Keith DeCandido: Cycle of Hatred

Before his patron arrived, Margoz was close to destitute. He wasn't even catching enough to feed himself, much less sell, and he was seriously considering just grabbing his boat's anchor and jumping off the side with it. Put himself out of his misery.

But then his patron arrived, and everything got better.

Margoz soon arrived at his modest apartment. His patron hadn't let him move to better accommodations, despite his pleading—the patron called it whining, and unseemly—regarding the lack of good ventilation, the poor furnishings, and the rats. But his patron assured him that such a sudden change in his status would draw attention, and for now, he was to remain unnoticed.

Until tonight, when he was instructed to go to the Demonsbane and start sowing anti—orc sentiments. In the old days, he never would have dared to set foot in such a place. The types of people who liked to beat him up usually congregated in large groups in taverns, and he preferred to avoid them for that reason.

Or, rather, used to prefer to avoid them.

He entered his room. A pallet that was no thinner than a slice of bread; a burlap sheet that itched so much he only used it when the winter got particularly cold, and even then it was a difficult choice; a lantern; and precious little else. A rat scurried across into one of the many cracks in the wall.

Sighing, he knew what needed to be done next. Besides the inability to move to better quarters, the thing Margoz hated most about his dealings with his patron was the odor he carried with him afterwards. It was some kind of side effect of the magic at his patron's command, but whatever the reason, it annoyed Margoz.

Still, it was worth it for the power. And the ability to walk the streets and drink in the Demonsbane without fear of physical reprisal.

Shoving his hand past his collar to reach under his shirt, Margoz pulled out the necklace with the silver pendant shaped like a sword afire. Clutching the sword so tightly that he felt the edges dig into his palm, he spoke the words whose meaning he'd never learned, but which filled him with an unspeakable dread every time he said them: "Galtak Ered'nash. Ered'nash ban galar. Ered'nash havik yrthog. Galtak Ered'nash."

The stink of sulfur started to permeate the small room. This was the part Margoz hated.

Galtak Ered'nash. You have done as I commanded?

"Yes, sir." Margoz was embarrassed to realize that his voice was getting squeaky. Clearing his throat, he tried to deepen his tone. "I did as you asked. As soon as I mentioned difficulties with the orcs, virtually the entire tavern joined in."

Virtually?

Margoz didn't like the threat implied in that one—word question. "One man was a holdout, but the others were ganging up on him to a certain degree. Provided a focus for their ire, really."

Perhaps. You have done well.

That came as a huge relief. "Thank you, sir, thank you. I am glad to have been of service." He hesitated. "If I may, sir, might now be a good time to once again broach the subject of improved accommodations? You might have noticed the rat that—"

You have served us. You will be rewarded.

"So you've said, sir, but—well, I was hoping a reward would come soon." He decided to take advantage of his lifelong fears. "I was in grave danger this evening, you know. Walking alone near the docks can be—"

You will come to no harm as long as you serve. You need never walk with fear again, Margoz.

"Of—of course. I simply—"

You simply wish to live the life you have never been permitted to live. That is an understandable concern. Be patient, Margoz. Your reward will come in due time.

The sulfur stench started to abate. "Thank you, sir. Galtak Ered'nash!"

Dimly, the patron's voice said, Galtak Ered'nash. Then all was quiet in Margoz's apartment once again.

A bang came on the wall, followed by the muffled voice of his neighbor. "Stop yelling in there! We're tryin' to sleep!"

Once, such importunings would have had Margoz cowering in fear. Today, he simply ignored them and lay down on his pallet, hoping the smell wouldn't keep him from sleeping.

What I don't get is, what's the point of fog?"

Captain Bolik, master of the orc trading vessel Orgath'ar, knew he would regret the words even as he found himself almost compelled to respond to his batman's statement. "Does it have to have a point?"

Rabin shook his head as he continued his cleaning of the captain's tusks. It was not a habit every orc indulged in, but Bolik felt that it was his duty as captain of the Orgath'ar to present himself in the best manner possible. Orcs were a noble people, ripped from their homes and enslaved, both by demons and by humans. Enslaved orcs had always been filthy and unkempt. As a free orc living in Durotar under the benign rule of the great warrior Thrall, Bolik felt it was important to look as little like the slaves of old as possible. That meant grooming, as alien a concept as that might have been to most orcs, and it was something he expected in his crew as well.

Certainly it was true of Rabin, who had taken to the captain's instructions far better than most of Orgath'ar's crew. Rabin kept his eyebrows trimmed, his tusks and teeth cleaned, his nails polished and sharp, and kept decoration to a tasteful minimum—just a nose ring and a tattoo.

In answer to Bolik's question, Rabin said, "Well, everything in the world serves some purpose, don't it, sir? I mean, the water, it's there to be givin' us fish to eat and a way of travelin' by boat. The air's there to be givin' us something to breathe. The ground gives us food, too, not to mention somethin' to build our homes on. We're makin' boats with what the trees give us. Even rain and snow—they're givin' us water we can drink, unlike the sea. All that means something."

Rabin turned his attention to sharpening Bolik's nails, and so Bolik leaned back. His stool was situated near the cabin bulkhead, so he leaned against that. "But fog means nothing?"

"All it does, really, is get in the way without givin' us nothin'."

Bolik smiled, his freshly cleaned teeth shining in the cabin's dim lantern—provided illumination. The porthole provided none such, thanks to the very fog that Rabin was now complaining about. The captain asked, "But snow and rain get in the way, too."

"True enough, Captain, true enough." Rabin finished sharpening the thumb and moved on to the other fingers. "But, like I said, snow and rain got themselves a greater purpose. Even if they do get in the way, leastaways there's a benefit to be makin' up for it. But tell me, sir, what does the fog do to make up for it? It keeps us from seein' where we goin', and don't give us nothing back."

"Perhaps." Bolik regarded his batman. "Or perhaps we simply haven't learned its benefit yet. After all, there was a time when we did not know that snow was simply frozen rain. The orcs then saw snow only as the same kind of problem that you now see fog as. Eventually, its true purpose—as you said, to provide us with water to drink during the colder seasons—was learned. So it is not the fault of the fog, but ours for not yet seeing the truth. And that is as it should be. The world tells us what we need to know when we are ready to know it and not before. That is the way of things."

Rabin considered the captain's words as he finished sharpening and started buffing. "I suppose that might be so. But that don't do us much good today, though, does it, sir?"

"No, it does not. How is the crew dealing with it?"

"As well as can be, I suppose," Rabin said with a shrug. "Lookout says he can't see the tusks in front of his face from up there."

Bolik frowned. The rocking of the boat had been fairly constant, but now it seemed to bounce a bit more. That usually meant they were being affected by the wake of another vessel.