went out, holding out his lute as if intending to defend himself. Dashvara smiled.

“Hey, boy, you would defend yourself better playing your lute than using it as a club. By the way, as you’re here, tell me, do you know Arviyag?”

Hadriks got troubled.

“You mean… do I know who he is? Yes… He’s a merchant. Why?”

“Does he lodge in this inn?”

“I don’t think so. His wagon stopped by here, but after, it went away. He’s certainly lodged in some private house. He’s a rich man.”

Dashvara peered at him, searchingly.

“He traded in people,” he whispered. “Isn’t that a crime in the Dazbon Republic?”

Hadriks squirmed.

“Yes, it is. But, please, Shalussi, don’t ask me more questions about him. I don’t want to get into trouble.”

Dashvara narrowed his eyes.

“Denying a problem doesn’t make it less real, and it doesn’t make you wiser either. Quite the opposite. Good night, Hadriks.”

He passed by him, and Hadriks embraced his instrument with both hands, as if ashamed.

“Are they all like that, in the steppe?” he asked.

Dashvara stopped.

“Like what?”

“Like you. I mean, the way you speak you don’t seem like a savage, you know, but even so, you kill people. And now it seems you want to start again.”

Dashvara meditated for a moment.

“Well… They’re not all like me. Actually, I think that each soul of this world is potentially capable of being unique and acting as such.” He strapped his both sabers to his belt, and he added: “Don’t worry, Hadriks. This night, I will not kill people. I will rescue them.”

He waved at him kindly, turned his back on him, and returned to the inn, wishing with all his heart that his affirmation was right.