The return trip down was uneventful, and Deros minded nothing of it, lost in his own thoughts. He knew there was a jest or two directed at him, but he ignored it, failing to even absorb it fully. Thankfully. There were some advantages to deep introspection, at least. What swirled in his head was of dubious benefit, however. Eklásia was lodged there — mostly unwanted — and the events of the meeting replayed over and over…
The Shaper Eklásia. Preternatural beauty. An altered body. A living staff and the ability to rip things into shreds with pathetic ease. No wonder the Ironbloods feared the Shapers: their armor would mean nothing, he imagined. Armor the Shapers designed, after all. Shapertech, Elek called it. What was the extent of Eklásia’s power? Did she have to focus on one discreet extension, or could she spool them out en masse? Could she have slaughtered them all with the same or similar ease as one?
Is this the same sort of power Esteron had? Or… is this the refinement? Was he a Shaper? Was Founder?
Semõìn re-anchored him to his rekas and they mounted up, continuing down the rest of the cliff in the direction of the camp, which was bright with light from lamps, in contrast to the other he’d seen downriver from Many Sands.
“You are really something else, kampriço,” Semõìn offered to him as they rode. He’d been slower than the others — chatting and joking around, so lagged behind. Paetas was far ahead. “You really will just go to town with that pontin mouth on anybody, just like that tribal lady, but you? You slide from trouble like an oily fish.”
Deros didn’t respond, frowning as he considered the issue of Urchon. He felt a pang of guilt from snapping at her. He hadn’t even wished her well when the gods only knew what was in store for her and them going forward. It wasn’t her he was upset with, it was the entire situation inflicted on them. And himself, for being unable to do anything about it. She no doubt felt the same. So would the likes of Thalamon, but he had a stoic self-control about it. There was no doubt in his mind that the vaeton would take advantage of any opportunity as soon as it presented itself.
“Oda, oda, no sweat off my brow, kampriço,” Semõìn continued, unaffected entirely by Deros’s solemn silence, “because you’re also my good luck charm! Noki sobrîen!” He laughed in glee as punctuation, like a man that had won a prize and even put a hand on Deros’s shoulder to shake him in emphasis.
“Would you stop!” Deros admonished in annoyance.
The Ironblood did, though he gave one final, light pat on the back. “Oda, you probably got me a small fortune, One Ball Deros! And noticed well in the eyes of a goddess. The Ordení.” His voice was one of abject wonder and awe. “I can’t believe it!”
“Yes, I’m so happy to have profited you,” Deros replied with venomous sarcasm, “while I was humiliated. For a joke. That you embellished! What an honor, to provide for my dearest friend.”
“Embellished? No, no — you said all that pont. I just repeated.”
“I did not… say… you know what? Nevermind. It scarcely matters. I’ll just own the new reality. Adapt.” Pursue expediency, practice practicality, exploit weakness, leverage advantage. How one deals with scum — how one makes a shrewd deal in their midst.
“Oda, oda, look, a story gets better with each telling, kampriço. Everybody knows that. Anyway, nokieu, you can’t spoil my mood whatever you try! I can’t wait to see Estri’s face when I give the news! She’s going to scream!”
“Who is Estri?”
“Ah.” Semõìn seemed uncomfortable suddenly, shifting in his saddle. “Forget you heard it.”
“I will not — so help me, Semõìn, if you don’t tell me, I’ll make you drag me by this gods-be-damned rope from here on out, screaming the name out, until you do. On my grandfather’s dipped skull, I do swear it.” Nonsense, of course. The lies flowed like water. He needed a win, however small it was.
“Your grandfather’s sk-... nok me…” Semõìn seemed to take it seriously. He hesitated, finally sighing. “My girl, kampriço. Lover, et? She’s an administrator. And that’s all you need to know.”
“The hells it is. Why will she be so excited?”
“The scrip, obviously. Why do you think I am out here in this miserable ponthole? Went through three nokieun cosons of brutal conditioning and training to make it here. Why? Same reason. The bonus. As much as I get for a whole coson!”
Deros was not placated — he detected an elusiveness in the man’s tone. “Bâvâ. There’s something you want to do with the coin. What is it? Something together? Romantic? Tell me. Or… actually, I feel a yell rising up now — Estri — let me practice — Estri, Estri…” He cleared his throat loudly in exaggeration.
Semõìn’s hand came around to close over Deros’s mouth. “Don’t. Look… fine. You little kessa le noka.” He moved his hand back away and sighed once more. “Ceremony, kampriço. Like a wedding of ancient times. You do those here, right? Et. Not on Cajhor, not for Ironbloods, anyway. We don’t marry. But it’s ti blessing of the Ordení, which isn’t easy to arrange. She takes it extra serious-like. She wants celebration and, ah, dancing. Fancy clothes. But, kampriço? When she hears I entertained and was honored by the Ordení?” He made a sudden, high-pitched sort of exclamation, punctuated with a brief laugh. “She’ll be so proud and happy.”
Deros found himself feeling subdued by the explanation. It was faintly shocking to think of Semõìn in such a fashion at all. He really didn’t want to think about some wife of his enemy worried over his return. One thrilled with the news he had.
His people, his superiors, aim to take precisely that away from me and Palamera. It’s not on my hands if a corpse comes back to his girl, instead. It’s on theirs. His. This was his choice. Despite how he told himself that, his deliberate thoughts and his feelings were not in alignment. An extreme inconvenience for the sort of outlook he was trying to cultivate.
The conversation had brought them down and down the gradual rocky slope leading to the river and the camp of many hundreds of yurts, with a few mudbrick buildings seemingly positioned in the center. It was all well-lit by bright lanterns on poles. Some fires raged, but much less than he would’ve assumed for such numbers. He noticed a copy of the walled-off yurt from the other camp, which had the poles and bronze bowls rising high above it, positioned well away from any other construction. Modified organisms bent to their service.
“Alright, Deros,” Semõìn continued with a note of anxiety, “you can’t go noki spreading that around out here, so I am swearing you to secrecy about all of it. You zeko?”
“But of course. I do swear it, on the bit below that I have lost and miss so, so terribly.”
Semõìn made a scoffing sound. “Come on, kampriço, that is ti noki fake oath if ever there was one — and you know it!”
Despite himself, Deros breathed a laugh. “Semõìn, I won’t tell a soul. It would profit me nothing… other than private curiosity. Pray tell, do you have any more secrets? The scent of her soap? The form of her undergarments? Her favorite bedroom habits?”
“Nok you, tribal. Lecherous nokieuri.”
Grinning, Deros relented, satisfied with his momentary, petty victory. Teasing his teaser for a change. It also happened to be ‘in character.’ It also happened that maybe he was a bit hysterical from fatigue. He’d had quite a second wind from events, though.
They came to and passed through one of the quite-open gates of the low brick walls, shorter than Ironbloods at height — the gate was a simple wooden one slid between grooves in the middle of the wall. Several guards were in attendance at the entrance, mostly just chatting with each other idly, though their guns were in their hands, ready to use. As opposed to Semõìn’s, theirs were larger and had a strap they used to let it hang from their shoulders. They nodded to Semõìn as he passed and exchanged some sort of simple greeting between them: ‘Oda, lâs merîen.’
The camp was fairly active, Ironbloods going to and fro, most of them not mounted, with the rekas mostly laying outside of the yurts. Deros spied a few soldiers going into or coming out of the yurts, each of them with an unusual opening jutting out in the shape of an arch — when they passed through the flexible fabric flaps, they always sealed them up behind before moving on. Deros briefly saw Paetas and Palamera passing between buildings, almost out of sight. It gave him a measure of anxiety.
Before he could say anything, Semõìn nudged him and said, “Oda, kampriço, you ready for sleep? You need it, alright.”
“I suppose. Will I be near Palamera at all?”
“Tósae. No. Separate facility. Base camp is different, kampriço. There’s six here for you sadsacks unless they added another. They’d want to split up any group as much as possible. I saw where Paetas went, so I’ll go hard right, there should be one way over-”
“Can you not? Try one closer?”
After a brief pause, Semõìn replied, “Nok it — et, sure. Anything for Good Luck One Ball Deros, who keeps his mouth shut about private things, eh?”
“My list of names precede me, each the purest truth.”
Past numerous yurts all copies of one another organized in rows, they came to a larger structure, rectangular instead of circular. It took Deros a moment to realize it was a massive, long tent composed of their ubiquitous amber-colored fabric stretched and anchored, roof propped up by what had to be poles on the inside. At the front entrance were three guards — or rather, two and someone else. It was a suit, clearly, but had a greener tint to it, lacked horns, and was altogether on a smaller frame with less bulk. The individual held some sort of large board in the crook of one arm.
Semõìn dismounted and lowered Deros, then removed his waist anchor entirely to take him by an arm over to the entrance. The one in the green armor held up the wooden rectangle with one arm and brought the other over to it with some sort of writing utensil. “Your name and number, soldier?” asked a clear, feminine voice.
“Veçeant Semõìn,” the one so-named answered. “Forty-two, eighty-three, eight nine zero. This is Deros.”
“Affiliation? Group?”
“Many Sands, group Orset Keis.”
“What the hells is that?” Deros asked. “And I’m from M-... yes. Many Sands.”
Snickering, Semõìn shook his head, but the green one did not react even slightly. Instead, she asked, “Known associates?”
“Palamera, ah…” Semõìn appeared to struggle remembering. “Pont, I forget all the others. Minimal contact.”
“That is likely satisfactory, soldier…” She seemed to be studying her board, and then pulled down from the bottom, revealing that it had paper attached to it that she was lifting up to see behind. She did it one more time, then dropped them back down to declare, “There are none of that group in this habitat. We’ll take it from here.” She gestured with her pen at one of the armor-clad guards, then flicked it at Deros. At this gesture, the guard walked over and took Deros by the arm, giving Semõìn a short, impatient nod.
Releasing his hand from Deros, Semõìn said, “Until tomorrow maybe, kampriço. Have some good dreams — maybe ti certain heavenly beauty will show up in that fat head to entertain, et?” Laughing, he turned away.
Bastard. Don’t encourage it to happen.
Deros was escorted without word through the opening flap, revealing a very small mudroom or vestibule lit only by candles, with another flap directly across from the exit. The Ironblood ensured the exit flap was closed fully before he opened the inner one and brought them through.
He was greeted with a long, dimly-lit space of many simple pallets in four rows, with two walking paths to either side, the middle beds with ends closer together at the all-around center of the tent, which was also where thick poles held up the roof. The pallets, which were sparsely populated by Hamaleen, were laid directly on the floor, which were made of the same fabric as the walls. There were a half dozen guards about, two walking circuits and two at either end, standing at tables. The ones more immediate to them, they simply passed without interaction. He saw seated on the floor an unbound woman and man both in shabby Bluehand robes. They didn’t respond to the Deros's entrance, not even to look up.
“Who are they?” Deros queried in almost a whisper. “Servants?”
“Quiet, tribal,” was all his ‘guide’ said.
He passed a few sleeping Hamaleen. One was an injured… Sylmex citizen, likely, bandages covering his head and eye. Despite this, there was still a line of the cord extending from under his blankets, down past the head of the bed. Deros cast his eyes to the other heads, and soon he identified that there were anchoring loops of what looked to be thick iron, lodged down through the fabric and surely into the ground. He wondered how secure that really was.
He passed a couple of sleeping figures of unclear groups, but another was a Bluehand by the look of her robes peeking from underneath blankets. Another he knew to be Sylmex, as he saw a red and black striped sash they were known for. Then he passed an obvious Sylmex Azakan, as his tan clothes but for the boots were on full display thanks to his body laying on top of the blankets. The fabrics and cuts were slightly different than those Deros knew, and his hair had the sides shaved down, in their fashion. His hair was stark white, despite relative youth. He opened his eyes as they neared, then he sat up, looking a bit surprised to see Deros. He seemed uninjured, though haggard.
“Miracleman Azakan,” the Sylmex said respectfully in a whisper, nodding.
Deros blinked at the first word, but nodded and whispered back, “Sylmex Azakan.”
The guard sighed, then hissed in increased warning, “Quiet!”
Miracleman. The term they use. Only the Taldecca say Taldecca, I guess. I’ve never had anyone say that to me, though… It feels rather sarcastic at this point. I’m all miracle’d out.
His escort brought him to a bed seemingly chosen to have him as far away from others as possible — this wasn’t difficult with the sparse numbers taking up the space, and the pallets weren’t exactly stacked up close. The first thing the guard did was anchor him by a fairly short, thick cord to the hoop, which also passed through some guide attached to the bed, making it more difficult to move around except near the bed. Unless one tried to move it. The cord was wrapped and connected into his wrist bindings.
The Ironblood stayed bent briefly by the hoop. “Look,” he said, then grabbed it, pulling and jerking on it upward, hard. It did not budge. “The bottom is bigger, tribal. Dug in, buried, covered, noki packed hard. Alright? You might as well try and pull the whole star-damned planet up as this post. It won’t happen either way. This post is your bully. Your god. Insurmountable. Impossible.”
“I get it,” Deros said flatly as he sat down on the bed. Thin, but it had some measure of cushion. Better than a ship deck, that was certain.
“Good.” The guard stood. “Some get crazy here. Don’t. Be sedate. Rest. Then everything’s great.” His tone was as patronizing as one could get. He gestured at a nearby bucket. “This is a bucket. It’s fancy, I know, but it’s for pissing in. It has a simple absorbing agent at the bottom, keeps the stench down, makes it harder to tip over. If you pont in it, the odds get really bad on that. Don’t pont in it. We take you out for that, et? We prefer it to stinking pont everywhere, so don’t be shy. This makes sense, I hope?”
“Tremendous sense — if, of course, my hands are at the front. Otherwise…”
“Et,” the guard said, and stepped over the short distance to kneel down and redo the bonds around Dero’s wrists so they were in the front. Standing back up once more, the guard nodded over to another Ironblood that was making a slow circuit. “If you need something, ask a patroller as they come around. Wave them over. No yelling. Alright?”
Before Deros could even react, the guard turned around and walked off, back the way he came. Deros rolled his shoulders around briefly in relief of muscles but resisted laying down. He looked down the row of pallets for the Sylmex, to see him still upright and staring right back, eight beds down. Deros waved, and the man waved back.
Maybe he thinks I can get free. Sorry to disappoint, kampr-... damn it.
Sighing at himself, he brought his hand up to scratch at his chin as he looked around. A tall order, to escape. Their devices were advanced for preventing it. The almost organic wrist bonds were thick and wide, and tightened in as they were pulled, with minimal give. He had some natural flexibility and agility, but he was no escape artist. The give from the post to his wrists wasn’t terrible, at least. And he had a knife… which needed to be tested. But even if he could escape the bonds and then somehow got through the tent wall unnoticed, he’d still not have Palamera with him or even know where she was. He’d sooner stay a captive than leave her.
He laid down on the bed and pulled the dark blanket up over him, aiming to stay still until the guard passed. The compulsion to sleep soon became near to overwhelming, his body and mind begging for it. He knew he could not close his eyes, or it would be over. Clenching his teeth, he resisted it and waited for the guard.
Once the Ironblood was well enough past, Deros reached down into his boot to retrieve his knife out of it. It had a simple sheath over the blade that he removed. Working by hand and keeping all under the heavy blanket, he cut at the thick cord with the blade a while, to test it. When he inspected it, there wasn’t a cut or even any damage. Only a faint indentation showed he’d tried at all.
Might as well be iron. And dulling the blade, probably. Skrófa. Well, probably shouldn’t be surprised. Adjusting so he could see down at what he was doing, he spun the knife around and worked it against the material of the clasp around his wrists instead, made of the homogenous material instead of the scale-like network. After some judicious sawing, it indeed showed a nick.
Well, well, not so perfect after all. It was small consolation with additional rope tied over it, but perhaps he could slip his hands through the remainder if he did cut the rest. That or saw at the thinner rope for hours and hope there was enough sharpness to do something. He suddenly wished his knife was serrated, as he was almost certain that would be better. It would be an ordeal even cutting through the clasp.
A better moment to consider actually doing it was out on the road, in a smaller camp and more lax security. There was small chance they were just going to be staying there. The beds around… they’d been fuller at one time. People had been moved out and would continue to be. And Semõìn had been all too adamant he’d see Cajhor. He did not intend to, but he had to make his moment count, whenever it was.
Feeling the weariness deepen within him, Deros stowed away his knife once more. With some reluctance, he undid the laces of his boots and slipped his aching feet out of them, letting out a sigh at the act. It seemed like the first he’d done so in a season. He left the boots on the bed, though, under the covers, with the sheathed knife well hidden. It was too important to leave laying around on the floor, and he didn’t want to risk putting it elsewhere on his person. It was more than just a convenient tool, at that point… it was a lifeline. A symbol of resistance. A precious thing.
I still have a few of those. His necklace of beads, gems, and amulets miraculously had not been taken from off his neck, still hidden by his layers. Unlike many, he neglected to have his token on it — instead, that was on a cord under his pants, hanging at a hip. A tendency of the more private of Taldecs. One his father had shown him, though he ceased to do it once he had ambitions for the senate. As he said, transparency was too important, and as his mentor Vesânth had related, it was quite perfect in its content.
You wanted to be Azakan, eh, Father? You basically were… unraveling a war, being pretty much a general even. Winning. I guess leading from the back isn’t to a child’s sensibilities, though. We wanted the spears and the arrows and the leaping aloga charges…
Deros knew he had to sleep, and his resistance wore down. He adjusted himself to lay his face on his hands, the blanket up to under his arms and his fur cloak draped over the rest, head and all. Sleep, and hopefully not as long as last time.
I know you were proud when I was found Blessed, Father. Especially after everything. Happy I’d have a long life. Happy your dream got passed on, perhaps. But will I? I keep messing up… I've got to stop messing up… I want to win like you, win the day, be victorious, be a hero…
Sleep came like a hammer dropping. His rest was deep and his dreams mixed up things without memorable form — they were also interrupted. As soon as his eyes popped open, feeling a persistent nudging at his back, he knew it was too short.
“Wake up, tribal.” A moderately annoyed voice.
Deros threw his cloak off and blearily looked for the source, letting out a sound of annoyance he couldn’t control. How could anything be more important than him sleeping? “What?”
An Ironblood stood over him — a guard, maybe the same guard. “Get up, tribal! The ozmentus has ordered you before him. I wouldn't keep him waiting.”
Great. Just what I need.
The return trip down was uneventful, and Deros minded nothing of it, lost in his own thoughts. He knew there was a jest or two directed at him, but he ignored it, failing to even absorb it fully. Thankfully. There were some advantages to deep introspection, at least. What swirled in his head was of dubious benefit, however. Eklásia was lodged there — mostly unwanted — and the events of the meeting replayed over and over…
The Shaper Eklásia. Preternatural beauty. An altered body. A living staff and the ability to rip things into shreds with pathetic ease. No wonder the Ironbloods feared the Shapers: their armor would mean nothing, he imagined. Armor the Shapers designed, after all. Shapertech, Elek called it. What was the extent of Eklásia’s power? Did she have to focus on one discreet extension, or could she spool them out en masse? Could she have slaughtered them all with the same or similar ease as one?
Is this the same sort of power Esteron had? Or… is this the refinement? Was he a Shaper? Was Founder?
Semõìn re-anchored him to his rekas and they mounted up, continuing down the rest of the cliff in the direction of the camp, which was bright with light from lamps, in contrast to the other he’d seen downriver from Many Sands.
“You are really something else, kampriço,” Semõìn offered to him as they rode. He’d been slower than the others — chatting and joking around, so lagged behind. Paetas was far ahead. “You really will just go to town with that pontin mouth on anybody, just like that tribal lady, but you? You slide from trouble like an oily fish.”
Deros didn’t respond, frowning as he considered the issue of Urchon. He felt a pang of guilt from snapping at her. He hadn’t even wished her well when the gods only knew what was in store for her and them going forward. It wasn’t her he was upset with, it was the entire situation inflicted on them. And himself, for being unable to do anything about it. She no doubt felt the same. So would the likes of Thalamon, but he had a stoic self-control about it. There was no doubt in his mind that the vaeton would take advantage of any opportunity as soon as it presented itself.
“Oda, oda, no sweat off my brow, kampriço,” Semõìn continued, unaffected entirely by Deros’s solemn silence, “because you’re also my good luck charm! Noki sobrîen!” He laughed in glee as punctuation, like a man that had won a prize and even put a hand on Deros’s shoulder to shake him in emphasis.
“Would you stop!” Deros admonished in annoyance.
The Ironblood did, though he gave one final, light pat on the back. “Oda, you probably got me a small fortune, One Ball Deros! And noticed well in the eyes of a goddess. The Ordení.” His voice was one of abject wonder and awe. “I can’t believe it!”
“Yes, I’m so happy to have profited you,” Deros replied with venomous sarcasm, “while I was humiliated. For a joke. That you embellished! What an honor, to provide for my dearest friend.”
“Embellished? No, no — you said all that pont. I just repeated.”
“I did not… say… you know what? Nevermind. It scarcely matters. I’ll just own the new reality. Adapt.” Pursue expediency, practice practicality, exploit weakness, leverage advantage. How one deals with scum — how one makes a shrewd deal in their midst.
“Oda, oda, look, a story gets better with each telling, kampriço. Everybody knows that. Anyway, nokieu, you can’t spoil my mood whatever you try! I can’t wait to see Estri’s face when I give the news! She’s going to scream!”
“Who is Estri?”
“Ah.” Semõìn seemed uncomfortable suddenly, shifting in his saddle. “Forget you heard it.”
“I will not — so help me, Semõìn, if you don’t tell me, I’ll make you drag me by this gods-be-damned rope from here on out, screaming the name out, until you do. On my grandfather’s dipped skull, I do swear it.” Nonsense, of course. The lies flowed like water. He needed a win, however small it was.
“Your grandfather’s sk-... nok me…” Semõìn seemed to take it seriously. He hesitated, finally sighing. “My girl, kampriço. Lover, et? She’s an administrator. And that’s all you need to know.”
“The hells it is. Why will she be so excited?”
“The scrip, obviously. Why do you think I am out here in this miserable ponthole? Went through three nokieun cosons of brutal conditioning and training to make it here. Why? Same reason. The bonus. As much as I get for a whole coson!”
Deros was not placated — he detected an elusiveness in the man’s tone. “Bâvâ. There’s something you want to do with the coin. What is it? Something together? Romantic? Tell me. Or… actually, I feel a yell rising up now — Estri — let me practice — Estri, Estri…” He cleared his throat loudly in exaggeration.
Semõìn’s hand came around to close over Deros’s mouth. “Don’t. Look… fine. You little kessa le noka.” He moved his hand back away and sighed once more. “Ceremony, kampriço. Like a wedding of ancient times. You do those here, right? Et. Not on Cajhor, not for Ironbloods, anyway. We don’t marry. But it’s ti blessing of the Ordení, which isn’t easy to arrange. She takes it extra serious-like. She wants celebration and, ah, dancing. Fancy clothes. But, kampriço? When she hears I entertained and was honored by the Ordení?” He made a sudden, high-pitched sort of exclamation, punctuated with a brief laugh. “She’ll be so proud and happy.”
Deros found himself feeling subdued by the explanation. It was faintly shocking to think of Semõìn in such a fashion at all. He really didn’t want to think about some wife of his enemy worried over his return. One thrilled with the news he had.
His people, his superiors, aim to take precisely that away from me and Palamera. It’s not on my hands if a corpse comes back to his girl, instead. It’s on theirs. His. This was his choice. Despite how he told himself that, his deliberate thoughts and his feelings were not in alignment. An extreme inconvenience for the sort of outlook he was trying to cultivate.
The conversation had brought them down and down the gradual rocky slope leading to the river and the camp of many hundreds of yurts, with a few mudbrick buildings seemingly positioned in the center. It was all well-lit by bright lanterns on poles. Some fires raged, but much less than he would’ve assumed for such numbers. He noticed a copy of the walled-off yurt from the other camp, which had the poles and bronze bowls rising high above it, positioned well away from any other construction. Modified organisms bent to their service.
“Alright, Deros,” Semõìn continued with a note of anxiety, “you can’t go noki spreading that around out here, so I am swearing you to secrecy about all of it. You zeko?”
“But of course. I do swear it, on the bit below that I have lost and miss so, so terribly.”
Semõìn made a scoffing sound. “Come on, kampriço, that is ti noki fake oath if ever there was one — and you know it!”
Despite himself, Deros breathed a laugh. “Semõìn, I won’t tell a soul. It would profit me nothing… other than private curiosity. Pray tell, do you have any more secrets? The scent of her soap? The form of her undergarments? Her favorite bedroom habits?”
“Nok you, tribal. Lecherous nokieuri.”
Grinning, Deros relented, satisfied with his momentary, petty victory. Teasing his teaser for a change. It also happened to be ‘in character.’ It also happened that maybe he was a bit hysterical from fatigue. He’d had quite a second wind from events, though.
They came to and passed through one of the quite-open gates of the low brick walls, shorter than Ironbloods at height — the gate was a simple wooden one slid between grooves in the middle of the wall. Several guards were in attendance at the entrance, mostly just chatting with each other idly, though their guns were in their hands, ready to use. As opposed to Semõìn’s, theirs were larger and had a strap they used to let it hang from their shoulders. They nodded to Semõìn as he passed and exchanged some sort of simple greeting between them: ‘Oda, lâs merîen.’
The camp was fairly active, Ironbloods going to and fro, most of them not mounted, with the rekas mostly laying outside of the yurts. Deros spied a few soldiers going into or coming out of the yurts, each of them with an unusual opening jutting out in the shape of an arch — when they passed through the flexible fabric flaps, they always sealed them up behind before moving on. Deros briefly saw Paetas and Palamera passing between buildings, almost out of sight. It gave him a measure of anxiety.
Before he could say anything, Semõìn nudged him and said, “Oda, kampriço, you ready for sleep? You need it, alright.”
“I suppose. Will I be near Palamera at all?”
“Tósae. No. Separate facility. Base camp is different, kampriço. There’s six here for you sadsacks unless they added another. They’d want to split up any group as much as possible. I saw where Paetas went, so I’ll go hard right, there should be one way over-”
“Can you not? Try one closer?”
After a brief pause, Semõìn replied, “Nok it — et, sure. Anything for Good Luck One Ball Deros, who keeps his mouth shut about private things, eh?”
“My list of names precede me, each the purest truth.”
Past numerous yurts all copies of one another organized in rows, they came to a larger structure, rectangular instead of circular. It took Deros a moment to realize it was a massive, long tent composed of their ubiquitous amber-colored fabric stretched and anchored, roof propped up by what had to be poles on the inside. At the front entrance were three guards — or rather, two and someone else. It was a suit, clearly, but had a greener tint to it, lacked horns, and was altogether on a smaller frame with less bulk. The individual held some sort of large board in the crook of one arm.
Semõìn dismounted and lowered Deros, then removed his waist anchor entirely to take him by an arm over to the entrance. The one in the green armor held up the wooden rectangle with one arm and brought the other over to it with some sort of writing utensil. “Your name and number, soldier?” asked a clear, feminine voice.
“Veçeant Semõìn,” the one so-named answered. “Forty-two, eighty-three, eight nine zero. This is Deros.”
“Affiliation? Group?”
“Many Sands, group Orset Keis.”
“What the hells is that?” Deros asked. “And I’m from M-... yes. Many Sands.”
Snickering, Semõìn shook his head, but the green one did not react even slightly. Instead, she asked, “Known associates?”
“Palamera, ah…” Semõìn appeared to struggle remembering. “Pont, I forget all the others. Minimal contact.”
“That is likely satisfactory, soldier…” She seemed to be studying her board, and then pulled down from the bottom, revealing that it had paper attached to it that she was lifting up to see behind. She did it one more time, then dropped them back down to declare, “There are none of that group in this habitat. We’ll take it from here.” She gestured with her pen at one of the armor-clad guards, then flicked it at Deros. At this gesture, the guard walked over and took Deros by the arm, giving Semõìn a short, impatient nod.
Releasing his hand from Deros, Semõìn said, “Until tomorrow maybe, kampriço. Have some good dreams — maybe ti certain heavenly beauty will show up in that fat head to entertain, et?” Laughing, he turned away.
Bastard. Don’t encourage it to happen.
Deros was escorted without word through the opening flap, revealing a very small mudroom or vestibule lit only by candles, with another flap directly across from the exit. The Ironblood ensured the exit flap was closed fully before he opened the inner one and brought them through.
He was greeted with a long, dimly-lit space of many simple pallets in four rows, with two walking paths to either side, the middle beds with ends closer together at the all-around center of the tent, which was also where thick poles held up the roof. The pallets, which were sparsely populated by Hamaleen, were laid directly on the floor, which were made of the same fabric as the walls. There were a half dozen guards about, two walking circuits and two at either end, standing at tables. The ones more immediate to them, they simply passed without interaction. He saw seated on the floor an unbound woman and man both in shabby Bluehand robes. They didn’t respond to the Deros's entrance, not even to look up.
“Who are they?” Deros queried in almost a whisper. “Servants?”
“Quiet, tribal,” was all his ‘guide’ said.
He passed a few sleeping Hamaleen. One was an injured… Sylmex citizen, likely, bandages covering his head and eye. Despite this, there was still a line of the cord extending from under his blankets, down past the head of the bed. Deros cast his eyes to the other heads, and soon he identified that there were anchoring loops of what looked to be thick iron, lodged down through the fabric and surely into the ground. He wondered how secure that really was.
He passed a couple of sleeping figures of unclear groups, but another was a Bluehand by the look of her robes peeking from underneath blankets. Another he knew to be Sylmex, as he saw a red and black striped sash they were known for. Then he passed an obvious Sylmex Azakan, as his tan clothes but for the boots were on full display thanks to his body laying on top of the blankets. The fabrics and cuts were slightly different than those Deros knew, and his hair had the sides shaved down, in their fashion. His hair was stark white, despite relative youth. He opened his eyes as they neared, then he sat up, looking a bit surprised to see Deros. He seemed uninjured, though haggard.
“Miracleman Azakan,” the Sylmex said respectfully in a whisper, nodding.
Deros blinked at the first word, but nodded and whispered back, “Sylmex Azakan.”
The guard sighed, then hissed in increased warning, “Quiet!”
Miracleman. The term they use. Only the Taldecca say Taldecca, I guess. I’ve never had anyone say that to me, though… It feels rather sarcastic at this point. I’m all miracle’d out.
His escort brought him to a bed seemingly chosen to have him as far away from others as possible — this wasn’t difficult with the sparse numbers taking up the space, and the pallets weren’t exactly stacked up close. The first thing the guard did was anchor him by a fairly short, thick cord to the hoop, which also passed through some guide attached to the bed, making it more difficult to move around except near the bed. Unless one tried to move it. The cord was wrapped and connected into his wrist bindings.
The Ironblood stayed bent briefly by the hoop. “Look,” he said, then grabbed it, pulling and jerking on it upward, hard. It did not budge. “The bottom is bigger, tribal. Dug in, buried, covered, noki packed hard. Alright? You might as well try and pull the whole star-damned planet up as this post. It won’t happen either way. This post is your bully. Your god. Insurmountable. Impossible.”
“I get it,” Deros said flatly as he sat down on the bed. Thin, but it had some measure of cushion. Better than a ship deck, that was certain.
“Good.” The guard stood. “Some get crazy here. Don’t. Be sedate. Rest. Then everything’s great.” His tone was as patronizing as one could get. He gestured at a nearby bucket. “This is a bucket. It’s fancy, I know, but it’s for pissing in. It has a simple absorbing agent at the bottom, keeps the stench down, makes it harder to tip over. If you pont in it, the odds get really bad on that. Don’t pont in it. We take you out for that, et? We prefer it to stinking pont everywhere, so don’t be shy. This makes sense, I hope?”
“Tremendous sense — if, of course, my hands are at the front. Otherwise…”
“Et,” the guard said, and stepped over the short distance to kneel down and redo the bonds around Dero’s wrists so they were in the front. Standing back up once more, the guard nodded over to another Ironblood that was making a slow circuit. “If you need something, ask a patroller as they come around. Wave them over. No yelling. Alright?”
Before Deros could even react, the guard turned around and walked off, back the way he came. Deros rolled his shoulders around briefly in relief of muscles but resisted laying down. He looked down the row of pallets for the Sylmex, to see him still upright and staring right back, eight beds down. Deros waved, and the man waved back.
Maybe he thinks I can get free. Sorry to disappoint, kampr-... damn it.
Sighing at himself, he brought his hand up to scratch at his chin as he looked around. A tall order, to escape. Their devices were advanced for preventing it. The almost organic wrist bonds were thick and wide, and tightened in as they were pulled, with minimal give. He had some natural flexibility and agility, but he was no escape artist. The give from the post to his wrists wasn’t terrible, at least. And he had a knife… which needed to be tested. But even if he could escape the bonds and then somehow got through the tent wall unnoticed, he’d still not have Palamera with him or even know where she was. He’d sooner stay a captive than leave her.
He laid down on the bed and pulled the dark blanket up over him, aiming to stay still until the guard passed. The compulsion to sleep soon became near to overwhelming, his body and mind begging for it. He knew he could not close his eyes, or it would be over. Clenching his teeth, he resisted it and waited for the guard.
Once the Ironblood was well enough past, Deros reached down into his boot to retrieve his knife out of it. It had a simple sheath over the blade that he removed. Working by hand and keeping all under the heavy blanket, he cut at the thick cord with the blade a while, to test it. When he inspected it, there wasn’t a cut or even any damage. Only a faint indentation showed he’d tried at all.
Might as well be iron. And dulling the blade, probably. Skrófa. Well, probably shouldn’t be surprised. Adjusting so he could see down at what he was doing, he spun the knife around and worked it against the material of the clasp around his wrists instead, made of the homogenous material instead of the scale-like network. After some judicious sawing, it indeed showed a nick.
Well, well, not so perfect after all. It was small consolation with additional rope tied over it, but perhaps he could slip his hands through the remainder if he did cut the rest. That or saw at the thinner rope for hours and hope there was enough sharpness to do something. He suddenly wished his knife was serrated, as he was almost certain that would be better. It would be an ordeal even cutting through the clasp.
A better moment to consider actually doing it was out on the road, in a smaller camp and more lax security. There was small chance they were just going to be staying there. The beds around… they’d been fuller at one time. People had been moved out and would continue to be. And Semõìn had been all too adamant he’d see Cajhor. He did not intend to, but he had to make his moment count, whenever it was.
Feeling the weariness deepen within him, Deros stowed away his knife once more. With some reluctance, he undid the laces of his boots and slipped his aching feet out of them, letting out a sigh at the act. It seemed like the first he’d done so in a season. He left the boots on the bed, though, under the covers, with the sheathed knife well hidden. It was too important to leave laying around on the floor, and he didn’t want to risk putting it elsewhere on his person. It was more than just a convenient tool, at that point… it was a lifeline. A symbol of resistance. A precious thing.
I still have a few of those. His necklace of beads, gems, and amulets miraculously had not been taken from off his neck, still hidden by his layers. Unlike many, he neglected to have his token on it — instead, that was on a cord under his pants, hanging at a hip. A tendency of the more private of Taldecs. One his father had shown him, though he ceased to do it once he had ambitions for the senate. As he said, transparency was too important, and as his mentor Vesânth had related, it was quite perfect in its content.
You wanted to be Azakan, eh, Father? You basically were… unraveling a war, being pretty much a general even. Winning. I guess leading from the back isn’t to a child’s sensibilities, though. We wanted the spears and the arrows and the leaping aloga charges…
Deros knew he had to sleep, and his resistance wore down. He adjusted himself to lay his face on his hands, the blanket up to under his arms and his fur cloak draped over the rest, head and all. Sleep, and hopefully not as long as last time.
I know you were proud when I was found Blessed, Father. Especially after everything. Happy I’d have a long life. Happy your dream got passed on, perhaps. But will I? I keep messing up… I've got to stop messing up… I want to win like you, win the day, be victorious, be a hero…
Sleep came like a hammer dropping. His rest was deep and his dreams mixed up things without memorable form — they were also interrupted. As soon as his eyes popped open, feeling a persistent nudging at his back, he knew it was too short.
“Wake up, tribal.” A moderately annoyed voice.
Deros threw his cloak off and blearily looked for the source, letting out a sound of annoyance he couldn’t control. How could anything be more important than him sleeping? “What?”
An Ironblood stood over him — a guard, maybe the same guard. “Get up, tribal! The ozmentus has ordered you before him. I wouldn't keep him waiting.”
Great. Just what I need.
