"How's it a present while you're just returning our amulets?" Drusilla teased as she snatched up hers from his hand.
"I've enhanced them a little." He tossed the other one at Anthony.
Who caught it backhanded. "Look just the same to me."
"Come here, both of you." The blond man beckoned them over. Leveling their arms at the door, he moved their thumbs to the bail that clasped the chains and flicked.
Anthony gawked.
Ejected from each bronze plate was a diminutive sickle that whizzed across the dark and bit into the wonky door.
"Gods blight, what did you do?" Drusilla whistled a cry. Bounding up to the front, she wrenched out the curling blades. "And what are these?"
"Karambit," Xeator answered.
Drusilla looked down at her amulet, her brows clasping. "Do you know why our amulets are stamped with a different serial number, whereas the first-class patricians, their amulets are of the same design?" she asked, turning to the blond man.
Anthony squeezed his bronze plate, so disconcerted by how she had left him out of the question that he had no answer to it anyway was beside the point. Staring down at his feet, he hoped Xeator would have no answer either. No, he thought, looking up to find the other man's emerald eyes, deep-set and delusive. Hope was an understatement. He was begging, screaming, praying to the blighted Gods that the other man wouldn't have to beat him at every turn so they could still be brothers.
To his profound dismay, the blond man replied.
"The numbers on our plates are to identify." Padding back and forth before the stack of straws, he kept his head low, his arms about his chest. "Who purloins, evades levies, or commits murders, it'd be easier to hold us accountable as an individual. The more insulated we are, the easier to curtail. And curtailed of means, we grow more self-seeking, heeding only to where our next meal and burrow would be, and unaware that it'd only further our insulation, turning us all the more powerless.
"While ours are to identify, amulets of the first-class unify and fortify a circle where most resources are shared by only a few. Remember the analogy of the mine?" He regarded them each in turn, one brow jutting above the other. "Their status is their mine, a shared network where their interests and crimes are all entwined that taking down any individual of any branch threatens to scuttle the whole ship. Thus, they look out for each other, and in so doing, strengthen their unity.
"But they've missed out on one crucial factor," he paused for a scoff, his head tilting. "At the end of the day, all men are but self-seeking, and the biggest threat to their unity is themselves. The Triumvirate may seem formidable, but they're also too big to respond timely to the shifts in dynamics as a whole. Our advantage resides precisely in our smallness. It gives us the agility to address changes."
Drusilla narrowed her eyes, her thumb twiddling the serial number embossed on the bronze of her amulet. "So, what makes them powerful also lulls them?"
Xeator smiled more. "If the Gods have a decree, it's everything that rises must always come to a fall. Everything." He lowered his gaze, ash blond locks flopping. "We can't lose when the Gods are on our side."
"Shall we drink to it?" Drusilla suggested, grinning as she wheeled around at Anthony. "We have wine!"
Anthony let out a grunt as he fumbled the wineskin from his sack. He unscrewed the cord. A bouquet he didn't remember to be as pungent rushed up and made him wince. He quaffed, then thrust the skin at Xeator.
Who took and passed it on to Drusilla, a streak of lightning limning their smiles.
Anthony humphed. "It's very nice and all, but what exactly are we supposed to do with the flying blades?"
"Keep it hidden," replied the blond man. "Don't use it unless it's life or death, especially you." He swiveled to Anthony, ramming the jade plate in his hand. "From now on, you own only one amulet, and it belongs to the top rank of the first class. Act like it."
Anthony felt a mixture of chills and thrills rushing up and down his spine as he reclaimed the symbol of everything he ever coveted from the other man. "Easy for you to say," he harrumphed at length. "Just because I act like a first-class doesn't mean those street rats will believe me when I tell them what this amulet means! Gods blight, we didn't even realize what we actually stole until moments ago!"
"Tell them something they don't know," Xeator observed. "Then show them what you can do."
"Like what?"
"I know!" Drusilla piped, her eyes widening. "Plant a dead rabbit or whatever in a hole under a wall, and a gold nugget in the rabbit. Tell them when and where to look, and once they find the nugget, bugger me, they'll see you like a prophet!"
"That's it?" Anthony flicked his eyes to Xeator, whose easy smile bespoke approval. "That's all?"
"That's a start." The blond man swiveled to pat his arm. "Once you've established your authority, you'll feed them."
Bemused and in dread, Anthony felt his jaw moving side to side.
"Take them to dine, wine, and whore. Let them roister. Use my gold for it." Xeator took a wad of stubs from an inner pocket and rammed it at Anthony's chest.
"Legidus' debt receipts?" Anthony scowled. "You've never claimed any of the gold we won?"
"Each receipt is for a hundred dennies," the blond man went forth, skipping the question. "Once you're in the capital, find the Legidus' trading hub, and there you should be able to convert it. Take out only the amount you need at a time to avoid drawing attention to yourself. With the gold, you should be able to feed those mendicants. Keep their stomachs full, and their hope up. Once you've led them to come to their own conclusion that you're a prophet and a messiah sent for their deliverance, they'll listen to you and do your bidding.
"As for you, little lady," he paused, whirling to Drusilla. "The stolen amulet can only allow in one man at a time. Taking you as an entourage would require other documents."
"Why wouldn't you let her take the amulet?" Anthony spurted, each timbre of his voice trembling for a heroic moment to call his. "Give her the amulet, and I'll try to sneak in at night!"
"Day or night, you can't," Xeator crooned, huffing a frazzled sigh. "The walls of Pethens are called impregnable for a reason. And even if you could fly across the walls, what would it look like when a young woman rides to the city, alone? Only members of the top four Houses carry the amulet of this design, remember? And in no circumstance should a high-born lady be seen outside the walls on horseback without an entourage. Do you not think the guards would report her on the off chance there's a runaway daughter?"
The wind rose, shrieking over the thatched roof. The front door squeaked. Leaving Anthony at a loss, he turned to Drusilla. "I'm sure you know the Scipios recruit new talents for their theaters around this time of the year."
She nodded.
"Sign up."
"That's nuts!" Anthony bawled.
"It is," Xeator seconded. "And I know we've only just got you out of the Scipios'. So, if you want to walk away, now is the time."
She shook her head. A strand of hay-colored hair sprung from her warrior's braid and fell before her face. "I have nowhere else to go," she said, her storm-gray eyes brimming with spunk.
"Very well," Xeator continued. "Once you're in the city, sing poorly, dance on clumsy feet, whatever you do, don't get picked again. Don't make another oath. The recruitment is held outside the Scipios' castle in the district of the Third Hour. North of it should be a large mural fountain. You'll meet Anthony there on the fifth night upon arriving."
"Why the fifth?"
"It'd give you both the time to familiarize yourself. Besides, the Scipios always announce results on the sixth day and send out those they don't want. Meet Anthony before they do the headcount and send you out again."
She nodded, pinching her lips.
Having soaked through the thatched roof, the rain splashed on Anthony's forehead and made him sulk.
Xeator turned to him, his easy smile as prickling as the drop of the rain. "Be more thoughtful, you know," he lowered his head to his ear, his voice barely audible, his eyes flicking over the shoulder at Drusilla. "Girls like that."
"What's that?" asked Drusilla, craning her neck.
Xeator chuckled as he swung up the wineskin left on the floor. "That's between us men."
Anthony snatched the skin from him and swilled. An acetic tang singed his throat, stinging his stomach. Part of him wanted Xeator to like Drusilla. At least that way, it wouldn't feel as insulting as if he had lost a race where he was the only contestant.
They parted ways again at the break of dawn when the storm petered out to a drizzle. Xeator hugged them both in either arm. "Be safe," he hummed.
Anthony nodded and helped Drusilla mount. Clutching the reins, he turned the garron and doubled back the ridge.
Be safe. The words nagged him. Safety meant nothing when possessed. Never had he wished to be safe in another man's game.