Interlude 5

B axil trod the streets of Azimir unseen. Every inch of him, save his eyes, was wrapped in tight crimson cloths, the tied-off tails of which sometimes escaped his cloak and waved in the wind of an unknown Current. Hand on his kattar, slid into its sheath at his side, he watched for anyone in the crowd who noticed him.

Nothing so far. Good.

This was a city haphazardly prepared for war. Baxil strolled through the Alethi camp, which had taken the place of the Grand Market. The soldiers camped in concentric rings that he was certain they thought were evenly spaced smooth curves. The Azish would have chalked outlines of pathways to make sure. He allowed himself a smile, remembering days when he’d been that persnickety.

Not a soul saw him. These days, people could only see Baxil if they were looking for him. And he could only touch them if they were trying to kill him.

He left the Alethi camp, and for old times’ sake whispered a prayer to the Prime Kadasix. If you could see that I get what I deserve, I would appreciate it. Thanks.

Azimir was famed for its tea shops, which filled the same niche that winehouses did in the East. By this point, Baxil had sampled a wide variety of both, and had his favorites. Here in Azimir, one shop in particular was known for its discretion. They had instructions to watch for him, so as he entered, the bouncer by the door leapt to his feet.

“Master Crimson,” he said. “We got your note.”

“As well you did,” Baxil said, “or we might not be able to have this conversation. He’s here?”

“He is, master,” the bouncer said, ushering him farther in. “And … he’s an odd one.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Ulak,” Baxil said, tipping him a few spheres, which became real as he dropped them. “See that we’re not interrupted.”

Baxil entered the private room, separated from the rest by hanging beads, and walked through an invisible cloud of incense to approach the luxurious table, one of the most exclusive in the city. There, Axies the Collector was seated, passing the time by hitting his hand with a small hammer.

“Surely you have painspren by now,” Baxil said, sliding into the booth across from the Aimian. Axies preferred to wear little in the way of clothing, in part because he kept his notes on his skin in the form of tattoos—an entire book secured in a place where he would never lose it. Like all of his kind, he could change the color of any part of his skin at will.

“I have painspren, yes, of course,” Axies said. “I’ve had them for millennia, Crimson Memory. But you see, we are in the builders’ quarter of the city—where men frequently hammer. There is a curious report from a hundred and fifty-two years ago of a peculiar spren drawn to the pain of men who have hit their fingers with a hammer while aiming for a nail. If one were to search for that specific spren, this would be the place.”

“And you believe this report?” Baxil asked.

“Hardly,” Axies said. “It was almost certainly a joke.”

He hit his hand with the hammer, then winced, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“Tell me honestly,” Baxil said, leaning forward. “You enjoy the punishment, don’t you.”

“What kind of deviant would enjoy this?” Axies said. Then hit his thumb square on with the hammer.

“Then why?”

“Pain is fleeting. The thrill of accomplishment is eternal.” Smack. “Yes … almost certainly a joke.”

“If the Prime Kadasix should allow,” Baxil said, relaxing on his bench, resting one arm along the top, “I should someday like to understand you.”

“At least I,” Axies said as their cups arrived, “can taste my tea.” He took a sip from his, then eyed Baxil from over the rim.

Baxil sighed—but did as expected. He held his hand out over the tea, feeling the heat of the steam, and … imagined. People throughout the teahouse enjoyed their drinks. Especially the stark black jaramon tea, as they’d provided for him. Bitter, sharp, like drinking the venom of something aggressive—this was tea that fought back.

Such things had a life of sorts. Not the individual cups so much as the concept of tea. With this many people thinking about it, savoring it, complaining about it … Baxil could taste it, and remember what it had been like to drink. During a time that seemed so distant, yet so familiar all at once. Before his blessing, and before his curse.

Today, a great number of people thinking about the same thing let him feel the bitter tea on his tongue as he sat with his hand over the cup.

“You’re sure you’re not a spren?” Axies asked. “I’m putting you in the appendix regardless, you realize.”

Baxil smiled. “You brought my bandages?”

Axies placed them on the tabletop. Red wraps prepared in the most special of ways, as Baxil needed. The key to his survival. In turn, he placed a gemstone on the table. He was not a spren, but they did find him fascinating.

Axies snatched it up and peered at the little spren inside. “Better to find them in the wild,” he mumbled, “but this will have to do. Little friend, how elusive you’ve proven …”

Baxil took the bandages and slid them into the pocket of his cloak, then rose from his seat.

“She’s here in Azimir, by the way,” Axies noted.

“She?”

“Your old employer,” he said. “The Herald.”

Shalash. He’d known her only as “mistress,” during another life. Had been rather infatuated with her … maybe never stopped.

“How?” he asked. “I thought she was at the tower city.”

“No, she went with the Alethi army on campaign,” Axies said, still inspecting his gemstone prize. “I think their king wanted to interview her—at least, that’s the impression I got when I chatted with her. They took the other one too, the big fellow, to the fight for Emul. They’re both back now though, tucked away in an Azish hospital. I believe the king has mostly forgotten about her.”

Here. In the hospital? He could … go see her.

Baxil pulled his cloak tight. No. Not like this. “Best get out of the city, Axies,” he said. “I think dark times are coming to Azimir in the days ahead.”

“Yes …” Axies said. “I concur.”

Axies would stay, of course, hunting the rare spren of enraged passions during war. Well, the Aimian had proven resilient. While Baxil himself … always felt he was one calm breeze away from dissipating. Like smoke from a dead fire. So, one hand on his kattar, he left a few spheres on the table as payment and continued on his quest.

Hoping that someday, he might be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of sipping tea again.