LilyFields Entertainment

Melkeen wasn't tired enough to take a nap, so he decided to wander about the encampment and sift through the woman's ramblings. Most of what she'd said was couched so heavily in religious, mystical terms that glorified the ancestors and what have you that it would take him quite a bit of work to find the pieces of value.

His steps took him around the edge of the large tents, which he ignored out of self-dignity. The wind blew through the tall grasses of the plain, which was bare of anything he could see. Oh, there were some birds in the distance, maybe an animal or two, but those didn't count. No buildings, no monuments, nothing of importance. They didn't have anything by way of a legacy; who would remember them in the centuries to come? Roussera was gone, but their mark was on the world, for example.

That brought a thought up from his subconscious. What had the woman ... Elhami said about an ancient race? Something about the origins of the tribe, taking over lands ... once inhabited by--confound it, who? Impatiently, Melkeen flicked his hand, summoning his journal. He opened it and flipped through the pages of notes he'd taken that morning. Ah, a nameless race, known only as the Water Folk, who had left the Plains to take to the seas far to the south. That reminded him of another history he'd read ...

Melkeen flipped through his journal, reviewing the notes, and let his feet take him where they would. Yes ... perhaps the Water Folk were the Diaryn who'd dominated the southern coasts some six centuries past? Official histories cited poor resources as the reason for migration, but the woman--Elhami had said they'd left because the tribe's predecessors, the Ayssrani, had driven them out. Interesting ... that would create "poor resources", would it not?

Supposedly, the Water Folk, whom Elhami had spoken of with veiled scorn, had settled mostly in the southeastern section of Lavent, of which the Plains took the greater portion. And the Diaryn ruins he was supposed to find and map for the Towers were reputed to be in that area. Perhaps this was not so foolish a--

"Hoy, sen! Burada ne yapıyorsunuz?" The shout wrenched Melkeen's head up from the pages. He froze when he realized he'd wandered too close to several young men bearing naked blades very similar to Sarta's. They were dripping with perspiration and stripped to the waist. Four were breathing heavily, and all were staring at Melkeen.

One of them walked towards Melkeen, sheathing his swords in the same fluid manner Sarta had. "Hiç kimse sizin burada ki pratikte söyledi mi, Sihirbazı? Güvenli değil burada için."

Melkeen sighed with annoyance. "I don't speak your language," he said slowly and clearly.

The other man stopped and stared at Melkeen for several moments. One of the other men called out to the one who'd come over; it sounded half inquiring, half derogatory.

"Sizden mı Angillniz konuşuyoruz?" the near one called over his shoulder. "Jeekaam; Angillniz, konuşuyoruz?"

"Kimseye söyleme," another man replied with a sneering scowl. "Bu konuda atma bir şey yok." He turned to the side, stopped to pick up a discarded scabbard-belt, and put it on as he walked over to where Melkeen stood, journal clutched to his chest. By the time he drew abreast of the first man, his blades were snug inside their sheaths. The two walked the rest of the way to Melkeen and halted two paces in front of him.

"Bu tehlikeli söyle," the first one ordered the second.

"You should be not here, Wissard," the second one told Melkeen. His accent was atrocious, but his words (and expression) were clear enough.

"And why not?" Melkeen replied cooly. These barbarians would not run him away like a frightened child. He was glad he'd worn his robes (simplified for travel, of course), for they hid his shaking knees.

"Here, we the blades swing in learning. Dangerous, it is, for those who look not where they walk."

"Of course." Melkeen managed a brittle smile. "Well, I won't disturb you further, then." He turned and strode away.

As he left, a muttered remark carried to his ears. "Annesiz piç."

Melkeen did not speak the Azzagaffin language, but he knew an insult when he heard one. Whirling around, he vanished the journal with Smaeiusi's Flourish, which was as showy as the name promised. Schooling his face into Wizardly haughtiness, he was gratified to see the sudden fear in their faces.

The first one, though, wasn't as impressed, and he snapped off something to the others. They quickly wiped their faces blank, but Melkeen could tell they were now most wary. It was high time someone in this pidgin camp gave him his proper respect!

"Ne bu biridir?" Sarta's voice had the effect of ice water on all of them. Melkeen had to suppress a jump. But that was due entirely to Sarta walking up behind him, naturally; he'd had no visual warning.

"What seems to be the problem, lord Melkeen?" Sarta asked him as she came up next to him.

"Nothing." Melkeen made sure to include as much ice in his voice as she had in hers. "I merely wandered into a sword practice without seeing it. I shall take greater care in the future." Particularly of whomever it was that had made that last comment. They all had innocent faces now, but he'd recall that voice, next time he heard it. Oh, yes.

"Ah; I see. You should take care, lord Melkeen; sword practices can be most dangerous. If you desire to have space to walk out your thoughts, I can show you where it will be safest to wander without interruption."

"Fine," Melkeen replied with Wizardly dignity. Flicking a parting warning glare at the men, he turned in place and walked back to the encampment.

Tariif sidled up to Sarta. "Do you need a long practice bout, kinswoman?" he asked in his native tongue with both sympathy and suppressed disdain.

"Thank you, my kinsman; I think I will," she returned in the same language. "It has been long since I was properly challenged with steel. I know that he is not the easiest person to get along with, Tariif, but give him time. He's never learned better."

"He may well learn soon," Gad muttered just loud enough for Sarta to hear. She glanced over her should at him and the others.

"He may, indeed, kinsman. But it will not be at yours or anyone of the tribe's hands. Understood?"