"Pretty Things with Light and Air - One" by Toni J Kaukinen

The scent of flowers mingled with the smell of sweat from the crowd gathered at the Grand Illusive. This mingled scent floated at the same level as the multi-coloured lights, above the Caedaren savants, magickers and scholars, who sat in silence and watched. Their attention was focused on the theatre's half-moon-shaped stage, the middle of which, behind a stained oak desk, stood a slight young man dressed in humble robes. The black, formal cloth had yellow at the end of the sleeves, high collar and hem, rectangular patches above the left breast; this all marked his profession and affiliation. His triangular hat bore the same colours, but unlike the robe, it was a mere personal addition, like the heavy boots that tried to stomp on the yellow hem when he walked, but never quite managed to. Presently, the young man with white curls, soft features and purplish eyes was making an iron triangle to float over the desk. And it pleased him to see that the triangle had the crowd's normally half-hearted attention.
        "As you see, not all metals are dead, just as not all of them are considered noble. It's worth noting that noble does not mean 'alive'," the speaker said casually, extracting audible chuckles from many of the crowd to his satisfaction. "Yet, one of the noblest of metals, iron, is the most alive. Other, less noble metals, also seem to have this trait, whereas steel, gold, silver and copper are - if anything - almost devoid of life.
        "I say almost, because according to studies by Lakham the Spider, whose recent passing was a great loss to Caedaren science, it is not impossible to Find someone who has for example stolen a valuable golden ancestor statuette. It's improbable, however, because gold loses its sense of ownership soon after it changes hands unless it has some special meaning. Coins are hopeless to track with the gift of Finding if they are not stolen straight from the mint. A famous sword, however, is a different thing altogether."
        The triangle spun lazily around as a square and a ball joined its company. "Very few metals will submit to this sort of handling," the youngster smiled, staring at the crowd from behind his glasses. Dawijo Obikayu was not smiling to the crowd out of propriety, but because the apprehension he had felt earlier had shrunk into a remote feeling. The young Finger, twister of elements, was riding on the wave of excitement now.
        "Some of you sirs and ladies among the crowd may already know some of this, or perhaps even all of this," he said, pacing around the desk as the three items were juggled by invisible hands in the air, much to the delight of one of the younger ones in the crowd. "I make a note of these things so you will understand what it is I really have to say."
        As one of the actors had suggested, he paused for a moment and allowed the words to sink in. The silence of the crowd was heavy and the curiosity heavier. Dawijo smiled a hint broader. He had them all on a leash - bless that little rascal of an actor.
        There were some smiles in the audience when the Finger began to explain. "So far we have relied only on the Broken Road in the stars, the sun and the landmarks whenever we travel. But I have also noticed that the same forces we 'spoon twisters' use are rampant in the world. When discussing this with a colleague of mine who had acquired some extent of the rare power with metals, we spoke of the deviations in the balance that have to be compensated for. It never made any sense to either of us why the iron we worked on turned, sometimes left, sometimes right.
        "But what finally made me realise what was going on is because of what he told me. He had, like me, also noted once that whenever he worked on a number of metallic items in his workshop, they always attempted to turn left before he got actual control of them. Curiously, they didn't always turn left when he worked elsewhere. And when I worked at my home, the items always tried to do the same in the opposite direction. Because I knew he has his desk with the metal experiments against east wall in the south corner, and my desk is against the western wall, I realised there had to be some rule to it. It wasn't simple chaos."
        Dawijo realised he had been pacing the stage like he was on guard duty. The cantrip he had drawn into existence was still going strong, and the shapes were juggling themselves yet.
        A second later he remembered he had an audience, which was staring at him curiously. "I shall not force you to guess what I mean by this. But allow me to at least honour this building with the only drama I am capable of.
        "After this observation, I had a theory. My friend - in case you are wondering who he is, he is Soojamn Zaatgast, and terribly sorry he could not attend - agreed to help me, as I was entertaining him. I did not tell him of my suspicions. I simply asked him to meet me at the top of the mountain and to bring a random piece of metal from his workshop - preferably something straight and pointy. I promised to do the same."
        He stepped to the edge of the stage and craned his neck, staring upward at the last row. A human would have been intimidated by the view - hundreds of two-coloured (and the occasional single-coloured) eyes staring straight at the stage from the dimness. Dawijo - like all Caedaren - knew it meant the listeners were curious. That was good.
        "For some reason, he brought a dagger blade," Dawijo began with a smirk, tilting his head to one side. Chuckles echoed from the audience again. "Myself, I brought one of the slivers I had made during my first experiments with lightning and metals. When we met, I explained to him what I was after. We would first face each other and let the items float freely without correcting or compensating for the natural pull. We did so, myself with my back to the sunset and his away from it. Then we tried it with both of us having our backs to the sunset, and then away from it.
        "We did kept alternating for a while, but no matter what we did, the points always turned north." He inhaled and tensed, waiting for some sort of reaction. Finally, someone stood up.
        "Yes?" Dawijo exhaled, wondering if his cheeks were pink. The man asking the question was a magicker, he noticed. Judging by the opulent colours of his robes most likely a freemagicker, too, the Finger mused with some sadness. Freemagickers were not entirely incompetent in his books, but respect was a different kettle of fish.
        "Could you please explain what this could be used for in practice?"
        "Oh. Certainly. As I said, we rely on the stars, the sun and landmarks for orienting. It is not always reliable with maps, as the sky's course changes as the season advances. Landmarks can disappear - many of the maps drawn decades ago are missing them because humans have forsaken a field and let it turn into a forest, or, as is usually the course of things, the opposite.
        "However. North does not change its location. I'm aware some among the Ghost Eyes - especially those guarding the borders - can sense north without any instruments, but can the general populace? It is a very easy thing to leave some of the elemental force in a piece of metal so that it will turn to point north." That is, if you've been trained to do it, Dawijo thought. He could almost see the light in a few eyes as the mercantile among the audience realised they had just been presented with a possible product.
        Smiling, Dawijo took off his hat and bowed his head to the last row. "Of course, the Grand Council may want to consider the exploratory nature of our kind before they allow such an invention to be spread out to our worthy commoners."
        In the third row, a man with crimson and grey eyes and a pipe grinned at this, as did his three companions, though one of them to a much lesser degree. Dawijo himself had the damnedest amount of fun when he saw the looks on the faces that had just a moment earlier been shining with greed. He was a simple anarde with simple pleasures, but he had never thought he would think poking fun at greedy people would be as much fun as eating a sandwich while reading a book out in the sunshine.
        Well, he thought. Life's a big bag of surprises.

        After a long series of explaining theories on what the mysterious force was, answering questions and providing demonstrations, the crowd left. Not a second after the curtains had been drawn to cover the doorway to the seats, Dawijo sat himself on the desk and just stared at the empty seats in disbelief. Shaking his head, he turned to collect his notes and items back into his satchel. From the corner of his eye, he could see the approaching figures of two Voices that made up the Grand Illusive's actors. These two were Emice, the young rascal who had given him a few pointers, and Línbell Fannjer, who was in charge of most things in the Grand Illusive. Línbell was hard to miss - majestic cloaks of red, silver and black. A hood and a mask that only left the bottom half of her face uncovered crowned the attire.
        "Have a drink, you poor man," said Emice with a grin and offered the magicker a cup. "Excellent! Just give us time and we'll make you into an actor in a moon or two."
        Dawijo, still basking in the glory of the polite applause and howls, shook his hand at the cup and put the triangle away. "No thank you, Emice, I can smell it's something I won't touch. This was a one-time event, as they usually are." He turned to regard Línbell with a smile. "I can't thank you enough."
        The Voice smirked. "Dear boy, it was like your teacher said. A fascinating theory - sadly for me, you Elemental Bones practice a difficult craft. I shall have to be content with deceitful illusions."
        "You sound like it doesn't please you," Dawijo noted with a hint of concern.
        Emice stared from behind the cup he had sipped from. "She's pulling your leg, sir."
        "And the only reason I am not cuffing you right now is because you have a cup of wine in your hands, boy," Línbell noted absent-mindedly to Emice as the caretakers - novices of the Grand Illusive that hoped they would one day act - began to wash the floors and turn the stage back into a proper stage. In less than an hour, they would be ready for the play, which would start only moments after they had finished cleaning.
        "Yes, mistress," Emice murmured, retreating back behind the stage, barely dodging one of the novices. Dawijo paid no attention, simply got off the table two of the caretakers were taking away.
        "Regardless," he said, "thank you."
        Línbell smiled again. "Careful. If you do not cease to thank me, I shall return the payment."
        Dawijo could only blush. "That would be cruel, then. But I must thank you for the hospitality. I wasn't expecting this much, lady Fannjer."
        The Voice chuckled softly with a smile, glancing at the two caretakers cleaning the long and numerous rows. "We are not spiteful toward visitors, sir. And you do have a certain boyish charm."
        Abashed, Dawijo too stared at the caretakers for a moment before replying. "Like Emice?"
        Línbell snorted. "No, thank Mother. You, I hear, have never been a wild, undisciplined cuss. I cannot see you making dubious acquaintances or wasting your time in an alehouse."
        Tempted as Dawijo was to point out he had regular haunts in the quieter alehouses where the worst one could expect was the occasional squabble over something philosophical (certainly not the philosophical dilemma of deciding between flight and fight), he refrained from doing so. What other people thought of him mattered precious little to him.
        "What do you hope to accomplish by sharing this information, Finger?" Línbell asked when there was no answer.
        It was the question Dawijo had been waiting for, and finally he could answer. "I hope you are ready for more tirades," Dawijo said and adjusted his hat.
        "I should think so."
        He sniffed out, smiling wanly. "For seasons, the time and work I have spent on this field has been ridiculed. Stone is supposedly more alive than metal, and I'll grant you that even stone can move when it wants. Or when Mother wants it to. Maybe it's only because metal is such a cold and heartless thing to mould to others; waterworks and stone statues appeal more to people, I've noticed. Working with metal is also... violent. It's not, apparently, the same righteous fury like that of volcanoes or earthquakes - or floods or storms. You certainly don't see metal raining from the sky, hm?"
        "You mean to say that stone, fire, air and water have nothing personal against anyone?"
        Dawijo smirked. "Yes, that's the general consensus. Then again, neither does metal, but so many people see the steel in their opponent's eyes as well as in their hands."
        "Quite philosophical, sir Obikayu. I thought you were not doing it only for the common good."
        "Who does, these days?" Dawijo asked thoughtfully, one eyebrow cocked at the Voice. "Speaking as a magicker to another, it seems as if the demesne of metal is likened to the Dead Art."
        Línbell considered this for a moment before shrugging. "There is no channelling in a Finger's magick, yes?"
        "Correct. And that would be the core of the problem that annoys me. As the joke goes, we poke at elements to make them do things we want. But death is beyond the elements. Elements can cause death out of someone's will, but never cause it of their own will. They are alive, always. You cannot call something dead when it cannot effectively die."
        Línbell smiled and turned to look at the stage exit. "By that reasoning, everything is forever."
        "That is what my friend, an educated rascal of a Soul, says. I have no reason to doubt a man who works with spirits all day long," Dawijo shrugged and smiled again. "I've taken enough of your time, lady Fannjer. Give my thanks to my teacher, and have good fortune. I won't forget the hospitality you've offered. If you or any of your group ever happen to be near the Wickdun den..."
        The Voice laughed and led him out the exit. "Care for what you promise, you splendid man."
        He only smiled. "I shall."

        
        Days later, Dawijo was at his home in the farthest southern reaches of the Caedaren nation. He liked living in the south, and could not understand the fascination that some of the older Caedaren - most of which  could barely remember their near-arctic homeland - had with colder regions. He had of course been trained on a mountain like all Fingers, but as a boy of poor health, he had generally hated it there. The lessons were excellent, especially if they were in a heated space.
        But it was the seasons - a season being the anarde equivalent of a year, a cycle which began and ended with the coming of spring - of wading in snow at night, listening and watching to the wind or the rain or sitting underground in a dark cave, tapping one's foot to the rhythm of falling droplets of water and feeling the pressure of having tons of rock surrounding oneself that Dawijo had hated. Understanding heat and fire had been his favourite lessons, understandably.
        Ironically, he had found that he liked wide open spaces and water the most. The western seashore south of the Unhallows had become his home. The Wickdun area was settled many human generations earlier by people from Coasthigh (another place he would have liked, had it not been for a strong Faldaren population), and was remote enough to attract a few guardian "faeries" for the village when the Caedaren nation had pushed its way south.
        Dawijo occasionally dropped by the town when there was a medical emergency of some sort. While he was not a Healing Hand, he had spent most of his life caring for the health of either his cousin or himself. In most cases, he could at least alleviate some of the pain.
        He just wished they would have called him anything but a faerie.
        It happened that after one of those occasions he was lying in a hammock tied to two cherry trees, with a book on his face and a half-empty bottle of very tame cherry wine (the kind he liked) by his side, dreaming a most lovely dream that was abruptly cut short by a visitor.
        "Dawijo Obikayu?"
        Dawijo opened his eyes groggily and lifted his head a little. "Lady Fannjer?" he asked, still remembering his dream. The voice had sounded a bit too gruff, though.
        "Wouldn't say so," the curmudgeonly visitor replied in the most dreadful rendition of Middle Daren Dawijo had ever heard. And Dawijo, now certain that it was certainly not lady Fannjer standing in his little garden, lifted the book off his face with a blink.
        The guest was a grim-looking Caedaren with deep, harsh blue eyes and what appeared to be a greatcoat. He did not look like the cerebral type by far. His straight hair further helped to separate him from the common crowd - but it was the sensation of shimmering magick from his general direction that truly startled Dawijo.
        "Oh. Hello?"
        "Yes. Hello." A moment of silence passed between them before the guest finally continued talking. "Obikayu, the Finger?"
        Dawijo groaned and sat up. "Yes, yes, that's me."
        "Good." The man produced a letter from under his coat, offering it to Dawijo with a gloved hand. The Bleeder signet on the letter was enough to make Dawijo groan again, but after opening the letter, he found that he was developing a massive headache.
        "I've been recruited?" Dawijo asked incredulously. What the 'troubleshooters' needed him for, he had no idea.
        The recruiter nodded solemnly and looked about with an expression of mild disinterest. "Seems like it, sir."
        He was about to say something, but the recruiter's words struck a chord.  "'Sir'?"
        "Just Sevroa." A pause. "Oh. It should say you're in a middle level command position."
        He took a look at the letter, and indeed, it said something about something. "Of what?" Dawijo asked, already afraid of the answer.
        Sevroa tilted his head, turning it to give Dawijo a very levelled look. "Damned if I know."
        "Oh, that's just marvellous."
        "That's what I thought, sir," Sevroa said unsympathetically.
        I think I'm going mad, Dawijo thought as he stared at the man who bore no signs of office or faction at all. Then, resigning to his fate, he again read the bit that said he was to travel to Alongshore, north up the coast, to report for duty.
        His headache was becoming an ulcer.

        He had stuffed enough clothes, books, ink bottles and other equipment in his satchel to earn a musing look from Sevroa, who then offered to carry it if Dawijo was thinking about taking a backpack, too.
        Dawijo said it was quite all right, and together they had hobbled of to meet with Gannys, the Voice in charge of layerslips in Wickdun, who had given Sevroa a dirty look. She then told Dawijo to be brave, but Dawijo found no good reply. Sevroa only bothered to give Gannys a bored looked that Dawijo thought meant some sort of commoner's arrogance.
        The slipping through the layers was as routine as it could be, but all the routines Dawijo knew would disappear on the other side in Alongshore's primary hide. The actual process was painless and not even uncomfortable; one moment Dawijo, Sevroa and Gannys stood in Wickdun, and a little prismatic display later, they stood in Alongshore. The dome-like structure he knew the hide's Voices called their headquarters had no welcoming party except for the familiar face (well, mask) of one of the Voices and another Voice with an unfamiliar mask.
        "Err. Hello," Dawijo said to the unfamiliar Voice, glancing once at Sevroa who had stuck his hands in his pockets.
        "Greetings indeed," the Voice said in the same extremely formal Old Daren that suggested he was just as old as the eldest Voices. Which tended to annoy Dawijo. The blue and white patterns of his mask were entertaining enough, though. "You are ready to continue?"
        "This isn't the stop?"
        "No, Obikayu sir."
        Dawijo quirked an eyebrow at Sevroa, who just shrugged. "Fine," the Finger said, "let's go."
        Without wasting time, the new Voice brought the three of them to a new place, which appeared to be the cellar of a human house. The masonry was unmistakably human, and the small red and grey bricks reminded Dawijo very much of the ones he had made at home after looking into human building techniques. The writing on some of the crates was in the southern human alphabet. All in all, even with the crates the cellar was rather large, and apart from the salt-and-dirt circle he stood in, only a fairly big table with numerous chairs and a company of five people sitting at it occupied the space. Daylight pushed in from low, barred windows, and revealed that someone was smoking tobacco at the table.
        The conversation at the table stopped soon as someone tapped the table. "A plug in it, now, we have company," a smooth, somehow darkly amused voice said in formal Old Daren. "Sevroa, what the devil took you so long?"
        Sevroa's countenance was unreadable to Dawijo, but the tenseness to the man's broad shoulders did not go unnoticed. "You're still emptying the first bottle, old man," he said in an even darker, unamused tone.
        There was a chuckle from the general direction of the crimson and grey eyes, just above the shining pipe coal. "Yes, yes. You, young master, hither. Ragunn."
        A moment passed. Dawijo fidgeted when Sevroa laid a hand on his shoulder and nudged him forward. "He was talking to you," the surly man slurred.
        "Oh," Dawijo said, taking his first steps toward the table.
        As he neared it, he began to recognise some of the faces. The man with the red and grey in his eyes he remembered especially, not only because of the morbid amusement his faint smirk betrayed, but also how wonderfully smooth his skin looked and how delightful the honey blonde was in a company of snow blonde hair. Dawijo had seen both of these on older Caedaren before, but he found it interesting nonetheless.
        The woman sitting next to him had a serious look to her, one that told of constant vigilance and awareness while still maintaining a visage of introspective contemplation. She did not look at him, merely poured cherry tea into a mug.
        The human sitting opposite to the woman had pale eyes and an aquiline nose, and simply looking at him Dawijo was certain the man was either a merchant or an official of some sort. He had black hair, down to the level of his cheekbones, and - as far as Dawijo could tell - he could have been called attractive. The brocade worn by the human hinted at where Dawijo had arrived.
        Next to the man sat a skinny woman with prematurely greyed hair. She had a scar on her face from her mouth to her ear, and the tension between him and the merchant or official was obvious - the tension between those two and the three Caedaren seated at the table was more familiar to Dawijo. The old man masked it well, as did the human woman. The woman also acted as if she enjoyed the company.
        But the last person seated at the table Dawijo found himself staring at the most. The third Caedaren was an unkempt man about as drunk as a fish in a wine barrel, and - by the looks of it, or at least the tattoo on his forehead - a Hand. He was also asleep. As much as one could associate the word "asleep" with someone drunk beyond his or her wits.
        "No need to mind Katress," the old Caedaren told him and puffed on his pipe once with a musing look. Then he smiled. "At least, not before the poor man gets up to empty his innards."
        Dawijo found himself wanting to chuckle, but only managing a little smile.
        "He's forgetting his manners again," the Caedaren woman said, handing the mug of cherry tea to Dawijo and pointing at the seat next to the passed out Katress. "Please sit, master Obikayu."
        "Thank you," he whispered, realising for the first time how dry his mouth was. He took a sip of the tea as he gave Katress another look. The heavily masked Ragunn walked over to the empty chair next to the affable - in Dawijo's opinion at least - old man.
        "Now that we are all seated - with the exception of Sevroa, who appears to like it much better in that dark little corner of his - we --"
        Dawijo thought he heard something akin to "sod off" in Anglyss from some distance behind him.
        "-- we might as well get started, hm? I do not suppose you know us, lad?"
        "Not as such," Dawijo said, glancing at the symbol on the old man's studded leather vest, "spymaster."
        "Spymaster? Call me Varus - 'tis what everyone does, in the end," the Bleeder said, polishing the horse's head symbol stitched to his armour above his heart.
        Dawijo gawked at him for a while, making his conclusions.
        "We could actually get some discussion done," the Caedaren woman said in Unhallowese, the merchant tongue of the southwestern coast and native tongue of the Unhallows. Dawijo understood the language well enough, which was just as good - he was becoming extremely curious about what was going on. Upon turning his attention to the Bleeder woman, Dawijo noted a similar emblem on her armour, in the same place. But her little sign was a snake. How fitting.
        "Yes, we might as well," Varus continued in the same language, staring at Katress with a quirked eyebrow. "Awfully quiet, the both of you."
        The human woman smiled tightly. "Little to say, Mynheer Sayluna." ("Mister" Sheal-lyn-na? Dawijo winced at her pronounciation of the name just as much as the conclusion that it this was indeed that certain Varus Sayluna no sane Caedaren would get involved with - at least not without first signing one's will, as the humans would have said.)
        "I thought our business was more or less concluded," the merchant added, giving Varus and his associate a dry look that suggested he would rather be anywhere else. Unfortunately for Dawijo, the man turned another look at him, hard and measuring.
        "More or less," the other Bleeder said. "However, we do have one more thing to discuss. It concerns the return leg."
        "Just keep them. Repaint them. Strip them down. Whatever you may wish. As far as the Ganesvoort Trading Company is concerned, they have been lost at sea."
        "Oh, they will be," Varus said with a smile, glancing at the scarred woman. "Juffrouw Vanderzee will take care of that, yes?"
        For the first time, Dawijo saw that there was a genuine smile on the woman's face. It was a strangely frightening expression. "There is really no need to call me a 'miss', Mynheer Sayluna."
        (There it was again, Dawijo despaired. The pronounciation!)
        The female Bleeder took it to herself to continue. "Nonetheless, Vanderzee will help with that. Simply inform the dock that you have a new crew coming in. As you were told."
        Ganesvoort turned his murderous glare toward her. "I know that, Juffrouw Talianne. I will excuse myself now." To Dawijo's amazement, nobody else around the table decided to even try to stop him. Ganesvoort simply picked up his black, plumed hat from the table and headed for the stairs, by which Dawijo could see Sevroa's gleaming, cold eyes watch them all with silent indifference.
        "Jolly good dealing with you," Varus called after him, smirking.
        "You can go climb a tree," Ganesvoort said as he walked up the stairs, fanning his hind quarters very descriptively at their general direction with his hat.
        There was an awkward silence. Even Ragunn, the masked Voice who sat so quietly Dawijo almost forgot his presence, seemed uneasy.
        "Well," Varus replied in a dark tone, "that really does break my clog."
         Varus' associate gave him a slightly harried, amused yet desperate look. "He just told you to go to hell, and you worry about clogs you don't have?"
        "I am merely amazed," the old man said in the most ridiculously heartbroken tone. Despite himself, Dawijo realised he was grinning weakly.
        "Nothing to be amazed of, frankly," Vanderzee snorted and crossed his hands on the table, smiling lop-sidedly. "Ganesvoort hates to owe anyone anything, as I'm more than sure you know by now." She stared at her hands, then turned to cast a quick look at the two Bleeders. "But before you drive me off, my feeëriek company, we do have one more thing to discuss. My pay."
        The Caedaren - all but the stone cold drunk one - in the cellar glanced at each other in the tired manner of people utterly frustrated by something they have no way of stopping. Dawijo, thankfully managed to only rub the back of his neck. No matter how much they asked them not to, humans still called them faeries. Faerie company...
        "That would be Ragunn's task," Talianne said a little uneasily. "And he will take care of it, Vanderzee."
        "On one condition," Ragunn interjected as Vanderzee was about to reply, "that I have asked of you before, sorceress."
        Vanderzee smiled her lop-sided smirk and regarded Ragunn with half-lidded eyes. "Of course. And the tuition starts - when?"
        "Now is as good a time as any. However, it will not be done here," Ragunn replied, stood up and headed back for the salt-and-dirt circle on the ground. "Please follow. It is very simple."
        "They always say that," Varus mumbled under his breath, earning an elbow in the ribs from his blank-faced female associate. Dawijo remained half-amused, half-confused as he watched Vanderzee stand up and follow Ragunn to the circle - and disappear in a brief moment in a prism of colours.
        Struggling to understand what this whole thing was about (but knowing he was up to his neck in some sort of trouble) Dawijo poured himself more tea, regardless of the table manners he broke with taking the host's tea without asking. Varus, immersed in an elaborate sign language conversation with his associate, looked up and saw this happen. A wry smile crossed his face.
        "Congratulations," he told Dawijo and lifted his feet on the table, "you are in the navy now."
        Dawijo almost choked on the lukewarm tea.
        "He is the navy, old man," Sevroa pointed out sharply from near the stairs as Dawijo wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Or the third-in-command," the gaunt man continued.
        The Bleeder simply raised his eyebrows. "True enough."
        "I'm what?" Dawijo asked, staring at them all - especially Sevroa, who looked as if he had been reminded of a particularly infuriating fact.
        "A sea captain," the one called Talianne said irritably, pointing a finger at her associate with the blankest expression Dawijo had ever seen on a woman's face. Varus, looking both apologetic and amused, simply lifted his hands and turned to face the Finger - that is, Dawijo.
        "Sea captain?" Dawijo asked, already expecting the worst.
        "Yes, that would be the general gist of it, my boy. But not quite, and no, do not interrupt me just yet. I am ready to speak; do not make me change my mind." Dawijo, mouth open and tongue ready to form the first consonant, stared at the old Caedaren. Then he closed his mouth and nodded, which made Varus smile. There was something about the way he smiled, though. It was amused and warm, but also a little strange.
        "Excellent," Varus continued. "Now, let me start by saying that you are not in fact a sea captain - you merely rank as a captain of sorts. We have not quite thought out the ranks, either. But you are going off shore."
        Dawijo looked at Talianne, then at Sevroa, without bothering to pay attention to Katress. Neither of the two grim Caedaren seemed to have a comment ready. He had a feeling this had something to do with the Grand Project. "You mean...?" he offered, not knowing if Sevroa knew about the highly secretive little - well, huge uptaking.
        "What? Oh, no, heavens no," Varus laughed. "You would be in for a rude surprise, should you go there by ship. 'Thas been a few seasons since you were there last, hm? Yes, I thought so. No, we chose you partially for that reason, but most importantly for your charming lecture in the Grand Illusive."
        Varus's words gave him a jolt. Of course, Dawijo thought as he stared at the crimson and grey eyes gazing back at him in an absent-mindedly amused manner. He had seen Varus and Whatsherface Talianne with someone else in the Grand Illusive.
        "You want my elemental metal?" Dawijo asked, taking off his spectacles and producing a napkin to clean them with.
        "No and yes. That and you," Varus amended. "On the ship. You are going to be a captain, after all. Another reason we chose you is your knack for languages. You speak several dialects of Daren and a score of human languages, correct?"
        "Can I ask why?"
        "Why?"
        "Why a navy?"
        "You may."
        Dawijo looked at Talianne, who shrugged helplessly. "Well, I just asked," he said.
        Varus nodded and left Dawijo to anticipate the answer while he poured himself more tea. "Have you ever wondered if we could get to the Sheadaren backdoor if we went east enough? The backdoor being, of course, the western shore of the East Continent."
        It was the first time the thought occurred to Dawijo, but the thought lodged itself nicely inside his head. Rather too nicely, in fact - it made sense. Prior to this there had been questions among the philosophers - both human and anarde - whether or not the Mother was flat like humans suggested, but each time this had been countered with the answer from all anardes: "Is you wife flat, then, too?"
        "I have to admit, no. That is a thought. Who came up with it?"
        "A madman," Varus provided and stared toward the staircase, chuckling when Dawijo glanced at Sevroa. "Not quite, but close."
        "Thank you for the vote of confidence," Sevroa grumbled and finally approached the table. "It was a Whisper."
        It made sense to Dawijo in a twisted way. All it took was a Whisper who asked a question so elementary, most would shake their heads patronisingly just before realising that there was maybe a little truth to the madman's words. And then the curiosity would settle in; the same curiosity that killed the cat, it was said, only because it almost got to the answer before the Caedaren.
        "So it's an expedition, then. Very well. I'll do it, but the paper did not say anything about my pay."
        "Oh, that would be because we truly have not thought out the ranks," Varus said and drank his tea. "Give us a while or so. Until then, could we have your personal signature in a little document?"
        "Document?" Dawijo asked, glancing at Carenda Talianne, who produced a rather large scroll with quite a respectable amount of names on it.
        "Consider it a preliminary contract. Once you write your name on it, you may not back out from the mission. You will also not be getting any pay until you have signed the actual contract, which is to be signed later."
        "When I am sea, hm?" the Finger smirked, finally realising the old man was genuinely trying to amuse him.
        "Oh, just before the departure," Varus smiled.
        Talianne sighed. "He's pulling your leg. The fleet is not moving for a while yet, so there is all the time to collect those names. The pay, and this is a vow, is excellent."
        The old Carenda shrugged. "To be honest, this is only an agreement to keep your mouth closed about the whole matter. We do not," he said, pointing at everyone left around the table, "want anyone to hear about this."
        "Just sign it," Sevroa rasped, acting as if he was getting a headache from all the yammering.
        Dawijo sniffed out at the last bit, grabbing the quill and the ink well handed to him by Talianne. He signed the document with a smile, at the same time reading some of the names.
        Talianne took the document back first, eyeing at it satisfiedly as Varus took the quill and the ink well.
        Sevroa, on the other hand, was paying attention to Katress. "So," he said, "sleep well?"
        Dawijo glanced sideways, noting the surly frown on the Hand's face. "Can it, you failure," Katress muttered, reaching for blindly for a cup as he sat up.
        "Nice of you to join us, Katress," Talianne said in a manner as proper and polite as possible. "Tea?"
        "I'd prefer kahveh*," Katress groaned, staring into the cup. "I have places to be."
        At first Dawijo thought there was very little different about Sevroa and Katress, but he realised this was not true. It was when he looked at Katress that he found the Hand staring back at him. "Who are you?" the man asked, squinting.
        "Him? Oh, beg your pardon - Katress, this is your advisor and linguist on the trip," Varus said. Dawijo did not have to look at him to know the old man was smiling. "A certain Dawijo Obikayu. He shows promise - or so I am told."
        "A Finger, huh," Katress muttered, leaning toward Dawijo with a squint. The scent of wine was much too rank for Dawijo's taste, but he made an effort to not look like it did. "What's your specialty?"
        Dawijo blinked. "It used to be the Mother's spit and tears." Katress frowned, waiting for an explanation. "I have a knack for iron and other things."
        "Iron? Can you make enemy cannons explode?"
        Although this application of his talents had not occurred to Dawijo - a man who considered himself rather peaceful -, he indicated that as far as he understood, yes, it was possible, but that it was easier to do it with a little spark in the right place at the right time.
        "You just said - no, no, never mind," the man murmurred and slapped his left hand on his forehead. "Where's that kahveh?"
        "We only have tea, I'm afraid," Talianne replied calmly, looking most definitely annoyed now.
        Dawijo felt quite unnerved by the entire ordeal. Too much had happened in one day. "May I ask something, Carenda Sayluna?" the Finger asked, casting a glance at Varus, who was having whispered exchange with Sevroa. The two of them glanced at him.
        "I," Dawijo began with a stutter, "I would like to know the present orders, if there is still time until the ship leaves."
        "Amusing. Sevroa was about to tell me he wishes to retire." Varus shrugged, giving Sevroa a glance. The old man acted as if he was properly entertained. "As soon as Ragunn returns, ask him to take you to your home." Then the old Caedaren frowned. "Also, would you be willing to house Sevroa?"
        "I told you, old man," the blue-eyed curmudgeon said evenly, glancing at Dawijo in a way the Finger could only interpret as indifferent, "I damn well know how to camp."
        "It's fine," Dawijo found himself saying, though he wasn't sure why. "I don't - mind."
        Sevroa, prepared to have a debate with Varus about whether or not he was going to set up camp somewhere, turned to stare at Dawijo. And for a moment, that was all he did - before he finally shrugged. "Fine," the man said, sounding partially surprised.
        Dawijo nodded, stealing a glance at eveyone around the table while he sank deeper and deeper into a certain excited despair. Mother and Father, what was he getting into?
        You, the rest of his mind answered - not very modestly - to him, are conquering the East from the West.
        He liked this answer. But somewhere in his head, a fortuneteller's words echoed like a grim omen: Care for what you promise, you splendid man.
        Just thinking about Lady Fannjer made Dawijo's ambition and curiosity clash together with his common sense and nose for trouble. But reality was harsh: he had already made the promise, and that was that.

        * Author's notes: I like to bastardise words, and so - I'm terribly sorry, but I've done a horrible misdeed to Arabic. The word kahveh is a derivative of the Arabic word "qahwah" as much as it's a derivative of the Finnish "kahvi". What it means, of course is... coffee.
        What's wrong with fantasy and coffee? Nothing! Coffee makes writing fantasy easier!
        Also, in case someone missed the translations there...
        Mynheer is mister.
        Juffrouw is miss.
        Feeëriek is faerie.
        And yes, Unhallowese is Dutch. If you happen to be Dutch and know more archaic terms for the above, I would appreciate it if you dropped me a line!