Yoharum stepped out of the small inn he had been staying at inside the city. It primarily catered to foreigners and the man behind the counter was too detached to ask any questions. Just the way Yoharum liked it. It was already close to mid-day. He’d been out the night before, visiting the usual underground spots that attracted the kind of crooks he had been looking for. Later, he would pick out some thieves and lower tiered scoundrels. They would be used as the first line of fodder. Between his usual crew and the newly hired muscle, Yoharum felt confident. All he needed now was the opportunity.
The sun beat down overhead and even through the loose clothes; he was already feeling the heat. The humid morning air carried the strong aroma of wood smoke, warm bread, and spiced poultry. The scents permeated out from the small restaurant and into the street like an invitation. The restaurant was a little hole-in-the-wall nestled between two of the larger tenements on a narrow side street. Out front were a number of small makeshift chairs and a short wall for patrons to find a seat. A gray-haired man with a thin face tended to the food on the skillet with a long metal spoon in one hand and a metal poker in the other. He wielded the two instruments with a level of skill one might expect of a Mada’abi stone assassin. Yoharum ordered a skewer and some fresh bread and found a place on the half-wall on the opposite side of the street. He had considered the little chairs, but wasn’t confident in their ability to support his large frame.
The calm following the storm felt stark in its contrast to the tempest that was his thoughts. Yoharum’s mind raced, always calculating the best path to winning. He finished his meal and looked around in disappoint. How far this city has fallen. There were only two types of people inside the city’s walls these days, rich Casoyans and rich foreigners. Foreigners, Yoharum thought, rolling the word over and over so as to punctuate the pejorative taste it left. Everywhere you look, wealthy fucking foreigners.
When Yoharum was younger and stupider, he spent his days on the streets robbing rich foreigners to survive. He needed the money. His parents needed the money. But a child is no match for a full-grown adult, and his career as a thief was swift and short-lived. He had the long scars on his back to prove it. Had he been older, it would have been a hand. But this harsh lesson taught him an important truth: the dead don’t seek revenge. Only the living.
After finishing his meal, Yoharum set off for Patzau Palace. He shot a despicable glance at three foreigners at one of the small street-side tables, but they didn’t notice him—they never did. Weaving his way onto the main thoroughfare, he moved among all kinds of people, from those out for a luxurious stroll to others, like him, with places to be and families to feed. In the back of his mind, a dark thought always whispered urges to simply off some nagging, rich bitch or pompous old nobleman. The kind of people who spouted discriminations about people they were too sheltered by wealth to ever encounter. A passing patrol of guards, with their lances held skyward, served as a charming reminder of why he chose to ignore those thoughts.
Soldiers wandered in packs around the palace and Dohina square, where the entire area was bustling with activity. Children, some the same age he was when he got his big lashing, ran in and out of the palace as messengers. They carried letters and information between important places and people in the city. A younger boy ran at full speed in front of him, a small wax tablet grasped firmly in his hands. It was a common job for young people. Messengers from the palace were paid in meals and coppers, and there was a common agreement among everyone that they were not to be messed with.
Soldiers wandered in packs around the palace and Dohina square. The entire area was bustling with activity. Children, some the same age he’d been when he’d received his big lashing, ran in and out of the palace as messengers. They carried tablets and messages between important places and people across the city. A young boy ran at full speed in front of him, the wax tablet large in his firm grasp. Boys and girls who worked as messengers were paid in meals and coppers and even Yoharum deemed harassing a messenger as deplorable. Most hailed from the
Yoharum crossed the canal along the bridge closest to Yohati’s estate. He was here just to scout it out, hoping to catch a glimpse of his targets. Yohati’s boathouse came into view, as did the soldiers who stood watchful on the docks. He walked the walls of the estate and found it as impregnable as he feared. A large portion of the estate hugged the canal, while another third was hemmed in by the walls of other large and well-protected castles and villas of the elite. That left only the long stretch of wall along the cobbled street. Yoharum strolled along their length. The walls were twice his height with poor handholds and slick mossy growth. Spikes protruded from the top, and soldiers peered down over the spikes. His original assessment remained valid, the estate would be near impossible to break into. A single gatehouse revealed the only apparent entrance and exit, disregarding the boathouse. There hadn’t been any obvious escape routes. No backdoors or openings. It was possible that the adjacent properties shared some kind of secondary exit but Yoharum felt confident he wouldn’t find it. He circled the block one more time and returned to the canal bridge once again to reassess.
From his vantage on the bridge, Yoharum leaned over onto the hot stones and pulled out a round pear. He took a juicy bite and looked back over towards the estate. The walls were too high to get a good view, and so he turned his attention towards the row of three- and four-story buildings that occupied the opposite side of the street. If he could gain access to one of those units, he could get a better vantage of his targets inside the walls. That would be the best path, while he waited for Bartiin’s plan. Yoharum finished his pear and tossed the core into the canal. It landed with a small splash.
When he looked back up, he spotted a familiar face, “Zhenya?” Yoharum called out to her, but she’d seen him first and was already walking his way. She wore a noblewoman’s kebaya with a sash over her long skirt. Without seeing her face, he might have passed her off as any other woman in the city. She was shorter than him, but taller than most women and walked with all the grace of an aristocrat and all the strength of a true Casoyan. Her family was from the mountain villages, same as his, and they had originally met through their specific line of work. She was like him, raised poor and ostracized by city folk despite growing up in Caso. The main difference was she had the gift and the gift made her valuable to thieves and gangs.
“I got your message” Zhenya said as she approached. She closed the distance between them before she continued speaking. She leaned backwards on the railing to face him, while he leaned forward over the railing to keep an eye on his prize. “So, you’ve got a new job?” she asked.
Yoharum smiled. He and Zhenya had worked together for years and there was nobody Yoharum trusted with his life more than her. She was no amateur. Despite being his senior by more than a decade, she was the only person Yoharum trusted. “A big one” Yoharum answered, switching from city Casoyan to the dialect that the mountain people spoke.
“A big one?” she repeated. “Who’s the client?”
“A foreigner. He’s looking to kill some other foreigners” Yoharum answered, “Seems political. Disgraced princes that have been run out of their castles.”
“Princes?” she repeated. “Sounds like that might stir up a fuss.”
“Not likely”
“Where are they?”
“In there” he said, gesturing to Patzau Yohati’s estate.
“In one of the estates?” she asked. “That’s Yohati’s. You know that one’s Yohati’s right.”
“Correct” he answered.
“I’m out” she said. “There is no reward great enough for the risk it would take to break into one of those estates.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Yoharum said. He reached out to stop her from leaving. “We don’t have to. We’re not breaking into any of the estates.”
“We don’t have to?”
“We’re to jump them after they’ve already left the estate. We make it look like a robbery gone wrong” he said through a wide grin. They’re supposed to be rich too. Might even score some extra coin along the way.”
“If it’s a big job, then there’s some kind of obstacle” Zhenya surmised. “What’s the catch?”
“The bodyguards are the hiccup,” he said, “at least based on the information I’ve been given. We’ve got to kill the two princes, but they’ve got bodyguards.”
“What’s so special about the bodyguards?”
“One’s a famous swordsman and the other is a master Aginjigaade” he said. She frowned at him in response. “Hey” he continued, “I said it was a big job, not an easy one.”
“Spirits” she said, “A master Aginjigaade? Who is it? What’s the affinity? I won’t do if they’re a flamer or an icer. And I know there’s an icer in the city. I’ve felt it.”
“That’s fair” Yoharum said. She had shared stories of an ill-fated encounter with a flamer. The madman burned everything in sight. “I agree, no fire or ice Aginjigaade” Yoharum continued. “The bodyguard is a stone Aginjigaade, famous for his defence. From what I’ve learned, he hardens his skin to protect against physical attacks. The swordsmen, however, can die the same as any other man. That’s why I need your help with the Aginjigaade and to make sure he’s the only one. No surprises.”
“You want me to fight a master Aginjigaade?”
“No, no!” Yoharum said, “I just need him distracted while we kill the others. You use your mental thing and distract him or whatever. Then you pull back and let the grunts do their thieving and the muscle do its murdering.”
“How many people are you getting involved?
“The regular crew and yourself, if you’re still interested. I’m planning on hiring a bunch of extra thugs for numbers. I’ll reach out to Viiran to send us some of the fresh blood from his gang. Kids they’re not afraid of losing. They can serve as the vanguard of the attack. The young ones are always the thirstiest for blood.”
“What’s the take?” Zhenya asked. Yoharum reached in her direction and placed an object on the stone wall of the bridge. He removed his hand and the golden coin gleamed in the hot sun. Zhenya picked up the coin and studied it.
“Careyago” she said, studying the coin. “They’re the clients again?”
“I guess so,” Yoharum answered, “and there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“How much more?” Zhenya asked, returning the gold piece.
“Theres forty more in my pocket” he said, and her eyes ears perked up. Yoharum smiled, “And a hundred more for completing the job, both targets killed.”
Zhenya’s eyes went wide. “You’re serious?” she asked. He nodded. “Spirits, you could buy your own palace for that much. What’s the split?”
“Twenty for the crew, and ten more for the gang members. Two of which would go to Viiran. That would leave ten, split between you and me just to attempt it. I’ll give a bonus to the crew if we pull it off and split the rest between us sixty-forty” he said. “Sound fair?”
“Sixty for me?” she asked with a sly smile.
“Sixty for me” he countered.
“It seems like a decent job” Zhenya said. “Can we trust your client?”
“Never” Yoharum answered. “I was contacted by the prime. The same one who paid us for the Northrock job. So clearly this Bartiin guy has connections in the city. Equal to those of the two princes. Considering our record with them and the discretion associated, the job seems credible.” Zhenya let out a long sigh in response. “You disagree?” Yoharum asked.
“No, I’m in.” she said. “It sounds almost too good to be true, and that’s why I’m hesitant. Either way, regardless of whether or not things go right or wrong, I’m not looking forward to having to leave the city to hide out in some backwater hamlet for the rest of the year.”
I could be one of those rich foreigners travelling to far off places, Yoharum thought to himself. “Who knows” he said, “people always say there’s more to the world than the isle of Caso. Perhaps we leave this hellhole of a city for a while instead.” Or, maybe it’s enough to change things for the better.
*
With the sun’s departure, the evening air felt cool. Gaba’ké dressed in his most formal of clothes, a set of robes from bygone days spent living in the Krimas castle back in Gaag. The last time Gaba’ké had worn this very outfit, it had been in the weeks before the betrayal. The memories were heavy and they settled firmly over his heart, making it difficult to look forward to the night’s merriment. Gaba’ké combed his long white hair and even did his best to fix the shape of his bushy white beard. This was an important night. Aramuk and Ohacha had finally received their formal invitation to dine with the Yohati family. He took one last look at himself in the small reflective glass, and descended the steps to the ground floor.
Gaba’ké had been an Aginjigaade in a king’s court for most of his adult life. He was accustomed to the lavish banquets and meals that accompanied important guests and dignitaries. As such, he had some semblance of what to expect as he followed Aramuk and Ohacha across the estate gardens up to the grand front door of Yohati’s mansion estate. The princes wore their most esteemed Gaagian attire. They wore sightly differing maroon tunics with threaded gold patterns. Gold and turquoise accents matched the noble colours of the Krimas family, and those of the Kingdom of Gaag. Ohacha wore, in Gaba’ké’s own opinion, far too much jewelry. He wore gold chains, earrings, bracelets, and rings that felt as if the boy were trying too hard to validate his status. One look at Aramuk’s face suggested he agreed, but wasn’t keen on arguing with Ohacha right before such an important meeting.
The door to the estate opened and a servant with a long face and wide eyes greeted them at the door and led them through the small foyer, down a narrow hall, and into a wide and opulent banquet hall. The room was massive, with high arching ceilings and space enough for two hundred. It was a room built to entertain, and in the center was a table long enough to seat thirty and filled with enough food to feed the same number. Spread across the table were countless silver platters, each complete with steaming dishes that filled even the large room with their enticing aromas. Gaba’ké spotted several whole fish, baked crabs, roasted ducks, prawns, and crystal goblets of wine all surrounding a small but still sizable roasted boar. Vibrant scents danced around the nose – jasmine, coconut, garlic, and savoury nutty smells. It was enough to make Gaba’ké’s mouth water. This was a feast more lavish than any he had known. Gaba’ké blinked, thinking perhaps they had misunderstood the invitation. But, sitting on the far side in the middle of the table were only three people, Patzau Yohati, Reah Yohati, and their daughter Fera.
The Patzau and his wife rose from their seats where they had been waiting. Reah swept forward with the charm and grace of a woman who had attended an uncountable number of such gatherings. The compact and unreadable Patzau Yohati ambled behind. Only the daughter, Fera, seemed uninterested in the formality of the occasion. Her eyes lifted from the spread of food before her, but her interest didn’t linger on her guests.
Polite greetings were made and soon all were seated along an amusingly small portion of the absurdly long table. To his surprise, Gaba’ké was seated in the middle of the table. The two older men, Aramuk and the Patzau, were placed on his left to share in their own more private conversation while he and Reah served as the buffer between the adults and the children. Ohacha seemed put off at being relegated to a seat as far from the Patzau as possible, and more insulted at the obvious lack of interest his own dinner partner displayed. Their meager polite platitudes felt a strained affair. Servants moved silently though the great space, even the soles of their feet soundless against the hard wooden floor. They cleared shells and bones, refilled goblets and ensured the ensemble of dishes maintained the appearance of being untouched, despite the contrary.
When all were seated, Reah raised her glass. “To old friends,” she said, her smile drifting between her husband and Aramuk. “May this evening rekindle a relationship steeped in time, but never forgotten.”
“It warms our hearts to be here and to see you so well after all these years,” Aramuk responded. “We have important business to attend to here in Caso, and your generosity and hospitality will not go unappreciated or unnoticed. Cheers, to the rekindling of friendships.”
Goblets clinked. All drank. But Gaba’ké noticed the old Patzau was yet to smile. He wasn’t sure if this was something to be concerned about, or simply the old man’s nature. Reah and Aramuk did most of the talking in the beginning. Reah was the kind of woman whose charm seemed to fill the entirety of the room. She spoke openly and asked interesting questions. She reacted in all the subtle ways that made a person feel heard. It made her instantly likeable.
Aramuk was equally pleasant. He had always been the smartest of the three brothers and what he lacked in charm, he made up for in knowledge and wisdom. He steered the conversation effortlessly though a range of complicated topics even Gaba’ké felt he knew little about; Casoyan trade routes, markets, and politics.
Yohati was of a different type of person than his wife. His questions were forthright and direct. It felt as if each question he asked was a test or a quiz. He asked about the minute details and listened with a sharp gaze that felt like he was calculating each and every response. He offered little information in return. There was a tension in his tone and questions that made Gaba’ké feel just the slightest bit uncomfortable. There was a cold undercurrent that even Reah’s charm couldn’t completely smooth over. From time to time, Gaba’ké would add to the conversation, but his attention was split equally between the two men and Ohacha and Fera on his other side.
While the conversation between the older folks was generally thriving, Ohacha was stumbling through his attempt at conversation with Yohati’s daughter. Fera was as graceful as her mother with her words, but as charming as her father, which is to say not at all. Ohacha’s earliest attempt at conversation had begun with an attempt to impress Yohati’s daughter with tidbits about the interesting places he had been and things he had seen. When that didn’t work, he tried talking about Caso, then swordplay, then histories, and even dancing. No matter what Ohacha tried, Fera seemed uninterested. She sat across from him with poise and maturity, but her few responses made it clear she had dismissed Ohacha entirely. Worse, the lack of engagement seemed to be wearing on the boy’s nerves. Ohacha was a prince, and had never been so openly disregarded. It wasn’t until Reah turned and asked a question to Gaba’ké about his abilities as an Aginjigaade that the girl’s interest perked up.
“You’re an Aginjigaade?” Fera asked with interest, interrupting Ohacha, who had been mid sentence. She set down the shell of the strange meat she had been eating, ignoring Ohacha, who was now visibly angry. “Were you born in Gaag like Ohama here?”
“Ohacha” Ohacha corrected through gritted teeth. Fera ignored him.
Gaba’ké floundered. She was doing it on purpose. For whatever reason, it was clear she wasn’t fond of being sat away from the more important conversation. Ohacha clearly felt the same way, but at least the prince had tried to make something out of it. “No” he answered after a hesitation. “I was born in a small village just the north of Ayaan. I came to Gaag when I was much older.”
“What is your Aginjigaade moniker?” Fera asked. “I hear all the Aginjigaade love to take up a name that represents them.”
“He is known as the Stone Aginjigaade” Ohacha announced proudly, attempting to reclaim the conversation. Fera continued to ignore him. She turned her full attention to peppering Gaba’ké with questions about his abilities, his travels, and how and why he had come to be in the service of the Krimas family. Gaba’ké answered politely, but did his best to shift the conversation to less personal topics to little result. The girl was as persistent as her father and Ohacha remained relegated to a silently fuming spectator to the point where his ego was clearly bruised and his immaturity was put on full display.
As the meal wound down to its end, Ohacha, lulled by the wine and the constant frustration of being unheard answered carelessly to one of Yohati’s questions. The Patzau had asked what their party was looking to purchase with the influx of coin the auction house sale would be enabling. Before Aramuk had the chance to answer, Ohacha chimed in that they were interested in purchasing additional ships for a fleet and to spend it on soldiers. Whether he had been hoping to appeal to Yohati’s business acumen, or looking to impress Fera, Gaba’ké wasn’t sure. But a sharp look from Aramuk was enough to make-clear that Ohacha had said more than was appropriate. None saw the flicker of satisfaction that passed across Yohati’s face. Despite the gaffe, Aramuk was quick to clarify that the money was for refurbishing the existing fleet and existing retinue of soldiers for the next ten years, which was true in some ways. All eyes shifted to Aramuk in the wake of this new information. Yohati’s questions on the subject intensified until Aramuk managed to shift the conversation away at last.
The evening concluded and the endless trays of dishes disappeared into doorways never to be seen again. Gaba’ké couldn’t help but wonder what happened to all that food now that they had finished with it. Would it be fed to the serving staff, maids, and cooks, or simply discarded. Part of him feared the truth. As they were led out by the Yohati’s, Aramuk was invited to meet with the Patzau again in a more private setting where they could discuss business. Ohacha, once again left out, felt scorned. First, it had been Fera Yohati, now her father and his uncle. Gaba’ké shared in Ohacha’s disappointment. Aramuk hadn’t even tried to include his nephew in the meeting. Despite his constant declarations that Ohacha was in charge, his actions proved otherwise.
Night had fallen and the large branches from the old trees above cast dark shadows where the moon’s light couldn’t reach. Even in the darkness, the scowl across Ohacha’s face was unmistakable. Gaba’ké wanted to find something to cheer the boy up with, but wasn’t sure what he could do. He had little to offer and it was difficult not being able to help. Making matters worse was the fact that Aramuk seemed oblivious to his nephew’s feelings. Part of him worried that Aramuk was being dense purposefully because of Ohacha’s slipup.
It wasn’t until they reached the guest house that Gaba’ké pulled Ohacha away from his uncle to have a moment alone. “I just want to talk for a moment” Gaba’ké said. They retreated into the darkness and found a large stone table a short walk from the house.
“I don’t want to talk about the ships thing” Ohacha rebuffed. “I know I made a mistake.”
“No, no” Gaba’ké responded. “Not that. I don’t care about that.”
That seemed to work and Ohacha’s face lifted with new interest. “The girl. Fera” he said.
That sunk Ohacha’s hoped all over again. “No” Gaba’ké added sternly. “I think she was trying to make you angry.”
“Well then she did a good job” Ohacha said derisively.
“Look, I wasn’t able to listen to everything you two talked about, but she seemed deliberately abrasive. You brought up a wide range of interesting intellectual topics and she didn’t engage with any of them. I think, despite her antagonism, you handled yourself well up until the end.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ohacha chaffed.
Shit, Gaba’ké thought. “That’s not what I meant” he corrected. “I’m just trying to let you know that you were great and that some people just aren’t great conversationalists.”
“She seemed to have a wonderful time asking you all sorts of questions about being an Aginjigaade” Ohacha countered. “I bet if I were an Aginjigaade, she would have been enthralled with me too.”
“Again, I think she was trying to upset you” Gaba’ké added a little more sternly than he intended.
“If I were an Aginjigaade, things would be so much easier” Ohacha said.
“And I once thought things would have been easier for me if I were a prince” Gaba’ké countered. “And that’s where we’re both mistaken.”
“You don’t understand…”
“No, you don’t understand!” Gaba’ké contradicted. “You put my kind on too high a pedestal. You see us as powerful, capable of seemingly impossible feats. I can see it in your eyes that you both revere and envy our capabilities and strength. So much so that you see us as greater than. But this is a fallacy. Seeing us in this way blinds you to our humanity. Behind the great feats, we are just people, same as you. We can lie and cheat and steal. We can love and yearn and need. We succumb to all of the same weaknesses of any other man; greed, cruelty, arrogance, apathy. Perhaps even more so. With few exceptions we can die in all the same ways you can and also in several more that you cannot. We can abuse the powers we have been gifted for our own gain. And those powers we presume to control are by most accounts the very same abilities that lead us to early graves.”
Ohacha stared back, unsure what to say. Gaba’ké sighed and sat in one of the chairs at the table. Ohacha followed suit. Gaba’ké took a breath and tried again. “When I was just a young boy in Ayaan, still a student at the Aginjigaade academy, I thought my purpose for being there was to learn to control my abilities. To hone them. To become powerful. As an older man, I now realize that what I was taught was not how to be strong but instead how to be a decent person; a member of society in spite of my gift. What you misunderstand is that people look at you the same way you look at me. They see the wealth and the title and the power that being a prince gains you. They see the men, like me, who serve you and lords who fly your colours and miss the same difficult more-complex truth of who you are – your personal strengths and flaws. They may see you too as greater than. They don’t see the hardships you have endured. They don’t see suffering that you have weathered because of it.”
Ohacha nodded, slowly. “I think I understand.”
Gaba’ké continued, “You can’t control what other people think, or do. Their reverence of you is their choice. And unfortunately, their disinterest in you is also their choice. Their thoughts and feelings are their responsibilities, not yours. What I am trying to tell you is that regardless of what others perceive, or expect of you, your only responsibility is to be yourself and to do what you think is best.”
“What if I’m not sure what that is?” Ohacha asked.
“Then you have two choices,” Gaba’ké answered, “ask for help from somebody you trust, or try your best to figure it out on your own.”
“But what if I make the wrong choice? What if I mess it all up like I did today at dinner.”
“You didn’t mess everything up, Ohacha” Gaba’ké said calmly. “And the answer to your first question is that you learn from the mistake. You think I was born knowing the answers?” Gaba’ké chuckled. “I made a lot of mistakes when I was your age. Bigger mistakes than you’ve made, and I turned out alright.”
“Like what?” Ohacha asked.
Gaba’ké sighed. “I’ll tell you sometime, but not tonight.” He placed his hands on his knees and rose to his feet. Extending a hand, he pulled Ohacha to his feet as well. “Let’s go inside and get some sleep” he said. “I’m stuffed from that feast.”
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