It was a cold and rainy day, and Wahisietel was set to copying.
The book he held before him was old and nearly worn to the spine; only a faint smear of glue held it in place. He supposed that was why he was copying it down. It was written in a time and place Wahisietel was unfamiliar with, but he did recognize the writing as an earlier form of Infernal.
Not that it mattered much. His job was to copy, not to understand.
The rain lashed his tent. The Mahjarrat frowned, and wondered if he'd fortified it well enough. The last thing he needed was a storm to burst in and ruin the work he'd already done.
One blessing – the vellum he'd been given to write on was startlingly new and pristine. He wasn't sure where the Saradominists had gotten it, but he was grateful. He hadn't seen paper like this since shortly after the fall of Zaros.
Aryn, Elias, and Malin had gone on patrol, but a senior Icyene had stopped him as he went to join them, said that he "looked literate", and here he was.
Saradominists. Even during war, scribe work continued. Not that he minded – he had long complained to Dagroda and his predecessors about the lapse in bookkeeping that had afflicted the Empire, to deaf ears.
Still. Even writing got boring when it was all about an ancient Saradominist's tract against another ancient Saradominist whose views differed slightly on what happened to the soul after death.
No mention of the Neumenon yet, he thought to himself as he finished taking down another page. Just Saradomin taking the souls of his favored to New Domina. Wahisietel rather thought, if Saradomin was able to get his hands on mortal souls, he would do more with them than just shelter them.
Interestingly, the view that so incited the author of this particular text was more akin to the Fremmenik death myth than any other human's. Wahisietel wondered where he'd learned it; the author didn't seem to draw the connection.
Abruptly, the entrance to his tent shook with someone's entrance. Wahisietel tensed, but relaxed when he saw the mud-streaked and rather frustrated face of Aryn.
"Oh, hey Ali," she said. She crossed the space, and fiddled with the lock on a drawer Wahisietel hadn't realized was hers. Once she'd gotten it open, she pulled out a glass bottle of clear liquid and took a long drink from it. Wahisietel doubted it was water.
"Hello, Aryn," he said. "How was patrol?"
Aryn spat on the ground, from a bad taste or offense Wahisietel could not tell. "Useless, awful, and boring, so just what the commanders want. How's copying?"
"Insightful," Wahisietel replied, and found himself slipping into the role of Ali with practiced ease. "Where are Elias and Malin?"
"Hell if I know!" Aryn threw her hands up. "They split off as soon as we entered camp. Said they had 'special orders', though they didn't tell me nothing."
That was interesting, but Ali's mind was elsewhere. The split between the humans in his group was beginning to grow. He hadn't signed on to play nanny, but if his established clique broke apart, that might spell trouble for him. The last thing he needed was to stand apart.
"Hey," she said, sounding conspiratorial. "Did you hear anything about the outerlander?"
Ali's interest piqued. Outerlander? "No, I haven't."
"Hmm. Well. She showed up not that long ago, claimed she had stories and whatlike from far-off lands." Aryn waggled her fingers as if to play up the suspense. "I don't know anything. But she's staying at a tent on the very edge of the Zamorakian side of camp if you were interested. Wanna know the kicker? I don't think she's with Saradomin or Zamorak."
Now Ali was definitely interested. If you weren't with a god you were against them, and unless this outerlander was foolish or brave or both, he didn't know why she would want to just stroll into a camp filled by her enemies. Missionaries didn't often get a wide audience these days, if indeed that is what she was after.
"Interesting," he replied.
"Yeah. She comes in all decked out in some weird clothes, and talking nonsense. I don't think it'll be much longer before our mighty overlords notice she's here, so if you wanted to talk to her I'd do it before she gets her skull bashed in." Aryn shrugged. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm finally drunk enough to go find Elias and Malin and kick them directly in the ass." She clapped him on the shoulder, and left the tent.
Wahisietel stared at his page for a few moments more, mind awhirl. If Aryn was right, this was no safe place for this woman. And, he found to his surprise, that he already felt sympathy for her. She was a worshipper of a foreign god, marooned in a land that cracked down harshly on dissent, and what couldn't he find to empathize with in that?
He stored his work in a safe box he kept with him at all times, and tucked it into his robe. Then, he set out for the Zamorakian camp.
…
The Zamorakians were… not as helpful as he would have liked.
There was a truce, but it wasn't enough to smooth over deep roots of hostility that existed here for the Saradominists. He supposed that that was good news for him and his mission, but right now they were just frustrating. The Zamorakian he talked to was a dark-skinned woman who looked Kharidian. She reminded him a lot of Aryn, although now that the stubbornness was directed towards him it wasn't quite as… charming. He'd found her just off the side of what seemed like a major intersection of Zamorakians. She didn't seem bothered by the noise.
She looked at him over the top of a glass of beer and said, "you wanna fight the Outerlander."
"Find!" Ali said quickly. "Find, I said. I have questions for her."
She seemed disappointed by this clarification. "Brass won't like that."
"As far as I know, they haven't done anything about her, either. There is free movement between our camps."
The woman liked that. She laughed, and signaled to an underling to bring another drink. A much larger woman with a face that was less intimidating scowl and more disgusted boredom set it in front of him. She brushed brightly blonde hair out of her face and glared at Ali, as though she were personally invested in whether or not Ali enjoyed the beer, and it had better be the former. Ali tasted it, and was surprised to find that it was rather good, as far as human beers went.
"Well, if you really want to, I can point you in the right direction," she said. "Gotta warn you, though, the Outerlander is smarter than she looks. I think she's here for something."
Over the past day, "Outerlander" had gained an unspoken capital and seemed to be more of a formal title than just a word. Wahisietel wondered at what kind of person could do that.
"No one higher up listens to me anymore, though," the woman continued sadly.
"Why not?" Ali asked.
She waved him off. "That's not your business," she told him.
"Fair enough."
She squinted at him. "Hey. You're Ali the Wise, aren't you?"
Surprise, although Wahisietel supposed he shouldn't have been. He'd been mingling with others in the camp for some time now, including Zamorakians, and the name had truly begun to stick. There was a lot that the average human or demon didn't know these days, and even elementary knowledge from the days of the Empire surprised and delighted them. "Some call me that."
The woman grinned. "I'm Dramis. This is my second in command, Perk." The larger woman made a sign that Wahisietel thought meant peace among the Fremmenik.
"Second in command of what?" Ali asked.
"Again-"
"None of my business. Got it."
Dramis laughed again at that. "I like you," she said. "You learn fast."
"Does that mean you'll tell me where the Outerlander is?"
"Depends. What do you got?"
Oh, right. It was probably too much to hope for that a Zamorakian would give up anything to a Saradominist, even in a time of peace, for free. He supposed that was a good sign for the mission – that a Zamorakian was still so mistrustful of a Saradominist – but right now it just felt rather inconveniencing.
The rain lashed above them. Some part of him wished he hadn't left the tent.
"I don't have any money," Ali said, and shrugged. "I suppose there's nothing I can do about that."
"We're not asking for money," Dramis said as Ali made to leave. "Just a little thing, really."
"Hmm?"
"There are some… people going around the Zamorak camp, preaching about Saradomin," Dramis said. "You know. Missionaries. Now, I know it's a time of truce, but some of the higher ups are getting nervous about it, 'cause some of what they're saying is making sense. To some, of course."
"You want me to…?"
"Find them! Or help us find them, anyway."
Ali frowned. "What would you do with them, when you do?"
Dramis laughed, low and odd and cheerful. "Report them, of course! I'm not going to kill them. I don't know what you people have been told about us, but I 'ent going to do any harm to anyone I don't need to."
If that was a threat, Ali pretended not to hear it. "I gladly give my help," he said smoothly. All this diplomacy wasn't exactly the best for the mission, true, but more time spent among the Zamorakians couldn't be a bad thing. Besides, Saradominists telling stories to all their comrades about being foisted out of an ally camp because of intolerance was… satisfactorily relevant.
"Then listen closely."
…
The Outerlander's tent was both more and less impressive than Wahisietel had imagined it.
He'd already built it up in his mind, without his conscious knowledge, to be a grand structure, bedecked with foreign luxuries and markings. However, the run down rag he encountered at the edge of the Zamorakian camp triggered a different kind of admiration – that someone with clearly only the clothes she had on her back was not only able, but willing, to stride up to one of the greatest war-camps in the history of the Wars and… proselytize.
And it was one of the greatest. As Wahisietel made his way to the tent, following the detailed, if ramble-y, instructions of Dramis, he passed building after building, not just tents. There were more warriors here than he'd ever seen in one place since the fall of the Empire. If he didn't know better, he would think that this was a permanent settlement, not a war-camp.
This made the contrast all the more apparent.
The tent was old, Wahisietel could tell. It wasn't made from especially cheap materials – when Wahisietel ran his hand across the canvas, it felt like rubber – but it was worn and damaged all the same. It was bedecked with foreign symbols that even he didn't recognize, which he was certain wasn't going to make either the Saradominists or the Zamorakians happy.
He almost brushed past the yellow, tattered tent flaps like it was merely debris, but he remembered his manners at the last minute and stood respectfully at the entrance.
"Hello?" he called. "I've come to see. Er. Someone called the Outerlander?"
Deathly silence met his sentence from the inside, and he folded his arms in front of him to wait.
Then, a faint voice carried through. "Do you have anything?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you have anything for me?" Louder, more distinct this time. Wahisietel could make out a touch of Kharidian in the woman's voice.
He wasn't expecting that question. "I'm afraid I only have the clothes on my back, Outerlander."
"Oh. You're a pilgrim." The tent flaps were drawn aside, and a wizened face stared up at him from inside the tent. She started as soon as she saw him.
"Have I upset you, ma'am?" he asked her.
"Oh, not especially. I've been expecting you, Mahjarrat."
…
After some helpless sputtering on his end, which was resolutely ignored, the woman invited him in for tea. Wahisietel weighed his options, right up until she said "You know, I bet the Saradominists would be rather steamed if they found out a Mahjarrat had infiltrated their ranks."
"How do you know they would believe you?" Wahisietel asked, but he moved into the tent anyway.
"How do you know they wouldn't?"
Wahisietel couldn't deny this point. It's not like there weren't mages who could take a closer look at him if they were ordered to.
The woman gestured towards a chair. "Please, sit. Do you drink? Literally, I mean."
"On occasion."
The woman shrugged. "I'm not sure what to do with that answer, so I'll just make you some tea. It's a day that can use it, I think."
The wind howled outside of the tent, although the rain had shrunk to a trickle. Wahisietel thought this sad heap wouldn't do much to keep the rain out, but it was surprisingly dry inside. "I agree."
"What's your name?"
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you that."
"Fair enough. I'm afraid I can't tell you mine, either." She placed the pot of water on a stove, a run-down thing Wahisietel wouldn't have trusted to hold a blanket, and lit it. She smiled at him like she sensed his discomfort.
"So," she said, and pulled a chair out of the corner. "What brings you to my neck of the woods, Child of Mah?"
A thousand answers ran through his head, but he settled on honesty. "Curiosity."
The woman smiled. "Then I believe we are more alike than you think."
Wahisietel frowned. The woman's smile grew larger. "I suppose you want to ask me something," she said. "I should warn you. I'm not a wise woman. I know, I look it! But I'm here for answers, just like anyone else."
"Are you sure? That sounded rather wise."
The woman laughed, mirthful and clear despite her age.
"Where do you come from?" Wahisietel asked.
"Many places," she said. "Most recently, Kharid, if you noticed."
"The same here."
The woman grinned as though she were just given more information than he'd put into words. "Come here," she said. "Put your hands in mine."
Wahisietel frowned, but did as she told. Her hands were rough and dry and felt like they should be deeply arthritic, but the fingers played over his smooth palm without any difficulties. "You're not much of a laborer," she said.
"I was more of a writer," he said. "I dealt – well, deal – in words more than weapons."
"There isn't much call for those in the Wars anymore," she said. "Least of all among your people, Mahjarrat."
He winced a bit, and he was sure she caught it despite his best efforts. He knew now that she knew what he was, but he had almost managed to convince himself that she didn't know exactly what he was. The Mahjarrat were a private people, and in the days after the fall of Zaros, had retreated mostly into their own secrets.
She raised an eyebrow at him. He was getting tired of this dance. "How did you know I was Mahjarrat?" he asked her.
She quirked her head, as though that were the last question she was expecting. "Why," she said. "It's not obvious?"
"My disguise has been augmented with the finest magics Senntisten has to offer, as well as hours of exacting training to ensure that it is not noticeable by any other living creature on this planet," Wahisietel said, feeling rather put out.
"You come from Senntisten, then," the woman said mildly, eyes on the table, as she pretended to busy herself with the patterns on the wood.
Wahisietel blinked. "I think I'm done here," he growled, and stood up.
"Don't you want my help?"
"Help?" Wahisietel asked. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"With your mission."
"I-"
"Please, don't insult me. I know you're here for something, Zarosian, and it's probably to defend your city."
Wahisietel glared at the woman. She glared back. In the corner, the kettle began to shriek.
"Why do you want to help me?" he asked her.
The woman shrugged. "I'm no friend to Saradomin or Zamorak," she said. "Is that not reason enough?"
Wahisietel's glare deepened, but hers broke into laughter. "If you were hoping to get some backstory out of me with that question," she said, "I'm afraid you're mistaken."
"Why should I trust you?"
"By tomorrow, I think I will be driven out of this camp," she said. "Or killed. Why do you not have reason to trust me? Enemies of Saradomin are surely not difficult to come by."
"Er," Wahisietel said. "Back up. Killed?"
The woman shrugged.
Wahisietel made a frustrated gesture. "If you're dead, how could you help me?"
The woman grinned. "My, a selfish one."
Wahisietel flushed. "That's not what I meant."
She waved it away. "I have information. About the Crown."
Wahisietel's eyes widened, a distinctly human gesture. He didn't know where he'd picked it up from. "You mean, where it is?"
"Possibly."
He remembered Alifanta then, and how she was set to looking for an Elder Artifact below Senntisten. Could it be that? Wahisietel couldn't imagine that the Crown had made its way to somewhere below the greatest Zarosian city still standing.
"You aren't going to tell me," Wahisietel said. "Not yet, anyway."
The woman shrugged. "I will tell you a little bit now, a little bit later. But I want something in return. I asked you for something when we first met – this is it. I can tell you this, now – what I know could save Senntisten."
His first thought, as she got up to take the kettle off, was that it was a bit too late, and the tea was probably spoiled. His second thought was that she was probably lying. If he had a vested interest in keeping her alive, say, for information, her chances of surviving in this camp went up considerably.
His third thought, though, was to wonder if she were telling the truth. There was something odd going on, he'd known that since he and Sliske went to interrogate Alifanta. And if she were, Senntisten was in quite a lot of danger indeed.
Well. He supposed there was only one course of action, then.
"I'll do what I can," he said. "I can't blow my cover. But I'll do my best to protect you."
"Excellent," she said. "Then I can tell you this – the Crown is in Senntisten."
He'd suspected that. It was the only reason Saradomin would ever team up with Zamorak. But…
"How do you know?" he asked her.
She raised her eyebrow. "Ask me later."
Wahisietel sighed. Fair enough.
"For now, you should go," she said. "Your friends are probably missing you, if you have any." He was about to respond indignantly to that, but she waved him off. "I'll be here tomorrow. Return when you can. In the meantime, I expect no trouble from the authorities, yes?"
Wahisietel's mind was already hard at work. He already had some sway among the camp – perhaps he could use that to her, and by extension his, advantage. "Yes."
"Well, alright then. I expect we'll work together marvelously, nameless Mahajarrat. I'll see you soon."
…
Back at his tent, Wahisietel sighed.
The rain was as strong again now as it had been when he'd last been here. He had no idea where Aryn and the others were, but he knew they had to be coming back soon. It was nearing dusk, and the commanders kept a strict curfew.
The paper before him was nearly finished. Once he finished the final paragraph, it would be done. He didn't feel like working. Idly, he wondered whether Aryn had done as she had promised.
Keeping the Outerlander alive would be a task, to be sure. He could ask for Sliske's help, but firstly, that rankled, and secondly, he wasn't even sure whether Senntisten would approve of his side objective. Some of the information he was seeking might not be information Dagroda, or any of the others, wanted him to know.
Wahisietel grinned. "Information he wasn't supposed to have" was familiar territory. He finished the copy with a flourish, and went to bed feeling like he was ready to be optimistic again.