The Lord of the Slaves (Dashvara Trilogy, Book 2)

By Marina Fernández de Retana

This is the second book of the Dashvara Trilogy.

Dragged out of the steppe, twenty-three Xalyas are confined to the border of the Ariltuan Swamps. Trapped between the monsters' claws and a civilization that has enslaved them, Dashvara and his brothers fight body and soul to keep their clan unscathed when, one day, some officials come to inform them of an unexpected transfer...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marina Fernández de Retana
• Release date: Apr 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005473174

Marina Fernández de Retana

I am Kaoseto, a Basque Franco-Spanish writer. I write fantasy series in Spanish, French, and English. Most of my stories take place in the same fantasy world, Hareka.Je suis Kaoseto, une écrivain basque franco-espagnole. J’écris des séries de fantasy en espagnol, français et anglais. La plupart de mes histoires se déroulent dans un même monde de fantasy, Haréka.Soy Kaoseto, una escritora vasca franco-española. Escribo series de fantasía en español, francés e inglés. La mayoría de mis historias se desarrollan en un mismo mundo de fantasía, Háreka.

Book preview

The Lord of the Slaves

Book 2

Dashvara Trilogy

Kaoseto

Marina Fernández de Retana

Website:

https://kaosfantasy.tuxfamily.org/index-en.html

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

Work under a Creative Commons By license.

2021-2022, Marina Fernández de Retana alias Kaoseto.

mail: kaoseto AT bardinflor P perso P aquilenet P fr

Redaction achieved using frundis and Vim. Books of the trilogy: The Prince Of The Sand (nº1) The Lord Of The Slaves (nº2) The Eternal Bird (nº3).

Text translated from Spanish into English. Original title: El señor de los esclavos.

The Lord of the Slaves

Characters

1. The swamps of Ariltuan

2. Compassion

3. Green cloud

4. A rhyme

5. The Doomed

6. The Tower of Sympathy

7. The Eye of Death

8. A captain’s pride

9. The Eternal Bird

10. A choice

11. Farewell, flies and swamps

12. The Red Dragon

13. The Journey of Peace

14. A diner among brothers

15. A slave contract

16. Arrival: Atasiag’s villa

17. Twenty-three princes from the Border

18. The Lord of the Slaves

19. Legitimates and workers

20. Tasks

21. Xalya crisis

22. Punishments

23. Citizen Life

24. The most hated enemy

25. Enraged truce

26. A critical encounter

27. Banishment

28. Shadows of a heart

29. Light butterflies

30. Cheerful slaves

31. Verbal attack

32. The Honyrs’ dignity

33. To death

34. The funeral

35. Like a wave against a reef

36. The King of the Eternal Bird

37. Children will always be children

38. Betrayal

39. Burning path to freedom

40. In the middle of nowhere

41. Assassins

42. The three clans

Characters

Doomed of the Tower of Compassion:

Zorvun patrollers (65 years): Morzif (51), Maef (37), Ged (58), Orafe (32), Taw (64), Shurta (43)

Sashava’s patrollers (71 years): Sedrios (83), Boron (34), Kaldaka (40), Pik (40), Atok (33), Maltagwa (61)

Lumon Patrollers (36 years): Dashvara (23), Makarva (25), Arvara (39), Miflin (20), Kodarah (20), Zamoy (20), Alta (35), Tsu (42 years)

Sajits: Sajits (a group of twenty humanoid races) live an average of 120 years.

Measurements: One Diumcilian mile is equivalent to 1.5 kilometers. One step is equal to 0.7 meter. One foot equals 0.3 meter.

1 The swamps of Ariltuan

A miry jungle marks the border between Diumcili and the swamps of Ariltuan. All along, for miles, are palisades punctuated by twelve towers inhabited by border patrols. The Diumcilians call these Doomed, for the simple reason that these warriors are trapped in the mud all day long without any possibility of getting out. These towers are named after the Eleven Graces praised by the Federation: Courtesy, Discretion, Constance, Patience, Sacrifice, Dignity, Compassion, Sympathy, Humility, Serenity, and Bravery, plus Reward, the tower located to the north, near the city of Suhugan and the Hab River. According to some, being transferred to Reward is the only possible salvation for a Doomed. Fortunately, this is not entirely true.

The task of the Doomed is simple: to repel all the dangerous creatures that come out of the swamps. Adrièges, milfids, brizzias, borwergs… Until you see with your own eyes what kind of beasts live in these swamps, it is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine them.

Most of the towers are not made of stone but of wood. They are simple watchtowers from which one watches the silhouettes that move between the mists of the swamp. Oddly, no one dares to look much at the other side, towards the meadows of the Cantons, perhaps because it always reminds us that beyond, there is a civilization that has forced us here. This is painful, just as it is painful to see a man feasting at a banquet when you are starving.

There is a saying among the Doomed that he who looks away from Ariltuan has his days numbered. Well, we spent our days scouring the swamps with our weapons at hand. One of the good things was that we had complete freedom to do whatever we wanted, as long as we patrolled the area properly and didn’t let any monsters through. We were Xalya warriors from the steppe, from a distant land, more dry than wet, hot in summer and cold in winter. Sent to the Border by the Council of Titiaka after a foiled attempt at an uprising, we had had to adapt to the mists and torrential rains, to the cold winds that swept through the Communes and made the tower sway. At night, the cries of the beasts were unleashed. And that was when the hunt usually began.

Time was running out. Three years had passed since the Dungeon of Xalya was destroyed by three clans from the Rocdinfer steppe. Three years since my father ordered me to kill the leaders responsible for the massacre. I had only killed one, and he was already Doomed by disease, but it had been a long time since revenge had any meaning for me. The truth is that, at the Border, there was no stronger desire than to be alive the next day.

The Council of Titiaka had placed us on death row, between the sharp teeth of the swamp orcs and the threatening spikes of the federal army. Still, strange as it may seem, we lived relatively happily. In three years, we had had time to adapt and accept our situation with patience. Six times we had tried to abandon the tower. To tell the truth, this was a rather respectable number compared to the other Doomed. The first attempt was a few weeks after the two federates who had been with us in the barracks for five months had been sent to another tower. The captain had tried his luck north, along the border, hoping that the other Doomed would be complacent and not turn us in. We had quickly learned that the majority of the Doomed not only lack the courage to try to escape but also do not let others try. The other neighboring patrols do not have the same family spirit that we have. They haven’t known each other since childhood, they didn’t grow up together, and many of them are there because they were given the choice between the Arena and a Doomed life and they preferred a slow death to a quick one. There is no real friendship between criminals. Some become even more ferocious animals than the orcs. As Makarva says, our tower is a haven of peace surrounded by hells.

The last escape had taken place a year ago. The captain had taken us straight through the swamps, planning to cross them to the Hab River and from there to the Bladhy Desert. We didn’t even last a week. No sooner had we repelled an orc attack than the milfids appeared, followed by a huge, raging brizzia that crushed Sashava’s right leg. We had returned to the tower with three men badly wounded and one crippled for life, and since then the captain seemed to have given up on any other major undertaking. I myself had no doubt that going anywhere else was preferable to the Border… anywhere else but the swamps of Ariltuan. On that point, we all agreed. Even the captain.

We had to admit it: his resignation relieved us more than it discouraged us. At least for the moment. I, at least, was more than tired of so many failures. Besides, having to explain our little escapades to the border inspector was not a particularly pleasant task; the last time I had to ask Boron to receive him because the mere sight of him made me gag. The man in the white uniform was a fussy man, making sure we had everything we needed to keep us alive, checking that we were doing our job, and threatening to take us to the Council whenever we grumbled about any of his recommendations. Then he would leave us alone for three months.

No, I don’t think we will ever return to the Rocdinfer steppe. The savages stole our land from us, and sometimes you have to accept defeat and make a new start. Even some of my companions who still have family somewhere in Hareka are beginning to lose hope of ever seeing their children, wives, or parents again. I myself have given up on seeing my sister Fayrah. I had left her in Dazbon, with two pieces of silver and two friends, and on the fifth attempt to escape, I had come to the conclusion that if she was still alive and happy, I would not help matters by entering her life again anyway. Sometimes you have to end your dreams to keep from going crazy. At least that’s what I had to do. If I am lucky enough to find my sister, I will rejoice in due course; but there is no point in dwelling on a wish that may never be fulfilled. It is as useless as if a child, wishing to be an old man, wasted his time waiting for the years to pass without having the certainty that he will not die before realizing his dream. Inventing fables is a good thing, we all do it, but only a hero or a fool would feed the same vain hopes by seeing them fail one after the other. It’s a bit like trying to flap your arms and hoping you’ll fly away.

However, I have not stopped longing for freedom, on the contrary. I yearn for it every day and I enjoy all the freedom that is granted to me. A man can lose his dignity if forced too much, he can betray his allies as I did, but there is one thing a man of the Eternal Bird never gives up: to rise again, no matter how many times he is knocked down.

Freedom is a wonderful reality, and I wish everyone could enjoy it. I enjoyed it fully for twenty years, so I feel lucky when I see Doomed who have been slaves all their lives. Like Tsu, for example. The drow was born a slave and served free federate families for over thirty years. Then, who knows how, he had managed to convince his last master, Arviyag, to sell him and let him go to the Border as a doctor; this, I must admit, had been a godsend for us, even just from a practical point of view, since none of the Xalyas had enough knowledge to treat serious wounds. Finally, Tsu, who had not known friendship in the civilized Titiaka, had found it in the worst place we could imagine: in the Border. He had become for us a kind of holy savior who worked miracles whenever we came home injured or when a cursed illness prevented us from even getting up.

Of the twenty-four who had arrived at the tower, only one had abandoned us, a Xalya named Kadayra, Orafe’s brother, whom I did not know personally. During the second year, he had caught fulgurating fevers that even Tsu had not been able to cure. According to the drow, the disease had been caused by an insect; but even if we had spent our whole lives trying to find out which one, we probably wouldn’t have succeeded: our home was a nest of insects of every possible variety and color. We could only hope that the bug wouldn’t have the idea to attack us again.

All of us would much rather face large creatures like brizzias or milfids than insects. The former are half-bipedal monsters about fifteen feet tall, as dumb as can be, and surrounded by dizzying energy. They have a habit of going out to sunbathe on the prairie, especially in the summer, and then they swallow everything that crosses their path. They are very friendly creatures. Normally they are herbivores, but not always: I guess their lack of palate doesn’t help them to distinguish their food very well. They have a thick, rock-hard skin, and swords can hardly kill them. When we found ourselves facing a brizzia, we always opted for complicated maneuvers so that it would return to its swamps and leave us in peace.

With the milfids, it was different. They were perhaps the most bloodthirsty creatures on the entire Ariltuan Border, far more so than the orcs of the swamps. Here, there are no red nadres or scale-nefarious or, obviously, red snakes: everything is too wet and muddy for them. Milfids, on the other hand, love humidity, and the worst thing is that they are intelligent. They act in gangs and always attack at night; they take advantage of the darkness to deceive the guard of the Doomed, evade the ditches, destroy the palisades, and go directly to the livestock of the border peoples. As the captain once said: they are innocent creatures who only want a little blood, nothing more…

That being said, it is not like we were constantly fighting. The truth is, days and even weeks went by without us having to draw our weapons. The federates had equipped us well: spears, swords, explosive material… we had enough to protect ourselves. They paid us to feed and satisfy our little whims, and in return we killed monsters. We would have been perfect mercenaries if only we, the Xalyas, had given any importance to money. We don’t use money between family members. Obviously, what kept us on the Border was not gold, but pressure from the federal forces.

It is not easy to maintain discipline among bored men, and on some occasions, I do not envy Captain Zorvun’s responsibility at all. Sometimes he had to make somewhat radical decisions and punish misbehavior in an exemplary manner: Maef and Shurta had provoked a fight in the village of Rayorah over matters of ‘Xalya pride’, Miflin, unable to pay at the brothel, had been about to force himself on a young girl… ‘I am a man’, my cousin had stammered at the terrible look on the captain’s face. Yes, you are a man, Miflin, we all are, but if we start to slip, it’s the gallows that awaits us, not just a whip. The captain ordered fifteen lashes and forbade the boy to return to Rayorah. Since then, Miflin had become a poet. Human nature holds surprising mysteries.

We have all changed. We would have had to turn to stone not to. Even so, we remembered our origins and principles vividly… and our Eternal Bird; we clung to it as a man clings to his sword when hungry beasts surround him. As the captain says, a Xalya without an Eternal Bird is like a strongbox without a door: without it, ruthless souls rob it. For me, a soul is not strong if it is destroyed by being turned into a rock; it is strong if, in spite of adversity, it manages to remain the same in its essence. And I believe that in this, all of us have more or less triumphed. We have even come to feel responsible for the safety of the citizens of Rayorah. They feared us and some despised us—we were, after all, only Doomed—but many were honest people whose minds were simply not used to being kind to strangers. A bit like the Xalyas. Nevertheless, deep down, we knew that the Rayorahs were grateful for our protection. They were all aware that we were protecting them much better than the previous Doomed. And we were defending them as we had once defended the Xalya lands against the red nadres and other monsters. To tell the truth, our life itself had not changed much. We had only exchanged the steppe for a huge, gigantic, disgusting quagmire… It is comforting to know that wherever you are, you can try to do good deeds. Even after having made terrible mistakes.

Well… three years to go and I’m raving like a wise fool. But, as I once said to Makarva, that doesn’t stop me from having a high opinion of myself. Hey, who doesn’t value the life that is given to them, right? Even the most foolish or desperate person is attached to life. But attachment is not enough: you have to love life from the inside, you have to appreciate it like you appreciate the touch of a breeze or the song of a bird in the morning. This is more or less what I explain to my brothers when one of them has a moment of depression; Pik, Atok, and Zamoy immediately laugh at me, calling me Philosopher: which proves that my technique works.

At the Border, I understood what it was to be happy; maybe because I learned not to ask too much of life, I don’t know. But what the hell! How could I not feel happy when I have twenty-two brothers around me, even though we are surrounded by twenty thousand hells?

Fortunately, things don’t always turn out the way we expected. We could have spent our lives in the Tower of Compassion. I could have grown old, taken Sashava’s cane, and entered the swamp to die, old, white-haired, and full of memories. It wouldn’t have been so horrible, and all things considered, it might have been better. Who knows. Fate is not carved in stone, and it is a consolation to know that. What good would time do if we knew its mysteries? A wise steppeman said that the world spins like a crazy top, that we never know where it will lead us, but that as long as we see it spinning, as long as we live, it will always find a way to surprise us. Or to hurt us. Or to make us laugh. In the end, it always finds a way to kill us. It’s a fact: eternity has never been of interest except to those who cannot enjoy it. Every being has a limited life and does what he can with it. I do what I can with mine.

2 Compassion

His eyes widened, the corners of his mouth turned up sharply, and a feeling of intense satisfaction came over him. The sun was out.

No sooner had he observed the fact than Dashvara stepped away from the open door of the barracks, took a small table and a chair, and set both outside on the wooden boards that surrounded the building. Immediately afterwards, he took a knife and a piece of wood he had salvaged from a felled tree and sat down comfortably, placing his bare feet on the table and rolling up his pants. Immediately he felt the warm rays of the sun on his skin. He looked up at the sky, just above his head. It revealed an incredibly, wonderfully blue hole.

How wonderful life is, huh? he thought, still smiling.

After many long minutes of enjoyment, he heard footsteps in the barracks. Arvara, Lumon, Alta, and the Triplets were still sound asleep after spending the night on patrol. Makarva was in the tower, alone, because it was daytime after all, and in the daytime, there is not as much danger.

Dashvara glanced back and saw Tsu appearing through the door, properly dressed in his dark blue uniform and white Doomed belt. Of course, he was holding his flute in his hand. Smiling, Dashvara greeted him with a nod, and as the drow settled down, sitting on the floor against the wall of the shack, he began to use his knife to blow splinters from his piece of wood. Soon after, Tsu began to play his flute. According to Sashava, he played horribly. Dashvara didn’t think it was so bad. In any case, he liked to hear his music.

He continued to scrape the wood, his eyes riveted on the mist that still floated on the tops of the twisted swamp trees. A small slope of about fifty paces separated the barracks from the tower and the palisade, and a hundred separated them from an inextricable mass of vegetation that stretched endlessly toward the east. The meadows of the Communes died there as if the border had been cut with an axe, abruptly, more or less clearly. Of course, the Doomed took care of clearing the edge by pulling up any sprout or bush. To let the swamp invade meant to let death invade.

The cawing of a crow sounded. Dashvara saw the black bird land on the high branch of a tree. Not very graceful, those birds, he thought. And he looked down at his piece of wood. The melody of the flute was cheerful and fast, but Tsu could have blown as hard as he could into his instrument and neither Arvara the Giant, nor Alta, nor Lumon, nor the Triplets would have woken up. It would have taken a real alarm to rouse a Doomed man from his sleep.

Dashvara glanced north. The captain had left with his patrol a few hours ago to clear a section of the edge. Sashava was about to return with his. And Pik and Kaldaka had gone to Rayorah to buy supplies with the donkey.

A little peace and quietness never hurt, Dashvara rejoiced.

Then he heard the buzzing of a fly, and he squinted, trying to look for the cursed one with his eyes. A few minutes later, however, his attention was distracted by the distant thud of hooves. He frowned and Tsu paused his music for a moment in anticipation. Finally, they saw a rider appear to the west, riding quietly down the gentle slope toward the marshes. The horse was pristine white and what came on it looked like an official. He was heading towards the barracks.

What do you say, Tsu? Dashvara said, his voice bored.

The drow shrugged his shoulders. His expressiveness had not improved much over the years.

That you’ll be the one talking to him, he simply replied before picking up his flute again.

Dashvara sighed but nodded.

He waved to Makarva in the tower to let him know that he had already seen the rider, and without removing his feet from the table, he continued to carve his piece of wood. He would have never imagined, three years ago, that he would one day overcome his lack of patience in carving figures. The Border could work miracles.

Soon the rider stopped near the wooden platform. Dashvara did not look up. Demons, let him introduce himself first. The visitor did so.

Hello. I’m the new border inspector, he said in a sonorous voice. I’m here to see if everything is all right at Compassion.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and finally looked up to detail the individual. He was young, with a plump stomach, blond hair, and a white inspector’s uniform. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he was telling the truth.

Good morning, he replied at last, after a silence that had made the pale eyebrows of the official frown. Don’t worry: everything is fine at Compassion.

He looked down at his piece of wood and continued to carve it. The inspector put his foot down and said in a slightly more strained voice:

I have orders to review all of you. A decree was signed a few weeks ago that says… he paused when he saw that Dashvara didn’t seem to be listening to him, but he continued, that says that from now on you will receive visits every two weeks.

What? Every two weeks? Dashvara looked down at the floor when he saw that the official had dared to climb onto the platform with his muddy boots. He sighed. And continued carving.

Where is your boss? the inspector asked after a silence. His voice no longer reflected tension.

The captain is on patrol, Dashvara replied, looking up.

Captain? the inspector repeated. There were no captains among the Doomed. But there are among the Xalyas, federate, Dashvara smiled inwardly.

Tsu continued to play the flute softly. Out of the corner of his eye, Dashvara saw that the inspector was fidgeting, nervous again.

Could you stop carving that? he asked after a silence. Dashvara did not answer. What are you carving? he added. He seemed more sympathetic than the previous inspector, Dashvara considered. The previous inspector, the Persnickety, would never have bothered to ask what he was carving. He scanned him before smiling.

What do you think? he said.

The inspector shook his head.

It doesn’t have a concrete form yet, I can’t guess.

Dashvara, this time, smiled broadly. This reminded him very much of a conversation he had had with an old Shalussi sage long ago.

What does concrete mean? he asked.

The inspector arched an eyebrow, and to Dashvara’s astonishment, reached into his bag, and pulled out a book.

I’ll read you the definition, soldier, he announced, half arrogant and half amused because he knew his reaction had surprised him. He flipped through a few pages and cleared his throat before reading: "«Concrete. Adjective that designates what is real, tangible, and perceptible. Antonym: abstract». Satisfied?" he asked with a small condescending smile.

Dashvara huffed. Indeed, he doesn’t look like the previous inspector.

Satisfied, Dashvara agreed. Then he heard the fly again. Damn fly… He saw it, lying on his little table.

The inspector opened his mouth.

Listen, maybe I can start working without your boss. How many of you are in the barrack…?

He let out a small scream of terror as Dashvara, thrusting his arm at lightning speed, stabbed his dagger into the table. He almost laughed: he had killed it! It was the first time he had ever done it. He withdrew the tip of the knife from the wood and rejected the fly’s corpse in the manner of one who does this every day. He resumed his carving.

Were you saying something, Inspector?

The person concerned was pale. A flute blast sounded, and Dashvara guessed that Tsu was having trouble holding back the laughter.

I… The inspector swallowed. He was still holding the dictionary in his hand. Then he said, It’s rude to put your feet on the table.

Dashvara looked at him for a few seconds, stunned; then he laughed, frankly amused. The inspector paled even more.

You’re not from this region, are you? inquired Dashvara.

The inspector put on a hardened face, but he could no longer fool Dashvara: he was beginning to realize that they had been sent a new inspector who was much less strict than the Persnickety. One could not ask for more.

I’m not from here, no, replied the inspector. I come from Dazbon, soldier. And I studied at the best school in the world: the Citadel. And now, tell me, are you two the only ones guarding the tower, or what?

Dashvara watched him with interest.

No, he answered, laconically. My companions are sleeping.

Wake them up.

No way. We spent all night tracking orcs and couldn’t even find them. Wake them up yourself if you want to go back to Rayorah with your tail between your legs.

The Inspector became flushed.

Don’t disrespect me, soldier! he burst out.

Dashvara shrugged.

That was not my intention, Inspector. I only said that it would also be disrespectful to my companions if I woke them up right away. The only consolation they would have would be to be able to see those blessed rays of sunshine.

As if his blessing had been heard by the underworld, clouds obscured the star at that moment. Dashvara sank back and took his feet off the table.

Is it better this way?

The inspector calmed down.

Mmph. Where are your boots?

Inside. Shiny as obsidian, Inspector. All of us here place great importance on hygiene, don’t we, Tsu?

The drow had stopped playing, although he did not move from his seat. He nodded silently: he didn’t like talking in front of the federates. Dashvara smiled at the inspector.

Our captain is worse than a housewife. You’ll see that everything is in order here. Even the animals, we keep them at bay. In three years, there has not been a single complaint from anyone in Rayorah about this.

By the way, the inspector pointed out, putting his dictionary away. I was told that, in this tower, some men come from the steppe of Rocdinfer.

Some? Dashvara smiled. We all come from the steppe. We are Xalya Doomed. And we’re the best Doomed there ever were on the Border, don’t you doubt it, Inspector.

The chubby blonde rubbed his freshly shaved cheek, unimpressed. Of course, how was he going to be impressed? To him, surely, being the best Doomed more or less meant being the best scoundrels in the Federal State.

The inspector scanned him with a rather successful haughty look.

What’s your name? he finally asked. A ray of sunlight reappeared between the clouds.

Dash, he replied. And this is Tsu.

I swear he’s not a Xalya, the inspector observed.

Dashvara ran his hand through his beard, pretending to be thoughtful.

Well, you’d swear wrong. Tsu is a Xalya like all of us. He’s adopted, that’s right. But he is a Xalya of the Eternal Bird. He smiled at the drow with all his teeth and the drow smiled back, mockingly.

Mm. Listen… The inspector cleared his throat. Right away I come from the south, from the Tower of Dignity. And over there, they’ve been practically begging me to send them workers to fix their barracks. And what about you? Don’t you have any urgent needs that I can notify? In the end, I came mainly for that.

Dashvara shook his head as he saw him pull out a notebook and pencil. Definitely, he was much more considerate than the previous inspector.

Well, you see, he said, our building is in perfect condition. We rebuilt it last fall with our own hands and with wood from the swamps. Because we Xalyas don’t need help from the federates and we don’t get lazy like the people in the Tower of Dignity. But, if you really want a more thorough answer, I invite you to come back here in a few hours. The captain will be back.

The inspector scoffed.

I see. However, I don’t think you get your food out of the swamp, do you? You buy it in Rayorah, with the money the Council gives you. Am I wrong?

Dashvara frowned.

No.

The inspector smiled and Dashvara went back to carving his piece of wood. Suddenly, an exclamation was heard.

Oh, burning sun that illuminates my senses!

Seeing the inspector’s puzzled face, Dashvara let out a loud laugh and turned to Miflin. Motionless in the doorway, the triplet was speechless as he spotted the visitor.

Let me introduce the Poet to you, Dashvara said, very amused. Miflin, be careful your head doesn’t light up too much, eh? This is the new inspector, he added, answering his young companion’s silent question. If you need anything, just ask him before he leaves.

Your companion is right, the inspector interjected. I’ll write down what you need in this notebook and…

He fell silent as he heard voices inside the barracks. Soon Lumon and Alta came out. Arvara the Giant followed them, bowing his head slightly so he could pass through the door. All three were shirtless and bootless, and Lumon scratched his head vigorously while Alta stretched like a lazy cat. Dashvara suppressed a smile. The first impression left by the three Xalyas was not particularly flattering.

The sun is out! Alta said loudly without even looking down for a moment.

What? came Zamoy’s voice from inside. Kodarah! Help me get the laundry out. Come on, wake up, brother! We have to hang it up. Eternal Bird, help me before the sun goes away!

It won’t dry, Arvara breathed from his six-foot height. He stepped away from the door, however, when Zamoy came out backwards dragging a large basket of laundry.

But it will dry, Arvara. Dammit, help me! complained Zamoy. Kodarah has a sleep deeper than a well. Look! The sun is heating up. It’s summertime, guys. It will dry in a few minutes.

In a few minutes, huh? Arvara laughed, but he helped him carry the basket anyway.

In the face of so much commotion, the inspector seemed relieved.

Wait! I have a few questions to ask you…

What were we waiting for? Zamoy replied, huffing and puffing and pausing for a moment. Look, Inspector, if the clothes don’t dry, I’ll catch a cold again, and if I wait just one more minute, I may—just may—get buried in the mud because of you. Let’s go, Arvara. Let’s hang out the laundry. The sun won’t wait.

The two Xalyas walked away to the other side of the shack without leaving the platform. Dashvara rolled his eyes. Zamoy was an exalted man.

So you’ve come to see if we’re still alive, Inspector, Lumon said, walking over to the table. Dashvara was still sitting in the chair. Lumon the Archer gave the official his usual serene, mysterious look. Is the other inspector dead?

No! assured the federate. He’s been transferred elsewhere. Are you the one responsible for all these people?

Lumon winced, looked at Dashvara, then at Miflin and Alta. He shrugged.

In a way, he said. I’m the oldest.

Then the inspector renewed his explanation of his presence at the Tower of Compassion. Lumon put on a meditative face.

Guys, he said suddenly. Do we need anything? Do you have any ideas?

There was a thoughtful silence and then suddenly:

A horse! Miflin said.

That’s right, Dashvara observed, surprised that he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

You are only allowed one, the inspector objected.

Well, that’s fine, Lumon smiled. We don’t have any.

The inspector looked surprised.

I can’t believe it. How do you carry the food from Rayorah to here then? On the back of a man?

We have a donkey, Dashvara said proudly. They had had her for a year, and in exchange for the Xalyas’ cuddling and caressing, she gave them excellent milk.

The inspector shook his head in disbelief.

And what did you do with the horse? Normally, all towers have one.

Dashvara and Lumon exchanged a glance.

He’s gone, Lumon replied laconically.

Oh. The inspector grimaced as he glanced nervously toward the swamp. He was attacked by those…?

Alta huffed; Alta was an animal lover. In the steppe of Rocdinfer, it was always him who took care of the horses.

No, Inspector. He is not dead. He’s gone because we let him go.

We gave him back the freedom we don’t have, Miflin embellished, leaning against the wall.

Seeing the incomprehension on the inspector’s face, Dashvara felt it necessary to clarify the matter:

A year ago, we tried to escape through the swamps and we chased the horse to the meadows. That’s why we’ve been using the donkey for a year.

Oh, was the blonde’s simple reply.

A horse would be welcome, Inspector, Lumon added calmly. Frankly, I don’t know what else. How about you?

Dashvara shrugged. He was reluctant to ask anything of a federal official.

Well, said the inspector after a silence. He had noted the horse in his notebook. I’m going to go into the barracks to take a look. And, please, dress properly as soldiers. Where are your white belts?

Inside, Lumon replied.

What about your weapons?

Inside.

What if the milfids or orcs suddenly attack? the inspector added with an increasingly accusatory tone.

Lumon, Alta, and Dashvara sighed.

You’re an inspector, not a soldier, right? Lumon asked with a cold little smile. Right, well, you do your job, we’ll do ours.

Where we come from, Dashvara interjected, there is a saying that goes like this: don’t fear the red snake unless it comes, and when it comes, prepare and strike. Don’t stress us, Inspector, he added in a mocking tone. I assure you, if a milfid comes right away, we’ll get it out of your way… like a fly, he smiled, putting the dagger away on his belt.

The inspector became confused, and shaking his head, entered the barracks. Lumon scratched his head again.

He doesn’t look bad, he commented in a low voice.

Quite tender, Dashvara agreed.

A little green all the same, it shows, Alta assessed.

Eternal Bird! It’s not a broccoli dish, after all, Miflin replied, stepping away from the wall.

Dashvara smiled broadly as Alta huffed like a disgusted horse and said:

Don’t talk to me about broccoli now, Poet. My stomach is churning just thinking about it…

A scream of pure terror rang out inside the shack and all three entered, intrigued, followed by Tsu. Kodarah was awake and Dashvara felt that being alone in the shack with an unknown being in a white uniform was reason enough to scream. The Hairy had jumped to his feet and even started to draw his sword before thinking. A little pale, the inspector was introducing himself. Where had the Persnickety been transferred to? In reality, it did not matter to Dashvara as long as he was far, far away from Compassion.

A fly landed on his arm. There were others. The buzzing was constant. Dashvara hissed at them and closed the door.

Bah! Go to hell, he muttered. He whipped the air with his hand.

Are you talking to the flies now, Dash? Miflin mocked.

What do you expect, Poet. They don’t stop talking to me, so I answer them. Just being polite.

Gosh, Miflin muttered, as if he had discovered a sudden truth. I have not yet composed any poems about flies—

Go get dressed, come on, Lumon cut him off. As for him, he had already put on his shirt and was fastening his Doomed belt.

The inspector was walking around the barracks taking notes in his notebook. Never had the Persnickety bothered to really look at things before criticizing them. Dashvara approached him, curious.

What are you looking for, if we may ask?

Nothing. I’m taking an inventory and making assessments, the inspector explained, absorbed in his notebook.

He stopped in front of the large table that they used for cooking as well as playing cards and katutas. Dashvara followed him. Over his shoulder, he could read in Sagipsian script: «Moldy pallets. Old and cracked bowls. Not enough chairs for the number of occupants»… And why on earth would they need a chair each? These inspectors… Dashvara shook his head, uneasy.

And what do you do next with these appreciations? he inquired.

For a moment, the inspector suspended his gestures to look at him. He pouted and continued to write as he replied:

I give them to a secretary of the Titiaka Council.

Oh. Dashvara scratched his head. That explains the delay.

The delay?

Yes. It has been three years since we asked the Council of Titiaka to free us from our condition of slaves and we still have not received the answer. Dashvara smiled, mockingly. But it will come eventually.

The inspector had started to look at him with a strange expression on his face. Dashvara glanced at the notebook again. This time it said: «Insufficient cleaning: skinny men with lice, wet and muddy clothes». Dashvara pouted with disdain. This inspector was going to prove to be more meticulous and dangerous than the other one. He looked up again at the fat man and said caustically:

Try staying in this hole for three years and then come tell me stories about lice and mud, huh?

The federate squinted.

I’m writing this for the Council to see, soldier.

Dashvara shook his head, not understanding.

To make them realize what? That we don’t live in a palace? I think that everyone knows that already, federate.

Inspector, he corrected him in a harsh tone. This time he sounded really angry.

Dashvara shrugged and repeated formally:

Inspector. By the way, he said, crossing his arms, a fly landed on your head. You should add it to your inventory, unless you want me to get rid of it first.

The inspector glared at him.

That’s enough. Your threats are bordering on the acceptable, soldier.

Dashvara uncrossed his arms and took a step back, nodding.

Then I’ll keep my mouth shut. Let me just give you a warning: at Sympathy, they’ll skin you alive. They’re not whiners like the ones at Dignity. And they certainly aren’t like us. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes… he looked him in the eye before adding, Inspector.

He walked away. At least the tender inspector was warned. Those in the Tower of Sympathy were going to pounce on him like hungry wolves. Metaphorically, of course: you could pressure an inspector if he let you, but you couldn’t physically abuse him. The Tower of Humility, located even further north than Sympathy, had already been subjected to harsh retaliation because of a bunch of Doomed who lost their temper with an ‘overly fussy’ inspector. It is true that this was the version of the Doomed. Dashvara would never hear the other side of the story, since the inspectors, for professional reasons, did not answer questions.

He put on his boots, went out again, and after a careful look to the north, east, and south, he decided to go and help Zamoy and Arvara hang the laundry. If only the sun could last a little longer…

Zamoy was bustling around like a dianka dancer, hanging all the laundry on the ropes. Arvara was moving more heavily; he seemed convinced that in a few minutes they would have to pick up all the laundry at full speed before the rain soaked it again.

Oh, no! Zamoy exclaimed as clouds obscured the sun again.

Ah. Look. The wind is picking up, Arvara remarked as if to say ‘I told you so, boy’.

Let him get up, growled Zamoy. Let him get up and go.

Dashvara turned his eyes to the south. Those clouds… don’t look good, he sighed. Zamoy waved a threatening fist at the sky.

This time, you will not come closer, clouds! he proclaimed. Since his brother Miflin became a poet, he had discovered a prophetic streak.

No, Arvara affirmed. They won’t come any closer. As a matter of fact, they are forming over us. Right on top of the laundry. What do you bet?

His hair, of course, Dashvara observed.

Zamoy the Baldy put on an annoyed face, and as the sky began to grow darker, he groaned.

It’s not fair!

Dashvara smiled and they began to refill the basket as fast as they could. A few minutes later, they saw the inspector appear at the corner of the platform that surrounded the shack. They saw him walking heavily, as if testing the steadiness of the floor. Dashvara shook his head.

We built the platform, he said, raising his voice. It’s not going to break. Unless you keep kicking it, he grumbled, irritated, as he saw that the inspector had just driven a rotten board.

I got a drop, Arvara suddenly said.

Hurry up! Zamoy said, throwing the last of the pants into the basket. Between the three of them, they lifted the basket and walked quickly into the barracks. No sooner had they closed the door than it began to rain in earnest. The drops crashed on the roof as if fists were trying to break it.

Ephemeral as a soap bubble, sighed Miflin. He didn’t look so enlightened anymore, Dashvara scoffed inwardly.

The inspector, looking glum, applied himself to asking them questions. One could see that he was not very worried about the fate of his white horse, which was soaking in the rain.

What is your daily diet? he asked, sitting at the table with his notebook and pencil.

Lumon had never been very talkative, especially with strangers, and the inspector, having mistaken him for the ‘leader’ of the little group, was greatly disappointed to receive terse, if cordial, answers. Lumon was always affable and never lost his nerve. In this he was a bit like Boron the Placid; well, Boron the Placid spoke even less.

What do you do when one of you gets sick? the inspector continued to question.

Dashvara lay on his pallet and played solitaire with his sailor cards. They were a mess, faded and damaged, but they were still usable.

We call Tsu, Lumon replied, looking deathly bored. He’s our doctor.

The drow, sitting on his own pallet, had begun to mend his shirt. Dashvara had always admired his skill with the needle.

Ahmhm… the inspector mumbled, scribbling in his notebook. And…?

And we didn’t know what he was going to ask next because, at that moment, the door suddenly opened. From the crash of the rain came four figures dripping with water and exhausted. It was Sashava’s patrol. Immediately, everyone in the barracks left their occupations to help them get rid of their soaked clothes. It was not cold, rather the opposite, it was summer, but the rainwater was usually icy. This was due to a matter of darsic energies, according to Tsu.

Are you the leader of Compassion? the inspector asked. Dashvara was trying to twist one of the capes