Eight 5.1: Spies Like Us

Author's Note: Here we go! :)

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Clouds stretched across the sky above Bashruuta, their limbs letting through the rosy light of morning. I imagined they were exhausted after the previous days’ hurricane, languid after their labors.

I couldn’t know for sure, though. I’d lost the Path of the Storm Caller.

My beloved and I walked arm in arm, while a smaller-than-usual morning market opened around us. Many of the town’s merchants and artisans were still recovering from the flooding, and evidence of the damage was everywhere. Yet, a few brave souls made an appearance—a chandler, a potter, a cooper, a ropemaker, and a few purveyors of preserved food. The hawkers called out to tout their wares.

Fala drew their attention. I, on the other hand, was deep in the land, so their eyes slid past me. My new influence was proving to be potent. The last time I was here, I’d helped kill two silvered Maltran saboteurs. Now? I went unrecognized.

A street over, our quarry splashed through a puddle. Skara’s hurried steps carried her across the wet cobbles of the town’s back streets. They pattered against my path’s phantom sense for water. I could almost taste the bear fat she’d used on her boots, feel the hard edges of her heels, and hear the rhythmic beats against the earth.

I’d learned that water told a story, one that almost forced me to listen. I had to focus to keep track of Skara. My mind wanted to dwell on and in the water she stepped through.

The capability to do so had been burned into me by the World Spirit when I became silvered and joined the Path of the Water Saint. Yuki jokingly called it my eighth sense. The sixth was supposedly my spirit eyes and the seventh my perception of magic.

Water touched all my senses, and as long as I didn’t get distracted, I’d never lose Skara’s trail wherever the ground was wet. Not that it was necessary. Yuki had hidden an extension of themselves inside her. Their own silvered status had made it possible to infiltrate the dawn and dusk. They’d been monitoring her activities since the pyramid of Old Baxteiyel.

If I were a kinder man, I’d feel sorry for Skara. She’d mistaken Yuki healing her bad knee for good fortune when it’d actually been insurance for her safe arrival in Bashruuta. There was a Maltran agent in the town, and she’d anxiously sought them out. We were similarly interested in “meeting” them.

We’d followed Skara throughout her stay in Bashruuta, even booking a room at the Wholesome Ox a floor above hers. Fala had made the arrangements, luxuriating in the humanness of signing her name in the guest book. My beloved also made sure our room fit the Deer God, so that he could spend some time outside of being One With the Herd.

It had taken Skara two days to make contact with Maltra’s agent. Whatever their identity, they clearly paranoid, yet insufficiently so it turned out. Unless Skara was leading us into a trap?

‘She’s definitely heading into a trap,’ Yuki said, ‘but it’s for her.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Fala sent, as she left my arm to look over a pile of woven baskets. ‘My guess is that she’ll probably end up somewhere she can be observed, or she’ll meet a stand-in first. That’s what Knights Steed and Peel would be wary of.’

I don’t think our quarry has watched The Avengers TV show, I thought.

‘Spies are spies,’ Fala responded, ‘and they do spy things.’

‘That they do,’ Yuki said, ‘and in this case, our quarry is approaching her destination.’

Fala scanned the area and found a spot for us to lean against. She snuggled in close to portray an intimate appearance; we were a pair of lovebirds taking their ease and watching the market come back to life.

Above us, the clouds stretched their limbs even farther. That was what it looked like, anyway. They were strangers to me now. Not that it mattered to the sky—the sun continued to peer through it to light the day ahead.

I merged my consciousness with Yuki. Ten percent of our attention, we left with our beloved while the rest focused on Skara’s senses.

###

Skara was anxious. Her thoughts buzzed, and she couldn’t stop her habit of clicking her teeth before important encounters. It was forty-eight clicks every time; we’d counted.

She made sure not to reveal her anxiety as she strode toward her destination. A confident step was what mattered most—to convey to any observers that she belonged in this place and walking these paths, with business to be done at the warehouse at the end of the street.

The building was two stories tall and weatherbeaten. The sign above a pair of oaken double doors displayed an eagle in flight, and a series of slits had been carved into the stone walls for ventilation. The overall impression was of being both solid and drab, like the warehouse had been imposing once and stubbornly held to that history.

Skara moved to an adjacent alley that was about two and half feet wide. She had to slide through sideways to get to the marshalling yard behind the warehouse. It was important to arrive through the alley; that would be the first signal she was an ally.

The handful of workers in the yard were surprised to see someone come through. An elderly woman had been directing the repair of a large wagon, observing the work with furrowed brows. Her cane clacked on the stone pavers as she approached Skara.

“Are ye lost? The market’s a few streets over yonder,” she said, gesturing.

Skara replied with the pass phrase, “A friend sent me; he said I should come here if I was ever interested in shipping to the far western lakes.”

“Is that right?” The old lady scrutinized Skara up and down, then shook her head. “By yer accent, I can hear the Sugrusan in you. Yer folk don’t know how to leave well enough alone.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Skara replied, hiding the flutter in her belly. She’d come through alley and said what needed to be said—was this a test she hadn’t been warned of?

The old lady exposed missing teeth when she laughed. “Now that’s a truth and an unfortunate one. Let me take ye in.” She pointed the cane at the open barn doors, then it clacked against the ground as she led the way inside.

Another wagon, this one apparently in good repair, stood to the right with an office area past it. To the left was a collection of barrels and a stack of hay bales a little farther on. The building’s front doors were also visible, which meant it was possible for a wagon to drive in from either direction.

The interior was dry. There was none of the smell of mildew that pervaded the rest of the town after the flood.

The old lady called out, “Sulwa, ye got one that wants to hand ye their taak.”

A man appeared in the doorway to the office area. He had sharp brows and a thin nose, which made his face look like there was a capital T plastered on it. Then he scowled, spoiling the effect.

“I’ve told you before; this is a civilized place. If there’s a guest, you simply need to bring them to the office.”

The old lady snorted. “I’m doing it, aren’t I?”

“But without the yelling,” Sulwa added.

“If ye wanted civilized, then you shouldn’t have hired me and me lads.”

“It’s been five years!” he yelled back. “Even an ox can learn manners quicker than you.”

Which only caused the old lady to laugh. “I reckon that’s a truth, too.” Then, she waved her cane to signal her departure and clacked back to where her lads were still at work.

Sulwa stared at Skara for long beat before gesturing for her to follow him into the office. “You might as well,” he said.

Inside was a desk, two cabinets, and cushions in a wide variety of colors. The rug was round and featured the same eagle design as above the front doors.

Skara’s anticipation peaked as she sat on a gold cushion. The color was supposedly favored by Brother Sun and Sister Moon, the emperors of the Maltran Empire.

‘This is it,’ she thought. ‘I’m meeting their agent!’ She clamped her teeth to keep them from clicking.

Sulwa closed the door behind him, then sat at his desk to get paper, ink, and quill ready for taking notes. “What are you transporting? How much of it do you have? Where is it going to?”

She licked her lips. “A friend sent me; he said I should come here if I was ever interested in shipping to the far western lakes.”

“Yes, I heard,” Sulwa replied. “The acoustics in here are good. I know everything that transpires in the yard. Now, what, how much, and where to exactly. The far western lakes aren’t a proper destination.”

Skara floundered. The instructions she’d received had ended at the pass phrase. There wasn’t supposed to be anything else. Tentatively, she answered, “I’m transporting information.”

“Mmhmm,” Sulwa muttered scribbling on the paper. “Very good. Where is it from?”

She took a chance and said, “Old Baxteiyel.”

“I see.” The quill continued to scratch at the paper. “And the destination?”

Skara took a breath and replied nervously, “The palace at Oostha Hakei.”

“Yes, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” The writing wasn’t hard read upside down, but the characters didn’t make sense; it was likely a code. There also seemed to be a rune in the process of being drawn at the bottom of the page. “How much are you looking to transport? A parcel, barrel, a wagon, a caravan?”

Skara considered her report urgent, but would Brother Sun and Sister Moon agree? Gulping, she offered, “A barrel?”

The quill stopped, and Sulwa looked up. His eyes were mild, but Skara couldn’t look away. She was dawn, while he was not. This shouldn’t be happening unless there was an artifact—

“You came here for a barrel?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. The words were plainly said, yet she felt threatened.

Compelled to reply, Skara said, “Maybe a wagon. I thought it was more, but in hindsight—”

The pressure she didn’t realize she’d been under increased, pushing down on her head until she looked like she was nodding off. She felt small and bug-like. Whatever information she carried didn’t belong to her; it was meant for others better than her, those more worthy.

The subtle influence from before had turned overt, and Skara finally noticed the unnatural silence that had surrounded the office since the door had been shut. There’d be no eavesdroppers on this conversation.

The man before her was silvered and hiding his level! He had to be!

“Honored?” Skara squeezed out. “I’m sorry.”

Sulwa let out a sigh. “See what you’ve done? I’ve lost my temper. How am I supposed to get out of this pit stain of a town now, eh? You promised me a caravan, you over-eager, over-ambitious pile of goat turd. And what do you offer instead? A barrel, a gods-be-damned barrel.”

“The assassination of the Great Alchemist by the team from Voorhei—"

“I was there,” Sulwa said, “and I saw it myself!”

“Asiik, the guardian of Old Baxteiyel—”

“Has fled the ruined city!” He wrapped the notebook with his fist. “The town is still buzzing with the news.”

“Ikfael—”

“Is dead! Word has also already spread, you glop of worthless snot. Supposedly, another spirit of the land has taken her place—some kind of deer avatar.”

“The hunter Eight claimed the Baxteiyel’s treasure!” she yelled, then flinched waiting for another of the special agent’s scathing replies.

Instead, his scowl cleared like a storm passing. “You saw this?” He asked mildly.

“Yes. Not exactly, but—” Skara paused to shudder. “If you’d seen how Albei’s hierophant died, you wouldn’t doubt me… that Eight found a powerful artifact and kept it for himself.”

Sulwa sighed. “The story of the bloodbath inside Baxteiyel’s pyramid has already traveled through Bashruuta. You were not the only witness—”

“Maybe not,” Skara interrupted, gaining confidence. “But I was Maltra’s eyes on the scene—the only one who knew what to look for and what questions to ask. Four dark warriors guarded the top of the pyramid. I saw the aftermath of Eight’s battle with them and the destruction left behind. Surely, they protected a treasure of immense value. It couldn’t have been that cursed length of gold chain he presented.”

“I admit, I’ve had similar thoughts,” he muttered.

“How did Eight jump to silvered from one day to the next?” she asked. “And how did Ikfael die?”

Sulwa’s brows rose. “You think Eight killed the spirit of the land in order to claim the treasure for himself?”

Skara nodded. “It’s the only way things make sense, especially if he’d made an exchange prior to the expedition… with a new spirit of the land hungry for territory. That Eight went into the pyramid prepared for betrayal. People like him don’t understand loyalty. Their ambitions go unchecked.”

“You make an interesting case.” Sulwa eyed Skara. She could feel him weighing her worth. “Did you see what happened to the… cursed chain you called it?”

She shook her head. “I lost track of it after the massacre, but Eight must have it. There’s no where else it could’ve gone.”

Sulwa sighed. “The cargo you’ve provided is conjecture, not information. Unless there’s something else?”

Skara clenched her hands; the pressure was enormous. She rapidly explained, “I knew the others in the expedition had talked about what happened in Old Baxteiyel, but I thought confirmation from a trusted source would be welcome. I apologize if I’ve erred, honored. I truly only meant the best for—”

She wasn’t able to finish. Skara didn’t even see how she’d died—neither the spell reinforcing the quill in Sulwa’s hand nor the flick that sent it piercing through her eye and into her brain. With her death, the body’s nervous system was disrupted. The last image was of her falling back. The last words heard, “What a pity.”

We weren’t able to sense what happened next, yet we kept our attention on Yuki’s extension inside the corpse, so that we could guide their escape. There came a wriggling as Skara’s light was removed from her chest, then we sensed our relative position in the room changing. The body was being moved.

Carefully, we extended a tendril to better read the qi. The old lady and her lads approached. The air vibrated with their speech. “More trash for the dump,” Sulwa said.

“Too bad,” the old lady replied. “She seemed like she’d fit in.”

“Seemings and realities are distant cousins at best.”

The old lady cackled, “Ye don’t have to tell me that!”

###

One thing the people of Diaksha were great at was recovering from disasters. Usually, it was the Long Dark, but the impact of natural disasters wasn’t all that different, and Bashruuta’s militia had been fully mobilized for days. At first it was to prepare for the storm, then to deal with the aftermath. The people had come together to remove the debris left over, to repair the damaged buildings, and to clear away the mud piled up against the town walls.

This was the first day they could start letting up, with about a quarter of the population released from militia duty. The rest were still hard at work, however, including in the drop off of debris—the literal throwing of junk from the cliff face west of the town—to the dump below.

The old lady told her lads to get another barrel ready for the trash run. Sulwa’s qi, meanwhile, retreated back to his office, which was the opportunity we needed to get Yuki’s extension out of Skara’s corpse. One with qi, we slid across the floor to the wagon in good repair and climbed up the wheels to post under the seat at the front.

The ambient qi shimmered with movement and voices. The lads sang a work song as they stuffed Skara into a barrel and gathered the other barrels in need of transport. The wagon barely shifted as a total of five were loaded onto the back. An ox came into sensing range and was yoked to the wagon.

Once everything was ready, a lad helped the old lady up into the driver’s seat. He called her Matron Dugo, and then went to sit in the back along with another lad. They’d, no doubt, be the ones doing the heavy lifting.

Sulwa came out of his office. “Don’t tarry. There’s more work to be done.”

“Ye aren’t coming with us?” Dugo asked.

We felt the weight of his frown. “No.”

“All right then, suit yerself.” She clucked her tongue at the ox to get the wagon rolling. Our position relative to Ollie/Eight changed again as we moved away from Sulwa, away from the warehouse, and away from the danger of being perceived.

Carefully, we crawled from under the seat to test the area behind Dugo’s left knee. Our qi slipped inside her meridians without any impediment. The old woman wasn’t even Level 5, so we moved fully inside to inhabit her dantians.

She tasted of moldy, bitter fruit. We disregarded it as we infiltrated her nervous system.

Her eyesight opened to us, revealing her hands holding the reins to the ox. The wagon traveled along Bashruuta’s back streets; she preferred this route over the more public ones. Her ears picked up the voices of her lads joking with each other. She felt a mild affection at their antics.

Dugo’s mind turned to the barrels in the wagon—not just Sulwa, there were two other bodies back there—and that meant plenty of work in the future. It’d been that way before, in Dugo’s experience. Once the bodies piled up, so did the work.

What were their names? The old hunter was called Klouk. She remembered it, because he’d been nice to look at. The other was a hotshot Sword-Touched or something.

Dugo snickered. That soldier had looked more Sword-Bent after he’d come out of Sulwa’s office. Klouk too for that matter, which was a shame. She had liked the look of the old hunter. She should’ve asked for time with him before the questioning started. Sometimes she got it, but her boss was getting more and more impatient lately. He’d never been that way before. Cold as ice he’d been when they’d first met.

Something was up. Her old bones creaked in a way that told her trouble was coming. It might be time her and the lads found an excuse to go traveling. The trick was doing it without Sulwa putting them into barrels, too.

It might also be that Sulwa himself was thinking about traveling. Bashruuta’s leaders had found the obvious spy in their midst—that Dooli fool—so the true one should be safe. The town should be satisfied, but who knew what would happen? It was a near certainty that if Sulwa fled, he wouldn’t be taking Dugo or her lads with him.

No way around it, she and them were meant for barrels. Her and the lads needed insurance.

She pictured a stone tile in the warehouse office. There’d been a day when the boss had gotten careless, and she’d seen it opened and closed like the lid of a box. He’d put a book in there. Likely it was something he wouldn’t want to see in others’ hands. Maybe he’d let them leave if she threatened to give it to Bashruuta’s leaders.

Her mind churned, thinking about what she knew and what Sulwa knew in return. Half plans formed, but she’d need to talk to the brighter lads about them, in a place where their boss wouldn’t overhear.

The wagon left through the western gate, the militia members waving as it passed by. She smiled and waved back, then drove north to the spot closest to the mountains. People avoided it, because sometimes beasts came down for a snack.

No one was around to see her lads dump the bodies out of the barrels, over the cliff side. The beasts below would take care of the evidence, and there was no sense in wasting good barrels.