Chapter 129

Across mountains and rivers, Ricard reached the southern Empire. Even on horseback, the journey had taken a day longer than expected. It was now his fourth day since leaving Adelivari.

Of the many coastal cities in the south, he had arrived in Renova, one of those built on maritime trade in the distant past.

Renova was a place of foreign architecture and customs, unfamiliar smells and unfamiliar-tasting water. The sun was fierce, but the heat was not especially oppressive, thanks to the sea breeze that blew without pause.

White gulls wheeled overhead, and enormous galleys of a size he had never seen even in Harlen lay at anchor in the harbor.

Ricard went first to the horse market to sell his horse. He could take it aboard a ship, but that would greatly increase his passage fare and make caring for it difficult.

The haggling that followed bordered on a quarrel, and more than once he itched to reach for his sword.

"Riding horses don't sell well these days. Nobles only want destriers, whether they're knights or not, and those without money want packhorses. Nobody wants riding horses."

The black-haired, deeply tanned horse trader spoke with a swagger, his gaze almost condescending.

He seemed intent on cowing Ricard, but Ricard was not someone who could be cowed anywhere. He would charge an army of five thousand alone.

Rather than grow angry, he answered calmly.

"Finding a good buyer is your concern, not mine, isn't it? This horse has well-developed muscles and good stamina. As you can see, its teeth are sound, too. Look at this coat. I've brushed it often enough."

"I have eyes. I can see that perfectly well. I'll admit it's a good horse. But if it doesn't sell, who's going to pay for its upkeep in the meantime?"

"... Well, now I understand. Your abilities as a trader are limited, so fine horses aren't your line of business. Stick to selling packhorses, then. I'll find someone else."

"Now, now, my good man."

When Ricard baited him by pretending to question his ability, the trader let out a hearty laugh and caught his sleeve.

"All right, all right. I'll give you two gold coins. But if I pay you its full value, where am I supposed to make a profit?"

"That's for you to work out. Just pay me already."

The trader took two purses from inside his clothes and handed them over. Each contained twenty silver coins.

Ricard squeezed the purses a couple of times in his hands, counting their contents precisely by feel. Forty in total, as promised.

Haggling was exhausting. He understood that each side had its own interests, but he had little desire to spend time with merchants.

His only regret was parting with the horse that had carried him all this way.

"Find yourself a good owner."

Ricard stroked its mane and neck. The trader watched with a fond smile. He knew that anyone who cared for animals was a decent person.

"Are you a traveler?"

With the deal concluded, there was no further need for a contest of wills, and the trader's manner softened considerably.

"You could say that."

"Where are you headed?"

"Sinatria."

"Where in Sinatria? It's a big place."

"The Order of Flame's headquarters."

"I've heard some bad rumors about them lately. Something about worshipping demons?"

"False rumors. They're honorable people."

"Well, that could be. I've seen a few witch hunts myself, and as far as I could tell, there wasn't a single witch among them. Just people venting their anger, or pursuing some other agenda."

People knew perfectly well that innocent people were being branded criminals and killed.

They simply dismissed it as someone else's problem and seemed to take little interest.

"Are there any ships bound for Sinatria?" Ricard asked.

"Plenty of ships. Ships are always sailing. The question is where they're headed."

"So are there or aren't there? Ships going there."

"Hmm... I'm no expert on seafaring, but ships for Sinatria probably won't sail until summer. Stay here a while on that money in the meantime. If you get lonely, I can recommend a nice place. Southern beauties have always been famous for being incredible in bed."

The trader grinned mischievously as he bantered. Ricard, however, was more troubled by the news that he would have to wait a month for a ship going his way.

"Or you could take a roundabout route instead of going straight there. Disembark in Tagonia and go all the way around. Failing that, you could charter a ship yourself."

"How much would that cost?"

"That I couldn't tell you. At least five silver coins per sailor, perhaps? As for hiring the ship itself, I can't even begin to guess. Why not try the Benicio Trading Company first? No one knows more about sailing than they do."

The horse trader explained where to find the Benicio Trading Company's building.

After listening, Ricard decided to head in that general direction and ask again if he lost his way.

"I'll give them a try. Find the horse a good owner."

"May good fortune follow you wherever you go."

The horse market lay on the outskirts, so Ricard now made his way toward the city proper.

Along the shore, where black rock had split into several sections and been worn flat, Salaman people had spread out mats and were holding a service.

"Sala—h'man! Sala—h'man!"

Their clear voices rang out as they bowed toward the southeast. He wondered whether heathens were allowed to worship so openly, but no one paid them any mind.

In fact, they paid a religious tax to the city for the right to worship, making it perfectly legal.

Though people disliked and resented the heathens, they apparently also understood them in their own way and lived alongside them. That was the south. A strange, fascinating place.

As he passed through the lanes inside the city walls, he saw people of every description: mercenaries, travelers, soldiers of unknown allegiance, pilgrims, priests, knights, nobles, commoners, and even slaves.

The crowds were so thick that people jostled one another as they passed. Finding the sword at his waist cumbersome, Ricard unbuckled his sword belt and slung the weapon over his shoulder for the first time in a while.

Fortunately, after passing through what looked like an inner gateway, he found the streets less crowded. He felt as though he could breathe again.

Roadside eateries had tables outside, where people ate grilled or steamed seafood with their hands. There were enormous crabs, fish, shrimp, sea snails, and all sorts of other dishes.

Being from inland, Ricard found the seafood fascinating; he had never seen anything like it in his life. Some of it was rather revolting, too. Wasn't that a bug? Was it even safe to eat?

In any case, he passed through the noisy streets and reached a district occupied by merchants and craftsmen of every kind, where things grew quieter still.

He was about to ask again where the Benicio Trading Company was when something caught his eye: a slave market.

A crowd had gathered, most of them more interested in watching than buying. Imperial subjects and Salaman people alike were for sale, men and women, adults and children without distinction.

Slavery was illegal under imperial law, but nobody here gave a damn about that.

Stark naked, their fates mortgaged to the hands of others, the slaves were brought onto a platform. A slave trader introduced them confidently, extolled the quality of his merchandise, and took bids from the crowd.

"Look at this one! Take a good look! This boy here served an emir with a taste for boys! As beautiful as any girl, wouldn't you agree? They're cast aside once they turn fifteen, but I paid a handsome price for him! He works well by day! And by night...!"

The handsome, dark-skinned boy had his head turned away, looking pitiful. As the slave trader claimed, he was exceptionally beautiful.

But Ricard had no interest in such things. He simply took in the scene calmly, passing no judgment.

Then he noticed an iron cage some distance from the auction. No one was gathered around it. Wondering why, he walked over.

Deep in the shade, a man sat quietly inside the cage with a gag in his mouth.

His hands were bound as well, and his skin and lips were badly cracked, whether from thirst or simply because that was how they were.

Deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, hair hanging loose and unkempt, a filthy beard, and dark skin. He was unmistakably Salaman, and strangely, his gaze was clear rather than dull.

It seemed less like a man imprisoned than a beast in a cage. Yet a familiar fragrance came from him: agarwood incense.

Ricard crouched directly in front of him and regarded him in silence. The man met his gaze without looking away.

Ricard found him curious. There was no fear in the heathen's eyes, no resentment or hatred.

After watching the caged man for a while, he unfastened the waterskin at his waist, removed its stopper, and held it out through the bars.

The man did not take it. He merely continued to stare.

"This isn't pity. It's just that dying needn't be painful."

The man seemed to consider this for a moment, then accepted the waterskin and poured water into his gagged mouth. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Not a superstitious man, are you?"

A stranger spoke beside Ricard. He turned to find a young southerner with curly black hair. The man wore expensive silk clothes and a cutlass at his waist, and carried something like a baton.

"What do you mean?"

"Bad luck, curses, that sort of thing. But you ought to be careful. This one's a real mage. Ever heard of a mage of the wilderness?"

Ricard looked back at the cage. His thirst quenched, the prisoner had raised his eyes and was quietly studying the newcomer.

Hearing him called a mage of the wilderness made Ricard think he looked a little different, though perhaps not. He did not know whether the title held any particular significance, but Salaman mages were commonly called mages of the wilderness.

Come to think of it, mages of the wilderness had made the poison the Rubens Guild had used in its attempt to assassinate him.

They had merely sold their wares, though, so Ricard bore them no particular ill will.

"If he makes you so uneasy, why didn't you kill him already? Must you starve him like this?"

"And risk being cursed? That's why nobody dares touch him. They won't even come near him. Besides, we're not trying to kill him. Just weakening him."

Ricard let out a disbelieving laugh. The southerner gave him a look that asked what was so funny, and he answered.

"You brand innocent people as witches and kill them, yet you can't lay a finger on a real mage. I found that amusing."

"Put that way, it is rather funny. I'm Barbara, a merchant with the Benicio Trading Company. And you?"

"Ricard. A traveler."

"Where are you headed? The Holy Land?"

"The Order of Flame's headquarters."

"The Order of Flame... It'll be a month before there's a ship going there. Unless you take a roundabout route."

"Can you find me passage?"

"Before that, do you know how to use a sword?"

Barbara gestured with his chin at the sword slung over Ricard's shoulder. Ricard answered calmly.

"I've never lost yet."

"Well, if an inland man has made it all the way here alone, you must be better than most. There's a ship bound for Armosa Island. Catch another ship from there, and the order's headquarters will be just a short hop away. What do you say? Will you take it?"

"It seems I have little choice. I'll take it. How much is the fare?"

At the question, Barbara grinned and rapped his baton against the bars.

"Keep an eye on this fellow during the voyage. That'll be your fare."

He told Ricard to look for a ship called the Marlin in the harbor before sunrise the next morning, then turned and left.

Apparently, he intended to sell this mage of the wilderness. Perhaps there were no buyers here, and he meant to take him all the way to Armosa Island to sell him.

An unsettling and dangerous commodity, but rare enough that he would probably fetch a handsome price.

Ricard looked back at the mage and met his eyes. After watching him for a moment, he asked,

"Aren't you hungry?"

The mage tapped the gag in his mouth with his bound hands.

Presumably, the gag was meant to keep him from casting spells, but surely they couldn't sell him if he starved to death.

Then again, slaves were sometimes deliberately starved. It weakened them enough to keep them from putting up much resistance. The reason was different this time, of course.

"See you tomorrow."

With that, Ricard walked away without even taking back his waterskin.

Left alone, the mage simply sat in silence as time passed. One hour, two hours, three. Even after the sun went down, he remained seated without moving a muscle.

Night fell, and as in any city, people grew merry, spending money and drinking themselves silly.

Then a drunk staggered up to the mage in the moonlight.

"Hey, Salaman bastard. Do you even believe in God? You don't? Well, look at this fucking bastard."

After babbling away to himself, he lowered his trousers and made to urinate on the mage. At that moment, the mage's dark irises vanished, leaving only the whites of his eyes gleaming.

Something like a whip suddenly lashed out from nowhere and coiled tightly around the drunk's crotch.

WHOOSH! SNAP!

"Agh...!"

The drunk squeezed his eyes shut and tried to scream. But another thick whip flew in from elsewhere and sealed his mouth.

In an instant, dozens of whips shot out of the darkness. Except they were not whips, but tentacles. Something alive, like enormous octopus arms.

They wrapped around the drunk's entire body, so densely that his original shape vanished from view. And then they kept tightening.

CRUNCH! CRACK! CRACKLE! THUD!

He had surely died. No one could survive that. Yet not a drop of blood or anything else burst forth. Even though he was certainly dead, the tentacles did not stop squeezing.

Then the dark irises returned to the mage's white eyes, and the tentacles whipped away, vanishing as though sucked back into the darkness.

Whatever they had been wrapped around was nowhere to be seen. Only something resembling a wrung-out dry towel dropped to the ground with a dull thump.

Stillness. Silence. Then the clamor of people talking, far away and inside the buildings, drifted through the night streets once more.

The mage remained seated without the slightest movement. In his hands was the waterskin Ricard had given him.

The gag in his mouth did not seem to do much good, after all.