- TMK -

Summer humidity kept the day’s warmth though the sun had already set. The horror of the afternoon died away with the night. A horror barely of concern to the bazaar. Like most places where instability ruled, bombings were common. In the slums of the Kingdom, they were daily. It would be almost odd were they not to happen.

           

For eugenic citizens behind the Ivory Quarter’s walls, they were known as “Coterie lullabies”. Most thought the forlorn deserved to have such terrors visited upon them.

           

Despite much of the Coterie being citizens instead of forlorn.

           

Many citizens who saw Joh in the bazaar more than likely believed he should’ve joined Rat Hollow’s pile of mangled corpses. Their slit pupils followed him wherever he walked. Whether he dressed as forlorn or not, it made no difference. Either these citizens could smell his destitute roots or Joh imagined they could.

           

For Joh, the result was the same.

           

He did not belong in this place where people would be happy to see him melt into the mud. Despite all its filth, the Hollow was home. He knew the passages and hideaways, where the dedalat would and would not care to look. The Vandeirus of the citizenry was far too clean, too bare. Crossing the open spaces of the Great Bazaar meant exposure. There was no place for him to climb, no alley for him to duck into. Only stall after stall of merchants glaring at an out of place youngling hobbling through the market.

           

Joh had a job to do, though. If he did not deliver the ironbite, he would join that smoking pile of corpses in the square. So, with the moon as his guide, Joh continued through the felt metropolis of midnight shops.

           

When he finally reached the Ivory Quarter’s gate, the dedalat were there. Armored in the same manner as Hazh’s bodyguards, the dedalat stood watch at portcullis that divided citizen from forlorn. They brandished revolving rifles, eyeing every Salamander with suspicion. Not that they could tell in any case. Dedalat were bred like Nassian myrmidons: big, brutish, and obedient. The intricacies of spotting paupers in prince’s clothing were beyond what little mental acumen they could muster.

           

Or Joh hoped that was the case.

           

When he reached the gate, the dedalat crossed their rifles, blocking his way.

           

The first dedalat towered over Joh, its jaws encased by a snout guard peppered with steel holes for air.

           

“Tí cherisi namesa tous olitez?” the dedalat uttered, trailing a metallic echo.

           

“O patherais xelo afamos,” Joh responded as confidently as he could. Picking up tobacco for his father seemed like a plausible excuse. Maedan broadleaf was among the most popular in the Ivory Quarter. Joh could tell that much from Hazh’s stink.

           

The dedalat’s amber eyes looked Joh up and down, finally coming to a stop by the satchel on his back. “Pó zoh afamos tod ikio patherais iasomen?”

           

“An esheth patherais kalaou,” the other dedalat expressed his own doubt.

           

“Elaté nohn synaz tov?” Joh doubled down on his false confidence, hoping a bluff to meet his nonexistent father would dissuade the dedalat from barring his path.

           

“Efzarios,” the first dedalat called Joh’s bluff, shoving Joh away with a push from a melon-sized hand.

           

“Well, then,” Joh defaulted to Odovan.

           

He probably should have from the start.

           

Hazh knew these rookshits better than Joh did. If a smatter of Odovan was all it took to intimidate them, Joh would sing an entire poem.

           

“My father, PyrAgonEes Tholas, will be so happy you’ve interrupted his dinner with the myrmidon hegemon. All because you were intimidated by a youngster with a sack of Maedan broadleaf. And yes, myrmidons do need this much tobacco.”

           

As soon as the words left Joh’s mouth, the demeanor of the guards changed. Their rigid posture became timid, rifles moving away from the open portcullis.

           

“Hetá kous omonath Tholas?” the first dedalat asked his partner.

           

The other shook his head, the chains securing his snout guard jingling. “Stóz mearon Odovan laix. Zam Pyr thaln ouset.”

           

“Alyteréh pahlaz yste tomnah perahzím. Dem thlosna trepo stinoz riplólina magon ouríaous liokh.”

           

“Enéchizé,” the second dedalat locked eyes with Joh and gestured for the portcullis.

           

“Ithek,” Joh thanked the guards and quietly walked into a marble earth.

           

Crystalline streams generated a running water orchestra across spiral aqueducts. Channels of mountain water fed perfectly ordered planters of cedar, olive, and juniper. Even the loose soil blown by the daily winds were absent after a pass from the city’s custodians. The trees perfumed the air with oiled pines, a far cry from the mud and ammonia of Rat Hollow. The cyan moon reflected off the planter reservoirs. The light seemed to bend off the bleached, egg-shaped towers Joh saw from the rooftop earlier in the day. Glows from hundreds of arched windows sparkled in the silver dark, adding a touch of auburn to the evening.

           

Joh steeled himself against the sweet odor and flawless city. He ignored the samite and linen robes of eugenic citizens enjoying the cedar scent of the night air. Joh knew better than to cave into envy or longing for things he could never have.

           

Not unless a God sought fit to help him.

           

When he reached the outskirts of Ranaís tower, it became very clear that was not a possibility. Dozens of dedalat swarmed outside, their armored feet scraping paved street. They held row after row of Salamander gunpoint, each more finely dressed than the last. Then, Joh’s heart sank. For in the middle of the lineup, a maroon striped Salamander was barely visible in the dim.

           

Agon.

           

The idiot managed to tip the dedalat off to Hazh’s operation. The striped Salamander barked a smattering of Nassian to the dedalat, who in turn struck the Coterie lieutenant with a rifle. Not wishing to become another anonymous black bag in the dungeons of the polis, Joh disappeared behind a tower’s oval contour. He calmed his breathing and clutched the ironbite satchel to his chest.

           

It was all he had now.

           

Hazh was not a lieutenant who cared for excuses, even ones outside of Joh’s control. Returning the ironbite was his only saving grace. That, and the hope loyalty would keep Hazh from peeling the skin over Joh’s eyes.

           

“A bit trapped, young ‘mander?” an unmistakably Human voice uttered beside Joh.

           

Joh whirled around with extended claws.

           

“There will be no need for that,” the Human answered with the click of a revolver. The Saironian Joh saw the morning before leaned against one of the junipers, gun in hand. The revolver, however, was not aimed at Joh. Not in the way Joh suspected. The black-haired Human kept the revolver fully cocked but pointed skyward.

           

More of a contingency plan than an actual threat.

           

“You followed me,” Joh lowered his extended claws.

           

“Not that difficult.” The Human flashed a coin in his hand. In the center of the coin was a lion’s head.

           

The lion’s head of Vandar. 

           

“I must say, your Gods do provide favors for the smallest pouch of coins.”

           

“You asked a God to follow me?” Joh’s second eyelid flicked over his irises in annoyance.

           

“Not at all, I merely asked for the prescience to know where you would be this night. Sure enough, here you are.”

           

Joh scoffed. “All for a bag of Coterie bite?”

           

“Oh, please.” The Saironian rolled his green eyes. “It’s adorable that you think I have any interest in your medicine bag. It’s not even in the same league as what preoccupies me.”

           

“That would be?”

           

The Saironian showed a diabolic smile. “That ruckus in the Hollow earlier.”

           

“That wasn’t you.” 

           

“Of course not,” the Saironian replied in a relaxed tone. “That would be your Coterie.”

           

“Yes, I’m sure,” the sarcasm extruded from Joh’s words. 

           

“What reason would they have to terrorize the forlorn you might wonder?”

           

Joh gave a bored expression. “Not really.”

           

The Human smirked. “And what would you be wondering, pray tell?”

           

“The hell your name is.”

           

The Human unleashed a chortle, bending over as he clutched his stomach. “My manners seemed to have escaped me. I am Bedvir, Bedvir Caedmon of the Saironian Pall Office.”

           

“Not a constable?” Joh was genuinely surprised.

           

“Only when I need to be.” Bedvir slowly pushed the hammer of his revolver back and holstered the gun. “Iyóthan voitei prohplisi.”

           

Joh’s eyes narrowed. “Liar.”

           

“I never pretended I couldn’t speak Nassian. I only asked if anyone could speak Common at that junk pile you call a shop.”

           

Joh took a step back. “You were looking for me.”

           

“Wrong again. I was looking for any runner scurrying about Rat Hollow. You just happened to be the first to enter the most notorious Coterie shop in Vandeirus. According to the Pall Office, of course.”

           

“Hazh would be flattered,” Joh replied coldly. “What do you want?”

           

“Exactly what I asked for at the shop.” Bedvir took a step closer. “I was looking for a Salamander who could speak Common. Or, Odovan as you so poignantly stated beforehand. See, Coterie dung beetles like ArdHazhIr Ogiztí don’t have a clue the value of teaching a runner like you Common. Sure, you may be able to communicate outside the scope of the dedalat or corrupt footmanders who’d smoke ironbite rather than deliver it to their proper distributor. However, Lysander and the Empire, realize your true potential.”

           

“Lysänder,” Joh corrected the Saironian’s chopping block pronunciation.

           

Bedvir ignored him, continuing with his unexpected homily, “In the north, the Empire and Lysander are using that potential to build a new life for Salamanders like yourself. The superfluous dregs of an otherwise pristine society.”

           

“I’m doing well enough, thank you.”

           

“I can see that,” Bedvir took his turn at sarcasm.

           

He reached into the lacquered pouch along his belt and unraveled a papyrus scroll. “Joh, forlorn, hatched 751 A.O. Original pedigree, Alat. Original clan, Nérid. Deemed forlorn one year after hatching due to deficient muscle mass and a skull outside three standard deviations from the Alat mean. Stripped of citizenship in 752 A.O. and proceeded to join the criminal association colloquially known as the Coterie in 765 A.O. Subsequently became a ‘runner’ for all means of illicit goods traded by said Coterie.”

           

Joh grimaced, but held his silence.

           

“I have to admire Nassian record keeping, regardless of its stratified barbarity.” Bedvir folded the scroll into his pocket. “Believe it or not, I do have a proposition that you may find intriguing. More so than running ironbite from peddler to peddler.”

           

“Doesn’t matter.”

           

“I beg your pardon?” Bedvir looked taken aback.

           

“Whatever your selling, I won’t be alive to buy it unless I get this bag of bite to Agon,” Joh stated plainly, clutching the satchel closer to his body.

           

“Agon?”

           

“The striped Salamander with a dedalat rifle pointed at his head.”

           

“Ah, yes, of course.” Bedvir slapped his hand to his head. “One moment.”

           

Bedvir took a brisk hop from the planter, curtly rounding the contour of the building where Joh hid. Joh kept behind the bend in the tower, watching incredulously at the unfolding scene.

           

Without trepidation, Bedvir approached the guards, making himself clearly visible to the armored lizards nearly twice his height. However, instead of the rifle bashing and insults they treated their captives with, the dedalat recoiled when Bedvir came into view.

           

In fact, they cowed before him.

           

The dedalat captain lowered his revolving rifle, a string of Nassian passing between him and Bedvir. Bedvir flashed his crimson star badge and the dedalat captain nodded.

           

A new order rang from within the steel of the captain’s snout guard. Immediately, the dedalat, who moments before had beaten and pinned their captives against the street, released their hold. They cut the bound hands of Agon and his accomplices, falling in lock step behind their captain. The sound of marching metal sounded as the dedalat rounded yet another oval tower.

           

As the marching died against the faint trickle of the aqueduct rush, Bedvir waved Joh to the freed Coterie members. “Come quickly now! The night is young, and your degenerates are impatient.”

           

Unsure of what else to do, Joh reluctantly approached the bewildered gang of Salamanders.

​

“Scumling,” the maroon Salamander said as Joh came into earshot. “Who is this devil?”

           

“I believe the proper greeting is, thank you,” Bedvir corrected him. “Without me and my friend here, you would’ve spent the night in the polis. All of you.”

           

The striped Salamander bared brown, sickle-shaped teeth. “Watch yourself.”

           

“Or what? One whistle and the dedalat will have you all in irons. Now, if you would be so kind, accept my friend’s delivery so we can all get along with our business,” Bedvir scoffed.

 

“Quickly now, Joh.”

           

Joh, as bewildered as he was afraid, extended the ironbite satchel to Agon. “From Hazh.”

           

Bedvir beamed. “Every brick in order.”

           

Agon opened the satchel, digging through the contents with a suspicious hand. “Every brick?”

           

“Mercy… leave off before I lose my nerve, you blue-bellied gnat,” Bedvir replied before Joh could.

           

Agon’s head lurched in Bedvir’s direction before the clank of another dedalat patrol stopped him in his tracks.

           

“Yes, I thought as much.” That devilish grin crept over Bedvir’s lips. “Off with you now.”

           

Agon released a guttural snarl but made no other move. “Kolothse ehza!”

           

The other Salamanders, who moments ago had dedalat rifles to their heads, nodded. They slunk away, one by one slipping through the doors of the porcelain tower. Agon was last. He delivered a final poisonous glare before he, too, disappeared into the tower.

           

“Bedvir,” Joh spoke plainly.

           

“Hmm?”

           

“You’re going to get me killed.”

           

“All the more reason for you to listen.”

           

“At this rate, I’d rather not.”

           

“Not yet,” Bedvir flashed that same demonic smile Joh had become uncomfortably familiar with. “You, my friend, are something special. A forlorn who knows Common. Something far more precious to Lysander than any amount of bite.”

           

“Doubtful.”

           

“Not at all. You can bridge two worlds. In the North, there is nothing more valuable. Why do you think the Coterie bombs every emissary Lysander sends into Rat Hollow? Without runners like you and forlorn to buy and peddle their bite, the Coterie has nothing.”

           

“You can speak Nassian and Odovan, too,” Joh countered. “Why don’t you go freeze in the colonies?”

           

“Look at how every Nassian sees me? From Agon to yourself, you see us Imperials with suspicion and fear. That is precisely what we are trying to prevent. Without our help and trust, the forlorn in Lysander’s colonies will freeze to death.”

           

“So, you want me as a bilingual marionette while your Empire reaps whatever benefits you and Lysänder are hiding from us?” 

           

“Believe what you want to believe. Whether or not we are taking advantage of the forlorn, we are at least offering them a chance at something other than stagnation and death. You, as one of the few runners with nothing to lose, can make that dream become a reality.”

           

“This ‘dream’ sounds more like a deal. And considering death is far more likely, it is a deal that is a lot less tempting that you think it is.”

           

Bedvir let out a cackle. “Maybe you will die. But, at least dying in the North is something worth dying for. If, however, you’d rather give your life for a scum-sucking maggot like Hazh or Agon, that is your choice. Though, it would be truly tragic.”

           

Bedvir flicked Vandar’s lionhead coin with an audible ring. Joh caught the coin in midair, the metal reflecting lamplight with a sulfurous gleam.

           

“The languages you can speak, your knowledge of the forlorn, and your plain wit are more valuable than any God’s blessing. If you decide on having a future, go to the spire and look for any of the galleons en route for Ionian. Vandar’s coin will pay your room, board, and fare for the journey.” Bedvir reiterated as he turned his back to Joh. “I do hope you make the right choice. But, if not, best of luck, JahrJoh Nérid.”