98. [INTERLUDE] Hide and Seek

  The sun had just peeked over the Roots to paint the sky in seafoam. The hour was just early enough that most of the busybodies who lived on the Trunk would still be in bed.

  Renate Sandvik didn’t like to rob people when they were asleep. Not out of some pretentious scruples, but simply because asleep was when souls were at their least trusting—and therefore their most defensive. Vendors invariably locked up their wares once the trading day was over. If they had keys, they’d keep them hidden or close to their chests.

  Stammers could imagine the Finless as a shadowy phantom if they wished, but in reality, Renate was as corporeal and subject to the laws of ripples as any other Yaksha. She had neither the skill nor the inclination to sneak into people’s houses, which was why she committed all her thefts in broad daylight. When it came down to it, hers was a game of hide-and-seek. She just had to do both the hiding and the seeking.

  The principles almost never changed. Pick a vantage point from which to hide, read, and observe. Wait for the mark to let their guard down—a crack in the defense and her cue to turn seeker. Swoop in unseen, unheard, and unread to snatch the goods, using DREDGER as an extension of herself as necessary.

  For her approach to work consistently, Renate needed the Stammers’ caution and awareness of her to ebb. Which was why she always waited several weeks in between jobs. Why she’d never hit the same mark twice in a row. Why she’d certainly never try anything while the whole town was in a state of excitement over the once-in-a-lifetime arrival of ascended outrealmers.

  All that to say… she was breaking all of her own rules to do this latest job.

  Palmr Jorgensen lived and shat where he worked and ate. His general store, Jorgen & Sons, doubled as the home in which he kept his wares locked up overnight. As the sun made its gradual progress across a seafoam sky, it shone upon the tree hollows that served as the storefront, all boarded up before the start of the trading day.

  Renate had neither the skill nor the inclination to sneak into people’s houses. On this occasion, she also lacked for time. As such, she settled for the only way she knew how to break down doors, consequences be damned.

  [Auxiliary Technique: ELEMENTAL SURGE]

  The door disintegrated into splinters and sawdust. Renate had taken care to aim the [Surge] skyward, sending most of the debris into the ceiling where it was unlikely to hurt someone. Not that she much cared about Palmr Jorgensen’s well-being, but she might need him alive for what she was about to do.

  The man himself was slumped against a table in the back—the very same corner where he took his meals every day and oversaw the goings-on of his business. The catfish had woken at the loud intrusion. The numerous rolls upon his corpulent body bounced grotesquely as he rose to his feet. While Palmr wasn’t quite as large as his sturgeon bodyguards, he nevertheless easily dwarfed a diminutive tree-frog. Indeed, he filled the very room with his presence as he grinned down his whiskers at Renate.

  “Finless. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Palmr enunciated his words clearly, showing no signs of lingering sleep. Either the man was a true professional, or he’d been more awake than he’d first let on. On any other day, that observation alone might’ve been enough to spook Renate. But right now, she was in too deep.

  “You already know what I’m after,” she said, doing away with pleasantries altogether. “Your box of the Realmtree Dew. Hand it over.”

  “Of course. You know I’m always up for a trade.” Palmr, still smiling, didn’t miss a beat. “And may I commend you on your expensive tastes? By today’s exchange rates, a whole box would run you… oh, say, 212 shards of dragon-blood resin? Or 37,356 acorns, if you’d prefer a more… granular mode of payment.”

  Renate had seen, heard, and read enough of the man to know those figures hadn’t been pulled out of his ample backside. He really had calculated them on the spot—a feat most other Pretjordians, Anchored or Wayfaring, couldn’t hope to emulate. Palmr Jorgensen’s head for numbers was one of many reasons he’d climbed to such a position of power despite being an Anchored soul.

  But Renate also possessed power, one of a more primitive nature—and therefore easier for all parties to understand. She raised DREDGER and pointed the edge of its blade into the catfish’s face.

  “I’m not here to haggle,” she said, herself maintaining a calm demeanor. “Hand it over this instant, or the last thing you taste in this life will be my iron.”

  Palmr’s smile never faltered.

  “Are you sure about this, miss?” he asked with mock concern. “Far be it for me to question the Path of a seasoned Wayfarer, but… aren’t there forces in the afterlife that frown upon and punish the senseless killing of innocent souls?”

  You? Innocent? Renate wanted to spit, but she instead forced herself to say, “I’m well aware. Killing you would indeed run me afoul of said forces, but that’s a price I’d happily pay. The box. Now.”

  Still the catfish continued to smile. In fact, he took it a step further and let out a chuckle, whiskers swaying languidly as he did.

  “So, you’re not afraid of the gods that watch from the heavens. But what about a king, a queen, an army… right here in our very own Realm? I’m not one to blow my own bubbles, but I do have some friends in high places. If King Tyr has been tolerating your antics up to now, Finless, he certainly won’t be once you’ve struck down his favorite supplier.”

  If Palmr didn’t falter in his blasé attitude, neither did Renate in her threatening posture.

  “I thank you for your concern,” she deadpanned. “But you’ll have nothing to worry about once you’re dead. You think I’m afraid of being hunted by King Tyr and his Kronvakt? Why should I be? When the whole Realm already is against me? Now, quit stalling and show me to your wares. If the next word out of your mouth isn’t a ‘yes’, I’ll shut it for you, and for good.”

  The ‘negotiation’ ground to halt, as both parties stared each other down. Direct violence weighed against the prospect of royal retribution. What happened next came down to whether Renate had convinced Palmr that his threat was no threat at all.

  And that was when Renate saw the fatal flaw in her not-much-of-a-plan.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  What would happen if Palmr called her bluff? Could she do it? Strike down an Anchored soul in cold blood? She’d already helped many an Anchored soul pass on in [Serenity], each time incurring a Karma penalty. But that and the kind of violence she threatened now were two completely different beasts. Did she really have it in her to mete out the final judgment unto a fellow Yaksha—even one as nasty and mean-spirited as a Palmr Jorgensen?

  It’s not a question of ‘can’. She tried to steel herself. I must do it. Simple as that. Inge is counting on me, and I’ve already lost so much time. If the next word out of the catfish’s mouth isn’t a ‘yes’, then I must—

  “I believe you.”

  “What?”

  Palmr’s response had caught Renate off guard. Not quite a ‘yes’, but also very different to a ‘no’. Not only that, the man had stopped smiling, instead putting on a solemn gaze reserved for the most serious of trades.

  “I believe that you’re perfectly willing to take on the whole Realm by yourself. And I’m man enough to admit I value my own life over my products, no matter how expensive they might be. The Realmtree Dew, was it? Won’t be a moment.”

  With that, Palmr strode over to the store’s counter, leaving Renate to ponder his words. He believes I’m willing to take on the whole Realm. But did he also believe I would smite an Anchored soul for that to happen?

  Slowly, uncertainly, Renate lowered DREDGER and reslung it across her back. She watched quietly as the most powerful businessman in all of Pretjord bent over a safe, a keychain dangling from between the rolls of his chin. Wares kept under lock and chest-nestled key. At least on that count, Renate hadn’t been wrong.

  As Palmr set down the goods, he played the part of a dutiful vendor, opening the box for his customer’s inspection. Rows of glass vials, all half-filled with the same lurid-green liquid. Freshly squeezed and neatly bottled, straight from the leaves that adorned the Realmtree’s Crown.

  Renate had stolen many a vial of the Realmtree Dew in her days, but never in so large a quantity and so pristine a condition. There must’ve been enough for her to brew another year’s supply of [Pearls of Rebalancing]. Another year of Inge staying by her side…

  She held her breath, forcing her expression to remain neutral. She matched the catfish in solemnity as she looked up and nodded her approval. Only then did Palmr’s smile return.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, Finless,” he said, managing to sound almost sincere, “and do come again.”

  ***

  As Renate Sandvik raced her way home, her heart filled with strange emotions. A kind of ebullient lightness. Ripples that spread across her feet and lifted her into the air, as if to carry her to the very heavens.

  It was… joy. Cheer. Optimism. Which, in her case, were rare and strange emotions indeed.

  Her mood climbed to such heights it couldn’t even be dragged down by the arrival of the Tomasen twins. The three of them very nearly crossed paths just outside the Town Market. Luckily, she’d gotten a read on the twins before they her. She managed to dive deep into the river just in time, where she stilled herself and hid, until it was safe to seek again.

  She could never be too careful around those sturgeons. Indeed, she’d rather face a Kronvakt strike team than those OAR-swinging brutes, who could [Paralyze] or [Snap Freeze] her into submission if she weren’t careful. The only thing a Pretjordian Wayfarer feared more than starvation was to be held against her will in another’s magic.

  Close call avoided, Renate shifted her attention onto the changes happening to Rotgard itself.

  An unexpected byproduct of the cave expedition had been the ‘unclogging’ of the Realmtree’s taproot. Renate had yet to theorize let alone understand the mechanisms at work, but one thing was clear. The removal of Mulaharta had restored much of the river flow Rotgard had sorely lacked for years.

  It was a strange sight. Powerful currents filled and reinvigorated the long-dried grooves upon the Roots. Not satisfied merely with welcoming a pair of outrealmers, the Realmtree now played host to a second life-altering event in as many days.

  For Yakshas, water was life. Water would soon revitalize and strengthen the downtrodden people of Rotgard. They would rise, with years of pent-up anger and generations of inherited bitterness in their hearts. Who could say if their anger and bitterness might spill across the borders that separated the Roots from the Trunks?

  As if to underscore that point, today of all days, said borders were left all but undefended. The soldiers must be acting on some emergency orders, Renate mused as she completed the easiest border crossing of her life. Must be scrambling all over Rotgard now, trying to get ahead of the mayhem that’s sure to follow. The thought amused and worried her in equal measure. Whatever was about to go down in the near future, it’d be a miracle if it did so without bloodshed.

  Renate had neither the time nor the sympathy to spare toward anyone other than Inge and herself, even if she did have a soft spot for the Rotters: those who’d suffered most under King Tyr’s rule. Putting that aside, however, she couldn’t discount the potential collateral impact on Inge and herself. With both anxious soldiers and reenergized Rotters milling about, Renate would have to be extra careful about covering her and her little family’s tracks.

  Yet, despite all the fresh headaches, Renate’s mood continued to be joyful. Cheerful. Optimistic. And as she neared her hiding place and slowed her steps, she searched her heart for the why.

  Was it the box she’d lashed onto her back—a year’s supply of the Realmtree Dew? That was the obvious answer, and at least partially correct, to be sure. But somehow, she knew it was more than that.

  Another unexpected byproduct of the cave expedition had been the connection—no, friendship—she’d forged with her fellow Wayfarers.

  With the Manusya she’d bumped into first, then promptly nursed back to health. With the bumbling, fast-sinking Rakshasa, she of the hundred bullets and thousand questions. And… yes, perhaps even with the sturgeon twins. Renate was woman enough to admit the Tomasens weren’t terrible company as long as their COASTER didn’t fly in her direction.

  But her mind kept replaying one moment in particular. For as she and the Rakshasa stood around waiting for their turn at meditation, the devil-horned woman in her endless cheer had called her Renna.

  “…”

  Renna Sandvik recalled that moment now as she descended the taproot (from the outside this time). Looking back, she couldn’t even say why she’d given her real name at all. She’d held back her surname, of course, but she also could’ve invented any number of aliases with which to appease the Rakshasa, or simply ignored her pleas altogether.

  What was done was done. She’d given her name to a complete stranger. An outrealmer, no less. From there, the stranger had stumbled upon a childhood pet name precious few souls in all the Realm had ever been privy to. Indeed, throughout Renate’s life, only three souls had ever called her by that name. Inge Bjornsdatter was one. Ansig Sandvik had been another. And now, Serac Edin became the third.

  Joy. Cheer. Optimism. Even after all that self-scrutiny, Renate wasn’t much closer to a satisfactory answer. She nevertheless sighed contentedly and allowed herself a small, vapid smile as she climbed down one of the rootlets and into the niche where she’d hidden her house.

  As soon as she did, however, said ‘house’ jumped out toward her with alarming speed. Munkfred the giant tortoise shook off the entirety of its camouflage—dirt, leaves, branches, and all—as it stared at its tree-frog master with wide, pleading, and panicked eyes.

  That was all it took to deflate Renate’s mood in an instant.

  Inge! She clambered onto the tortoise’s shell in a mad rush, reaching for the hatch handle. In less than the space of a Ksana, she’d forgotten all about her eventful day—and about the friendships forged therein.

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