Kion
“Where’s your token?” the Assanaten warrior asked. The cord fastened on his scale armor identified him as a chief of ten.
“The troop leader had it,” Sabil stuttered.
“That’s not you?”
“No.”
The Assanaten glared at him with evident disgust. “Damn mercenaries,” he murmured. His eyes wandered past the big man caring a heavy club to Kion. “Do you have a token?”.
“No,” Kion said. “It’s gone.”
“By Assan’s mercy!” the Assanaten chief shouted. “Who’s the leader of your group?”
“Gone too,” the Sabil said, looking to Kion for help.
“He fell on the march over the mountains,” Kion said. “Sabil here has been leading.” He omitted that he had broken the former leader’s neck and dropped him down a cliff the second night after joining the group.
“You’re the leader?”
“Yes,” Sabil said nervously.
The Assanaten waved to a man wearing the robe of a scribe. “How many are you bringing?”
Again, Sabil looked to Kion for help. Kion raised his hands, holding up three fingers with his left and placing the right thumb on the lowest bone of his ring finger.
The chief of ten gave him a quick glance and nodded. “These are new fighters from Piro,” he said to the scribe, with a quick bow. “They lost their leader and some of their token.”
“How many?” the scribe asked, without sparing Sabil or Kion a glance.
The warrior held up his hands, mirroring Kion.
“Twenty and three,” the scribe murmured, rummaging in a satchel he carried on his hip. After a moment of searching, he produced two small pieces of clay with a couple of symbols imprinted on them. “Here are two for chiefs of ten. With that, you can receive rations.” He handed them to the Assanaten warrior who gave them to Sabil.
Kion watched the exchange in fascination. This had to be a part of the way the Assanaten organized their vast army. He had never been able to comprehend how Assanadon managed to keep his warriors in the field all year around. The sar of Saggab, like any other ruler, had to send his men home for the harvest season or they would rebel.
Sabil elbowed him lightly in the side. “Ask about food,” he whispered. “And a place to sleep.”
“Excuse me,” Kion said, bowing to the two Assanaten. “Our men are tired from crossing the mountains and our supplies ran out yesterday. Can we rest here?”
The two men exchanged a quick glance. The scribe shook his head. “Not here. Any more people and disease will creep in.”
The chief of ten turned to them. “Listen,” he said in a loud voice. “It’s only midday. We’re going to send you on to the next camp. If you march fast and reach it before sundown you will receive a meal before you go to sleep.”
The ragtag group of men behind Kion started to murmur in protest. They were recruited from the poor of Piro and unaccustomed to the hard mountain terrain, if not to forgo a meal now and then.
“I don’t want to hear it,” the chief said. “You worthless scum. Want to eat well and be paid? Prove yourself in battle against the Helcenaean.” He pointed at a man in simple brown clothing. “He will lead you. Now get out of here.” He turned around and left.
Reluctantly the group of mercenaries started moving. None of these men would ever dare to stand up to the Assanaten. Most wouldn’t even meet his eyes. They had been day laborers who lost their meager existence when Piro’s trade was interrupted by the invasion. The merchants would be sailing the sea again soon. There was no reason for the Assanaten to prohibit what made the Crimson Cities so rich. But these men couldn’t wait for that. They had to eat.
“How far is it?” one of the men asked.
“Shut up,” Sabil shouted. His voice, fitting his large frame, easily cowered the man. Then he frowned. “How far is it?”
Kion nodded obediently. “I will ask.” He quickened his pace to catch up with their guide who was walking a little ahead.
They were traveling along a stream that originated in the mountains not far behind them and was likely the reason the mountain tribe had built their small settlement on the other side. The huts were the simple constructions of a people supporting themselves mostly with hunting and fishing.
A little further downstream a new settlement sprang rapidly out of the ground. Bare-chested Assanaten cut trees, raised walls, and dug latrines. Here and there one of the local tribesmen was mixed in with the sweating black-bearded men.
“Looks like the Assanaten don’t give you any pause either,” Kion said, catching up with their guide.
The man shot him a suspicious glance but didn’t respond. Like his fellow tribesmen beyond the stream, he wore his hair long and twisted into a single braid. His clothing was made from animal hide. Simple but robust. But what stuck out to Kion the most was his lack of weaponry beyond a short knife. And it wasn’t just him. None of the tribesmen seemed to be carrying much in the way of weapons.
“Look’s like your village is getting a lot of new inhabitants,” Kion said, switching to the dialect spoken around Piro.
That stirred a reaction. The man quickly tried to hide it, but Kion had seen the anger flashing in his eyes.
Were these people conquered? He looked back toward the construction site. It didn’t look like it. It should have been nearly impossible for an Assanaten troop to sneak up on them. The mountain tribe would have seen them coming and disappeared. But he had seen the valley when they came down from the last peek. It was almost entirely covered by thick forest interspersed with streams and rivers.
“I understand,” the tribesman said finally, his accent heavy.
Kion smiled. “Oh, thank Inashtar.”
The man frowned. “She doesn’t rule here.”
“Which god do you worship?” Kion asked. He didn’t point out that Inashtar was one of the two or three most powerful gods, worshipped all along the Golden Road. Even the Assanaten prayed to her.
The tribesman raised his head and proudly pointed to the mountain reaching into the valley. “This is Grumpy Old Horto’s domain. And he hates strangers.”
“Sounds like a powerful god,” Kion said, pretending to stare up at the peak in awe. “But if he hates strangers, why are your people working with the Assanaten?” He tried to sound casual.
The man looked away. “You’re with them.”
“They took Piro,” Kion said. “We’re just looking for a way to fill our bellies.” Kion waved in the direction of the men behind them.
Picking up a weapon for the promise of regular meals and spoils was an attractive alternative for many men who otherwise saw nothing but toiling in the fields or starvation in their future. For the Assanaten it was a convenient way to make use of a lot of potential troublemakers. Of course, the hard hike through the mountains and the lack of supplies had stirred many to rethink their recent choices.
After watching the groups of Assanaten warriors and mercenaries on the mountain trail for a time and interrogating one of the deserters, Kion had decided to join one of the groups. It had been surprisingly easy.
“You’re not from Piro,” the tribesman said, his eyes wandering down Kion’s body.
Careful now, Kion thought.
The man had sharp eyes. Kion had adjusted his cloth, cut his hair, and dinged up his spear, but could do little to hide his athletic build.
“You’re a warrior,” the man said. “They’re no warriors.”
Kion just nodded. It made no sense to deny it.
“You’re small.” The tribesman continued to look down at Kion. “For a warrior.”
“You mean short?” Kion asked.
“Yes. Short.”
Kion looked around, taking in the rich green forest that surrounded them. “When you grew up…as a child, did they give you lots of meat?”
“Of course! You need to eat meat and fish to become strong.”
“Between the cities and farms, you need to learn to fight first before you can eat well,” Kion said, shrugging.
“That’s foolish,” the man said frowning. “Is that why you are all so small…short?”
Kion nodded. Only the rich can be sure of their next meal, he thought.
The tribesman pointed at Sabil. “He’s big.”
“He is.”
“What is he saying?” Sabil asked from behind. He hurried to catch up with Kion and the guide. “How far is it?”
“Long,” the tribesman said. “But we will reach it before dark if we don’t stop.”
Hearing this, Sabil made a face. Many picked up a weapon in their sar’s service out of desperation, but others hoped for an easier life. The promise of regular meals and the prospect of loot was more appealing than a lifetime of drudgery in the fields.
Kion reached into his bag and pulled out half a loaf of bread, the last of the supplies he’d taken from his pursuers. Most of it he had used to buy the mercenary’s trust.
He ripped it in three and handed each Sabil and the tribesman a piece. Both looked at him in surprise but accepted the offer. Nobody said no to food.
A full stomach is the god’s greatest blessing, Kion thought, remembering the old saying.
For the next hour, they marched mostly in silence. Kion was amazed by the lush green surrounding them. There were forests in the lands of Saggab but compared to here the trees were spindly and thin. In the valley the trunks were thick, with crowns so rich that they blocked out the sun, allowing them to walk in cool shadow.
“How much is all this worth?” Sabil asked, taking in the surroundings.
Kion shook his head. He had never been a merchant, but everybody knew how much the timber of the north was valued in the cities further south, whose land didn’t grow anything comparable.
“They say that after the war years ago, the Assanaten used the gold they took from Saggab to build a palace entirely of wood,” Sabil said.
“No,” Kion said, noticing their guide’s sudden attention. “It’s just the ceiling of the entrance hall of the palace. It’s bigger and higher than any building in Piro. Rows of thick sandstone columns are holding it up and the entire room smells like cedar.”
“Wow!” Sabil was transfixed by the valuable trees towering over them.
“You have seen it?” the tribesman asked his sharp eyes on Kion.
“I heard it from a merchant once,” Kion said quickly. In truth, he had seen the magnificent hall himself while accompanying an embassy to Assanadon’s capital. It had been his first mission after he was acknowledged as a warrior and raised to the sar’s bodyguard. He’d never seen anything like it before or after. Even the ancient palaces of Saggab couldn’t measure up to the splendor.
“If you could just get it out of here and over the mountains…,” Sabil said dejected
“The Helcenaean found a way,” Kion said, watching the tribesman from the corner of his eyes. The mention of the other people inhabiting the valley made the man’s face harden.
Sabil scratched his wide chest. “Yeah, that’s right. How are they doing that?”
“I’m not sure,” Kion said, looking at their guild.
“They use the river leading west,” the tribesman said, after hesitating for a moment. “It leads to their city. Riadnos.”
“That’s smart,” Sabil said. “Is there a river leading south?”
“No,” the tribesman said with a hard voice.
“Oh.” Sabil looked dejected again.
The tribesman started to increase his pace. “We must go faster, or we won’t reach the camp before dark. You want to eat, yes?”
The men behind them moaned but the prospect of a warm meal quickened their step.
They marched late into the afternoon before their guide raised his fist, bringing the ragged column to a halt. Kion immediately started to scan the surrounding area. It should still be quite some time before they would reach the camp.
“Ahead,” the tribesman said.
A couple of heartbeats later another tribesman appeared between the trees. Their guide greeted him in what Kion presumed was the local tongue. The two conversed for a while before the man turned around and disappeared again.
“We go,” the young guild said, and waved to the group.
“What was that about?” Kion asked.
The tribesman glanced over at him. “There is another group coming towards us. He was scouting.”
“Mercenaries?”
“No.”
Not long after Assanaten warriors dressed for battle passed them on the trail. Kion counted ten, excluding the scout. The black-bearded warriors eyed them suspiciously, while most of the mercenaries avoided eye contact. These were the most dangerous men on the continent who had sacked their home city of Piro in a single day.
Kion made sure to keep Sabil’s large frame between himself and the men as much as possible. When the group had passed, he turned to their guide. “Why are they out here?”
The man turned away. “They’re looking for somebody.” He waved to the rest of the group. “We have to go!”
It can’t be me, Kion tried to assure himself. The group had come from up ahead. Until somebody went back and hiked up that mountain to look for the missing troop, the Assanaten leaders shouldn’t take notice of a story of some suspicious stranger on the mountain trail. Or so he hoped. Good that I didn’t give the little bastard my name, he thought hurrying to catch up with the tribesman. “Who’re they looking for?”
The young man shot him a quick glance before looking ahead again but he stayed silent.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to send out your people?” Kion asked. “You know these woods better than the Assanaten.”
Kion could see the man’s facial muscles working. Something about this seemed to frustrate him. I better be careful here. But his instinct told him that this was important. Watching the Assanaten in passing, he had seen their tension. Whoever they were looking for, they regarded him as dangerous.
“They wouldn’t do it,” the guild said, suddenly.
“Who?”
“And the elders wouldn’t send them.”
Who could inspire this reaction from the mountain people and at the same time worry the Assanaten this much? There was of course one obvious answer. Careful. “Your fellow was with them?”
“They wanted scouts,” the young man said before increasing the pace once more.
The mountain tribe and the Assanaten were clearly allied but it seemed their relationship wasn’t completely harmonious. What moved the tribe to go into this alliance in the first place? If the Assanaten had just sent an army, they could have disappeared into the forest.
Kion decided to hang back. Unable to find his own way in the valley, staying with the mercenaries was the safest place for him. As long as nobody paid attention to him.
“Those guys looked dangerous,” Sabil said, not completely succeeding in hiding his fear.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Kion said absentmindedly. His thoughts were on what was up ahead.
Sabil looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, they’re on your site now. Or you’re on theirs anyway.”
“Oh.” Sabil nodded slowly. “That’s right.”
Kion
“Where’s your token?” the Assanaten warrior asked. The cord fastened on his scale armor identified him as a chief of ten.
“The troop leader had it,” Sabil stuttered.
“That’s not you?”
“No.”
The Assanaten glared at him with evident disgust. “Damn mercenaries,” he murmured. His eyes wandered past the big man caring a heavy club to Kion. “Do you have a token?”.
“No,” Kion said. “It’s gone.”
“By Assan’s mercy!” the Assanaten chief shouted. “Who’s the leader of your group?”
“Gone too,” the Sabil said, looking to Kion for help.
“He fell on the march over the mountains,” Kion said. “Sabil here has been leading.” He omitted that he had broken the former leader’s neck and dropped him down a cliff the second night after joining the group.
“You’re the leader?”
“Yes,” Sabil said nervously.
The Assanaten waved to a man wearing the robe of a scribe. “How many are you bringing?”
Again, Sabil looked to Kion for help. Kion raised his hands, holding up three fingers with his left and placing the right thumb on the lowest bone of his ring finger.
The chief of ten gave him a quick glance and nodded. “These are new fighters from Piro,” he said to the scribe, with a quick bow. “They lost their leader and some of their token.”
“How many?” the scribe asked, without sparing Sabil or Kion a glance.
The warrior held up his hands, mirroring Kion.
“Twenty and three,” the scribe murmured, rummaging in a satchel he carried on his hip. After a moment of searching, he produced two small pieces of clay with a couple of symbols imprinted on them. “Here are two for chiefs of ten. With that, you can receive rations.” He handed them to the Assanaten warrior who gave them to Sabil.
Kion watched the exchange in fascination. This had to be a part of the way the Assanaten organized their vast army. He had never been able to comprehend how Assanadon managed to keep his warriors in the field all year around. The sar of Saggab, like any other ruler, had to send his men home for the harvest season or they would rebel.
Sabil elbowed him lightly in the side. “Ask about food,” he whispered. “And a place to sleep.”
“Excuse me,” Kion said, bowing to the two Assanaten. “Our men are tired from crossing the mountains and our supplies ran out yesterday. Can we rest here?”
The two men exchanged a quick glance. The scribe shook his head. “Not here. Any more people and disease will creep in.”
The chief of ten turned to them. “Listen,” he said in a loud voice. “It’s only midday. We’re going to send you on to the next camp. If you march fast and reach it before sundown you will receive a meal before you go to sleep.”
The ragtag group of men behind Kion started to murmur in protest. They were recruited from the poor of Piro and unaccustomed to the hard mountain terrain, if not to forgo a meal now and then.
“I don’t want to hear it,” the chief said. “You worthless scum. Want to eat well and be paid? Prove yourself in battle against the Helcenaean.” He pointed at a man in simple brown clothing. “He will lead you. Now get out of here.” He turned around and left.
Reluctantly the group of mercenaries started moving. None of these men would ever dare to stand up to the Assanaten. Most wouldn’t even meet his eyes. They had been day laborers who lost their meager existence when Piro’s trade was interrupted by the invasion. The merchants would be sailing the sea again soon. There was no reason for the Assanaten to prohibit what made the Crimson Cities so rich. But these men couldn’t wait for that. They had to eat.
“How far is it?” one of the men asked.
“Shut up,” Sabil shouted. His voice, fitting his large frame, easily cowered the man. Then he frowned. “How far is it?”
Kion nodded obediently. “I will ask.” He quickened his pace to catch up with their guide who was walking a little ahead.
They were traveling along a stream that originated in the mountains not far behind them and was likely the reason the mountain tribe had built their small settlement on the other side. The huts were the simple constructions of a people supporting themselves mostly with hunting and fishing.
A little further downstream a new settlement sprang rapidly out of the ground. Bare-chested Assanaten cut trees, raised walls, and dug latrines. Here and there one of the local tribesmen was mixed in with the sweating black-bearded men.
“Looks like the Assanaten don’t give you any pause either,” Kion said, catching up with their guide.
The man shot him a suspicious glance but didn’t respond. Like his fellow tribesmen beyond the stream, he wore his hair long and twisted into a single braid. His clothing was made from animal hide. Simple but robust. But what stuck out to Kion the most was his lack of weaponry beyond a short knife. And it wasn’t just him. None of the tribesmen seemed to be carrying much in the way of weapons.
“Look’s like your village is getting a lot of new inhabitants,” Kion said, switching to the dialect spoken around Piro.
That stirred a reaction. The man quickly tried to hide it, but Kion had seen the anger flashing in his eyes.
Were these people conquered? He looked back toward the construction site. It didn’t look like it. It should have been nearly impossible for an Assanaten troop to sneak up on them. The mountain tribe would have seen them coming and disappeared. But he had seen the valley when they came down from the last peek. It was almost entirely covered by thick forest interspersed with streams and rivers.
“I understand,” the tribesman said finally, his accent heavy.
Kion smiled. “Oh, thank Inashtar.”
The man frowned. “She doesn’t rule here.”
“Which god do you worship?” Kion asked. He didn’t point out that Inashtar was one of the two or three most powerful gods, worshipped all along the Golden Road. Even the Assanaten prayed to her.
The tribesman raised his head and proudly pointed to the mountain reaching into the valley. “This is Grumpy Old Horto’s domain. And he hates strangers.”
“Sounds like a powerful god,” Kion said, pretending to stare up at the peak in awe. “But if he hates strangers, why are your people working with the Assanaten?” He tried to sound casual.
The man looked away. “You’re with them.”
“They took Piro,” Kion said. “We’re just looking for a way to fill our bellies.” Kion waved in the direction of the men behind them.
Picking up a weapon for the promise of regular meals and spoils was an attractive alternative for many men who otherwise saw nothing but toiling in the fields or starvation in their future. For the Assanaten it was a convenient way to make use of a lot of potential troublemakers. Of course, the hard hike through the mountains and the lack of supplies had stirred many to rethink their recent choices.
After watching the groups of Assanaten warriors and mercenaries on the mountain trail for a time and interrogating one of the deserters, Kion had decided to join one of the groups. It had been surprisingly easy.
“You’re not from Piro,” the tribesman said, his eyes wandering down Kion’s body.
Careful now, Kion thought.
The man had sharp eyes. Kion had adjusted his cloth, cut his hair, and dinged up his spear, but could do little to hide his athletic build.
“You’re a warrior,” the man said. “They’re no warriors.”
Kion just nodded. It made no sense to deny it.
“You’re small.” The tribesman continued to look down at Kion. “For a warrior.”
“You mean short?” Kion asked.
“Yes. Short.”
Kion looked around, taking in the rich green forest that surrounded them. “When you grew up…as a child, did they give you lots of meat?”
“Of course! You need to eat meat and fish to become strong.”
“Between the cities and farms, you need to learn to fight first before you can eat well,” Kion said, shrugging.
“That’s foolish,” the man said frowning. “Is that why you are all so small…short?”
Kion nodded. Only the rich can be sure of their next meal, he thought.
The tribesman pointed at Sabil. “He’s big.”
“He is.”
“What is he saying?” Sabil asked from behind. He hurried to catch up with Kion and the guide. “How far is it?”
“Long,” the tribesman said. “But we will reach it before dark if we don’t stop.”
Hearing this, Sabil made a face. Many picked up a weapon in their sar’s service out of desperation, but others hoped for an easier life. The promise of regular meals and the prospect of loot was more appealing than a lifetime of drudgery in the fields.
Kion reached into his bag and pulled out half a loaf of bread, the last of the supplies he’d taken from his pursuers. Most of it he had used to buy the mercenary’s trust.
He ripped it in three and handed each Sabil and the tribesman a piece. Both looked at him in surprise but accepted the offer. Nobody said no to food.
A full stomach is the god’s greatest blessing, Kion thought, remembering the old saying.
For the next hour, they marched mostly in silence. Kion was amazed by the lush green surrounding them. There were forests in the lands of Saggab but compared to here the trees were spindly and thin. In the valley the trunks were thick, with crowns so rich that they blocked out the sun, allowing them to walk in cool shadow.
“How much is all this worth?” Sabil asked, taking in the surroundings.
Kion shook his head. He had never been a merchant, but everybody knew how much the timber of the north was valued in the cities further south, whose land didn’t grow anything comparable.
“They say that after the war years ago, the Assanaten used the gold they took from Saggab to build a palace entirely of wood,” Sabil said.
“No,” Kion said, noticing their guide’s sudden attention. “It’s just the ceiling of the entrance hall of the palace. It’s bigger and higher than any building in Piro. Rows of thick sandstone columns are holding it up and the entire room smells like cedar.”
“Wow!” Sabil was transfixed by the valuable trees towering over them.
“You have seen it?” the tribesman asked his sharp eyes on Kion.
“I heard it from a merchant once,” Kion said quickly. In truth, he had seen the magnificent hall himself while accompanying an embassy to Assanadon’s capital. It had been his first mission after he was acknowledged as a warrior and raised to the sar’s bodyguard. He’d never seen anything like it before or after. Even the ancient palaces of Saggab couldn’t measure up to the splendor.
“If you could just get it out of here and over the mountains…,” Sabil said dejected
“The Helcenaean found a way,” Kion said, watching the tribesman from the corner of his eyes. The mention of the other people inhabiting the valley made the man’s face harden.
Sabil scratched his wide chest. “Yeah, that’s right. How are they doing that?”
“I’m not sure,” Kion said, looking at their guild.
“They use the river leading west,” the tribesman said, after hesitating for a moment. “It leads to their city. Riadnos.”
“That’s smart,” Sabil said. “Is there a river leading south?”
“No,” the tribesman said with a hard voice.
“Oh.” Sabil looked dejected again.
The tribesman started to increase his pace. “We must go faster, or we won’t reach the camp before dark. You want to eat, yes?”
The men behind them moaned but the prospect of a warm meal quickened their step.
They marched late into the afternoon before their guide raised his fist, bringing the ragged column to a halt. Kion immediately started to scan the surrounding area. It should still be quite some time before they would reach the camp.
“Ahead,” the tribesman said.
A couple of heartbeats later another tribesman appeared between the trees. Their guide greeted him in what Kion presumed was the local tongue. The two conversed for a while before the man turned around and disappeared again.
“We go,” the young guild said, and waved to the group.
“What was that about?” Kion asked.
The tribesman glanced over at him. “There is another group coming towards us. He was scouting.”
“Mercenaries?”
“No.”
Not long after Assanaten warriors dressed for battle passed them on the trail. Kion counted ten, excluding the scout. The black-bearded warriors eyed them suspiciously, while most of the mercenaries avoided eye contact. These were the most dangerous men on the continent who had sacked their home city of Piro in a single day.
Kion made sure to keep Sabil’s large frame between himself and the men as much as possible. When the group had passed, he turned to their guide. “Why are they out here?”
The man turned away. “They’re looking for somebody.” He waved to the rest of the group. “We have to go!”
It can’t be me, Kion tried to assure himself. The group had come from up ahead. Until somebody went back and hiked up that mountain to look for the missing troop, the Assanaten leaders shouldn’t take notice of a story of some suspicious stranger on the mountain trail. Or so he hoped. Good that I didn’t give the little bastard my name, he thought hurrying to catch up with the tribesman. “Who’re they looking for?”
The young man shot him a quick glance before looking ahead again but he stayed silent.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to send out your people?” Kion asked. “You know these woods better than the Assanaten.”
Kion could see the man’s facial muscles working. Something about this seemed to frustrate him. I better be careful here. But his instinct told him that this was important. Watching the Assanaten in passing, he had seen their tension. Whoever they were looking for, they regarded him as dangerous.
“They wouldn’t do it,” the guild said, suddenly.
“Who?”
“And the elders wouldn’t send them.”
Who could inspire this reaction from the mountain people and at the same time worry the Assanaten this much? There was of course one obvious answer. Careful. “Your fellow was with them?”
“They wanted scouts,” the young man said before increasing the pace once more.
The mountain tribe and the Assanaten were clearly allied but it seemed their relationship wasn’t completely harmonious. What moved the tribe to go into this alliance in the first place? If the Assanaten had just sent an army, they could have disappeared into the forest.
Kion decided to hang back. Unable to find his own way in the valley, staying with the mercenaries was the safest place for him. As long as nobody paid attention to him.
“Those guys looked dangerous,” Sabil said, not completely succeeding in hiding his fear.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Kion said absentmindedly. His thoughts were on what was up ahead.
Sabil looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, they’re on your site now. Or you’re on theirs anyway.”
“Oh.” Sabil nodded slowly. “That’s right.”
