46. Tasks

Nitakrios turned out to be one of those men who, having spent their lives learning the Scholasticism of the Graces and imbibing erudition, nevertheless continued to make one of the most serious mistakes that one can make in the federal capital: frequenting the Bright-Casino.

Sitting on a first-class sofa, he quickly explained the case to them, giving them a count of his debts. He almost cried, swearing to them that he had always been a patient lender with his debtors and that he did not understand the threats he received from a certain Licentiate Roniego to pay him back an exorbitant sum of no less than one hundred and eighty-three denarii and four dettas.

“He’s coming at six o’clock with his brothers, he told me,” he sighed, dejectedly. “I can’t pay that much. Atasiag offered to give me an advance, but by Dignity!” he said, “you don’t ask a friend for money. I am a man of principle. So I have no other option than to tighten the screws on my debtors. I have a stubborn tavernkeeper who owes me almost a hundred denarii. I think you can get sixty from him, at least. There’s another one who’s a shoemaker, and I think this summer his business has been doing very well, but the last time I went to see him he wouldn’t pay his debt, and I told him that, well, he’d pay me another time, because he’s a nice guy. You see, I am the most disastrous lender in Titiaka! As for you, please, don’t have any scruples: take everything he owes me up to now. Here are their names and addresses. His Eminence told me that you knew how to read… You do, right? Start with these two at the top of the list. The others have small debts.”

Dashvara’s hands were sweaty as he grasped the scroll. So this is what we’re playing, Cobra? He stifled a grunt.

“You are asking us, Licentiate, to force these people to pay your debt, is that it?”

Licentiate Nitakrios did not seem to perceive the reservations in his voice.

“I think you understand. I must pay this debt and Atasiag advised me not to go into debt with just anyone to pay it. Your master gives very wise advice, and I usually listen to him but… Licentiate Roniego is a crazy fool. If he comes here with his brothers and I don’t have eighteen crowns…”

In the Federation, gold coins were called crowns, and from what Dashvara understood, they were the same weight and value as Republican dragons. He ran his hand over his forehead in confusion. How on earth had this man gotten himself so far into debt? The captain intervened:

“What time is it?”

“Past four o’clock, I think,” Nitakrios answered in a dying tone. Then suddenly, he came back to life and jumped up from his sofa. “Four o’clock, by Dignity! You must hurry. I don’t want you to come back here without getting at least fifteen crowns. I might be able to cover the rest. Above all, don’t lose this parchment. It’s confidential information.”

He was already kicking them out.

“What if we don’t get those fifteen crowns?” Dashvara protested, on the threshold.

The Licentiate pretended not to hear him: he shut the door in their faces. Wonderful… Dashvara grumbled. He felt like breaking down the door, and perhaps he would have done so if Lumon hadn’t grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs.

“Great,” Dashvara muttered once on the street. “And now?”

“Now let’s get those fifteen crowns,” Zorvun growled. Although he was in as bad a mood as Dashvara was, he had visibly come to the evident conclusion before the young Xalya did, that is: they had no choice but to help the stupid scholar.

“And that’s why Atasiag needs Xalya warriors?” Dashvara croaked grumpily.

Neither the Archer nor the captain answered, and Dashvara looked away to scan the street. He didn’t see Wassag and assumed he had left to do other work.

“The tavernkeeper…” Zorvun mused, consulting the parchment. “He is a certain Sotag, owner of the Iron Tornado. Avenue of Sacrifice…”

“We have to cross the bridge again,” Dashvara sighed.

With faces like a funeral, they set off, passing perhaps five taverns before they reached the right one. The door was open, and they entered the Iron Tornado without saying a word. Dashvara immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“It smells like the White Hand in Nanda’s village,” he commented.

“Diumcilian herbs?” Zorvun inquired, scowling.

Dashvara nodded.

“But it’s not so bad here. Try not to breathe too much, though.”

They nodded, and the three of them headed straight for the counter. With some sixth sense of divination, several gamblers and drinkers looked away from their tables to see them pass. Dashvara sensed that the mood subtly changed. The tavernkeeper—a small, plump, smiling, friendly-looking man—was pouring a drink for a customer. With a heavy heart, Dashvara leaned on the counter.

“What does your Eternal Bird tell you guys?” he whispered in Oy’vat.

Somber, Lumon replied in a hoarse voice:

“That we shouldn’t be here.”

Captain Zorvun shook his head.

“Better be foreknowing, sons. If we start misbehaving from the beginning, Atasiag will take us to task and eventually convince us anyway. Remember the Contract.”

Dashvara was surprised by Zorvun’s coolness. He was right, of course, but that didn’t stop Dashvara from wishing things were different.

“If only he looked like a scoundrel,” he sighed, his gaze fixed on the tavernkeeper.

The little man approached them.

“Who will be talking to him?” Dashvara whispered through his teeth.

The captain merely replied with a mischievous smile. Damn him…

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the tavernkeeper said in a jovial tone. “What would you like to drink?”

Dashvara breathed in.

“Nothing, good man. Licentiate Nitakrios sends us. He considers it time for you to give him back some of his money.”

The transformation that took place on the tavernkeeper’s face was memorable: his smile disappeared, his cheekbones slowly sagged, and his eyes began to flicker like an alarm lantern.

“Senshag!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Come and take care of the counter for me. Gentlemen,” he whispered, “follow me, please.”

Dashvara saw him nervously rubbing his hands on his apron and leaving the charge of the tavern to a teenager who, given the resemblance, must have been his son. This was confirmed when the boy whispered to him:

“Any problems, Dad?”

The tavernkeeper merely patted his shoulder with a smile and led the three Xalyas out of the tavern, down a hallway into a small, dimly lit room.

“Well,” the tavernkeeper said, “here’s the sum I owed for a long time…” He took out ten denarii from a small bag. “But if… I mean, if you let me have it a little longer, maybe—”

Dashvara grabbed the coins.

“We need more, Sotag. You owe Licentiate Nitakrios ten crowns. And he considers that you can pay him six.”

The tavernkeeper turned crimson.

“S-six?” he choked. “Oh… By the Eleven Graces, are you kidding?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I’d like to. But no, I’m not kidding.”

“Who are you?” the tavernkeeper protested, glancing at the pins on their belts. “Did Nitakrios hire you?”

“Not exactly. We are workers of His Eminence Atasiag Peykat, and we help his friend Licentiate to solve his problems.”

The tavernkeeper turned livid, and Dashvara feared he might faint. So the snake was famous… Unless it was just the title that impressed him.

“Sixty denarii is too much,” Sotag stammered. “I don’t know if I can—”

“Do you have them?” Dashvara cut him off.

“I don’t…” He took a deep breath. “Yes, I think I have them. But it’s almost half of my savings, and I owe other people money too…” his voice broke, and Dashvara thought he heard his own heart break with it.

He threw in Oy’vat:

“Captain, I can’t do this.”

“Oh yes, you can,” Zorvun replied as the tavernkeeper looked at them in turn, puzzled. “This man needs to be taught a lesson. Next time, maybe he won’t take the risk of going into debt without thinking. And next time, maybe he won’t talk about fake ‘savings’ when in reality he’s living off other people’s money.”

Dashvara looked at him with disbelief.

“Don’t you feel any pity for him?”

The captain shrugged.

“Think of him as an outsider, Dash. He’s not one of us, and given the situation, we can’t be good to everyone. Let’s do something for our family, shall we?”

Dashvara breathed inwardly. You surprise me, Captain. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how your Eternal Bird works. Sometimes you’re as proud as a dragon, and other times… He rested his gaze on the tavernkeeper, his heart frozen.

“Fifty denarii are missing, Sotag. We don’t have all day. Licentiate Nitakrios is in a hurry.”

Then the tavernkeeper resorted to a predictable trick: he began to cry and beg, talking about his family, his children, the studies he had to pay, the taxes, and some dangerous creditor to whom he owed ten crowns. After a few minutes, Dashvara thought he was looking at the most unfortunate and abused man in the world.

“You can’t do this to me,” he sobbed. “You would be merciless, and the Graces punish cruelty. Please,” he said, literally kneeling before Dashvara. “My wife is ill. And I have a blind nephew to support. You can’t do this to me,” he repeated.

For a moment, Dashvara was about to start crying with him. Then he thought, met the captain’s eyes, and sighed. Fine… He seized the tavernkeeper by the collar of his shirt and lifted him by force.

“Don’t make things difficult for us, Sotag. We came for sixty denarii, and you’re going to give them to us, willingly or not. And now go get it,” he growled, letting go of him.

This time, the tavernkeeper put on a sincere look of dejection. Perhaps guessing that they were new to the business, he insisted:

“I’ll give you twenty-five more. With thirty-five maybe it will be enough, won’t it? Twenty-five,” he repeated pleadingly. “Please.”

Dashvara let out a series of grunts and hisses, then turned to Lumon and the captain. The damned cowards were watching the scene as mere spectators. He hissed and gave in:

“It’s okay. Give me those twenty-five denarii.”

“Dash!” Zorvun gasped, as the tavernkeeper rushed out of the room to get the money. He muttered in Oy’vat, “With that, we’d be a hundred and fifteen denarii short. According to the parchment, the cobbler owes seventy. Assuming we take those seventy, where are we going to get the other forty-five from? The others have debts of no more than ten denarii, and we don’t have all afternoon. Eternal Bird, draw sixty. Shake it up a bit. Put your principles aside for a moment.”

Dashvara exhaled as if he had been punched in the stomach. I can’t believe my ears. Leaving my principles behind?

“Thousand thunderclaps, Captain,” he muttered. “Principles are constant: you don’t ‘put them aside for a moment’, or they lose all their value. What in the world is the matter with you?”

“I ask you the same question. We are Xalyas, Dashvara. To me, this debt thing is so ridiculous that I’d like to slap that man across the face a few times to teach him not to make the same mistakes. Money,” he spat. “If his wife is sick, I’ll go and treat her myself if I have to, but stop with your senseless qualms. Atasiag wants us to help his allies, and we will help them. Think that we are acting to obtain what we came for: our freedom. And now, son, take these six crowns from him.”

For a few seconds, Dashvara felt like a shepherd lost in the middle of a mountain full of absurd paths. Then he erased all his thoughts, nodded, and as soon as Sotag returned, he grabbed him again by the shirt collar and pushed him against a wall.

“Where are the twenty-five denarii?” he croaked.

“They’re here, they’re here!” shouted the tavernkeeper, terrified.

Lumon grabbed the bag in his hand and emptied it to count the coins. Finally, the Archer made a small affirmative sign. Dashvara insisted:

“The remaining twenty-five denarii?”

“What?” Sotag said indignantly. “But you said…!”

He let out a frightened dog whimper as Dashvara shook him.

“Twenty-five more, Sotag. Go get them.”

This time the tavernkeeper did not cry or beg; he simply left the room, his legs wobbling. He was slow to return, and Dashvara feared for a moment that he had run away. In which case, they would have a hard time gathering fifteen dragons in just over an hour… Finally, the door opened again, and Sotag entered, escorted by his son, who looked like he was looking for a fight.

“Here are the twenty-five denarii,” the tavernkeeper coughed, more dignified.

Dashvara took them with relief.

“Thank you, Sotag. Just think, now you are only forty short of paying off your debt to Licentiate Nitakrios. And, as a friend, let me inform you that your savings are not real savings if you are a man in debt. You will live much happier when you have paid all your debts.”

The tavernkeeper raised a trembling eyebrow at Dashvara’s suddenly friendly tone. His son curtly jumped in:

“Well, now that you have the money, get outta here, and you better not mess with my dad again, scoundrels!”

Dashvara made a vague gesture.

“Of course. We’ll leave right away.”

As he passed by them, he thought for a moment that the son was going to try to hit him or pull out that dagger he wore on his belt, but the boy held back. A cautious boy.

The three of them walked out of the tavern followed by wary eyes and walked in silence for several minutes without even looking at each other. Finally, Dashvara let out an annoyed gasp.

“If Atasiag wants us to do this kind of work for the next few months, I will relinquish my position as lord of the Xalyas.”

“What does one thing have to do with the other?” the captain replied, pulling out the Licentiate’s parchment.

“What does that have to do with it, you ask?” Dashvara hissed. “Both of you let me do the dirty work. That tavernkeeper, now, will have trouble paying his other debts, and I will feel responsible.”

“You shouldn’t,” the captain sighed. “Come on, think optimistically as you usually do. They’ll give him a good thrashing, then his feather will rise again with perhaps a little more wisdom.”

“They will plunge him into misery.”

“All he has to do is go to Atasiag. I myself will ask our master to have mercy on him and welcome him into our brotherly worker status.”

Dashvara let out an exasperated exclamation.

“I see that today is one of those days when your humor is darker than Sashava’s.”

“It’s not dark humor, Dash.” He paused and riveted his gaze into his. “I just want you to understand that our situation hasn’t changed much since we’ve been here, compared to Compassion…”

“I realized that.”

“I would even say that, in a way, it has become worse. Before, we were at the foot of the dragon, and now, we are under its fangs.”

“I know,” Dashvara sighed.

“And correct me if I’m wrong, but Atasiag Peykat, this man you seem to like so much, will not hesitate to get rid of us if he starts to doubt our usefulness. Am I wrong?”

Dashvara looked away to nowhere. And he surrendered.

“Not at all. You are right, Captain. I don’t only have to fight for my Eternal Bird but also for the Eternal Bird of each of you. Therefore, taking that into account and considering that the goal of the majority is to stay alive, I have come to a brilliant conclusion: we are nothing but miserable slaves.”

Lumon smiled, and the captain coughed to stifle a mocking laugh.

“I am glad to see that, after three years, you realize it at last, son. I always knew that one day we would have the most insightful and intelligent steppe lord of all the steppe clans.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Tell me, Captain, did Makarva or one of the Triplets lend you his tongue this morning?”

Zorvun shook his head.

“I don’t borrow anything. Well, Rejoice Street,” he declared. “The cobbler’s name is Foshag.”

“Always these ‘ag’ everywhere,” Dashvara muttered as he started walking. “Let’s go to Rejoice, then. We went through it with Yorlen before: it’s in the north, near the Gobbler Avenue. The streets have quite funny names, too,” he sighed thoughtfully. “In any case, the cobbler is not going to be as rejoicing as his street, I’m afraid. Unless we’re lucky and he runs to give us the seventy denarii without complaint. It must be nearly five o’clock already,” he muttered. “The Licentiate must be more nervous than Pik. Also, we still have two or three visits left, don’t we?” He closed his mouth and suddenly became flushed. “Sorry. Am I talking too much?”

Lumon smiled again, with that mysterious, cryptic smile of his. What could the Archer be thinking of all this? Knowing him, his Eternal Bird must surely be suffering in silence.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, Dash. Just keep talking, go on,” he said.

“You can also think of the most effective way to get the seventy denarii from the cobbler,” the captain suggested. Dashvara glared at him and added, “Not a bad technique. If you look at him like that, maybe he’ll give in on the first try and not make the same scene as the other guy.”

“We’ll play the thugs,” Dashvara agreed.

“We already look like ones,” the captain assured. “You just have to know how to take advantage of it and not look at people with a compassionate expression.”

“Bah. Everyone knows that the Border Towers rub off on the character of the Doomed, Captain. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Oh yeah, I always knew that, deep down, the Sympathetic were sympathetic,” the captain smiled.

“Lumon, don’t you think he’s in a particularly good mood?” Dashvara teased. “Anyone would think he likes to empty people’s purses.”

“If only I could empty them all,” Zorvun said meditatively. “Think about it: what is the basis for the existence of money? These are mere precious metals that don’t even serve to feed a scale-nefarious. And for these metals, a merry tavernkeeper is able to kneel down and cry like a doomed man…” He shook his head. “Anyone who does not see this as a serious problem is blind.” Dashvara saw him watching two guards passing through the Avenue of Sacrifice. The captain added, “It seems that, for a handful of coins, civilized people will accept anything.”

Dashvara smiled.

“And the most worrying thing is that we are becoming more and more like them,” he observed. “You know? You talk even more than I do, Captain. Is it by any chance the impending encounter with the cobbler that’s making you nervous? Because it wouldn’t make sense: all things considered, I suppose I’m the one who’s going to have the privilege of talking to this Foshag,” he quipped.

Zorvun just mumbled something under his breath. When they reached Rejoice Street, it took them a while to find the right shoe shop. The man was a small elf who immediately came to greet them, talking about soles, the latest model of shoes, and the best boots he had in his store. Dashvara looked at him for a moment, amazed. Had he mistaken them for wealthy customers? Zorvun cleared his throat quietly, inviting Dashvara to intervene. Here comes the lord of the slaves to bleed the poor… Interrupting the elf, Dashvara explained his presence and spoke of Licentiate Nitakrios. Foshag immediately became more reserved, but he did not react hysterically like Sotag.

“How is the Licentiate?” the cobbler asked. “Is he well?”

“He’s doing just fine,” Dashvara assured him. “Excuse our haste, but we have to give him the money right away.”

“Of course,” Foshag said. “Of course.”

Promptly, he went to close the store and asked them to wait a moment:

“I’ll be right back.”

When Dashvara saw him disappear into the back room, he drummed his fingers on his elbows in concern.

“What if he runs away and keeps us waiting forever?”

“He won’t run away,” Zorvun reassured him. “I think he understood that we were willing to do anything to make him pay.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow.

“Anything, Captain?”

Zorvun hesitated and shrugged his shoulders.

“Anything that can be effective without damaging the image of Atasiag.”

“His Eminence’s,” Dashvara mockingly corrected.

The captain sighed loudly.

“Right.”

Eternal Bird, has someone taken over the captain’s soul during the night? Dashvara looked at him in disbelief.

“I can’t believe my ears. How do you take it so well, Zorvun? Where’s your pride?”

“My pride? Where it has always been, my son. Listen,” he continued. He leaned on the counter of the cobbler’s shop, and while absentmindedly examining a strange metal machine that sat there, he continued: “I’m going to tell you both something that I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone. My father, who was captain before me, once told me: son, as a captain, always put pragmatism before pride and always, always, stay loyal to your clan. You ask me where my pride is, Dash? Well, right now, it’s being trampled on by pragmatism and loyalty.”

Dashvara felt moved, yet it took him a few seconds to fully believe these words. Zorvun was such a proud man… How could he accept his helplessness so easily? A simple answer finally came to him. The captain was a stubborn man, but not inflexible like Lord Vifkan. As Dashvara had seen over the past three years, the Captain put the survival of the Xalyas ahead of his own self-respect. Though it was true that, as soon as his clan was not in danger, he turned into an impregnable wall of pride.

That’s also why I like you more, Captain, Dashvara smiled mentally. There’s nothing more frightening than a man without flaws.

Curiously, at this moment, he noticed that the dark hair of the Xalya was sprinkled with white streaks. How old could the captain be? He had lived more than half his life, certainly, but he was not as old as Sedrios. And yet he had visibly aged. The last few years had not been kind to him.

“I’ll try to follow the advice, Captain,” he promised.

“Oh. You already are,” Zorvun assured, amused.

Some footsteps made Dashvara turn to see the cobbler returning with the seventy denarii.

“Here they are!” Foshag said. “I can’t deny that this takes a good chunk out of my savings, but it’s always a pleasure to pay one’s last debt. I’ll feel like a completely free man the day they affix the counter-seal,” he added, patting his arm.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow as he collected and counted the denarii, dettas, and sildettas.

“So you’re not a free man?”

Foshag smiled.

“No. But I’m working hard to become one. From now on, I’ll try to save enough to buy my freedom. See,” he said. Rolling up his sleeve, he showed the mark of a blue eagle surrounded by small runes. “I am three special services short of completing the circle. When I complete it, the Master will set me free.”

Dashvara thought he had swallowed a block of ice.

“That eagle…?” he stuttered. “I mean… By master, you only mean your boss, right?”

Foshag raised an eyebrow.

“Sir Dikaksunora,” he said. “Everyone calls him the Master. You’re new to the city, aren’t you?” He glanced at Dashvara’s slightly exposed arm and frowned imperceptibly. “I don’t recognize that black mark. Are you from another canton?”

“Yes. From the Border,” Dashvara specified, showing him the beetle.

Instead of expressing admiration or fear, the elf looked sympathetic.

“So you must feel happy to be back in Titiaka, despite…”

He fell silent, and Dashvara finished the sentence for him:

“Despite our honorable work?” He shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s different.” He glanced thoughtfully at the blue eagle. Ironically, this one looked a lot like the depictions of the Eternal Bird that appeared in some of the books in the Xalya Dungeon. He cleared his throat to hide his troubled face. “Good. Thank you for your time, Foshag. Have a good day.”

“Likewise,” the elf replied, smiling.

They left the cobbler’s shop with one hundred and thirty denarii. Dashvara dragged his feet on the cobblestones of Rejoice Street.

“Well,” he sighed. “If only everyone were so cooperative. We’re twenty denarii short. Who’s next on the list?”

The captain consulted the scroll and read:

“Rushek. Twelve denarii and one detta. Fortin of Mastrabor. Mercenary militiaman. Rushek,” he repeated as if he were chewing pork. “Isn’t that a Shalussi name?”

Dashvara nodded, his eyebrows furrowed.

“It is.”

Zorvun smiled, and Dashvara shook his head in exasperation.

“Just because he’s a Shalussi doesn’t mean he’s any less deserving of our compassion,” he declared solemnly.

The captain made an incredulous pout.

“Of course not. I will be compassionate and won’t run him through with my sword… because I don’t have one.”

Zorvun’s eyes sparkled. Dashvara swallowed.

“Who’s next on the list?”

The captain laughed quietly.

“Dash, let’s go see this Rushek. I won’t do anything to him, rest assured.”

“No, Captain. I don’t want you to go berserk and spoil everything.”

“I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to go berserk.”

Dashvara glared at him.

“I am the lord of the Xalyas, remember? And I don’t want any trouble like that. Who’s next on the list?”