20. In the canal

He found the inn built over a canal, in the Dragon District. The tavern was crowded with people coming to have some refreshments. Laughter burst out of a powerful throat. Someone was playing the lute in a corner, people were drinking, and the innkeeper chatted with his friends while two waiters were working. Dashvara did not draw the attention at all in this teeming hive of life.

He walked forward, dodging the tables, searching for the way to the lodging part of the inn, and he stopped beside the bar before drawing away as he realized this one was jammed. And then he saw them.

Aligra, Lessi and Fayrah were sitting at a table, in front of two smiling and unmistakably drunk men. Dashvara smelled trouble. Frowning, he headed straight to the table.

“So from farther, eh?” one of the drunks said. “From Maeras? No, let me guess, from the Holy Grove!”

Fayrah looked embarrassed. Lessi was watching both drunks alternately with a curious expression. Aligra had a gloomy face.

“How could they come from the Holy Grove?” his comrade mumbled. “They’re Shalussis, for sure. Eh? Right? Am I right?” he repeated, very amused.

Aligra exploded before Dashvara could reach them.

“Shalussi yourself, you drunk donkey! I am a Xalya, and the blood of the ancient wise people of the steppe runs in my veins—!”

She gasped and fell silent when Dashvara smashed his fist down on the table, toughly. The neighbors didn’t even flinch, but the two drunks looked a bit more alive.

“Uh? What are you doing, buddy? What’s the matter with you?” one of them asked.

“It’s simple: you’re going to get up from your bench. At once.”

This time, a few customers turned their heads toward them. The drunks exchanged a glance.

“Get up, you said, sir? And what for? We’re fine here.”

“Oh, really? In that case, stay here.” He shot an imperious look at the Xalyas. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Instantly, Fayrah and Lessi scrambled to their feet. Aligra folded her arms.

“We were here before them. Those oafs are the ones who must leave.”

One of the drunks spit firewater out all over the table with an offended face.

“Oafs? I am no oaf. I am a student! I am a—”

Dashvara hissed.

“You shut up. Aligra, get up and don’t be childish.”

The Xalya held his glare. Dashvara caught, in her eyes, a glint of rebelliousness he didn’t like at all. He considered leaving her there, but then he thought that, if anything happened to her, he would blame himself for the rest of his life, so he opted to settle the problem otherwise. He stretched the arm and got her up by force. In astonishment, Aligra let him draw her away from the table. The student was shocked.

“I don’t like this at all!” he shrieked. “Who are you to treat the young girl like that? Her brother?”

“Her lord,” Dashvara retorted. “And now do sit down, good man, and keep drinking.”

The drunk was about ready to provoke a fight—Dashvara guessed it. Fortunately, his comrade pulled at his sleeve, whispered something to him, and they both sat down back on their bench. Fine. Dashvara dragged Aligra out of the tavern, toward the lodging staircase. Only then did he let go of her. He felt frustrated, and he did not quite understand why.

“I see you feel better,” Fayrah observed while they were climbing the stairs.

“Quite better, yes,” Dashvara replied. His sister was obviously shocked by his manners. But so what? If he had treated Aligra like an unruly child, it was simply because she did act like one. They entered the room, he shut the door, and he gazed at the three of them, wondering what the devil he was going to do with them. They needed money to stay in Dazbon. But how to earn it?

“Ali, what’s wrong?” Lessi asked with a tormented expression.

Aligra was crying silently. Dashvara breathed out loudly. That’s all they needed.

While Fayrah and Lessi were trying to comfort their friend, he went to the window and peered out. It was looking out over the south. They were just above the canal, and at its end, between the house walls, he discerned something that seemed to be… Yes. A huge ship with white sails upon an enormous amount of water. The Walker Ocean.

“I want to go back home,” Aligra was sobbing.

Dashvara felt sad, and then he turned. Abruptly, he regretted having been so tough on her.

“We all wish to go back,” he said gently. Coming back from the window, he sat down on the only chair in the room, and he drew it closer to the bed where the three girls were sitting. “Listen. Listen to me, you three. When the prisoners of the caravan are freed, we will be more. We won’t be like before, that’s impossible, but—”

“You’re a traitor, a coward, and a liar!” Aligra cut him off, her eyes full of glittering tears. She stood up, trembling. “You won’t free the prisoners, and I know it. You will find an excuse not to do it. Go away.”

“Aligra!” Fayrah was startled. “You can’t blame him for having survived. We all fled.”

“He’s the firstborn son,” Aligra replied sharply.

“Aw, come on! The firstborn… Here we go again,” Dashvara snorted, standing up too. “Don’t try my patience: there are limits to it. I already told you I didn’t flee willingly. My father asked me to flee. And I did it,” he affirmed while the three girls were staring at him with wide-open eyes. There was a silent gap, and Dashvara calmed down. “Is Rowyn the one who paid for the room?”

Fayrah nodded.

“He paid for three nights,” she answered.

Dashvara pondered. Did those three nights have some connection with the plan Rowyn was intending to execute? Perhaps he had thought they would stay there until the prisoners got free… That would mean that they wouldn’t move into action tonight. Maybe. Or maybe not. He shook his head slightly, and another question rather disturbing struck him.

What would the republican have done with the Xalyas if I had died?

He didn’t know Rowyn enough to guess it, but his instinct told him he would not have left them alone. Or at least not voluntarily.

He looked intently at the faces of the three Xalyas and finally fastened his gaze on Fayrah.

“Sister… can I rely on you not to go down to the tavern again? I don’t want anything bad to happen to you three.”

Fayrah shook her head.

“Nothing bad will happen to us, Dash. We will stay here, but stop treating me as if I were a child.” Dashvara made a face, and she added worriedly: “Are you going to go out?”

“I’m going to try to find out where the Pearl Brotherhood resides,” Dashvara explained.

“Good idea,” Fayrah approved. “We want to help too, eh, Lessi?”

Lessi nodded vigorously. Dashvara opened his mouth, but Aligra spoke first, in an oracle-like voice.

“A steppe lord understands the usefulness of delegating tasks.”

The Xalya girl had recovered her calm, and her eyes regained that lunatic and abstracted aspect. Why, among all the ten Xalyas he had saved, Aligra had to stay with his sister? Dashvara sighed, forcing himself to be patient, and he tried to think quickly.

“All right. If you really want me to delegate, I will delegate. Stay here, and if Rowyn or Azune comes while I’m out, tell them that I have stopped by here and…”

Dashvara knew with almost sheer certainty that no Pearl Brother would come by the inn this afternoon, but that, at least, would keep the Xalyas busy and compel them to stay in the room.

“And?” Fayrah encouraged him, intrigued.

Dashvara racked his brains, trying to come up with a convincing task.

“And tell them that I have no intention to stand here twiddling my thumbs while they put in motion their plan of rescue. Understood?”

He clearly perceived a glint in Aligra’s eyes, but he wasn’t able to interpret it. Anyway, her look would have discomfited even a blind man. He hummed.

“Do you have money to order dinner?”

Fayrah and Lessi shook their heads. Dashvara frowned. That, perhaps, meant that Rowyn planned to come back, right? Unless it didn’t occur to him that the Xalyas could go hungry too.

“I’ll come back for dinner,” he concluded.

He left them there. In the inn, he noticed that the two drunks were going on quaffing drinks, this time with two republican young women who seemed to have a wonderful time. He went out into the street with relief.

Outside, a breeze had risen, carrying an air heavy with salt. Dashvara inhaled, and the first thing he did was head south, driven by a sudden desire: he wanted to see the sea. He smiled to himself. Makarva, that good Makarva, had always wished to see the sea. The Xalya warrior, who hated reading, had read all the books dealing with the ocean. According to him, the sailors were steppemen on the sea, and they rode on wooden dragons with white wings. Dashvara picked up the pace when he felt he was close to his goal. The houses, from two to four floors, drifted along the alleys. And, abruptly, there was nothing but water.

For a moment, Dashvara remained motionless in front of that flat, dark blue desert. Even if he had tried hard to imagine it, he wouldn’t have been able to. He was attempting to recall what Makarva had told him about the ocean, when a voice called out:

“Look out!”

Someone tugged at his arm. Dashvara leaped backwards, and avoided just in time the rushing wheels of a carriage.

“Look where you’re going, you fool!” shouted the old man who had saved him, raising his fist at the cart.

“Shut up, old codger!” the driver replied without even taking a look backwards.

Dashvara furrowed his brow, and he would have liked to give a good punishment to that boor; however, his gratitude came first.

“Thanks, old man. I owe you one.”

The old man wore a simple dress, and he stunk of fish.

“You’re welcome. Are you a foreigner?”

“I am,” Dashvara affirmed. “Is it that obvious?”

“You don’t look in your element walking along the street,” the old man smiled. “As you say that you owe me one, if you want, you may help me carry one of these sacks.”

Dashvara saw the two large sacks, and he guessed that the old man had dropped them onto the ground before tugging him backwards.

“Sure. I hope nothing has been broken,” he said, concerned.

The old man rolled his eyes.

“As much as a rope can be broken.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, curious, and he lifted both sacks. They were quite heavy, but he was able to carry them.

“And what do you do with all that rope?”

“I make nets. Are you sure you can carry the two sacks?”

“Yes, don’t worry, old man. And what do you do with the nets?”

The old man had begun to walk along the street skirting the coast, trying to stay in the shade of the houses to avoid the sun.

“Want to know what I do with them, foreigner? With the fishing nets, you catch fishes, logically.”

Dashvara looked back at the sea. Of course, there, in the bottom, there were fishes, and you had to get them out somehow to eat them.

The apartment wasn’t very far, and it was fortunately on the first floor. An old woman, surely his wife, greeted them with affability.

“Being helped from time to time is really welcome,” the old man said as Dashvara put the sacks down in the right place. “Tell me, good man, what brings you to Dazbon? If we can guide you, it will be a pleasure.”

“Oh.” Dashvara vacillated. “Well, actually, I’m looking for the Pearl Brotherhood’s place.”

The old couple looked questioningly at each other.

“The Pearl Brotherhood?” the old man echoed.

“I’ve never heard of it,” the woman admitted.

“Me neither,” her husband confessed. “I’m sorry, good man. There are loads of brotherhoods in Dazbon.”

Dashvara was unable to conceal his disappointment. Seemingly, the Pearl Brotherhood wasn’t very well-known.

“It doesn’t matter,” he assured. “I’ll find it anyway.”

“You should ask Shaf, the innkeeper of the White Coin. It’s at the end of the street. He has been in a ten of brotherhoods before joining the Smuggling Brotherhood.”

“The Smuggling Brotherhood?” Dashvara echoed, surprised. As far as he knew, smuggling was an illegal practice in the Republic.

“Their members fight against the abusive taxes, and all that stuff,” the old man explained, with a funny face. “His name is Shaf,” he repeated.

Dashvara thanked him, and a moment later, he arrived at the tavern. He had the nasty feeling that the man known as Shaf wouldn’t be able to help him, and actually, he wasn’t: the man, pretty tall and friendly-looking, assured him he had never heard of the Pearl Brotherhood, just briefly, if at all—he said—but he ignored where its headquarters were.

He resumed his wandering in Dazbon, more and more convinced that this city was maze-like not only by its alleys and canals but also by its organization. The sun was falling, the air was a bit cooler, and Dashvara’s heart cheered up. That walk was wonderful after sleeping and bleeding for so many days.

For a long moment, he completely forgot about the Brotherhood, and he entertained himself watching the people go by. He smiled at seeing some children playing in a park with strange toys; he witnessed a quarrel between two men, soon broken up by a militiaman. Shortly after, he entered a kind of temple, and he was awed by the statues. Most of them represented dragons, and Dashvara regretted not having paid more attention to the shaard’s religious lessons. When he was heading to the Stairs, the sky was already darkening, and he decided to turn back. Only then he thought about the Pearl Brotherhood.

It’s quite obvious you’re in a hurry to save your people, my steppe lord, he muttered mentally. Sighing, he began to retrace his steps, he got lost, went into a dark alley, emerged into an avenue, and then stopped, yielding to the facts: he was completely lost. Full of hope, he searched in the distance for the Great Cascade; he couldn’t see it. And yet, as far as I know, I must be in the Dragon District, he told himself. It was the lower district of the city, where all the canals were. Technically, he wasn’t too far from the Golden Dragon.

He snorted. Orienting himself in a maze of houses wasn’t exactly his strong point. Besides, after all that hot, sunny day, clouds were covering the sky, hiding the stars. A light mist began to spread across the streets.

He asked a woman, who indicated a direction with a sullen look. He resumed his walk. At last, he came to a narrow canal with a bridge that looked familiar to him. He was trying to determine the north and the south when he heard a noise behind him, and he instinctively pushed himself aside. A man fell face down onto the paved street, a few inches away from him. As if he had been hurled. Or as if he had thrown himself forward. In fact, if Dashvara hadn’t stepped aside, he would have crashed into him. With some suspicion, he asked:

“Are you all right?”

The stranger, a boy who must be Hadriks’s age, cursed under his breath and regained his feet, threatening:

“Your purse or your life!”

He paused as if noticing some detail. He glanced down at the floor and picked up his dagger so awkwardly that Dashvara got the temptation to offer him his help. What a knucklehead. Dashvara looked at him for a while. The boy got unnerved, but he dangled his weapon in front of him.

“I said: your purse or your life,” he repeated. At least he spoke firmly.

Dashvara sighed.

“If I got your expression well, you’re a thief, aren’t you? Well, you’d better spend your time doing something more useful.”

Apparently, the young republican had not expected to strike up a conversation. Dashvara did not let him enough time to repeat his refrain: he disarmed him with a quick hit on the wrist, stamped on the dagger with his boot, and went on:

“But do realize that there’s a big difference between stealing and killing. If stealing without imperative need is shameful, killing a stranger is despicable. You kill a criminal because, since he has violated his internal law, no dignity binds him to life. But what about a perfect stranger? How can you threaten the life of a stranger? Don’t you have any dignity? Don’t you have a will of your own to get what you need without robbing the others? You have two arms, two legs, and what is more important, a head. With all this, I’m sure you can do better things than annoying the passersby.”

Dashvara hardly repressed a guffaw when he saw the boy opening and shutting his mouth. That thief didn’t seem to have much experience in his job. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have let him finish his lecture.

Suddenly, behind him, there were four claps. Dashvara turned around, and he discerned a silhouette sliding out from the shadows, hidden behind a veil. Two eyes sparkled.

“A stupendous speech,” the man appreciated. His voice didn’t exactly fill Dashvara with confidence. “Let me tell you, little man, that you are the worst apprentice I’ve ever had. Move away,” he ordered. The boy took some paces backwards, and as if some gust had propelled him, he left in a hurry through another alley. “Philosopher,” said then the one who, apparently, was the master of that incompetent fool. “Don’t even think all the members of our Brotherhood are like him, mm? We don’t steal anything from the common townsfolk. That was only a special exercise for that hopeless case. Alas, the boy doesn’t assimilate my advice very well: he has chosen the worst possible victim. I bet you don’t have in your pockets more than a few dettas. Am I right?”

Dashvara was eyeing him with a frowning face. That man was a thief, and in his lands, the thieves were whipped.

“Good,” the hidden man went on as he saw that Dashvara did not answer. “Let us forget what happened here. Can I recover my dagger?”

Dashvara was still stamping it with his boot. His lips stretched into a wry smile.

“You can. Just try it.”

The thief kept silent for some seconds. His position wasn’t showing any trouble. What am I doing? Dashvara suddenly asked himself. Is it me or now am I really trying to educate the Dazbonish people?

“I get the impression that you have no idea who you are talking to, do you?” the thief whispered. “You don’t want to be my enemy. They call me Cobra. You have certainly heard of me.”

Obviously, Dashvara had never heard of him. He almost burst into laughter at hearing such pompous words. He was going to answer something about the certainties and the uncertainties when a sound of footsteps made them both turn. The thief hissed.

“A guard. Hand me over the dagger, you,” he urged him. “He can’t see it.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. He remembered he had read something about weapons licenses in the book The Most Illustrious City of Dazbon. It seemed that the thief had no such a license. Neither do you, remember? Dashvara hesitated. The footsteps were approaching, and the thief wiggled. With a deft jump, he hid again in the shadows of the nearest doorstep. Just in time for him: the figure of the guard crossed one of the bridges and appeared well into view. He wore a sword at his belt.

“Don’t be such a joker,” Cobra whispered from his hiding place. “If he sees it, you will get yourself into a fine mess. And if you betray me, you’re dead.”

Dashvara nearly doubted out loud about the veracity of that last statement, but then he thought better of it, and he kicked the dagger away. He threw it into the canal. There was a splash of water. Great, he thought with satisfaction. Alarmed by the noise, the guard picked up the pace. He didn’t wear, on his chest, the urban militia’s badge with the black hand, Dashvara noticed. Instead, he had a red cross marked on his forehead. Who knew what that meant.

“Have you dropped something, citizen?” Suspicion vibrated in his voice.

“Dropped? Oh, no. It was a stone,” Dashvara simply answered.

The guard looked at him up and down and then muttered sternly:

“These streets aren’t very safe at night, citizen. You should go back home. May the Dragon protect you.”

“Likewise,” Dashvara responded, and he wondered why on earth he didn’t ask him to arrest the thief. Perhaps because the guard looked even less sympathetic than Cobra. Besides, he had no proof, and he suspected that his word wasn’t worth a sand grain in a city like Dazbon.

As soon as the guard rounded a corner, Dashvara began to move away. Cobra protested:

“Hey! Did you throw the dagger into the water?”

“So it seems.”

“But do you even realize how expensive it was?”

Dashvara did not answer.

“No, no, no,” the thief added, blocking his way. “You won’t leave just like that. You’re going to go down there and get it back to me. Or do you think you can get away with it that easily?”

Dashvara stared at him, sincerely surprised.

“Do you really want me to go and search for your dagger?”

“It’s not my dagger. But it’s not the boy’s either, so get moving, young man. The tide is low. I’m sure it’s not so hard.”

Dashvara chuckled sarcastically. That exchange was getting quite amusing. He insisted:

“Wait a minute. Do you really want me to get into the canal to recover your damned dagger? Dream on, snake. At the very most, if you want, I can cover your back while you try to get it. The tide is low, as you said. I’m sure it’s not so—”

He swallowed his words when the thief suddenly drew two daggers out of nowhere. Dashvara cursed himself, realizing that he was cornered with the canal behind him. He knew how to fight in the steppe, not in a city full of holes.

“If you want me to help you go down, just ask,” Cobra murmured in a mild voice.

Dashvara muttered under his breath. The bloody bastard pointed out:

“There’s a ladder on the other side of the bridge.”

He sort of guided him to the said ladder, crossing the small bridge, and once there, Dashvara ground his teeth.

“How the hell can you expect me to see anything in that darkness?”

The thief didn’t respond at once. Then he decided:

“I’m going with you.”

Dashvara began going down the ladder. He quickly reached the bottom. As Cobra had said, the tide was low, and there was a narrow stone edge barely covered by a few inches of water. But, even so, the rest of the canal had to be three feet deep, if not more. And, of course, the water stunk.

When Cobra landed on the narrow edge, Dashvara considered the possibility of throwing him into the water, but he changed his mind when he saw this one drawing out his daggers again. He did not doubt that this man, unlike his apprentice, knew how to wield them properly. He turned his eyes to the dark water, but he soon raised them again when a sudden flash of lightning ripped the sky. Seconds later, an endless thunder enshrouded the whole Dazbon. Cobra laughed softly.

“Do the storms frighten you?”

Dashvara realized he had remained pale and immobile like a marble statue. He didn’t respond.

“Jump in,” Cobra ordered. “Come on, the water will only reach your waist.”

Dashvara looked daggers at him before getting into the middle of the canal. The water was cold even after the hot day. And it reached his waist, as the thief had guessed. Which was lucky, because if he had been beyond his depth Dashvara wouldn’t have been able to affirm that he would have managed to float: he had never had the occasion to test it.

“Haven’t you thought that, after getting the dagger, I could try to take revenge?” he asked, hardly repressing his irritation.

Cobra’s white teeth appeared in the darkness.

“Stop talking, philosopher, and find it. If you don’t, I will light the water with my lantern.”

Dashvara cast him a skeptical look. His lantern? Of course! he told himself, suddenly thinking about a detail. The lantern. In the water, he drew Zaadma’s light disk and rubbed it. No light appeared. Naturally: the water was cold.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cobra mumbled impatiently. “If you don’t put your head in at once—”

Dashvara didn’t hear his threat: he plunged—or rather he squatted—into the water. Even if an Akinoa army had been in front of him, he couldn’t have even noticed it. He could see nothing. He drew the disk again and rubbed it frantically. It almost slipped from his hands, and he hastened to shove it back into his pocket. He closed his eyes. The bottom, of stone, was slippery. At some moment, his hand felt something even colder. The dagger? No. It was a metal hoop firmly fastened to the ground. His lungs were starting to cry for air. Dashvara pushed his head out of the water and gulped for air before glancing around.

It was raining now, he noted. And the sky was still thundering.

“Well?” Cobra inquired.

Dashvara only replied:

“Where’s that lantern?”

Cobra looked annoyed. He tucked one of his daggers under his cloak and drew a small disk. Dashvara widened his eyes. It was just like Zaadma’s. The thief knuckled it vigorously, and the object illuminated the waters. Dashvara took a look toward the bottom of the canal. The raindrops clouded the light rays, but still, between seeing a bit and seeing nothing, there was a notable difference.

“And you call this a lantern?” Dashvara asked.

“A thief lantern,” Cobra replied. “And now get back into the water.”

Dashvara almost choked on his words. Only then he began to understand why Aydin had gotten so angry. Those kinds of lanterns were probably illegal.

He plunged again, and this time, he found the dagger quite easily while Cobra was lighting his way. He had just managed to grasp the hilt when the light vanished. Dashvara frowned and came up to the surface.

“What the hell—?”

He clenched his teeth. Several men were walking along the canal. Dashvara kept immobile, hoping that, with the rain and the thunder rolls, they hadn’t heard him. In any case, those people seemed to be in a hurry. Soon, they went out of view.

“Did you find it?” Cobra asked straightaway.

Why do you care so much about that dagger? Dashvara thought, intrigued. The thief had said it wasn’t his. Maybe he had borrowed it from some friend?

He hitched himself up onto the narrow edge: his boots weighed a ton. A chill ran through his body.

“I’ll give it to you when we’re up,” he said, dripping and splashing water.

Cobra swore, and for an instant, Dashvara believed he was going to thrust at him, but then he only said:

“As you want.”

He climbed first, and Dashvara followed him after emptying his boots. Once up, he jumped agilely on the pavement, wary of any possible attack; but Cobra was busier glancing around.

“The dagger,” he insisted.

Dashvara threw it to his feet.

“There you are, you snake.”

He turned his back on him, and pricking up his ears, he walked away, his boots squeaking with water. He heard Cobra picking up the weapon. And he heard him moving closer. What did that man want now from him?

“Hey, boy.”

Dashvara whirled around and saw, astonished, that Cobra was smiling and extending his hand.

“Thank you.”

His veil had slipped at some moment, baring his human face. Dashvara weighed him up with suspicion.

“I don’t shake hands with thieves,” he replied.

An amused glint flashed in Cobra’s eyes.

“Even if his hands are full of money?”

Dashvara looked at his stretched hand and noticed the three coins. Cobra clarified:

“A dinar for your nice speech, another one for the rescued dagger, and another one for your name.”

Dashvara snorted.

“My actions have no price. Nor my speeches. As for my name, I’m not sure you want to know it.”

Cobra rolled his eyes.

“Philosophical even when it comes to the purse, huh? So you refuse my money?”

Swallowing his dignity, Dashvara extended his hand.

“I’ve never said I refused it: I’ve only said your compensation leaves much to be desired.”

Cobra laughed and shoved the three coins into his hand.

“Take what I give you, and be thankful, Philosopher. And now clear off.”

Dashvara went away, hoping not to cross paths with that snake ever again. When he glanced at his hand, he realized it had only two coins. He raised his eyes to the heavens. Of course: he hadn’t given him his name.

* * *

“You needed to take a bath anyway,” Fayrah opined, smiling.

Dashvara had no sooner told the Xalyas about his first adventures in Dazbon than Lessi and Fayrah had laughed at him boisterously. He had even got a smile from Aligra. At least they looked a bit more cheerful, Dashvara thought happily.

He got out of the bathtub and dressed in one of the golden tunics the Xalyas had used while being prisoners. It was tight on him, but he still could put it on. If he remembered well, it was the first time in many years he was using a bathtub. In the Dungeon of Xalya, they rarely wasted the water like that. He sat down on one of the beds and dried his hair with a towel. That room was supposed to be for three people, but he had given one of the dinars to the innkeeper, and this one had changed his mind and gently set a straw mattress in a corner. By the way, he told himself. Where’s my bag with the rope, Bashak’s figurine, and my bar? Dashvara’s eyes swept around. When he saw it, he found it strange that it was so plump.

“What’s with my bag?” he asked, stretching a hand to grasp it.

Fayrah stifled a cry.

“Dash! Wait! Don’t open it. I’ve not explained the thing to you yet.”

Dashvara furrowed his brow.

“Explained what?”

“Explained… the contents.” His sister licked her lips nervously. “You see… When I went to get your bag, before leaving Rocavita, I met… I met him.”

“Whom?”

“I met” —she looked meaningfully at the bag— “him. And he explained everything to me,” she continued as Dashvara went ghastly pale. Was she talking about the shadow? He looked at the bag fixedly. “He said to me that he had given you a remedy and that it didn’t work well. He said that he feels terribly ashamed and that he wants to make amends. And he also said that you asked him not to abandon you. Eh, didn’t he say so, Lessi?”

Lessi nodded. With a pounding heart, Dashvara gasped.

“Whaaat? I never ever asked him anything like that.” Abruptly, he lunged at the bag and opened it. “Get out of there, you sneaky shadow.”

The bag shook. Inside, everything was dark.

‘I’m not a sneaky shadow,’ Tahisran’s voice sounded in his mind. ‘I haven’t dreamed it. I swear you said, ‘don’t forsake me’.’

Dashvara thought back, and when he recalled, he let out an exasperated growl.

“I said it, but I didn’t say it to you but to the Eternal Bird. Are you identifying yourself with the Eternal Bird, shadow?”

“His name isn’t ‘shadow’,” Lessi opportunely intervened. “His name is Tahisran.”

Dashvara snorted, and he sat back on the bed just when the shadow was peeping his head out of the bag.

‘So you forgive me?’ he asked shyly. Dashvara stared at him for some seconds.

“Do you really care whether or not I forgive you?” he mumbled. “I must admit that seeing you here now that my head goes a little better comforts me a bit: at least I know I’m not going crazy. You really exist.”

‘Of course I do!’ Tahisran gasped, appearing completely. ‘Like I were some weird being!’

Dashvara looked at the three Xalya girls. Their gazes were fastened on the shadow in awe and surprise. If they could see and hear it too, that meant he wasn’t going mad. He sighed, somewhat relieved. There was nothing worse than questioning your own good sense.

“Do you want to have dinner?” he asked suddenly.

Fayrah looked as if she was jarred out of some dream.

“What say?”

“I said, do you want to have dinner? I have a dinar left. With that, perhaps we’ll be able to pay for two portions, that if the prices aren’t higher than in Rocavita.”

No one appeared to have much appetite, but Dashvara was starving. He stood up.

“I’ll bring the dinner here.”

The tavern was quieter than in the afternoon, but it was still crowded. The rain was drumming against the window panes, and the innkeeper, who seemed to be an incurable talker, was chatting with some women customers. Anyhow, Dashvara had guessed that the fast way to order a meal wasn’t to talk to the innkeeper but to a lively boy who was continuously crossing the kitchen door. One-half hour later, he was back in the room with a steaming tray full of fan-shaped, stuffed pastries called “pasties”.

“Careful,” he warned the Xalyas. “They probably contain pepper.”

He tasted, and yes, they did. However, he mustered up his courage, because he was much too hungry. In practice, he ate half of the dinner, and when Fayrah handed him the very last pasty, he hesitated.

“Are you sure you don’t want it?”

An amused smile appeared on his sister’s face.

“Totally sure, brother.”

Dashvara cast a glance at the shadow, which was sitting formally on the other bed.

“Don’t the shadows feel hungry?” he asked.

Tahisran jerked up as if waking up to reality.

‘No. I have not felt any taste for many, many years.’

That must be quite disconcerting, Dashvara thought with a shiver.

“Guess what, this doesn’t surprise me at all,” he still replied. “Only a shadow with bad taste can poison a person who’s already sick.”

Then, he thought that he had murdered a sick man himself, and he regretted having opened his mouth. He opened it again for something more useful: he ate the last pasty.

“You’re too harsh with him, Dash,” Fayrah complained. Lessi was frowning—Dashvara didn’t know exactly whether to show her own displeasure or Fayrah’s; Zorvun’s daughter had the bad habit of adopting all his sister’s feelings as hers.

Dashvara swallowed down.

“Harsh with a shadow, huh?”

“He has feelings. I assure you he never meant to poison you—”

“That’s what he says.”

“Dash,” Fayrah gasped, exasperated. “He’s lovely! He has a noble spirit. You can’t blame him just because you got the idea he’s guilty.”

The shadow had straightened up a bit as if cheered up by Fayrah’s flattering words. Dashvara nodded.

“Okay, okay. I have nothing against him,” he lied.

Fayrah looked at him, skeptical, and Lessi copied her. That pair of friends knew how to try one’s patience, Dashvara sighed.

“What?” he mumbled.

“Make peace,” Fayrah demanded.

Dashvara let out a guffaw.

“Make my peace with—?” He fell silent under his sister’s glowering glare. Hell, what a sister he had, he thought. “All right. If he is capable of shaking hands with me, I’ll shake his hand and I’ll forgive his murder attempt.”

He stood up, smiled at the shadow, and offered his hand. Tahisran shook it. Dashvara felt a cold, very cold tingle. He flinched and tottered back.

“Eternal B-Bird,” he stammered. “He has touched me!”

‘Did you believe I was only air?’ Tahisran sighed patiently.

Dashvara sat down on the other bed in dismay. At that very instant, someone knocked at the door. Fayrah went to open.

“It’s Azune!”

As soon as the half-elf entered, Dashvara took a glance at her before turning his eyes back where the shadow had disappeared.

“A relapse?” Azune asked. Her voice sounded colder than concerned.

Dashvara shook his head and got up.

“Not at all. I’m perfectly fine.”

The Pearl Brother examined him for some seconds.

“I was told about what happened at Aydin’s house. Now you have covered me in glory. I had no intention to get a troublemaker into the house of a friend.”

“And I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, really,” Dashvara assured. “Look. It’s all a misunderstanding. When I gave the thief lantern to the boy, I didn’t know what it was. That thief lantern belongs to a… woman,” he concluded. He certainly wasn’t going to involve Zaadma in all this, was he?

Azune nodded.

“Yes. I’ve been informed. A certain Zaadma, isn’t she? Okay, so, if this thief lantern really belongs to her, that means she’s a member of the Dream Brotherhood, so you owe her nothing: she’s a thief. Can I see the magara?”

Dashvara showed it while saying kind of acidly:

“She was a thief, she did say it to me. But she isn’t anymore.”

“Oh, really?” Azune replied while inspecting the object. “A thief of the Dream Brotherhood is a thief forever. You shouldn’t go outside with that. I’ll keep it.”

“No way,” Dashvara sprung. “It’s not yours. Zaadma gave it to me to help me cross the catacombs of Rocavita. Without it, I would be still wandering among the dead, and they would be still prisoners,” he affirmed, pointing at the Xalyas with his thumb.

Azune raised an eyebrow.

“Ahem. And tell me, how is it that now you know what the magara is when you didn’t at the beginning of the afternoon? For the Divinity’s sake! Tell me you didn’t show it to anyone, did you?”

Dashvara shook his head, exasperated, and he extended his hand to snatch the disk back.

“I didn’t. I’ve just found someone who had one, and he told me what it was.”

Azune stared at him, bewildered, and then Dashvara told her about his encounter with Cobra as well as his damp yet interesting walk in the canal. When he finished, the half-elf briefly covered her mouth with her hand to conceal a smile.

“I understand now why you changed into a tunic. That’s exactly what I was saying to Rowyn—the things that happen to you are stranger than Bramanil’s adventures. First, they accuse you of stealing the Dragon of Spring, then you get an unbalance in your inner energies, and now you meet one of the most famous thieves in all Dazbon. Congratulations, steppeman. At this rate, you’ll surely end up in the bottom of a canal before the end of the week.”

“By the way,” Dashvara said, ignoring her teasing tone. “I’d like to talk to you about my people. I’d like to inform you that I’m not going to let you work without me. And I have a very good reason for it.”

Azune’s face expressed boredom.

“I already told you it’s impossible. The plans are ready, and as soon as we put them in motion, things will run together, and your people will be freed.” She sighed as if yielding to Dashvara’s patient look. “What’s your very good reason?”

“The Xalyas won’t be willing to follow your instructions if I’m not here to tell them to trust you.”

The reason was simple but might be right. In fact, depending on which Xalyas had been imprisoned, the Pearl Brothers were likely to have a hard time trying to get their attention.

“Damned demons, steppeman.” Azune looked in distaste. “I think we’re not going the same directions. In any case, we’ll consider the matter. And tomorrow, when Rowyn comes to take you to the Supreme’s house, we’ll tell you our point of view about the subject, does it work for you?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Excellent.”

“Good. I see you’ve already eaten dinner,” the half-elf noticed. “Do you have some money?” The Xalyas shook their heads, except for Aligra, whose gaze was fastened on her like a soothsayer’s. Azune drew out some coins and put five dinars onto Fayrah’s palm. “Well. Don’t move from this room before Rowyn arrives, okay? And, particularly, see that he doesn’t move,” she emphasized teasingly. “He would be capable of making a mess all over Dazbon.”

Dashvara raised his eyes to the heavens. He nodded to her, and before she left, he sputtered:

“If you talk with Aydin, could you tell him that I’m ashamed and that, if he has any idea about how I can make amends, he just has to say it to me?”

The half-elf’s brown eyes smiled.

“I sure will.”

She left, and Dashvara remained sitting on the bed, drumming with his hands thoughtfully. Fayrah and Lessi were commenting something about the five dinars, and Aligra had lain down on her own bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“Tahisran,” Dashvara whispered.

The shadow slipped out under the bed, looking curious.

‘Yes?’

“Do you still want to make amends to get my forgiveness?”

The shadow smiled.

‘Now, I believed you had already forgiven me.’

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Let me rephrase it: do you want to do me a favor so that I forgive you totally?”

Tahisran’s smile widened.

‘Maybe. What is it about?’

The Xalya girls had fallen silent and were now paying attention to the conversation with interest. Dashvara explained:

“Follow Azune and tell me where she goes.”

‘But she’s already gone,’ he objected.

“She’s just gone—she probably hasn’t even left the inn yet. If you hurry, you can catch her.”

The shadow wavered.

‘Are you asking me to spy on a person?’

Never in his life would Dashvara have imagined that a shadow could have a code of conduct too.

“I’m asking you to follow her. I only want to make sure the Pearl Brotherhood is not going to move into action without me. Let me remind you that the objective is to free innocent people.”

That seemed to encourage the shadow, who nodded outright.

‘Count on me, then, Dash.’

Tahisran crossed the room, he opened the door, and after waving a night hand at him, he left. For an instant, Dashvara wondered whether he would come back one day. Then he had the certainty that he would.

After all, I’ve asked him not to leave me, right? He smiled, shaking his head.