"It's useless to keep guessing," Bossia said.
"No problem. I'm just sharing my thoughts. Besides, I'm more interested in the current you than digging into your past. It's not strange to do something as attention-grabbing as partnering with Bassario on missions, even if you don't like people noticing your past. I wouldn't think of inviting you for a drink if you acted like a man. But since it's him you teamed up with, things are different... Have you heard anything about him?"
Intuitively, Bossia knew she shouldn't reveal too much to Rahol, but she also wanted to learn more from this peculiar and perceptive man. It was hard to judge his age, but she guessed it to be between thirty and fifty years. She remembered that during their first meeting, Rahol referred to Silithus as his "humble abode," which wasn't just a joke.
"Why does no one team up with him? Just because he's a native?"
Bossia used this roundabout way to verify what Marlis had told her and to further inquire about the meaning of "native." As she said this, she took a sip of her drink, eyes fixed on the edge of the cup. The drink was too strong for her, making it hard to maintain a cover. She glanced at Rahol, who was still watching her with a slightly mocking gaze. He placed his cup down, clasping his hands together silently, as if preparing for a serious conversation. Bossia realized Rahol saw through her intentions but decided to play along.
"It seems you think the others are unfair to the natives."
"Not everyone. Marlis and his soldiers don't seem to mind much. It's just you mercenaries who..."
"Don't forget, you're one of us now. But you're right, we don't like the natives."
"I don't understand why they're so disliked. So what if they were born here? They haven't claimed Silithus as theirs, they don't compete for jobs, and they haven't..."
"There are two types of natives," he interrupted. "The first type are the children of mercenaries. As you know, no mercenary really wants to stay here for life. Even if they did, they couldn't, because Silithus has always been the front line, not a place for raising kids. It's a mistake to have children here. Those who truly wanted to be parents have already left with their children. Think about what kind of situations lead those who grew up here to stay. The second type, the majority, are the offspring of Twilight Cultists, at least those we picked up from their hideouts. The Twilight Cultists worship death and wouldn't hesitate to throw kids onto the pyre. But we and Marlis's soldiers don't kill children. Do you see the common ground between the two types of natives?—Of course, I think you understand, but I'll say it for you. The natives we see were abandoned at birth. They know this, so they're usually very insecure."
"So... shouldn't they be treated better?"
"Why? We came to the dangerous Silithus as mercenaries for different reasons, but if we saw ourselves as weak, we wouldn't have chosen this path. There's no lack of work here, and the pay is better than elsewhere, but we have to fight for it daily to earn respect. We don't have the time or the capacity to care about these people. This is our battlefield, and the natives, born deemed useless by their parents and seeing themselves as weak, are burdens here. Mercenaries need strength and courage; pitying the weak only lowers our status. Don't say you don't understand this; you just haven't fully accepted it yet. I said earlier you can't hide something—that's your compassion. Your upbringing taught you to be kind to the weak, an attitude that's of no use in a mercenary's world."
"I understand now. Bassario is a native but not weak. Marlis trusts him over you all, so you try to isolate him to keep your peace of mind in discriminating against the non-combatant natives. It's disgusting." She downed half her drink and added, "You're afraid of him, aren't you?"
"I don't mind hearing that, but be careful not to say it outside. Maybe you're right. Whether it's fear or not, we have reasons to be wary of him. His sword represents bad memories for Silithus. That ugly sword didn't originally belong to him but to another native mercenary."
Bossia recalled Bassario mentioning that, besides him, the last native mercenary died when he was twelve. "Tell me everything you know," she demanded, hoping her assertive tone would work.
"It happened fifteen... sixteen years ago. Only two people, Bassario and I, experienced those days firsthand. The others either died or left. Hey, you're making me feel old." He refilled his cup and passed the bottle to Bossia. She didn't immediately take it.
"We agreed you'd have at least five drinks." He lightly shook the bottle. "You want to know what happened, right?"
Bossia took the bottle and filled her fourth cup. Some liquid overflowed, but she didn't notice immediately. Turning her face away, she closed her eyes, feeling her breath grow heavier. This moment of rest only made her head fuzzier, so she quickly took a sip, trying not to taste it, then said, "Tell me."
Rahol smiled again. Through her growing drunkenness, Bossia sensed a hint of sympathy in his mocking smile, as if encouraging her to endure the alcohol's effects. She figured it must be a misunderstanding. Just one more... one and a half more cups.
"Once there was a native named Jose. When he was about five years old—of course, I wasn't here at that time—he was found in a cave where the Twilight Cultists were hiding and brought back. He was trained here and became a mercenary, and one of the best. Back then, it was different; 'native' hadn't become synonymous with 'weakling.' In fact, many people admired Jose, and he became a role model for the natives. Twenty years later, he led the capture of some Twilight Cultists who were trying to plant explosives near the fortress. Among them were his parents."
Bossia shook her head, trying to stay alert, but her breathing seemed increasingly loud. She pinched her calf to wake herself up and straightened her posture. She had to keep listening.
"At first, he was just filled with doubt, troubled by vague memories of a couple from twenty years ago. He cautiously asked the two Twilight Cultists questions, and after probing himself and asking others to probe, he finally got the answer. They confessed that twenty years ago, they had abandoned a child while escaping capture, right where our people found Jose. So Jose realized that his parents, these Twilight Cultists who always preached about offering their lives to the Old Gods, had continued living for twenty years after abandoning him to die."
"And then... what did he do?"
"He killed the couple and soon after committed suicide. No one knows why he killed himself, but for mercenaries, the reason isn't important—the result is. Maybe he initially killed his parents to draw a line, but it didn't earn him any respect. He killed two people who were special only to him, and then he became an enemy to the other mercenaries. Even among mercenaries, some things are absolutely forbidden. His suicide afterward was his second mistake. Since then, no one remembers how he overcame difficulties and went from being an orphan to the best mercenary. The only thing left in people's minds is that he killed his parents and then himself. Many don't see this as purely personal; his status as a native must have played a big part. If he could do such a thing to his parents, he could do it to others too... Maybe natives are inherently untrustworthy. After all, Silithus is the last place one should trust. Natives are not just anyone—they're Silithus' children. We have to guard against them and prevent any remaining natives from doing something similar. Now... for those indirectly aware of this past, Bassario is likely seen as Jose's replacement. After all, he not only received Jose's training but also inherited his sword. You're still listening, right?"
"I'm listening," Bossia said. The alcohol made her emotions more apparent in her voice. "You... can't do this. It was you, wasn't it? You were here fifteen years ago... You hate the natives because of this. The later mercenaries followed your lead and learned to hate."
"It's a pity I don't have that much influence. The ones who led the charge, as I said before, are dead or gone. What remains with me is just a story. The consequences of this story can't be erased by anyone—it's already set in stone. Because people hate Jose for his suicide, natives who once looked up to him have to become weak to protect themselves, inviting new hatred. This is the world you're in now. Your compassion is completely useless in Silithus. You want to take risks? Fine, but you've come to the wrong place."
"No, I..." Which drink was this? Four or five? "I didn't do anything wrong. It's you and the others who are wrong. You said there are two types of natives, born differently... So Bassario is..."
"This question..." Rahol uncharacteristically paused. "If you really want to know, ask him yourself, not anyone else. Your tolerance for alcohol is much worse than I thought... One more drink, Agnes. One more and you can leave, as we agreed. Maybe you should consider going far away. Just being interested in Bassario isn't worth staying here. Your compassion is still there, but it will change slowly."
"One more." She filled her cup. "Nothing will change."
"Of course it will. Everything changes. You are already changing. Look at you—clearly, drinking strong liquor isn't something you can handle. But you did it anyway. Just to get a chance to clean up here. To outsiders, this might sound ridiculous, but not here." Rahol took the fifth cup from Bossia's hand before she could drink it. "This time, the price you paid was drinking strong liquor. Maybe one day, just for that piece of paper, you'll be willing to sleep with me or someone else. Before that..."
Bossia slapped Rahol, but a second later, she forgot if she really hit him. She reached into her pocket, fumbled around, and then found the bathing token in the other pocket, pressing it onto the table. "I don't care who you are. I..."
She stood up and staggered out of the tent. A few words from Rahol's speech kept swirling in her head, amplified, seemingly losing their original meaning.