Chapter Five
When I Met Kalyna Aljosanovna
After those two uncomfortable nights, we made it to Desgol, where I hoped I would be able to speak to and touch people who were not Dagmar Sorga.
My mercenary had not been lying about whole cities being hidden. Desgol officially existed: it had a Headman, a small council, taxes, and signs along a road that pointed the way to the city. But that road wound and split in strange ways; the signs were often hidden by tall grass; the taxes were often ignored; and the Headman and council mostly spent their meetings at a tavern. Desgol existed, but it was hard to find if one did not know where to look. From afar, the place appeared as an especially tall grouping of grass, behind which was a big rock and another copse of trees.
However, if one were to part the grasses, find the signs, and reach Desgol, one would enter a bustling little city. Smaller than Abathçodu, yes, but big enough. More of its people were openly armed than anywhere I had previously seen in Quruscan, which was interesting. This seemed to excite Dagmar, conceptually.
The buildings were mostly squat, round, wooden houses with wooden roofs insulated by layer upon layer of steppe hay. Aside from those, there were a number of two-story buildings which seemed to clash with the rest of the city. Instead of nice round shapes, reminiscent of yurts and ponds, these were hard-edged and rectangular, of wood that had been lacquered until it was almost black. There were a few old statues throughout, which were mostly ignored, with none of the joy in art of Abathçodu. At the far end from where we entered, a rock loomed as tall as any of the squat houses, and much wider. Quite imposing, if not for the children playing atop it, slapping each other, and falling laughing onto soft dirt below.
I’m sure that if I had visited Desgol early in my time in Quruscan, I would have thought it some lawless bandits’ nest hidden from the world. Having, by this time, a better understanding of the kingdom and its ways, I knew the city to simply be Quruscan’s culture of Minding One’s Own Business taken to its natural conclusion. Or a natural conclusion. Despites its small size, Desgol was much less strictly Quru than most places in the mountains. People from all lands known to the Tetrarchia were here, so long as they appreciated a bit of privacy and kept to themselves. As a social person who enjoys learning and discussing new things, I would not have picked Desgol as a destination—but as a fugitive alien, it seemed perfect.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” muttered Dagmar, as though she had read my mind. “They still get news here.”
“Of course, but can I at least go get a drink and be around people?” I muttered back. “I haven’t been under a roof in ages.”
We found that one of the great, rectangular, two-story buildings was in fact a tavern, with a few rooms to let on the second floor. It was early evening, and the place was quite crowded and raucous. I could hear a great many languages, although none were Loashti. The closest was the version of Skydašiavos spoken in the wind-bludgeoned border city of Galiag, which was liberally peppered with Loashti words.
On the whole, most non-Quru in the tavern stuck to their own kind, and after we got two plum wines, Dagmar found a small group of her fellow haggard-looking Rots. They eyed me warily, and I took myself away, to let my mercenary catch up with her peers in their hoarse language.
I wandered through the tavern unsure of what I should do, or even what I wanted to do. I was simply happy to be around people again—happy even when they jostled me. I felt giddy. I hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since leaving Abathçodu, which may explain why I, a fugitive Loashti, did what I next did. But I was so lonely and had not been possessed of a clear thought in weeks.
I saw a man sitting alone at a table and decided that we could both use some company. It didn’t hurt that I found him attractive, but this seemed more like an added benefit to socializing with him. I truly had no goal beyond that.
I said hello and asked if I could sit, and he smiled and said that he wished I would. His name was Sofron, and he looked like no one I had ever seen before. This was apparently because he was Quru, but from a family that was mostly Masovskan. I had never met a Masovskan before—he was not pink like Dagmar, but sallow, in an intense sort of way. He was tall and broadly built, but his pallor made him look sickly to me. This supposed sickliness made his handsome face more interesting, and attractive, in my eyes than it would have been otherwise. Still, I really just wanted someone to talk to.
I chose to be careful, for once, and when he asked my name, I panicked and said it was Akram.
“Well, all right, Akram,” he said. He eyed my tattooed face but asked no further questions.
“Are you from Desgol?” I asked, leaning forward just a bit over the table.
“Oh yes,” said Sofron. “My whole life. I think about leaving often.”
“Why? It seems a nice, quiet place.”
“Well, that’s one problem with it.” He laughed and sat back in his chair, allowing me to see more of his barrel-chested shape. Sofron looked like he could crush me, which I liked.
“But also,” he continued, “there are people here I have known my whole life—since I was a baby—who still call me ‘the Masovskan.’” He made a face. “I would love to leave this place, but it’s what I know best.”
“I’m very familiar with that feeling,” I replied.
Sofron laughed knowingly, likely because I was clearly not a Quru named Akram. But I laughed with him anyway.
“So,” I continued, “since you’re a local, maybe you can tell me why some buildings here are square and lacquered, and some are—”
He began to laugh. But not at me. At least, not too much.
“No, no, I’m serious,” I said, laughing too. “I just don’t understand it!”
“Of course!” He smiled broadly. “I just love that I can now impress you with the most basic knowledge.”
“Well then,” I said, sitting back and crossing my arms. “Go on. Impress me.”
He blinked a few times, a bit surprised. “Well, it’s not that impressive, really. Wood is hard to come by out here, that’s all. Those little copses of trees are protected. Kind of. ‘Holy’ might be a better word. Kind of holy.”
“What is ‘kind of holy’?”
“I mean . . .” He stammered slightly now. “No one thinks a god lives there, but we all know we’re not supposed to touch them. A single copse can have creatures that don’t live anywhere else in Quruscan, preying upon even smaller creatures that also exist nowhere else. Or so the old-timers say.”
“So the houses that are here . . . ?”
“Have all been as you see them for a long time. And these two-stories: even longer.”
“How much longer?”
He shrugged.
“Well,” I said, finishing my drink, “I’m hardly impressed then, am I?”
I smiled to show I didn’t really mean it, and it was only in this moment that I realized I was flirting, although I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps I was starved for attention. In my travels so far, I had stayed entirely chaste, even to the point of curbing innocent speech that could be misconstrued. But now . . . Well, I was on the run anyway, wasn’t I?
That this encouraged me, rather than leading me to worry I was being tricked or found out, shows how truly past rational thought I was.
“Would you like another drink?” asked Sofron.
“I haven’t decided.”
He smiled and leaned closer, both elbows on the table, his face not far from mine. “Is your mother named Tahirović?”
I must have looked absolutely perplexed. He laughed and moved up off the table, sitting back again and watching me.
“All right, ‘Akram,’ you aren’t even remotely Quru, are you?”
I smiled sheepishly and shook my head.
He sat still for a moment, studying my face. Then, finally: “I wasn’t asking about your actual mother, you know.”
I nodded. “I guessed that much.” It was only then that I remembered I had not properly bathed in days. Had not treated my skin or hair.
Nonetheless, Sofron said, “I was asking whether you’d like to . . .” and nodded toward the door, indicating leaving the tavern. He did not elaborate beyond that.
I nodded again. We both knew what we were discussing, just as we both knew to not say it out loud. Partly for safety, and partly because it was simply how things were done. Lightly conspiratorial.
“I know a place,” he continued. “Quru tend to not care what happens in their midst so long as they don’t see it. And the lake is also ‘kind of holy,’ so it’s usually deserted.”
“You don’t even know me,” I said. I leaned forward myself, now. “Does this feel safe to you?”
“No,” he said.
And that is when Dagmar clapped her long-fingered pink hand onto my shoulder and said, “We’re leaving.”
She dragged me bodily out of the tavern, with my packs, and I was too embarrassed to even look at Sofron. To see whether he was put out, disgusted, laughing, or frustrated. I was simply pulled from the tavern like a flower caught in the wind.
“Now look,” I said as I struggled to shoulder my packs, while Dagmar marched me through Desgol, “maybe it wasn’t smart of me to talk to anyone, but I was just trying to have a little fun after so long. I’m sure it seems strange to you, coming from Rotfelsen, that two men might—”
“What are you talking about, Smart Boy?”
“Well, just that I was—”
“I don’t care what you were doing,” she said. “I found my person. Come on.”
“But I was just—”
“Don’t care.” She pushed me a little. “You don’t have enough money for me to watch you every second. Honestly, I’m not sure she will even help you now. You’re almost out.”
I felt very small, just then.
Dagmar dragged me, in point of fact, to exactly the place Sofron had suggested we go. There was a lake on the other side of the great rock behind Desgol. The rock protected the lake from most of the city’s noise and refuse, allowing for a source of fresh water and the occasional fish. The lake was wide and shallow, stretching out quite far and shimmering in the moonlight. Shimmering beyond the moonlight, in fact, as closer inspection showed that tiny creatures in the water were, themselves, blinking a white light.
A copse of trees, untouched for centuries, bent around the edges of the lake, growing up out of surprisingly short grass. But I saw no one—only trees and water washed in silver.
“Who is this ‘person,’ anyway?” I finally asked. “Why don’t you tell me anything?”
Dagmar stared at the water as we began to walk along the lake’s edge.
“I am not,” she finally said, “good at, erm . . . feelings. Even in Rotfelsenisch.”
“Oh. I thought there was something terrible you were leading me into.”
Dagmar shrugged. “Maybe. This is someone who saved my life, and who I have, ugh,” she almost spat, “feelings for. But then . . . hm.”
“Yes?”
“The feelings. They weren’t always . . .”
After a pause, I offered, “Reciprocated?”
Dagmar stopped dead in her tracks. For a long moment, I thought I had struck the right idea so perfectly that it amazed her. Then I saw how uncomprehendingly blank that pale face was in the moonlight.
I defined “reciprocated,” and she looked thoughtful.
“That’s not exactly it,” she finally said. “Maybe.”
“Well, you did call her ‘wily,’” I offered. “Manipulative.”
“Able to talk anyone into, or out of, anything.”
“Except,” I ventured, “she didn’t talk you into staying with her, did she?”
Dagmar blinked a few times, watching the glowing lake.
“Yet here I am, Smart Boy,” she said.
We walked in silence then. The lake was larger than it looked, but once we had gotten to the far side from the great rock—with as much distance from the city as possible while still in its official environs—Dagmar stopped and pointed at the ground.
“Idiot,” she said. “I almost stepped on her.”
Lying half on top of a blanket and half in the grass, with her head on a bundle of some kind, was a woman. She looked quite normal to me: not some big, pale Rot like Dagmar, but a brown woman of average size with long dark hair in loose curls. She was asleep, not snoring but clearly drooling a little. She wore rough trousers and a blouse, huddled beneath a wool jacket of burnt orange—a color the moonlight did not quite know how to bend around properly. Spread out on the blanket next to her was a small repast: a hunk of an aged cheese on its paper wrapper, a cut-up apple that had turned brown, a pile of dried fruit hued in brilliant yellows and oranges, and an end of brown bread. It looked as though she had made a decent dent in it, but there was quite a bit left, and I worried that bugs would colonize it, or had already.
Dagmar sighed. “Wake up, Kalyna.” She pushed the smaller woman with her boot.
The woman in the grass moaned and reached vaguely for a bush next to her. Without even trying, Dagmar got there first, and plucked a sword and small farming sickle out of it. She crouched, holding them both in one hand, just a foot above the sleeping woman, who groped groggily at where the weapons had been.
“It’s me, Kalyna,” said Dagmar.
She was speaking Skydašiavos, and the other woman responded in the same, even as she seemed mostly asleep.
“If it’s you,” muttered the woman, eyes still closed, “why aren’t you down here with me?” She lazily thwacked the grass next to her.
“Because it’s been eight months,” said Dagmar.
Kalyna Aljosanovna swore an oath in a language that I now suspect was Masovskani and sat up. Dagmar stood slowly, still holding up Kalyna’s weapons. Continuing to swear, the smaller woman began to grope her way to her feet. Then she glanced down at her food, swore louder this time, and began to frantically wrap it back up, brushing away insects. I felt that I was quite doomed.
“Dagmar, what kept you?” asked Kalyna in Skydašiavos. She was now wide awake and leaning against a tree, staring intently up at Dagmar. I may as well have not existed.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” replied the sellsword.
Dagmar had relinquished the sword and sickle now, and they were each tucked into Kalyna Aljosanovna’s belt as she leaned back with her arms crossed, and her bright wool jacket hung over her shoulders.
“I just thought you’d come find me sooner,” Kalyna smiled, just slightly. But in that smile, I saw the barest sliver of what must have been an overwhelming, and stifling, personality.
Dagmar could not help smiling back, a bit, in response, even as she said, “Find you? Why? For what?”
“The reasons would be up to you, wouldn’t they?” replied Kalyna.
Dagmar seemed to be flustered, which I had never seen before. She stammered as Kalyna stepped forward and took Dagmar’s hands in hers: the gesture looked friendly, companionate, almost familial.
“I needed time, Kalyna,” said Dagmar. “I probably still do.”
“Time? Whatever for?”
“For?!” Dagmar then swore angrily in Rotfelsenisch, but did not pull her hands out of Kalyna’s. “Whatever for?” she repeated. “Kalyna, you . . . you . . .” She pulled her hands free, nodded toward me, and said, “I’m here for him, anyway. He needs your help.”
Kalyna furrowed her brow and turned her head to look at me for what felt like the first time. While regarding me, she dramatically—purposefully, I now realize—shook out her loose curls.
“I don’t think I’ve had the honor,” she said to me.
I gave my name in Skydašiavos.
“Radiant Basket of Rainbow Shells,” Kalyna said back to me, but in Loashti Bureaucratic. She smiled and quirked her eyebrows, enjoying my surprise at her mastery of the language.
“He needs to get back,” said Dagmar. “To Loasht.”
“Back?” asked Kalyna. “I don’t see why you’d need me for that. The border is—” She stopped herself and cocked her head to the side, regarding me with a look of deep, seemingly genuine, sympathy, albeit with an ironic edge. “Oh, I see.” She then switched to Zobiski: “Your name is really Radiant, yes?”
I nodded. I felt a wave of relief after days and days in the mountains with the sturdy, but limited, Dagmar Sorga; not to mention almost a year in the intellectual, but provincial, Abathçodu. Here was someone so worldly, so cosmopolitan, that she knew what I was not from a piece of paper but from perhaps my accent, my features, my manner, my tattoos, or something else. Knew but did not judge.
“My Zobiski is . . . weak,” she said. “How do you say your full name?”
I told her.
“Radiant Basket of Rainbow Shells.” Kalyna seemed to savor every syllable, to appreciate how beautiful my name is in that language. “You wish to escape this barbarous cesspit,” she continued in my language, “back to your land of broad fronds and lazy crocodiles.”
“I would not call it a cesspit. But yes.”
Kalyna rolled the idea around in her head.
“This sounds difficult,” she said in Skydašiavos, to Dagmar.
“Your kind of difficult,” replied Dagmar. “Tricksy like.” She shrugged. “I can’t—”
“Stab your way, yes.” Kalyna fixed her dark eyes on me again. She was a bit taller than me, with slightly broader shoulders. “I’d like to help. But I’m quite busy.”
“With what?” asked Dagmar. I could hear her disdain.
Kalyna smiled broadly, and even though it was trained on Dagmar, I could not help smiling too, as though we were both in on some great joke. Her teeth were brilliantly white.
“With doing nothing, Dagmar. I think I’ve earned that.”
“People like you and me, we don’t just stop . . . doing,” grumbled Dagmar.
“Perhaps we aren’t as alike as you think.”
Dagmar’s nostrils flared.
“I have money!” I choked out. “Some back in Loasht too!”
“You see, Kalyna, he can pay.”
Kalyna sighed. “Radiant, I am so sorry about your predicament. But for the first time in my life, I’m not in desperate need of funds.”
“I’ll be killed if I stay!” I cried.
“Loasht may well kill you when you arrive,” Kalyna replied.
I put my face into my hands, pressing hard on my closed eyes as though it would somehow change things. I exhaled loudly, trying to speak.
“Kalyna,” grumbled Dagmar, “you didn’t have to—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “Believe me, I know. But my family is there.” I looked up at her. “What’s more, I . . . I know Loashti hatred better than I know Tetrarchic fear. In a way, it feels safer.”
“Well,” murmured Kalyna, “I can certainly understand that.”
“Please,” I begged.
She looked at me in a new way, then. Every part of her face smiled, every element of her being seemed to be saying that I was the only other person in the world—that she cared about nothing so much as she cared about my predicament. She did not meet my gaze so much as engulf it.
“I’m sorry, Radiant,” she said. “Someone else will have to help you. I’ve done enough.”