“Liar,” he said to himself. Stop your lying!
He plodded down to a turn in the road.
A stream of farmhands, artisans, low-level diviners, cleaners, and every other necessary laborer trailed behind a caravan of carts up ahead. Little changed for these people. Their village provided workers to nearby estates regardless of the banner hanging from the walls. Out here loyalty was to one's village, not lofty crater matrons with their fancy banners.
If asked, he'd say he was a courier for Lor'Sitvir, a Daushalan vassal. They often traded at the southern border. If pressed, he could produce a badge—a fake, of course. It was the kind of magic he could overcome. Low-level diviners made most badges. Security glyphs were another matter. Sometimes the glyphs had a kick to them, giving him a headache for days or, if particularly fierce, nightmares. His job was full of such risks. He shrugged and spat away a sunflower seed shell. In the South Valley, sunflowers lined every road and path, tracking the sun faithfully. The seeds were a nuisance but eating them helped him look the part.
He plodded through the crowd and approached carts packed with furniture and goods. One large cart had a frame covered in felt with a small banner poking on top, an owl sigil he couldn't make out. Their matron must be its cargo. Or a priestess with a young child.
He rode alongside the caravan and took in the setting: the knight's livery and the sigil, the details of what they carried, the count of spears and daggers. He sized them all up. The goddess had given him an opportunity to prove once again how he was Maunyn's best… best…
He paused. What was he, exactly? A thief? An assassin? The word he really wanted to say twisted on the end of his tongue, refusing to come out. Maunyn had sons aplenty, and he held no light in his eyes for any of them. No, he was the son of Maunyn's fist, like a squire, like apprentices were the sons of a sorcerer's mind.
Ren shook his head. Maunyn gave him little sign of valuing him more than a servant, despite his dedication.
Cold, he was. Cold and hard.
More workers streamed in from between two barley fields.
He leaned down and grabbed one by the shoulder. The man, a common farmer, gaped at him.
“Who are the new lords here?” Ren asked him.
“Milord?”
“Who are these people moving into that estate?”
“Oh, uh…” The man just stuttered.
“They're called Laturnlis,” said a woman, butchering the name Lor'Trilnis. She was as common as the man, face wrinkled and tanned by working in the sun all day, but with a twinkle of silver in her eyes. “What you want with them?”
“Looking for work,” Ren said.
The woman yanked her man away from Ren.
“Well, go somewhere else. Full up here. Work goes to Palorit village, not outsiders. We're Saw'uns folk now, but Rotin's law still holds.”
Ren smirked at how she pronounced the name Zauhune. Rotin was the Great Ram constellation and the Roturra sigil. According to Roturra practice, villages governed themselves and negotiated work for their people with the estate's owners, crater Mornae.
“That's right!” the man said. “Rotin's law!”
“Guess you're the nanny then for the little lord,” Ren said to the woman, noting her garb and the telltale effect of scrubbing soap on her rough hands.
The woman scrunched her face at him, her hands balled up on her hips.
“I'm the washerwoman for the little lady. She'll be a great lady someday. Maybe take me into the goddess-place.”
“I'm sure she will,” Ren said. A girl! Still in confinement. Why would Lor'Trilnis move a girl, an heiress perhaps, into the south valley?
“Now get on with you,” she said, shooing him away, making a fuss, but not daring to pass her man. She knew a threat when she saw one.
Ren left the pair arguing with each other. He glanced over at the estate, at the layout, the walls, the number of guards. He could try on the way back, while things were still uncertain. The diviners wouldn't have set alarms yet. The girl might even still be in the carriage.
He rubbed his fingers together, forming a strand of shadow. The Dark called to him, and he wanted to oblige. Maunyn didn't like it when Ren took the initiative. Just do as you're told, he'd say. Ren mumbled to himself. He'd pass on the details though to Maunyn's scribe.
By late afternoon, Ren reached the village of Rulkamit, a village of several hundred cottages. This was Roturra land. A confusion of nomads, half-breeds, and those Mornae who did not thrive in the crater lived here. At the heart of the village was the Mornae section. An unhappy fate, living with so many foreigners. They were only a hair difference from these imports. If the imports could make the flax and barley grow better, if they could shear the ewes faster, then they may just be the next Lor'somesuch.
He dismounted, handed the pony's reins to the stableboy, and palmed a chit into his hand. The first floor was a tavern and eatery, while the second housed merchants and traders on their way to the border. It was a decent rest stop, and guards from major houses kept the peace. He pushed into men crowding the entrance.
A man dared push back, and Ren's dagger sliced the air in front of him, leaving a bloody bubble on the tip of his nose. The other men stepped back. Ren looked each in the eye, wide-eyed, so they could see their silver and the pure gray of his skin. These folk were a superstitious lot, and he used it to his advantage.
It felt good to let loose. They were like ants to him. That must be how his master felt with him. Maunyn could blow them away with a shadowed wind like chaff from the threshing floor. He entered the crowded tavern, and no one turned their heads, despite his best effort to appear like a crater Mornae.
Inside, he sat at a table near the back entrance with an unobstructed view of the place. He was there to make sure the trade went down as expected. It hadn't taken long for word to get around that someone was buying children. In response, the people colored their hair with oils or powders and their skin with gray mud. A mockery it was. They made him sick. But their efforts didn't matter. They made no deals without say-so from his master. The rule was a sample of hair, the high matron's decision, and then the price.
The ruckus of so many wanting to sell had raised questions, and he'd had to silence a few with silver and threats. Then there'd been the lecherous bastard thinking they were buying children for perverse reasons. Maunyn's steward had ordered Ren to stab the man in an alley, but Ren had beaten him to a pulp. He wasn't a big man, a powerful man, but when rage took him, he was bull strong. His knuckles were still raw and red. This kind of trading was the lowest of the low, the depravity, the underbelly of Mornae civilization. Year by year, it crept toward the crater like a moldy rot in a field.
A roar of voices sounded from a corner where men were playing dice. Shoving and pushing followed. His hand moved to the long knife at his hip. Dark tendrils wisped from his fingers. He'd not use his gifts here, but he imagined how he might, wailing on everyone here, casting them aside with blasts of Dark. He'd never actually seen it done, but he felt like it could happen, and no one here could stop him. Even his blades, southern steel stained black, would slice through them. A thrill of bloodlust shot through him, the desire to be like his master. He saw himself cutting through them.
A youngster was at his side then and drew him out from his reverie.
“What is it?” he asked, a sneer on his face. It was fun to play this role, so much more than making the deal.
“I'm to give you this. For two bits.” The boy handed him a note and Ren's hand swooped over it, swallowing the boy's hand.
“If you're going to do work like this, boy,” Ren said, “don't let everyone know you're doing it. Right?”
The boy frowned. “It's from the barkeep. Your tab.”
