Thar Shaddin

Jasmina was finally getting a hint of why people were acting so frightened of Salliniari. She herself hadn't seen that side of him, because she hadn't displeased him, but she could see that he was a formidable man to cross when he got angry.

That thought didn't particularly worry her, as she had difficulty imagining anything she could do that would cause him to turn his wrath in her direction. He didn't seem to expect sex from her, so there would be no confrontation over it, like there might have been if she'd had to turn him down. Jasmina didn't steal things or cause trouble. There was no reason to think that she would ever be in any danger from him, regardless.

She simply gave a smile and helpless shrug in response to his words, as though to indicate the incident had been minor. Jasmina had no permanent damage, and would get over her shock within a short time.

As she was about to open her mouth to reassure Salliniari of that, however, there was an interruption, so Jasmina subsided into silence for the time being. It would have been incredibly impolite to cut in while he addressed the grey woman, so she just waited to see what would happen.

Vagabonds, brigands, beasts, insects, supernatural beings, torturous weather, illness; all the things that stole the lives away from weary travelers foolish enough to make the trip from Eyropa to Tian Xia were potential hazards to Dorcas and Chrishton as the two of them made the week long journey. Only someone with a fair amount of luck could make it through that trip unscathed without magical or technological aid.

But to take the trip like it was a cake walk? A scenic tour through a cross section of Pal Tahrenor's colourful history over some of the most fought over and thereafter ravaged, neglected landscape with only two people, a stolen horse and no provisions? With a tour guide who projected the naive overconfidence, not to mention tactlessness of a teenage boy? That would require luck of unparalleled proportions.

Chrishton must have coupled lady luck with the vigor of an angry bull somewhere along the line, because she was shining on their journey like a peppy schoolgirl aiming to please the local heartthrob. The only other travelers they bumped into before reaching the Eyropan border were a few traders destined for Marn who were friendly and generous enough to sit down with the duo and swap news of Marn in exchange for food.

The next two nights were spent like the others. Alone, pressed together for warmth. He told her about the crime families, the Tarsis and the Bendullis. How the Bendullis were the ones pulling all the strings in Keltaris, how Cervantes, his son, was born in Trelham where the Tarsis controlled everything, and how he believed that this was probably why Cervantes was in trouble. When she asked how he came across this information, he refused to tell.

Before long they passed the political barrier and entered Eyropa. The Sooqui plane transformed into farmland sprinkled with villages every few miles. The people were simple and ignorant - more so than Marnians in many respects - but they had no problem with two seemingly well intentioned human travelers. Chrishton knew exactly how to butter them up just like he had done with the traders. He spoke the language well, related with them the basic worries of their simple lifestyles, portrayed himself as part traveling comedian, part working man's hero on a quest to get Dorcas to a better life.

He lied constantly with the slickness of a snake oil peddler. On the occasions when Dorcas had them preoccupied, he stole enough bishani to have some pocket change of his own. All through the trip he scoffed whenever Dorcas questioned his dishonesty or asked him how he managed to get his way with the people.

In one village Chrishton had them linger for the entire day until he managed to charm a young lady into taking them in for the night. He did his best to keep their inevitable promiscuity discrete that night, but did not lie to Dorcas about it the next day when the questions came. It was either sleep with her, or sleep outside again.

By the time he and Dorcas were through the villages on the last stretch to Keltaris, they had clean clothes and full stomachs. He was boyishly proud of himself up until the huge city came into view. It was early in the evening when he saw it up ahead, and stopped smiling altogether.

Where the sheer expanse of extravagant silver lined rooftops, some with spires reaching several stories into the air and silhouetted against a backdrop of shimmering water and greenery should inspire awe in any regular traveler, it stared back at Chrishton with the eyes of a demon. He did not want to go in.

"Pretty, ain't it?" He asked in a depressed monotone that didn't care about the answer.

* * *

Responding to the doctor's obvious unspoken cues, the hobgoblin shook her head in answer to Salliniari's question.

"Oh no, he would never break in like that." She lied, suddenly looking confused and nearly as nervous as the fidgeting doctor. Guido's eyes shifted between the two of them, his brow furrowed, but as always he said nothing.

Salliniari didn't have time for distractions. Whoever the gray woman was, she was obviously confused and didn't belong there. The doctor was just busy trying to smooth things over so she wouldn't face the old mob boss' wrath, something which wouldn't have happened anyway.

With worry lines pronounced like cracks across a stone face, he again insisted to Jasmina that everything would be taken care of, and that she should do nothing but relax and enjoy what the establishment had to offer. He then gave a nod to a few of his men and they escorted him through a door off to the left, presumably to go question Cervantes. Guido went with him, making eye contact with the doctor on his way.

Once they were gone, the doctor eased, visibly dropping his shoulders with a sigh. Taking his bag in both hands and holding it on the table before him, he addressed Jasmina again, staring into her eyes.

"Sometimes we step into a maze of thorns, and the only easy way out is to go back. But if you've left nothing behind, going back will take you nowhere. Wirrunae sent one of her granddaughters here for that boy, but his destiny is out of her hands so far from the mountains. I have to take her back, but I can see your lifeline. You have some difficult choices to make."

He reached into the bag and pushed his hand around inside. Sounds of glass and wood clinking together emerged until he withdrew something small, metallic and circular. He placed it on the table in front of her. It was a silver coin, of the sort used before the Bishan was introduced, but it looked too perfect to have been made by hand. Strange lettering encircled the profile of an unknown woman on its face.

"Take it if you don't want to go back."

Offering Jasmina a final smile, he pressed his hand behind Direidi's back and led the hobgoblin out of the place, quietly chiding her for stepping into the city of men alone the way she did.

Jasmina wasn't a stupid woman, but she was not one for the vagaries of philosophy, or for complex metaphor. When the doctor spoke of the maze of thorns, she simply stared at him, confusion in her eyes. She was grateful to him for healing her cut, but this was... well, frankly, she didn't know what the man was on about.

The truth was, Jasmina had left a great deal behind. Her dead family, buried in the earth and buried in her memories. Mikkel, the father of her child, as distant to her now as if he were dead, too. Of course, none of it was attainable to her any longer, and her attachments were to the past, not the present, but that didn't mean they didn't matter.

Jasmina saw no reason her life needed to change. She was to have a child. Was that not change enough? Why would she want to become embroiled in something she didn't understand?

Why on earth wouldn't I want to go back? What is so terrible about my life as it has been? And what is so wonderful about some unspoken future?

Perhaps the doctor was right, and the path would take her nowhere. Nothing would ever be different. But why did it need to be different? Wouldn't it be safer for her-- and for her child-- if she stayed where she was? When it came down to it, she saw nothing wrong with her life as she was living it.

Jasmina stood and stepped back from the table, leaving the coin where it lay.

Dorcas had held her own for their voyage, after those first few nights of uneasy sleep and long days of discomfort. Alternating between walking and riding felt more natural after a few days' practice. She even learned to sort out the chafing wrinkles in her clothes that exacerbated the discomfort of her unwashed state.

She sometimes talked a lot, and sometimes not at all. When they did debate magic, the conversation seemed to taper off quickly. If anything, Dorcas's conviction against the physical reality of magic grew stronger with each failed sparring of ideals. And at first, she frequently brought up Mydjeken and Udorl, and sometimes the others; her preoccupation with the boy made painfully clear her feelings of fondness despite their falling out. In a few days, she learned that Chris usually changed the subject or else altogether ignored her mentions of Mydjeken, and he came up much less in conversation after that, either to be driven further from Dorcas's mind or else to be secreted away to a private spot in her consciousness.

The matter of how Dorcas and Chris appeared to their infrequent company was a moot point--nobody asked if she was his wife or his daughter, for either question would be presumptuous or forward and likely to draw the wrath of a potentially possessive male. Once, as Chrishton was skulking off to seek provisions and she remained to entertain with the mixed company, an inebriated traveler was so bold as to rest his hand on Dorcas's stockinged knee. She stuck out the duration of this small violation to keep the man distracted until Chrishton returned.

Small sacrifices like this served to cement her feelings of endearment towards Chris. Her attachment was the strange result of her adolescent psyche in search of friendship and paternal attention, and confused about romance. After she became comfortable with the physical contact and closeness their partnership necessitated, she then sought it of her own choosing. She didn't hesitate to pull his arm over her shoulders when they huddled together in sleep; a few times she even put his hand into hers as they walked during the day. Her cat even seemed to cozy up to Chrishton and offered him the distinct courtesy of a focused stare now and then between fits of curiosity directed at his own invisible pests.

On a night near the end of their journey, Dorcas and her cat cuddled up by the hearth in a modest but comfortable home. She knew full well what Chris was up to with that uncultured woman of the house, but she could hardly object to such gracious accommodations. In the morning, plagued by a warm, stagnant sort of pain in her abdomen, she discovered to her chagrin that her menstruation had started, and the kind woman discretely helped her with a supply of clean dressings for the road. Dorcas and Chrishton left early, and despite her grumpy condition, the kindness from the stranger had buoyed Dorcas's mood and even temporarily lifted her attitude about loose women.

The symptoms of an overripe and unfertilized womb were many, beyond the nuisance of hygeine. For those last few days of their traveling, Dorcas complained a more of fatigue and insisted on privacy more frequently, so as to tend to her woman troubles. Chrishton may or may not have caught on to her temporary affliction. Although her behavior was grudging towards anyone unlucky enough to be caught day in and day out with her and her volatile moods, there was a distinct gratitude she owed Chrishton, which she almost certainly hadn't recognized: had he not shown up to scramble Mydjeken's affections, there was a real chance Dorcas wouldn't be lucky enough this month to experience the feminine curse.

When Keltaris very first came into view, it could have been another large village, surrounded by smudges of farmland. With every pace closer, the metropolis revealed itself, and previously unseen towers materialized. When a keen glint of light reflected off a spire and startled Dorcas's cat, he stopped his near-constant purring abruptly. Dorcas, who was riding just then, put both hands squarely around the cat's shoulders and squeezed him back into vocalization, like a shaggy accordion. She stared straight ahead and watched at other distant and unclear shapes seemed to appear before her eyes.

Chrishton said it was pretty, but he didn't sound like he agreed with himself. She looked at him for a long time, bobbing along on the indifferent old horse. She was tapping out some numbers with her fingers. The only appropriate way to respond, it seemed, was with a non sequitur. "I guess it's my birthday today," she said, and she turned her gaze back on the growing city.

The feeling of emotional intimacy did not belong to Dorcas alone. While in her case she could blame her youth and inexperience for allowing herself to develop an emotional connection with Chrishton, he allowed it to happen because that was the type of guy he was. Feelings like those came and went, and he rarely found any reason to resist. Indeed, years of experience told him ahead of time that they would end up getting closer. Those same years warned him that it wouldn't last long.

What was one sided were any feelings of a paternal nature Dorcas might have felt coming from him. He'd meant what he said when he told her he wasn't there to be her father. He might take care of her, teach her about the world, warn her about men, protect her and love her for who she was. She might even look up to him in some respects, but he was not her father. Chrishton was nobody's father. Not Cervantes' and not hers. Not as far as he was concerned.

To acknowledge that would be to acknowledge too many responsibilities he had shirked.

Hell, having sex with her wasn't off limits for him, even if she was a quarter of his age. It just hadn't happened. He would indeed have beat the snot out of any man who he caught daring to insult or make an inappropriate move on Dorcas, but one got the sense that he would do that for anyone he called a friend.

There was a vague knowledge of her feminine problems, for which he gave her whatever privacy she needed. Doctor Chrishton didn't want anything to do with that business.

Pulling his apprehensive eyes off the cityscape to look at her, his voice picked up a notch, pouncing on any opportunity to stop thinking about what lay ahead. "Yer birthday? Shit Dor, what're ya now? 16? 17? We're gonna 'aveta get ya drunk t'night."

* * *

Once safely outside with the hobgoblin under wing, the doctor took her toward his home to see that she had a proper meal before sending her back to the mountain. Though she insisted it wasn't far and that she wouldn't go back to Sallinari's, he didn't believe her. He could see her lifelines branching out from their current position, and if he didn't get her all the way out of the city, she was going to go right back there and get into some kind of trouble.

In his unwaveringly kind and reassuring manner, he insisted that she come with him. He was a difficult man to say no to for someone in her position. Of course he was right. She had no magic so far from her mountain, and didn't know what she was getting into. The doctor seemed to know so much about everything that was going on, from Direidi's name to the dangers that Salliniari's ilk posed to her.

At his home he fed her, explained to her more about human ways and what he was doing there helping to heal people for one of the most powerful humans in Keltaris. He didn't view Salliniari as an evil person, only a dangerous one.

It took several hours between leaving the tavern and seeing Diredi off before he was ready to head back. By then the sun was dimming from the sky and the streets started to glimmer here and there with artificial human lighting. The doctor knew that things weren't finished with the boy yet. He just didn't know why.

* * *

Chrishton and Dorcas spent that day learning the streets, figuring out where they wanted to stay and gathering provisions with the money he'd stolen. He led her around in his usual way, knowing just where to go to get the things they needed. Something, or someone, was giving him hints. The subtle ways he seemed to listen to the air now and again, or look at the same ghostly wisps that her cat saw would not go unnoticed forever.

Chrishton's affliction with a touch of the crazy was more than that. More and more he acted as though guided and watched over by something.

Yet he kept delaying things. Busying them both with details like what room of the little inn they would settle down in, what to eat, and what supplies were most important. As the evening approached, it became apparent that he was nervous. He talked more and listened less. He didn't have time to answer Dorcas's questions about what was going on, but had time for everything else.

Finally the time came to go to Salliniari's. He didn't insist that she come with him, but he did want her to. He made no suggestions as to what else she should be doing.

Leading her straight to the place - of course he knew where it was without asking for directions - he stopped her a few paces away from the door and held her shoulder, turning her to face him as though he had something important to say.

"Dor, whate'er 'appens in 'ere, I can'na keep m'promise anymore. I'll do what it takes t'save Cerv, an' that'll mean leavin' y'on yer own, an' breakin' our little rules. Okay? Dun' freak out on me in there... Oh, an' once yer inside, I dun know ya, y'dun know me. Total strangers, right? Jus' go, do whate'er ya want. See if y'kin keep the important folks busy or somethin'. If I need ya, ya'll know." He started backing away from her, clearly not going with her through the main entrance. "Drinks on me t'night, girly."

When he turned around, he nearly bumped into a gray skinned man wearing long red robes, trimmed with gold and symbols that denoted a position of authority of some kind. Clearly a wizard at the very least, and holding a black bag in hone hand.

Chrishton muttered at him and continued on his way. "Fuckin' watch it buddy..."

The doctor stared in shock at Chrishton, even turning around to keep watching until Chrishton was well out of sight.

Despite her days' worth of fatigue, the new environment of the bustling metropolis seemed to perk Dorcas up entirely, and she didn't seem to mind the attention to her birthday either. She had confirmed, with a pleased twitch of her upper lip, that she was indeed sixteen today. Even the weather in Keltaris seemed more accommodating than that in Marn, or all of Thar Shaddin; as they whiled away the daylight hours on the streets of the city, Dorcas turned her pale face like a sunflower bloom to catch the rays of sunlight that reflected off the surfaces of architecturally impressive buildings.

Dorcas didn't question Chris's intuition or even his odd, telltale pauses. She was accustomed to explaining away the little quirks of individuals as natural flukes, and in this way, her aversion to this world's magic left her with a more open mind. Without the concept of magic to account specifically for someone's idiosyncrasies, the sense of the individual was left to a more mystical, enigmatic interpretation. Periodically, she would tip her windburned face in Chris's direction and offer him a smile before being distracted by another exciting new sight.

By the time they reached Salliniari's, Dorcas's new found vitality had faded gently with the setting of the sun. Her energy level was at a pleasant medium. She pointed out to Chrishton how prettily the glow of dusk drew out the colors of their surroundings while at the same time softening all blemishes. She was just starting to invoke the names of some Impressionist painters--with whom Chris would be entirely unfamiliar--when he stopped her outside the door of the nice establishment.

When he laid the plan out for her, she stopped and let him start to make his distance. Her expression was slightly puzzled, but no scowl darkened her face. It was as if something sour inside her personality had been aired out. Perhaps the influence of the city was already taking hold. He said drinks were his treat, which at least meant he would meet her again soon.

Dorcas lifted herself onto the balls of her feet--her boots' thick soles had worn thinner in their travels--and nodded her chin in a brief goodbye. "Find me later, then," she called after him.

For a short while, maybe ten minutes, Dorcas waited outside the building. She watched the people going in, many of them appearing to be middle-class couples, and many others single men. There were even a handful of well-dresses women who entered alone or with small entourages. Dorcas might fit in if she maintained coolly erect posture and wore her clothes as if in high fashion--that way, she might just pass as an intellectual or an eccentric.

When she did enter, Dorcas did just that. She walked in with her shoulders back and her cat trailing her heels closely. If the two weren't in good practice with their duality, such a formation could mean danger of tripping or trampling.

Dorcas lingered near the entrance for some time, with several other loners, her attention fixed on the stage. A duo of surprisingly agile dwarven ladies in pink and orange scarves and bells jigged about to the tune of a band that performed on several banjo-like instruments of different sizes. The show was quite lively, but after several minutes the tinny music became a tedious hum to the listener. Dorcas wandered further into the establishment.

A cluster of three youths caught Dorcas's attention, and she sidled over near them. Her cat trotted over and startled one of them, and he waved her over to their table that was nearly out of sight of the stage. Dorcas pulled up a chair to join the trio, two young men and a female, and learned they were all students at the large university nearby.

She sipped on juice for some time while they quaffed beer. She avoided too much questioning on her own origins and simultaneously ingratiated herself to them by asking questions continuously about their studies and making small talk about their personal lives. The female and the young man who were romantically inclined to one another interrupted the continuity of the group by leaning ever closer to each other as their tankards emptied. Prodded by the awkwardness of the implied coupling off, Dorcas prattled on about the first subject to come to mind--Impressionist painting. The uncoupled young man seemed rather enchanted after she started on about art, and he leaned forward to listen with a charmed sort of amusement.

The act on stage took a break between sets, and the waiter took the opportunity to come by and freshen their drinks. The young man ordered another beer for himself, and Dorcas took up his offer for a drink and ordered a glass of anise-infused wine. When the drinks came, they lifted their glasses in an informal toast, and Dorcas found her attention momentarily distracted as she glanced about for some sign of the company she was expecting. The young man nudged her back into attention, and she sipped her wine and fell back into conversation.

Getting into Salliniari's tavern during the day undetected wasn't something Chrishton considered difficult. It was a question of doing it right. Or, at least, as right as possible. Ending up in a room that could take him closer to Cervantes without alerting whatever guards there were in the place was desirable.

Circling the building on the outside, he scanned the windows and the rooftop with his eyes while walking down the middle of the street. People wearing the frilly kinds of clothes only found in richer cities like Keltaris passed by left and right, parading the latest fashions like peacocks. The last time he was in Keltaris, those rich people were the focus of his thievery skills. Their fat purses made them excellent targets. These days the thought never crossed his mind.

Nor was he concerned with not fitting in. Some of the people stared at him, and nearly all of them took at least a second's notice of the big man who obviously didn't belong. Regardless of the cleaning up he had done with Dorcas prior to entering Keltaris, he could not get the dirt of the road off completely, the stubble of his beard properly shaved or his clothes less threadbare.

Scouting out the building, which was more accurately described as a complex, took him to a back alley that seemed to be the most obvious entry point. Looking up, he saw a boarded up window. The only one of its kind, on a building so well kept, suggested it was recent. There was still too much light outside to see past the bluish glare of the other windows.

Staring up at the wooden boards, he asked aloud with nobody around. "Y'tellin' me 'e broke in?"

A fox spirit appeared through the wood of the window and started flying quick circles overhead in an ambiguous confirmation that was meaningful enough to Chrishton.

"Boy's got guts at least. 'Course that ain't where they're keepin' 'im, is it?"

The fox spirit vanished.

He averted his eyes from the windows to look up and down the alley. "Well if yer sayin' 'es still in 'ere fer sure, then they've got fuckin' jails right in th'bloody place."

Secure rooms would either be on an upper level or in a basement, not a place with windows he was looking at. Having made a mental map of the place as well as he could from the exterior, he again walked to the street at the rear of the building and found a heavy locked door.

Chrishton stood next to the door, casually waiting for a lull in the street traffic. He pretended to be busy waiting for someone while watching the people. He stuck a finger in his ear, scratched, flicked some wax away.

When the coast was clear, he pulled the door open as though it was never locked, and slipped inside.

* * *

Inside the tavern area things were back to normal. Salliniari had not been seen since he left to question their uninvited guest come hostage. Guido had returned eventually, however, and moved to and fro between the different quadrants of the floor. Sometimes he ducked into a hallway for a few minutes, but was constantly about somewhere.

Thus, when the doctor returned unbidden, Guido was there to notice. The doctor was one of the people he found difficult to read. His mind was always ahead of himself, focusing on those paths of fate he saw in people, and never on his own goals. Indeed, when the doctor turned his attentions on Guido, Guido could see his own futures reflected back to him. It was both enticing and, on occasion, unsettling.

The two of them had an unspoken agreement to leave eachother alone for that very reason. They exchanged glances, and Guido left him to do whatever it is he was doing.

The doctor, in turn, paced slowly through the tavern observing people. He noted that Jasmina had not taken the coin, which made him sad. It was not only her course she was leading awry with her reluctance.

She was no longer his main interest, however. Dorcas had been talking to the man outside. She was connected to him, and the doctor had to find out more.

Uncertain of how to approach her without giving himself away or seeming strange, he fond a place behind her and sat down to have a drink alone.

The continuation of the musical entertainment was held up by a minor tiff between the current act and the next on the schedule. There was a disagreement over the length of the set to be played, and the upcoming act wanted the stage before the lady dwarves were willing to give it up. With the lack of music, around the tavern floor, people became self-consciously aware of the volume of their conversations, and the raucous waves of conversation settled into a quieter drone.

Dorcas's conversation partner picked up his end of their exchange to offer up his views on art. As he tried to frame the topics and some unfamiliar terms she'd brought up, he moved his hands this way and that in a series of mesmerizing gestures that gave the appearance he was actually trying to physically manipulate his words. Dorcas grew temporarily drowsy as she watched his hands; somehow the hum of conversation around the room was even more hypnotic than the strange dwarf music had been. She found herself only half-listening to his words, and partially lost in thought.

This young man--his name was Wragham--had a high, narrow forehead, in contrast to which the image of Kenny's broad brow and roundish face came to mind. Dorcas couldn't help the wandering of her thoughts, or she didn't want to. It had been a week since she'd seen Mydjeken--she didn't let herself think of what a mess he'd been then. On a night like this, they might be having a similar conversation, about academic ideas like this, only Kenny would be so . . . eager. This Keltaris scholar seemed fascinated by her unusual--perhaps foreign--take on art, but in a practiced, comfortable sort of way; he was accustomed to an intellectual challenge. She recalled the way Kenny would dip his head closer to the page of a book when a passage intrigued him, and how he'd bob back up self-consciously to look at her, and how she'd giggle at him. She remembered the stack of books she'd left behind for him--at the time out of haste and anger, but now she wondered if perhaps she was happy he had those to hold onto.

Dorcas blinked briskly and tried to draw herself back into paying attention to Wragham by watching the precise moving of his lips as he formed his words between them. She only succeeded in thinking of Kenny's lips: their frequently wry smiles, and the way they'd stiffen for only a moment when anybody entered the room; the way they'd slacken when he was deep in thought. Then a memory came without her intending to allow it--a recent evening when, their foreheads almost touching as they leaned over the pages of the same book at a low table, he did what she'd thought she was hoping for, and suddenly drew his lips to her own. She'd been startled by the realness of the taste of another's breath in her teeth, and she'd pulled away.

The jolt of the uncomfortable memory was enough to shake Dorcas out of her reverie and back to the present. As she mentally flailed to catch up in the conversation at hand, she stomped out any lingering thoughts with the stern reminder to herself that he had probably stolen some of Udorl's time that night, after all.

Wragham seemed to notice the frantic swimming of Dorcas's eyes. "Do you disagree?" he prompted her, but of course she wasn't aware of how to respond, for she hadn't been listening. In order to buy some time, she took a hefty sip of her wine and swished it around in her mouth. She rolled her shoulders and her eyes in sync with the roll of her tongue in her mouth, thus producing an ambiguous gesture that could appear aloofly intellectual. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth to lick it with the bottom of her tongue, and shrugged again.

The young man eyed her thoughtfully and sat back in his seat with one foot propped up on the table. A half-smile planted itself firmly on his lips, and he shook his head in good humor. "Am I boring you, Dorcas?" he ribbed. Both of them glanced over to the couple who were now holding hands and giggling secrets to one another.

Dorcas made an insincere attempt to stifle a gleeful smile that bloomed from the center of her pursed lips. "Noo," she replied, and tipped her mouth into her wine glass to hide her expression. She shook her head and pretended to be trying not to smile.

" . . . Dor?" He raised his eyebrows to see her reaction to the nickname.

Dorcas grinned and shrugged again, and there the two of them sat, each half-teasing the other. She was compelled to brush her hair out of her eyes, and as she did so she threw a glance around the room. She was still waiting for someone, and had just become vaguely aware of the fact that she was flirting. As her gaze traveled the room, it stopped only briefly on the figure of the doctor, who looked a little bit interesting, as if familiar. She hastily sipped at her wine, and both she and Wragham laughed at the loud slurp she made.

Jasmina spent her day under an uncharacteristic cloud of self-doubt.

Uncharacteristic because Jasmina was the sort of person who lived primarily in the moment. She made a choice, and once it was finished, she lived with it, right or wrong. Her pregnancy was a primary example of that. Sleeping with Mikkel had turned out to be unwise, because he had been dishonest. But she had not known at the time that he was a liar, and she did not begrudge herself her own innocence. They had made love, and a child had resulted, as children do. Jasmina felt no need to revisit the events leading up to her pregnancy, or to question how things might have been different. The world was as it was. One could only move forward.

Or so she tried to remind herself. But for some reason, today that was difficult.

She supposed that it was because she had very little she was required to do. On the road, she would have had a campsite to tend to, food to gather or purchase and then cook, or, if she was staying in a tavern or inn, a room to attempt to make livable. None of that was necessary in the Salliniari establishment, however. Food and services were provided to her almost before she was even aware that she required them. Her room was spotless, and even had it not been, the army of maids and servants would quickly tend to any imperfection. The luxury was nice, and Jasmina wasn't complaining. But at the same time, the unusual amount of leisure left her with more time to ponder than was ordinarily the case.

Jasmina spent her day wandering around the shopping districts of Keltaris, carefully considering what to purchase for her baby. She examined endless amounts of tiny clothing, knitwear, soft blankets, booties, toys, picture books, and other assorted infant paraphernalia... and actually purchased very little of it. When everything you owned was carried on your back, you had to be selective.

The shopping only required a small part of her brain, however, and the rest of her mind was spinning. The subject she kept returning to was the words of the doctor. Had she done the right thing? Had she thrown away an opportunity, or spared them danger? Was she doing what was best for her child? For herself? Jasmina's brain couldn't seem to stop chewing on these questions, even as she focused on the task at hand, but by the end of the afternoon, she found herself no closer to resolution. How could she, acting on so little information? She tried to remind herself that the decision was made, and second-guessing was pointless, but somehow it was harder than usual to convince herself of that fact.

When the sun was beginning to set, Jasmina returned to Salliniari's to prepare for her dancing that evening, when she was scheduled to perform. As it turned out, she was ready far in advance of her own time slot; most of her "costume" pieces were things she wore anyway, so her preparations involved little more than switching out a few articles and stretching her muscles. Once she felt sufficiently warm and limber, she watched the other performers while she awaited her own turn.

It was then that the doctor caught her eye, and she cautiously made her way to his table, hanging back slightly in case he didn't want to be disturbed. "Sir, I wish to apologize if you took me as rude. I do not want my actions to seem a rejection of your..." She struggled for the word, couldn't find it, and substituted a different one. "Your beliefs. I appreciate very much that you healed my cut. It is merely, you spoke of things that are very dark. And I have my child to consider. Were it me alone, I would be more free to explore the possibilities of this world. But for my baby, I must remain on the safe path. I hope you can understand that, and we will be without hard feelings between us."

For all the entertainment offered by a pair of colourfully garbed dwarven women showing their culture's world renowned stubbornness and social aggressiveness with enough spunk to have the much taller humans trying to get them off the set cringing and backing away, the doctor was not interested. He didn't need purposeful distractions the way most people craved them. Music was pleasant, but what could keep him enthralled for hours at a time was the mere presence of so many people going about their lives. When he opened himself up to their fates, he could lose himself in the beauty and complexity of their interwoven paths. For the doctor, it was not only distracting, but a deeply spiritual experience that put him in the same mental trance that others induced by heavy prayer.

From where he sat, eyes white and glazed over, slowly following lines that had nothing to do with what was actually in the room, he studied what he could of the girl from outside. He learned that her proper first name was Dorcas - the boy shortened it to Dor - but her last name was elusive. Nobody that she had encountered had thought about her last name in a long time, including her. Tracing her path backwards, he saw that she recently came from the East on the Sooqui plane and a place called Marn, which was strange because he had never heard of it, and none of the people associated with her had ever been there, except for the man from outside: Chrishton.

Further back he saw that her time in Marn was hectic and transitional. She was confused, a multitude of options fanned out before her, and she was uncertain about the one she chose. Even for a human of her youth that amount of uncertainty was unusual.

But the strangest part of all was what he saw when he traced her time even farther back before Marn, before all the confusion...

Sir, I wish to apologize if you took me as rude.

The doctor looked up, blinked once, and then smiled at Jasmina. All the rivers of fate washed away and he was back in the real world and the present.

"There's no need to apologize, Jasmina. It was an offer, not a request. Life is your set of choices to make, not mine." He didn't sound bothered or the least bit upset. There was a peacefulness about the doctor that suggested he never got upset. "I would caution you, though. If you can't see ahead clearly, you can't know which way is safe. Hesitation is the insidious cousin of impulsivity. "

The doctor appeared comfortable to sit there without a drink in his hands. Most of the people had drinks, if only for something to preoccupy themselves with to save off a feeling of awkwardness, but he hadn't noticed when the waitress brought him one. She must have left him alone in his daze and quietly slipped it under his nose. When he looked down and saw it there for the first time, he paused, realized what happened, and then left it there to look at Dorcas.

"That girl is here because of the boy also, but she doesn't know him. I don't think Salliniari has killed him yet, but if he does, there will be a lot of trouble in this place. Salliniari's life is in danger."

* * *

The back of the building immediately behind the door was a garbage area. All the crap from the tavern and rooms was piled inside metal cans and open topped boxes which did nothing to contain the smell of rotting food. It was unpleasant, but a far cry from the stench of a tanning factory.

Chrishton plodded a short way through the mess between cans, and reached a second area used for storage. There were more wooden crates, mostly filled with burlap sacks full of food like grain, spices, melons, oranges, and other produce. Directly across from him, like a gift from Inari himself, were shelves lined with old bottle of alcohol. Beside them were drums of what had to be ale or mead, and wine. The whole place was only dimly lit, with no windows and only the occasional electric light sticking out of the side of the wall.

He grabbed one of the bottles off the shelf by the neck and held it up to a nearby light to examine the yellowed label. Whiskey from 184 PW, stamped by some district in Western Eyropa called Brugham. It was over sixty years old and just sitting on a shelf collecting dust.

"Older'n me." He grunted, and continued walking while trying to decide the best way to open the damn thing without a corkscrew handy.

Just then a man who couldn't have been half of Chrishton's weight rounded the corner carrying a chamber pot full of piss. He stopped so abruptly that it nearly sloshed over the sides. Chrishton didn't look surprised at all, and still had the bottle in hand.

"What-" Started the man, but Chrishton interrupted.

"Got a corkscrew? Boss telled me t'get this fer 'im but I ain't got a fuckin' screw."

The man wasn't sure if he should be frightened or not. Chrishton towered over him like he could tie him in a knot, and he had never seen his face before. On the other hand, most of the muscle Salliniari hired were brutish jerks who pushed him around and used their size to threaten him for fun, but the one standing before him honestly looked and sounded friendly. Chrishton's cheeks were pushed out in a big smile. He didn't want to believe that Chrishton was trouble, so he chose to trust him rather than question what he was really doing.

"Uh... Yes. Um." The man's hands were full with the piss pot, so he had to nod with his head rather than point. "On the other side of the barrels. Over there."

Chrishton pivoted in place and looked surprised to see a corkscrew sitting on a shelf opposite him, right in the open, throwing out his arms in excalamation. "'Ey perfect."

The whole time his back was turned, the man was staring at him curiously, examining the clothes he wore and the way his messy dark hair dangled over his large shoulders. Who was he?

The expression of curiosity was still on his face when Chrishton turned back around, but Chrishton acted oblivious to it. He had the corkscrew in his hand. It would make a nastier weapon than the bottle.

"Dun let m'keep ya. Best toss that stuff afore ya stink like it all day." A wink and continued smile followed this suggestion.

"Yes... Haha. Okay."

Once the man had squeezed past him in the narrow space, Chrishton continued on to where the man had come from, jabbing the corkscrew into the top of the bottle as he went.

Dorcas was distracted for several moments in laughter. The band of dwarf banjoists struck up the opening to their next set, and she and Wragham conscientiously quieted their voices. He stared at Dorcas silently for several moments and sipped at his drink before he excused himself momentarily. He'd been drinking rather longer than she had, and presumably the first few rounds had caught up to him.

As Wragham weaved out of view, Dorcas pulled her shoulders in self-consciously. She had been sitting nearly on the edge of her seat, and now she slowly sank back into a more subdued position. The other couple at the table had eased up in their canoodling, and the young lady was tapping out a counter-rhythm to the dwarves' song on the knuckles of her male friend. Dorcas glanced in their direction, offered a tight, meek smile, and immediately looked down into her wine, chagrined by her own awkwardness.

Frozen in that position for a moment, she was more aware of the movements around her, and it was in this way she noticed, in her periphery, the turning--and lingering--of two faces in her direction.

She hesitated before she looked. Her hesitation may have been noticeable, because she tensed slightly before craning her neck slowly to peer behind her shoulder. It was that strangely familiar man again, and now an exotic-looking woman, too. Catching his eye snapped Dorcas into attention, realizing her situation. She turned away quickly.

When Wragham returned to their table with a fresh tankard of beer, he found Dorcas clinging to her wine glass with both hands and sipping at it, tight-lipped. She was still processing the probability that she was being watched. She nodded at the young man with wide eyes. He cleared his throat and glanced around conspicuously.

"Do you need something to eat? I've become a bit hungry. Fellows?" He indicated his friends, who bobbled their heads noncommittally.

Dorcas inhaled deeply and looked at the bar. She became aware of how long she had been waiting for Chris to return to her. "Sure," she said, oddly breathless after her long sip of air.

Jasmina was relieved that the doctor acknowledged her apology, and didn't seem annoyed with her. She accepted his answer, and did not continue to dwell on the matter of her potential rudeness.

The rest of what he said about her decision continued to puzzle her, though. Was he saying she was wrong, or that she was right? After all, she hadn't hesitated, and that was what he cautioned against. For good or ill, she had made a choice. Hadn't she? Or would this matter come back to haunt her? It seemed, though, that if you couldn't see clearly, the choice to continue was as good as any other.

If Jasmina noticed the young woman from the other table glance over at her and the doctor, she didn't register it consciously. The doctor was certainly an important person in the area, and it was only natural that people would regard him with curiosity. Jasmina herself was not unused to the looks either, whether because she was a dancer, an attractive woman, a foreigner, or some combination thereof. So the girl did not strike Jasmina as of more note than anyone else in the establishment.

More than her own fate-- certainly an important question, but a clouded one, and one she was unlikely to solve definitively before her first dance set-- the doctor's words about Salliniari took her up short. Not, oddly enough, that he was in danger. That concerned her, but the previous words had already snagged her thought processes.

"Killed him?" Jasmina looked horrified, but worked hard to keep her voice soft, not wishing to make a scene. "Mister Guido said the boy would be turned over to the authorities. Now you speak of murder as though it were... as though it were commonplace. As though Mister Sallianari does such with his evening coffee. That is..."

Jasmina couldn't even come up with a word for it. She'd met petty thieves, and heard of men being killed in tavern brawls. She'd seen her own family fall prey to violence. But making killing sound so ordinary...

"What sort of man is Salliniari? What sort is he truly?" Salliniari had been superficially kind to her, but she didn't know his inner soul. And while she didn't want anyone to die if it could be avoided, hearing that a man who regularly committed murder was himself in danger of death seemed more like karma than potential tragedy.

The boy had committed a crime, and it was right that he answer for it. But by "answer for it," Jasmina had assumed that he would spend a little bit of time in jail, or have to pay a fine, or be told never to return to the city. Death seemed like an extreme punishment.

Though, she reminded herself, he'd meant to kill her. She didn't deserve to die either. But even so...

"Sir, what is going on here? I beg you, speak plainly."

"I can only tell you what I see, Jasmina. Sometimes it is difficult to put into words. There are so many things going on."

The doctor was being honest. Although she wasn't aware of the complexity of her question as he saw things, for him it was a bewildering question. People liked events rounded down and simplified to relevant details so that they could make sense of it all. Such a task came naturally to people, but not to him. He saw too much to have an easy time rounding things down to put into words. Her other question, about Salliniari, was easier to answer.

"Salliniari is the man you have spoken to. He's a man who wants to see you happy and to enjoy good food and company. But he has a drive that dwarfs most others; an inner force that will not be stopped. He has seen too many of his friends die in this war with the Tarsis. It is a war to him. The boy joined their side and came to kill you. To Salliniari the only appropriate response is to kill him. Believe me, this is no morning coffee to Salliniari. He is furious, and he will take that fury out on the boy during his interrogation."

Without needing to look around and see, the doctor quieted his voice as a waitress approached from behind him and walked past. He kept his eyes on Jasmina, but shut his mouth and waited until the girl was out of hearing range. He looked perfectly at ease doing so, as though hiding things from others like that was no different than breathing. In fact, what he was doing was manipulating his own fate, and guiding his path without much attention to the details. If he kept speaking, something would change and follow an undesirable path, and so he had to stop speaking until the feeling went away.

"Jasmina. In Keltaris, Salliniari and the Bendulli family are the authorities. He doesn't only own this bar. He owns the city. That is why there are people trying to influence him."

His milky eyes turned back to the intriguing human girl sitting with some boys at her table not far away. She knew that something was up, and he knew that she knew.

"Now I'm afraid a number of innocent people are getting involved, all because of that boy..."

* * *

The back of Salliniari's complex was not as nice as the tavern where Dorcas and Jasmina sat, and nowhere near comparable to the room in which Jasmina had stayed, but it was still better than any place Chrishton had stayed for the past several months. It was well constructed, with high ceilings and electric light in most areas. The walls were painted a cream colour, stained, chipped and peeling here and there. Combined with the dim lighting, it give everything a warm, rustic look. There were no windows, only doors and an intersection with another hall that ran perpendicular up ahead of where he was. The floor was carpeted over stone, which had the convenient side effect of making his footfalls perfectly quiet.

Chrishton knew exactly where he was going. Fox spirits zipped in and out of the hall, through the walls, implicitly trusted by him to signal when he found the correct room.

POP

The cork came out of his bottle, trailing droplets of whiskey behind it. Still holding the bottle by the neck, corkscrew gripped in his other fist, he took a drink of the stuff and then immediately made a face and spat it out to produce another stain along the wall that bled down into the burgundy carpet.

"Fuck shit's disgustin'..."

What a disappointment. As he rounded the corner onto the intersecting hallway, he wondered how it could come to pass that the oldest, most expensive drink he had ever put his lips to could taste like water and sawdust.

The aftertaste would not go away, and with his head downturned so he could spit onto the floor again, he nearly bumped into a large figure that was rounding the corner at the same time.

The two of them stopped and gawked at eachother.

They were about the same height and weight. Chrishton was poorly dressed in earthtoned peasant's clothes and could have used another bath and perhaps a comb. In his late forties, he still looked rugged and capable. The other man was younger, perhaps in his thirties, and wore an expensive pink shirt that was too small for him above black pants. It showed off his muscular pecs and biceps which, compared to Chrishton's slightly protruding gut, presented him as the more fit of the two.

Youth and fitness were not great indicators of fighting prowess. That came down to nerves and experience, and in the split second that they made eye contact with eachother, trying to process what to do, each man sized the other up to decide what the he was capable of. In this department, Chrishton had the edge. He was not the least bit afraid of confrontation, he was well acquainted with all kinds of combat, and most importantly, he wasn't wasting time trying to figure out why there was another guy in the hallway who shouldn't be there.

The corkscrew came up to stab into the man's left eye before he could pull away. He had no idea Chrishton was holding a weapon. The strange sensation of his eye being squished by a cork, and eventually punctured by the screw behind it, made no sense to him. Suddenly his eye hurt, and he couldn't see right. He backpedaled and prepared to yell in confusion, but the wind rushed out of his lungs as a heavy fist connected with his exposed gut. He felt an arm around his neck, and pressure on the side of his calf like someone was tripping him. The world tilted on its axis and he hit the floor. A blunt force hit the side of his head, and then there was nothing.

* * *

For Cervantes, the world had been tilting back and forth, spinning this way and that, and coming in and out of his consciousness for what felt like ages. His mouth tasted coppery and it was hard to see straight. Warm blood was getting into his eyes from a cut on his brow. The taste was from a cut on his lip.

The beating wasn't as bad as he expected it to be. For some reason the pain didn't matter. He was so resigned to his fate that he didn't care. In the back of his mind, he was glad Salliniari was only having him beaten, and not doing something worse like cutting off fingers. In his youth, Cervantes could take a lot of punishment. The goon who was hitting him had a towel wrapped around his knuckles for some stupid reason. It made no sense to Cervantes why they would bother with that. He chocked it up to some kind of Eastern Eyropan sense of decorum.

They were lucky his hands were tied behind the back of his chair.

Salliniari's raving about the audacity of Cervantes' attempt on Jasmina's life, and his very presence in a Bendulli controlled city, made Cervantes more angry than scared. He knew he was going to die, but to have to listen to some old man rant at him from some high and mighty elitist position while he was tied to a chair made Cervantes want to kill him. In the daze that followed each of the punches he received, Salliniari's words stopped making sense. Probably he was still asking questions. All Cervantes knew was that he wouldn't stop talking, acting like a tough guy, and it was making him angry.

Then it stopped for long enough for the kitsune to focus his eyes on the two figures standing across from him. Why had Salliniari given the order to stop? They were barely getting started.

When he saw the larger man step away, and then return with a pipe in his hand, he understood. They really were just getting started.

The young man Wragham and his male friend had gotten up to chase down a waitress and order some food. They left Dorcas and the other young lady alone together. For several moments, the girls sat in silence, Dorcas chewing on the inside of her cheek as she imagined what sort of local cuisine she would shortly find herself eating. Whatever the other girl was thinking about in the silence, Dorcas certainly couldn't even guess: these Keltaris people seemed different.

Physically, the people here looked somewhat different. Maybe they were taller--many of them seemed to carry a thin build, so maybe that was the illusion. All three of these scholars had longish faces and high foreheads. The Keltarian young lady was not particularly pretty in that youthful, vivacious way Dorcas had come to accept. Her face was youthful, but somehow antique-looking, with long bone structure and rounded, imperfect, asymmetrical edges. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a whimsical stack of pancake-like billows.

She arched a thick eyebrow when she noticed Dorcas had been staring for a several seconds. The girl leaned across the table and tipped her head in an sympathetic sort of way. The flat frumpiness of her hair wobbled dangerously with the inclination of her head, but remained in place thanks to a strategic placement of pins. "You look tired," she said plainly. Her voice was bold and slightly nasal, and Dorcas found she liked it.

"Just got in today," Dorcas replied. She had finished her wine but for a tiny pool in the bottom of her glass that would more likely stick to the sides of the glass, when tipped, than provide a proper sip. Her judgment told her that maybe she shouldn't talk too much about where she was coming from, but after one drink, the voice of her careful reasoning couldn't quite keep up with the speed at which words came out of her mouth.

"From where?" prodded the young lady. She was being friendly.

"Oh, here and there," Dorcas said, before she even realized she had come up with an answer. "Lots of places. All over Eyropa." She was surprised to find that the words that were too eager to exit her mouth were also given to exagerration.

She half-turned to look over her shoulder again, probably conspicuously. When she turned, the young lady, lifted her boyfriend's tankard and emptied the last foamy bit of beer into Dorcas's glass. "You were all out," she explained with a shrug of her eyebrows.

Dorcas sniffed at the beer and complimented the large gold-and-ruby ring on the other girl's thin finger before she started sipping anew. They waited for the boys to return. Each time Dorcas glanced around for a sign of Chris--a behavior that was becoming more frequent as her awareness of time was gradually becoming a little fuzzy--the young lady followed her gaze aboout the room with a sharp eye and a curious craning of her neck.

Jasmina listened carefully as the doctor explained the situation, cocking her head to one side slightly as she digested both strange concepts and unfamiliar vocabulary. She was certainly familiar with vigilantism, but she was surprised to hear of a seeming law-abiding city run by what basically appeared to amount to civilian thugs, rather than any sort of elected-- or at least designated and accepted-- authority.

It of course raised the question in her mind of what she ought to do. Or... well, frankly, if she ought to do anything. This wasn't her fight. She'd been caught in the middle last night due to unfortunate circumstances and tenuous connections, but there was no reason she needed to remain that way. If she left Keltaris, no one would follow her, because she wasn't truly involved. She had no hand in any of this business, so there was no cause for revenge or recriminations, and she wasn't important enough to Salliniari that continued threat to her safety would deeply upset the boss.

Jasmina certainly had no hard feelings about that fact; he wasn't any more important to her in the long run than she was to him. But nor did she have any illusions that his anger about what happened to her had to do with any greater sense of injustice than that it had happened on his own premises, and thus he might perceive a loss of face. If an attack on a stranger like her was gossip Salliniari had heard on the street, she was sure he would not have given it a second thought. If it had happened in another city once he'd met her, he would probably have acted sympathetically toward her, but she doubted he'd have made any attempt to intervene. This was not, primarily, an attempted assault on Jasmina-- it was an assault on Salliniari's business enterprise.

Which meant she could leave.

And probably should do, once she'd finished all the performances she was contracted for. She wouldn't break her word, since that would interfere with her career in the long-term, and there was no immediate need, as her safety was not currently directly threatened. But nor was she still seriously considering Salliniari's offer to remain. His "protection" and hospitality clearly came at too great an answering price. Jasmina had no desire to involve herself in this sort of conflict. To involve her child in it. She and her baby weren't going to be "innocent people getting involved," as the doctor spoke of, if she could help it.

"I thank you for the information," Jasmina told the doctor seriously. "I hope that the boy will not suffer too greatly, whatever the outcome. And I hope Mister Salliniari finds... peace. But as I am sure you see, this battle has nothing to do with me. My part is finished. Even if I knew which side was right to take, there is nothing I could do. I am but a dancer-- an entertainer-- and my place is not in these twisted affairs."