Chapter XIII - Westbound Ship - Jiro

“Fascinating,” Zukan exclaimed not too loudly as he combed over the leather-bound tome in his hands, lit cigarette dangling from his lips. “The Kojan Wo truly were - and are - an incredible people.”

“You’re like a kid with a new toy,” Jiro teased from atop the crate he was sitting on.

“Just wait until you see the heart of the west!” The foreigner glanced up at Jiro between puffs as he read. “I had not even heard of this culture before, and in just a few short days I have learned so much. But, of course, I have always said that the best way to learn about a culture is to surround yourself within it. Who knew the east could be so interesting?”

Jiro snorted, obviously bored. “It’s only because you had your expectations set so low.”

It had taken the unlikely duo the rest of the day to trek north out of the Kojan Desert and up to Sand Arbor. If the myriad of wanted posters they were met with in the small port town gave them any indication, the Church’s hunt for their heads had not died down. They had limited time, so they had to make good use of it.

The first place they visited was the marketplace, exchanging their two rusty old swords (and a roll of Oasis currency) for some water, provisions, and a pair of alloy-infused hand-and-a-half swords, scabbard and all. Zukan commented on the weight of it. Jiro admonished him for waving his sword around in public.

While they had the time, Jiro took a moment to check out a book on Phobosi culture for Zukan from the library, deciding that he wouldn’t have to worry about the late fee. It came at little personal cost to him and it would keep his traveling partner occupied. It was the least he could do, really.

Their next task was to hop aboard a ship heading west, but any harbormaster worth his salt clearing those two to book passage would have had them arrested. They needed to stow away, so Jiro stealthily stole a look at the harbor’s ledger, looking for any ship heading for the crimson sea that was leaving within the next twenty minutes. With little more than a glance he found their vessel, snuck aboard and in no time at all they were relaxing in the cargo hold of some trader’s caravel they didn’t even know the name of. It was the most time they’d had to do nothing at all since their journey began.

The former maege continued to pour over his book, commenting on every little thing that caught his interest. “Did you know,” he’d ask, for example. “that many of the inland tribes rely on the juice of certain cacti for sustenance?”

“That’s not even the interesting part,” Jiro reached out and grabbed at the book, leafing through pages. “You gotta read the part about how Phobos was founded.”

Zukan’s eyes lit up as he read. “Phobos was founded by the Kojan Wo!”

“Keep reading,” Jiro idly played with the black wisp of his bloodletter between his fingers. “Some 300 years ago, when Elowyr was really conquest-happy, they declared a holy war on Midden for their religiously-neutral ways. Well, the Middenese raised a massive army in response, but moving their full force to the field would have left Naeru defenseless. A man by the name of Kalem Aleppo, a Bandit King from the desert, stepped up and offered a thousand of his men to protect the capitol. His methods were so effective that he lifted the siege on Naeru in a day and a half, and for his valor, he was awarded the piece of land that we now know as the city of Phobos.”

“All very fascinating, Jiro, but I did not need a history lesson to know that the Wo peoples are not just savages.”

“Bandits are bandits, my friend,” Jiro shrugged. “But the Phobosi are a different breed, to say the least. Turn the page.”

Taking up nearly a full page was a sketched rendition of a statue of a fearsome demon, not at all unlike the one they’d found deep in the catacombs of the desert. “’Upon their first encounter with the area, the settlers came upon a very old cavern, sealed away by great blocks of stone.’” Zukan read aloud. “’Within, they discovered a chamber containing a massive sculpture of a great horned beast. The sculptors of this obviously fantastic endeavor remain unknown to this day. However, this statue captivated the founders of Phobos so that they took to worshiping it as a god. The culture of the city that they founded on top of it is based entirely around this ancient and mysterious artifact.’”

“The call it the Pale-Faced God.”

The former-maege closed the book and sighed, exasperated. “This is not good, Jiro. The first Sentinel was hidden in the middle of the desert, but this is a city we are talking about.”

“And it’s Tariik’s home turf. He may have stopped statue-worship to gain favor at court in Lissium, but he’s not exactly quiet about his family ties in Phobos. He’s probably already two steps ahead of us. I didn’t expect any of the Phobosi royal family to be keen to magyk, but, hey, they are a bunch of f*****g weirdos.”

“Try not to think about that too much,” Zukan yawned, taking a final drag of his cigarette and extinguishing it between two fingers. “Try to get some rest, you used a lot of magyk today. ‘All spells and no rest makes a dull maege at best.’”

That was the last Jiro heard from the former maege for the rest of the night, other than the occasional snore. He had somehow managed to nestle himself within his own robes, tucked away in a corner between two large crates. For reasons unknown to Jiro, Zukan had elected to keep the dusty cloak taken from the bandits they had slain in the desert. He must have liked the way it looked.

That man must have the uncanny ability to settle his mind, magyk or no. Jiro’s mind was abuzz, too cluttered to even think about sleep. He envied his traveling partner for that. You’d think it would take some kind of spell to calm a mind like mine.

He decided that a joint would be the next best thing. Throwing caution to the wind, he busted out a small port window and began to rummage through his pack for his stash of sweetleaf. He sparked the joint with a match, but his gaze fell back to his pack. He had almost forgotten about the plethora of narcotics he had procured from the peddler the morning after the festival. When am I ever going to find the time to do all of these drugs? He pulled out the large sheet of lyserg, divided into ten tabs by ten, snapped off three and put them in the pocket of his cloak, stashing the rest. There’s going to be a battle. A battle he couldn’t run from. In one of those sink or swim situations, a healthy dose of lyserg might come in handy.

As he sucked down the sweet roll of grass, he felt the hemispheres of his brain declare a ceasefire, the battle in his mind finally winding down. As he settled, he found his thoughts drifting to Delphi for the first time since they’d parted. It’s been nearly two days, by my count, he lamented. Does that make me a bad person?

Jiro had never enjoyed the feeling of being tied down to something, anything. He was far too claustrophobic for that. Even short boat trips like these filled him with anxiety, not for fear of the water, but because the water was the only other place he was able to go. His life in Lissium with Delphi had been a happy one, for a certainty, but it had felt like stagnation. He had been stuck at the easternmost edge of the world, trapped by desert on one side and ocean on the other. Not even the love of a beautiful woman could calm that fear.

Wherever you go, I go. Jiro shook his head. That had always been an empty promise. He could have seen far as far as Naeru, sure, but that would have made their parting even more bitter, and sweetness was already in short supply. She wouldn’t have wanted to come with me anyway. Even in Lissium she had been there for him and only him. Her heart was too close to her home, while Jiro’s could not have been farther away. I’ve probably spared her a lifetime of misery, Jiro presumed. I’ve given her back her freedom.

Or maybe he was just making excuses.

Jiro was about to toss the remaining roach of his joint out the port window, until he remembered the glass pipe the peddler had given him. He quickly finished the remainder of his sweetleaf, but the roach was sticky with resin, and the harshness of the smoke from the bowl made him cough. The more you cough, the more you get off, something Delphi always used to say. The memory made him smile as he drifted into a fitful sleep. She was the only woman he’d met who was a bigger stoner than he was.

They woke with the ship, which had docked at Phobos in the first rays of dawn, attempting to sneak out the port side window Jiro had smashed out the night before. They were stopped by the ship’s captain and several members of his crew before they could take two steps off the dock.

“I heard ye coughing last night, boy. Ye ain’t so sneaky, an’ glass ain’t cheap.” The captain growled. “Ye better pay yer way, unless ye want serious trouble.”

Jiro figured he could have taken them, but the man was right, he didn’t want any trouble. At least not yet. He supposed his Oasis currency would be of no use here, so he offered the captain five gold talents and a fist-sized chunk of krima. It must’ve been more than enough, because the squad of sea folk turned and left without another word.

“For an ex-member of the elite, you certainly carry a lot of cash,” Zukan noted as the pair briskly made their way out of the harbor.

“I somehow managed to work my way back up to the elite. Must be in my blood,” Jiro japed. “The Sixth Duche kept me well paid, and the Seventh even better. Would that I’d had the foresight to drain my account in Lissium before leaving on this fool’s errand.”

“What is money but numbers on paper?” Zukan rationalized.

“Money might not hold much meaning to you, mister salt-of-the-earth, but it means a hell of a lot to most everyone out here. We could have lived like kings all the way west.”

“Not so,” Zukan explained as they walked the streets of the deceptively large port city. Their wandering was almost aimless, but Jiro had his eye on the massive stone-brick pyramid that dominated the Phobosi skyline. “In Zephias, we have no currency.”

“Is that the name of your big magyk city?” Jiro asked quizzically, remaining skeptical for the simple art of playing the game of devil’s advocate. “And how do you manage that, exactly?”

“It is more of a large-scale barter system. Goods, services and favors are traded for the like instead of shiny rocks and parchment,” Zukan said proudly. “Not even krima has value in the west; its open availability is considered a basic human right. There is more benefit of the doubt, more trust. As a result, there is little crime and even less violence. It has worked for us for thousands of years. There is a saying; ‘when a man does not have to steal to eat, there is not much left for him to steal.’”

“Well we have a saying here in Phaedyssia: ‘give me my money or you’re f*****g dead.’ The majority of the jobs I took on as a mercenary were on debt collections, and believe it or not, some men would rather die than give up their hard earned cash.”

“That makes me sad,” the white haired man scowled.

“Like it or not, money just saved both of our asses,” Jiro remarked.

Zukan only offered a shrug, so Jiro turned his full attention to drinking in the sights of the city. He, like his traveling companion, had never been to Phobos before. The city was arid like the desert it sat next to, yet tall palms and flowerbeds dotted the streets, giving the sandy brick buildings a less rough edge. Doubtless the plant life here had been grown in soil heavy with krima. The inhabitants covered themselves from head to toe in flowing white robes, hiding even their faces from the threatening sunlight.

And, to Jiro’s delight, the Grand Pyramid of Phobos was even more magnificent standing at her base. She was nearly 300 years old, yet the meticulous placement of each massive stone brick would challenge even the most prolific of modern builders.

His joy quickly turned to ashes when he saw the gate that had been erected around the massive mouth of the temple’s entrance and the large, wooden sign that graced it. Two heavily armed guards stood at either side of the barred off entrance, whom Jiro did not dare speak to. Thankfully for him, the desert-speak had been transcribed below in the common tongue.

‘All able-bodied citizens must enroll for the government mandated labor program. Please report to your nearest guild for assignment.’

No specific projects were mentioned, but Jiro knew in his gut that excavation of the Sentinel was well underway.

“The leader of this city is sealing the doom of his own citizens.” Zukan appeared to be on the same page as Jiro, likely reading the sign in both languages. “He may as well be marching them right off a cliff.”

It is already too late. “We have to get into that pyramid,” Jiro clenched his fists. “Before you even ask, I know how we’re going to do it. And I thought I’d never step foot in a guild again.”

Zukan raised a finger. “Would you not feel safer if you tried to, I do not know, blend in a bit?”

Jiro looked the former maege up and down with a scoff. “Trust me, pal. Even in that bandit’s cloak, you’re no master of disguise. Pale as a hermit in the Verdeen Forest.”

Zukan frowned. “I am getting some sun!”

The mercenary guild, they found, was only a few blocks from the Grand Pyramid, the structure’s wooden ramparts set it apart from the slate and shale buildings that surrounded it. The sign that hung above the massive double-doors depicted a lizard with a menacing webbed frill around its neck.

The odd pair were met with stares upon their entrance, but none seemed to pay them any mind. Many of the Phobosi men in the guild hall wore their hoods down, sitting around circular tables with pints in hand.

“Is this an official establishment?” Zukan wondered aloud. “Do you need a permit of sorts in order to, erm, do guild things?”

“I’ve still got my license from my merc days in Naeru,” Jiro responded coolly, hands in his pockets. “That s**t never expires.”

To their left, an enormous corkboard nearly as high as the ceiling occupied most of the wall. It was plastered in requests and classifieds, written on paper of all different sorts. Each slip of parchment had one thing in common; a bright red seal stylized with a lizard’s head.

Jiro found what he was looking for easily enough, several copies of the same request were pinned in a cluster at the far end of the board. Each one read, ‘strong working man needed for excavation project in the city,’ then went on to explain payment; a hefty sum, with more promised for hard workers. The rest of it was hard to make out, because of the red paint dripping from it. Scrawled in big letters across the entire cluster of pages, and even some of the board, was a bloody word: defilers.

“An ominous message,” Zukan observed.

“The Phobosi are very traditional people,” Jiro expanded. “They take their beliefs seriously. That statue is more than just an idol to them. It represents their identity as a people. I can’t imagine many of the common people being happy about this mandatory labor project, especially not the mandatory part.” He looked over at Zukan and smirked. “Care to poke the monkey a bit?”

Zukan just threw up his hands. “Your eastern idioms are so strange. I have not yet seen a single monkey in Phaedyssia.”

Chuckling, Jiro searched for a mostly dry work request before reaching out and plucking it from the board. This caused a murmur to arise among the guild hall’s patrons; the actions of the foreigners had not gone unnoticed. Casually, Jiro strode to the questarix counter, request in hand, only to be cut off by a small crowd of men in white robes.

“If you are looking for work, outsider,” one of them hissed, folding his arms. “You have chosen the wrong job.”

Zukan looked terrified. Don’t be afraid, Zukan. Magyk and steel aren’t the only to responses in the face of a confrontation. I’m going to play right into their hand.

“My friends,” Jiro raised both hands and flashed a friendly smile, laying the charm on thick. “You mistake me. I have no desire to desecrate that which you hold sacred. I, a humble traveler, only wish to see the almighty Pale of Phobos with my own eyes, but the front entrance was gated off.”

His response had taken the hostile group aback. The one at the head of the group who had confronted Jiro took a step forward. The sides of his head were shaved, but a long, greasy braid started at the front of his head and fell to the small of his back. Robe pulled down and tied at his waist, his muscles rippled beneath sun-tempered skin, brown like finely-aged oak. “And what would a couple of strangers hope to find, kneeling at the feet of the great Pale-Faced God?” He asked with a menacing grimace.

“I would seek justice for your people.” Jiro bowed his head.

The crowd stood in silence. “Who are you?” The braided man finally asked.

“As I said, I am but a humble traveler. But I know of the plight that has befallen you. This excavation project is an infringement on the very core of your values. The men who sit in their comfy chairs atop the high towers of the city know nothing of the common folk. They know only wealth, and they are willing to forsake their convictions for it.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. “Cocksuckers!” Someone shouted. Jiro grinned. His plan was working.

The braided one, still grimacing, began to let his guard down. “There is not much work for my people. This project was supposed to put food on the tables of those who are without.” He inhaled sharply through his nose. “At least that’s what we were told. This is nothing but a great farce.”

“Can you blame the men who applied for the program?” Zukan had finally caught on to Jiro’s game. “They were only providing for their families.”

“No, we cannot blame them,” a Phobosi civilian chimed in. “But there are those who now believe that the awakening of the Pale-Faced God is part of an ancient prophecy they are helping to fulfill.” Some cursed, a few spat at the ground.

That sent shivers down Jiro’s spine. They’re being forced to work and being brainwashed.

“Some men have even been sent to the desert, they say there’s another like the Pale,” another worker spoke up. “What good could come from unearthing a false god?”

“I would rather die at the hands of my rulers than let them strip me of my faith,” the braided man declared. “Kill me while there’s still some of me left.”

That gave Jiro more to go on than he had ever dreamed of needing. “Brothers, we face a common foe. The very same men who have forced you to forsake your vows have also forced me to forsake mine. They cast me from my home to wander the desert, and within, I discovered the very Pale you speak of.” He raised a hand and made a fist, embellishing his story for dramatic effect. “And I destroyed the false god.”

“How?” The shirtless one asked, unblinking.

“Friends, it may not alarm you that our common foe has resorted to an ancient power, and arcane power, in order to fulfill their goals. There is only one way to fight back against men like those.” Jiro upturned his palm and summoned the shadowy wisp of his bloodletter. “You have to fight fire with fire.”

The crowd looked on in awe. “What of the men?” A robed Phobosi asked.

“All escaped unharmed,” Jiro lied. “They headed toward Sand Arbor, about a half a day’s walk. They may have found refuge there.” He hoped that some had made it out of the cavern unharmed, but he sincerely doubted it. It was a bad lie, but a necessary one. I only need their allegiance for a time. “But even without them, the common people in this city outnumber the elite a hundred fold. Come with me, and my friend and I can help you reclaim Phobos for those who deserve it. All we need to do,” Jiro concluded, grasping the request he’d grabbed from the board, “is get inside that pyramid.”

After what seemed like eons of silence, the man with the braid strode past them to grab a request of his own, shaking the paint from the page. He then approached Jiro, getting within a few inches of his face. “I should not trust a man like you, with your light skin and silver tongue. But you are the only foreigner I have encountered who has had the balls to stand up to me, Khared son of Bilo, let alone the Magnate of Phobos.”

A woman of about the same weight in muscle followed. Her jet-black hair couldn’t have been more than an inch long. “Standing up to my husband is more impressive than standing up to the Magnate, if you ask me.” She grabbed a request and raised it in a fist above her head. “We fight for the Pale-Faced God!”

“For the Pale-Faced God!” The group resounded, forming a small line in order to fetch themselves a copy of the labor request. Even men who hadn’t joined the confrontation stood up from their tables to wait their turn at the board. Jiro wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

“I have never seen a maege weave a spell like that,” Zukan commented, impressed.

“That was a spell that didn’t require any magyk,” Jiro said. “It’s a little thing called diplomacy. I learned it from my good friend the Seventh Duche. He seemed to be rather good at it, for his age.”

Though everything had gone according to plan, Jiro still felt bad about lying to the Phobosi revolutionaries. There has never been a successful revolution without the loss of life. Turning away for a moment, Jiro slipped the three tabs of lyserg from his pocket, to his hand and onto his tongue. And I’ve got to make sure that one of those lives isn’t mine.