The Venomancer

I.8 - The Painted Poacher

The guard reached up to his temple and began to unwind the wine-coloured silk about his head, revealing the auburn hair concealed underneath. He combed it backwards off his dusky face and let it remain swept towards the crown, held there by the day's oils. Strands of red fell effortlessly either side of his face; it suited him that way. His eyebrows were thick, though tidy, as grooming wasn't an unusual practice for High Farban men. Through his elaborate ink the man displayed his smirk again. It had a youthful charm to it despite his angular jaw and the first signs of worry-lines. Why do I know that face?

When his memory provided him with the answer, Tan nearly choked.

"Cassa!?"

"Cassa Faro of the Painted Guard," the man said with an attempt at laughter. "A pleasure to see you again, even under such queer circumstances."

"You look so different!" Tan swallowed the lump in his throat, hoping Cassa wouldn't notice. "Godsdamn, I can't believe it!"

"And how do you suppose I feel seeing you again?" Cassa replied. The smell of alcohol clung to his breath. "The boy whose name I've drank to on every anniversary of his disappearance. The friend I've grieved for ever since. You've been considered dead all these years ... and now I seem to be drinking ale with you as a grown man. How can this be? I knew that skeleton couldn't have been yours! I've so much to tell you, Tandei, and so much more to ask."

"You could've told me sooner, you bastard."

"My apologies. No hard feelings. And where ever did you learn that vile language?"

Cassa had been two and twenty when Tan disappeared six years ago. Due to his peasant background he'd been a fellow outcast and something of a mentor to twelve-year-old Tan, whose father had forsaken him in this strange realm following an incident they never spoke of. On the whole he felt delighted to learn that sensible, straight-talking Cassa was still well and safe, though in an unexpected place in High Farban society. Less pleasing, Tan had spent the past half a dozen years trying to forget all about Cassa and Yussephe and the others; about his disastrous debut in Farba'al Mar; about why he'd been believed dead in the first place.

He gestured to the lance in its bracket by the door. "So, they let you join the Brotherhood, did they?"

"They did," Cassa nodded, "but only the lowground faction. Even though exclusivity has waned during recent years the generals do not permit Fishfolk to become guards of the highgrounds. Too close to the palace for the their liking."

"Say, how did you get a home all the way up here with your Gamlakhi background? Is that even precedented?"

Cassa rubbed his neck. "I don't think so. The job grants me a handsome wage, I'll admit, so affording a villa this close to the highgrounds was no trouble, but you'll notice my hair is not as dark as it used to be when you knew me."

"Red suits you, my friend."

"Thank you, but you know how a dark complexion is worshipped in High Farba and this why I'm looked down on. My hair colour, of all trivial things. Working at the gates ... Tcha. It's a burden turning away so many Gamlakhi that I once knew and grew up with. Even my own brothers see a side of me that I loathe."

Tan gave a knowing sigh and propped his chin on his fist. "Is there nothing you can do?"

"If I worked for the palace I wouldn't have to refuse so many familiar faces and come home with such a heavy heart. Is it any wonder I turn to the ale? I don't need or want wealth from the job; never have. All I keep here are my trophies - "

"Trophies? All these?" Tan glanced around the room again at the furs and tusks and mêlée weapons mounted everywhere he looked. "You mean you didn't buy them?"

"Tcha! Buy them? No. At my own leisure I take to the desert on horseback. The swords and shields you see are dried-up relics from the Era of Bloodshed. The staff behind you is from the subsequent era: Atonement. I've the head of a mace estimated to be two and a half thousand years old and a bow with origins even farther than the Small Seas in the extreme north - "

"That's where Almysia is."

"Then it could well belong to one of your ancestors. That grotesque skull over the door is from a beast that roamed before man, said to belong to the fourth era: Division. The swirling crystal oval, well, I did buy that from a trader - it's the greatest treasure amongst my possessions. He claims it was passed down from the Consoliarte of Burderskel, though it's a lofty claim. Whoever they are, they'd probably notice it's gone missing. The rest are spoils from fiends and animals I've caught, fought or killed. That's a -"

"For fun?"

"For the rush. For revival. My mind goes stagnant here."

"Uh-huh. So in your spare time you're a poacher. A painted poacher."

The word seemed to sting. Cassa shrugged, dismissing him as though he knew he'd said too much. "If you must put a label on it. Now, I believe you owe me some answers. What are you doing in the capital again after so long avoiding it?"

Tan studied the crescents of dirt under his fingernails. "I don't think I should tell you, my friend."

"Why not? I haven't seen you in over half a decade and you won't tell me why I should happen upon a dead boy?"

"What ever happened to that food you offered?"

Cassa lowered his gaze. "Tandei... "

"I grow weaker by the second," he joked. "My memories become obscured."

"You are pathetic. But if I find you're absent by the time I return I will be disappointed in you. There was a reason you posed as a delivery boy to sneak past the gates and I should like to know what it is. If you break my trust, as a man of the Painted Guard, I can have you handed over for whatever or whomever you're fleeing from."

Cassa stood, ascending to six and a half feet or more, and his headscarf fell to the rugs. "I'll be back in a moment." He rounded the corner with the suggestion of a sway in his gait, and headed towards what Tan assumed was the pantry.

Tan looked over to the door and the innocent-looking milk urn beside it. All this for a jar of damn powder. He didn't like to stay inside the citadel longer than he had to, and he remembered Cassa had not locked the door on his way in. If I run, would he be able to catch me?