-

He had nightmares that night, atrocious nightmares.

He saw a dark alley, a withered child, curled up in a foetal pose, sobbing. He saw a black figure whipping him.

Ktsh, and the whip beat on the baby’s back. Ktsh-ktsh-ktsh!

“Stop!” he wanted to scream at that black torturer. “Stop, that’s enough! He’s just a baby!” He wanted to scream at him this and more, but Ethan couldn’t open her mouth. He touched it and... there was no mouth, only thick, unyielding skin.

Panic flooded his body like a raging river, yet the torturer still railed at the child and the child still sobbed. He gathered his strength, restrained his anguish, and launched himself at the cursed black figure. He fell with a crash, as if his legs had turned to water.

“Stop!” and this time the black man really stopped, though no words escaped Ethan’s mouth. He looked up at the torturer: he was no longer black.

The hooded figure, now white and gleaming, reached the merchant and flexed his knees. He laughed and laughed as he rolled up the whip that whistled within an inch of Ethan’s face. His voice sounded like the screech of the kiss between two swords. “Everything that happened to you, Ethan, I took it. Yet, from the beginning it was my guide to lead you through those sufferings and it’s my merit, mine alone, if you escaped from them. Don’t ignore me! Don’t ignore who I am! Open the doors, or I’ll have to break them with force, Ethan...”

-

The golden light quickly spread from the large window facing the dawning wonderful city. The sky was tinged with the last flashes of green, ready to give way to the blue of the morning.

Ethan felt he had only slept a few minutes. The head ached and throbbed. Damn rum, one day you’ll kill me, he thought while a sour, ferrous taste spread in his mouth. He put on his black breeches, a white shirt, and high boots in enamelled leather the same colour as the breeches.

Arriving in the hall, the first scene he saw and heard had Deniz as its protagonist. He cursed - between a bite of sweet bread and a sip of ginger-lemon water - the Plagues for the pain in his temples. He too, evidently, was feeling the consequences of all that alcohol the night before, as it should have been.

“Old man, I’m going for a walk around the city. I’ll begin to plumb the ground to understand which merchants to make ours. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, noon at the latest. Pay attention and, by Cohar’s Courage, recover.”

The captain replied only with a broad affirmative nod. Beside him, boatswain Ilker with a wave of his hand hinted that he would look after his friend.

As Ethan had predicted, outside the inn, unconscious on straw, Son was drooling even though it was already daylight and Garatier was industrious and immersed in a great din.

The city was as beautiful as the day before, perhaps even more so since although the surprise effect of an unknown city had vanished, it caused Ethan to be amazed again.

All those trees, those bushes, those flowers that filled the air with the scent of pollen, gave him a feeling of freedom, well-being, and liveliness comparable only to navigating the open sea pushed by the mistral.

That idea of ​​wind and waves made Ethan think he was becoming a sailor himself. He shivered at the thought. I have to part with Tiburon as soon as possible. I don’t want to end my days in seas, he reflected but didn’t have the courage to shout it as he would have liked.

He slipped into the Merchants’ District.

Walking slowly, with watchful eyes he began to scrutinize one by one the merchants who, from behind the stalls with curtains green, purple, blue and many other colours, were yelling at the top of their lungs to try to entice passers-by to stop, try the products, feel their aromas and fragrances, and then buy them.

In the centre of the large district all kinds of goods were exchanged or sold. Not only vegetables, fruits, fish, and meat, but also linen, cotton, chiffon, georgette, taffeta, and most of the existing fabrics and, again, essences of lavender and jasmine, rose water and peonies, tropical or undergrowth extracts from Ish-Telir and the Southern Trust. Beyond these, there was a great deal of everything that any family needed not only to survive, but also to pamper themselves.

Moreover, the economic welfare of the entire Kingdom of Waterby was universally known.

In the buildings that surrounded the circular square, there were instead pharmacies, herbalists, tailors, and an indoor forge from which the sound of the hammer against the anvil could be lightly heard.

It was easy for Ethan’s agile and trained eyes to identify at least four merchants, among those present in the centre of the square, who would have done everything to sell to their loyal buyers goods from the most distant cities, considered even exotic by non-travellers, such as Al-Fedar and Mitoros, Morven and Mite, large centres that were on the other side of the Continent.

He understood this easily, Ethan, by their ways of posing and interacting with passers-by, very similar to those described to him during the lessons given to him by Deniz. So, he knew how he could make a product much more than just a product.

However, he was worried that outside of those four - actually very modest ones - he did not see other solutions for sale at the moment. Perhaps, what he was able to observe was nothing more than a superficial layer of Garatier’s real commercial potential.

“Ethan! Ethan of Morven!” thundered a distant voice.

The merchant looked far and wide until he spotted him: a slender man, six feet tall. He wore a half cuirass of braided red leather complemented by a steel arm and shoulder pad. Moreover, Ethan could not have failed to recognize the two unusual swords the man had tied to his belt. Long face, eyes cut and thin as the edge of a blade, thick black eyebrows. The lustrous night-coloured hair was gathered in a showy knot on her head.

“Shinji!” Ethan yelled.

After five years, the promise they had exchanged in Mitoros was kept.

Ethan remembered the moment when the Tiburon crew had fished out his odd-looking friend in the East Great Sea: a man who was clinging to a shattered mainmast as well as was clinging to life.

For a long time, they had thought he was a savage from a distant and inhospitable land, speaking in nasal noises and constantly alert, seeming ready to attack anyone who passed by. That attitude earned him the nickname Thyrus, the same name of the pestiferous and rampaging dragon rumoured to haunt for centuries the swampy area in the south of the Unified Kingdoms of Kaltheimr.

As soon as they managed to have a conversation - which could be defined at least in part as such - in the universal language, they discovered how he came from a land does not present on the Continent’s nautical charts: Nionrei. They had no idea then what land it was, whether wild or not. Only later did they discover it to be, through the words of the Nionreian, a dream destination.

“Ethan!” called Shinji again, abandoning for a moment the typical detached coldness that was an integral part of his being.

Seeing him, Ethan found himself with a lump in his throat. He screamed his name again as he approached and spread his arms to put him in a hug. Hug that actually took place, leaving him stunned as it was not Shinji’s custom to express his feelings so conspicuously. He distinctly smelled the lavender smell of his old friend.

“How long, huh? I hope you continued to train even in my absence” said the Nionreian while, tight in the hug that seemed to last too long, he hit Ethan on the back with a strong slap. The only thing he could now deceive about his origins were those strange connotations because his accent had become perfect, but with the crude Ishtelirian cadence.

Another memory became vivid in the young merchant’s mind.

During the Nionreian’s stay on the Tiburon, the two had had the opportunity to confront each other over and over again about their respective cultures and the young man discovered the value that honour has for the inhabitants of the island of which the thin-eyed man had spoken.

In fact, the foreigner, since he was deprived of any kind of wealth or objects to give him, proposed to Ethan to grant him the honour of repaying the rescue by teaching him the art of the sword of Nionrei, known in his native language as Ramashi.

It was a martial art that made use of two thin flat blades, Shinji explained to him: a short one in the weak hand, called Tanken, and one about twice as long in the strong hand, called Sotteken. The preferred materials for their construction, in Nionrei, were dark oak wood covered with black buffalo leather for the hilt; hardened steel and folded from one hundred and fifty to three hundred times, treating it in the beating and folding with blue corundum powder, to the blades. These, in this way, took on an ultramarine colour, like the bright twilight sky of an already high moon. The scabbard was the same colour and material as the hilt lining.

Before they could separate in Mitoros five years earlier, the Nionreian made design two pairs of blades of that type to the city’s master blacksmith. The result satisfied him, and satisfied Ethan as well since he was given one of the two pairs by the Nionreian.

According to what Ethan was able to learn from Shinji’s more theoretical lessons, before he could actually wield such blades, the strangeness of what looked like nothing but a sword and a long dagger, barring the colouring of the steel, was in the particular shape of the hilt itself which had neither guard nor pommel, like the most typical swords of the Six Kingdoms, only handle and blade. They were extremely light and sharp razors.

The first time Ethan saw Shinji juggle the sword art, he thought he saw a splendid dance like those practiced in Al-Fedar or Mitoros. Pirouettes, kicks and half turns, slashes, throws, lunges, changes of guard and hands, bending of the limbs, and breathing. A perfect match that even the eyes of an inexperienced like Ethan understood could allow him to dodge, hit, back away and then dash forward, hurt, or kill.

“Training? What training? Do you mean those weird dances we did together on the bridge Tiburon?” the merchant asked, laughing with mockery, although he had continued day by day to train harder and harder to refine what he had been taught and beyond.

He had been able to test the results on merfolk, pirates, and theriomorphic bandits during those five years of separation. Despite this, he still sinned in what the Nionreian had defined over and over again as Ramashi’s most important lesson: self-control.

During the trainings, in fact, Shinji explained him that, although the Ramashi taught how to defend and attack, even fatally, it was not uncommon for Nionrei to see punishments for those who misused it. The blades had to be guided by the mission entrusted to them by the Master and then used for a higher purpose than childish displays of strength. The punishments, however, changed from master to master, whom, in the hierarchy of power of the distant island, occupied one of the highest roles being the oldest and wisest and therefore defined as Arcane.

The Arcane, in fact, boasted of ample powers and it was possible to understand them almost as living tribunals.

Although Shinji was initially reluctant to reveal to the merchant what the punishments his Master was usual to adopt, after four months of exhausting training, he decided to do so, adding significant details.

In fact, the Nionreian explained him that the function of self-control was precisely that of being able to demolish the enemy’s will to fight, without taking his life: ‘Having great skill means knowing where to strike to block the opponent, it means knowing when to stop in sinking the blade into the flesh, it means knowing when whoever is in front of you is no longer able to hold the sword’.

According to the Nionreian, intentional murder, like other crimes, was equivalent to the shame of not having learned the true essence of Ramashi and this shame was so immense that it could not be endured in life, so the guilty party would have to take his sapphire blades and stick them in his own belly in order to cleanse one’s honour, Master’s honour and Ramashi’s honour. An honourable death.

Those who were unable to perform the ritual for fear of dying were exiled by sea by Masuzhu – Shinji’s Master - who granted life to his sinful pupil, but short and which would certainly lead to a death without honour and without a name.

“Ah! Do not dare!” said the Nionreian giving him small fists on the chest.

Ethan smiled because he looked like the same Shinji from five years earlier, only more adapted to atmosphere the of the Six Kingdoms. “Forgiveness, Thyrus! Don’t eat me” recited cheerfully the merchant.

“I hate that nickname. With all the animals that are on the Continent you have chosen right the dragon… And then, speaking of nicknames, are you really dare to talking? Huh, Ethan the Scrawny?”

“Ah, for the Plagues! You can’t call me that!”

“Why not? I have to defend myself in a battle of names.”

“Because when they gave me that nickname you weren’t even with us! Besides, it’s sad and cruel. I was about to starve when they put it on me. They should have had more decency towards a skeletal child.”

“What do you want to do with it, Ethan? They are sailors, what should sailors know about decency?” he asked rhetorically.

“How to blame you” Ethan replied, shaking his head.

“So how is the captain doing? Has he reached your Divines?”

“No, he still leads the Tiburon. He’s become a bit of a fool and drink like someone who has returned from the war, which can only make him even more fool” the merchant said with a smile.

“At least, from what you tell me, he seems to have remained the same as before, unlike you.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? When I first saw you, you were sixteen, but you were a withered wren. Then, when we take different paths two years later, you were starting to step into the path of maturity and now... Now look at you! You’re a well-formed man, Ethan!” The words were accompanied by energetic slaps crashing with great force on the shoulder of the merchant.

Ethan, who was not used to feeling awkward at all, became embarrassed. He perceived Shinji’s judgment in the same way as that of a wise older brother, and that statement rang in his ears as a considerable compliment. Not only embarrassed, but he was also proud of himself.

He took back the reins of his emotions and went back to discussing lightly, a skill he often used as a form of self-defence and management of sentimentality. “I certainly can’t say the same about you. I’ve almost an old man in front of me now. I see you a bit shuffling, Shinji. Do you want support?”

The Nionreian gave himself a couple of blows to the neck with the palm of his hand. “It is really true. The age is advancing and there are so many things to do, so little time available.”

“You seem to have become just as it is in Deniz now.”

“I can only take it as a compliment.”

“How’s your mind, instead? The last time we saw each other you had it in pieces, you didn’t remember anything of what happened. Now?” Ethan asked, thinking back to the dying man they had hoisted onto the deck Tiburon seven years before that moment, a stranger not only at the eyes of the crew, but also at his own.

“I am much better now. I should thank the Ishtelirians and their chattering methods for that” replied coldly, which didn’t bother Ethan as he knew it was the usual and purest attitude of the Nionreian.

“I’m really happy, Shinji. When we calmly sip a pint of beer, you’ll tell me about it.”

“You can be sure.”

“So, from Mitoros to Garatier? What brings you here? Is it for that famous project that you wanted to carry out and about which you practically told me nothing?” asked the merchant who, as always, was hungry for knowledge and quivering with curiosity.

“I owe my life to you, Ethan, especially to you who instinctively, wren as you were, threw yourself into the sea to grab me. We both know very well how much I owe you, but I am not going to reveal any details until I am ready. You, as usual, do nothing but fill those in front of you with questions. You really have to work on the impetuousness, boy.”

Ethan decided not to insist and accompanied by the Nionreian, he started to return to the Drunk Tuna, seasoning the walk with tales of the sea, indecent jokes, and the joy of seeing some rare smile of his old friend.

“What have you done in these five years, stranger?” Did you get a beautiful Mitorian wife? Maybe now you’ll take me to a house full of brats with your own weird eyes.”

“Not at all, you know very well that I am a loner. What do you want me to tell you, boy? I have been a little over there, a little around here. I have been living here in Garatier for a few months. They gave me a task in the city and so here I am. And you? Do you still slip into the sheets of the promised brides?”

“Still with this old story… When did you get funny, Nionreian? I did, until not so long ago, it’s true. Then I met a woman who filled the hole I felt in my chest, my missing piece, if we want to define it that way. She did it with a look, Shinji, with a look and with a few words. Without even realizing it, she charmed me in an instant. Two years have passed since then and, despite everything, my feeling is as strong as it was then. We exchanged a silent promise but very similar to the one you and I exchanged in Mitoros before we took different paths. And now? Seeing you only gives me hope. If ours promise has been realized, surely the other one will too.”

“When I left you, you were a frantic conqueror of young beauties and now you come to tell me that you fell in love? It is really true that I left you as a boy and found you as a man. I am glad of it. So, tell me, what woman are we talking about?”

“What woman? The most beautiful woman of the Six Kingdoms whose name, according to some say, coincides with that of the most dangerous” Ethan said, who wanted to maintain a certain reserve about the identity of the famous beloved.

“All right, all right. I get it, I am not stupid. What about business, then?”

“As usual, men’s silver goes into women and alcohol. What remains is held by Egill or we pass it on directly to Zuganio to repair the ship.”

“Egill? I do not remember any Egill.”

“Yes, yes. The new quartermaster, Shinji. Egill, known to most as Borda. A fellow ugly, dark, and lonely as the Reaper, but skilled at his job.”

“And Nerva?”

“Nerva… May the Divines have poor Nerva in their favor. Kidnapped and killed by a group of theriomorphs in Verdens Ende, in the northernmost part of the Glem-Tohav Archipelago.”

“And how did you end up there? Is not Verdens Ende the last human settlement before Permavinter?”

“You studied, huh? It seems so. Long story, Shinji, long story. The fact is that we found ourselves there and the old quartermaster has come to a bad end.”

“Well, you give me bad news, boy. He was a know-it-all and full-of-himself idiot, but he was a good man, nonetheless. At least I am glad you made it back from that bad place.”

“Yeah, it was a bad knock not even being able to bury him… Oh! Enough of these sad things now, we were talking about businesses. So, as I was telling you, things are more or less as usual, although lately we’ve been finding a lot of trouble on the path. We got here from Dyvislande. Trade in the Capital of the Kingdom of Vinnica has gone badly. Things don’t go well there since King Kruniar the Barbarian died. A civil war will break out, I guarantee you. His son is just a stupid brat, not at all suitable for court life, much less for ruling a proud people like that.

“It’s all going to hell, Shinji. You’ll see that in two years at most, a new noble house will rise to power decreeing the fall of the Kronglich family, perhaps that of the Aisling and this wouldn’t surprise me at all, given the influence that the widow Aisling has accumulated, thanks above all to the weight of her flourishing Disputed City in the trades of the kingdom. That woman is ambitious, Shin…” The words caught in his throat.

His eyes fell by pure chance on a woman with long, blond hair flowing along the back to the loins. It was her.

“Hey, Shinji. Would you mind anticipating me? Go to the Drunk Tuna inn, there you’ll surely find the old man drink rum at the counter, wailing and cursing the Plagues. I’ve to do a last tour, maybe I’ll stop for a moment in a shop of tomes and parchments. I’ll join you immediately after. See ya later!” the merchant took his leave without even waiting for an answer from the Nionreian.

“Girl!” he screamed once he was a couple of steps away from Shinji.

The woman turned abruptly, and her face was hit by a ray of the hot sun of almost noon which made her white skin glisten and her eyes gleamed like ice. Two strands of hair, like threads of wheat, framed her face. She placed them neatly behind one ear, leaving his delicate face on display. “Ah! It’s you Ethan. For Gwenaelle, you don’t have to yell like that at someone from behind, you know? My heart skipped a beat!” she said with the usual air of a playful little girl.

The merchant bowed for apology. “I see you’re buying many things here. Would I be too intrusive in asking to be able to accompany you?”

“Ethan, let me explain something, once again. We’re not in the Southern Trust here” she said, hiding her laughter but peremptorily. “There’s absolutely no need for all this ardour chivalrous in speaking. I’d already tried to explain it yesterday. You just don’t understand, huh? And no: you wouldn’t be intrusive, on the contrary, now that I’ve seen you, I was just about to ask you myself to take me back to the family mansion.”