50th Trial, Ashan, Arc 718
Outer Perimeter
16th break
Continued from hereOuter Perimeter
16th break
"Kasoria the Quiet. Well, fuck me gently..."
It was as warm a welcome as he'd had in quite a while, believe it or not. It didn't immediately start with a snarl or a frightened look, or one that was usually reserved for the sight of something you stepped in. No nervous hands flicked to hidden weapons, or raised in supplication. The man's eyes didn't glint with disdain or fear. In fact, he almost managed a grin.
Amazing what killing a few men with the same partner will do to a man.
"Dillan. Been a while."
"Yeah, try six fucking arcs. I take it you ain't here to catch up, so let's cut that shite out, eh?"
No offer of drink or food, not even one to step off the doormat, but still, Dillan's words drew a wry smirk from the bearded man standing across from him. No fucking about, that was Dillan to a T. He knew Kasoria didn't care for small talk, or false pleasantries. After a moment or two, the man opened his door wider and limped to one side.
Kasoria's eye flickered down to the iron brace encompassing one leg, keeping it straight and supported. Not a cheap item, he'd heard, and yet the former sellsword managed to keep it gleaming. Beyond him was a neat and tidy home, not much bigger than his own, and yet it felt... more. Kasoria blinked as he stepped inside, smelled fresh bread and soap. There was a cloth over the dining table and a bunch of flowers drinking in the new light of the season. He scanned around for weapons or traps, the mind of an assassin not being one so easily put to rest, yet it was only when the door clicked shut that he found any semblance for alarm.
Uncalled for, as it turned out. Dillan just didn't want to let the heat out.
"Well, siddown while I get you a drink, I suppose," the man groused as he stumped over to the kitchen, waving vaguely at the couple of comfy chairs in front of a gently smoking fireplace. "Ain't gonna let word get around I don't know how to treat a guest."
"I can get them if-"
"If my crippled arse can't?" He waited just long enough for surprise to fade and embarrassment replace it. Until that most alien of emotions crossed Kasoria's face, and Dillan grinned. The bastard. "Sit the fuck down, will you? Stop thinkin' a man's incapable just cuz he's down a limb..."
Then he went and proved it. Moving with a stiff, awkward gait that still got him to where he wanted to go, and with minimal strain, by the look of it. Kasoria watched him as he took his seat. He remembered when he'd nearly lost that leg. Nasty brawl with some likely lads outside of town. One of Vorund's collectors was shaken down the season before, so Dillan and him were dispatched to shadow the guy. Good news was that they'd caught the bastards, pushing their luck hoping for the same score twice in a row.
Bad news was that Dillan got his leg nearly chopped through by a cutlass. Ran the fucker through right after, though, tough bugger that he was. Kasoria half-carried him through the night to a tame healer they had, even paid him extra to make sure he kept the leg. But the damage to his partner was done: he'd never use it again, bone splintered and knee useless.
Could have been you, an ominous voice whispered as Dillan limped over with a couple of cups. Could still be.
"To all your endeavors." Dillan raised his glass and gave the customary first half of the Etzos toast. Kasoria raised his own and finished it: "May they fill your purse, woo your women, and speed your feet before the law takes its cut."
"Their cut. You always get that wrong."
Kasoria chuckled along with his old friend, ignoring the voice that told him that was because he hadn't had much cause to speak a toast. How many old friends did he have left, if he was honest? How many friends of any age and sort? Names and faces blinked across his mind and every one was cast aside. Dead or distanced, gone or forgotten... it was just him, now. Him and the denizens of his world he used, utilized, or ended. Vorund... that was shaky ground.
How can a master ever be a friend, also?
"Need your help with something," he said after a sip (sod still gets the good stuff), "Ain't gonna sod you around and mince words. You hear about the two farmers, got perished outside the walls last night?"
Dillan took a gulp and nodded as he swallowed. "Aye, heard some tell at the shop. Not as in the loop as you are nowadays, of course..."
The fire crackled and ale sloshed gently in the bottom of their cups. Kasoria didn't feel... or did he? Was he guilty? Had he really been carrying that around these last six arcs? He frowned and looked into the fire, the lingering bitterness in Dillan's tone clinging to him like a stench. He remembered that night. Every detail. Four of them to their two, and they still chopped them up like chattel. But that one lucky swing caught Dillan when he wasn't looking, and... that was it. His life, his livelihood, his health, his reputation... everything. Gone in a burst of pain and blood and cleaved bone and ruined muscle.
Kasoria had been six feet away. Could have been him. So easily, so... carelessly. The Fates rolled and they never saw the dice. Just the cost.
"Euphoria." He spoke after a few long moments, sipping at the ale, watching the fire. "They were sneaking it in through the gates. Someone knew about it, killed them both, took the lot." Kasoria made a point to look Dillan in the eyes when he spoke next. "It was going to Vorund. The farmer and his son were friends of his. From way back. Like you and me."
Dillan took in a quick breath, realizing the true scope of how badly those poor bastards had fucked up. Cross Vorund and you died: that had been the law of South Etzos for going on twenty arcs, and it was not just hyperbole. The old man had a whole regiment of killers and cutthroats at his command: one word from him, they gut, joint, and bone their own mothers. Well, one word and the proper price, of course. Dillan would know, having been one of them, once upon a time. And he knew the man sitting opposite him - as meek and unoffensive and quiet as his street name used to suggest - was regarded as one of the best.
Or worse, depending on where you stood.
Then his lip curled, and it was a sneer that held no rough humor. Kasoria suppressed a wince as he felt bitterness, raw and without satire, seep into his words, while the man fumbled with a box on the table next to him.
"Friends? We ain't friends, Kas. We were, way back when, but now..." He pulled a tight, fat, blue little taper from the box. "Now we're just two old pugs who knew each other, back in the day." He leaned closer, as much as his ruined leg would allow, and lit the end of the Euphoria stick with an ember pulled from the fireplace. "Glad you mentioned Yoof, though... nearly forgot to take me medicine..."
Kasoria doubted that, and doubted it more when the man's stern face relaxed like melted wax as the drug hit his system. All the bitterness and pain of the arcs was snuffed out like a candle, and Dillan went boneless in his seat. Remnants, shreds of a more disciplined life (well, disciplined in a different way) steeled Kasoria's spine and he almost grimaced at such flagrant indulgence. Then he flicked a look down. Saw the atrophied muscles and the red, angry wound that never seemed to have healed.
He wondered how much pain Dillan was in, every waking break. Mayhap this was his sole respite.
"Smells good," he ventured, then his pathetic attempt at conversation became something genuine as he sniffed. "Hmm... different than I remember."
"Ah, yeah, yeah," Dillan managed to drawl, hand flapping briefly in front of his face. "New strain. Las' season, I think. So... that why yer here? Think I might know, cuz I buy the stuff?"
Kasoria barked out a laugh, another alien thing to him. Old friends always cut through your crap and your pretensions. That's one of the reasons you kept them around. He shook his head at how stupid Dillan made his bright idea sound. There were a hundred men across Etzos selling Euphoria, and from what he'd learned working for Vorund, who-knew-how-many growers. The thing was a weed, after all: the fact it could grow anywhere was one of the reasons it was so popular. Most puffers had a preferred seller, but if he was dry one season, you went to another, or another, or another. Some were men who relied on pushing to survive, others did it on the side. Some were gangers, born-and-blooded, others were blacksmiths or healers or bricklayers or fucking fishwives. It all depended, and it was never simple, and there were lots of them.
And you thought he'd just happen to hear it from his pusher? Fates, man...
"Yeah, was pretty stu-"
"Sorry, Dad, work was a-oh... hello."
The door opened and the chattering voice preceded the redhead who walked in. She stopped when she was Kasoria opposite her father, basket loaded with groceries swinging in her arm. Eyes like ovals. Blue-green, like water from tropical climes Kasoria would never see, and had only read about. He blinked and the girl was replaced, at least in those pools. A hardness came to them, waters turned to ice.
"I... who are you?"
"Old friend. And I was just leaving." Dillan didn't object. The hissing from his stick told Kasoria why. "Lemme know if you hear anything, Dill."
"Dill?"
Now there was a ragged, wheezing chuckle from the other chair. Like an empire struggling to reform, Dillan rose to his feet, bad leg seeming to obey his commands a little more than before. He stood and towered over Kasoria... which was nothing new. Most people did. His eyes were clouded, smoky as one would expect, but there was a still a wry intelligence shining beyond it.
Not as high as he looks.
"Before your time, love. Old man put word out, I'm guessing?"
"Aye. He wants it handled." Kasoria flicked a glance at the girl unpacking groceries and trying very hard not to look like she was listening in. "You can guess how. Money's for an example and his herbs, but if anyone should know something useful..."
"Yeah, I get it, a purse could be tossed his way." Dillan seemed to weight this up, licking dry lips and taking another tug from the stick. "I'll keep me ears open."
Kasoria nodded, and the two men clasped not hands, but forearms. Just like they used to. Six arcs and neither man needed to be prompted. They locked arms like warriors of eras long past, gesture both genuine and parody in their world. Warriors they were not, and never claimed to be... but honor, or something like it?
Brotherhood. Or something like it.
"Take care of yourself, Dill."
"And youse, Quiet."
Kasoria was closing the door when he heard the daughter speak again. Enough to make him smile before the lock clicked shut on a happier home than he'd known since he was a child.
"Quiet?"
"Even further before your time."
Thanks to Rumor for the template
