The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

As we rode off, Kun watched us go. The constables at the gate, who had watched our exchange nervously, settled back into positions of rest. Zhen and Lo, the two Mystics posted there, remained standing at rigid attention.

“Well, Captain,” said Zhen at last, “we shall continue our vigilance.”

“Of course you will,” said Kun, still smiling. “Nephew, follow these new arrivals.”

Lo looked at Zhen in confusion. But Zhen’s expression bent towards a frown. His face darkened, making the heavy scar on his left cheek stand out all the more.

“I prefer not to be referred to that way, Captain.”

Kun’s smile widened. My little sister-son, he thought. So eager to be seen as a man, when it seems only yesterday I had to help his mother dress him in the morning.

“I am truly sorry,” he said. “I keep forgetting. Lieutenant Zhen of the family Zhou—take another from your unit and follow them. Keep track of everything they do.”

“But Captain,” said Lo, “with the way you acted towards them … that is, do you think they are suspicious?”

“You think them above question because I was friendly?” said Kun, chuckling. “Of course I was polite. What possible benefit could result from rudeness? Even the darkest circumstances do not demand ill manners. But they are liars, all three of them. Retired warriors? Both of them have bloodstains on their boots and clothes—old stains, but not old enough. They are fighters, and they have fought recently. Within weeks. Follow them, and send any information directly to me.”

“Are they Shades, Captain?” ventured Zhen.

“That is precisely what I mean to find out. The enemy surprised us once. I vow beneath the sky that they will not do so again if I can prevent it.”

Now, you will recall that Mag said she used to live near Taitou. She did not explain further at that time. But later, I learned something of the place that she had called home before we met, and I shall tell you something of it now.

Shuiniu was a small village, as she had said. The people there mostly lived on their own merits. They farmed or hunted for sustenance, and they had a smith, a cobbler, and other crafters to see to the people’s needs. They had some small trade with what they saw as “outsiders”; Taitou lay not far to the south, and the Dorsean city of Bianje stood on the border a few days to the northwest. Due west was the River Marsden, with many towns along its length. But Shuiniu was too small a place to receive great caravans from any larger settlement. Only small, modest traders came to visit the village, so that it was rare to meet more than a dozen outsiders in a year.

Mag apprenticed under a brewer in the town. The brewer’s name was Duana, and she was as good a master to Mag as could have been hoped. Mag took to the craft with great zeal and exceptional skill. Under Duana, she learned the little tricks that would one day make her so renowned as a brewer. But she told me more than once that Duana’s ale was much better, and I have often lamented that I never had the chance to taste it.

Now, at that time, there was a man in town named Ciaran. He was a Heddan, but he had moved to Dorsea in his youth. Being from so far away made him feel like an outsider, and deep in his heart was a desire for others to feel the same. He had a caustic manner and a cruel streak, and he was wont to create division between people where none had been before.

Naturally, he did not get on well with Mag, who tried to avoid him where she could. But her master owned the town’s tavern as well as the brewery, and so it was impossible to avoid Ciaran entirely. Whenever she was around, he would barb and jab at her in subtle, veiled ways. I am sure you know what I mean—jibes which hide insults, but which he could always claim had been meant to be innocent.

I only heard of two times that Mag rose to the bait. The first was in the tavern, while Ciaran was downing a mug of her latest brew. He slurped at it and gave deep gasping breaths between each swig, a habit he knew she hated.

(That was a bugbear of Mag’s, by the way. If I ever wished to annoy her, all I had to do was eat with my mouth open or smack my lips and tongue as I drank. Before long, she would pitch me into the nearest body of water she could find. I usually considered it worth it. I had to take my victories where I could, you understand.)

“This is fair stuff,” said Ciaran, slamming his mug on the table a little too hard. “One day, someone might call you skilled at your craft, child.”

Mag kept her gaze on the bar as she scrubbed it with a washcloth. “I thank you, of course.”

“Then again,” said Ciaran, “mayhap you have reached the pinnacle of your skill already. It can be that way. You reach a peak early on, and then you grow worse with time. If you find that to be the case, you must not be too disappointed.”

Mag had very nearly scrubbed through the bar’s varnish by this point. Her washcloth stopped, and a close observer would have seen her jaw muscles were like iron. She spoke before she could moderate either her words or her tone.

“Well, if I have already reached my peak, at least I can say I have one skill. Mayhap in the future, you will be able to say the same, though I doubt it.”

Ciaran’s face grew as ugly as his heart. He was a large man, with arms thick and hairy, and a great barrel chest packed