016 -- A Sea Voyage

Andrew leaned over the Lydia's rail, fingers twined through the rigging and hair loose in the breeze. The rough, tarry mainstays were stretched taught as the brisk wind came in across the Lydia's beam. Squinting his eyes due to the glare on the water, he could just make out the mainland in the distance.

"'S alright, ain't it?" Danny shouted down from his perch much higher up in the rigging. Andrew only smiled back at him, keeping his mouth shut -- even looking up into the maze of cables and spars still made his stomach flip. He was amazed at how the crew could run run up and down the lines so easily when he had only just mastered his seasickness.

Captain Toggart had reached far out to seaward for the past three days in an effort to weather Cape Herrod. Andrew had gathered from bits of conversation that the cape was famous for its storms. When he asked Danny about it, the boy had only laughed and said "Aye, we're like to have a lively time of it!"

For now, though, the weather was holding. The Lydia gamely pushed through the unending rows of breakers that continued to send spray misting over the deck. Even though it was midsummer, the breeze and cool water meant that Andrew was on the edge of being chilly.

He thought of home. It was only just starting to become real to him that he'd left Kashi for good. Uncle Hamid had left him in Kumar only four days before, and the journey across land had only taken two weeks. He'd been glad to be rid of his uncle at that point. The man's carelessness, in matters both personal and business, was all-pervading, and it drove Andrew crazy to see all the wasted opportunities and missteps. He could tell that no one took Hamid seriously at any point along his route except for the foolish and the needy.

The swirl of activity upon their arrival in Kumar had kept Andrew too preoccupied to think much about home, his mother or his sister. Now that they were at sea, though, he finally had a chance to sit and reflect for a moment. He hoped that things hadn't gone too roughly for them with the prefect.

"Oy, there, Andrew! Yew fetch me 'a drink?" the helmsman called, shaking Andrew out of his reverie.

"Yeah, just a moment." Andrew slid through the hatchway the way Danny had taught him, sliding down without using his feet and landing with a thump in the murky darkness of the main deck. A few feet forward was the hatch down into the hold where the water casks were kept, and after fumbling for a minute he managed to get it open. He slid down this ladder as well . . .

. . . and landed in cold, green water up to his knees. "Aargh! What the -- Captain! Captain Toggart!"

A few minutes later Toggart, Andrew and a few of the crew were wading around with lanterns in the semi-darkness, trying to find the source of the leak. Muffled bangs and creaks sounded above their heads as the rest of the crew began rigging the pump.

"Captain! Over here!" shouted one of the hands. They gathered by the sailor, who was pointing at a six or seven foot section of hull. Each time the Lydia struck a wave, water swelled through the cracks in the timbers, dripping down the bulkhead.

"Looks like 'a pitch 's worked is'self loose," growled Toggart around his unlit cigar. "Git Jackson an' a pitch bucket, we'll lower 'im over the side an' --"

But another call came from the helmsman. "Captain Toggart!"

"Damn it all, what now? You t'ree, start riggin' it, I'll be back."

The three sailors nodded, and the small group headed for the ladder. "What will that do?" Andrew asked one of the men.

"Norm'lly the seams are sealed with tar an' pitch. Some must've come loose, else we wouldn't be leakin'."

Andrew followed them up the ladder, then headed up back on to the main deck. Toggart and the helmsman were in deep conversation, the latter pointing away at the horizon. Looking for himself, Andrew could see a dark black streak beginning to form. Danny was up in the rigging, and Andrew braved his barely-dormant seasickness to shout up to him.

"What do you see?!?"

"A storm -- a big one! An'd lookit t'other side!" He pointed.

Andrew followed his gaze. Barely visible on the other edge of the horizon were the sharp, black rocks of Cape Herod. The Lydia was trapped in between them.

Danny slid down the rigging next to him. "What do we do now?" The cabin boy just shrugged, his face unsmiling for the first time in four days. "It's up ta the Cap'n. We can't go back, the coast is too rough fer too far to land. I 'magine we'll try an' go forward."

"Can we make it?"

Danny shrugged again. "We'll find out, won't we?"

---

Andrew groggily regained consciousness as some poked him insistently in the side. Danny was standing beside his hammock, staggering and halfway asleep. Andrew yielded his spot to the younger boy, who collapsed into the swinging canvas. Rubbing his eyes, he staggered to the deck.

There was a mighty crash -- the Lydia heeled crazily for a moment. He could hear the seawater spilling from the deck as the ship sullenly righted herself. Making his way aft, the sound of the pump became audible over the roar of the wind and waves.

They'd been caught in the storm for three days now, although it was hard to tell day from night when each was as dark as the other. The Lydia was still clawing away from the sharp rocks of Cape Herod, but the storm showed no signs of relenting. An ocaissional flash of lightning would illuminate the black rocks, set like jagged, broken teeth in the coastline and drench in grean, swirling foam. Yesterday Andrew had heard a sailor estimate that while they had yet to loose much ground, they certainly weren't making any -- it was all the old ship could do to stay off the rocks.

The leak, though, was another story. Captain Toggart's main concern, that the pressure of the waves smashing again and again into the damaged hull would worsen the leak had yet to come to pass. However, the storm had hit with such sudden force that there had been no time to effect any repairs to the exterior of the hull, and despite the best efforts of the men the water was still rising. Danny had estimated it at about an inch every two hours. Things had begun to float in the hold; they'd had to tie some of the larger objects down to keep them from smashing at the timbers of the Lydia herself.

And the crew was getting tired. It took four men to man the pump -- endless, backbreaking labor -- and the Lydia's crew of twelve was stretched thin pumping and sailing the ship in a hurricane at the same time. After three days of two hour shifts, the men were falling asleep on the deck.

It was beginning to become clear that they were fighting a losing battle. Every time a wave hit the Lydia, she recovered from the blow a little more slowly. Eventually a large enough wave would come and she would tip all the way over on her side, defeated, and everyone aboard would drown. Their only chance was a break in the weather long enough to sail around the rocks of Cape Herrod and find a safe place to beach the ship before she sank. Captain Toggart had been at the wheel for the past three days, still as an iron statue, waiting for that moment.

At the pump belowdecks, Andrew was greeted by a nod from one of the hands. Four men, backs bare and gleaming with sweat despite the cold, worked a long iron lever up a down. Clank-clank! Clank-clank -- the sound was morbid, the sound of a dying ship. Andrew took a moment to wrap his hands in a few bloodstained pieces of canvas. Unnaccustomed to hard labor, he had blistered quickly on the first day and begun to bleed soon after.

Taking a spot at the handle, he felt the wounds on his hands open up again quickly into hot, wet pain. It didn't bother him as much as it had at first -- the sharp sting in his hands helped distract him from the heavy, cold ache that had settled into the rest of his body. The crewmember he had relieved lay sprawled on the deck, panting for a moment before instantly falling asleep.

Another crash came as a huge wave hit the ship. No one puased in their labor, but all eyes watched the lantern hanging from its staple on the ceiling as it tilted over crazily. Farther, farther . . . insane, deformed shadows flickered across the bulkheads . . . but finally it reversed its motion, coming slowly level again. Clank-clank went the pump.

The first day, Andrew had complained bitterly to himself of his fate. The second day, he had been terrified. Now, he had no energy left to feel anything at all. He just worked at the handle, his mind empy and uncaring. Ocassionally a thought would float by . . . he almost welcomed the idea of drowning, if only it meant that he could rest. If he could only close his eyes for a second . . .

A nudge from the sailor next to him brought him to his senses. He's fallen asleep at the handle. The sailor murmured a quiet, encouraging word and they went on pumping. Clank-clank. Clank-clank.

Sometime later (Andrew wasn't sure how long) there was a sudden sharp "crack!" audible even over the howling wind. The sailors looked at each other in alarm but continued their work. No sooner had the sound faded than the Lydia took a sudden sharp angle and Captain Toggart's bellowing voice could be heard above the gale. "All hands! All hands!" The crew abandoned the pump and rushed up the ladder onto the deck.

Andrew emerged into the teeth of the hurricane. The wind and rain were screaming sideways past him, stinging his eyes and tearing the heat immediately away from his body. Toggart was yelling something into one of the sailors' ears and pointing forward -- following his outstretched arm Andrew could immediately see what had gone wrong. The jib's rigging had parted under intense strain from the wind, and the loose sail had taken part of the foremast along with it. Now the mess of sail, rope, and spars was tangled and hanging off the side of the ship, dragging the Lydia sideways so that every wave struck with full force against the wounded vessel. If something wasn't done soon, they'd be capsized in a few minutes, never mind the rocks of Cape Herrod.

An axe was pushed into Andrew's hand. He followed the rest of the crew slowly towards the bow of the ship, clinging to the lifeline that was passed through his armpit as walls of green water broke over them. There was no possibility of speech, with the scream of the wind and roar of the waves overpowering all of Andrew's other senses.

A sailor pointed Andrew to one of the cables stretched taught over the splintered bulwark. Hanging on to the lifeline with one arm, he began awkwardly hacking at it with the axe in the other. Slowly but surely it bit through the tough fibers, until the last few parted with a sharp crack. Andrew cut the next cable, and the next, feeling as if he was drowning as the green water washed over him.

Finally, with a few sharp pops, the the wreckage broke free. The Lydia bobbed upright again, slowly, but facing her bow into the waves again and no longer in danger of capsizing. Andrew turned to the sailor next to him, about to try and ask what was next, when --

Crash!

A huge rogue wave hit the Lydia, coming across the side rather than against the bow along with the rest of the waves. The wall of saltwater smashed into him like a brick wall, ripping the lifeline out of Andrew's hands. He went skidding along the deck towards the bow, out of control and totally submerged. Andrew felt himself get carried along with the foaming wave over the gunwhalte and along the jagged, broken bowsprit, hands fumbling for but unable to find anything to hold on to.

Well, mom, looks like this is it for me. I guess you shouldn't have listened to Uncle Antan after all --

But there was a sudden pain in his leg, and he was above water again. The world was strangely upside down, and he was hanging, looking at the outside of the Lydia's hull. Looking up, Andrew saw that his leg had been tangled in one of the bowsprit stays, and that this slender line had been the only thing saving him from being swept out to sea. The ship plunged into the trough of the next wave, and Andrew managed to catch a quick gasp of air before he was thrust underwater into relative calm.

Emerging spluttering back into the storm, Andrew began trying to haul himself up back onto the ship. It took him several tries, and he was dunked again into the waves several times before he managed to free himself and crawl back along the jutting wreck of the bowsprit to the relative safety of the deck. He huddled there for a moment, clinging to the raw timbers of the ship, before he could gather the strength to look up.

The crew had not noticed his absence in the chaos. He could see them gathered at the stern, wrestling with something white and flapping at the direction of Captain Toggart -- a spare sail, most likely, to replace the one we lost. We can't control the ship without it. Andrew had just made up his mind to head aft along the lifeline and help them when a flash of lightnight lit of the sky and revealed a sight that nearly froze his blood.

The black rocks of Cape Herrod loomed almost directly over them. Unbeknownst to the crew, the Lydia had been blown toward the rocks while they were dealing with the wreckage of the jib sail. Now the jagged stone loomed far over their small vessel, looking more like a many-armed monster emerging from the deep than a set of deformed teeth. Some of the sailors saw the rocks too -- Andrew could see them pointing with open mouths, probably screaming wordlessly into the wind. A wave swept them up, higher, higher, impossibly high, until inevitably --

CRRRAAAASSSSHHH!!!

The shock jarred Andrew down to his bones -- only by reflex did he save himself from being thrown overboard again by wrapping his arms through a few loose cables left from the wrecked sail. He watched the deck in front of him twist crazily, and then with another series of sharp cracks the timbers split apart. Another wave came, and suddenly the Lydia was split in two, the stern swinging parallel to the bow. Andrew caught a glimpse of a few dark forms clinging desperately to the ship's wheel before the water swept the stern half of the Lydia away from him. Another towering wave, another impossible climb --

CRRRRUUUNNNCCCHHH...

And he had stopped. The wind still screamed around him, but green seawater no longer swept over what was left of the deck. Looking around, Andrew could see spire of black rock rising on either side of his half of the ship. The same freak wave that had swept the two pieces of the Lydia past one another had also lifted the bow and jammed it neatly between two spires of rock. Andrew was safe, for now, but his perch was precarious. He could feel the splintered timbers groan and flex beneath him, and it was only a matter of time before the wreck disintigrated completely and cast him into the sea.

Gotta attach myself to something that floats.

Andrew looked at the splintered remains of the foremast. Almost four feet of the massive timber still showed above deck. Crawling on hands and knees, he made his way across the slippery, tilted deck until he was sitting at its base. He looped a few lengths of rope around himself, tightening them as much as he could bear, and then tied a rough knot with the last of his strength.

Well . . . this is a shitty way to go out . . .

And Andrew slipped into unconsciousness.

---

A dull roar . . . the wind? . . . no, different . . . open . . . eyes . . .

But nothing had changed. Had it? The wind and the rain still screamed past his face. Miraculously the wreck was still hanging above the waves, wedged between the jagged black stones. Andrew still sagged, lashed tightly to the stump of the foremast. Where . . . buzzing . . .

A low drone cut through the howl of the wind. Andrew looked up to see a dark shape above him. Huh . . . well maybe that's death.

But it wasn't. As he continued to stare dumbly upward, he noticed something descending from it. A dark shape, swinging at the end of a long tether. It landed with a thump next to him on the deck, and Andrew realized it was a person. The person seemed to be saying something, waving their arms about and shouting, but Andrew couldn't make sense of it. All he could do was roll his head feebly from one side to the other.

The figure pointed again, this time at the knot binding Andrew to the mast. Want me . . . come with? He tried to untie the knot, but his hands were too numbed from the cold and he could only tug at them in vain. The figure bent over him, and there was a flash of steel as they cut through the ropes. Andrew tried to stand, but only started to slide away down the deck. The dark figure quickly grabbed him under the armpits.

"Hold on!" she shouted in his ear. Andrew felt his feet leave the deck, and they were rising up, up into the air. Hold on . . . hold on . . . hold on . . . but he couldn't keep his focus. Andrew's mind swam away, floating up and above the woman, the storm, and out of everything altogether.

015 -- Hakan Tarif

Hakan Tarif, eldest son of Osman Tarif and heir to the Tarif family name, grimaced at the stone figures sitting on the table in front of him. He was loosing, and Hakan did not like to loose. Moving his hand to the board, he reached for a knight while watching his opponent's eyes. The look he received made him think better, and so Hakan moved his rook instead.

His opponent smiled at him from across the marble chessboard, moving his bishop without a moment’s hesitation.

“Checkmate.”

It was the first word that had been spoken in the garden in some time. Hakan smiled, leaning back in the wicker chair. “How many is that now? You’re going to turn me away from chess altogether if you keep this up.”

The small, wrinkled man sitting opposite him opened his mouth in a toothless, stuttering laugh. “Ha! Heh heh heh . . . Haskel doubts that, Prince. Doubts it very much. You enjoy loosing to Haskel too much to stop.”

Hakan picked another grape from the cluster sitting at his side and popped it into his mouth. “Enjoy loosing? What makes you think I enjoy it?”

“Well, you do it so often, Haskel thinks you must enjoy it.”

This time is Hakan’s turn to laugh. “Haskel, you know that I’d beat you if I could.”

“Haskel thinks you are getting better. The prince’s opening this game was . . . unconventional.”

“I was trying something new.”

“Yes, and it didn’t work. But a good idea. It reminded Haskel of a man he played many years ago on a ship in the Southing straits. He sure was a strange one. An Agathian slave . . . but here comes young Mr. Yuksel to ruin Haskel’s story.”

Hakan turned. His young servant was indeed hurrying towards them through the garden. As they watched, Simge Yuksel was suddenly caught short as his sleeve snagged an arched trellis. Struggling to free himself, he somehow managed to entwine his arm in one of the thick vines hanging over the path. Simge’s struggles grew more frantic as his entanglement continued to progress.

Hakan stood, somewhat reluctantly. “Perhaps another time, Haskel. I need to go rescue Simge before he ends up in the fountain again.”

Simge stopped struggling as he saw Hakan approach and did his best to assume a posture of some dignity. He spoke quickly in a high, wavering tenor. “My apologies, Master Tarif. I had no intention of interrupting your lessons with Master Haskel, but your father has requested your presence indoors.”

Hakan took hold of Simge’s arm, gently unwrapping the vine that had trapped it and freeing his sleeve from the wooden trellis. “Very well. Could you let him know that I’ll be there presently?”

Simge nodded. “Yes, Master Tarif. And . . . thanks,” he added, looking at his arm.

“You’re welcome.” Simge was already hurrying away. “Simge! Where is he?”

Simge stopped momentarily. “Oh! He’s on the veranda.” Then he was gone.

Hakan turned back to his elderly tutor. “Sorry, Haskel, it looks like we have to stop early today. He wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Haskel nodded. “Haskel is sure that it is. No matter, Haskel’s pay is the same either way. Ha! Heh heh heh . . .” His stuttering laugh continued as he reset the chess board.

Hakan walked through the garden, enjoying his last few moments in the cool, quiet shade. The garden lay in the center of his family’s estate, a sprawling four story complex that occupied most of a block in the City of Asfar. A short stone staircase took him up into the second story of the estate and back into the dust and the heat that was the city.

He was immediately surrounded by the bustle of servants. People were hurrying from one end of the building to the other with large rugs, wall tapestries, platters of food, ornate clay jars with gold patterns inlaid into their surfaces, bunches of fruit, and all other sorts of things. Each one stopped briefly as Hakan walked by to bow before hurrying on to their work. Some smiled and included a low “Your pardon, Master Tarif,” with their bows. Hakan, of course, was only Master Tarif when his father was not around.

Winding through the mass of hurrying bodies, Hakan safely made it up another sweeping indoor staircase to the third story. Here things were quieter, a maze of small chambers separated by light wooden trellises and hanging tapestries. It was hot here as well, but the light inner walls allowed enough of a breeze in to make things bearable. Several of Osman Tarif’s higher level advisors had offices here, splitting their time between the Tarif estate and the much larger Asfar palace. The heavy scent of sweetened tobacco almost always permeated these rooms. Hakan’s father often joked that tobacco was the real fuel that Asfar’s politics ran on, and that without it all government activity would quickly grind to a halt. A murmur of low conversation came from a meeting room, punctuated by a brief burst of laughter.

Hakan walked between the offices down the hallway, taking a left at a break in the wooden slats. A side passage led out to a stone archway that emerged on to a wide veranda lining the inner walls of the estate, overlooking the gardens below where Hakan had recently been defeated.

Hakan spotted his father on the other side of the veranda, slowly pacing as was his habit when deep in thought. Hurrying along the walkway, he caught up with his father quickly, but Osman remained silent. Hakan settled into stride next to him, knowing from years of habit that his father would speak as soon as he wished to and did not like to be rushed.

After a short time, Osman began to speak, without changing his stride or looking at Hakan.

“The Republican Council voted down the expedition to Thyrene. We’re not going to help them retake Milos or the peninsula.”

Hakan remained silent.

“Their ambassador wasn’t happy about it. You do remember what he said six months ago?”

“He threatened to close the Thyrenian sea lanes to us. Seemed like an empty threat at the time,” Hakan replied, still matching his father’s stride.

“It did. Apparently some on the council still believe it is. I, however, think that they are serious. By the end of the month we may as well count our alliance with Thyrene as totally dissolved.”

"I'm surprised the council came to this decision."

"The houses tire of war, particularly with the recent defeats, and you know how persuasive Arquk can be. I'll admit that I underestimated how quickly the other Josite representatives would change sides, but . . ." Osman shook his head before lapsing into another brief silence.

“We’ve been allies for years . . . how did our relationship with the Thyrenians get so bad so quickly?”

Hakan's father sighed. “Mistakes, ours and theirs both. We shouldn’t have sent that idiot Baraki to Milos . . . he made a mess of everything. If we’d won there . . . well, things wouldn’t be in such a mess now.”

“The Pentarch likes Baraki.”

“I don’t blame them. He makes a good impression – he's quite an actor.”

“And because the Pentarch appoints both heads of state and heads of military . . .”

“Baraki got his chance to loose the war. The worst part of it is that we’re still not free of him. There was an inquiry, of course, but the Pentarch got him off the hook -- but you knew that already.”

“It was an interesting process to watch. Haskel had a lot to say about the Pentarch.”

At this Osman smiled. “I’m sure he did. Just don’t go around repeating what he said too loudly. We have enough trouble with the Pentarch as it is.”

“I actually thought we had him at first. It seemed pretty obvious to me that he’s totally inept.”

“To be fair, the Thyrennians were no great help. I think Baraki mentioned feeding their troops out of our supplies in his official report . . . but even so, it’s no excuse. He’s a fool, and we’re stuck with him.”

“Can’t the Republican Council just cut the funding to whatever projects the Pentarch assigns him to?”

“Well, yes, we could. But it’s a delicate balance. Angering the Pentarch means that they will be less receptive to our candidates for other positions . . . and then we could be stuck with someone like Baraki in a position that is actually of some importance.”

“The Thyrenian expedition wasn’t important?”

Osman sighed and stopped his pacing, turning to rest his elbows on the veranda’s railing. Hakan joined him. After a few seconds his father continued.

“Yes, it was important. Our continued influence in the Agathian states depended on his victory. The Eastern nations have increased their presence dramatically over the past few years, and if we don’t maintain our control over the Straits of Lucian we could find the entire Northern Passage closed to us. That would be a disaster.”

“Why?”

“Infrastructure. It will be impossible to maintain a military presence in the Upper Provinces without an open sea lane through the Northen Passage and the Straits of Lucian. As much as the Minister of Railroads brags about the “great strides” we’ve made in the past decade, we still don’t have a usable rail link any further North than Khartoba. Everything else the army needs has to go by ship through the passage.”

“Is he another worthless Pentarch appointee?”

Osman shook his head. “No, I wish we could blame him on the Pentarch, but he’s one of ours. A friend of someone on the Republican Council, I think – he’s proof that the Pentarch has no monopoly on stupidity.”

“So how are we going to maintain a presence in the Agathian states without Thyrene?”

“We will have to rely on the support of the Khardrians. They're the only power in the region that is still friendly to us, and a month from now when the Thyrennians revoke our military passage rights the council and the Pentarch will be forced to realize this as well. It’s a mixed blessing; on one hand, the council will finally be made aware how precarious our situation is in the straits – but on the other hand, we’re forced to rely on the Khardrians, and I don’t like that at all.”

“Why is that?”

“Khardror's central government is a sham; the Prime Minister is a crook and his cabinet is a bunch of tribal chieftains and criminals. Our support is the only reason that they’re still in power, and we’ve nearly withdrawn it several times. Minister Temrin does not hesitate to use force to settle domestic issues.”

“Intimidation of opponents? Beatings? Secret police?”

“He’d have started a full blown ethnic cleansing several times over if it were not for pressure from our government. Now we’ll be forced into endorsing his agenda whether we like it or not – a fact that will not be lost on Mr. Temrin, I am sure.”

“Sounds ugly.”

Father and son leaned on the veranda railing in silence, their eyes wandering through the garden below. Haskel was now playing both sides of the chessboard at once, simultaneously dancing gleefully and swearing the foulest of oaths as he took his own bishop. Hakan broke the silence this time.

“Father, Simge said that you needed me, but I don’t see where I fit in this picture yet.”

“Prime Minister Temrin’s wife passed away some years ago, and he has only a single daughter. She’s his pride and joy – he adores her. She’s the only one who has any sort of influence over him, and she’s spending the summer here, in the city.” Osman turned his head away ever so slightly and coughed into his sleeve before continuing. “In fact, she’ll be here tonight, at dinner.”

“Well, that’s a funny coincidence.” Hakan started to smile. “Wait, are you actually asking me to--”

“Hakan, Temrin’s stability is important to us, and his daughter’s influence can help. Also, this is her first time in Asfar, and while I hear that her Jos is rapidly improving I know that she would appreciate someone who could show her around.”

Hakan was laughing now. “Is this another part of my political education? Why hasn’t Haskel taught me anything about winning the hearts of young Minister’s daughters? I don’t even know how old she is.”

Osman pointedly ignored his son's mirth. “She’s a year younger than you, still seventeen.”

“You’re not actually asking me to seduce Minister’s Temrin’s daughter, right?”

“No, but I am asking you to be her friend. Show her around, help her with her Jos, and if you happen to get a chance to impress upon her how important Asfar’s wishes are to her father’s continued rule, well . . .”

“This is one of the stranger things you’ve ever had me do in the name of Asfarian politics.”

“I’ll admit it.”

“She’s ugly, isn’t she?”

Osman ignored his question. “I also need you to make sure she comes to the party next week. We need to show the other houses that we have the Prime Minister’s ear, especially when the alliance with Thyrene comes apart. It should put us in a position of power.”

“Doesn’t it also make us responsible for his ethnic cleansings?”

“That’s why you’re going to become his daughter’s best friend this week.”

“What if we’re overestimating how much influence she has on him?”

“I have a few other ideas, but I’d rather this worked instead.”

Hakan nodded. “Hmm. What would you do without me?”

Osman turned back to look at his son. “Hakan, you know that you're not just another one of my political tools. I only ask you to do these things because I want you to be ready.”

“And also because I can go places you can’t.”

“That's part of it. But I want you to know that you’re my son first.”

“Father, you give me this talk at least once a year. Its okay, really – I enjoy these projects. Remember when you had me listen to that council meeting from the window-ledge?”

“Your mother almost killed me for that.”

“I was only three stories up, I don’t know what she was so worried about. Nine-year-olds have great balance.”

“Or when I got you hired by the Pentarch’s administrative staff – that was an interesting few months.”

Hakan wrinkled his nose in disgust. “That's one way of saying it.”

“Hmm.” Father and son stood for a few moments remembering before Hakan continued.

“Which one will she be?”

“Alexis Temrin. I’ll seat her close to you, but not too close. We’ll need at least one person between you and her to keep things from being too obvious. Your mother --”

“Mom’s in on it too?”

“—suggested Byron.”

“The son of the Cimbrian ambassador? Rahm's sake, I can’t stand that guy.”

“That’s the idea. It will give you and Alexis something to talk about, give her an unfavorable impression of Cimbrian and the Eastern powers, and keep Byron away from any of the more sensitive guests.”

Hakan shook his head. “You’re lucky mom didn’t go into politics.”

Osman snorted. “What makes you think she didn’t?”

"Good point. When's dinner?"

"You've got a few hours, which should be enough time to study the material I've prepared for you."

Hakan sighed. "I should've guessed it."

"You need to be up to date on the current situation in Khardror. We've talked to some of her aides, and they've given us a relatively accurate picture. Simge should have the papers for you when you get upstairs."

"Alright. Do you need anything else from me before dinner?"

"No, but your mother asked that you show up slightly late so that Alexis notices you. Also, she said that she's sending up a new kaftan for tonight. Burma is out looking for something right now."

"Seriously? I don't need another one, I have plenty."

"Sometimes, son, it is best not to argue about these things. Besides, the other four representatives from House Jos will be here tonight. She wants us to look good in front of my colleagues."

"Alright, alright . . . I'll head up now . . . you said Simge has the reports?"

"Yes, or at least he should. You never know with him."

"Well, let's hope he does. If not I'm sure I can track them down. I'll see you tonight, dad."

They hugged briefly. "If you see your mother, could you let her know I'm on my way up?"

"Sure." Hakan turned back inside, not particularly relishing the next few hours of studying he had to look forward to.

---

Hakan's newest kaftan did look good, he had to admit. The rich red fabric draped over his lean frame nearly to his feet, its edges marked with decadent gold lace. A subtle, sweeping pattern of gold was woven into the fabric in such a way that it shimmered as he walked. His matching slippers only added to the effect as Hakan observed himself in his tall bedroom mirror.

"I'll tell you what, Simge -- as much as getting dressed by my own mother bugs me, she has fantastic taste."

Simge's response was lost in the large wooden carton he was rummaging in. The clothing had arrived a few hours ago, brought up to Hakan's room by a young, meek servant woman whom he did not recognize. Judging by her clothes, Hakan assumed that she worked downstairs in the kitchen and did not spend much time in the upper levels of the estate.

The Tarif estate's fourth floor was only partially roofed. Hakan's parents' rooms stood the tallest, overlooking both the street and the inner garden from their perch on the estate's most prominent corner. Hakan's quarters, by contrast, were shorter and further back. They still stretched all the way from the outside edge of the roof to the inside edge, but his windows overlooked a service alley instead of the main thoroughfare. A longer set of rooms of about the same height wound its way around the remaining corners of the estate, home to many of the higher ranking servants and caretakers.

In between these rooms the fourth floor was open to the sky and filled with luxuriant green plant growth. In contrast to the neatly trimmed, well-organized garden in the courtyard below, this one was wilder and teeming with brightly colored flowers and dark green shoots. In the summer the garden was constantly buzzing with the sound of fat bumblebees and the incessant chirping of birds. Winding paths through the overgrowth linked the different rooms to one another and to small clearings hidden in among the vines and trellises. A network of small stone sluices carried water among the plants at night, powered by servants working below at a large crank pump.

The heat of the day had begun to dissipate, but it was hot enough that Hakan still had his shutters wide open to catch the evening breeze. His thin curtains were waving in the wind, and his wall tapestries moved slightly with each gust of air. A burst of wind stronger than the others mussed his hair slightly, and he carefully brushed it back into position.

"Simge, have you found the hat yet?"

Simge emerged from the crate bearing a red cap with several tall, upturned corners. "I . . . think this is it."

They both stared at the strange garment for a moment.

"Rahm save us if this is the latest style. Which end is the front?"

Simge shrugged helplessly.

"Well, I like the kaftan, at least. Maybe we can find a better hat later . . . hopefully I'll never have to wear this one again." Hakan picked a corner at random to be the front and pulled the strange object onto his head. "How do I look?"

Simge nodded. They both continued to stare at the odd garmet for another moment before Hakan shrugged, resigning himself to his fate.

"Well, I'm headed down, then. Simge, could you take these notes back downstairs to the library?"

"Certainly, Master. Have a good dinner."

"I will . . . I hope. It should be interesting."

The shutters had been thrown open downstairs as well to catch the last of the evening breeze, and Hakan appreciated it as he sweated in his heavy formal wear. Most rooms in the lower levels of the estate didn't have solid walls, but were rather set for each occasion with light cloth hung from the ceiling and anchored with decorative weights. Judging from the contents of the silver platters being rushed past him on either side, Hakan had arrived just in time.

Following the sound of muted conversation, he threaded his way through one of the gaps in the sheets of red fabric and emerged into the open center space where the dinner was being held. There were perhaps twenty or thirty guests, all seated on floor cushions scattered in a rough circle on the thick rug that had been laid down for the event. Spotting his seat, Hakan made his way around the circle. A few pairs of eyes noted his tardy entrance, but they quickly flicked back to their respective conversations.

"Hakan! We were wondering if you were ever going to show up!" A pinched, nasal voice that nonetheless possessed considerable projective capabilities rang out amongst the guests. A few even turned to see who had spoken up so loudly.

Hakan winced at Byron's lack of tact as he sat down. "Lord Byron Culvington, a pleasure to see you, as always."

"Hakan, Hakan -- how many times do I have to tell you to call me Byron?"

"A few more times, I think, Lord Culvington."

The young man to Hakan's right threw his head back in a high, whinnying, hissing laugh that carried as loudly as his earlier greeting had. This time, however, the other guests were prepared and tactfully pretended not hear it.

Byron Culvington, son of the Cimbrian ambassador to Asfar, was only a few years older than Hakan, but was already showing signs of baldness. The pale, clammy dome of his skull worked with the rest of his emaciated frame to create the impression of a person permanently wracked with malady. In fact, the only part of his body that seemed healthy at all was his prodigious nose -- an impressive organ that glowed red with health and vitality. Hakan and the other youth of high class in the City of Asfar had hoped that Byron's parents would have seen the wisdom of purchasing a military commission for their son as he came of age, but rumor had it that Lady Culvington was too concerned for Byron's health to let him out of her sight even as he aged into his twenties. As a result, Hakan was stuck with Byron's loud greetings, forced jollity, and devastatingly irritating laugh.

Byron was perched nervously on his cushion, as he usually was at Asfarian-style dinners. Hakan found his almost constant attempts to adjust himself captivating, particularly when viewed in contrast to the grace with which most of the guests were sitting. Hakan, of course, was sitting with crossed legs as was customary in Asfar.

Having recovered from his laughing fit, Byron wiped his eyes theatrically and turned back to Hakan. "Seriously, Hakan, we were wondering when you'd come in. I wanted to introduce you to Lady Temrin!" Byron leaned back and allowed Hakan his first glimpse of Alexis Temrin.

His first impression was of a short, wiry young woman with unruly hair sitting easily atop the cushion apportioned to her. Her eyes were small and bright, and stared pointedly at Hakan from behind her tangled locks. "Hakan Tarif, Rahm bless."

Hakan raised his eyebrows at the traditional Agathian tribal greeting before nodding in return. "Lady Temrin, a pleasure to--"

She shook her head once. "No Cimbrian. And not Lady . . . Alexis."

Byron stuttered. "B-but Cimbrian greetings have become quite popular here in Asfar for diplomatic functions, Lady -- er, Alexis -- er --"

Hakan smiled and bowed more formally. "Jemahl's blessing, Alexis."

Byron was spared further excitement by the arrival of the first silver tray of food. Hakan took the platter from the guest on his left, picked one of the pickled vegetables, and passed it on to Byron who accepted it uneasily. "I never can quite get used to this way you people serve food . . . why can't we use a table?"

"Me like this way. More interesting." said Alexis in broken Jos, watching Byron struggle with the dish. "Like home."

"I suppose it would . . . how do they eat in -- er, wherever you're from?" Byron replied.

"Roasted meat. Stick over fire, pull off chunks with hands."

"Ah . . . that's . . . interesting." Hakan watched Byron's face pass through a series of emotions at Alexis's blatant lie before returning to a forced smile. "I'll have to try it sometime."

"No Cimbrians. Not allowed."

"Hrmm. Lady Temrin, would you like a pickled . . .?" Byron offered the tray to Alexis.

"Carrot."

"Yes, thank you Hakan. A pickled carrot?"

Alexis nodded, but as Byron moved to hand her the tray it wobbled alarmingly. Her movement was quick -- Hakan barely caught it -- but he was absolutely certain she misplaced her hand on purpose. Another quick twist, and --

BANG!

This time everyone turned to look. Byron was covered in pickled carrots that had left little orange streaks down his polished, hairless dome. The tray had somehow ended up behind him, along with most of its contents, but enough remained on the young Lord Culvington to ensure that his coat was a total loss. Alexis and Hakan, meanwhile, had gone completely unscathed.

"Oh, m- m- m- my apologies, Lady Temrin, I seem to have -- well, I --" and Byron stood and rushed off accompanied by a light patter of genuine laughter. He got tangled briefly in the wall silks before he found the exit and was gone.

Hakan dwelled for a moment on the spot where Byron had disappeared before turning back to Alexis. She was smiling ear to ear.

"That was the fastest I've ever seen someone get rid of him. Tell me, how much Jos do you really speak?"

"I'm fluent, when I want to be."

"I figured." He looked back at the mess which was already being swiftly attended to by a small group of servants. "Good thing I didn't want any."

Alexis giggled. "Me either."

Hakan didn't get another chance to speak with Alexis for several minutes, as the junior minister seated to his left seemed anxious to ask him about the developing situation in the Agathian states. They continued to pass around platters of food, removing a piece or two of meat or vegetables at a time as tradition dictated. Turning to hand on a dish of small meats on skewers, Hakan found himself suddenly face to face with Alexis, who had appropriated Byron's cushion. He jumped slightly as her wild hair was only a few inches from his nose.

"I need your help."

"Is that so?"

"I need to get out of here."

"You do?"

"Well. Not need. But want to. And I can't do it without you."

"Really? And why is that?"

"I'm bored. Make one of your servants come in with a message for me."

"Hmm." Hakan considered her request. It was a blatant breach of decorum, a transparent ploy that at least half of the guests would see through immediately. His father, though, had been quite clear with his instructions . . . and he could at least try to make things a little more subtle.

"Okay. But go talk to someone else. I'll call someone."

Alexis nodded, and immediately turned away. Hakan watched her leap over to her original seat, wincing at her lack of tact as she broke in on her neighbor's discussion. He turned back to the junior minister on his left, who had continued on with his "significant concerns" seemingly unabated.

A few minutes later, Hakan stopped feigning interest long enough to glance up at Simge who had taken up his usual post along the perimeter of the dinner. A moment's look was enough to bring him to Hakan's side, where he politely excused himself for interrupting the minister and handed Hakan what looked like an important message. While it was actually blank, Hakan pretended to scrutinize it with wrinkled brow for a moment before accepting Simge's outstretched pencil and scribbling a brief set of instructions. Bowing, Simge retreated and left the room. Hakan checked on Alexis out of the corner of his eye, and noticing that she had been staring at him the whole time he sighed inwardly.

No more than another minute had elapsed when Hakan turned to pass a platter and was startled once again by Alexis' tangled hair only inches from his own face. "What?"

"Well? Did you do it?"

"Yes. He'll be here soon."

"What's taking so long?" Alexis insisted, her voice beginning to rise.

"I'm trying to be subtle about this. Something that you're --" Hakan suppressed his strained whisper, remembering his father's instructions before continuing. "I'm trying not to be completely obvious in getting out of this dinner."

Alexis was seemingly oblivious to Hakan's discomfort. "Well hurry up! I'm bored!"

As if on cue a servant appeared at their elbow, bowing. "A message for the lady."

Alexis took the outstretched note, and without reading it got up abruptly from the circle. The sudden movement attracted most of the guests' attention, and Hakan could hear the murmur of conversation die away. She was halfway to the nearest gap in the curtains when she looked back to Hakan with a look of surprise. "Well? Aren't you coming?"

Hakan groaned inwardly. Clearly she had no concept of what passed for polite behavior in Asfar . . . he reluctantly got to his feet, the eyes of the whole party on him. "Your wish is my command, Lady Temrin." There were a few good natured chuckles from a few of the men.

He followed Alexis out of the room. "Dad, you're going to owe me for this one."

014 -- A Hiring Guide

Excerpt from "Cimbrian Foreign Service Administrator's Handbook, Chapter 12: Labor"

The Hiring Process

Foreign service administrators know that good management can only go so far in the establishment of a service division. The personnel choices made at the beginning of a post's history can lead to the success or failure of their diplomatic mission. Good decisions result in a smoothly running outpost, while poor ones can result in a situation even so troublesome as to lead to diplomatic miscues and eventual dismissal. The key, then, is to understand the human resources that are available and how best to utilize them . . .


. . . Ideally, a post's staff would be composed entirely of Cimbrian citizens, due to their national loyalty, work ethic, and general intelligence. However, this handbook recognizes that this is possible at only the largest and most well-funded embassies, and that in most situations it will be necessary to rely on labor drawn from the local work force.

The condition and suitability of the local work force can vary greatly depending on where a post is located. Population density, hostility, level of education, presence or absence of wealth -- all of these factors must be taken into account when beginning to draw from the labor pool. Also, diplomatic administrators must consider the increased importance of some tasks as compared to others. In all cases, security (both personal and national) is of paramount importance, and the employees chosen for these sensitive positions should receive the most in-depth evaluation process. Other tasks, such as grounds-keeping, do not warrant such careful scrutiny . . .


. . . Native populations will usually break down into several groups. The following is a brief analysis of these groups and their suitability for various levels of employment by the Cimbrian Foreign Service.

Cimbrian Citizens

As mentioned earlier, the ideal employees for the foreign service. Products of the Cimbrian educational system, their intelligence and loyalty to the state are usually quite high. The average Cimbrian's moral strength and work ethic being stronger than a comparable native, make sure to fill your most vital positions with Cimbrian nationals. It can be expensive, however, as most must be enticed into the less-civilized portions of the world with lucrative wages.

Foreign service policy forbids non-citizens from holding several civil posts such as prefect, public relations director, communications director, and any other task that involves handling of sensitive data. Please see appendix 12-3 for a complete list of these regulations.

Cimbrian Convicts

The dregs of Cimbrian society, these convicted felons have chosen a term of exile over death or imprisonment in Cimbria proper. Caution is advised. Close study of their character and case history can lead to discovery of a few valuable persons amenable to rehabilitation, but the vast majority of such convicts are useless for anything but menial record keeping and facility maintenance. Under no circumstances should a person suspected of subversive tendencies be employed in any capacity!

Agathians

Agathians, while widely considered as being almsot as intelligent as Cimbrians, suffer from an unfortunate lack of proper nationalist commitment. Their people have a centuries-long tradition of disrespect for authority that can make them dangerous in certain diplomatic capacities. It is recommended to employ them only in roles that involve impartial analysis due to their tendency towards radical thought. Do not be afraid to remove an Agathian from his post if he shows any signs of suspicious or subversive behavior.

Agathian Slaves

Agathian slaves are an unpredictable labor force at best, and will only be an option to the foreign service administrator in certain locales. Either contracted or bought outright from a dealer, they come is several classes depending on their skills and health. Due to the nature of Agathian slavery, skilled slaves can often be found to fill clerical positions, intelligence analysis, and low-level administration posts as well as more common menial tasks.

If an administrator chooses to employ slaves, they should be sure to familiarize themselves with the local slave grades, as well as make sure to find a reputable dealer. The foreign service recommends contracting over an outright purchase of slaves as the infrastructure costs of feeding and maintaining slaves can become prohibitive.

Citizens of Asfar

The citizenry of Asfar is generally divided into five houses, or tribes: Josite, Ebelite, Abdun, Endite, and Artmar. It is generally impossible to distinguish between them physically (although the Endites are usually characterized as having darker skin) but most have some sort of marking on their clothing or other accessory displaying their house affiliation. Of these five, the Josite are usually considered superior in intellect and work ethic, although still generally inferior to the Cimbrian. Ebelites can be considered as well. The Artmar are often possessed by a religious zeal that renders them useless as far as diplomatic employment is concerned, while the Abdun and the Endites are so unreliable as to be useless as well.

A notable exception: when traveling in Asfar, Abdun and Endite guides are vital for passage through the desert and along the rivers, respectively. The rampant crime in Asfar makes these precautions necessary. It is advisable to make your payment to such guides in small sums over time, or else your guides may sell your location to the very bandits you hire them to avoid.

The Tel

The Tel are a primitive, tribal race from the North/Northeastern regions of Eos. Easily identifiable by their brown complexion, dark hair and eyes, Tel are generally considered an inferior work force. The foreign service cautions against casual employment of Tel in any occupation other than the manual labor to which they are well-suited.

End of Excerpt

013 -- Andrew Leaves Home

Andrew stood at the foot of the pier in Kumar, suitcase and knapsack in hand. He'd been walking most of the morning, wandering up and down the waterfront in search of the Lydia. She was a brig registered out of Cimbria, a frequent runner of the coastal trade route, and had been hidden away at the far Eastern edge of the docks. Sarani's brother, Uncle Hamid, had recommended the brig's captain as a trustworthy man.

---

". . . since you've only got so much money to work with -- especially if books are going to cost as much as they're saying they will."

It was a few weeks before Andrew was to leave Kashi. Uncle Hamid had joined them earlier for dinner and had his feet planted on the table, his chair tilted back against the kitchen wall. The single lantern hanging from the ceiling threw a smoky shadow under his unorthodox posture. He was smoking a pipe, a practice that Andrew's mother detested but which she had been unsuccessful in driving from her older brother. The woody scent permeated the small house.

"I've no problem taking the boy as far as Kumar -- I'm headed that way by the end of the month anyway. The storms should let up soon, meaning this is the best time of the year to get your stuff moved by sea. With any luck I'll be able to pick up some of the heavier, metal stock -- you know, anvils, plows, that sort of junk -- for real cheap. Should turn a good bit a' cash by the time the year is out."

He took another long, satisfied draw on the pipe. The faint clunk of the pump handle signaled that Sati was outside, cleaning the dishes in the half-light of dusk.

"So yeah. Sarani, I've got no problems taking the boy. But I can't go with him any further than Kashi. My normal route ends there."

I hate it when they talk about me like I'm not even here.

"What I can do, though, is get him pointed in the right direction. Make sure that he's with someone he can trust, at least most of the way. Once he's in Cimbria he can take the train, and that's easy."

"Are you sure Hamid? Couldn't you go with him at least to Cimbria? It seems like such a long way for him travel by himself . . ."

Right here, people. I'm right here.

"Sarani, when I put him on the boat at Kumar, I may as well be going with him to Cimbria. I know all of the trader captains who go up and down the coast, I'll give them very exact instructions. Believe me, they know that if any harm comes to the boy, they'll have to answer to me."

Andrew didn't think that his uncle Hamid would prove much of a threat to anyone, much less the captain of a ship who was ruthless enough to harm his own passengers. Hamid always reminded him of a fat man not quite rich enough to maintain his girth. Even at his best, Andrew's uncle was a mediocre businessman and nearly worthless caretaker . . . regular "loans" from Sarani were the only thing keeping his business afloat. Andrew still remembered the last time Uncle Hamid had been in charge of watching him and his sister. They had lost Sati for almost two days.

"I'm glad to hear it, but I'm still nervous. There's no other way to get to the Academy?"

Uncle Hamid laughed. "Well, of course there are! There are all sorts of ways to get to the city. If money was no object, you could take an airship straight from Kumar to the center of Oberon and be there in three days. It'd cost ya more than I make in a year, though . . ." he laughed again. "Believe me, I been traveling all sorts of different ways, and this is the best way to do it for what you've got to spend."

I guess you're right . . . are you sure that he'll be able to figure it all out on his own? The train, and finding his way in the city, and everything like that?"

Thanks for the vote of confidence, mom.

"Oh, he'll have no problem with that. If I can figure it out, he'll do just fine. Besides, I'll teach him everything I know on the way to Kumar."

"Oh, would you do that, Hamid? I would feel so much better. He's never been outside of Kashi, I don't know what's waiting out there for him but I know enough to say that it isn't all friendly."

Hamid laughed again. It was beginning to annoy Andrew -- his laugh was too easily provoked, ripe almost to bursting with forced jollity.

"Oh, he'll be fine. School's likely to be the hardest part, right, boy?" Uncle Hamid removed his legs from the table and came down on all four legs of his chair with a loud thump so as to clap his nephew heartily on the back. Andrew changed his mind -- he would rather be unnoticed than to have any more of his uncle's affection bestowed upon him.

His mother laughed this time, a light musical laugh that Andrew did not hear often. "Actually, Andrew is there on scholarship." She laid an exultant accent on the last word, something that she'd been doing ever since she found out about the Academy's decision -- particularly around the other mothers of Kashi. "Aajay will probably be one of the brightest students there."

"Well I'm glad he got something from his uncle!"

Sarani laughed again at this. Uncle Hamid joined in, before turning and fixing Andrew with a gaze that was surprisingly intense. "He's quite a smart boy. We've all known it for years, watching him grow up . . ." Andrew had never seen his Uncle's eyes lit this way before. ". . . haven't we, Sarani?"

And just as suddenly as it had come, the burst of clarity passed from his uncle. He looked away from Andrew, eyes dull and lifeless. It had been so quick that Andrew was not even sure it had happened.

---

The Lydia was the only ship at this end of the docks. The pier was old and warped, creaking dangerously underfoot. A single spindly wooden crane was being used to unload large casks from the ship while a handful of men struggling gamely with the wooden block and tackle. Andrew liked the look of the Lydia -- in contrast to many of the more ornate vessels he had passed earlier, there was no figurehead under the bowsprit, just a simple five pointed star burned into the weathered timber. Lines were coiled neatly on deck, crisscrossing over the folded bulk of a sail being repaired. A low hum of conversation came from the tidy ship, calm and unhurried as the sailors worked at their jobs.

As Andrew approached the gang-plank, a sailor hailed him. "Oy there, you lookin' for somone?"

"Yeah, is captain Toggart around?"

---

Later that week, Andrew was in Kashi running another errand. Knowing that he was about to leave her for the next several years, Sarani seemed determined to prove her affection for Andrew by making him do as much work around the house and in town as possible. He didn't mind, though -- most of the errands were linked to his preparations for school, and as much an annoyance as they were, each one reminded him that soon he'd be leaving.

Almost every day he was finding himself with a new shirt, coat, stockings or other bit of Cimbrian-style clothing. Andrew knew that from the money his mother was spending she was recouping on her "investments" in Uncle Hamid's caravan business. This also explained the sudden drop in frequency of his visits . . .

Today's trip was not for Andrew, though -- he had been sent into town to fetch oranges, an item that had no relevance to his departure at all. He had just bought a half dozen when he heard the chanting.

They sounded like children, singing a looping sort of song that probably had dirty lyrics substituted for the usual words. He emerged from under the fruit stand's canopy back into the blazing sun and the song became clearer. Yep, definitely not a polite song. Do I remember that one? He turned to trudge home, bare feet stirring up hot dust from the street -- before realizing that he could hear someone screaming. A very familiar someone.

Stopping, he looked at the other people in the street. Customers and vendors, Cimbrian and Tel, stared back at him with blank faces from under their canopies. It was obvious now that a gang of children was tormenting someone, but no one moved from the shade.

Shit.

He turned and ran back to the fruit seller. "Hold these," he said, not giving the man a chance to respond as he thrust the oranges into his arms. Andrew sprinted back into the sun, racing down the street in the direction of the yelling.

". . . darkie, darkie, skin as brown as mud! Kick her in the shins and see her dirty blood!" a group of Cimbrian girls in school uniforms were chanting, standing in a circle around someone who Andrew was afraid he recognized. The girl being taunted was screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs, wielding them like a weapon to keep the circle at a safe distance. Still running, Andrew saw one of the girls get behind her and deliver a swift kick in the back. A great shout went up and the group closed in . . .

Sati took the unexpected attack well, though, and managed to stay upright. A particularly violent threat (Andrew's heart swelled with pride as he recognized it as an oath he had taught her) pushed the circle back at least temporarily. "Hey! HEY! STOP!" Andrew was screaming at the top of his lungs as he came up to the circle of girls.

Their heads swiveled almost in unison to stare at him as the chanting stopped. Andrew looked first to his sister to make sure she was okay. Besides a few scrapes and bruises she seemed to be okay, but Andrew was startled by the look of black hatred that she shot him. I'm here to help, why is she angry at me?

A few of the girls started to pull back, but the circle did not scatter. This surprised Andrew, because they were all several years younger than him, and at least a head shorter. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Another moment of hesitation -- and then one girl stepped towards him. Shorter even then the others, her round face was curled in a sneer of hatred. In a moment of surreal clarity, Andrew admired the floral pattern on the ribbon in her hair. It was quite pretty and obviously quite expensive.

"Fuck you, fucking darkie!" Andrew almost wanted to laugh, the racial slur sounded so ridiculous in her high-pitched squeal. He saw her begin to rear back, about to spit on him.

He hit her just as she had begun to exhale. Andrew was not particularly strong, but he outweighed the schoolgirl by at least fifteen kilograms. Her eyes opened in shock as his fist connected with her cheekbone, and shower of saliva sprayed over both of them from her open mouth as she went down. Andrew didn't give the girl a chance to get up, but kicked her twice in the stomach before stomping with his bare foot on her chest. He looked at the girl lying on the ground for a second before swiftly kicking her once more in the side of the head.

The circle of schoolgirls was staring at them open mouthed, frozen in shock. The girl on the ground was screaming -- a much more shrill, wordless, hacking scream than his sister. Andrew decided to make sure the message had been totally clear. "Don't you FUCK with her again." His voice cracked in the middle of the phrase, diluting its menace somewhat, but the circle of schoolgirls scattered leaving their ringleader screaming in the dirt.

Andrew looked around for Sati. She was standing behind him now, a look of searing hatred still etched on her face. This was still puzzling, but he didn't have time to deal with it right now. A Tel girl screaming might not attract any attention, but the Cimbrian girl's screams were sure to cause trouble.

"Come on! Let's go!"

Sati didn't move.

"Sati! We've got to get out of here. Come on!"

She still stared at him. Andrew gave up, grabbed her arm and started running, half dragging her behind him.

He ran aimlessly, just trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of the fight. Several side streets, a deserted lot, and one alley later, Andrew pulled up behind a warehouse, winded. He was glad Sati had followed him; now he had time to make sure she was unhurt.

"Hey, are you okay? They were -- argh!"

Andrew's sister was attacking him, pummeling his body with her smaller fists as hard as she could. "What?!? Stop it! Sati! Stop!" He managed to wrestle her down to the ground, pinning her arms back only with some difficulty. She was still glaring at him. "What is wrong with you?!?"

Finally she spoke, yelling back up into his face. "I could have handled that! Why did you have to come ruin it?"

"Sati, there were at least six or seven of them. They weren't just going to let you go! You were gonna be the one on the ground getting kicked."

"Why do you keep ruining my life?!? You steal everything! It's not fair!"

"What are you talking about?!?"

"Everyone likes you better! Andrew this, Andrew that . . . even the teachers like you! Well, I don't! I HATE you! I hate--"

Sati broke into violent sobs in mid-sentence, her body ceasing its struggle against Andrew's weight. He let her arms go, and watched her cry for a second unsure of what to do. Finally he helped her sit up, wrapping one of his arms around her bony shoulders. Sati's tears immediately soaked through his shirt, but he let her cry.

After a few minutes, Sati's wracking sobs subsided. Andrew didn't rush her, but instead let his sister pull away first. Still sniffling a little, she rubbed her eyes on her sleeves before speaking.

"I'm sorry. Thanks."

"Don't worry about it."

She looked at his sodden shoulder. "And sorry about your shirt."

"It's okay. We should keep moving, though . . . I don't think I want to be in town for the next few days after her parents find out." Andrew got to his feet, followed shortly by his sister, and began walking back down the alley.

"Where are we going?"

"You know that island? By the house?"

"Yeah." A pause. "Is that where you go when you go out walking? I've never been able to figure it out."

"Yeah."

They were now back out on the street, walking as casually as they could. Even with Sati's red eyes and Andrew's shoulder they got very few looks from anyone passing by. Most Cimbrians tried to act as if the Tel youth didn't exist, and right now Andrew was glad for it.

"Why did you hit her?" Sati asked after a few blocks of silence between them.

Andrew thought for a moment before replying with the obvious. "She's dangerous. They were going to beat you senseless."

"Not after you showed up. They were gonna leave."

"I'm not so sure. They didn't back down. That one girl was about to spit on me." Sati looked at her older brother. "I don't like getting spit on."

"You didn't have to hit her. And you definitely didn't have to kick her."

"Sati, that situation could have gone one of two ways. Either I broke their will to fight right there, or we were both coming out of that with broken bones." Sati looked skeptical, but Andrew continued. "That's why I went after the ringleader -- break her, and you destroy the group. She's the reason that they didn't run when I showed up."

"You still didn't need to kick her after she went down."

"You would just be having this fight over and over again every day until somebody ended up like that girl. Why prolong things? I had the opportunity to end it there and I did."

Sati was looking forward again. They continued along the road to the river in silence for several minutes before she spoke up. "Do you think she's okay?"

"Yeah. I might've broken her rib."

"Dammit, Jata, this is why I hate you. I can't even have a fucking fight to myself, you've gotta step in and take it all. You know that they hate me because of you?"

"What? Why?"

"You're too good. The teachers like you. Their parents would like you if you weren't brown. You beat their brothers and sisters for that scholarship . . . and guess who they take it out on? I can't even do anything to piss them off myself -- you stole all that, too."

Andrew had never considered this before. They kept walking.

"Sorry?" Andrew's apology sounded lame and he knew it.

"Shut up, Jata. Or Andrew. Or whatever the hell it is you go by these days. Why do you do that, anyway?"

"What?"

"Why do you use your Cimbrian name so much? You know they just assign them randomly when we start school, right?"

"Yeah, I know. Maybe I happen to like mine."

"Bullshit. After everything Cimbria has done to the Tel? Are you telling me that--"

Andrew cut her off. "It opens doors for me. A name like Ajatashatru is not going to get you very far. Do you think they would've accepted me to the academy under that name? Would the teachers ever give a passing grade to Ajatashatru? Not a chance in hell."

"Jata, it's like being one of them. It's like giving up who you are just so that--"

"Sati! We are one of them, remember? Mom is Tel but our dad definitely wasn't. It's not like I'm pretending--"

"Ha, fat lot of good that old dad's been doing us lately. Jata, we are not one of them. Take a look around -- the schools say we aren't, the government says we aren't, the church says we aren't, everybody! Those girls know we're not Cimbrian. Our dad might be a whitey but we're Tel and there's not a damn thing we can do about it."

Andrew frowned. He knew his sister was right, and kept walking in silence. They had almost reached gap in the riverbank where Andrew liked to cross to the island before he spoke again. "I'm weak when I use my Tel name."

"Sorry?"

"Ajatashatru. It's weaker than Andrew. If I'm Andrew I can do whatever I want. I can go to Oberon and to the academy, -- people respect me. I can change things. But if I'm Ajatashatru . . . I'm Tel. And Tel are weak."

"Weak? We're not weak!"

"Really? Sati, maybe YOU need to look around. Look at what Cimbria has done to the Tel. They came to take our country, and we couldn't even fight back! We didn't do anything to stop them!"

"There was the battle at Chirpa."

"Yeah, THAT went well -- and that was fifty years ago! What have we done since then?!?"

"Nothing, I know. And now instead of trying to change that you've adopted a Cimbrian name and are going to go study in Oberon at the academy. What, have you given up on us too?"

Andrew sighed. "Sati, if there was going to be a rebellion or a revolution or something, it would've happened already. We're going to their schools, we're being tried in their courts, we're serving in their military -- there's not going to be a Tel uprising, at least not here. There probably won't even be a Tel culture in another fifty years at the rate we're naturalizing. We'll all be living in those horrible brick houses and wearing those hot overcoats."

Sati was glaring at him again. "So what, Jata? You're just going to try and become a Cimbrian? We may stop being Tel but we'll never be accepted -- you know that."

Andrew glared back at her. "I never said that I was going to become a Cimbrian. Just because they won doesn't mean they aren't despicable. What it does mean, though, is that if I'm going to change anything I have to go learn from them. And that's why I'm Andrew."

Sati ducked under a low hanging branch. They were off the trail now, cutting through the underbrush towards the riverbank. "Does anyone else our age talk like this? Is this where we cross the river?"

---

Captain Toggart was surveying the loading process from the Lydia's small quarterdeck, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He removed it briefly to greet Andrew before barking a brief order to the crew below. Andrew took the opportunity to take stock of the captain of the Lydia. He was an older man who would easily escape notice in a crowd if it were not for his large, bushy grey eyebrows. They came right down to the rims of his small, circular glasses and made his roughly shaven chin look practically clean by comparison.

"A' got Hamid's letter just t'other day. You an' the cabin boy'll be sharin' a hammock in the fo'c'sle. E's for'ard, jus' ask for Danny."

Andrew just nodded -- he was only reasonably sure that he'd understood the man, and he didn't really know what a fo'c'sle was. Captain Toggart smiled a tight, thin-lipped smile and gestured vaguely towards the bow of the ship. Andrew took this to mean he was dismissed and wandered back down to the deck, trying to look like he knew where he was going.

As he climbed back down the ladder onto the deck, a thin arm grabbed him. Andrew, startled at the sudden contact, turned to find a boy about his height but a few years younger grinning carelessly at him. "Ey, you're the passenger, right?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"I'm Danny. Cap'n Toggart always pretends like we've a bigger ship 'n we do, but really we hears everything ev'rbody says from about wherever you're at. Never been on a ship, huh?"

"Was it that easy to spot?"

Danny just laughed. "Nothin' t'be worried 'bout. C'mon, I'll shew you where we're at." And with this the gangly youth ran lightly forward and plunged through the open forward gangway.

Andrew made his own, slower way forward to the hatch, lowering himself, suitcase, and knapsack down the narrow ladder with some difficulty. He found himself half-stooping in a dim, cramped space that smelled of old wood, lantern oil, and sweat. Empty canvas hammocks were strung from the bulkheads on either side of him. After a moment of letting his eyes adjust, Andrew found Danny patiently waiting for him at the narrowest end of the cabin.

"On a bigger ship, I'd be bunked astern, but Lydia, she's not so big. Also, I'm not really a cabin boy, so t'all works out. We're all the way for'rard, right against the cable locker." He thumped the forward bulkhead with his hand, emphasizing the anchor cable contained behind it.

Andrew looked at the single hammock. "So we trade off? I sleep when you don't, and you sleep when I don't?"

"Yup." Danny grinned again. "Nice ta' see one who picks up quick. I'll stash your gear below." And before Andrew could protest, Danny had disappeared into the hold with his bags.

Alone in the cabin, Andrew found himself at a loss for what to do. He didn't want to get in the way on deck, but there was nothing in Kumar for him to go back for. Sighing, he turned to the hammock.

Might as well learn how to get in this thing without anyone around to laugh at me.

It only took him a few tries before he found himself hanging in comparative comfort from the thick wooden beams above him.

---

"So what are you going to do for the next couple days?"

Sati and Andrew were lying up on the tall rock at the center of the island, gradually drying off in the sun from their short swim.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't very well be seen around town. You just beat up a white girl. I imagine we'll have the prefect at our house by the time I get back. He might lock you up, and you'd miss your ship in Kumar. Not to mention every one of those girls' older brothers will be looking for you, and they might just kill you."

"Hmm." Andrew hadn't thought of this when he'd hit the girl. "Do you think they would actually put me in jail?"

"Weren't you just the one telling me to take these things seriously? I think you'd be lucky if the prefect found you first."

Andrew's stomach turned over uneasily. Things had just gotten even more complicated.

"I suppose I could just stay here. No one else knows about the island except you."

"What will you eat? Where will you sleep?"

"I'm not sure. There's a little cave at the bottom of this rock I could probably stay in."

"That'll be pretty cold tonight."

"I'm not sure what other options I have, if I have to stay hidden until Uncle Hamid and I leave."

They laid in silence for a few moments, Andrew contemplating the upcoming days of hunger he would have to endure.

"Here's what we'll do." Sati sat up. "I'll go home and tell mom what's happened. She can talk to Uncle Hamid and arrange for a different meeting spot."

"But how will I find out about it? You can't really come back here, as soon as you go home they'll be watching you."

"Tonight I'll put some food, a blanket, and your suitcase in the skiff, and then push it into the river. It should drift by and you can swim out and grab it. That way even if someone is following me they can't figure out where you are. I'll leave a note telling you where to meet Uncle Hamid."

Andrew thought through the plan. "As long as they don't have a boat with them, it should work."

"Yeah. If they do, I'll figure something else out. Jata, I had better get going -- who knows what is going on back home."

Andrew's sister moved to scale back down the rock.

"Sati . . . wait!"

She turned back to look at him. "What?"

"Are you gonna tell them?"

"Tell them what?"

"The test."

She looked away before heaving a frustrated sigh. "No, Jata, I'm not."

"Why not?" Andrew blurted, surprising himself with this question.

"Jata, I don't like you very much sometimes -- or even most of the time. But I hate the Cimbrians, and you're my brother."

"Thanks."

"For not telling them you cheated?"

"And for the food."

"You haven't got it yet, I could still change my mind." And Sati slid down the rock and was gone. "Hey! Can I borrow your island while you're gone?" she yelled up from below.

"Sure!" he yelled back. He listened to his sister run lightly through the woods. Gradually the sound faded away until he was alone.

---

Andrew gradually swam back to consciousness, his thoughts groggy and incoherent at first.

Why am I moving? Why is the hammock moving?

The cabin was awash with sounds that he had not heard before. The bulkheads were creaking on either side of him in rhythm with the gentle swing of his hammock. Finally the crash of a wave breaking against the Lydia's bows brought him fully awake. We're at sea!

Climbing out of his hammock as quickly and carefully as possible, Andrew hurried up the forward gangway onto deck. The Lydia had just rounded the point outside of Kumar's harbor and was gamely breaking through the tall ocean swell. The rigging hummed quietly in the stiff breeze that crossed the deck.

"Ha! Tole 'ya the first breaker'd wake 'im right up!" one of the sailors laughed good-naturedly.

Andrew took a deep breath of ocean air and smiled. The salty breeze smelled good to him.

Danny came up from behind him. "'S a good feeling, eh? If yer gonna look back, now's the time -- you'll not be seein' Tel for a good bit a' time, from what I hear."

Andrew looked back. Kumar was quickly disappearing behind the rocky point that formed its natural breakwater. "That's okay. Somehow I don't think I'll miss it."