Bartiin Foxstring, the noble fist of his governor Belvaas the Younger, stood in the sweltering heat of the Casoyan mountains picking fruit like a common man. The work was hard and the humidity made it all the more difficult. It had only been a few days and already his body ached in places and ways he hadn’t before thought possible.

Picking fruit next to him was a life long guildsman named Harumal. He was a burly older man man with a shaved head, dark stubble, and the round features of a tribeman. Whether it was out of kindness or out of duty, Harumal was the only man who spoke with him since his unanticipated arrival several days past. The large man moved with a mechanical precision that Bartiin observed with awe. He made the task look deceptively easy, when in fact, picking the oddly shaped tree fruit proved rather difficult. Harumal was a large man but the way he climbed the tree in bare feet for the highest fruit made him seem the lightest man on the island. As Bartiin had tried and failed at the task, he found himself looking over at the older man with a renewed sense of respect. 

Despite his best efforts to blend in with the local workers, his foreign accent and looks had set him apart from the group immediately. That would have been an issue if anyone out here gave a damn. As it turned out, they didn’t. The younger men stayed well clear. It was obvious that very few foreigners ended up working for the guilds, and far fewer in this capacity. At first, Bartiin had presumed they simply didn’t like him. His mind filled in the blanks with a dozen rude or self-deprecating reasons. It was clear from their behavour that it his neglect was deliberate.

It wasn’t until several days had past that Bartiin learned the bizarre truth. They avoided him because they mistakenly thought him from the city; some lords simpering son sent to work the fields as punishment for poor behaviour, as was known to happen on odd occasions. That assumption of caste had driven a wedge between them. It wasn’t until Harumal had intervened and clarified to the others that the situation improved.

Bartiin had been a young boy when the trader’s tongue was impressed upon his lips. Never before had he troubled for being understood or communicating with others. As it turned out, following work orders was difficult with neither man understood the other. The foreman, a stern man with the mark of years spent under the harsh sun and dark sunken eyes, yelled at him repeatedly that first day. The man yelled, and Bartiin repeated his lack of understanding. Then the dance began anew.

It was Harumal who gave him respite. When the foreman yelled, Harumal translated. When Bartiin followed instructions for the first time and the foreman stopped yelling, Harumal translated that too. It was through this interaction that Bartiin had found himself apprenticed to the large man. Harumal spoke Tralang with decent familiarity. To Bartiin’s surprise, he learned that most of the men in the field never learned the trader’s tongue. Nor did the speak common Casoyan. Instead, they spoke a hybrid language that had come from the influence of Casoyan trade and local dialects from the interior. Once the good man Harumal intervened, Bartiin finally started understanding what he was supposed to be doing, rather than blinding following the herd of men as they worked.

As such, instead of the smooth city escape Bartiin had imagined, he broke his back picking fruit. His soldiers had been arrested and what had come of them since then, he could only guess. As their leader, he felt guilty for what happened. He had to remind himself that some things are simply outside your control. His fortunes were brought forth by his deeds, as would be his misfortunes. He was a fugitive now. So it goes.

Bradel, Hina’s non-butler husband, had said something about a Patzau leaning of his jailbrake. Bartiin didn’t really follow the man’s retelling. He spoke Careyago with the rapidity of a sugarfinch and the low grumble of a man frustrated with his lot in life. The combination only left room for Bartiin to nod along and agree apologetically.

And while Bradel traced his woes to Bartiin, Bartiin traced his back to Lord Kulimas. We would have made it. He was sure of it. Instead, the old lord had gotten his revenge, in a way. When the old lord’s crossbows had missed, Bartiin had considered himself blessed. The spirits must be laughing at my foolish ignorance, he mused.

When they stopped to rest, Harumal sat next to him. He was a quiet man, most of the time. Quiet, but helpful. He said little, but what he did say was helpful. This included common Casoyan phrases and simple answers like ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘I don’t understand.’ Bartiin repeated them outloud, practicing when the other men overheard and joined in, offering their own recommendations.

Harumal was not enjoying the attention, but he stayed anyway because Bartiin needed him to. However, the phrases the guildsmen recommended included only disparaging comments about the foreman—whom no one liked—or vulgar insults that brought roars of laughter from the men as Bartiin repeated them innocently, only for Harumal to explain that he had called the foreman’s mother, “a whore” and not to repeat it.

The men had a right to dislike the foreman. Bartiin agreed that he seemed a nasty piece of work and he didn’t even understand the man. He was despised by the workers and prone to both violence and abuse of his station. He pushed them past their limits, expecting impossible quotas despite the shortage of working bodies. Behind his back, the men called the foreman ‘Baahugal dii Amak’ which tranlates simply to ‘The leech.’

Harumal explained the phrase, “A man who works for greed is not trustworthy. The foreman is the type of man to sell his sister for a taste of Casoyan luxury.” Bartiin nodded in understanding and Harumal continued, “We pick fruit or tend fields, plow crops and fix roads. Our wives and sisters and daughters head into the city to attend to wealthy families as servants or cooks. Most of us work to bring money back home to our families. But lots of men here send money to wives and children still living in the mountains. There is no work back home, or the work that is there is harder and the pay is worse. Better to sweat picking fruits than breaking stones.” Despite his lack of experience in both, Bartiin found himself agreeing.

The days passed in a grueling rhythm. Bartiin moved between fruit farms and vegetable fields, his body growing accustomed to the grueling labour and the oppressive conditions. When the sun beat down with the high heat of summer, they worked. When the steady rain soaked the men to their bones and walking became itself a challenge as knees sunk deep into wet earth, they worked. When another flash storm rocked over the mountain, buffeting the men with hard rain, even then the bastard foreman kept them working. Bartin would return to the shabby barracks building each night praying tomorrow would be the day someone would come to set him free. Although he would likely be barred from leaving while working the fields, he was not barred from leaving the barracks should he choose. But that fear of missing out when they finally came to free him and send him home was the only thing that kelp Bartiin docile.

Harumal, his older mentor, did not sleep in the barracks. As it turned out, most of the men who worked in the guild returned to their homes at the end of the long work days. The barracks was reserved for those unable to find a place to stay, typically men who had come from across the island with no local relatives. As such, the building reflected the neglect it received in the quality of its construction. The barracks building could more correctly fit the description of a large shack. It was a derelict wooden structure with thin cots and minimal amenities. Inside, the barracks stunk with the smell of sweat and grime. Bartiin found himself outside the barracks as often as he could, but never so far as to miss the advent of a stranger or visitor. Each one, he prayed, would be his Careyago patron returning to fulfil the promise of freedom.

Most nights, Bartiin found himself sitting on the nearby bluff overlooking the fields and orchards below. Far to the south, he could make out the large domes of Caso’s great palaces and the odd mountain of stone that pierced high above the bay of Caso. Bartiin imagined himself returning to the city to reclaim his ship to sail back home, knowing that without a crew the task would be impossible. The wide bay, protected by a large barrier island, narrowed north of the city into a lagoon that stretched across most of the western coast, only broken by gaps in the continuous line of cays, atolls, and rocky outcrops. He watched as far below, men in small two-person boats fished the narrow lagoon from seaside huts built nigh on the water. He watched them and wished nothing more than to go home and be at peace. To build a house on a hill overlooking the fields of wheatgrass and vegetables and to fill that house with his family and children. He would teach them to fish one day and share stories of his daring escape from this cursed island.

Despite the harsh conditions, Harumal remained Bartiin’s only friend. And it was as a friend that Harumal took pity on the strange foreigner and invited him back to his home in the mountains one night for supper. Bartiin had originally declined the invitation, concerned that he might miss his chance to leave. But Harumal had been convincing. The promise of a proper bath in a local spring and meal had been enough for Bartiin to take the risk. The food in the barracks had been appallingly unappetizing. Worse, the greedy foreman made them pay for it out of their day’s pay. Something, Bartiin presumed, the man wasn’t permitted to be doing at all. In fact, Bartiin reckoned that if the foreman had his way, he’d be paying all his wages back to the guild for the cot, the food, and even the privilege of taking a shit. Or at least that would be the foreman’s excuse as he pocketed the meager wages for himself.

Regardless, it was for this reason that Bartiin found himself hiking inland after their gruelling day’s work. Harumal walked the steep and rocky trail with an adeptness that left Bartiin huffing and gasping in his wake. As they climbed steadily higher, the fields of grass and vegetables and orchards of trees were replaced with the denser jungle vegetation. The cool mountain air was a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the open fields or the city. They hiked, crossing a narrow creek to stop upon an old house upon a flat plateau, surrounded by the forest. A flat dirt path led straight across the clearing to where the house stood on the opposite side, surrounded by hand-planted gardens of vegetables and herbs.

The home was made of uncut stones fitted together with a muted grey mortar. A derelict extension had been added to the small house made of mud walls and a thatch roof. The main roof was built steep and tall, except for the obvious addition and the front where a porch had been constructed. The house reminded him of a smaller version of the homes he had seen in the old Casoyan neighbourhood where the Casoyan embassy had been. It was aged. But it was also beautiful. He wasn’t sure what he had expected when accepting the older man’s hospitality, but it hadn’t been this.

The two men approached the house and ascended the steps to enter through the front door. Even before entering, the warm smell of seared meats and roasting vegetables wafted through the house leaking its inviting aroma. Bartiin followed Harumal’s direction and paid his respects to the carved symbols above the doorway. It looked to him like the face of an inhuman being, but Harumal didn’t explain and Bartiin didn’t ask. Inside, two women stood, one chopping away with a knife while the other tended to the cooking pan. Both turned at their arrival with curious looks about the new face entering their home. Harumal spoke with his wife in their local tongue and Bartiin stood anxiously, lost in the foreign words being exchanged. Meanwhile, the younger girl, presumably Harumal’s daughter, peered from behind her mother with an engrossed curiosity. Bartiin caught her staring and smiled sheepishly. She returned the smile with politeness. It was a pretty smile.

“Bartiin,” Harumal said, shifting his attention, “this is my wife, Ahunas, and behind her is my youngest daughter, Jiral.”

Ahunas smiled with an awkward politeness. Ahunas had a heart shaped face and round cheeks with dark hair braided back behind her head. Unlike her husband, she was slender and tall with the same darker complexion most of the men he had worked with shared. Her daughter was much the same but in a smaller body. Thin and wiry, Jiral had the same round cheeks as her mother but with her father’s strong hawk nose, wider chin, and fuller lips. Unlike her mother, she kept her straight black hair down with strands tucked comfortably behind her ears. Bartiin had to admit, the girl was pretty in a familiar way. She strode forward past her mother, still brandishing the knife and stopped a few steps away from him. She gave him a once over before speaking.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Bartiin.” Jiral said in heavily accented Tralang, “You’re not from around here… so where did my father meet you?” she asked curiously.

Bartiin was surprised by the question. Her accent was sharp, but he hadn’t expected to be able to converse with her at all. “I… I work with your father” he answered, “At the guild.”

“You’re a guildsman?” she asked, surprised.

“Uh, yes” he answered timidly.

“Are you Casoyan born?” she asked, inquisitively. “You don’t look much like any Casoyan man I’ve ever met.” She eyed him again and he looked down at the dirty workers clothes he had been given to wear all those days ago.

“No” he answered. Harumal interjected, speaking to his daughter in their tongue and Bartiin understood from his meaning from his tone, rather from words. He was chiding her, though for what reason Bartiin didn’t understand

“You are hungry?” Ahunas asked him. Her accent was heavy, almost incomprehensible. Unlike her daughter and husband, it was clear she hadn’t learned much Tralang in her years.

“Do you want to eat?” Jiral asked.

“I would be honoured” Bartiin answered. Harumal nodded in approval of his courteousness.

“Food will be ready to serve in many minutes.” Jiral said. “Follow my father, he will take you to the stream to wash yourself.”

Bartiin followed Harumal through the back door and outside the house. But not without casting one last glace behind him at the daughter of his new friend. Harumal slapped him playfully on the head when it was clear he had gotten distracted. The message was lighthearted. But it was also unquestionably a warning. The two men walked down a narrow path through the low jungle canopy that looked as much a game track as any actual real trail.

They came upon a steep embankment. Bartiin watched as Harumal walked down, his feel finding perfect stone steps scattered across the otherwise worn hill. At the bottom, another stream fed into a larger pool of water where curls of steam danced in the small gulley. Mist spirits that had been wading through the steamy vapour disappeared, vanishing into nothingness as the two men approached and disrobed.

Bartiin dipped his hand in and was surprised to find the water warm. Gaag was a flat land. Most of the country was situated on the wide mouth of the Gaagian River. Only the city of Gaag sat on a higher hill closer to the sea. But he had never heard of lands where the rivers and streams ran warm. He submerged himself in the warm embrace of the steam and washed the mud and dirt from his skin. He submerged his body and ran his fingers through his long hair. Harumal did much the same.

After they had bathed, Bartiin found himself drawn to sitting and relaxing. The warm water was comforting. The tightness in his muscles and weariness in his hands and feet and back seemed to reduce, like fat on a skillet. Bartiin looked down at his hands. His fingernails had grown long and had softened in the warm water. Without tools to clip them, he began to chew on them.

“Tell me” Harumal said from the other side of the wispy pool, “who are you really? where are you from? You do not look like us Casoyans and it is clear you do not speak Casoyan. And yet you have found yourself here working the fields like us.”

Bartiin took his nails out of his teeth. “That’s not an easy question” Bartiin answered, elusively.

“Try” Harumal said.

Bartiin considered the question. There was nowhere to hide. And Harumal had been very kind and generous to help him and invite him to his home. It felt wrong to lie. “You are correct, I am not Casoyan” Bartiin explained, avoiding specifics. “I work for a distant lord. A governor in a far away kingdom. I do the things he needs done.”

“And this lord needs you to pick fruit, carry vegetables, and dig ditches in a foreign city?”

Bartiin frowned. He wasn’t keen on sharing the real reason he was here nor the real reason he was hiding outside the city. He liked Harumal, but he didn’t trust the older man yet. “Not exactly” Bartiin said after hesitating. “It is complicated. Things have not gone… as expected. I’ve gotten into a bit of trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Yes. I’m not sure you would understand.”

“I’m sure it can’t be as bad as the trouble my son has gotten himself into.”

Bartiin grunted in acknowledgement but didn’t wish to argue the point. I doubt that. I seem to have caused quite a stir.

Harumal’s brows furrowed but he didn’t press either. “I had thought,” he continued, “that on that first day you joined our group, that you were some sort of spy from the guild. Here to see if we were doing our work or stealing food. I am not sure. But, when it was clear you didn’t speak Casoyan, that all seemed unlikely. What good is a spy who can’t listen in on the conversations exchanged.”

“Wouldn’t the best spy pretend not to speak the language?” Bartiin asked without thinking.

Harumal chuckled, acknowledging the argument. “You didn’t watch us either. What good is a spy that watches the sea” he said.

“Does the guild do that?” Bartiin asked, “Send spies to listen in on its workers?”

“Oh plenty” Harumal answered with a scoff. “Patzau Onudar is a distrusting man. But most of the spies his guildsmen send are young boys from the interior with little to no money; easy to bribe. They’re always a little too eager to speak ill of the guild with the hopes of deceiving men into joining in. Or they wander off carelessly with hopes of catching men eating in the fields or sleeping on the job. I thought maybe, with you, they had changed tactics. At this point, we almost expect something new.”

“Why is it that none of the other men speak Tralang? Only you seem to know the trader’s tongue” Bartiin asked, chasing a thought.

“My family, we live close to the city” Harumal explained. “Foreigners have been visiting these shores since long before I was born. Even before the King’s of Casoya built their twin palaces. Most of us close enough to the city learned enough Tralang to sell and converse. Now, in the city and the surrounding villages, its simply bled into our own language. But the other men working the fields, they hail from deeper in the mountains; further inland where foreigners don’t visit. They don’t need it because nobody speaks it.”

“Somebody told me that your people hate the Casoyans. The ones inside the walls. Is that true?”

Harumal grimaced. “I don’t think its true, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t truth behind it. In the past, we were one people; all of us Casoyans. There were distinct tribes and communities, of course, but we were one people. We lacked the divisions we now define ourselves by. And by defining each other as something different, we have become so; growing apart as if it were true. But are two branches of the same tree different, or are they one once you peer down at the roots?”

Bartiin listened to Harumal’s words from across the warm spring. A weight settled over him as he absorbed the meaning and reflected on his own life and choices. Harumal may have been speaking strictly of the divisions in Caso, but his words touched a far more personal place. A place within Bartiin that held conflict. For a brief moment, a wave of shame passed through him. Shame over the choices he’d made. The blood that he had spilled in the name of protecting his people. His branch of the same tree.

“There is wisdom in what you say,” Bartiin began quietly, his voice tinged with a bitterness that surprised even him. “I must admit that I am guilty of that same line of thought. I’ve sown division, and watched brother turn against brother. In my homeland, we are taught to protect what is ours at any cost. Sometimes that cost is a part of us.” He looked down at his hands again.

Harumal watched him silently from across the small spring, suddenly absorbed in the younger man’s frankness. This was the first time Bartiin had spoken more than a few obscure words about himself, about where he had come from. And by his words, it was now clear he wasn’t a simple merchant set upon by hard times or a bad sale. He spoke with weight.

“But I would do it again” Bartiin continued. “I believe we did the right thing, even now. If we hadn’t acted, we’d have watched our kingdom—our people—fall to ruin. Destroyed over one man’s pride. So, I made a choice; a sacrifice. Bartiin met Harumal’s gaze, his expression resolute. “You speak of war as a tool of change, and maybe I’ve wielded it recklessly in the past. But sometimes, when a part of the tree is rotten, you have to lop off a branch to save the trunk.”

Harumal remained silent for many breaths. Enough time where Bartiin didn’t think the older man would respond at all. But Harumal was simply thinking on his words. When he spoke again, he selected his words carefully, “You speak of a complicated history; one I do not understand. But I can sense that you remain conflicted. I can recognise that the world is complicated and that you believe what you have told me. Like any man, you must do what you think is right. But my father taught me that you must never forget that your enemy, whomever they may be, is also a person. And they must be respected as a person, for when your enemy is stripped of their humanity, you invite atrocities. As you have said, sometimes you must cut the branch to save the tree. But wild hacking at the branches can do irreparable damage.”

Bartiin exhaled. The breath pushed the hot steam away from the surface of the water in a gust of mist. “My problems stem from the branches left uncut.”

Harumal rose, stretching his arms and sighing deeply. “Let us dry off and return home to eat. I expect you are as hungry as I am.”

Bartiin nodded, following the old Casoyan out of the spring. The cold air felt sharp after the warmth of the spring. As he dried and redressed, Bartiin praised the effect the pool had on his tired body. For the first time in days, he almost felt at ease.

The two men ascended the steep berm, still dripping, and made the short journey back to the house. As Bartiin entered, Ahunas and Jiral stood speaking with a third person—a man with short hair and an awkward posture. Harumal frowned and avoided the newcomer, heading deeper into the house. Bartiin, unsure whether or not to follow, stood stiffly at the door.

Bartiin noticed the large man had fresh burns across his body. When the newcomer finally turned, he realized with a jolt of surprise that he knew the strange burned face. The long hair and beard were gone, replaced with a thin haggard look, but it was unmistakenly Yoharum. It was the hawk-nosed brute Bartiin had paid to kill Ohacha and Aramuk Krimas. Yoharum turned to face Bartiin, astonishment flooding his eyes. Their gazes locked in mutual recognition. This was the killer Bartiin had met over a month ago in Yomu’s ale house. And, as Bartiin now realized, Yoharum was Harumal’s troublesome son. To his and everyone else’s surprise, Bartiin grinned wide and burst out laughing.