75. Enemies that are no longer enemies

“You’re going to tell me the story, aren’t you?” Shivara asked, as they already descended the Stairs. The little one was hopping around, clutching the top in his hand.

Dashvara glanced at him with mild reproach.

“You are a little demon, Shivara. Come down carefully, it wouldn’t do for you to fall and for me to bring you back to your father in five pieces.”

He took him by the hand, and they continued down the Stairs to the Dragon District. Even though he’d spent all day roaming the city, staying cooped up at the inn with Titiakas chattering incessantly didn’t appeal to him much. Besides, he had thought of visiting several people. However, first he had to explain some things to Shivara. When they arrived at Liberty Square, he sat down on the edge of an unoccupied fountain. Despite the many groups sitting on the steps of the square and at the other fountains, it was quiet. For once, the sky was still relatively clear and the evening sun was still shining.

“Sit down, kid.”

Shivara sat beside him, very quietly. He was a quiet child, but he wasn’t always very attentive. That’s why Dashvara was amused when he met his eager eyes.

“Let’s see. Has anyone ever told you the story of the Xalyas?”

The child shrugged as he shuffled his feet.

“The shaard tells many stories.”

“Yes, but not much on the Xalyas. Shokr Is Set was a honyr before he was a Xalya. He knows very old stories about the Old Kings and the lords of the steppe. But I want to talk about our recent history. Do you know why we Xalyas have lived off the steppe for three years? Do you know why we are so few in number?”

When he saw the curiosity on Shivara’s face, he knew that Morzif had not explained anything to him. No doubt the Blacksmith thought that such things were not to be told to a six year old. Dashvara did not share his opinion. So he decided to tell him in order the events of the last few years, insisting that if they had abandoned the steppe, it had been against their will, and that if his father had been whipped, it had been the fault of the Titiaka slavers. He was impressed by the seriousness with which Shivara listened to him.

“Soon we’ll be back on the steppe,” Dashvara concluded. “You’ll love it. Hard times lie ahead, but we’ll survive. And no doubt we’ll live happier there than in these wilds,” he smiled. “You’ll see.”

Shivara nodded, looking convinced. Suddenly, behind them, a mocking voice called out:

“You’ll never make it through Essimean territory.”

Surprised, Dashvara turned to see a burly man with a shaggy beard and a steppian face. He wore the uniform of the Dazbon Fire Department. His expression was a wall of marble. Dashvara rose slowly from the fountain. He recognized him, he realized, stunned.

“Walek of Shalussi,” he articulated. “The last time we saw each other, you had proclaimed yourself chief of your village.”

The Shalussi nodded half-heartedly.

“The last time I saw you, you were one step away from death,” he replied.

“I have greeted death very closely these past few years,” Dashvara assured. “So the Essimeans attacked your village.”

Walek spat on the cobblestones of the square.

“Those dogs made us all slaves. They put us in their crop fields to the west. I escaped, but just barely. I thought I would go to Dazbon and gather some Shalussis to free our clan. But there are no real Shalussis in that damned city. They’re all cowards.”

His voice vibrated with contempt. Dashvara rolled his eyes. How could Walek expect Shalussis who had lived in Dazbon for perhaps generations to risk their lives against the Essimeans? The little Shivara let out:

“Father says all Shalussis are wimps.”

Dashvara huffed, barely suppressing a smile.

“Hey, kid. Your father is generalizing. Look at Rokuish. He’s a good guy.”

“Well, my father says Rokuish is a wimp,” Shivara insisted. “And so is Zefrek. He says that, if he had any guts, he wouldn’t have become a pira—”

Quick as the wind, Dashvara gave him a knock on the head.

“Shut up, boy.”

“Zefrek?” Walek repeated, with a strange twinkle in his eye. The little Xalya’s words did not seem to have offended him. “Zefrek of Shalussi is in Dazbon?”

“He is,” Dashvara asserted. “And, if I were you, I would not go near him after what you have done to him. Now you’ll have to excuse me, but this young boy and I must be going. Good evening.”

After a half hostile, half indifferent exchange of glances, Dashvara took Shivara’s hand, and they walked away towards the south. Meeting Walek again had darkened his mood.

“Who was it?” Shivara asked.

“He is, or rather was, a Shalussi warrior,” Dashvara explained. “He attacked our dungeon.”

The child inhaled sharply.

“He’s an enemy!”

“He is no longer. He no longer has a leader to obey. And he no longer has a people. Maybe I’m being unfair in saying this, but… he brought it on himself,” Dashvara muttered.

“Where are we going now?”

“Greeting an old acquaintance. I hope he still lives in the same place.”

When he arrived in front of Aydin Kohor’s house, there was light in the windows. It was almost dark already and the streets were filled with shadows. He knocked on the door, and a young ternian in a long black tunic came to open it. His face was paler than death to the point it was eerie to see.

“Yes?”

Dashvara cleared his throat.

“Does a certain Aydin Kohor still live here?”

The youth nodded slowly as he scrutinized him.

“He’s having dinner. Who are you?”

“Dashvara of Xalya. I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’d just like you to give him this from me.” He held out a white wooden figurine of a dragon: he had spent a whole month perfecting it, and it was by far his most successful piece of art to date.

The foreigner looked at the figure, but he did not take it. He moved away from the door.

“Come in. My father has told us about you. I’m sure he’ll be happy to receive this item from your own hands. I am Traolgan.”

Dashvara entered, shook his hand, and shivered again as he felt the coldness of his skin. Suddenly there was a thud against the floorboards and Dashvara saw the top roll to the ternian’s feet. Shivara looked fearful and grabbed Dashvara’s sleeve as Traolgan bent down to pick up the toy.

“I believe this is yours,” he said to the child, handing it to him.

The child took the top without a word. He seemed to have become speechless. Dashvara cleared his throat.

“You should say thank you, Shivara.”

The child nodded, as if that was enough to repeat the word. Under Dashvara’s exasperated gaze, he stammered:

“Thank you.”

The ternian smiled slightly before leading them into the living room. There sat Aydin Kohor with his wife and old Tildrin. The two ternians had not changed, except perhaps for a few less strands in the old thief’s hair. Dashvara bowed to them.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner. I just wanted to—”

“Dashvara of Xalya!” the healer exclaimed, dumbfounded. “By the White Dragon! Now that’s a surprise.”

He stood up and, smiling, walked around the table to shake his hand. Dashvara handed him the carved dragon.

“I know your wife would have done it a lot better, but… well, I thought you’d like it anyway.”

Aydin was in good spirits, and Tildrin, who confirmed he was the healer’s father, was smiling with all his remaining teeth. The wife, a great beauty despite being a ternian, greeted the two Xalyas cheerfully, praising the carved figure, and offered to join them for dinner. Only then did Dashvara realize that he had not yet had dinner.

“That’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to disturb you—”

“You are not disturbing us at all!” Aydin assured. “You will reward us with a story.”

“A… story?”

“Your story,” the ternian clarified. “Knowing all that happened to you in Dazbon in a matter of days, I suppose that, in three years, you must have met the White Dragon himself and killed ten thousand enemies.”

Dashvara laughed.

“If you count the anthills we took out in the Border barracks, maybe… Okay, I accept. But I’m not going to be able to stay very long.”

He and Shivara sat down, and while wolfing down a plate of delicious soup with appetite, Dashvara summarized his adventures in the Diumcili Federation, leaving out the more unpleasant parts so as not to upset their digestion.

“What about the Brothers of the Pearl?” Tildrin asked, anxiously. “Are they still in Titiaka?”

“As far as I know, they arrived in Dazbon a few weeks ago.”

The repentant thief sighed.

“They don’t even visit me anymore.”

“They must be busy,” Dashvara excused them, though he did think they could have bothered to stop by and say hello to their former companion. “They’ll probably come over as soon as they can. Who knows what band of mischief-makers they’re after now.” He noticed that Shivara had fallen deeply asleep in his chair. “What about Hadriks?” he asked. “Did he get into the Bastion?”

“Uh…” Aydin’s grimace made him raise an eyebrow. “Hadriks.” He shook his head with a sigh. “Yes, he went to the Bastion’s first year of study. But they didn’t renew his scholarship, and yet the boy had a good level. You know how impulsive that kid can be: he got on the bad side of a patrician son, and little by little, things got ugly. He stopped going to school. When I found out, I warned him that he might lose the scholarship, but he didn’t listen to me. He went to the final exams and failed. You can imagine how he felt after that.” He shrugged. “He decided to make himself a sailor, just like that, overnight. The issue was, he was already too old to start as a ship’s boy. He didn’t last three months. Well, since then, he’s been doing one job after another here and there. The last time I saw him was when he came by here to tell me he was going to Rocavita for the harvest. That was two months ago. Poor boy.”

It was clear that Aydin was not very happy with the boy’s actions. Dashvara, on the other hand, didn’t think it was such a tragic life. Between spending several years surrounded by crazy wizards and spending them in a series of jobs, he preferred the second option. Unless it meant being a sailor on a ship, he added to himself. However, when he voiced his opinion, Aydin argued that Hadriks was “better than that” and that his experience at the Bastion had discouraged him and changed him into an unstable boy.

“If he changes jobs, it’s because he gets fired, mostly,” the ternian explained. “He was even in jail for a month, for taking part in the port workers’ revolt a year ago. I don’t know what happened to that boy. I tried to convince him to at least stay with me to continue making magaras. But he said he’d never make another magara in his life. Well,” he sighed. “I guess in time he’ll get more thoughtful.”

Dashvara nodded and said:

“May the Eternal Bird watch over this boy. And on all of you,” he added. “It is already very late, and Shivara should already be on his pallet. It will be better if we go home.”

After greeting them all, he took Shivara in his arms and went out into the night without the child even opening his eyes. The streets were covered with fog, but at least there was no storm tonight.

He was already near the Temple of the Eye when Tahisran’s voice entered his mind like a flash:

‘I find you at last! The captain sent me to find you. He asked me to tell you that they have arrested Atasiag Peykat.’

Dashvara stopped dead in his tracks.

“What?”