Chapter 6

Shirin (Rats in the Pantry)

“Boy!” Shirin jumped and almost dropped the sword he was working on for his trouble.

The guard who normally sat in the hall outside his cell was standing over him, a frown over his dark face. It was rare indeed for the guards to come into the room with him when already standing prepared by the door, and rarer still for any one of them to approach him while he worked. Shirin had yet to understand it, but there was something about him all the guards feared.

The sword was yanked from his grasp and Shirin cried out at the sight of his fingerprints marring the smooth finish of the steel. The guard ignored him and, using the hand not full of sword, dragged the boy from his chair. “Come on, boy. Haven’t got all day.”

Shirin was hauled roughly from his cell and taken down a series of corridors that tumbled out into a large field populated by large canvas tents. The field looked to have once housed sheep and still had a small wooden barn at its southern end. The tents, ten in all, were huge contraptions with ropes and pegs spraying haphazardly in all directions. It seemed an obstacle course simply to walk amongst them, especially if one happened to be ambling through them with head down and hands behind the back. Shirin found himself tripping over ropes he couldn’t see and in one instance, pulled so hard at one caught on his foot that he yanked the peg right out of the ground. This set off a string of curses from the guard when he stopped to right the damage the boy had done. Shirin stood quietly to one side, inwardly wincing at his own awkwardness.

Eventually, they made it to a tent located near the center. It was marked with a rough charcoal number four on its flap. The guard halted at the tent, hauling Shirin up beside him when the boy tripped over another peg. “Can you read and write, boy?”

Shirin nodded, confused by the fact that the man was asking something of him. It was more their way to talk to him or around him but they had never asked a question of him that required an actual response. He wasn’t sure how to properly react without inciting the Goltayn’s wrath.

His silent answer seemed to satisfy the soldier.

“Good. Take these.” A pile of blank sheets of paper and a charcoal stick were shoved into Shirin’s grasp. He stared at the mess incomprehensibly. The only tools he had handled in the past years had been the rags and oils he used to shine the blades. It had been a long time since his lessons. Lessons his mam had insisted he do so that the family business would always run smoothly, even after his parents had handed it down to him.

“What’s the matter? Don’t know how to work them?” The guard asked in a tone that was edged in irritation and disgust. It came off threatening towards the young boy. Though, much the guards did and said sounded threatening to a child half their height and breadth.

Shirin looked from the supplies to the large Goltayn standing over him and finally shook his head. He shrugged to show that it made no difference to him. The paper felt odd against his fingertips, smooth and dry where everything he had touched for the past few years was hard or coarse.

The guard grunted and motioned towards the tent. “Go in there and take inventory of what’s in the boxes. I know how many there are and if you miscount or try to skip one, I’ll know of it. You want your next meal on time, right boy?”

The nod Shirin gave was so quick it threatened to upset his balance.

“Of course. Even lackwits like you know what food is. You work quickly and do a good job and you might get better fare tonight.”

Again, Shirin nodded, clutching the papers and sticks closer to his chest. The guard moved aside and lifted the flap of the tent. His expression was one of impatience while he waited for the boy to slip inside.

The flap closed with barely a noise on Shirin’s heels. The interior was dim, lit by a single lantern hanging on a length of chain from the center of the tent. Wooden crates lined the inside of the tent, which Shirin realized was much bigger than its outside gave the impression of. Through a quick estimate, he came up with eighty or so crates stacked side by side with only enough room between the rows for a small person to squeeze through. No wonder the guard was using Shirin to accomplish the job.

“You think she’s the key to this?” a hushed whisper came from around the edge of a crate. Shirin stopped walking and bit softly on his tongue, waiting to see what else was said. The speaker did not disappoint him. “I’ve seen her, friend. She’s as mad as a crow, that one. Wanders in a daze all day and tells anyone who’ll listen long enough that she’s after her dear sick brother.”

“What of the brother?” another asked. The second voice was unlike any Shirin had ever heard, all rasp and deep in the throat. Yet it was not an unpleasant sound, merely strange.

“Undoubtedly dead. You know the Goltayn. A sick man is as good as a dead man to them, especially when it comes to their labor conscripts. If she’s the healer you speak of and she was indeed found at the surgeon’s . . . well, you catch my drift.” A scrapping sound followed the statement as the speaker shifted uncomfortably on the course ground.

A sigh from the second and then, “I do.” More scuffling filled the space of a few heartbeats. “She obviously doesn’t believe her brother is dead. I realize that isn’t much in and of itself, but maybe it’s something we can use.”

“I am curious—”

“If it is true we westerners have no soul?” the second asked in a dry tone, as if he thought the idea ludicrous and was forced to answer to that sort of predisposition often. “I wish it were so but alas, I am cursed with a conscience.”

A westerner? Here in Lireshi? What could anyone from the empire over the seas want in this war torn country? When was the last time a westerner was seen in Lireshi? Shirin tasted blood and realized he had bit too hard and pierced his tongue. The pain, sudden and sharp, made him gasp out loud. He froze, cold sweat dampening his brow as he realized his mistake. The soft shuffles and whispered conversation halted. It felt as if the entire supply tent was holding its breath, waiting to see who would move first.

Finally, after a long agonizing space of time, Shirin shuffled around the crate until he was in view of the others. Two men crouched on their haunches in the shadow of a stack of crates, their faces turned upward to regard the intruder.

The smaller of the two was a young man with silver eyes and dark hair cut to a length similar to what the second class citizens wore. His hair actually had a funny kind of red sheen to it. His skin was a beautiful golden tone that was like nothing that could be seen on this continent. So this was a westerner. Shirin had never before seen one and had not known what to expect but somehow, he hadn’t foreseen that they would be this exquisite. Even still, there was something just slightly off about the man, as if he took up more room than his slight build ought to.

The other was a man of average height and indeterminable age. Curiously, his red hair was streaked with a wealth of white but his face remained unmarked by age. His eyes were a green comparable to bright new seedlings in spring and his skin was the color of fresh milk like Shirin’s Mam used to bring in every morning before breakfast.

“You’re from Jusc!” Shirin found his mouth blurting out before his mind could stop it.

The Juscian moved faster than the boy thought possible, surging upward to clamp a hand over the offending mouth. “Shh, boy! Do you want the guards to hear us? They would kill us for sure.”

Shirin shook his head quickly. He would never wish for the guards to come across them in such a situation. If speaking of conspiracy was taboo, then being found with conspirators hiding in the storage tents was even more so.

The hand was removed slowly, as if the other were waiting for Shirin to shout out a warning to any ears that may hear. No sound came.

“Now, boys,” the small, dark man quipped softly at them, “you’ve both asserted your stance on the matter. Down now before someone sees you.” Despite his chastisement, his face only reflected his amusement over the matter. He emphasized his command by patting the uneven ground beside him.

Lips compressed in his effort to remain as quiet as possible, Shirin set his supplies on the lid of a crate and hurriedly crouched near to the men.

The Juscian was slower to sit and when he did, he kept his narrowed eyes on Shirin’s movements. “You Dreskan?” he asked in a sullen whisper.

Shirin nodded, holding up three fingers.

“Third Rank.” the dark stranger added thoughtfully.

Again a nod.

If possible, the redhead’s eyes narrowed even more. “Wait, Third Rank still? What’s wrong with you?” At the other’s questioning glance, he elaborated, “The only Dreskans still Third Rank after all these years are trouble-makers. They’re too risky to release into the Second Rank so they remain part of the labor force.” Bright green eyes speared into Shirin. They looked so sharp, he felt as if they could see right down to his soul. “What kind of trouble are you?”

Shirin shook his head. Had he ever caused the Goltayn trouble? He didn’t think so. It was true they took him for a dullard because he refused to speak to them but he only did that because they were unkind to those who did speak. Prudence made him keep his mouth shut and self-preservation made him keep his head down. There were a lot of things in this world that could hurt him and the Goltayn took up most of those things. It was just best not to mess with them too much.

“I know you speak; you did so not an eighth-mark ago,” the Juscian hissed in frustration, green eyes sparking.

Shirin shrugged and gave him an apologetic look. That had been a mistake and it was best if he didn’t do it again. He tried to tell them that with his expression but he wasn’t sure any of the message got across to the irritated conspirator.

The other snorted and rested folded arms over his bent knees. “Well, we’ve no need to worry that he’ll go spread tales of meetings in storage tents to anyone. It doesn’t appear that our new friend talks overly much.”

The young Dreskan sighed in relief and flashed the westerner an upward twitch of a smile. At least one of them understood.

“Good, good. Welcome, my young friend. I am Frei and this fiery lad beside you is Curry.”

The redhead seemed to take offense to this and sneered at his companion. “Do not introduce me as if we stand at a fete! And with such informality! My name is Curyn, you motherless son of an old goat! Does he look my friend to you?”

“He’s really very nice once you get past the temper. I assure you it’s more often than not just bluster.” Frei seemed oblivious of the hissed threats being aimed at him and his relatives. His smile remained ever cheerful in the face of even a few Juscian curses, which all seemed just as ill-tempered as the man saying them.

Returning the smile shyly, Shirin leaned forward and wrote in the dust on a nearby crate.

“Shirin. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Frei swiped his hand through the name as soon as he read it, effectively erasing it from existence. “Wouldn’t want the wrong sort to find that. Say hello, Curry. Nicely, please. I would also thank you to leave my ancestry out of your dialogue. It is hardly their fault that their lines eventually gave birth to me.”

Curyn quit hissing insults and changed tactics to threats.

This seemed to be a normal occurrence. Frei shook his head after the first few – which involved flaying the skin from the soles of his feet – and proceeded to ignore the rest. “I apologize for my companion. A wild pack of wolves has more manners than he or else I’d think he was raised by them.”

That brought the Juscian up short. He gritted his teeth and turned towards their recent addition to the group. “The name is Curyn.” His tone was sullen, though he had been careful to place special emphasis on his name, making sure Shirin was well aware of it. The look in his eyes promised death should it be forgotten. “What manner of trouble are you that you remain Third Rank a full four years into your occupation, boy?”

Frei sighed at Curyn’s insistence to continue the thread of conversation where he’d left it.

“Well?”

Shirin shrugged in response. He had never really thought about how long he had been working under the Goltayn Empire. Years must have passed, but doing the same work day in and day out made the days bleed into each other until it was nearly impossible to tell just how much time had really elapsed. It also helped not to think about it all too much. If he had spent every second of every day counting how long it had been since he had been free, his mind would surely have cracked under such a pressure as that would have created. There were days where just counting the time until the next meal was trying.

Curyn looked about ready to launch into another round of insults, only these aimed at the Dreskan instead of the usual target. Frei headed it off with a motion of his hand. “Now, now. That’s not needed. I don’t believe he understands what you mean and I doubt your ranting will help the matter any. Suffice it to say our new companion has a bit of mystery to him and leave it at that.”

The look on his face said he wasn’t pleased but Curyn subsided into grumbles.

“Good.” The strange man smiled and focused his attention on Shirin. “Now, I realize you are here by circumstance only, lad, but I’m given to trusting you. Something tells me we’ll need your assistance sooner or later. Most likely than not, later.”

Again, Shirin shrugged. He really had no dealings with the rebellion but there was little he could do or say at the moment short of shouting for the guard, and that would only end up with him dangling from the ropes alongside them. The Goltayn weren’t horribly discerning when it came to snitches and conspirators. They tended to round up the ones who told along with the ones who were told on simply for being too close to the knowledge of the rebellion.

Frei nodded to himself. “That aside, we’ve the matter of the girl to look to. Curry?”

“Curyn,” the Juscian corrected absently while he picked at a rip in his breeches. “And I can only tell you that I’ve seen her. You gave me a description to work on and I found a match. The only catch is that I spotted her well over a week ago. She hasn’t been seen around the fortress since. I’m thinking she’s been relocated.”

Frei grunted a sentence in a language Shirin didn’t understand and shrugged. “Nothing for it then. We’re going to have to search out the fourth then.”

“What happened to two and three?”

“You, Curry, are two,” the foreigner answered dryly, holding up a placating hand before Curyn could argue. “The third is south east of here outside the boundaries of the Goltayn lands. Normally, I would be all for seeking her out before the rest but I wish to avoid the Corsic lands for as long as I possibly can.”

Curyn was giving him a different sort of frown than his usual. This one said he was considering cutting his losses and leaving. “You’d rather take on the Goltayn than the Corsic? I never thought I’d see the day a man would say that.”

“I’m likely to be one of the only. Now.” Frei made a motion with a hand that under normal circumstances, Shirin would have taken to mean goodbye but seemed to be a way of gaining attention instead. How very odd this man was. “What task were you given, Shirin? We have taken up quite a bit of your time. Since I’m going to have to do some research to continue my search, it does not appear that Curry or I are very busy at the moment. Mayhap we should assist you.”

Shirin handed over his inventory list. Far be it for him to spurn help when offered freely. He was very curious about this Frei fellow anyway. The man had absolutely no accent. There was no telling which nation he’d learned to speak from and no telling stresses to indicate he wasn’t of this continent in the first place. To add to the oddity, the man’s vocabulary was the oddest he’d ever heard outside of oldsters from Shirin’s home village.

It would be interesting to figure that one out.

By the time Shirin left the tent two marks later, his paper was full of writing. Frei had insisted on writing the notation because three sets of penmanship would have been too telling, and Curyn’s and Shirin’s handwriting were both nearly illegible. He’d perched daintily on the edge of a crate, papers spread over his lap and the writing stick in his hand. He’d also had a smudge of charcoal across his nose but neither of the others said a thing to him. Shirin because he just didn’t and Curyn because he was adverse like that.

All in all, they finished the work early enough that Shirin could feel a flutter of hope that he might just get that dinner the guard had promised. He ducked out the tent flap with only the barest wave in his unexpected helpers’ direction, his mind full of thoughts of food.

The two in the tent listened to the guard berate the boy loudly for disturbing his rest. Frei waited until the sound of footsteps grew faint before speaking again. “Sweet lad.”

Curyn snorted. “Sweet like basilisk blood, you mean. You know what I meant when I said the only Third Rank Dreskans are the troublesome sort.”

“He most likely will be at that, though hardly for the reasons you’re thinking of.”

A shrug. “Maybe.”

Silver eyes watched the closed tent flap. “No ‘maybe’ at all. All one needs to do is look at him to see that he’s coming of age and that’s never good in a person with his talents. Especially in a country so terrified of every shadow holding secret knives.”

Curyn rubbed his face wearily and sighed. “Let’s hope his keepers haven’t yet noticed the changes. I’ll hazard a guess that they’ll take it worse than even he will.”