26. Freedom

Each and every one of those men knows.

Dashvara scrapped the bottom of the wooden bowl with his spoon and gulped the last garfias.

That’s the little family I have left, and what a disastrous impression I made on them.

Pathetic. But such is life, Dash, and as you often say: you must accept your actions. Even if you don’t want to admit it, if you have betrayed your friends, you have betrayed them. The logic is quite simple. As for your remorse, you can do without.

Still, his comrades, sitting in the ship hold, didn’t look at him with scorn or disapproval. They had heard the screams—according to Makarva. And, in some secret corner of their mind, all of them had wished that Dashvara talked. According to Makarva.

The captain’s gaze did not express disdain either. Actually, it expressed nothing at all. Captain Zorvun had not uttered a word since he had advised his men to just meditate. Apparently, he had a lot of things to think about. On the contrary, Dashvara was beginning to fear his own thoughts dreadfully. That’s the next step: first they break you down, and then they persuade you that, deep down, you have always been a disguised scoundrel.

They heard the hatch creaking, and then a slaver’s footsteps. It was Paopag. Unlike Arviyag, he wasn’t dressed elegantly. He was a warrior… or rather an assassin. He had stabbed Almogan Mazer from behind. He was a great knight, for sure. Once downstairs, the Diumcilian man ordered calmly:

“Ten Xalyas stand up. You’re going to go up on deck and get some fresh air.”

Dashvara had no intention to stand up, but Makarva stretched a hand to lift him to his feet.

“Now, now, brother, don’t let yourself fall,” he murmured.

Dashvara nodded, and when Paopag began to free them from their feet chains, he was about to commit a folly, but he controlled himself. Fighting in a ship full of Diumcilians was a desperate action, and now Dashvara knew better than anyone how stupid a desperate man can be.

Paopag guided the ten hands-tied Xalyas to the stairs.

“Going up,” he said.

When Dashvara passed by him, the slaver made a slight grimace that looked like a smile. To his surprise, he extended a hand. Well, more like, he was handing him a small, wooden box.

“They’re yours, Xalya.”

Quivering, Dashvara took Hadriks’s gift with his tied hands. The cards were in it. He nearly said, “Thanks”, but he swallowed the word in time, amazed. How could he thank a man who had watched him while Tsu was torturing him? Eh, how could he? Or was it that he had stooped so low that he was now capable of thanking his enemies for the leftovers they were giving to him after destroying his dignity?

Damn it.

He noticed Makarva’s inquiring look, but he gave him a mere nod. On the deck, the wind brightened him up, and when he saw the landscape, he remained awestruck for long minutes. They were surrounded by water, and the ocean stretched endlessly on the four horizons. For an instant, he felt free. Infinitely small, but free.

Then he looked down at his tied hands, and reality seemed less terrible. We are not free, brothers, no: but we will someday, he thought.

He observed Makarva, leaning against the ship’s edge. The Xalya’s expression reflected a sheer fascination. His eyes were shining like two Moons. Dashvara smiled, and he went beside him as the other Xalyas scattered over the deck. All of them had their eyes fixed on that vast ocean.

“At long last, you see it such as it is, Makarva,” Dashvara said in Oy’vat after a silence. “Satisfied or disappointed?”

Makarva made a thoughtful face without averting his eyes from the horizon.

“Neither,” he responded. “Simply impressed.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Impressed? Is that all? After having devoured all the books we had about the sea?”

Makarva smiled.

“Mm… As the shaard used to say, sometimes you set your dreams just for having one. And the hardest thing is when you live them out, because then you don’t know what to do next,” he quoted.

“Ah! That’s Maloven all over,” Dashvara replied.

He could feel a strange calmness overwhelming him as if, in that ship lost in the midst of nowhere, the chains were less heavy. There beside Makarva, he almost felt as if he were back at home.

“That old man used to talk tremendous nonsense,” Makarva admitted, “but sometimes he spoke truths.”

Yes, he did, Dashvara agreed inside him. And he contradicted himself all the time when he spoke. But not when he acted. Maloven had always acted according to his Eternal Bird, even though he didn’t manage to explain It very well to the Xalya children. During all those lessons, the shaard had taught Dashvara to be generous towards his brothers, to be cautious towards strangers, to be a knight of the Dahars. And Dashvara had learned nothing. He had made his principles his own, deeming them good. He had created his own rules, as befitted a good Xalya. And with that, he had built a small fortress inside him, trusting nobody would shatter it…

Everyone learns from his mistakes, Dashvara. Now you know that you must be cautious not only towards strangers. The greatest danger comes from yourself. You who talked so much about falling feathers, you haven’t even been able to keep yours safe. But never mind. What’s done is done, and while I am at breaking laws, I only have to believe that the feather has straightened up again, and that does it… right? Yes, I already start thinking like a true bastard: as soon as I make a mistake, I ignore it and try to forget it as the worst scoundrel of all. Stunningly honest. Upright. And practical as all get out. No doubt the Duke and Azune would approve my reasoning with a round of applause. That is if they are still alive.

Makarva gestured with his head, recalling him from his thoughts.

“What’s that box Paopag has given you?” he asked curiously.

Dashvara lowered his gaze to the box and gave a hint of a smile.

“It’s a gift from that Dazbonish boy I told you about.”

“Hadriks?”

“Aye. They are ‘marine cards’,” he said, switching to Common Tongue. He had not denounced Hadriks in that room, had he? He could not have sworn to it, but he believed he hadn’t. Or perhaps you just want to believe you haven’t.

Makarva’s interest doubled.

“Marine cards? You mean a deck of cards?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I think it will keep you busy during the whole journey,” he joked.

Makarva gave him a teasing look, and Dashvara guessed that his friend felt relieved to see him a bit more cheerful; the first days after the torture had been hard. Then, his eyes turned to the sea.

“Dash,” he said earnestly. “Tell me, aren’t you worried about the captain’s mood?”

“Bah. He has always been a bit taciturn.”

“Mph.” Makarva cast him a skeptical glance. “He has barely spoken a word in three weeks. And those last days, he has said nothing at all. Precisely, when he is in a bad mood, he speaks and mutters. And this time, he doesn’t.”

Dashvara did not answer at once. It was clear that the captain was dying within himself, and that worried him as much as Makarva. But he couldn’t do much. If he had tried to console him, the captain would have suggested he went plant grass in the desert.

“Maybe he’s thinking about a way to get all of us out of here,” he finally said.

Makarva smiled.

“Yes. Maybe. Surely, if he cannot do it, nobody can.”

Dashvara nodded, pensive. Makarva was probably right.

“Xalyas, get in line!” Paopag suddenly thundered.

Makarva and Dashvara turned around and approached the slaver. The fresh air had invigorated them all, and the Xalyas were talking to each other cheerfully. For an instant, they seem to have forgotten about their chains, Dashvara thought. He was about to go downstairs when he met Tsu’s gaze. The drow was sitting on the steps that led to the prow. After torturing him, he had examined him painstakingly on the order of Arviyag so as to make sure that Dashvara hadn’t suffered any irreparable harm. He had been working for hours, and after noticing that he no longer felt that constant shooting pain in the chest, Dashvara suspected Tsu of having done something more than healing the damages he might have caused in his inner energies. He didn’t know exactly why, but he gave him a nod to greet him before going down back into the hold.

Once down, they chained them up again, and the thirteen remaining Xalyas stood up to go up on deck… except for the captain. This one did not move. Dashvara caught Makarva’s unquiet gaze when Paopag walked toward Zorvun.

“Stand up, captain,” the slaver told him. “You’ll see how the air will perk you up.”

There was a note of respect in his voice.

Respect? Dashvara peered at him in disbelief. Were slavers really able to feel respect towards their slaves? Very slowly, captain Zorvun stood up. His eyes, surrounded by dark rings, were frightening. He stepped toward the stairs, and for a minute, Dashvara was afraid of meeting his gaze. Did he know? he wondered abruptly. Had Lord Vifkan told him about what he aimed for by saving his firstborn son? He shook his head slightly. Do I really still care about that at this juncture? Then, the captain stopped.

“Man of Diumcili,” he croaked in a hoarse voice. “Answer me. What are you going to do with us?”

It wasn’t the first time that one of the Xalyas asked Paopag about that, but this one had never answered. To their utter amazement, this time, he responded:

“You are warriors, aren’t you, captain? Well then, as warriors you will serve.”

The answer wasn’t as bad as Dashvara had expected. The captain just nodded thoughtfully before following the rest of the Xalyas. When the hatch closed again, Makarva let out a chuckle.

“This Paopag has forgotten the lantern. Where are those cards?”

Dashvara doubted that Paopag had really overlooked the detail: he had more probably done it on purpose. Some fit of kindness, perhaps?

In the hold, their feet were chained, but their hands were not. Dashvara took out the cards, and as Boron was on the other side and could not get close enough to them, he asked his neighbor on the left to join them. His name was Sedrios. Even before Dashvara had started the patrol rounds at fourteen age, they called him the Old Man. He wasn’t really old actually—he was eighty years old at most—but his hair was already completely white like snow, and they thought of him as a wise man. Even the captain consulted him sometimes.

“If I have to play, I need to know the rules,” Sedrios warned with a slight smile as Dashvara was dealing the cards.

“The rules?” Dashvara echoed playfully, feigning incomprehension. “Since when do we play following the rules?”

Makarva was looking at his cards, intensely interested.

“If you want to not follow the rules, brother, you have to know them before,” he remarked wisely. “What’s that figure with the red hat?”

“A Senator.”

“Do real Senators have red hats?”

“You got me there. No idea. I’ve never seen one. Wait, let me think…” Dashvara paused. “I don’t even remember the rules.”

“Great,” Makarva laughed. “Why not think them up?”

Dashvara bit his lips, attempting to remember out loud what Hadriks had explained to him. He finally managed to recall the main things. For the rest, they improvised. They were going to play the first serious hand when the Xalyas on the deck returned. Captain Zorvun passed by them… and halted. Dashvara returned his gaze with apprehension. There was no despair nor sadness in the captain’s dark eyes: there was pride. A pride much more deeply embedded than that of any Xalya present here. How did they succeed in imprisoning you alive, Zorvun? Dashvara wondered, perhaps for the twentieth time. He didn’t manage to accept the idea that the captain could have preferred to be a slave rather than to die. A weakness, perhaps? Dashvara berated himself. A thief believes everybody steals.

He thought that the captain was going to pass by without a word, but then this one spoke, in a deep, calm voice, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the hold.

“Xalyas, don’t get discouraged. As long as we stay together, everything will be all right.”

For some secret reason, his tone soothed the spirits. The patrols nodded, including Dashvara; everyone was relieved to see that the captain looked, at last, more alive than dead. Zorvun said nothing more, but the corners of his lips rose slightly. When he went back to his place, Dashvara followed him with his gaze.

I wish I were like you, captain, he thought suddenly. You are a true Xalya. As my father was, but he had a heart of stone, and sometimes he was too obsessed with honor. But you’re otherwise—you care about your men. About your folk. About what really matters. He looked down at his cards with a gladdening certainty in his heart. A man couldn’t amend his past mistakes, but he could avoid those of the future. He took a deep breath. I swear I won’t disappoint you ever again, captain Zorvun. I swear it. He hesitated, and he rectified out of his chronic cautiousness: Or at least I will try.

“Your turn, Dash,” Makarva said.

“Yes,” Dashvara answered, waking up. He took a glance at the played card. “It’s my turn.”