Chapter 7 - part the first

Veon awoke in the armchair where he'd been snoring for the past half hour in the anteroom where, it appeared, he'd been abandoned.

A cry of fury had brought him to his senses, although he woke with a start from a troubling dream to a troublesome reality. He forgot quite where he was for a moment, and was seized for just a moment by a terrible panic that he'd been captured by the Harzia; then he seemed to half-recall where he really was: inside the Red Scarp.

Was he in trouble? He knew someone was...

And if it wasn't he, then it must be Amos.

Veon leapt to his feet, slapped his face a couple of times, hard, to drive the sleep out, and then bolted for the door. As he made the corridor, he heard once again the agonizing cry of ire that had woken him. He knew who it was making those noises of fury, and he knew also that it did not bode well.

Down to the left, he crept, and peeking through the busted hole in the door where the doorknobs had been torn off, Veon could see the Commander in Chief pacing about his room, holding his head as if it ached terribly. His assistant was speaking in soft, cowed terms – but apparently the more he said, the more his superior officer became enraged.

It didn't take but a second or two for Veon to guess what had happened here: Leni was up to his old tricks. Somehow, he had played the Commander as a fool, and slipped right through his fingers.

Veon knew Leni better than that, however, and he knew better than to let him get away with it! He pulled away from the damaged doors, feeling now a bit guilty for ravaging them; then he remembered that he still had one of the knobs in his pocket; so he reached in to retrieve it.

The knob was no longer there.

His fingers, probing to the very bottom, thrust into a soft squelching mess, the nature of which he could not discern – but it was surely something vile. Veon withdrew his sullied fingers, sniffed at the grey gloop, and grimaced.

“Bird shit,” he said, mystified.

Veon found the magician and his sister as they reached the bottom of the great stair that led down from the Red Scarp to the streets of Sala district. They came down on the eastern side, and Veon was huffing and sweating once more, pulling up behind them.

“You came down...the collar...to avoid me,” the big man said, trying now that he caught them up, to also catch his breath.

“Nonsense,” Leni replied, putting on his most winsome of smiles. “We felt like stretching our legs some after being cooped up in the Scarp all afternoon.”

It was late now, the sun nearly set, and the heat of the summer's day was only now beginning to wane. An early moon was in the sky, pale and shabby, like the first whore out on the streets of the Drift.

“I saw how you left the Commander,” Veon said, sticking an accusing finger up in Leni's face. “What poisons did you give him?”

“Sometimes the cure may be more severe than the ailment, my brother. I think that you mistook what you saw, for you like to invent motives for me which, quite frankly, just don't suit me. I'm a philanthropist; and you are just a buffoon. It would be best if we both accepted that, and perhaps you would no longer feel the need to misjudge me.”

“Buffoon, is it? I'm just some clown?”

“You're just like me, Veon – a showman. We just put on different acts, you and I, but our goals are the same: we want to share what we can do with the world, because we believe it can bring us back some of the love we lost so long ago. In my case, it has worked. That is really why you hate me so.”

Veon's temper flared up at the mention of his dead family, and he also found Leni's brazen comparisons to be quite irksome. He almost dared to put a hand on the magician, but he remembered what had happened last time, so he held back from fear.

This was no small feat, for Veon's great fault was that he had no ability to hold his passions – especially his anger – in check. He had no moves when wrestling down his emotions; which was the main reason why he was so good at wrestling other men to the ground.

“I'm going to keep my eye on you!” Veon scolded the magician, waving his finger menacingly, but also impotently.

“In that case, there is quite a likelihood that you'll overlook a critical moment when someone else's hand sneaks into your pocket – a hand far more eager to steal than mine, although certainly much less adept. It's natural to envy me, Veon. Everyone does. Just as it's natural for everyone to admire you. But don't fall in love with the glamour about me, and don't be fooled by it. All I want is what any man wants: to find a beautiful, loving wife, and barring that a little meaning in life. I found the latter so that the former could find me.”

Amos continued gazing at her brother with a hard sort of pity, like a clay fired in a vehement oven. That look was like a knife, and she meant it to be: a slashing blade that would cut with deliberate cruelty the tie that bound her to him. She was a kite, a sparkling thing of beauty and colours, and she would fly free, tail rattling in the high breezes, leaving him standing on the grass holding a lifeless string.

As Veon turned to go down Aesochio avenue, heading toward his own flat in Dazio Gardens, he was hailed by a man he knew, but greatly disliked: Opho, the boorish Count, who had lately fallen somewhat from grace.

The Count, once one of Amos' suitors, was dressed in fine, expensive garments, but did not look well. There was a sickly look to him, as if he had been abused, or was eaten up by anxiety. As he approached Veon, however, he affected a smile, and held out his hand.

“Well met, my old friend,” Opho said, as he and Veon shook. Opho's grip was painfully tight, and Veon, who was no stranger to pain, winced and withdrew his hand. He knew he was meant to think of this as a chance occurance, but there was something about the Count that said he'd been waiting for this encounter, or had arranged to make it come about. “Allow me to offer congratulations on your fair sister's imminent marriage.”

Veon knew very well how disingenuous this sentiment was, coming from one of Amos' spurned suitors of the past; and the reminder that she was soon to be wed to that infuriating magician was not very welcome either. He grumbled the appropriate reply, while at the same time eyeing Opho to see what it was the Count really wanted. The wrestler, while born of high blood – albeit blue blood – was always off his footing when it came to dealing with these society types; he far preferred the blood and shouts of the Wrings.

“I cannot say that I approve of her choice,” Opho said with obvious distaste, “but it is at least apparent that she has chosen a man of means.”

“What do you mean by that?” Veon demanded. “What means do you speak of?”

“Magic, of course,” Opho said with a sneer he could not conceal. “He is a dangerous man, for certain, although he hides his true nature with a veneer of comical theatricality. He pretends at being what he truly is: a Wizard!”

Veon was never slow on the uptake, even if he couldn't always fathom the corruption of intent, and the conniving plots woven by greedy minds of those he had to deal with in Caza. It dawned on him, as he untied the little knots of spite and hate within the Count's rhetoric, that he knew about the attack this afternoon.

“You know he saved her once more,” Veon stated flatly. He figured things out better when everything was on the table, and he functioned always to bring everything to light, if only to put off-balance those sneaks who fancied so much keeping things in the dark.

Opho didn't miss a beat. He knew, or had been given instructions, on how to handle the championship fighter. “Yes, yes,” he said. “It is quite remarkable how quickly news travels in Caza!”

When you are the spider, Veon thought, you receive all sorts of vibrations on the webs you spend your time squatting upon.

But he said only, “I thank the Tides that she is safe. My sister is the light of my life. For that, I am grateful, even if it is the Wizard I must thank.”

“I see he is no friend of yours, either,” Opho commented, off-script, with an apparent relish.

“I do not think he has any friends,” Veon muttered. He wanted now to leave this man, this petty little politicker, and rush down into Old Quarry where he could drink and find some true clarity; speaking with Opho was like wading through a reeking mire, with boots filled with heavy muck.

With a word, however, Opho caught the Espalite in his net.

“Pray,” he said, “and we will see your sister safe at last.”

Veon recognized the syntax, and the threat that went along with it. Opho knew! Somehow, this little weasel had been let into the hen-house!

“Do you imply, Sirrah, that she is not safe in Leni's care?” he asked.

“He is a man of means, said I,” Opho drawled with some satisfaction, “but what end do his means lead to? Do you know? Do any of us? Where does he come from? Who is his family? We know nothing about him, and he cultivates this aura of mystery, remains aloof, and we are all meant to accept this about him.”

At this point, Veon erred. He knew that trusting Opho was a mistake – as trusting anyone always proved to be – but his burning desire to set Amos free of Leni's grip was too intense. He came closer to the Count.

“Is he involved with the Harzia?” he asked. “Is he some spy they've sent to unmask her?”

Opho smiled, and made a little shrug. “How can I know these things?” he said, confessing to ignorance. “But there is always one way to find out.”

Veon, his mind racing, found himself careening towards a dead end. “What way is that?” he asked, with a tingle of dread. The moment he spoke the words, it was as if a part of his mind perceived the trap; but knowing that he was already trapped, it propelled him onward; the only way out now was to push on through.

“Is there not a campaign to retake Mozo?” Opho said, matter-of-factly. “We all know the Harzia are behind the fall of that city to the Ferrolo, who have driven it into the mud. Surely, any high-ranking guard who manages to breach the City of Droves would be able to lay his hands upon all kinds of sensitive data; or perhaps those who composed and transmitted it.”

Veon's jaw clenched. “I am no soldier,” he said. “I am a fighter.”

“Indeed,” Opho said, shaking his head as if he'd forgotten. “Forgive me, but I forgot you had station here. Entertaining the Oligarchs must be tremendously taxing. I would hate to deprive them of their moon-glorious events if my words sent you from the Tournaments into a tour of duty abroad.”

“I would never manage to do these things you speak of,” Veon replied tersely. “I could go, and fight, but I would have no idea who to track down, or how to find any of these 'sentive data', as you say. That is up to the officers, not the lowly fighters.”

Opho looked into Veon's eyes at this time, driving home his final, victorious point. “You are a beloved celebrity, Veon,” he said. “Although you have merely done the minimum and mandatory military service, as have we all, men of our generation, do not you think that you would be installed as a high-ranking officer? You think incorrectly if you think they would send you out with the vanguard, to die in the first wave of attack. You would be well-placed; and I could help you attain such a position.”

Veon swallowed, and said nothing; Opho went on, and it seemed as if a cloud passed over the sun as he spoke, or some object obscured the warmth and left the poor man, now more sure than ever of his victimhood in this exchange, chilled and shivering.

“You know quite well you would have been drafted already, if it weren't for your celebrity status,” the Count murmured, conspiratorially. “The one thing that you use as a shield can also be used as your sword, Veon. You could go, and save your sister once and for all from all threats that may come down the road.”

“Down the road...” Veon repeated, staring off down the length of Aesochio avenue, as if he could see the road winding away, and his path drawing him along it.

Opho, thinking the fighter might be dim of wits, said, “You know, in the future. Who among us knows what the future may bring?”

“The Wizard knows,” Veon muttered darkly.

“Does he know, truly?” Opho said. “Or does he make it appear so, by orchestrating events and using his wiles to fool men into thinking he is the opposite of what he really is?”

Veon looked at Opho, knowing in that instant that the man was playing him to his own ends – but who was to say that the Count's ends were not parallel to his own? They both hated Leni, and they both coveted what he had: Amos.

“Your father is a Colonel in the Caza army, no?” the fighter asked.

“He was promoted this year to General,” Opho replied, with a quiet pride. “There is no question about it, my friend: I can raise you from the pits of the gladiators, to the ranks of a true hero. Your sister has thwarted the Harzia with her prayers and potions, but you could come home as a true victor, conquering them once and for all. Does that not sound appealing, Veon?”

Veon made no reply. The only thing that really appealed to him at that moment was driving his fist into the Count's guts, seeing him bend over breathless, face flushing red a beet. The etiquette of the Wrings was far more civilized in so many ways than the cloak-and-dagger stratagems composed by the quarreling factions of Caza society.

Aesochio avenue was long, and filled with activity, colours, and coaches; but Veon knew that it now led no longer to the Old Quarry, nor even to the New. It would take him much farther, out beyond the Walls of Caza and the High Gate, into the steppes where his destiny awaited him.