The Venomancer

I.7 - The Painted Poacher

"What in Maedhros' name is this?" Tan scowled into the cup of malt-scented liquid the guard had handed him.

"My kind of poison," the man said softly. "Oh, don't look so worried."

Tan didn't appreciate his choice of joke.

The pair sat on their heels opposite one another in a fine villa of blue-grey marble, at a low table covered in beaded cloth. Intricately decorated rugs sprawled underfoot and a menagerie of furs and horns, swords and axes hung from every inch of the walls. Whoever you are, you're a collector.

"It's called sva akem," grunted the guard, pouring more from a cask. His voice sounded thick with alcohol already, and it made Tan even more uncomfortable. Those of the Brotherhood of the Painted Guard weren't known for being warmhearted, after all, even with intoxication to sway them.

"And what, exactly, is svah-ah-kem?" Tan asked, stressing each foreign syllable. "Besides smelling like a damp hound?"

The guard swirled his cup in thought. "A home-brewed ale, of sorts. Oats, yeast, Rakhai spices ... shards of tree bark. Mostly water. My father taught me."

"Then I can't say you shine as a brewer. I'm no expert on foreign beverages, but isn't ale supposed to smell less aggressive?"

"That'll be the wood," said the man, taking a long draught of the chestnut-liquid. "Drink up. It's not as bad as its scent would have you believe. When was your last meal?"

"I've not eaten more than two bites in just as many days. Why do you ask?"

"Eat with me, Tandei. We've a lot to discuss."

"Yes," Tan studied him intrusively, "like why you keep calling me that."

His inked face creased as he smiled, revealing straight white teeth. His eyes were so dark Tan couldn't discern iris from pupil, and he hadn't yet taken off the silken head-scarf of his uniform. From his dusky complexion Tan supposed the man was naturally dark haired, and, judging by his home, he had enough wealth and reputation to want to maintain it. High Farbans perceived pale hair as an omen of poverty, inferiority and permanent outdoor living. Blonde-haired Tan, by association, was valued no higher than a beggar.

"In time," the guard answered. "But I'd first like to know what you are doing in the citadel."

"That's none of your business."

"Tcha. I believe it is. Look at that lance over there. Need I remind you for whom I work?"

"No. Fine. Have it your way. I was helping a friend."

"Who is your friend?"

Tan didn't answer, and pushed his ale away across the table with his forefinger. "That's disgusting."

"I asked you a question. Tell me."

"Dingo."

"And who is Dingo?"

"Dingo is a just a dingo. The four-legged sort that trots across the desert killing hares."

"You mean a dune wolf?"

"No."

"A jackal?"

"No ..." Tan squinted and shook his head. "No, he's just Dingo."

"What?" The man slammed his palm down on the table. "You want me to believe your friend is a beast? I don't appreciate your games, boy. You are Tandei Sol, no?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You see, I always found that games are better played in pairs. I won't answer your questions, my friend, until you answer my own. Why are you so interested in me and, for the last time, why are you calling me by that name?"

The man steepled his fingers in front of his face and shot him a hard, black-eyed stare. "Because I hear you still hold onto your Almysi endearments, 'my friend'. I haven't heard anybody call me that since a boy named Tandei disappeared from Farba'al Mar six years ago. So when I heard a so-called delivery boy say it to a member of the Painted Guard at the gates, that boy sprang forth from my memory. And lo, you have the same golden hair and those unforgettable blue irises.

"It might be coincidence that you're an Almysi like him, but what is a northernlander doing here thousands of miles south of the forests, and all alone? Tandei would be nineteen by now and you could easily be the same age, too. Not only that, but you look exactly like him. You even have the same black barb punched through your earlobe, and the same chip missing from your front tooth. Seeing you at the Inner Gate is like seeing his ghost. Please tell me I'm a sane man and that I'm not losing my mind."

"Which is easier to believe?"

"That Tandei is dead; that I have closure on the matter. And yet, here you are. Unless, of course, the rumours of necromancy amongst the rogue kuzorocari are indeed true. Come on, tell me who you are."

"I'm ..." He'd usually introduce himself as Voya, but that was a Gamlakhi name. Too obvious. What about Ruri? Except he'd used that one a lot, recently. What if he used Rilv's alias? "I'm ..."

"The truth," the man said bluntly.

"I can't."

"Because your name is dangerous, isn't it? Your name is one we dare not speak. But you can't fool me; you might as well stop embarrassing yourself."

He's won. It's over. "You're not losing your mind," Tan sighed in surrender. "You know my name. It's Tan Dei Ná." He let his words hang in the air for a moment and it lay between them like he'd just confessed to murder. Even Shara didn't know his real name.

Tan saw the man's shock not on his face, like he'd expected, but in the tense set of his shoulders. He seemed to have clenched his teeth together, too, as though he was trying to hide something inside. Relief? Surprise? Anger? He would probably never find out.

"You really know me from six years ago?" Tan said to fill the pause. The man's hand gripped his cup a little too tightly. "How? I knew no warriors of the Painted Guard back then. Nor anybody remotely this rich. Are you Ajura Raqmarah?"

The guard drank for an achingly long time, nodding to himself now and again as though processing Tan's confession. When he finally drained the cup, he refilled it, drained it again, and said, "You'll be surprised how heavily six years can influence your career choice, Tandei. Even I did not foresee myself joining the Brotherhood." He placed the cup on the tabletop a little too heavily to claim sobriety. Perhaps he'd been drunk on the job, too. "After all this time, I pray you have not forgotten me."