Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

It was a good question, and Tae had no great answer. It might impress the pirates more to come at them with what they clearly considered a higher form of communication. On the other hand, the unnaturalness of it, and the need to use a mediator, might steal some of Tae's concentration and the method's power.*A very good point, Imorelda. I'll try that first.*

Tae remained in position a bit longer, considering his approach. The last time he had attempted communication nearly resulted in his death. Finally, he sat up again, yawned, stretched, and glanced at his neighbors.

Dillion crouched, staring out the front of his cell. Jaxon remained on the floor, as far from Tae as the bars allowed.

Previous experience, and the overheard conversation, told Tae the smaller pirate was, by far, the more approachable. Tae cleared his throat, organizing the words he had managed to learn. He had added vastly to his vocabulary just in the last few moments. Mental speech defined as it presented. "Greetings, Jaxon."

The pirate stiffened so suddenly, Tae worried he might have torn some muscles. He rolled over to look up at Tae. "Did you just… talk?" His gaze shifted past the little Easterner to his own companion in the next cell.

"I did," Tae admitted. "We are intelligent. We are not animals."

Jaxon only stared. His hands began to tremble. "Did you hear that, Dillion? Or am I-?"

"You're not going crazy, Jaxon," Tae said, slowly and distinctly. "I am talking to you."

"I hear him, too," Dillion admitted.

Tae looked over his shoulder as Dillion moved to the set of bars directly between them, the ones through which he had strangled Tae. The Easterner knew better than to approach, and he wanted to know the location of the larger pirate at all times.

They both fell silent. Certain he must be missing something, Tae sent his next message to Imorelda.*Are they talking in their minds?*

Imorelda hesitated only an instant.*No.They're completely silent.* Another moment passed.*I think they're both dead.*

Tae fought back a smile.*Not dead. Just very, very surprised.* He looked from Dillion to Jaxon and back.*Imorelda, would you please let me know immediately if they start talking by mind?* *All right.*

The background noise continued: prisoners shifting, coughing, snoring. In the distance, urine splashing into older urine. But, near Tae, silence reigned; and he broke it with a gentle caution that revealed no emotion. "I think," he started carefully, "it's time for us to talk."

Refusing to loiter in alleyways like a common thief, Calistin hun kered down outside the New Loven fabric-seller's doorway, polishing and oiling his blades. At first, the passersby gave him a wide berth. But, as he squatted calmly and paid them no obvious heed, they whisked about their business, pausing only to stare at the boyish stranger who had nothing better to do than tend to swords that clearly needed no further attention.

Sensing nothing more dangerous than suspicion, Calistin did not even bother to return their stares, simply waited for Treysind to let him know when the ruffians arrived. The sun touched the horizon, trailing hazy bands of colors muted by cloud cover that barely hinted at rain. Darkness followed quicker than usual, aided by the overcast. The citizens scurried about their final business, while merchants folded shutters over their stands or closed and latched their doors.

Calistin finally sheathed his weapons, rose, and stretched. He found himself eager to battle, hoping that a group of five or six toughs might actually prove a worthy challenge. At the least, it brought him one step closer to Valr Magnus. His jaw clenched at the thought. The best warrior the Northmen had to offer would die at the hand of a Renshai, this time in the fair fight that should have happened on the Fields of Wrath.

Treysind ran out from behind the fabric shop. "Hero, they's comin'."

Calistin glanced at the fabric-seller's still-open door. Clearly, the merchant hoped to coax in the last straggling customers.

Calistin and Treysind walked inside. The untidy little shop held bolts of fabric on every level surface: tables, chairs, and shelves. The odors of fresh wool and billy goats hovered in the air, partially smothered by a sweet spice Calistin did not recognize. A door behind stacks of material apparently opened onto upstairs living quarters while another, sturdily fastened with broad bolts and two large locks, led to the alleyway.

A small, balding man who looked as if a strong breeze might carry him away spun toward them. Fear etched his features, then melted to relief. "Can I help you, boys?" Then his gaze dropped to the swords at Calistin's belt, and his expression again turned grim.

Calistin opened his mouth to explain that killing the shopkeeper was not worth dirtying his swords over, but Treysind spoke first.

"Don't worry, sir. Hero ain't gonna hurt ya none. He's gonna he'p ya wit' ya's problim."

"Problem?" the man, apparently Khalen, repeated. "I don't have-"

As if to prove him wrong, something heavy slammed repeatedly against the fastened back door.

The fabric-seller swallowed hard and raced to secure the front door. "You boys better get out now, or you might get hurt."

Calistin started to laugh, silenced by a glare from Treysind.

Khalen's face turned greenish and lapsed into terrified creases. "You're with… them?"

"No!" Treysind said quickly. "I's tole ya. We's here ta he'p ya 'gainst 'em." He turned toward Calistin. "Tell 'im, Hero."

There did not seem much to tell. "We're here to help you," Calistin repeated. "We're here to kill the brawlies."

"Kill?" Khalen repeated uncertainly.

Three young men burst into the shop, slamming open the panel and knocking Khalen sprawling. One shouted into the street, "Front's open! He's here."They wore dark leather and black cloth, each with a sword at his hip. Their hands appeared callused, their faces weather-beaten and scarred. The youngest looked about sixteen, the oldest well into his twenties. Dark bangs fringed killer eyes, and bright red circles defined their cheeks. They seemed not to notice Calistin and Treysind as they moved menacingly toward Khalen.

The fabric-seller scrambled to his feet, only to take several mincing, backward steps. He swallowed hard.

Two more toughs appeared in the doorway. The last, an enormous figure in his early twenties, sported a frosty gaze without a hint of mercy. He calmly shut and latched the door behind them. Clearly the leader, he took in details the others had skipped over, including the presence of the two young strangers. "What's this, Khalen?" He gestured at Calistin and Treysind. "Your children?"

Before Khalen could answer, Calistin announced, "I'm a man." Every eye went to him.

"I passed my tests at thirteen."

"Thirteen?" the one who must be called Savage repeated derisively. "You mean… yesterday?"

The brawlies laughed.

"I'm eighteen," Calistin informed them.

The Savage snorted. "If you're eighteen, I'm a hundred and six."

"Then," Calistin informed him, "you'll be the oldest man I've ever killed."

Treysind cringed. Calistin suddenly realized the boy did that a lot when he spoke.

Silence descended over the room as everyone waited for Savage's retort.

Finally, the enormous man laughed, waving dismissively. "I like your audacity, boy. That's why I'm going to give you and your little friend there a chance to leave now. Alive." He gestured to one of his cronies to open the front door.

The youth obeyed without hesitation. The latch clicked back open, and the panel eased inward.

Calistin watched the door but made no movements of his own. He measured Savage: well-muscled yet agile, probably quicker than one might expect for a man of his size. The others would prove no obstacle, only interesting distractions.