Sireda appeared bewildered.
Autharion assumed she had expected a drier location. He did as well, envisioning it tucked away in a more mundane, inconspicuous place, shielded from prying eyes no matter how desperate for information they were. He had suggested the Sun-tower of Leek, a place of worship, a forty-day journey to the east, or a mere four-hour trip by Dusk Ship. Autharion and his mother had visited the temple on his fifteenth name-day. Despite its antiquity, the memory remained vivid in his mind, flickering like a golden-tinted film basked in the radiant sunlight of the Star-City. What fascinated him about the building, a detail his absent brother couldn't grasp, were the devoted monks who referred to themselves as the Silent. Eunuchs who had renounced their manhood and forfeited their ability to speak, replacing their tongues with five-pointed blades that would inflict wounds upon their mouths if they ever dared to utter a single word.
A raindrop splattered on his forehead. Its droplets traveled sideways across his furrowed brow.
He turned to the girl who shared his mother's name. This would be her first trade with the Norhiego.
"Did your Lord-Father not inform you that we've changed the location? We've evaded detection by the Emperor's Hands on five previous occasions, and now this is the sixth move." Autharion spoke with deliberate solemnity, channeling the same tone as his brother, father, and the previous lords, including Adair Yarr, who established their dominion over Ianedes through conquest.
"No, uncle," she squeaked. Despite being only sixteen years old, Sireda possessed an air of childlike innocence. Her hands trembled, and her petite figure seemed dwarfed even by the dogs housed in their castle at Yarrhall. She appeared fearful, and if not that, susceptible to fear, of Autharion himself, of the sea, of the Norhiego, or even of Sweetsmoke, the sacred life smoke, joy.
The sound of splashing and whispering wind reached their ears. Autharion felt a chill creeping up his back, and the sand beneath his shoes turned wet and soft. "We must exercise utmost caution," he continued, "but opportunity accompanies time, and time waits not. The tide will soon rise. Come."
Sireda's large, glassy eyes gazed up at him. They may have as well been cut from the obsidian cliff sides and set into her eye sockets–another thing she inherited from her grandmother. She blinked, nodding in acknowledgment.
They traversed the shoreline as stone-gray clouds rolled overhead across the sea. Sireda's flowing leathers fluttered behind her, swaying and curling in the now howling wind.
'Like a wolf', Autharion thought of the storm, 'feasting upon a lone fawn'. Rain seeped into his cloak, gliding across his skin and pooling within the fabric. With each step, water dripped, drenching the parts of him that had remained dry. His black hair grew heavy and unraveled from its knot, cascading across his neck and shoulders. The tips of his fingers and hands turned cool and sticky. He imagined himself back at the Sun-tower, perched on the ledges of its floating gardens, feeling the sun's warmth on his body, inhaling the fragrant flowers, and observing the gentle drift of fish in the stream below—swimming until eternity. His mind wandered to the Qa'an, the second-most dominant ethnic group on the planet, they were called waterwalkers, mistriders. These thoughtless nomads were led by their blind prince to a paradise they called Q'izakeen. Their scriptures forbid them from staying in one place for more than a night. They slept in wooden pavilions draped in fabric and, according to Swahri, a convert who had lived with their family after their Lord-father's death to assist Tlion in garnering peace with the Qa'ani, they used blankets adorned with squat, blocky glyphs to traverse bodies of water. The material was infused with the blood of children, making it weightless. 'Surely, the Qa'an had faced more formidable challenges'. Autharion assured himself. 'Such simple men oppose nature, yet they prevail! How ludicrous that I tremble and cough in this feeble squall, while they drift across tempests without a care!'
Autharion felt his anger rise, and though he knew his thoughts were foolish, he allowed them to wash over him like waves crashing upon the shore. He visualized himself atop the Sun-tower's golden spires, overlooking the city and the ocean, witnessing the Qa'an succumb to the gaping maw of a whale, devouring them gulp after gulp. He found a sliver of pride in his sensitivity to the weather, a trait shared by his family despite their 4,000 years on Ianedes. The Qa'an had grown accustomed to the planet's rainstorms due to their constant contact, unlike the inhabitants of Simja, Leek, and Nohrin, where shelter could be obtained or constructed. 'Qa'ani life is a hellish existence', he reminded himself. 'It is a mercy that they are used to produce Sweetsmoke, and their suffering will eventually fade away in full, a mercy...'
Thunder split the sky ahead, followed by a flash of purple and white. Autharion spotted the mouth of the cove in the distance and quickened his pace, gesturing for the girl to follow.
Sireda stumbled as the winds buffeted her. Her hood flew off her head, revealing her long, flowing, blonde hair twisting in the breeze as if it possessed a life of its own. She struggled to catch it in her hands. Autharion watched as she regained her balance, shaking her hair from her face and flashing a grin.
He smiled.
She ran towards him, laughter filling the air. Autharion chuckled and began jogging away from her, calling out, "Follow me!"
Upon reaching the entrance of the cove, he turned back to Sireda. She was still running towards him but slowed her pace upon realizing he had stopped. Autharion tilted his head upward, analyzing the swirling clouds, each one releasing raindrops that descended to the earth like falling angels.
'Which one?' he pondered. 'Which one is them?'
Another flash of white and purple illuminated the clouds, and he spotted it, barely visible—a silhouette of a rectangular Dusk Ship flying low and fast.
Autharion grasped Sireda's hand and led her deeper into the cove. The rain intensified, accompanied by a sudden burst of cold. He felt the air grow frigid against his skin, causing him to shudder.
"Hurry, child," he urged, "quickly, quickly, quickly." They traversed a rickety, rocky ledge leading further into the cove. Beside them, a large pool was adorned with jagged, black rocks resembling teeth. Rain swept in from the entrance, blowing directly at them. Autharion caught sight of the case between two boulders and could sense the aroma of Sweetsmoke emanating from within—its scent reminiscent of honey and sunlight. Why had Tlion hidden it in a place so dangerous? The pool had already begun to fill with foaming seawater that bashed itself against the ledge. "There, girl." He pointed. "Retrieve it, I am too large to maneuver so."
Sireda lowered herself towards the rushing water, gripping his wrist.
She even has mother's hands. He thought.
With a grunt, she pushed off the ledge, clutching the three rings that formed the case's handle. A spray of water entered the cove, assaulting them as the Dusk Ship descended and halted right in front of the entrance. Now, the ship lost its transparency and appeared in a rich, slick black-blue hue. Its tilt-out door mechanism activated, bathing the area in a crimson glow that resembled blood. Autharion recoiled, pulling Sireda up with him as they moved, sidestepping their way out of the stone beast's mouth.
"Give it to me, child," He spoke with sudden harshness, a tone he had never used before, not to strike fear in the girl, but to present dominance to those who now watched him. Standing in front of the tilt-out door was a figure draped in multicolored leathers, intertwining and birling in captivating patterns. The cloak twisted and shifted as if it were dispersing in water. Autharion found himself comparing the Norhiego to a living painting.
It would look splendid framed.
Once, Autharion had come across the Encyclopedia Galaxias, which mentioned various terms for the Norhiego and its factions. One term came to mind now: Sirens. Gifted men and women trained in negotiation, engineered from childhood to be alluring through adjustments done to their very biology. They had undergone the Parrick Volumes, a series of studies conducted by an ancient sociologist from Terra. These volumes endowed Sirens with an understanding of human nature and the ability to bend it to their will. Autharion stood still, his fear mounting. During his previous trade, he had dealt with a Norhiego called Fregor, a Raven--one skilled in battle, with black markings on his face and unyielding tar-dark eyes.
One of the Siren's cloth strands bore the sigil of the Norhiego Technology Company—an engraved silver ring with a lotus being grasped by a hand.
A man with a shaved head and dark skin stepped out of the ship, devoid of the peculiar mist and flamboyance. He wore a simple gray-and-black suit, accentuated by a folded neck-cuff, the uniform of a Myna, human logic they were called, used in courts and in the sciences to make calculations and analysis.
Somehow, in a manner he couldn't fathom, the Siren spoke to him, though without opening her mouth.
"How many?" reverberated in Autharion's skull, the voice strong and commanding.
"Three hundred Qa'ani," he responded, confidently. "My Lord-Brother's men managed to capture three hundred of them over seven months. Some were taken while they slept, others were captured during their treks. But we have three hundred here."
The man next to the Norhiego Siren nodded and approached Autharion. As he moved, the cloak swayed, and when he spoke, his voice sounded muffled and indistinct, inconsistent, as if he were two people looping in and out of a conversation, filled with several pitches and tones, masculine and feminine, brittle and booming.
"I believe we have an agreement, Autharion?"
Autharion moved the case aside, his teeth chattering from the cold. "We wish to know your names first," he told the Myna. "I assume Fregor has retired, it is best that you know that I am a personal man."
The Norhiego Siren remained silent, lifting her hand and snapping her fingers. The cloth strands in the air immediately descended, revealing a pale face with a pointed jaw and beady blue eyes. "I am Ashari Du Sa-el, sent in Fregor Du Shan's place--" the voice in his head said, simply. "--for the rest of this standard year, that is. Your trader is Off-galaxy, representing a client."
"Client?"
"A personal matter, one disclosed to me and my associates, though rumors linger."
"Do tell."
"The Emperor is on Valens, he is dying of a white fever--or so my associates tell me, he lays alone in his chambers through the morning, venturing out into the markets in the city only at night to conceal his wretched condition. He asked specifically for your Fregor..."
"Speak, Sorceress."
"To ease his pain? To grant him longevity? To augment his failing body? Possibly. That is all I know and all I may not, my truth is fickle."
The Siren clapped her hands, and the cloth whirled back into its chaos. Silence filled the space between them, then, suddenly, the man in the suit snapped his head upward. "Yes, yes, of course." He replied to no one.
The man's eyes rolled back into their sockets, and his mouth opened. Autharion could hear it—the multitude of voices, the countless minds trapped within the Myna's body, clamoring with solutions to equations, theories, criticisms, and analyses.
Another voice in his head spoke, though this was not the voice of the Siren.
'Three hundred'. It said, 'Three hundred dead.'
A feeling of unease churned in Autharion's stomach, and he swallowed hard. Why must he feel guilty? What other options did they have? There was no alternative means of obtaining Sweetsmoke without the psychedelic blood of the Qa'ani.
The Myna's eyes spun back to him. "Four million, one hundred thousand, five hundred ninety-two Phraidens." He said.
"Johothor has never cheated a client, still, is this satisfactory to you?" Ashari inquired.
"That will suffice," Autharion interrupted, "more than fair."
The Myna called Johothor blinked. "Then it is settled!" he cried, swiftly retrieving the case. He walked back slowly, entering the Dusk Ship. Minutes later, he returned with a squat black bag, placing it on the ground. Though he could not see them, Autharion knew Ashari's lips remained motionless as she told him, "Your efforts will not go unnoticed," she said, vanishing into the Dusk Ship, the little man in his suit at her side.
Rain continued to pour as they pulled the bag out the mouth of the cove. Sireda appeared eager to leave, her face flushed from the cold and her nose dripping. She began shivering, and Autharion draped his cloak around her shoulders.
They left the cove behind and waddled along the muddy coastline until they reached the main road. The sky brightened, and the rain ceased. Soon, the sun shone brightly through the dissipating, serried clouds, and the sea's waters grew calm.
Autharion shook himself dry. His hair fell over his face, and he brushed it aside. "You did well, child. Your father awaits."
Sireda stood still. "What did the Norhiego woman mean by three hundred dead Qa'ani?" she asked.
Autharion paused. "My little doe," he said. "...it is a necessary sacrifice."
Her mouth hung open. "Do they... do they die quickly?"
"Relatively quickly," he responded. "The process is challenging but painless. It is necessary, child."
Sireda frowned. "My grandmother—on my mother's side—used to speak of the Qa'ani," she said. "They believed the land itself had given birth to them, nurturing and guiding their development."
"An old legend that is, Lowona fills your head with lies," Autharion replied. "The Qa'ani arrived here only a few centuries before us. We are products of our own evolution, as they are."
Sireda remained silent.
"Child," Autharion said, "you needn't dwell on such thoughts. Look at what we gain from this." He dropped his half of the bag and crouched down, unzipping it. Inside lay piles of Phraidens that clinked and clacked against each other as they fell. He smiled, feeling as though he had won a war. "This is our castle, in this bag, these are your dolls, your brother's play-swords and your mentors, your room, your leathers." He added, "In time, you will come to understand, as will Gregorion and Eth, and you will know, work brings power...sacrifice brings options."
The young girl tilted her head down at the bag, she counted the Phraidens she saw, the futures they presented.
Millions.