Category: Writing

Azahl’s steps slowed as he approached the low cave mouth. The gold coin clutched in his sweaty hand was far too little; he knew that already.
Can snakes smell gold?
He bobbed his head respectfully to the guards, impassive under the relentless orange sun, but his eyes were fixed on the abandoned basket just to the right of the entrance. The charmer was missing, and without the flute or humming or plucked lira or whatever music the man used, the snake inside would be restless. Unless it wasn’t in the basket.
Zahl couldn’t stop the fearful jolt in his legs that broke his stride for a moment, and his treacherous eyes slid up towards the carvings above the entrance before he could duck his head low enough that all he could see was the dust already thick on his new shoes.
There was the faintest of noises above him as he passed under the arch, and Zahl had to empty his mind to avoid interpreting anything except the lush, red carpet where he regretfully left his dusty shoes, worn only once before. Continuing barefoot through the cave, Zahl carefully did not notice the uneven ceiling grazing his bent head, nor the hundreds of gilded grates along the low walls.
Then he was in the first chamber, and a middle-aged man held out to him a large wicker basket. Zahl reached with his right hand and the man lifted off the lid. Put the coin in now and lose before he started? Everything in him was warning of a quick death, but the boy closed his eyes to slits and whispered:
“Jewel of the desert, king of paradises, holder of life power, thy command directs me…”
And he trailed off, hope and fear viscous in his throat.
Can snakes smell compliments?
What compliment could rival the gold coin, thick and shiny, here in his palm? No one in his right mind would enter here without the needed gifts. But Zahl had come partway between lordliness and begging, and each of the single coin’s possibilities were desperate. A hiss would decide his fate.
Passs.
Zahl couldn’t tell whether the sound came from the basket or from the man holding it, but he bowed his head briefly and shuffled on.
He was too young to be looking for work as a charmer, too poor to be buying a snake of his own. A servant, his brother-in-law had said. Wear your good shoes.
Snobbish, for a rich master. Humble, to the seller’s men.
The coin was too little. Six months of charmer’s pay, tossed back into the lap of…the Snake Seller.
Azahl’s head scraped the cave roof, and he stooped, then crawled. You were meant to crawl, so that the first you saw of the snake seller was his snake-skin shoes. Zahl’s stomach turned. Those shoes could be made from his brother-in-law’s snake. No one lived, they said, who parted paths from the seller. Not the snakes, not even the men themselves, they whispered. And hushed the whispers into silence when they saw Zahl’s brother-in-law.
Zahl’s knees refused to move. The hiss around him – air, just air – asked him why he tried. Mistakesss.
Mistake for Jade’s husband to fake his death. Mistake for him to flee the city alone, kind though their neighbors were. Mistake for Jade to return to collect a few belongings.
They had taken his sister and the snake, Zila, in the same breath.
Mistake for Zahl to name a snake that would never again rise, swaying gracefully, in one of Jade’s baskets, nor twine her cold body around Zahl’s forearm, tongue flicking.
Mistakes.
The man who did not make mistakes was ahead of him.  
Can snakes smell evil?
“Approach, boy.” The faintly amused voice was not raspy or sibilant like he’d expected. How did a man so ordinary hold so much power?
Zahl crawled forward, slowly, forcing his thoughts away from the coiled bodies resting around him.
“Snake Seller.” He kept his eyes trained on the floor, stretched out his s’s to emphasize the respect he meant to show. “My master seeks a snake.”
The pause was almost too long; Zahl leaned onto the curled hand holding the coin so that the pain would focus him. He tried to babble.
“He said it must be a beautiful snake, with a vibrant color. And not too young, and well-trained, he said.” He risked a glance toward the snake seller’s face to see if the story had caught.
He must try everything now. If he failed…there would be no second chance.
Can snakes smell death?
The boy crawled forward on his elbows. The coin made a heavy chink when he set it down by the snake seller’s slippered foot.
“A gesture of good-will, Snake Seller.” He hesitated. “My master said I must make certain it’s beautiful, and well-trained.” He lowered his voice, not sure how far the tale could stretch. “Or he’ll take the difference from my own pocket.”
Zahl did not dare lift his eyes, but the snake seller must have made a gesture because a door to the left opened and girls began to walk through. Or no, mostly women, because Zahl’s ‘master’ wanted a snake not too young, and well-trained.
Zahl rose to his knees, his curiosity unfeigned.
“Perhaps he would like a yellow one,” he whispered to himself carefully.
The snake seller laughed sneeringly.
“Foolish child. The best snakes are green, emerald green, like a flower’s cushion or a polished jewel.”
Best and most expensive. Zahl’s palm felt empty without the coin he’d clasped so tightly.
Where would they go? Where could they hide that he would not find them and exact an unimaginable revenge?
Can snakes smell fear?
Zahl shuffled closer to the nearest girl. She held her charge calmly for his inspection, but her jaw was clenched.
Caretakers were sold with their snakes. What did laws matter in the realm of snakes? This was the Seller’s kingdom.
None of the snakes were of the best strains; their colors lacked vibrancy and their patterned bodies looked limp and thin.
Zahl turned back to the seller, this time raising his eyes to the man’s chest. He was wearing six chains, mostly gold…Zahl dragged his mind away from the curved pendants.
“Snake Seller…” He’d thought to snivel, even cry, but immediately he knew that wouldn’t work. “My master won’t be happy if I come back without the perfect…one.” He allowed the catch in his voice, showing part of his fear and uncertainty.
Trade was an odd thing, part living creature and part mapped land. The seller waved his hand.
Zahl dropped his eyes to the floor and watched the bare feet padding evenly out. More entered.
There was no gasp, no stifled cry. Zahl lifted his head, but there was Jade. Her face was so normal that Zahl’s eyes easily moved to the next woman, and the next, but his heart was pounding. He’d pictured her…trapped. And she was. But she was still herself, and without being able to describe her face it was so familiar to him that he knew it in all its possibilities, from scolding when he’d fed Zila an extra meal, to joyous when birds called overhead, to mournful when she’d let the fire go out again.
Almost as familiar was Zila, her fern-colored scales winking in the light as she curled around Jade’s neck…alive.
The Snake Seller knew. He somehow knew. Zahl had failed before he’d started…
His heart was thumping hard enough to hear.
One snake was a firm yellow, beautiful in a cold way. Its pale brown eyes fixed on Zahl when he worked his way over, still on his knees. A pink tongue flicked.
Zahl pretended to examine the snake, but he saw only a blur. There were two emerald-green snakes somewhere to his left. How to convince the Seller…? He couldn’t give up, but the hopelessness of knowing the snake he ought to pick was not the one he would, and that it wouldn’t work, any of it, and they would all be killed or worse, and the wagon waiting outside the city would wait until the man inside was killed, too — a movement behind him knocked his thoughts out of the spiral making him tremble.
“This one is very good,” Zahl whispered doubtfully. “But perhaps he would like green best.”
He turned then, and his heart sank.
The Snake Seller gave him a flat smile, not bothering to hide his impatience.
“Green is best, boy,” he said. He gestured to the snake he’d just placed over Jade’s arm.
There was an awful feeling rising in the pit of Zahl’s stomach, the more acidic for lacking doubt. He made his way over to Jade, examined the snake. It was beautiful, a silver pattern decorating its back.
Mistake. All mistakes up to now, the Seller knowing everything beforehand, and sealed soon with a mistake that he would make, would make a hundred times over until the bite in his gut ate right through his heart.
The boy lurched on. Paused by a pale green snake. Then by Zila. Her black eyes called to him.
Azahl put out one finger and touched it to the top of her head. So many mistakes. Where were the smooth paths, the happy ending? He could not see the way, and it was too late. So many mistakes. So much love.
The moment dragged out forever as he lifted his finger from her head, the feel of her scales clinging to his skin.
The other emerald-green snake. It was smaller, younger, so that much was easy. Easy?
Zahl felt like he moved through thick liquid; he almost fell forward when the air provided little resistance.
He moved back and forth between the two emerald-green snakes, trying to keep his pace measured and worried, but the hot tears were rising to his eyes now. He blinked hard and squinted to cover it.
The Snake Seller’s snakeskin slippers tapped impatiently.
“He wanted older,” Zahl murmured. He paused in front of Jade. Her long hair partly covered her face, hiding her expression. Good, Zahl noted distantly.
“Is this one well trained?” The boy lifted his face to the snake seller, the real need for the answer adding exigency to his voice.
“Yes, yes, well-trained,” the Seller scowled. His impatience was obvious now, and Zahl quickly looked at the floor.
“Then…I’ll take this one. How much?”
“Sixteen gold, to be delivered within the hour, or I’ll have more from you than your pocket-lining, boy.” His voice grated on Zahl’s ears, but new urgency overrode his limbs. One hour.
He ducked his head, letting the threat take hold.
“Yes, Snake Seller. I understand. Within the hour.”
Without looking behind him, he dropped to the ground and crawled his way back through the tunnel. Don’t think. Don’t look. Move.
Rustling behind him reassured him that Jade followed, with the beautiful, wrong, emerald-green snake on her shoulders.
They were out in the antechamber, the man holding out the wicker basket to Zahl. He raised his hand over it, opened his mouth, but suddenly the heavy ache burned in the top of his chest and his throat, and nothing came out.
A moment of silence, and then a sound came from the basket: Passs.
He lowered his hand and hurried on, but not through the main entrance, where his new shoes lay. He had no regret left for them. The fissure in the rock was a narrow fit at the end, Jade wincing as the rough walls scraped her skin, but then they were out in the city. Zahl grabbed Jade’s arm, pulling her through the crowds, but the people around them melted out of their way, letting them run.
The city gates were in front of them, then behind, and then they were at the already-moving wagon, a pair of strong hands swinging up first Zahl and then Jade.
A jolt sent them tumbling to the wagon bed, Jade both laughing and crying and her husband straining her close, his lips pressed to her head.
Zahl lifted the emerald-green snake and lowered it into the waiting basket, and then he began to weep. Jade put out an arm for him, his brother-in-law too, and he hugged them tightly, tears running down his face. All their faces.
He had made the right choice, he knew it as fiercely as he felt the pain of it, but now the Snake Seller had Zila and Zahl would never see her again.
The Snake Seller, who knew so little of value that he weighed a sister and wife against a livelihood. His mistake.
Precious Zila. Azahl’s mistake.
Zila.  
His shaking hand over the basket, the heartache smothering the compliment he’d meant to pay…
Can snakes smell love?

            Mitra stood beside her aunt, waiting with the women and children for the men to get into position. The entire tribe of warrior nomads was alert and moving, like an army preparing for an inspection. Mitra watched as Lavin unsuccessfully wheedled his father for a place with the warriors. She had tried the same thing with her own father, just hours before. The answer had been a firm NO, of course. Ever since her mother had been killed in battle, four years ago when Mitra was barely ten, Rudur had been overly protective. Fortunately, Mitra’s aunt had convinced her brother to get Mitra armor and let her train for battle with the boys. Most girls didn’t fight, not even Lavin’s older sister, also the daughter of a chief, but Mitra found it exciting. It was so boring to stay in camp all the time. Besides, she wanted to feel needed, to be able to help the Warsong tribe in some way. What else could she do?
Lavin came stomping grumpily over to her.
“Aw, why won’t they let us march with the men? It’s not like we’re going to fight.”
Mitra shrugged.
“They think we don’t look impressive enough. And maybe we’ll fight, if the city sends out their army.”
Lavin scoffed.
“There’s no city army that can beat us!”
Mitra shrugged again.
“They might not want to risk it.”
Rudur and the other two chiefs began shouting orders, and the bristling ranks of warrior nomads moved forward at a trot. The women and children were supposed to stay under the cover of the trees while the rest of the tribe marched up to the city walls.
Lavin stared bitterly after the disappearing warriors.
“Can’t we at least go and watch?” he asked Mitra’s aunt.
Mitra added her pleading gaze to his, and after a moment her aunt softened.
“All right. But stay out of danger.”
“Yes!”
The two started running, circling to the right to get close enough to the city wall to hear. They ended up on a hill, close enough to hear the shouting and high enough to see over the city wall. It was a large city, and seemed to be well armed.
Lavin paled.
“Uh, Mitra, maybe we should head back. Th-that army’s a lot bigger than I thought.”
“They’re not coming out. They’re just assembled in case we try something, and we won’t.” Mitra replied impatiently. Sometimes Lavin got scared about the silliest things.
“Still…”
“Oh, don’t be a coward. Don’t you trust your father?”
Lavin still looked unconvinced. Actually, although he was one of the three chieftains, Mitra didn’t particularly trust Lavin’s father. The tribe relied mainly on the shortest and smartest chief, Vangor, to make the decisions, while Rudur, being the biggest, enforced them. Lavin’s father was mostly there to carry on the tradition of having three chiefs, Mitra thought, but she didn’t say this to Lavin.
“Look, if the army starts to come out, we’ll run back to the trees, okay?”
“Agreed.” Lavin regained some of his color and leaned forward, pointing.
“Look! There are our fathers and Vangor. They’re going toward the city gates.”
Mitra had already noticed them. She was watching a blue-robed official waiting on the city wall.
“Hail, strangers.” The official shouted as soon as the three nomad chiefs were close enough. “Welcome to the city of Eller. Please state your business.”
Vangor spread his hands amiably.
“Thank you, good sir. Our business is very simple. We are the Warsong tribe, warrior nomads who travel about the country from spot to spot. Recently, smaller, weaker tribes which have never posed a threat to us before have been routing us in battle. We believe someone has been providing them with magicians.”
He dropped his hands and hung his head, cleverly portraying both sadness and vulnerability.
“We have been forced out of our usual camping grounds, and we cannot regain them unless we have a magician of our own. Surely such a huge and great city as Eller has more than one magician to protect it?”
The official in blue hesitated. Finally, he gestured to a servant behind him and said,
“We have two magicians. You may ask them if one of them is willing to go with you.”
The young man who stepped up beside the official had dark hair and an arrogant bearing. He looked coldly down his nose at Mitra’s father and the other two chiefs.
Vangor bowed.
“Good magician, if you will agree to come with us and set up your illusions for us, we will pay you well.”
“With what?”
Mitra wondered if he was really considering the offer. He was richly dressed, and even the official in blue treated him with respect.
“With gold.”
“How much?”
Vangor didn’t blink an eye at the magician’s uncivil questions.
He named the amount, and the young magician laughed.
“That wouldn’t be enough for a year.”
“We had hoped for a five-year contract,” Vangor said. “If you agree, any gold we acquire will be given directly to you.”
The magician only sneered and turned away.
“Ah,” said the blue-robed official. “What a pity. Well, there is still old Argval.”
An old man shuffled up to stand next to the official.
“Aw right, den, what’s happenin’?”
“Good magician, we would like to hire you to travel with us.”
“Mire me in an abacus? Well, well, dat’s not very polite. In fact, I don’t see ‘ow it’s possible.”
“No, sir, we wish to invite you-”
“You want ter be polite too? A good thought, a good thought. But-”
Vangor visibly controlled himself.
“Good sir-”
“I’d say you’re not getting a very good start on bein’ polite, young man. Callin’ me a loser won’t get you anywhere.”
Exasperated, Vangor motioned to Rudur, who took a step closer to the wall.
“Venerable magician!” He shouted. The old man cupped a hand to his ear.
“What’s dat? You want a physician?”
“We will give you much gold. . .”
“A cold, you say? No-no, no, I don’t want one, though you meant it kindly, I’m sure. Hm, it is getting a bit chilly out here.”
Rudur’s chest swelled, and he roared at the top of his lungs,
“Will you come with us?”
“Eh, eh, whassat? I can’t stand out here in the cold talking to you much longer, young man. It’s been a pleasure, a pleasure. . .”
“We will pay you well!” Rudur bellowed despairingly.
The old man had already started down from the wall. He waved a hand vaguely.
“Aye, farewell to you too.”
Rudur’s fists clenched. Striding forward, he bawled up to the official,
“If you will not give us a magician, perhaps we will take one!”
“Perhaps, my friend.” The official said calmly. He motioned to the gatekeepers, and the gate swung open, pouring out the city army like water from the mouth of a spring.
“And then, perhaps not.”
Vangor signaled the warrior nomads’ retreat, and they moved defiantly off while the city army glared after them.
Mitra realized with a start that Lavin was pulling at her arm.
“M-Mitra! Let’s go, let’s go. C-come on, they’ve come out!”
She scrambled to her feet and followed him down the hill and back to the trees.
The mission had failed. What could the Warsong tribe do now?

This is ‘a moment of triumph’, part of a group of seven stories.

            Jake thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. It wasn’t yet winter, but the overcast sky threatened early snow. It had rained during the night, and shimmering puddles on the sidewalks reflected the gray world. Jake lifted a shoulder to rub his ear, keeping his hands curled in his pockets. He still had another block to go before he reached school. As he trudged along, the words of a sports commentator drifted faintly from a nearby restaurant.
‘After a rocky start, our team has gained the lead. Sometimes that moment of triumph only comes after the worst times.’
Jake smiled wryly as the commentary faded behind him. If only that were true! He figured he was due for some triumph any day now. The trouble wasn’t that he would have to stay after school to make up the cooking class he’d missed the previous evening for his sister’s birthday party. Nor was it that yesterday should have been his day to wash up, which meant that today he’d face piles of sticky dishes. It wasn’t even that his math teacher had an unfortunate habit of springing pop quizzes when Jake was least prepared. The real trouble. . .
            Jake froze. The real trouble was waiting for him at the street corner where he’d have to turn to get to school. He looked over his shoulder, hoping for a way out, but one of the boys straightened and pointed. There could be no escape this time. His stomach tightening, Jake started walking again, trying to look unconcerned. He didn’t know why Mason and his friends had chosen to pick on him, but nothing Jake did or didn’t do stopped their bullying.
“Heya, Jake the Loser!”
It wasn’t the most brilliant insult, but as good a start as any. Jake considered his strategies, deciding glumly that his best bet was to ignore the boys – although it would certainly be futile. He rounded the corner, uncomfortably aware of his proximity to the grinning bullies.
“Where ya goin’?” Mason asked, somehow making the question into a threat. Jake fixed his eyes on the school building and bit his lip. This wasn’t going to end well. One of the other two boys shoved him hard, and Jake went sprawling. At that moment, the bell rang, and the three boys ran off, jeering. Jake watched them go, both angry and relieved. It could have been worse, he knew. He glanced at his watch to see how late he was going to be and discovered that it was broken. It must have gotten cracked when he fell.

           Jake managed to avoid Mason until lunch, but when he reached the cafeteria, he spotted the three boys loitering by the entrance. Jake rapidly revised his plans and headed for the kitchens, wondering if he’d have time to do his cooking assignment as well as wash up. Then he saw the mountain of dishes waiting for him. Dismally, he tied on one of the big aprons and began to scrub. The class had made chocolate chip cookies, and several bowls were covered with hardened chocolate. Focused on the task, Jake started when a voice from behind him asked,
“Lot of work, huh?”
It was Mason and his friends. Jake tensed.
“Um. . . yeah.”
He didn’t know what Mason wanted, but obviously, ignoring him wouldn’t work.
“Yeah,” Mason repeated. “So, do you want help?” His voice was almost friendly. Was it possible that the months of bullying had come to an end at last? Jake cautiously allowed himself to hope.
“Sure,” he said gratefully. “That’d be great.”
Mason looked at his friends, and all three of them burst out laughing.
“I can’t believe you fell for that!” Mason wheezed. He put his face close to Jake’s and whispered,
“Nope!” The three boys walked out, snickering. Jake closed his eyes and sighed dispiritedly. The day was just getting worse. By the time Jake had finished washing all the dishes, his hands were wrinkled and sore. He glanced at his watch, surprised that it was still so early. Then, with an awful sinking feeling, he remembered that the watch was broken. Math class. Jake dashed out of the kitchen and tore desperately through the hallways, skidding to a stop in the doorway of his classroom. The teacher looked up, frowning.
“The pop quiz is almost over. Please take your seat immediately.”
Swallowing hard, Jake hurriedly sat down and searched for a pencil. As he struggled to control his breathing, whispers grew around him.
“Look at Jake!”
“Why’s he wearing an apron?”
Glancing down, Jake realized that he had forgotten to take off the big apron. The three bullies smirked and pointed, and several students turned to look at him. Jake felt his face go bright red, and he hastily pulled off the apron and balled it up under his desk.
“Five minutes remaining,” the teacher announced, and the class fell silent. Jake shuffled through the test, his heart sinking. There was no way he’d finish it in time. Trepidly, he hunted for quick or easy problems, but he was too flustered to solve more than two. As the last few seconds ticked away, Jake despaired of ever being finished with this horrible day.

            When his classes were over, Jake headed back to the kitchens, flipping despondently through the extra math homework he’d been given.
“Want some company?” The sneer brought Jake up short. He’d walked straight into the middle of the three boys, who had been lounging in the hallway outside the kitchens, waiting for him.
“What do you want?” Jake asked, keeping his voice as level as he could. “I don’t have anything.”
Mason grinned leisurely.
“Let’s start with that watch.”
Jake blinked slowly and pulled the watch off. Suddenly, he tossed it to Mason and dove for the kitchens. He wedged the doors with a table and stood panting, closing his ears to the threats they yelled at him. If he could stay there long enough, they might leave. He made the cookie dough, mixed in the chocolate chips, and slid a tray into the oven, keeping a careful eye on the baking cookies. The banging and shouting had stopped by the time they were ready. He transferred the cookies to a plate, dreading the moment when he’d have to face the bullies. When he had moved away the table, he hesitated for a long moment before gathering up the courage to crack open the doors. Mason and his friends were gone. Slumping with relief, Jake grabbed the plate of cookies and hurried out of the school. Outside, it was dark, with a watery scent to the sharp night air. The varied buildings loomed silently, flickering with shadows thrown by glowing lampposts. All at once, Jake was exhausted. He could barely convince his feet to move as he plodded miserably home. The bullying was getting worse; he’d never felt this low before.
Then, from a house with light beaming from a single window, he heard music – wonderful music. It had rhythms tumbling over one another, laughing joyously, separate but melded. Gradually, Jake realized that he was walking in time with the music, his feet light. A smile spread across his face, and he began to walk with more spring in his step, then to almost dance down the street, shedding his fear and exhaustion like soggy boots. He was happy for the first time that day, and he ran crazily down the street, the music still alive in his head. Ahead, skulking under a lamppost, he saw the three bullies, but he bounded up to them without a pause and wordlessly offered them the cookies. Pushing away the plate, the three boys looked at him menacingly.
“Aren’t ya scared to be out here. . . all alone?” Mason asked, nudging one of his friends.
“Yeah. Aren’t ya worried something might happen to you?” the friend added meaningly. At any other time, Jake would have been on the verge of flight, but even Mason couldn’t bother him now. He didn’t bother to respond, but began to laugh, and kept laughing while the three boys looked at each other nervously, their bravado changing to uneasiness, and finally scurried off into the night. Still laughing, Jake walked home in the cool night, the wonderful music playing in his head and a plate of cookies in his hand.

This short story is based on a plot and title by Daniel Stein. The format of the climax is also his idea.

     I pace the long hallway, wondering what’s taking Gio so long. It’s his first real assignment from Thoughtful Translating, Unlimited, but it’s just a communication between the director and an Italian ambassador.
     Hopefully he didn’t get excited and ruin it. He’s prone to doing that. I have to admit, though, I’m excited about my first assignment, too. It’s scheduled for next week; I’ll be translating for a Hungarian representative. I’m nervous, but like everyone at Thoughtful Translating, Unlimited, helping other people communicate is what I love.
     Besides being exposed to an astonishing number of languages, the best part of my internship here is being surrounded by a wide range of people enthusiastic about the same things that I am.
     A door opens and Gio strides out, closing it quickly behind him.
“Caspita!”
I take a closer look at him. His face is unusually pale under his dark, spiky hair.
“Va tutto bene con te?” I ask, carefully forming the Italian words. I’ve picked up several phrases since we became best friends.
“Non proprio.” It takes me a second to place the second word. Not really. I pat his shoulder sympathetically.
“What happened? Did you language drop?” It’s meant to cheer him up; I know that he wouldn’t accidentally switch languages.
He shakes his head, unsmiling.
“Worse.”
He starts walking down the hallway.
I hurry to catch him up.
“Erzähl mir davon,” I say, knowing he doesn’t understand German. “Tell me what happened.”
“Not here. Let’s go to my room.”
He leads the way up a flight of stairs and unlocks his door, gesturing for me to enter first. It’s a good-sized door, but I duck just in case. When you’re my height, you soon learn that some doorframes have the bad habit of smashing people in the forehead.
“You’re not that tall,” Gio mocks without his usual humor.
I’m about to joke about his low stature when he sighs and sits abruptly on a chair.
“You’re not going to believe this, Paul.”
I sit down, frowning in concern.
“Try me.”
He jabs a hand through his hair, impossibly orienting it in several new directions.
“The Italian ambassador was. . . nice. Gentile. He knew some of my mother’s relatives. And he wanted only peace. I think quello cattivo knew that, but he didn’t even try to be diplomatic. He said everything very rudely, and I could see that the Italian ambassador was getting angry, although he tried not to show it.”
He pauses, and I put in doubtfully,
“Perhaps the director understood some hidden meaning that you missed.”
“Perhaps. But I don’t think so. Paul, he told me to lie to the ambassador. He told me to translate to the ambassador ‘Italy is getting nowhere with its stubborn pride. This meeting is over.’ Then he told me to say to him, not as a translator but as Italian to Italian, that it would be better for Italy to comply with Thoughtful Translating’s demands. I refused. I do not lie for anything or anyone.”
His fists are clenched, and he looks ready to charge out the door and confront the director. I ease my chair to the left to block the door.
Gio glances at me wryly.
“I know what you’re doing. Don’t worry, I won’t go tearing off and accuse the director of anything.”
Before I can relax, Gio stands up and begins stalking around the room, hands clasped behind him.
“I do want to get to the bottom of this, though. I can’t understand why he wanted me to lie. I’m all right with translating whatever he says, but that was going too far. The man wants something, and he’s trying to use me to get it. We have to do something.” He swings toward me.
“You believe me, right?”
“Of course, mein Freund.” I reply simply. “What is the first step?”
Before he can answer, someone taps on the door.
Gio raises his eyebrows, his mouth still open to answer me.
I stand up and open the door. Sadie, an Irish girl with an auburn ponytail, smiles up at me.
“Haigh, Paul,” she says. “Is your friend in here? I have a message for him.”
Gio ducks under my arm to face her.
“A message for me?”
His eyebrows draw together in bewilderment, and she giggles.
“Sea. Is that so surprising?”
He flushes.
“What’s the message?”
I elbow him gently.
“Siate educato.”
He flicks a glance at me.
“‘Sii’ educato. The singular. This may be important.”
Chastened, I step aside.
Sadie recites in a gruff voice,
“‘For Giovanni Marsico: The director wants to speak with you. Present yourself at his office by five o’clock.  – Director, Thoughtful Translating, Unlimited.’”
She laughs again.
“That’s just how he said it. He didn’t seem very happy.”
Gio slams his fist into the palm of his hand.
“This is all part of it! He’s got a hidden agenda; I didn’t fit in with it, so he’s trying again. I’ll expose him!”
“Don’t be too hasty,” I say uneasily. He glares at me wildly.
“You said you believed me.”
“I believe that he asked you to lie, but we don’t know that he has some other plan. It may have been a test, or …” I can’t think of another reason.
Sadie looks from one to the other of us.
“The director asked you to lie, Giovanni?”
Gio affirms it distractedly. Sadie hesitates.
“Éist. Can I trust you?”
I draw back in alarm, but Gio eagerly nods.
“You are not the first to be asked to do something other than pure translating. There are more of us. We-”
A clock begins to strike five.
We all jump, and Gio fumbles in his pocket to toss his room key to me.
“Don’t worry, mia nuova alleata. I won’t give you away.”
Sadie nods, and he dashes off. I shout after him,
“We’ll meet you outside the office!”
He raises a hand in acknowledgement and skids around a corner.
I lock his door and hide the key in the usual place, muttering to myself.
“Ist es so wichtig dass du aus dem Rahmen fallen?”
Deep down, though, I know that I don’t want him to change.
Sadie takes my arm.
“I’ll introduce you to anyone you haven’t met yet. We should have at least half an hour.”
We walk outside into the blooming garden where diplomats and translators stroll. I see the Italian ambassador sitting alone, and wave to him.
“Salve, signore!”
“Ah, parli italiano?” he replies, beaming. I shake my head.
“Solo un po.”
He smiles ruefully, and Sadie and I walk on.
A pretty Chinese girl whom I’ve seen before but never met stands up when we approach.
Sadie hugs her.
“This is Lanying. Lanying, Paul.”
We shake hands.
“What languages do you speak?” I ask politely.
“Mandarin, Vietnamese, and …” she gropes for the right words. “And Chinese sign language. And you?”
She speaks with a strong accent. Obviously, she’s not completely fluent in English.
“I speak German and Hungarian. No more than a few words of everything else.”
“Except English.” Lanying smiles brightly and signs to Sadie, who explains.
“Lanying had to learn English when she came here. She didn’t speak it before that.”
“Beeindruckend!” I say. English is the official company language and the only language the director speaks. It can’t have been easy to learn it in only a few months.
“Sadie helped me,” Lanying adds.
“And Lanying helped me with Chinese sign language. Is cairde maithe muid anois.”
     Sadie and Lanying introduce me to several other translators in their group. Others I already know. At half past five, the three of us head over to the director’s office to wait. Six o’clock strikes, and Gio still hasn’t made an appearance. I start to say something about checking his room, when the office door opens and the director himself comes out. Seeing us waiting, he barks,
“What do you want?”
“We are waiting for our gcara, stiúrthóir,” Sadie says boldly.
He glares at her suspiciously.
“What did you say? Speak English.”
“Our friend Giovanni Marsico was to meet us here half an hour ago,” I interject politely.
“He did not tell me,” the director growls under his breath. He reenters the office for a moment before stomping back out. A few seconds later, Gio steps out. His jaw clenched, he sweeps past us and turns a corner into a deserted corridor. We follow him uncertainly.
“Ĉio estas en ordo, mia amiko?” I ask awkwardly. Gio’s always trying to get me to learn Esperanto, his third language. I think it’s foolishness, but under the circumstances. . .
“For me. I’m fine. But that farabutto, that furfante, that scimmia maleducata …”
“发生了什么? Chuyện gì đã xảy ra?!” Lanying language drops in her excitement, but we all understand.
“That suino threatened to fire me. He blabbered on with some pretesto, non so che cosa.”
“You didn’t accuse him of anything, did you?” I ask anxiously.
“I tried. They didn’t let me talk. It was all minacoj, minacoj.” He puts a hand to his throat and pulls it away smeared with blood. Lanying stifles a scream.
“Gio! They hurt you? Es muss etwas getan warden.” An unfamiliar gust of anger sweeps over me.
“It is only a scratch. But I will take revenge.”
He lowers his head as if to spring off immediately. Sadie stops him.
“Wait! We can’t go accusing the director without a plan. This is more serious than any of us thought. Some of us have been planning to rebel, even if we get fired, but now that we know he’s willing to use violence, we must be careful.”
“We must find out what he wants,” Lanying adds.
“I know what he wants, the malpura rato,” Gio says grimly.
“Not here,” I say. We’re too close to the director’s office for comfort. Once I lock my door behind us, Gio continues where he left off.
“He’s avida. He wants power. He wants to be able to manipulate whole countries, and the only way he can do that is by manipulating us. If he can control us enough to get us to lie for him, he can do almost anything. Promise things that aren’t his, relay false threats of war, bribe or even blackmail any country that doesn’t do what he wants. And since we are just translators, he will never be blamed for it. Wronged countries will attack the country they believe hurt them.”
“What can we do?” Sadie asks helplessly.
“A mali estremi, estremi rimedi.” Gio sounds almost gleeful.
“Gio. . .” I say warningly.
“Now I see what he was doing with the Italian ambassador. He was showing off his strength, his power in comparison with a mere country. He will not ask me to lie again.”
He’s getting excited, and for once I can’t blame him. I turn to Sadie for help.
“We shouldn’t do anything tonight. Tomorrow nearly everyone is going to be in the reception room because the Russian ambassadors are deciding whether or not to use Thoughtful Translating to communicate with the world. Maybe we can figure something out then. Tá súil agam.”
“No,” Lanying disagrees. “It is too dangerous. Someone would give us away.”
“But I could go to the Russian ambassadors and tell them,” Gio suggests hopefully.
“Nein. Semmiképpen.” I language drop in my dismay. “Far too dangerous.”
“And do you speak Russian?” Sadie interjects.
“Well, no, but. . .”
“We would have to get someone else to translate, and the whole thing would be conspicuous. We must wait tamall beag. Also, Giovanni, I think it would be better if you did not go. The director will be watching you now.”
“Kio?!”
Before we can make any further attempts to convince him, a bell rings for lights out. The four of us look at each other; I leap to unlock the door and the three of them hurry away.
    Later, after quiet has reigned for several hours, I realize that if the Russian ambassadors choose to use Thoughtful Translating, Unlimited, the director will almost certainly begin to manipulate them as well. My first instinct is to warn them as Gio suggested, but now that the director has demonstrated his willingness to use violence, I feel sure that anyone who attempts to warn the Russians will receive the full measure of his wrath. Perhaps gathering us all together is as much a show of power to us as to the Russians.
   Early the next morning, I head over to Gio’s room to convince him not to come meet the Russian ambassadors. It is allegedly a mandatory gathering, but I do not think Gio would meet with any repercussions for not coming. Rounding a corner, I nearly bump into him. Two burly men flank him; they grunt in surprise.
“Gio? Was. . .”
“Ciao, Paul. I don’t think I’ll be coming to the gathering today.” His voice is calm and sure, and he holds his head high as the two men march him away. I close my eyes for a moment. I’m sure the director won’t have Gio killed. He knows that there would be a ruckus, which would expose him. And now I know that Gio won’t become excited and get himself into trouble. Much as I want to rally the other translators and stage a rescue, I continue on to the dining hall.
Under cover of chinking forks, I tell Sadie and Lanying what happened.
“It’s actually better,” Sadie says matter-of-factly. “Aon chion. We know he’s safe and out of trouble.” She sounds as though she’s known him for a long time.
Lanying isn’t so sure.
“Can we. . . can we. . .帮助他, 你知道.” she signs to Sadie.
“Help him somehow. Maybe we can break him out,” Sadie translates. “I don’t think so, Lanying. Maybe after the gathering is over we can get some of the others to help, but for now we can’t do anything. Tá brón orm.”
The three of us stare at our plates.
Someone touches my shoulder; I look up to see the Italian ambassador.
“Non sono stato in grado di trovare Giovanni Marsico. Se possible. . .?”
He stops when he notices that I didn’t understand.
“Ah, scusa, ho dimenticato. Francese? Français?”
I look at Sadie and Lanying, but they shake their heads. None of us speaks French.
Someone at the table next to ours turns around.
“Je parle français.”
The Italian ambassador looks relieved. He speaks haltingly in French and our interpreter translates.
“I could not find the translator Giovanni Marsico. I would appreciate it if you would convey my thanks for his skills yesterday. It was a pleasure to speak with a fellow countryman.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” I say, carefully not looking at Lanying and Sadie. “I’m happy to.”
When the French speaker has translated, the ambassador smiles gravely.
“Grazie.” He slips off into the crowd. Sadie thanks our spontaneous translator, who shrugs and smiles before turning back to his food.
The bell calling us to meet rings. The laughter and conversation die into whispers and shuffling feet as everyone straggles into the reception room.
The Russian ambassadors are already waiting. The director gestures impatiently for us to move faster, putting on an oily smile for the Russians’ benefit.
“Does anyone here speak Russian?” the director shouts, trying to mask his annoyance in a pleasant tone.
“Sofia does,” someone calls. “But she doesn’t speak English well.”
The director scowls furiously at the speaker.
“Figure something out. I want to be able to speak to the ambassadors.”
He waits crossly until two people come forward.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” he begins, tapping his foot while Sofia and the other girl translate. “It is with great pleasure that we welcome you to Thoughtful Translating, Unlimited. We have a great number of talented translators here, as you can see.”
One of the Russians says something skeptically with a laugh.
The second girl hesitates before translating.
“It does not appear so, since you cannot speak even with each other.”
The director’s face flushes a dark red, but he inclines his head.
“Perhaps we can provide a demonstration.”
The Russians shrug politely.
I’m torn between excitement about translating and hoping for the Russians’ sakes that they don’t choose to use this company.
“Perhaps you have heard of the telephone game,” the director says, smiling coldly. “We will attempt to entertain ourselves with it. . . switching languages from person to person.”
My fellow translators are already forming a line. I see Sadie and Lanying standing next to each other. Someone taps my shoulder.
“Hablas Español?”
I shake my head.
“Deutsch?” asks someone else.
“Ja. Und Ungarisch.”
In less time than I would have thought possible, the Thoughtful Translating translators are standing in a long line from the director to the Russian ambassadors. I’m close to the end where the Russians are watching with interest. At the other end, the director clears his throat, an inscrutable smile spreading over his face.
“We are the Thoughtful Translating translators, the best in the world.”
“Kami adalah penerjemah ‘Penerjemahan Bijaksana’, terbaik di dunia.”
“نحن “المترجمون المدروسون” ، الأفضل في العالم.”The sentence flows from mouth to mouth, smoothly morphing into the various languages. Of course, it probably helps that nearly all of us understood the original sentence, but still, we’re impressive.
“Somos los traductores de ‘Traducción reflexiva’, le mentimos al mundo.”
There is a slight pause, then the next person translates into French.
“Nous sommes les traducteurs de ‘Traduction Réfléchie’, nous mentons au monde.”
The sentence has reached the middle of the line.
“Is muid na haistritheoirí ‘Thoughtful Translating’, luíonn muid leis an domhan.”
Sadie translates this into Chinese sign language, and Lanying turns it to Vietnamese.
“Chúng tôi không phải là dịch giả thực sự, chúng tôi nói dối với thế giới.”
“Não somos verdadeiros tradutores, mentimos para o mundo.”
“ہم سچے مترجم نہیں ہیں ، ہم دنیا سے جھوٹ بولتے ہیں”
“Ingawa hatujakuwa wakalimani wa kweli, hatutasema uwongo kwa ulimwengu.”
I sense a feeling of growing tension and excitement that I don’t understand.
“Chociaż nie byliśmy prawdziwymi tłumaczami, nie będziemy okłamywać świata.”
“Bár nem voltunk igaz fordítók, nem fogunk hazudni a világnak.”
I keep my face straight with effort. The sentence that the director initiated has changed into something far better. For you, Gio, I think before translating.
“Obwohl wir keine echten Übersetzer waren, werden wir Sie nicht anlügen.”
“यद्यपि हम सच्चे अनुवादक नहीं थे, फिर भी हम आपसे झूठ नहीं बोलेंगे.”
Finally, Sofia translates into Russian.
“Хотя мы не были настоящими переводчиками, мы не будем лгать вам.”.
One of the Russians starts slightly and glances at the others. A faint smile on his lips, he turns to the director and says through Sofia,
“You do indeed have wonderful translators. We would be delighted to hire your company. . . perhaps with different management.”
A cheer goes up.
The director splutters.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I said nothing about-”
“Così triste.” Gio walks in, trailed by Sadie and Lanying. “It seems that something got lost in translation.”

   She stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk and stared. Two men in their twenties or thirties were wrestling – no, outright fighting – on a large cement block at the edge of the sidewalk. They gasped and gave hoarse cries, clenching each other’s clothes and pinching any available skin, grunting when the blows landed. Several times the two men rolled dangerously close to the edge of the block and the road beyond, buzzing with cars that flashed past with hardly a glance for the angry men.
   She gasped and covered her mouth when the blond man punched the other’s nose so hard that it bled. She stood poised, a small island in the tide of pedestrians, wondering whether she should try to stop them. No, she would only get hurt herself, and she lacked the strength to force them apart. She wished that she had accepted her fiancé’s offer of an escort, but it was too late now. She winced as the older man landed a blow that made the other groan in pain. Why were the other pedestrians walking along so calmly, with scarcely a second look for the two fighters?
   Coming quickly to a decision, she tugged at the sleeve of a passing man who seemed to be in less of a hurry than the rest.
“Excuse me sir, but do you think you could stop them?”
He stopped and looked down at her.
“Stop whom?”
She gestured impatiently at the two bruised and battered men, who were still fighting single-mindedly.
“Them. It’s horrible the way they’re fighting like that.”
The man shook his head slowly.
“Miss, I don’t see anyone.”
She stared at him.
“What?”
“I don’t see anyone. There’s no one there. . .” He began to drift away, and she caught his arm desperately.
“But, sir, they’re right there, on that block! Right there, don’t you see them?”
He paused and looked again, then turned a curious glance on her.
“Miss. . .”
“Please, stop them. They’ll hurt each other.” She didn’t know why it was so important to her that the men be stopped. It was just that no one else seemed to care at all.
“Miss, there’s no one there. Only the old statue that’s been there for years.”
“I tell you, they’ll hurt. . .”
The men were gone.
On the same cement block, where seconds before two living beings had squirmed and gasped there was only the cold grey of a statue. Two statues, actually, their limbs intertwined as they strove to strike one another in a desperate fight to the death.
   She realized her mouth was open and closed it.
“Sorry, miss. . .” The man gently disentangled himself from her trembling hand and moved away, caught up instantly in the brisk mass of strangers. She ducked her way through the crowd to sit on the edge of the block. Looking at the two statues, she tried to see the two men again, but they were motionless. She brushed her fingers over the block, wondering if she’d gone crazy.
“There’s an old legend behind that statue.”
She looked up to see an old woman perched on the opposite corner of the block.
“It was there when this city was just a little town. Most people have forgotten about the tale, and what’s worse – they don’t care anymore.”
The woman gave her a wrinkled smile.
“You’re not the first to have . . . seen something, my dear.”
She started forward.
“You mean – it’s real? That is, it’s not just my imagination?”
The old woman just smiled.
“This statue has been sitting here since I was a little girl. No one cares about it, no one cares for it. I don’t suppose . . . if you have the time . . .”
She ducked her head to hear over the noise of the passers-by.
“You might help care for it.” One gnarled finger tapped the block next to her, and the old woman was gone.
   She stood and bent over the place the old woman had tapped. There was a worn plaque there, lying flat on the block, exposed to the elements. She brushed away the dead leaves and pine needles that covered it and saw that moss had been busy growing in every available crack and crevice of the plaque. Running one finger over each letter, she noticed that they were in various stages of care. The first few had once been carefully cleaned, but moss was beginning to grow in them again. The ones in the middle were free from growth but had been rained and snowed on for long enough that they were tarnished. Only the second to last letter was clean, untarnished and free from moss. Carefully, she picked out the moss from the final letter and rubbed away the dirt, ending several minutes later with a shiny, clean groove. Satisfied, she stood back and admired her handiwork. Every letter of the two words on the plaque was visible: THE FIGHTERS. She looked one last time at the first letter, almost full of moss; then suddenly smiled and stepped into the crowd once more. When the time was right, someone else would clean it.

   When the driver asks me how far I want to go, I just shrug. “Not far,” I say. He gives me a dubious glance and takes just enough of my money to get to Arusal, the first village outside my father’s city. I thank him and get off. I want to find a seat next to someone who doesn’t want to ask nosy questions about where I’m headed. Not that it really matters, of course: I probably won’t get farther than the city gates before my father’s men catch up with us. Still, if I’m lucky, I’ll get at least a glimpse of the outside world before Telar and co. arrive. Telar will probably be furious – if he comes. I tried to time my adventure on Desan, half-day, so that I at least have a 50-50 chance of getting someone more lenient. As I slip some money to a man with a half-empty cart, I wince at the memory of the punishment I got last time, when Telar was in the group. I really don’t want Telar to be leading the guards! Not that Telar actually struck me, or anything, although my father would probably have let him. The whole episode was about a month ago, on a day I was supposed to go with my father to another peasant-relief day. Having done more than enough of these sessions in my thirteen years, I bribed a young page who was about my size to change clothes with me, and snuck out of the castle for the best four hours of my life. It took me less than an hour to walk into the center of the city, where the two biggest markets were. The walk was pleasant, without anyone to prod me to do some duty or other, and even better, no one seemed to recognize me as a noble. There were a few coins in my well-worn pocket: the hoardings of the page-boy. I spent them carefully on fresh bread rolls with spicy meat sauces and small, sweet candies. The vendors were friendly but not inquisitive, and I had the time of my life, swooping around, chatting, joking and snitching tastes of various wares. After perhaps three hours I’d settled down somewhat, and was about to half a last stuffed bread roll with an elderly beggar when I heard orderly footsteps and glanced up. The second my eye fell on their black uniforms and gold collars, I knew they were two of my father’s personal guards – not the ones who regularly patrolled the city, but the ones who guarded our castle. I thrust the bread into the beggar’s hands and took off down the alley, hoping for another fifteen minutes of freedom before facing my father’s wrath. They saw me at once, but they paused to signal to someone out of my sight before giving chase, so I had a head-start. Unfortunately, as I reached the mouth of the next alley, I saw an officer of the guards striding briskly down it. I turned to continue straight, but a pair of guards on sleek, black ponies pulled up, effectively blocking my path. I had three choices: two guards on ponies, two guards running for me, and one guard walking. I chose the single guard, and ran with all my might. Even as I tore past him, I knew that it was useless. Still, I couldn’t give up without a struggle, so when his hand clamped on my arm, I let my momentum swing me around and slammed my elbow into his eye. He reared back but grimly hung on long enough for the two men on foot to come pounding up and seize me. I gave up fighting physically then, and let them march me where they had left their horses without resisting, but I called up the biggest cloud I could find and dropped hailstones and heavy rain onto all of our heads. The problem with that idea was that the hailstones hurt me, too, and the soldiers made no response to the hailstones except to wince when they were struck. There was a minor argument where one of the men tried to convince Telar to let his horse walk home and hold something on his eye, but Telar silenced him effectively and trotted sourly beside me the whole ride home. I have never been the most brilliant horseman, and by the time we reined in at the castle, I was pretty sore. I barely had time to stretch, however, before Telar gripped my elbow and brought me, both of us still damp from my rain, before my father. My father was absolutely furious. He had had to go to the relief day by himself, and since he lacks any power whatsoever to control the weather, the peasants were not particularly grateful. In fact, one had bowed respectfully and asked, most politely, why his Lordship had bothered to come, seeing that he was totally useless without his son? My father imparted this comment to me, along with several choice comments of his own on my usual habits, general worth and precisely what was going to happen to me. There were no mirrors present at the meeting, but I believe my overall demeanor by the time he had finished was rather dejected. This, possibly, or some extremely strict code in which he could not strike anyone of higher birth than himself, is the only reason I can conceive of by which Telar, when permitted by my father to punish me in whatever manner he saw fit, refrained from thoroughly pulverizing me. Instead, he waited until I had sat through the myriad of boring business meetings that were my father’s punishment before handing me a list of what was surely a lifetime of chores. It took me two weeks to complete them all, and several sessions of humiliation: for example, the time when I was required to muck out the entire upper stables, habited by a dozen thoroughbred horses, a task that usually was completed by three stable-boys. It took me six hours, and the whole time, any stable boys with free time sat there grinning and watched me. Even worse, I had never done anything of the sort in my life, and had to swallow my pride several times and ask the stable boys what to do and how. When the chores were finally done, I was sure I was scarred forever. I did, however, learn how to do more menial tasks than I’d ever hoped to learn.
   The driver shouts impatiently, and I climb onto the empty seat thoughtfully. Perhaps, in the long run, not getting out of the city will anger my father less. At any rate, I won’t try to fight anyone – not that I could actually hurt them. I think I only managed to clip Telar because he wasn’t expecting me to fight physically – one of the perks of being a little short for your age, rather thin and the son of a lord. Anyway, I doubt they’ll use anything quite so starkly public as guards this time. They’ll probably go for something subtle that works about twice as effectively as I’d like. For some reason, the scenery seems awfully familiar. I glance up, and feel some misgiving when I see the castle close ahead. I’d forgotten that this carttrain goes past the castle on its way out of the city. My nerves are already on edge, so when the man next to me, heretofore silent, stands up and waves to the driver that he wants to disembark, I jerk wildly and have to cover it by jumping down to let him get off. As he brushes past me, he reaches up and – to my dismay – yanks off his false beard to reveal Telar’s face, looking even grimmer than usual. My jaw drops in shock, but before I can do any of the things that flick through my mind (run, shout, call up a storm, try to bribe him) he drops his arm heavily across my shoulders as if I were a relative of his. For a moment I’m taken aback, since I would have thought that his code would forbid such casual behavior with nobility, but I figure he’s made an exception for me. Lots of people seem to do this. Without saying a word, he begins to walk me away, and I don’t resist. Once I go through my options again, none of them seems quite as useful as I’d originally anticipated. In fact, only one seems at all practical, and that is to walk along with him to the castle and try not to annoy him, since he obviously is making exceptions for me from his code. Suddenly a laugh tries to escape me. A picture of what my crestfallen face must have looked like when Telar pulled off that beard floats in front of me. I clamp my lips together, but a giggle spills out. Telar says nothing, only glances at me, but it’s enough to sober me up. As soon as we get through the gates, Telar removes his arm and puts a firm hand on my shoulder. Guessing that no more exceptions to his code will be made, I distract myself from the coming unpleasantness by copying his precise walk and grim expression. In silence, we walk to my father’s hall. Two guards slam the door behind us and follow us over to my father, who is pacing by a window. At first, he says nothing, though I guess this is not from lack of will but from inability to speak through the intensity of his anger. The silence stretches for several minutes, and his face grows so purple I worry he may explode. Suddenly he lets out his breath, looking so deflated that I try to stutter another apology. He shakes his head and strides past me, pausing only to say; “Telar will teach you sword-fighting. Sixth hour of the morning, as often as he likes.” And he is gone, with Telar after him. I look apprehensively at the guards. They avoid my glance and escort me to my rooms. At least, I think, I will learn how to swordfight. If I don’t die before I do.

   My bare feet beat a panicked tattoo on the carpeted hallways as I run, cursing the moment of laxity that put me a floor above my Prince. My mind flicks back to a different time when I ran barefoot through the palace hallways, heart pounding, thoughts screaming. Ten years old, clad only in a nightshirt, tears of homesickness still wet on my face. Terror in my eyes.
   I had been lying on my side on the narrow bunk, staring out the window as if the strength of my glance would conjure up my family, laughing and happy, as they had been before the Plague came. But no vision soothed my eyes, and nothing but the gentle snores of the other soldiers – all grown men –reached my ears. All I could think of was how Papa had snored like that, before he died, and the grief within me threatened to burst out. I got up and opened the window, letting the cool night air wash over me. As I stood there, a faint chuckle had floated to me on the breeze. Then another, and then such a happy little gurgle! I went back to my bunk, and lay down, and listened, thinking of my little brother who had made such sounds before he died of the Plague, and I wept.
   Perhaps a few hours later, I woke abruptly. Something had changed. I sat up, listening, until it came again. It was just a giggle, but there was something about it that made me scramble out of bed. I had buckled on my sword belt when it came again, and this time I did not wait even to slip on my sandals; I ran.
   I pull up short outside the closed door, and turn, as I did seven years ago, to the window that looks into the Prince’s room. I remember the hesitation of my ten-year-old self, skidding to a halt on the rich carpet, staring uncertainly at the green shapes on the other side of the tinted glass. Noting the small figure that was the Prince. A table, bed, toys – something small that didn’t belong. I had burst through the door as if it were not latched, my sword had pierced through the head the small, venomous snake wriggling on the Prince’s floor. Then, staring down at the creature, my vision wobbled; I nearly fell onto the Prince’s bed. A tiny sound made me turn my head, reminded me of the one I came to save. He had seemed to me a cherub, that first time I saw my unit’s charge. The soft black ringlets, the perfect fingers and toes, the little drooling mouth. He was three, the same age my brother was when the Plague took him. As I stared at the little Prince, the baby’s attention turned to the dead snake. I felt a feeling I could not name rise in me as the Prince crawled to the animal, dragging his useless leg behind him. His tiny hands wrapped around the snake’s lifeless body, his rosy cheek rubbed against its head, and tears spilled from his eyes. While I watched, the little Prince mourned for the snake, the snake who would have killed him, cried for the weapon of the men who tried to murder him.
   Some small sound had escaped my throat, and the Prince struggled back to me, set one hand on my knee to pull himself up, leaned against me. One of my hands, small, lean, brown, reached out and touched his.
“Who are you?” I whispered. And the Prince answered me, understood and answered me,
“Havvit Pince.”
“Havvit Pince,” I repeated. “Havvit Pince.” And understood in turn. Prince. Half-wit Prince. Ever since the fatal day of the fall, but a month before, the Prince had been listening, and had been understanding. Half-wit Prince. An insult. The label of stupidity for a fall, even though the nurse should have been watching, even though he was only three. Half-wit Prince.
    It had been instinctive; my arms went around him, my cheek on his head, my voice in his ear, renewing the promise previously made for my mother and sister’s sakes.
“I will protect you. I will not let anyone hurt you. My sword is yours. My heart is yours. My life is yours.” Gone were any thoughts of the pittance of a soldier’s salary, going home to keep my mother and sister. Gone was any thought of propriety. Gone was everything but my soul and his, and the words that came unbidden to my lips. “Your Majesty. . . I love you.” His fingers had curled against my neck, his voice had struggled to answer. “Luv. . . oo.”
   My eyes strain to peer through the tinted glass; my throat tightens at the vague shapes, though it is only what I expected. Half-wit. Prince. The latch is stronger now than it was seven years ago, but that does not matter. The door is unlatched. It slams into the wall, so hard that the man’s arm falters; his head whips around, in time to see the blur that is my sword enter his neck, killing him. Seven years ago, I had never killed a man in my life. I discovered my talent with a sword through butchering animals, slaying vermin and crows. Not killing men. Now I have killed several times, to protect my Prince. But never before have I felt this way. Hatred boils in my gut, steams from my every breath. This man would have killed my Prince. This man is the snake, a venomous reptile, the symbol of all evil. This man is the plague, that killed my father, that killed my brother. This man would have killed my Prince. Again and again, my sword plunges into the corpse. The man is dead, but my fury knows no reason. One last time I wrench my sword free, and look up at last. He’s sitting there, awake, my Prince. His hair still dark, but without the baby curl; the same wide eyes and innocent face; the crippled leg. A soft moaning wisps from his mouth, his eyes resting on the man’s body. Jerkily, he tries to move forward. I want to shout to him, to tell him no, that man was evil, he would have killed you! But I do not, because the part of me that loves instead of hates knows that his innocence is good, that it is better he know no evil and mourn death. Instead, I reach out and help him. I watch him as he kneels, mourning the dead man, his ten-year-old hands resting gently on the arm with which the man would have killed my Prince, and I pity him, for his crippled body and simple mind, but at the same time I look up to him, for I know that his innocence is a gift of God. He turns to me, and his face lights up with a smile as he truly sees me for the first time.
“Jon. . .am! Youu aare here!” The words are simple, but it costs him great effort to say them. I smile down at him.
“Who are you?” I say in greeting. He laughs.
“Havvit.” He reaches up to me, and I pick him up under the legs and behind his back. His arms go around me and squeeze tight for a moment, then his consciousness wavers. I settle him gently on his bed. I wish this hadn’t happened, because we are going to the theatre tonight – the whole royal family – as a show of benevolence to some budding actors, and as a diplomatic overture to the royalty of another kingdom, who are in turn showing their goodwill towards Their Majesties by coming to this evening of entertainment in this country. I do not wish this for my Prince’s sake, for he will not remember this incident, but for mine. I am shaken. My thoughts are in turmoil. I know that I shall sit rigidly, meeting curious glances with hostile glares, which will be no help to me or the Prince. It will only draw attention to us, something we certainly do not need, especially with my Prince waving and smiling at everyone. Even his sister. It is not, of course, the Princess’s fault she was born shortly after the Prince’s fall, but I cannot help blaming her for the treatment the Prince receives. I do not pretend to know the ways of kings, and perhaps it is true that the Princess would make a better ruler, but it irks me that no one, not even his parents, seems to see how wise and pure the little half-wit Prince is. To me, a simple mind is no indication of how much one deserves a kingdom.
   In an hour or two, the Prince’s carers will awaken. They will either be or pretend to be horrified at the bloody corpse on His Majesty’s floor. A search will be made for any accomplices, for the route into the palace. But the secret supporters of the Princess will see to it that nothing is found. Only one thing that furthers the Prince’s safety will be done; I will move into the room next to the Prince’s, completed or not.
   I sit upright on the plush cushion of my chair, my body so tense that I jump at every unexpected sound. The Prince beside me babbles without knowing. For the sixth time since the play began, I crane my neck to see three rows down, where four sham guards flank the dwarf who stands in for the Prince. The royal family sits beside them, the real ones, surrounded by their own guards. My look deepens into a frown as I see the young Princess glance in disdain at the poor dwarf. Although she is only seven, her prim and haughty demeanour revolts me. Knowing that it was men working on her behalf, even though she does not control them, who have tried to kill my Prince sickens me still further.
   As if he can sense my dark feelings, the Prince moans loudly. Someone from further down the row – not one of the latent guards, but a citizen – leans forward and stares. I put my arm around the Prince and hold him close. “Don’t worry, my Prince,” I tell him softly. “You are safe with me. Sssh.” He quiets and snuggles against me, drawing up his good knee.
   For a while I try to relax and enjoy the play, but I cannot help jerking anxiously at every suspicious move of the people around me. I do not like having so many strangers this close to my Prince, and the disguised guards are little comfort. There are perhaps four or five of the ten hidden guards that I would trust with my life, but I trust no one but myself with the Prince’s life.
   Soon the Prince’s head begins to droop and he falls asleep on my arm. A few minutes later, I am startled from my thoughts by a movement behind me. Easing my arm from under the Prince’s head, I turn to see one of the hidden guards quietly making his way down the row towards the exit. As no one is supposed to know that the Prince has been replaced by the dwarf, I can hardly shout for him to halt or question him. He disappears through the exit, and I settle uneasily back into my seat.
   I sit and watch my Prince all through the second act while he sleeps peacefully, free from all the fears that plague me. As the actors troop off the stage at the end of the scene, the Prince’s eyes flutter open.
“Jon. . .am.” he murmurs sleepily. He sits up and looks around. “What?” he asks. Confused, I listen, and then I hear it, too. Loud shouts and the clang of steel meeting steel. An assassin. No, more like assassins. My Prince clutches at my arm, but I stand up, almost yanking the sword from my belt before I realize the sword would be a beacon drawing the enemies to my Prince. Many others have stood as well, citizens as well as guards. We stand tensely, waiting for the moment when either the actors come pelting on for the next scene, our guards come panting through to tell us everything is under control, or the murderers come sliding through to run at the Prince. The curtain covering the door is swept back, and as soon as the crowd sets eyes on the sweaty man in civilian clothes, dripping blood from his right arm, there is chaos. People shove past me, pushing me stumbling away from my Prince. Panicking, I try to force my way back to him, but the crowd is too strong. Men all around me are drawing swords and stabbing, slicing, killing their respective enemies. A man leaps at me, snarling, with his knife ready, and I instinctively draw my sword to block. As I fight, I listen frantically for any sound of the Prince, but only the roar of battle fills my ears. Gradually I take in the news as it is shouted above the din. The royal family is safe, whisked away by their guards as soon as the fighting began. The dwarf, posing as the Prince, is dead. I wonder grimly if they have realized their mistake yet. Then there is a great roar of triumph, followed by a moment of quiet where I can hear again. A vague horror grips me so that I nearly drop my sword. Suddenly my Prince gives a clear cry and is silent. Dread crushes my heart; I fling away caution and battle like a wounded animal, forcing my way to his side. Men from both sides surround me, but I have eyes only for the Prince. A man stands over him; a sword protrudes from his breast. I do not know what I do; I hear a sound unlike anything I have heard before, and realize it comes from me. I raise my sword with both hands; someone stabs me from behind. With all my strength, I smash the sword down on the murderer, killing him instantly. I collapse onto the floor, redness swirling behind my eyes. People step on my legs as the fighting continues, and I lose all sense of time. After a while, I become aware that the noise has faded considerably. With great effort, I raise my head. The fighting, what is left of it, is outside. The battle is over, and with it, the battle of my life and the Prince’s. The Prince’s.
“My Prince!” the words crackle from my dry throat like leaves in a bonfire. “My Prince!” Pain rakes me, but I heave myself onto an elbow. He lies there so still and quietly, his face peaceful. I remember him as a toddler, crying for the poisonous snake that would have killed him. I remember him as he was a short while ago, mourning for the man who tried to kill him. I see him now, and slowly, my hatred against the murderers dies to nothingness, because I know that he would harbour no malice, feel no hatred or anything but sympathy and pity for the men who did kill him. I lived for my Prince. Soon I will have died for him. And now I will serve the Prince’s true self, and love for him. For his sake, I will love the people who killed my Prince, just as he did.
   One last time, I whisper, “Who are you?” And deep within me, my Prince answers. “Havvit. Havvit Prince.”