Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Treysind continued anyway, "Ya don't like talkin' ta pee'ple. Ya ain't no good at it, an' ya don't wanna take tha time ta learn."

Calistin reached for the bread, topped with a smear of butter. He tore off a hunk. "Most people aren't worth talking to."

Treysind ripped off a smaller piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. He spoke around chews. "All pee'ple's wort' talkin' ta, if ya knows how ta do't. It jus' takes pra'tice gettin' good at it."

Calistin took a bite off his piece of bread. It tasted freshly baked, with just a hint of some sweet spice, and the butter made a perfect contrast. He savored it, swallowing before speaking. "Why should I waste my time talking to people who don't matter? What possible good could come of that?"

"Ya might find out where all tha bestest West fighters is at."

Calistin rolled a bright orange root from the pile. "I'm finding that out just by asking. I'll talk long enough to learn what I need to know."

Treysind fished out his own root, shook off the dirt, and took a bite. It crunched loudly between his teeth. "But if theys don't trust ya, theys don't tell ya nothin' useful."

Calistin snorted. "And if they do trust you, they yammer at you ceaselessly. Nothing more boring than that."

"Ain't there?"

"No."

Treysind grinned broadly and kept the expression on his face even as he ate.

Calistin ate, too, savoring the silence for several moments before curiosity got the better of him. "What are you so happy about?"

Treysind swallowed a mouthful of root. "Tha way things turnt out. I's happy."

Still irritated by the end result, Calistin could not help saying, "You're happy I left a dangerous punk alive."

"Yup."

"Even though he'll probably regather the gang and start harassing merchants again."

Treysind grabbed another root and another piece of bread. "That ain't gonna happin." He sat back, his grin broadening. "He's gonna do's a great job cleanin', which is gonna make Khalen verry verry happy. Then Khalen's gonna hire 'im. They's gonna work tagether till they gets ta bein' bes' frien's. Evensh'ly, they's gonna be like father an' son."

Calistin stared, scarcely believing what he had just heard. "For a street punk, you sure are sunny."

Treysind shrugged. "Hain't nothin' sunny ta it, Hero. I's kin tell jus' by talkin' ta 'em.Yas could tell, too, if yas tried."

Now it was Calistin's turn to shrug. "Why should I try? I don't care what happens to them."

"An' 'stead a makin' mo' en'mies fo' yaself, ya maked some frien's this time." The smile seemed to take over Treysind's face completely. "Tha merchants was grateful 'nough ta give us lotsa stuff." He patted the fat backpack, then opened it. " 'cludin' these, which ya def 'nit'ly needs." Treysind tossed a set of clean britches and tunic toward Calistin, who caught them from habit. "Plus, a man what's needin' he'p in his shop gotted some, an' a boy what's needin' parents and direc shuns gotted 'em. An' ya learnt ya don't gotta kill ever'one ta make a diff 'rince."

Calistin snorted, twirling a root between his fingers. "I didn't learn anything like that."

Treysind studied his food. "Well, ya shoulda. 'Cause it's true."

Calistin felt the heat of rising ire; but, before he could vent it, Treysind spoke words that caught his attention completely.

"An', by talkin' ta pee'ples, I's finded out where all tha bestest West fighters is at."

Calistin straightened. The root stilled in his hand. "You mean you weren't just talking hypothetically about that?"

"Hypo what?"

"Hypo-" Calistin knew Treysind would never get the word, just as he would never properly manage the Renshai's name. "There really is a place where the best Western fighters go?"

"There's a school," Treysind explained, still eating. "Kings an' gen'rals sends they's men there fo' trainin', an' others go jus' ta learn. It ain't far from here."

Calistin's heart rate quickened. He found himself smiling as fully as his companion.

"See, talkin's good fo' somethin' "

Though grudgingly, Calistin had to admit it was. "Anyone could have found that out by asking the right question."

"No, Hero." Treysind's grin vanished and he leaned in, as if discussing something of utmost importance. "Ya can't ask tha question if ya don't know what question ta ask. This comed out talkin' 'bout other thin's that we wouldn't a been discussin' if we dint start discussin' nothin'." He threw his hands up as if making a brilliant point.

Despite the strange delivery that did not make much sense, Calistin took home the point. "So, tell me about this school."

"I's gonna do better'n that," Treysind declared. "I's gonna take ya there."

Taking Calistin to the warrior's school proved more difficult than expected. Treysind disappeared repeatedly to cast about and regain his bearings; and the Renshai took advantage of the wasted time, venting his frustrations in wild flurries of svergelse.

Finally, Treysind plopped down on his backpack in a thready roadway and stared sullenly into the distance.

Calistin studied his companion. He had never seen such a sour expression on the boy's face. "Any luck?"

"No, I ain't gotted no luck!" Treysind snapped. "If I'd a got luck, wouldn't I been takin' ya there?"

Calistin's eyes widened. The Erythanian had never used that tone of voice on him before, and he did not know how to react to it. "Treysind?" he said in a flat tone full of warning.

The boy looked up, his expression going from sullen to horrified. "I's sorry, Hero. I's rilly sorry. I shouldn't never talk ta ya like that."

Calistin had not really minded. It felt oddly good for the boy to treat him like a person rather than an idol for a moment.Yet, he did not feel comfortable encouraging disrespectful behavior in a companion either. "I understand. I'm frustrated, too."

"There's supposed ta be a big ol' twisted herbont tree nears a west-way path, but I ain't seein' it. I's thinkin' maybe we's did go tha wrong way at tha las' crossroad."

Irritation flashed through Calistin, then disappeared as quickly. It seemed impossible for him to be upset at the same time as his companion. Someone had to keep a calm head. "It's not that far back. Let's take the other fork."

Calistin's reasonability seemed to have a positive effect on Treysind, who sprang to his feet, shouldered his overstuffed pack, and waddled back the way they had come.

Calistin followed, a nasty thought occurring to him. "Treysind, you don't suppose those merchants were having a bit of fun with us."

Treysind did not look backward. "Whatcha mean?" he called over his shoulder.

"Maybe there is no school. Maybe they just told you that to get us…"

"… losted?" Treysind finished. "No, sir, Hero. They's wouldn't a done that. They's too grateful, Hero."

Calistin was not so sure. "Maybe they were having fun at our expense. Or telling you what they thought you wanted to hear."

Treysind turned to face Calistin but continued walking… backward. "No, sir. They wouldn't a done that, Hero. I kin usual tell when pee'ple's lyin'. They wasn't. Jus' like I knowed that brawly wasn't lyin'. He's gonna turn hisself aroun' an' work honest."

Calistin never doubted the sincerity of the young street tough, only how long that attitude would last after his companions' killer left New Loven. Once the danger was gone, the fear would lessen, and he might well revert to his old, vicious tactics. Treysind was right about the merchants, however. They had no reason to mistreat their saviors, other than the destruction of the fabric-seller's shop.

After a short stop for a midday meal from the backpack, Calistin and Treysind found the fork in the road, this time choosing the direction they had not yet taken. Calistin did remember that Treysind had paused in this same place a long time before selecting the pathway they now believed was incorrect. The route back to New Loven was clearly marked and well-traveled. The other two much less so.