78. Welcome to Stamgard

  Pretjord as a Realm was dominated by green, both in solid and liquid form. Houses grew out of the Realmtree’s bark-like surface, as much a part of the natural scenery as the trees and bushes with which they shared the soil. Through the spaces in between flowed countless streams of viridian water, all stemming from the Sanzu River at one junction or another.

  Stamgardians had, over centuries, shaped and molded the terrain as much as they’d been guided by it in turn. One large-scale example was the Waterways Redistribution Project: diverting the existing rivers, then reinforcing them with bricks and stone. This helped to protect Stamgard from flooding and erosion while also providing the locals with their main mode of transportation—namely by turtle.

  Yes. Everywhere Serac looked, Yakshas floated through canals on turtleback. Most were only big enough for a standing room of one, while some others had been saddled for tandem riding. There was even one enormous, ancient-looking variant that ‘ferried’ a few dozen souls up and down the main body of the Sanzu. As far as Pathsight went, these turtles were neither Aberrant nor designated as ‘Steeds’; they were but a domesticated portion of the abundant wildlife underpinning Pretjordian life. Natural resources were plentiful upon the barks of the Realmtree, and the Yakshas clearly had no qualms about taking full advantage.

  According to Petter Svensen, however, this wasn’t always the case.

  “Some of these canals were put in more recently, during my granda’s time. They say that, all told, the Waterways Redistribution Project took upwards of 200 years to complete. And it might never have started, were it not for King Tyr and the vision he had for Pretjord’s future.”

  “See, Ser—yawn—ac?” Zacko spoke lazily with eyes half-closed. A full belly had turned him into sleepy sleepy Zacko. “Maybe this King Tyr dude isn’t so bad after all, eh? Civil engineering, functional economy, and a stout military to boot. Heck, maybe even Manesfera could learn a thing or two.”

  “Well, does your Immortal also keep your Realm’s Wayfarers penned up in their palace?”

  Zacko blinked several times as Serac waited for an answer.

  “Pass,” the Manusya said unhelpfully. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, and right now, I’m way too tired to be talking politics.”

  “All I’m saying,” Serac huffed, “is we should all be free to live how we choose. Not just Wayfarers, but everyone.”

  “But what you propose is anarchy, Wayfarer.” Trippy threw in his two ?. “The fact is Pretjord has prospered under King Tyr’s rule, and the commoner’s life is made better for it. Besides, have you ever considered how far you’d extend your idea of ‘freedom for all’? What about the living castle presently strapped to your belt, or these turtles who serve the Yakshas? Do they not deserve the same freedom you claim for yourself?”

  Serac opened her mind to argue, then found she was too sleepy for it. But if she had her way, yes, they’d all be free to choose their own destinies. The turtles, the deer they saw in the forest, and even her own Steed. If Ash ever made it known it wanted to go its own way, she’d let it go with a tearful hug and a good-luck pat on its stone wall, no questions asked.

  But then she also thought of the Ulvknall offals that filled her stomach. Not just the Ulvknalls but the now hundreds of Aberrants she’d smited and helped onto their next life. They had also been free. Free to stand in her Path, that was. And Serac herself had been free to answer violence with violence, with her rendition of it being just that much more decisive than theirs.

  Perhaps therein lay the rub. For what was power if not a direct conduit to oppression? As a Serac Edin grew stronger and freer along her upward trajectory, it’d be nigh impossible to avoid trampling on the Paths of others. She knew this from first-hand experience. And she would, more likely than not, embody it again and again.

  Ironically—or perhaps appropriately—her next order of business was a meeting with another powerful individual. Power of a different kind, and Palmr Jorgensen clearly had plenty of it, on full display as the Wayfarers returned to the Town Market.

  His was what the locals referred to as a general store. It sold everything from ingredients to spices to supplies to tools and even weapons. Within a ‘natural’ town square enclosed by a large, gnarly knot upon the Realmtree, Jorgen & Sons was by far its highest-footprint establishment. Yakshas of all shapes and types filtered in and out of the tree hollows that served as a storefront, carrying one thing as they went in and something else entirely as they came out.

  “We operate on a bartering system,” Petter explained. “Ten acorns for a chestnut. Five chestnuts for a bluefin fillet. That sort of thing. The exchange rates fluctuate on an almost daily basis, so you really have to pay attention to—er, what’s the word?—market trends.”

  “Why not just use a unified currency?” Zacko asked, wide-eyed in disbelief. “These market trends make a lick of sense to you?”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, Mr Zacarias,” Petter replied with a visible blush, “I was never any good with ratios and conversions and whatnot. But that’s why we have people like Mister Palmr to run the numbers.”

  Zacko side-eyed the mackerel man. “You mean to tell me the vendors themselves set the terms for each trade?”

  “That’s right. It’s for the best, I think. It’s the only way anything would get done around here, what with so many trades happening every morning.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “I think I just answered my own question,” Zacko murmured with a knowing sneer. “And my next question too. About why those guys have to be here.”

  ‘Those guys’ referred to the giant sturgeons who’d disappeared from the crowd earlier. They were back, and instead of accompanying Palmr Jorgensen, they now stood guard at the front of his store.

  More accurately, they stood on either side of an elaborate display box, one obviously meant to draw the eyes of all passersby. It contained glass vials half-filled with a mint-green liquid. Judging by the fullness of the box, very little of the product had shifted, at least so far this morning.

  Maybe the staffing has something to do with that, was Serac’s honest opinion. Eyes did turn without fail to the display as they passed, only to turn away as soon as they were met by the sturgeon twins’ cold glares. Even Serac knew this was no way to sell a marquee product. Doubly strange, given how capable a businessman this Palmr Jorgensen was touted to be. Enough to make one wonder if perhaps selling the product wasn’t the true intent.

  Thus, both Wayfarers had their eyes slightly narrowed (for different reasons) as they entered Jorgen & Sons. But as Serac herself met the glare of one of the twins, her eyes widened again, startled as she was by a Pathsighted message.

  [Designation: LARS TOMASEN]

  [Wayfarer Race: YAKSHA]

  [Karmic Level: 41]

  [Liminal Karma: 9,840 ?]

  [ZEALOUS Instrument (co-wielded with Hans Tomasen): COASTER]

  [Auxiliary: STROKE-SIDE OAR]

  Serac turned the same wide-eyed gaze onto the brother, and sure enough:

  [Designation: HANS TOMASEN]

  [Wayfarer Race: YAKSHA]

  [Karmic Level: 41]

  [Liminal Karma: 9,840 ?]

  [ZEALOUS Instrument (co-wielded with Lars Tomasen): COASTER]

  [Auxiliary: BOW-SIDE OAR]

  These guys are Wayfarers? But isn’t the king hoarding all of them? Also, I’ve heard of identical twins, but to be on the exact same Karma and sharing the same Instrument?? That might be taking it too far…

  A glance at Zacko (he of both eyebrows raised now) told her he was wrestling with the same discovery. The twins in question, however, treated the Wayfarers no differently than they did any other prospective customer. Identical, cold, unfriendly glares. No more, no less.

  Power into oppression, indeed. Well, the sturgeons might have 11 Karmic Levels and at least two feet on her, but Serac wasn’t about to be intimidated. As soon as she got over her intial shock, she went right back to narrowing her eyes, giving back as good as she got.

  The meeting was off to a great start, with a friendly staring contest with the store’s security detail. As the Wayfarers walked into the building proper, their gazes drifted again toward its largest occupant. Palmr the master vendor sat in the very back, upon a stump carved bare to fit his corpulent figure. Before him was a wooden table, every inch of it covered by half-eaten plates of food.

  An eclectic mix funky ingredients and strong spices combined into the sheer stench that emanated from Palmr’s ‘breakfast’. Indeed, it was bad enough to make a Rakshasa retch and sway on her feet. Perhaps she simply wasn’t [Hungry] enough, but the sight of a rotund catfish stuffing his face—sauces and food bits dribbling off the ends of his whiskers—made her never want to eat again. Seriously, this can’t be good for business. What the hell is going on here?

  Contrary to Serac’s lay opinion, business was booming. Anxious customers lined every aisle, leaving no room for a pair of Wayfarers and their local guide to squeeze their way to the back of the store. The trio was forced to take their place in the lengthy queue, empty-handed and growing more impatient by the second.

  The queue moved slowly, and it was easy to see why. Palmr, despite being the sole decision-maker around the place, refused to engage his clientele directly. Instead, a flustered tilapia man ran back and forth between the customers and the master vendor, waiting for the him to stop chewing long enough to exchange whispered messages.

  “Is this guy for real?” Zacko muttered under his breath. “More and more, Serac, I’m starting to like your idea of smiting everyone we don’t like.”

  “Shh!” Serac scolded her Manusya partner. “You’re the one who said we ought to watch and learn. We’ve got time on our side now, so let’s not cause a scene just yet.”

  So, Serac waited (im)patiently, watching and learning all the while. In particular, she was curious to see the faces of every customer as they finished their trade and left the store. Their expressions, to a one, were of pure relief. Relief at leaving behind the oppressive stench and atmosphere, perhaps, but there was something far more primitive—more chemical—about the reaction.

  The customers had cravings they couldn’t ignore. And in order to meet these cravings, they first had to jump through hoops at Jorgen & Sons. That was why business was booming this morning, as it would be every morning after this. It really was as simple as that.

  Disquieted by her private thoughts, Serac found her way to the front of the queue sooner than she’d expected. She also expected to speak to the tilapia as a go-between, but then—

  “Show them through, Erik. These are special guests of mine.”

  The put-upon tilapia choked back a sigh as he waved the party through. Despite the invitation, Serac hesitated; Palmr was just that repulsive of a figure. But Zacko showed no such qualms as he strode over and seated himself at the table. He even reached in and helped himself to the food, grinning up at Palmr with a mouthful of garlic bread. The catfish met this with nary a twitch to his permanent sneer.

  Serac hurried to follow suit, stopping only to drag along Petter’s reluctant figure. She too sat down without being asked to, but stopped short of trying the food (and not out of politeness!). Beside her, Petter chose to remain standing.

  “Good to see you back in one piece, Wayfarers.” Palmr’s beady eyes glinted with amusement as he bounced them between Serac and Zacko (and completely ignored Petter). “And if I’d come across rudely before, I hope you have it in you to forgive me. The start of the day is always stressful for traders, as you might imagine. But I’ve got all the time in the world for you now, and as such, let me start by offering a belated welcome to Stamgard.”

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