2

Trouble in Casat

For five years, Dazhyen’s world had been one prison cell or the other. He put up no defence when he was tried, and his conviction he accepted without qualm. For his calm demeanour, the judge awarded him five years’ light imprisonment, and those five years Dazhyen served without incident. The King, like the Queen before him, had done Dazhyen no wrong and though Dazhyen spent the last few years as a young man in jail, he bore no ill will towards his King. Dazhyen had been apprentice, willing or unwilling, to a truly evil man, and five years in prison was – in Dazhyen’s considered opinion – barely punishment enough.

But, also in Dazhyen’s considered opinion, any lack of punishment was soundly made up for by that one day – the day his master died. Still when Dazhyen shut his eyes, if only to blink, he could hear his master’s final, painful breaths. He remembered the sound of the blood spurting out of his neck, the wheezing of his tired lungs, the slumping of his body. He had seen none of it, of course, for his own head was wrapped in a black sack, and for that – and that alone – he was thankful.

“Boy!” a voice snapped him back to reality, and the start was nearly enough to topple him off the edge of the pier he was standing on. Looming in front of him, waiting to be tied up to the pier, was a large fully rigged ship. “Tie up!” shouted the voice, which he realised was from his foreman – a stocky and well-built old Uttari man, with a thick beard and no hair. “Yes, sir!” Dazhyen yelped back and got to work. The ship, a triple-masted and four-decked Baynman, named the Heiress to the Dandelion, was an older one and did not seem to Dazhyen to be particularly seaworthy. Her paint, black and yellow, was peeling off, the wood of her hull seemed cracked, and Dazhyen could swear that the mainmast was also cracked down the middle.

Baynmen, so named for they sailed the Bayn Sea, were designed to be rugged and long-lasting, and built with the finest of timber – but still, Dazhyen felt a pang of fear in his landlubbing heart and he regretted, immediately, being deputed to sail aboard her. To act in service of the Kingdom was, however, one of the conditions of his release. He had elected to work in the docks and aboard the Kingdom’s merchantmen. His first time at sea, it was revealed to him that morning, was to be aboard the Heiress, sailing South West, across the Bayn Sea, to the city of Casat on the continent. He understood that it was the chief trading city of the White Coast – a strip of land on the eastern end of the continent, marked by its white beaches – but knew little else. Still, the fear and regret were now eclipsed by the excitement of new horizons.

They were also, he was told, taking a passenger with them. As he was seasoned in service, he had been appointed to be the passenger’s attendant, though he found the manner of his appointment strange. The appointment had come not from the courts or a judge, but from the Office of the King. Still, he thought little of it, for he had no right to question his betters. Had he known more about ship-life than he did, he would, however, have been considerably nervous. It was rare that a passenger on a merchantman was waited on. Oftentimes, even the passengers had to work for their keep aboard a merchantman – even larger ones, like the Heiress. None of this was known to him and so the implications of his being drafted into the position of waiter sailed over his head.

He was suddenly and cruelly pulled back into the real world, ripped from his thoughts, when he felt a blow on the back of his head.

“Do you want the ship to cast off without us realising it, boy!” the foreman shouted at him, clearly upset with his inability to tie a knot. The blow from the foreman wasn’t particularly hard, enough only to jolt him back to reality, but Dazhyen felt immediately that it was unfair. He hadn’t been taught how to tie these knots, after all! Before he could open his mouth to protest, the foreman spoke up. “Ah never mind. You’re the probie, ain’t ya, boy? Jerry will show you how it’s done,” he waved over an older longshoreman, “but I expect you to be an expert in knots by the time you’re back!”, and so saying the foreman walked off. Dazhyen worked in quiet the rest of that cold winter morning, asking Jerry for help wherever and whenever needed. In their conversation it transpired that Jerry too had begun working here as a released prisoner – a probie – before deciding to make the work his life.

Jerry was a large and seasoned sailor, longshoreman, and dockworker, but he was not a man, much to Dazhyen’s astonishment. Jerry, it quickly transpired, was a miruq; his pupils resembled those of a snake, and his elbows and knuckles had smatterings of rust-brown scales that looked reptilian. His nails were narrow and long, not at all like Dazhyen’s own broad, flat and short nails, and his skin – that was not scale-like – was exceptionally rough. Dazhyen had only ever seen miruqs from afar and never really interacted with the strange lizard-people, and so his astonishment while working alongside Jerry was overt. Jerry was good natured in his handling of Dazhyen’s wonder and answered all questions as honestly as he could. And so, they worked – talking, and labouring under the wintry sun.

It was late afternoon by the time the Heiress had been made ready in every conceivable way for the journey to Casat. Her hold, which contained tea from the mainland, had been emptied and refilled with silk garments, pepper, and cloves. Then, her supplies were replenished – food and water were brought onboard in great quantities, alongside crates filled with bottles of brandy and rum. It was these goods that most interested Dazhyen, for they were all marked with the King’s seal. “Better not to ask questions,” Jerry said when he noticed Dazhyen start to form a query. “The Heiress does odd jobs for the crown, and that’s all there is to it.” So, he kept quiet and got back to his work.

By the time they were done, Dazhyen’s stomach was empty, his clothes drenched by sweat and sea, and his throat parched. The air was humid, and carried the smell of rain for on the horizon there loomed grey storm clouds. Suddenly, as he rested on some crates, Dazhyen’s mind was flooded with visions of him freezing to death in the cold water, or drowning trapped in the ship’s hull as she sank, or being munched on by the horrors of the deep, blue sea.

“You’re in good hands, probie,” he heard Jerry speak up, as he filled his pipe with tobacco. “The captain of the Heiress has sailed through worse and the ship’s come out better for it on the other side if you can believe it,” Jerry lit up the tobacco now. Dazhyen could not believe it, but he had no knowledge with which to disagree. “The only real danger you’ll be in is when you’re being sick.”

Dazhyen was taken aback by Jerry’s certainty. “When!? Don’t you mean, if?”

“Oh, you’ll heave, alright, in that weather. Just remember to hold on tight or you’ll fall overboard. Then you will be in trouble,” Jerry was being troublingly nonchalant about it all. Dazhyen turned his attention back to the expanse of the sea, which now roiled in the gusty winds, beyond the breakwater. The horizon was engulfed by a low grey cloud.

“I should have elected to serve in a smithy,” he mused, voice filled with regret. Jerry laughed, and then immediately coughed. “It’s not so bad, trust me, probie,” Jerry’s reassurance somehow felt more convincing for the grin through which it came. It was in precisely that moment that the rain began to fall – slow at first, but within seconds it was a torrent.

“I am miserable,” Dazhyen grumbled and this only invited Jerry to laugh harder.

“Here,” the miruq turned to Dazhyen and pressed a box wrapped in cloth into his hand. “My old pipe,” Jerry seemed reluctant to part with it, but before Dazhyen could say anything; “it has been something of a lucky charm for me on voyages more troubling than the one that faces you now. It would be wrong for me, as a sailor, to not do all I can to prepare you for your new life – and right now,” he puffed on his own pipe, “all I can do is hand you this.”

It had been a long time since Dazhyen had been subject to kindness, and he stared down at the box dumbfoundedly. At best Dmitur had regarded him with indifference, and his jailers cared only enough to keep alive. He did not know what to say, but croaked out a “thank you” as the two of them got back to waiting.

After a few minutes, and when the torrent had died down a bit, Jerry spoke up. “That’s life as sometimes…” he gazed up at the rain before turning to meet Dazhyen’s gaze with a mad grin. “All you can do is hurry up and wait!” Dazhyen laughed his first genuine laugh in years, and Jerry seemed to be pleased with himself. Then they got back to the tiresome business of waiting about.

It was after they’d had their lunch, which was itself simple fare of sandwiches and beer, and after the rain died down that it finally became clear that departure was imminent. The passenger arrived, and Dazhyen learnt that it was a young woman. But, before he could learn anything else, she was quickly whisked below-decks by the Captain. Dazhyen was then ordered aboard where he was allotted his bed – the lower bunk in a small cabin which was lit by one porthole and rested barely above the waterline. Still, it was considerably more comfortable than the cells to which he had become accustomed. As he set down his things, which at present included only a parcel of spare clothes, a pair of shoes, and the box given to him by Jerry, there was a great lurch as the Heiress cast off.

Dazhyen hurried to the top deck, and cast his gaze ashore. There, he saw Jerry who stood and waved him goodbye. Dazhyen, naturally, waved back – unable to stop himself smiling, despite his terror. “Temtel keep you!” Jerry shouted as his last goodbye before. Dazhyen felt himself balk at the greeting by instinct. Temtel was the goddess of the sea and of luck in Saptadharm – a goddess that Dazhyen did not believe in. Were he a few years younger, he would have shouted back “Azda guides me!” in retort, but he had accepted Jerry’s well-wishes without qualm. What might Dmitur say! So wondering, Dazhyen turned to the duties laid out for him by his new officers.

The afternoon went quickly and he was taught the basics of what was needed from him on this voyage. As a deckhand he was required to do the most arduous tasks – from handling the ropes to moving heavy things. On his first shift, which was surprisingly short, he found that a good amount of his job was, at least for now, simply moving heavy things from one place to the next. He also was further instructed in the tying of knots, and received his first instruction on handling the sail, and on the maintenance of the ship expected out of him. This included, but was not limited to: swabbing the decks, cleaning the ship’s bilge, unfurling sails, painting the ship’s hull when in port, and the surprisingly complicated business of standing watch. It was hard work and Dazhyen was not used to the pain of manual labour, but it was made easier by the men he worked alongside. They had been quick to accept him and he had been quick to adapt. They were a rough sort but a caring one. Dazhyen was, for instance, immediately nicknamed “Daisy” for his weaker stature and his unease with labour. However, despite the nickname – which he graciously and humorously accepted – he never felt as if he were made a target of mockery.

He soon found out that his shifts as a deckhand would be much shorter than his shifts as a longshoreman – three shifts of four hours each day, and since the voyage had begun late his first shift was his only shift for the day. “You won’t be on watch in the night,” said an older sailor, one of the ship’s bosuns. “You haven’t the time at sea for it. Only the older dogs get that watch,” he grumbled – his voice equal parts envy and boast.

“At least he’ll wake earlier than the rest of us!” said another man of similar age, who was ranked as an Able Seaman.

“Ah the landsmen are all the same,” replied the former, an elven man whose name was Mert. “Can’t remember the last time a landsman made it longer than two years with us before jumping ship.”

“I’m sorry,” Dazhyen interjected. “What’s a landsman?”

The other man, Able Seaman Getrick, responded. “It’s the lowest rank aboard any ship – it marks out a man as never having sailed. By next year, you’ll be a 3rd class seaman, if that’s any comfort.” To anyone else, being a 3rd class anything might have seemed a lowly life. But the prospect warmed Dazhyen’s heart and he smiled. “Odd reaction,” mused Getrick. So, the work and education continued and Dazhyen’s first shift was over in a flash.

He went belowdecks to the galley feeling an odd sense – accomplishment. It was the first time in his life he’d felt it. But stranger still, he felt belonging. He decided then and there, as he sat down for dinner – which consisted of a torturously hard biscuit and gravy thick as paste – that the Heiress was to be his home, and that he would sail the seas till the day he died.

This was not the first time that Eliza had made the voyage Casat, indeed she’d made the crossing to Casat, Sunrise, Damad, Samudabad and a half dozen other place across the Bayn Sea enough times to know each wave by heart. It was, however, the first time that she had been subject to a storm such as this. As a rule, Gunada did not permit her to travel to the continent in the winter for fear of the storms, and this remained the only restriction on her freedom. The first two days of the voyage were, by far and away, the worst. So debilitated was she that she never so much as left her room. Though she didn’t particularly want to, for Raidas had told her that she was to be attended to by a manservant. That was not a meeting she was particularly keen on.

This, she felt, was most peculiar. She had not been overly keen of maintaining lady’s maids or private servants, but did so for appearances at the palace. So she was not certain of protocol but it did seem odd, if not entirely improper, that a man was to be waiting on her. If her mistress, Madame Dubois – a plump and fiery woman from the heartland of the continent, were made aware of this arrangement, she would certainly have thrown a fit! But perhaps most perplexing was the fact that Raidas had arranged for her to have an attendant at all. For she was not travelling aboard the Heiress as Princess Eliza Mawer, and had hidden her identity and face from all save the Captain and First Mate. To the rest of the crew she was introduced as the Madame Pyrene Firebeard, a travelling scholar on her way to the University in Casat.

She recalled her conversation with Gunada before she left, and considered the particulars of the task that lay ahead of her.

“It is my fault,” Gunada had said, “that I made you heir and public figure. You have socialised before in Casat, they know you well,” he had been irritated. “At least you’ve been trained well in the use of disguise,” he had consoled himself. “Now, tell me – who are you?”

“Pyrene Firebeard,” she said without hesitation.

For the five years since Dmitur’s execution, her training had been much more directed – rather than learning the basics of living a hard life, she had been taught specifics. She was taught to lie expertly, to disguise herself such that she nearly became a different person, to memorise all she heard, to study people, to pass undetected when needed (she had particular fun sneaking into the Lifeguards’ barracks as training), and how to fight in close quarters. This was different to her general training with arms, which continued until she could use the gun and the sword with equal mastery. She was taught, ultimately, to kill quietly.

“Good!” Gunada nodded with satisfaction. “And why are you in Casat?”

“To study the mating habits of the White Coast Wyrmling,” she had said. While this was obviously not true, she looked forward to seeing the wyrmlings again – scaled creatures that resembled walking lizards that could swim. They lounged on the beaches, hunted for fish in the ocean, and danced over the waves.

“Under whose tutelage are you?” asked Gunada.

“Mistress Freien Treak of the Evergreen College, Adhikabad,” she repeated, speaking not as if she had learnt the answers by heart, but as if she were actually being tutored by Freien Treak.

“Good, good…” Gunada paused to pore over his notes. “I assume Raidas has given you sufficient information on the White Coast Wyrmlings for you to pass as an actual expert?” he asked without looking up and Eliza confirmed it.

“And you’re sure that Freiein Treak has agreed to play her part in my ruse?” she asked, to which Gunada responded with a chuckle.

“Yes, Eliza. She’s an old friend and this won’t be the first time she’s done something like this for us. Her letter of recommendation will have reached the Yellow Library some days before you do.” After a few moments he’d spoken up again. “And what is it that you’re actually doing in Casat?” he’d asked.

“To gather what information I can on Atashga Iram Odehi’s plans,” she’d responded tentatively. “And, if I can, to kill him.”

A crack of lightning jolted her back to reality. She was still lying in her bed, unsure if it was day or night outside, for the curtains were drawn. Her gaze settled on an unopened trunk which sat across from her in the far side of the room. Inside was a selection of poisons, daggers, and even pistols. If she needed to kill Iram, it was up to her how. She’d asked Raidas if she could use the meya to do so – perhaps drop something heavy on him, making it look like an accident.

“It can be done,” Raidas had said with caution, “but by you it is unlikely. You have had only five years’ proper instruction in controlling the world. To do so properly, you still need to sit still and focus. This can give you away easily, little one. But perhaps if you found a quiet place, then, yes. But I would advise against it. What I would advise, on the other hand, is that you use the meya to your advantage in a fight.”

While being trained in the use of the meya, it had quickly materialised that when Eliza was in a moment of alertness or physical exertion, she was far more adept with its manipulation than in calmer moments. It first happened when she’d instinctively blocked a slash from Cermak, who was now Lieutenant Colonel of the Lifeguards, by freezing in place his sword-arm and sword mid-air. Following that incident, she was trained hard in using the meya in combat by Raidas and Gunada, with Cermak often serving as subject for her awkward experiments. Over five years of training, however, she had become expert in this combat too.

She felt little mortal fear about her mission, and she wondered if this was misguided. Iram Odehi, who served as Atashga of Mara for all Casat, was a fearsome man – if the tales about him were to be believed. According to the most recent reports that Raidas had, Iram Odehi had been given protection and political power by the Sultana of Casat, a miruq woman named Ferahi Ashap. Eliza’s task was not easy, not by any stretch of the imagination. And, to make matters worse, if she were caught and her identity revealed, it would almost certainly spell war between Casat and Afor. And yet… she was not afraid. She knew that she had prepared well for her task and that she could do what is needed.

Over the past five years, she had investigated the “Maran Conspiracy”, as the three of them had come to call it, and had helped Gunada work through the network of Azdavyeries that had plotted against the Kingdom. The Azdavyery Temple in Afor had been seized by the Lifeguards last year on Gunada’s orders, and had only just been returned to the Azdavyery. Still, many dozens of their ranks were dead or imprisoned. It was slow going, but they worked their way through the conspiracy until, at last, it was laid out before them. Everything had pointed to Iram Odehi. He had smuggled in weapons and money, stashed guns and hand grenades across Afor, sent assassins disguised as priests into the Afor Temple (one of whom even tried to bribe Cermak), and had caused a good amount of mischief in the frontiers of Afor’s territory.

In a little village called Ushek, a few dozen miles east of Afor in the centre of the island, his agents had incited the Azdavyery and Saptadharmis to riot. Over two hundred had died in just a few days. In the Grand Port of Afor, saboteurs blew up a crane which collapsed on a Baynman and killed dozens of dockworkers. No, he’d caused enough despair in his quest to rid Afor of the Mawers, Raidas had decided.

There was a loud knocking on the door which jolted her out of bed. “Madame Firebeard, I am to ask you if you would eat some food. It has been two days that you have drank only broth, Madame!” there was an odd familiarity to the voice, but Eliza could not place it. It did not matter – Eliza’s stomach growled with hunger.

“Yes, please. Something hot would be enjoyable!” she called back and within minutes, the man knocked on the door again. “Give me a moment,” she said, getting up, gathering herself and opening the door. The man who stood there she recognised instantly. It was Dmitur’s apprentice, the one she’d seen in his memories.

Nothing could have prepared her for such an inopportune reunion. He was not much older than her, in fact he looked to be about as old as she, and was strikingly handsome. He was well built enough, though compared to sailors he appeared smaller. His hair, which was golden brown, was much shorter than last she remembered, and his grey eyes appeared to have sunk into his face. In those rapidly widening and panic-filled eyes she saw… recognition.

Instantly Eliza grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him inside, and she noticed that he offered no resistance. Astoundingly, he managed to keep a hold on the tray of food which he carefully placed on the table in her room, before speaking with a stammer.

“I apologise, Your Majesty, it is just that I was not told…” he had suddenly become extremely interested in the floor, for his eyes would not leave it.

“Dazhyen, yes?” she asked, and he raised his head but dropped his gaze quickly.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I am… flattered… you know my name…”

“Never mind that, Dazhyen,” Eliza was frustrated, but hungry; she launched at the plate of food and grabbed a sandwich, which she dunked into soup and ate happily. For a moment, she wondered if that was foolish – what if he’d poisoned it? But that made no sense, and so she ate as she spoke.

“How did you know who I was? I was not recognised in this guise by even the King himself!” she was certainly well disguised. Her skin was lightened into a pale shade with the application of special creams and make ups, her hair was coloured red, and her nose had been made up to appear scarred as if raked by the claw of some fierce creature. Her hazel hair was gone, so was her honey-coloured skin and her cheekbones were hidden by clever coloured powder that was Gunada’s own invention. She looked nothing like Eliza. And yet…

“It is because of your eyes, Your Majesty,” Dazhyen still observed only the floor. “I first saw them- you when you walked past me during your grandmother’s funeral,” he was so sheepish that she struggled to hear him over the storm.

Eliza smiled despite herself, but quickly regained control of her face. “The last time I saw you, you were tied to a chair and your master was dying next to you,” he flinched bodily at stern reminder.

“I recall very well, Your Majesty,” he murmured. Instantly Eliza realised that she could have handled that better, but what was said was said.

“What I mean, Dazhyen, is that I cannot trust you. What I am doing in Casat… no one must know who I am,” she explained, but Dazhyen’s demeanour had changed entirely. She could see that he was much tenser than before. She considered, for a moment, prodding his mind – something she had also received extensive training in over the past five years – but decided against it. He had, after all, done nothing wrong and to violate his privacy so was unjust. “Allow me to apologise, Dazhyen, for that uncouth reminder of that day,” she said sincerely.

“Think nothing of it, Your Majesty,” he said, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Am I free to go? I am expected back in the galley soon.”

“Unfortunately, not, Dazhyen. What I am doing is exceptionally important – I cannot say more, so suffice to say that many lives depend on this. I must ask, therefore, that from now until we return to Afor, you must not leave my side,” she spoke carefully, choosing each word with great thought. She was uncertain of what else to do – she could have had him arrested, again, but what purpose would that serve? She could have killed him, but that was a disgusting thought. Furthermore, she was certain that the shy and apologetic man that stood in front of her, the man who remembered her eyes, was unlikely to reveal the truth of her identity. Certainly, he was intelligent enough not to, she thought. But, then again, it is always better to be safe than sorry, Eliza said to herself. The only option left was to keep him close, where he can be monitored.

“If I may, Your Majesty,” he said after a long pause, “I am not certain that Captain Rakehead would be quite alright with that.”

“Is that your only concern?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Though I have been aboard only two days, I have grown fond of the ship and her crew – I do not wish to leave. If I am considered to be abandoning my duties, they will keel-haul me, Your Majesty.”

“Quite literally?”

“I doubt that, Your Majesty. But they will let me off at the nearest port. That is not a fate I wish to experience.”

“I understand and sympathise, Dazhyen. Can you please go and fetch Captain Rakehead? I should speak to him in your presence, such that there is no doubt as to why you may be absent from some of your duties.”

The Captain was an old friend of Gunada’s, though neither mentioned for how long they’d known each other, and understood well enough Eliza’s peculiar request. He promised not to hold it against Dazhyen, who seemed to be satisfied with the outcome, and arranged to have him work within her earshot and sleep in her room on a separate cot.

“Sorry, Sir,” Dazhyen here spoke up for the first time. “But that sleeping arrangement seems most improper,” he spoke with great difficulty, as though he were being choked.

“Hmm,” Captain Rakehead, a burly old elven man, huffed. “I don’t see why. You don’t mean to harm Her Highness, do you, Daisy? Not to mention, you couldn’t if you tried! Now, Her Highness needs to keep an eye on you – how do you propose she does that if she can’t see you, hmm?”

“Really, Uncle Elador,” Eliza began, “it isn’t right. I trust him to know better than to blab.”

“Very well, then I concede the point. Daisy can have the room beside yours – it’s for the Second Mate, but since we don’t have one it’s empty.” Rakehead walked up to Daisy and whispered something he thought Eliza couldn’t hear. “Don’t act smart, probie. Now, I don’t know what Her Majesty is up to, but if you fiddle, then you will have me to contend with,” Rakehead wasn’t venomous, exactly, but his threatening tone had the effect needed for Dazhyen’s face was drained of colour in his terror. Having said his peace, the Captain departed the room, taking Dazhyen with him. Eliza watched in silence as they left, neither looking back.

Eliza spent the majority of the time on the three-week voyage reading up about Casat and its history. She took walks on the deck, always keeping an eye on Dazhyen who, for his part, endeavoured to remain within her sight and within her earshot as much as he could. Whenever he got the chance, he reminded her that he would never betray her identity – though he never said it explicitly. It was in small moments and in his interactions with the other crewmen that she picked up on it. They had known that he had been deputised to be Pyrene Firebeard’s attendant and had, therefore, inundated him with questions about their mysterious passenger. And at every chance he got, he maintained her ruse with a capacity to lie naturally that shocked Eliza.

At the end of the first week of the voyage, she found Dazhyen waiting for her outside her room after dinner. This was the first time he had done so – earlier, he would finish his meal within her sight and would go up to bed when she did. On the one occasion that he went up earlier than her, he kept his door open to prove to her that he was in his room and nowhere else, only closing his door when she closed hers. So, his waiting for her was, certainly, an oddity.

“Yes, Dazhyen?” Eliza tried to muster an air of openness, but she was quite tired.

“I apologise if you are tired, ma’am,” he began earnestly, “I only wanted to ask you about the reason for your voyage,” he bowed his head slightly when he spoke to her.

“What do you mean?”

“It has occurred to me that though I am attending you, I know little about the reason for your voyage, ma’am. Knowing more would allow me to better see to your needs, Ms. Firebeard.” Eliza realised then she had given him stunningly little information about what Pyrene Firebeard was aiming to do in Casat, and yet he had maintained her story exceptionally well.

“Ah, yes! Of course, Dazhyen. Come,” she said, ushering him into her room and locking the door behind her. “I apologise, Dazhyen. I’ve only just realised you know next to nothing about Pyrene Firebeard,” she was flustered.

“It is quite alright, Your Majesty. I sensed that this, that being my recognising you, was not, perhaps, a part of your plans. It is only natural to be unsure of what to do in situations such as these,” his eyes were, once again, examining the floor or looking at the wall. “I mean no offence or intrusion, the simple fact is that I cannot keep inventing stories, Your Majesty. At some point, what I say is bound to clash irreconcilably with the reality and that can land us both in the frying pan, so to speak.”

Eliza was surprised by the depth of his perception and the specificity of his understanding, but he was not done. “I do not wish now or in the future to know the real reason behind your visit; I trust that it is too sensitive a secret to reveal to a someone such as myself.” As he spoke his eyes were examining in great detail the bowl of fruit set on the table at which Eliza sat. “But I do need to know what Ms. Firebeard seeks in Casat, Your Majesty. For your sake as well as mine.”

“You make a compelling point, Dazhyen,” Eliza said immediately, extending a hand to the bowl of fruits that he was observing and plucking an orange from it.

“Well, if you must know,” she adapted her voice as she spoke now. It was higher pitched and more delicate, reflective of Pyrene’s delicate upbringing as a scholar and her work as one. “I am studying the mating habits of the White Coast Wyrmlings, Mr. Gerisov,” she used Dazhyen’s last name, as would a real scholar, obsessed with class distinction. “They are fascinating creatures are they not?” she put on a fake smile, and affected a stern pose akin to that of a teacher.

Dazhyen cracked a smile and said, softly, “You are rather good at the voice, Your Majesty,” he sounded equal parts impressed and horrified, “in fact you remind me of my old theology teacher…”, he now sounded almost sad. “She was a very scary woman, Your Majesty," he said finally with a large smile on his face. Eliza laughed aloud and returned to her normal voice.

“What else would you like to know about Pyrene, Dazhyen?” she asked, pushing the bowl of fruit over to Dazhyen in offering.

They had a long conversation that night about Pyrene and what she aims to do in Casat. About where she comes from – Odeah, just like Eliza – and why she had been in Afor. Throughout it all, Dazhyen listened with intent and asked questions only about Pyrene. Never once did he ask Eliza for anything. They spoke until the candle burnt low and Eliza realised that they had begun to speak about things other than Pyrene. They had both let their guard down, in a sense.

Still, she revealed nothing vital – not her nature as pur raktali, not her training under Gunada and Raidas, and certainly she did not even hint at her mission. But she did let small things slip, as did he. He spoke little of his past, but what he revealed betrayed the depth of the hurt caused by his brutal faith. She revealed some of hers too, such as the harsh conditioning of her early years and the oddities of palace life, and spoke a little about the passing of her mother when she was but a child. He spoke of being beaten for small mistakes, first by his father and then by Dmitur, of being starved for forgetting scripture.

“It is not a religion I would wish upon my worst enemy,” he said. “I could not see it then – I saw it as truth. I was… misguided. I believed fully, or at least I tried to, that our truth was the Truth; that everyone else was just a pretender,” he admitted, following which there was silence. “Prison changed me, Your Majesty,” he spoke softly but surely. “It was a place where I realised that… the only worth of a man is what he can do and what he can’t do. Faith and gods… they don’t matter in places like that.”

“I know a thing or two about that,” she said, and Dazhyen did not question her. “You have changed much in this week alone, Dazhyen. The day I first met you, you were meek. Now, you can sit in my presence, you laugh with the crew, and they have accepted you. Do you feel happy, here? Aboard this ship, above the waves?”

Dazhyen, for the first time in their conversation, looked Eliza in the eyes, his own filled with shock. “It is the first time someone has asked me if I was happy and meant it…”

“Well?” Eliza stared expectantly.

“Yes, I am happy here.”

“Good. Now, perhaps,” the candle in the lantern had almost burnt out, “we should turn in.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he got up to leave. Before he opened the door, he turned around with an innocent look on his face. “Might I ask something of you, Your Majesty?”

“I shall do my best to grant it. Contingent on what you ask, of course,” she smiled a friendly smile. She no longer saw Dazhyen as a subject or a liability, she realised suddenly. He was something closer to a confidant, or perhaps even a friend. At any rate, in Dazhyen she found an honesty that she had never seen before.

“When we reach Casat, would you point out the White Coast Wyrmlings to me? I have never seen them before,” he was smiling sheepishly at the thought of the wondrous creatures.

“Of course, Dazhyen. They are magnificent beasts and well worth your admiration,” she responded in kind.

****

The full chapter is just over 10k words, and can't be posted here in full. Will post part 2 of ch.2 later!

PS: This is a world I've been building since 2019. It began as a thing I did to pass the time, and has become a pet project. I have over 6000 years of history written down, and dozens of in-world documents. I think all of this has bled into chapter one to detrimental effect.

But I'm too close to it! My beta readers have been friends and family, and they've been too close to it too. So I need fresh eyes.

My questions are simple: what works? what doesn't and why?

Ty!