Summoning Japan to Alagaësia

by sijodtovtkhbhgfvbvnvn

Japan is transferred to the world of Alagaësia just before the start of Eragon. Loosely based on the same premise as Nihonkoku Shoukan.

13. A Peasant Incursion

Feel free to add suggestions on future plot developments.

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A Peasant Incursion

Reiwa 2 December 6

Sheets on straws by the grimy floor made for poor sleeping accommodations, and even more so having to share a small room with three strangers, one of whom was on the verge of dying. Perhaps soon to be more than one.

And the cold. Kiyoshi knew he shouldn't have expected an exclusive fireplace in their room, but he had held onto that hope until at last they had arrived at their door (that had taken some time, especially the "carrying a dying man through the corridors" part, a task which had fallen to the female stranger and Kiyoshi himself). Any heat that reached them was generated from a larger hearth closer to the center of the building, and they slept with their hantens on.

What bothered him was that many people back in Japan probably didn't have it much better. They were still dealing with dire energy shortages, and this winter was as cold as those a century ago, before the effects of anthropogenic climate change had set in. Causes of death from hypothermia were expected to be an order of magnitude higher than during an average winter in the 2010s, made worse by the shortages of caloric sources. At least Covid you could isolate from. He worried for his parents…

Sighing quietly, he got up from his corner of the room, pushing aside the comforter. Frustratingly, Eisaku had had to make another trip to the red seal ship last night to get those as well as the extra bed sheets, even though they were supposed to be quarantining—at least the handover of items had occurred under strict infection control measures. The inn staff had seen it fit to provide them a single bed of straws and one linen bedspread for the five of them! Kiyoshi and Eisaku had reasonably (or perhaps unreasonably by local customs) refused the arrangement. The two had thus set up the impromptu solution of sleeping on the dark wooden floor strewn with some of the straws and their own sheets and comforters, leaving the actual bed to the other three. There wasn't really much in the room but the bed anyway, besides the spartan nightstand and mildewed timber walls.

The candle had burned out, and what little light came from the narrow crevices of the window shutter. Kiyoshi struggled to find the tetracycline.

Just how were they going to convince the two non-symptomatic strangers to take the tetracycline?!

They had tried to last night, with questionable success. The woman (he guessed a mother) had seemed terrified by their insistence, shielding her son behind her back (the man lying unconscious on the floor). The two Japanese had taken the capsules themselves, to demonstrate its safety, and Kiyoshi had tried his utmost to explain why they should be taken in broken local language.

It hadn't worked, and he suspected it wasn't just due to the language barrier, but also fundamental differences in worldviews and patterns of thinking and reasoning, which were of course culturally conditioned. The capsules were dangerous, and the two Japanese sought them harm, no matter what Kiyoshi said. And the mother had seemed convinced that the two Japanese would force-feed it to them (which wasn't actually the case, as he did require the informed consent of at least the parent), and before he had realized she had tearfully snatched the capsules from his hand and downed them all herself, apparently in the hopes of "sacrificing" herself to save her son. And Kiyoshi had felt sick with himself, sick because the only reason the mother had taken the capsules was because she believed them to be dangerous, and opted to save her son from that fate. In a roundabout way he had forced her to make that choice, even though that was the very opposite of what he had wanted them to think about the capsules and their choices. And her presumed son still hadn't taken the antibiotics...

Kiyoshi sighed again. The sounds of the sickly man's coughs filled the room again, as it had done many times this night. He wondered if the man was the father, and the three of them a family. That would have been a small family by local standards, unless they had many more kids.

From the corner of his eye, he could barely make out the two non-symptomatic strangers, awake and in sitting positions next to each other. Hardly a surprise, when you were next to someone with those retching coughs and wheezing breaths, not to mention the mental distress from this whole situation. And in the other corner Eisaku was also rising up, having probably been awake for a while. The two didn't say a word to each other, not wanting to frighten the strangers. Even before the incident with the capsules, the mother and son had seemed fearful of them—were the Japanese seen as savages around here?

Even though he knew better, he set about lighting a beeswax candle with a matchstick. He didn't know any other way of starting a fire in any case, and hopefully the family wouldn't notice. The wrong bet, as he heard the woman gasp when the matchstick lit up.

The room now somewhat brighter, he glanced over at the family. The woman and child were sitting in the bed under the covers, while the man was lying on his back, wheezing for air, his face being caressed by the woman and forehead covered by a wet cloth. Were Kiyoshi's eyes playing tricks on him, or did the boy seem to struggle slightly with breathing? The mother was speaking encouragingly to her son, but Kiyoshi could hear the underlying desperation in the tone. He recognized this scene from his medical career, of parents trying to remain strong for their dying child to the very end. And this was the end—of his indecisions.

He filled mugs with a wooden flask of water they had taken from the ship. Then he amassed the other things he needed and went to the straw bed, Eisaku wordlessly helping him carry one of the mugs. He breathed in through his mouth to better deal with the smells.

He saw the mother tense as he approached. The boy looked lethargic, and Kiyoshi hoped it was just sleep drunkenness "More tetracycline," Kiyoshi said, indicating the tablets in his right hand. Of course, not that they would understand what "tetracycline" meant, but having spent so much effort trying to explain what the capsules were yesterday, he no longer bothered.

At his words, the woman drew in a sharp breath, and he almost backed out as guilt and shame surged in him. Placing the mug on the… floor, he dug his free hand into his pocket and retrieved… several silver coins.

"You drink tetracycline," Kiyoshi began, pointing to the boy, "and coin, give," he finished. At least that was what he hoped he had said—he often was not sure about the exact meaning of the words he uttered. When it seemed they had not gotten his point, he impolitely brandished the coins before the boy's face. "Drink. And… coin is you." The boy's somewhat dull eyes slowly widened, while his mother blinked. Then, without a word, the boy reached a shaky hand over his mother and took the capsules from Kiyoshi's open palm, and opened his mouth—

"No no," Kiyoshi quickly said. "Water." He squatted to pick up the mug, which he handed to the boy. A thin boy—no, an emaciated family. The boy looked at him in confusion, clearly unfamiliar with pharmaceutical products. His mother seemed torn.

Then Eisaku appeared near Kiyoshi and demonstrated how it was done; slowly and deliberately putting the tetracycline in his mouth and swallowing with a mug of water.

"Yes," said Kiyoshi to the boy. "You do this. Don't eat tetracycline. Drink tetracycline," he clarified. The boy gagged several times, but eventually seemed to have downed everything (though he required two mugs of water), and Kiyoshi exhaled quietly in relief. He knew the locals tended to prefer hot water, but it couldn't be helped. Kiyoshi held out two silver coins, which the boy rapidly grasped, staring at them with disbelief in his eyes. Kiyoshi, on the other hand, felt a strong urge to wash his hands.

Feeling lighter, Kiyoshi refilled the mug and fetched some more tetracycline. "Drink tetracycline, for coin?" he asked the woman.

She hesitated, nodding uncertainly. While she was clearly alert, she also seemed languid, as if fighting back morbidity. Her eyes were swollen, probably from having cried much of the past day, but also contained that slight… dullness. Kiyoshi handed her the used mug and capsule, ignoring all his compunctions about disinfection and sterilization. The silver coin he dropped on the bed covers. She drank it all with shaky hands, grimacing. Kiyoshi wondered if their shaky hands were from simple fear or from chilliness along underlying health conditions, like malnutrition.

Trying to make them at ease, he quickly withdrew back to his corner, sitting down on the sheets. Sheets of cotton, not linen. He knew he would soon have to relieve himself again, but procrastinated going to the… toilet. He clandestinely checked his vintage-style wristwatch hidden under his sleeve. About 8.43, presumably in the morning. He could hear footsteps and talking from outside the room, and from outside the inn itself there were... sounds of coughing and vomiting, and of people wailing.

"There were many rats yesterday night, when I walked to the ship and back," Eisaku began unceremoniously.

"More than usual," Kiyoshi agreed. So he wasn't the only one who had taken notice of that? "You think they are a possible vector?" They spoke quietly, wishing not to spook the strangers.

"I don't know," said Eisaku. "I haven't really observed more fleas than usual, which are often described as the primary vectors."

Kiyoshi pondered. "It is hard to believe that rats themselves could cause this level of transmissibility—hadn't there been another eight confirmed specimens by the time you got to the ship yesterday? No… something is missing."

"Hmm… rats along with fleas were said to be the vectors that spread the bubonic plague during the 19th and 20th century pandemic, including the limited outbreaks in Osaka and Kobe."

"And how many cases of bubonic plague have you seen so far?" questioned Kiyoshi.

Eisaku fell silent. "What does this mean?" he finally asked. In the background, they could hear the footsteps of the woman and child cautiously leaving the room.

"There seems to have been little to no records of rat falls or rat deaths during the Black Death of Europe, unlike the more recent plague pandemic," stated Kiyoshi. "And the speed with which the plague spread across Europe far outpaces the speed of rat migrations. No; rats are conspicuous, rats are easily identifiable, and rats have obscured the real vectors of the old plague," Kiyoshi finished, almost dramatically.

Eisaku seemed to absorb what he said. "Humans?" he provided.

"Human carriers and airborne transmission from the pneumonic type," explained Kiyoshi. "This is the most compelling explanation for the Black Death in Europe, and here!"

Eisaku frowned. "We aren't in Europe, Kiyoshi-san," he said. "We aren't even on Earth. We shouldn't start reifying our way to answers, Kiyoshi-san, but... approach this inductively and analytically," he finished carefully.

Kiyoshi opened his mouth and closed it again. "I…" He registered the substance of Eisaku's words. "It seems I got carried away," Kiyoshi admitted. "Sorry, I've been rash and fallacious lately, I—"

"No, there's been a lot going on recently," said Eisaku. "We are all on edge. Let's try to review everything we've observed so far, Kiyoshi-san?"

Kiyoshi nodded. "Let's see, I think—"

They turned their gazes as the door opened, and the woman warily stepped inside, consciously keeping the boy behind her frame. In her hands she held a ceramic jug probably refilled with water. Apparently, the inn did provide water as part of its services, and Kiyoshi remembered how the two strangers had eagerly gulped down many deciliters of hot water yesterday with the boy even crying in relief, as if water was a scarcity. The two Japanese, however, were skeptical about the potability and had so far gotten all their water from the red seal ship. It certainly didn't help his skepticism seeing the boy wash his hands in the jug. At least the woman had the sense to pour the water into the cloth (rather than the other way around) which she fed the ill man.

For some reason, she then decided to approach Kiyoshi, if apprehensively. He watched as she crouched down to his level, grateful she wasn't coming too close, unlike the typical proxemics of the locals. She was holding… a mug of water? "... warm water… you," he caught her saying, before holding the mug out to him. Probably less than a 50% listening comprehension rate on his end, but conveniently he caught just the most crucial words. Luckily for him, that seemed to happen a lot.

He shook his head. "I… water." He indicated the flask on the floor beside him, a little surprised by the turn of events.

She seemed to hesitate, then said something he did not catch. "Excuse, tell… again?" he struggled for the right words.

"Not warm," she said slowly, pointing to his water flask. "Cold." She then pointed shakily at the mug. "Warm."

Ah. "I drink cold water," he said somewhat fluently. "Thank you," he added.

She frowned. "Cold water. Is not good," she pronounced clearly, then placed the mug on the dingy floor.

"Why not good?" Kiyoshi couldn't help asking. And you drank it as well...

"It… you sick. Bad for health."

Hot water kills a large number of germs, I suppose, he thought passively, while feeling uneasy about this whole situation. "... My cold water, not… bad," he articulated, wishing to convey more than that. The woman blinked, then nodded quickly. "Yes-yes, not bad," she agreed hurriedly. Swiftly she rose to her feet and walked away before he could say anything more.

Are we really that frightening?

He looked around to see her offering any mug of water to Eisaku, who declined simply by shaking his head.

"Eisaku-san," Kiyoshi said, "should we have a look at their food options? If I understood correctly, they do have food service. Especially our roommates look like they haven't eaten in some time."

"I was thinking the same," admitted Eisaku. "Since we didn't eat yesterday."

"If our roommates haven't eaten in a while, there might be a slight risk of refeeding syndrome," reflected Kiyoshi.

"Or they could also get sick in general," added Eisaku.

Kiyoshi sighed. We have to limit their food intake as well? As if we didn't seem villainous enough…

"And what about the… man," Eisaku began hesitantly. "He could die at any time, they probably don't want to part with him in these last moments."

What a mess this is… "Let's go have a look, we can bring food back later," Kiyoshi suggested. They rose from their floor beddings, collected what they needed, and headed out of the room. The first thing Kiyoshi did was head to the public restroom, a very unpleasant room with buckets for toilets. There were no locks, or faucets. He did his best washing his hands with ship-brought soup and what he hoped was well water. He wished he could brush his teeth.

"I've been wondering, how did you get so good at their language?" asked Eisaku as they walked to the main hall.

"I'm not," responded Kiyoshi. "Really, I've just been practising with the linguists, and consulting their ad hoc dictionary, or glossary. Other than that, some limited interaction with the medical workers at the almshouse and with shopkeepers. The linguists themselves struggle to find opportunities to interact with locals, understandably. There are no language learning centers around here, and while some have tried paying locals for language lessons and conversations, this only seems to encourage scamming."

"There are two linguists living in a local's home, I met them yesterday," Eisaku said.

"Oh yes. That linguist, Marie Yamazaki, has been almost single-handedly carrying the linguistics division. Probably half the input they have is from her." They had arrived in the hall, but continued talking.

"And the rest struggle because they can't find anyone to talk to, since they don't know anyone here," Eisaku said amusedly. "Just like Japan, except the lack of language learning institutions. Hmm, I wonder how people in the past did it, when first exploring foreign civilizations."

"I heard European explorers took native peoples capture and forced them to learn their languages, then have them act as interpreters," mused Kiyoshi. "Other than that, probably a slow cultural exchange over many years and decades, or linguistic dissemination from foreign occupation. And I think there's a continuum in how language changes across geographic spaces, so it's possible to communicate and learn through intermediaries living in-between? To be honest, I'm no expert on this." None of this applies to our case, was left unsaid.

The desk clerk (or whatever the local term was) was not currently present, and they were instead cautiously approached by another inn staff—a waitress or hostess by the looks of it. "Is… that… you…?" he heard her say.

"Excuse," said Kiyoshi. "Food," he clarified. He held up four fingers. "Four people, food. Morning." How did one say breakfast?

The hostess nodded and pointed and guided them to a table. A rather large table. With the dim daylight shining through the open window shutter, he could now see the tapestries on the walls and wooden beams by the ceiling. The ceiling itself appeared to be somewhat thatched. In the middle of the hall was the fireplace, or rather fire pit. There probably was another fire source in the walled off section behind the counter, which Kiyoshi suspected served as the kitchen.

Compared to yesterday, the hall seemed positively vacant. Was breakfast not a thing here? How many meals per day did people here have anyway?

The presumed inn clerk showed up by their table, scowling. "Is...man…?"

"Excuse," answered Kiyoshi. "I… what you say?" he finished clumsily.

The clerk muttered something, clearly annoyed. "You want food, you said?" he spelled out slowly.

"Yes," Kiyoshi said. He held up four fingers. "Four people, food."

The clerk scoffed. "It is still morning, you..." He continued, "... we will… you food."

"What, you say… food?" asked Kiyoshi, racking his brain to understand what the man had said. In the background, some attendant placed a candle on their table.

The clerk sneered at them. "Yes, food. We will give you food…" Kiyoshi had heard that last word uttered a lot, even if he had no idea what it meant.

Kiyoshi asked, "What... food, have?"

"What?" expressed the clerk sourly. "Yes, we have food! It will be… soon" With a brusque nod and a last unfriendly look, he departed.

"Are employees here always this… direct?" asked Eisaku hesitantly.

"I don't know," sighed Kiyoshi. "These are harsh times, and perhaps he doesn't like us. At any rate, food should arrive soon."

"What are we having?"

"I don't know," admitted Kiyoshi. "I tried asking, but… I didn't understand much of the conversation. And I don't know if we're having breakfast or lunch or brunch."

"Should be fine, as none of us have any allergies," assured Eisaku. "Hopefully the sanitary standards are tolerable. Have you heard any unusual sounds outside the inn?" he then asked.

"Besides the coughing, vomiting, and cries?" replied Kiyoshi.

"So it wasn't just my imagination, huh. Do you think it's the plague spreading, or it's just a coincidence?"

"If it's the plague, it's spreading rather quickly." He paused for a moment, gripping his knuckles underneath the table. "In fact, we need to consider the possibility that much of the population is at risk."

It was not until more than an hour later that several waiters—if that was what they were—appeared from behind the corner, carrying a large steaming cauldron by the angled handle and several bowls, along with a basket of what looked like dark pieces of bread. Gingerly, they placed the cauldron on the table, it being supported by three legs.

"That's… a stew?" observed Eisaku.

"I think that might be a pottage?" Kiyoshi tentatively raised, thinking back on a conversation between historians at the red seal ship.

Wooden bowls and spoons were set down not just before Eisaku and Kiyoshi, but also the empty seats. At first, Kiyoshi thought they were intended for their other two roommates, until he counted at least six sets of bowls and spoons present. What?

Testingly, he picked up his wooden spoon—no, ladle. He knew knives and forks weren't commonly used, nevermind chopsticks, but you didn't need any of that for this type of food. Unsurprisingly, the tableware wasn't well sanitized, with the ladle still feeling oily. He was surprised, however, to find the waiters and other staff also taking their seats at the table.

"Wait, they are going to eat as well?" said Kiyoshi, as one of the still standing attendants shouted something Kiyoshi suspected was a mealtime announcement. Well, no physical distancing to be had.

"So we weren't just ordering for ourselves then," remarked Eisaku. Beverages in wooden mugs were placed around the table.

"Would explain why the table had so many seats," answered Kiyoshi. A waiter he had seen a few times started serving them a helping of the pottage and bread, and flinched when Kiyoshi thanked her.

Kiyoshi and Eisaku waited as the others served themselves, not sure if it was appropriate for them to dig in. It was hard to gauge the social expectations, as their table partners profusely avoided looking at them, or even tilt their heads in their direction. No one uttered a word.

Eventually, one of the attendants broke the silence. "Is something wrong?" he asked carefully, cautiously meeting their gazes while pointing at their bowls. "Do… not eat this?" There again was the word Kiyoshi often heard but didn't understand. Based on all the contexts he'd been provided, he'd just assume from now on that it was their demonym for "Japanese".

"Is not wrong," assuaged Kiyoshi. "We wait because… you eat," he gracelessly explained. "Let's eat," he murmured to Eisaku in Japanese, scooping up some stew with his ladle. Sanitary or not, what did it matter at this point?

The pottage was hot and of a thick consistency, a mishmash of whatever grains provided the thick base along with various ingredients including cabbage, leeks, onions, peas, potatoes, and some meat which tasted like salted pork, as well as other edibles. It wasn't particularly seasoned, either with salt or pepper or other spices. "Interesting," commented Kiyoshi quietly. "What do you think?"

"Simple, but hearty," Eisaku said. He glanced around the table. "There doesn't seem to be any salt here."

"I don't know the word for salt, so can't ask in any case," said Kiyoshi. Well maybe he could, but he didn't feel like playing charades, especially with how on edge everyone around them seemed. "Just forget about preventive infection measures," he remarked as some staff sneezed over the table, "and bet everything on reactive management."

"That's a fancy way of saying our infection measures have completely broken down," Eisaku smirked.

Kiyoshi continued sampling the stew. The gastronomy was clearly distinct from that of Japan of any historical period. Maybe more European? He tested the brown, uneven piece of bread in his hand. It was surprisingly hard. Taking a bite, he struggled to appreciate the crunchy texture and sour taste. It was nothing like the fluffy white sandwiches from back home, and a pang of homesickness hit him.

Apparently some inn staff next to him noticed his struggles. "This is bread," the staff said carefully while slowly pointing to another piece. He seemed wary, as if expecting Kiyoshi to lash out at him anytime.

"Yes," Kiyoshi replied, unsure how to articulate further. He tried smiling.

"I know Japanese… never seen it… this is the… we eat in the Rikesens," the staff said, with what Kiyoshi thought was pride in his voice.

"I like," Kiyoshi lied, nodding. He took another bite.

"A Japanese… eats bread," Kiyoshi heard someone else say with disbelief, and the staff he talked with gave what sounded like a word of agreement.

Have they met other Japanese people before? Kiyoshi thought. At the very least, they seem to have clear preconceived ideas of us.

As Kiyoshi attempted to translate to Eisaku the short exchange, he caught footsteps coming toward their table. Turning around, he saw their two roommates standing there looking hesitant.

"Eat?" Kiyoshi suggested.

---

Death really was sweet, Tsubasa thought. The smell sometimes even got into the house, and Helen had panicked, wanting to ward it off with generous uses of fire and feces. Marie had somehow convinced her not to.

The smell of the thousand dead was sweet, but it was a pungent, nauseating kind of sweet—almost like that of rotting fruit. Which he now knew was the miasma, the nemesis of feces. Tsubasa really had learned a lot.

Adding the final seasonings to his improvised dish of potato and onion soup, he went up the stairs to inform the rest that lunch was ready. Thinking up recipes to cook with only local ingredients, cookware, and methods of heating had proven quite challenging and time consuming. Not that he really minded it, as it was a good distraction from all the madness. Rolf's disappearance hadn't been all bad, wherever he had gone.

He tended to the fires, replacing fire logs, by now accustomed to this new routine. Finished, he made his way toward Jeod's room, still feeling a bit unnerved every time he approached. At least he had mostly stopped feeling hypochondriac; for the first few days after discovering Jeod sick his mind kept feeding him suspicions that he had contracted the plague, and almost anything had served as confirmation bias.

"Lunch is served," Tsubasa announced by the entrance. He really did not want to enter if he didn't have to.

"Itadakimasu!" he heard from the inside. Assuming they were busy tending to Jeod, he went back to the kitchen and helped himself to some rather bland food. The kitchen he sat in was surprisingly well-lit, at least during the day, with light-colored masonry making up the walls and sloped ceiling.

It was his first meal of the day, as he had adopted the local practice of having only two meals a day—apparently only the very well-off had breakfast. He wasn't that hungry anyways, hadn't been for a few days. One of the most common side effects of the antibiotics he was taking, he had been told.

After finishing his meal, he made his way to the pre-arranged meeting point where he would meet Ueda-san and that other doctor he was quarantining with, Oshira-san. They would discuss the current events almost daily and just… socialize, he supposed.

The walls towered the enclosed city, the thirty meter tall structure likely being the first thing one saw in the distance no matter which direction one was facing. The scale was otherworldly, and no city walls back on Earth could compare. It had ignited various debates among their expedition members for a good many months. Disproportionate to the rest of the city, the walls had stumped many economic historians, including those back in Japan. The pyramids had been built, they conceded, but this was different.

Light amounts of snowflakes fell over the city as he briskly walked. A few corpses were visible at the edges of the street, and others lying were still alive. Blood, both fresh and dried, stained the cobblestone streets in random patterns. Wretched cries sounded from everywhere, although Tsubasa thought it was a bit quieter than it had been yesterday. Perhaps the peak was already passing, after barely more than a week? The smell was just as bad as it had ever been, though.

It was clear that whatever social order the city operated under was near collapse. The usual economic activities of passing carriages, market stalls, and even just pedestrian activity were absent. There were even abandoned carriages right in the middle of the street, including lethargic horses. The shops were closed, and many had been looted, with the guards not bothering to enforce the law (to their best understanding the city did have a codified system of laws). There were signs other government functions had mostly ceased operations; for instance, the gate to the harbor no longer closed by night, and those he recognized as various city bureaucrats were nowhere to be seen.

Which meant he had to be even more on his guard. Social collapse and anarchy engendered conditions of greater violence and lawlessness. As if it hadn't been bad enough before. The uptick in anti-Japanese incidents was salient, especially with the assaults of yesterday. They were really playing with fire at this point.

He passed by what looked like a murder victim, stab wounds visible. That one had been there for at least two days, so presumably city authorities were no longer carrying out related tasks. Several rats were feasting on its body. There were no cats to deter them from taking up increasing space in the city, as the felines were all busy dying from the plague, which they seemed as susceptible to as humans. Just around the corner Tsubasa passed there was a dead cat, with a grief-stricken woman kneeling beside it. "Solembum," she mourned. "Solembum…"

Even with institutionalized activity breaking down, the streets were far from empty of people. Across the city, people were seen huddling together, on their knees, observing prayers while coughing blood on each other. Some were already passed out. Others were by open sewers inhaling the smell, their frail forms quivering.

To think this was what Japan had once inflicted on China.

---

"How is Jeod faring?" asked Ueda as they hung around in a somewhat inconspicuous part of the city, for safety reasons.

"He's…" Tsubasa tried not to think of Jeod in his gruesome state. "...improving, Marie-senpai thinks," he managed. "Mostly asleep, but symptoms are becoming milder, she says." The signs of someone recovering or dying, he thought unbiddenly.

"I could have another look at him later," Ueda offered. "Nothing much holding us up now, as the man we've been sharing rooms with has… well, died."

"That's…" Tsubasa tried to think of something appropriate to say.

"We knew of his outcome when we first saw him," said the other doctor, Oshira.

"And you said he had family members…?"

Both Ueda and Oshira seemed to grimace. "Presumed family members," Ueda corrected. "Understandably, they are grieving," he continued. "We are giving them space by not occupying our shared room."

Oshira sighed. "I wonder what they will do with his remains. It's still on the bed."

"Can you communicate with them?" Tsubasa clumsily asked.

"It's proven to be a challenge," acknowledged Oshira. "My proficiency in the… what's the language here called?"

"I don't know," admitted Tsubasa. As far as he and the other linguists knew, it didn't have a name, but maybe their information gathering capabilities were just that bad.

"Well, my proficiency in the language is very limited. And I feel like there are vast cultural barriers as well, making it very hard for us to understand one another."

"I'm not very good at the language either, but maybe I could help?" said Tsubasa.

"You are much too modest, Tsubasa-san," said Ueda. "You are probably one of our most proficient speakers of whatever is the language. And I appreciate your offer," he added.

"By the way, it seems the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is finally starting to recover from its paralysis," Oshira unveiled once they ironed out the details of his translation services. "I heard this earlier today. The MOFA announced yesterday they would deliver additional supplies of antibiotics as well as other pharmaceuticals and medical devices. Hours later, they backtracked, as they realized they couldn't have the red seal ship leave harbor while some of us were still quarantining on land, after having it pointed out to them by our director-general. They've been quiet ever since."

"I'm surprised they were planning something, and so rashly," said Ueda.

"That's unlike them," agreed Tsubasa. "But then, it only took them a few hours to revert back to their default state," he said before he could stop himself.

"There are speculations at the ship that the MOFA's authority over the mission is weakening, as other actors are using this mess to challenge their position," stated Oshira. "That might explain their rash decision-making; they wanted to give the appearance of doing something."

Tsubasa nodded. "Do you think the outbreak has peaked?" he asked.

"I assume you mean here in Teerm, not Covid in Japan?" asked Oshira.

"Yes. Here," Tsubasa added belatedly.

"I hesitate to give a firm answer," answered Oshira. "Epidemiological assessment is not my area of expertise. But I would say we aren't far off, with how many have already died."

"The speed of transmission is astounding," commented Ueda.

"There doesn't seem to be any anti-epidemic measures by the city authorities," said Oshira. "Little to no social distancing, and no one wears a face mask."

"If only we could communicate this information to them," said Ueda.

Tsubasa almost snorted. "Western countries, the leaders in life sciences and with a similar epistemic approach to disease transmission as us—the people there assert that masks are useless, and regard us Japanese as oddities for going against the grain. You think people here whose epistemic traditions on disease transmission are fundamentally different, would take us seriously?"

"I remember well our… differences with our Western counterparts," remarked Oshira with a frown. "And the people here don't seem to trust us at all."

"They barely know us, after all," reasoned Ueda. "Again, we are this new country that suddenly appears to the west, something completely new to them."

"What I find interesting is how quickly they—at least the staff at the inn—are forming an impression of us," said Oshira. "'You Japanese don't eat bread' is something I've heard them say several times. And just this lunch I heard someone express his view about, I think, how we Japanese usually eat with our hands, and appreciating us picking up their customs of eating with their utensils. I'm honestly confused about where they are getting those impressions about us."

"They were referring to all Japanese?" asked Tsubasa. Somehow, this seemed almost par for the course. As Tsubasa knew, Japan and Japanese people had always been on the receiving end of the most extreme, alienating stereotypes and essentializations from the rest of the world, often unfounded ones, to perpetuate their status as the global other. When it came to international discourses on Japan, the more outrageous the claim, the more believable it was to the international audience, a complete reversal to the logics of discourses for other developed countries (who were less likely to be reduced to a monolith in the first place). The sheer volume of stereotypes was also quite remarkable, as if Japan was intrinsically easier to caricaturize and exoticize than other countries.

Intrinsic enough that it would persist into this new world?

"Yes, they used the word—" Oshira attempted to pronounce a word in the local language, "to refer to us."

Tsubasa hesitated. "I don't think that's the word for Japanese…" he began. "Although I'm not entirely sure what the word means."

"Oh," said Oshira. "My mistake then. What would you guess the word means?"

"Barbarian," said Tsubasa.

---

He became aware of the pain in his stomach, and a groan escaped him. An aching sensation covered him from head to toe along with the tingling feeling of pins and needles, while faint chills racked his arms and legs. His mouth, though dry, tasted of blood. He pried open his eyes, the light sending waves of pain through his head. Where was he?

Through his blurry vision, he saw a ceiling above him. Recognizing the fact he was lying on a bed, he tried lifting his head to get a better view. He was weak, however, and so it took all his effort.

He was greeted by the sight of his room, cast in bright sunlight, the fireplace aflare. He remembered isolating himself here, the pain and malady slowly overcoming him, until every minute was purgatory, and he had prayed for it all to be over quickly. And yet...

I'm… alive?

As he grappled with the unfathomable, more recollections came to his addled mind. Like a fever dream, a scramble of confusing snippets that were hard to make sense of, and there were numerous lapses in his memories, but he recalled other people entering…

"No!" he croaked raspingly. He struggled to sit upright, his stiff muscles protesting and body aching. He idly noted that he was bare under the coverlet.

"Jeod, please calm!" an accented, feminine voice called out to his left, as someone touched his arm. Jeod turned his head around, ignoring the throbbing pain. There was Marie the nihonjin, sitting on a chair by his bedside.

"I'm dangerous," Jeod said as clearly as he could, and he remembered having said something similar that day they had first entered. Only to have failed in convincing them to leave. Even Helen.

"You're not dan—"

"Helen!" Jeod exclaimed, coughing. He pushed himself up with all the strength in his feeble body, and with hasty assistance from Marie, managed to sit upright. Overcome with a bout of dizziness, he momentarily closed his eyes shut. He clamped down on the nausea.

"Helen is under, floor under here," Marie said quickly. As she spoke, he thought he heard distant cries from the outside. Cries of torment.

Jeod exhaled a breath. "She's not sick?" he asked, praying.

"Not sick," confirmed Marie. Jeod sagged into the headboard. Not sick. She would leave him now, but at least she was still alive to do so.

Marie held a mug to his face. "It's water," she said. Parched, Jeod let himself be fed, even though he was not worth it. He no longer had anything to offer the household, or the estate. He had likely brought on great hardship to the others from his sickness. In his current state, he couldn't even take care of himself, let alone others. He was no longer a breadwinner, but a burden, and shame coursed through him.

Finishing the water, he looked at Marie, his vision no longer as unfocused. She appeared to be in good health, if a little tired, dark circles visible under her eyes. So she had not come down with the plague? Or Helen? Or any of them? "Was anyone else sick?" asked Jeod. "Rolf? Tsubasa?" His gaze fell on his numb hand, observing the blackened tips of his fingers.

"Tsubasa is not sick," replied Marie. "Rolf, I don't know where he is," she said apologetically. The cries still hadn't stopped.

"He left?" murmured Jeod. Of course he did.

"I don't know. I'm sorry, Jeod," said Marie, despite having nothing to be sorry for. It was Jeod who should be sorry.

Still, neither Helen or Marie had been stricken with the plague, despite him remembering them being near him. Years ago, during his scholarly life, he had studied an elven treatise on the contagion of sickness, of which he had struggled to understand the key parts, but he had deciphered from it that the plague and other illnesses spread from close proximity with the sickened. This was similar to the ideas harbored by his own race, for did not the miasma reside most strongly in the afflicted? But—he momentarily dropped his musings over the increasing pounding in his head, the very act of thinking seeming to take its toll on him. Fighting a spell of dizziness, he strained to return to his thoughts.

So why were Helen and Marie, mercifully, unscathed? Had the elves been wrong? Perhaps the fair race was not utterly infallible in their knowledge of the world. But this was stranger than that; the plague was the grimmest of pestilences, it quickly engulfed everything in its path, sweeping through the lands like a wave of death. A plague such as that had ravaged the Empire over eighty years ago, and Galbatorix had assiduously worked to suppress that information, until it was nothing more than a near-forgotten episode of human history.

For them to be unaffected was beyond a stroke of luck. And the black rats, the harbingers of the plague, they had reached Teirm, that he was sure of.

"Is anyone in Teirm sick, like I was sick?" asked Jeod, keeping to simple phrases to ensure he would be understood. But how would she know, if she had not left his house, and if sickness had not descended on the very streets?

Marie took a breath, a grimace on her face. "Yes, Jeod," she said. "Thousands, I believe." Another cry was heard, louder this time.

"So it has come upon Teirm," Jeod muttered. And what of the Shade? "Has anyone attacked Teirm?" queried Jeod.

Marie frowned. "Attack? Yes, people attack people sometimes. And people attack stores, take their things."

That sounded like general unrest. Probably no Shade attack had occurred. Even if Marie did not know about Shades, a Shade attack would have been too spectacular for even her to miss. That was only a slight mercy, with the plague consuming the city. His friends and acquaintances in the city would succumb, as would their network of Varden agents.

"And… more attacks on nihonjin," Marie admitted.

Jeod froze as Helen stepped into the room. Her eyes widened. "Jeod," she uttered.

"Helen," Jeod mumbled, as the throbbing in his head worsened.

"You actually survived," her voice was barely above a whisper.

"As did you," Jeod returned. "A miracle."

Helen hesitated. She exchanged a glance with Marie. "We will be sticking another needle in your arm," Helen finally said.

"A needle?" Now that he thought about it, he remembered that they had jabbed something in his arm. His upper arms did ache more than the rest of him, except for his stomach. He noted vaguely that parts of him were caked in what seemed like dried blood.

"Yes," responded Marie. She had something in her hand, which she showed Jeod.

It was… he had never seen anything like it. A needle affixed to a glass figurine? The shape of the figurine was unbelievable. Like a pipe, and perfectly symmetrical in its circularity. How could anything made of glass be so small yet so precise in shape? Jeod was sure no artisan in Teirm could hope to compete with such refined, intricate glassmaking. There were even signs on the figurine, black lines that were perfectly uniform. What could they… His concentration faltered, his growing headache and enfeebled state muddying his thoughts and focus. At this point, it was a great exertion just to keep his mind focused.

"Will stick in your arm," said Marie. "Sorry Jeod, it hurts a little."

"All right," said Jeod confounded. But why pierce his flesh with a needle? Was it a ritual for the sick where they came from?

He felt a pricking sensation as Marie slowly stabbed the needle into his arm. Then she pulled it out. "I will bring bread," she announced before leaving the room.

"The needle kept you alive," Helen explained before he had the chance to say anything. "You probably don't remember, but you were stabbed with it at least twice a day."

"No," said Jeod. "How…" If there was an absolute truth every scholar could agree on, it was that the plague could not be cured. Not without magic. A handful might survive it, but that was through their own strength, as well as an absurd amount of luck. Or the will of God, as most would say. Helen had made a momentous claim, and Jeod did not have the energy to throw his mind into it but for half-witted thoughts.

"I don't know how, but it did," Helen persisted. "The rest of the city is perishing, but not us, not me, you, or the bar—the islanders. But Rolf has left us," Helen finished.

"I know he did…" said Jeod, struggling to keep focused. "How many days has it been since… since you discovered my sickness?"

"About a week," answered Helen. Helen did not touch him, or express any affection at him being alive, and Jeod did not expect otherwise.

Marie arrived back with a platter of white bread and what looked like a bowl of vegetable soup. Helen's expression was conflicted as Marie placed the platter on a bedside table, and right as the nihonjin was about to feed him Helen took the spoon from her. "Sorry," expressed Marie.

He felt inexplicably lighter as Helen raised the spoon to his mouth. And then nearly gagged. Rolf had really spoiled him, it seemed, and certainly the nausea and lassitude didn't help. To bout, the dish consisted mainly of vegetables—wealthy as he had been, he was unused to such foods. But Helen seemed intent on having him clean his plate, and he balked to no avail. As he struggled to swallow each bite, his breathing quickened, and he felt a sense of agitation, worsened by the growing sickness and fatigue…

"No," Jeod vaguely heard Marie say. "If he can't eat more, stop."

And Jeod wasn't fed anymore. Weak and muddled as he was at this point, he barely cared for the breach of propriety as he relieved himself in a chamber pot in plain sight. Then he collapsed on the bed like a drunken sailor, and surrendered himself to the enervation.

The pain in his stomach and other uncomfortable sensations made his rest a somewhat fitful one, despite his exhaustion. By the time he next fully awoke, it was already dark. Outside, the wind howled, the only sound other than the crackling fireplace.

Jeod was feeling… better. Stronger. The aches, the pain was not as harsh, and the shivers were fainter. His mind was no longer quite so languid, and thoughts came to him more easily, his focus sharper. No doubt he was still reeling from the affliction, and his wit still diminished, but by the gods, he was recuperating. How was that possible?

The needle, the glass pipe needle. It did not make any sense to him. No scholar whose works he had perused, no humans, no dwarves, or even elves, had ever mentioned anything of the like being used to cure the black sickness. The will of God could not be defied.

Jeod rose from the bed, fancying a chamber pot. He saw a figure lying on a bedroll before his bed, which surprised him. He had not expected Helen to go to such lengths in looking after him, with the burden he now presented to the fam—he stilled. The person's hair was not light blond; it was jet black. Jeod ignored the crushing feeling of disappointment; he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up in the first place.

Embarrassment bubbled within him. Among the aristocracy, the gentry, clergy, and others of similarly high stature, sharing a room with an unmarried woman was sinful, dishonorable. The peasants and many commonfolk did not care as much, but that was what made them ignoble in the eyes of high society. Seeing as he was being consigned to the lower echelons of society, his current plight seemed awfully ironic. At least she was asleep, that he could pretend he was alone in his room.

Still, he resorted to relieving himself out of sight. Returning to his bed, he struggled to fall asleep. It was as if night was when he was supposed to wake up. Perhaps he would drift off at first sunlight? What a strange notion.

"Jeod," he heard Marie's voice address him.

Jeod froze. He rose from the bed, trying not to reveal how discomfited he was by her presence. Last time he had barely minded, which spoke to how befuddled he had been. At least the coverlet covered most of his bare body. "Yes?" he asked, not directly looking at her.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw that she was standing, and was slowly approaching. "It is time for another needle," she said, surprisingly fluently.

"All right." So the coverlet would not shield him.

After a sting in his arm, he was offered some water. She touched his forehead, seeming to measure his temperature. "Do you feel better, or worse? Compare to earlier today."

"Better," said Jeod. Should he inquire more about the needle?

Marie nodded. "You will heal." She patted him on the arm. "I will sleep. If need anything, tell me, I will wake up."

"I will," answered Jeod. He would not.

He lay on his bed for a long time, until finally restless dreams of Shades and Helen overtook him.

---

As night turned into day and light shone through the overcast sky, Jeod carefully stretched his sore arms. The aching had ameliorated further and even the chills had lessened. It no longer took such strain just to hold a thought. The room was empty, and he took the chance to use the chamber pot. His hose and braies were in a rather sorry state, smudged with all manner of feculence. It belonged to a peasant.

A knock was heard at the door. "Yes, come in," answered Jeod.

Helen entered, carrying a platter of bread, water, and a bowl of something steaming. She was followed by Marie and Tsubasa.

"Helen," said Jeod somewhat stilted. "Good morrow to you."

"And to you." Helen met his gaze. "How fares your recovery?"

"I'm feeling better," responded Jeod. In body, at least.

The meal this time looked more appetizing. It was some kind of stew with potatoes, carrots, leeks, onions, and even some beef. "I told Tsubasa to add cinnamon, ginger and pepper," informed Helen. "They do not seem aware of seasonings, but at least they know of cooking, unlike other tribes."

"Even most in the Empire don't use many spices," rebutted Jeod. "It is reserved for the wealthy and the peerage—"

"Is it not reserved for us?" Helen said tensely. "Is that what you are trying to convey, Jeod?"

"Perhaps it is not for me," Jeod conceded. Jeod steeled himself for the confrontation, yet Helen said nothing, only glaring at him.

Jeod looked to the other two occupants, ever clad in their exotic raiments. "You recover," Tsubasa remarked as their eyes met. He held a pile of logs in his arms.

"Yes," said Jeod. "It is good to see you again, Tsubasa."

Tsubasa hesitated. "Good to see you Jeod."

Jeod nodded. "Yes, I'm recovering. It is simply unbelievable. This disease, the plague as it is called, everyone dies from it. I assume nothing like the plague exists in Nihon?" He took a bite of the stew, no longer requiring someone to feed him. Indeed, seasoning and meat made a difference.

"No," said Tsubasa as he deposited more logs onto the smoldering fireplace. "No plague."

Jeod sighed. "You nihonjin are blessed, for not having to fear the plague in your lands." But then, why would they claim that the glass pipe needle was a cure for it, as hard as that is to believe in the first place? At the very least, that has to mean that they are familiar with the affliction.

"Blessed is?"

Marie answered Tsubasa before Jeod himself had a chance. Tsubasa nodded, saying, "If God is, yes."

"The plague is the will of God, as we say," Jeod agreed. "Perhaps God did not want me dead." Before he could help himself, he added: "The glass needle. Can I ask what that is?"

"Glass," repeated Tsubasa. "Glass, broken?"

"Broken?" murmured Jeod.

Having placed all the firewood, Tsubasa turned around. He pointed to the floor. "Glass was broken on floor. We threw away."

He heard Helen huff as realization hit him, and he looked down in disgrace. All that prized glass, destroyed in his weakness.

"Jeod?" Marie inquired. "Is all okay?"

"Yes." Jeod exhaled, then continued, "I meant to say the needle you stuck in my arm." He heard Marie utter something in realization. "I say glass needle because the needle is attached to glass.

Marie was about to answer when Tsubasa said, "There is no glass."

Jeod blinked. He saw Marie fumble for something in her bag. She pulled out a small wooden case, thrice as long as it was wide, and removed the lid. The case itself was a work of great craftsmanship, but it was the thing inside that interested Jeod. There it was; the glass needle that was not a glass needle.

Marie handed it to him, and he carefully examined it. It was a little lighter than he had expected, and did not possess the coolness of glass. And the not-glass pipe was completely smooth, with no knobbiness, no dents. Then there were the lines, the symbols engraved on the pipe. What did they—

"We wait an hour before stick the needle in your arm, again," voiced Marie. "You eat first. And drink."

Jeod sipped some water. "You said this needle cures the plague. But at the same time, the plague does not haunt Nihon. Then why would you have this cure?"

"In Nihon, there is no plague," answered Tsubasa. "But, we know plague."

"The plague existed in Nihon in the past?" asked Jeod. It was so much easier talking to the nihonjin than to Helen.

Tsubasa shrugged. "Yes, but…" he seemed to consider how to best word his answer, "small plague, did not travel much."

"It did not spread much," Marie clarified.

"And this cure," Jeod handed it back to Marie, "Did you… did Nihon really make this?"

"Yes," said Tsubasa. Jeod could not detect a hint of a lie. "Who made it?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Tsubasa furrowed his brow. "I think is… Die-eechee Sunkyou?"

"Die…" Jeod could not hope to repeat that name. "A legendary healer or herbalist, I presume?" Not that they would know the word herbalist.

Tsubasa shook his head. "Not people. Is a group. A…"

"Guild," Marie interjected. "Dye-eechee Sankyou is a guild. Or similar to guild."

"An association of healers?" posed Jeod. That sounded… ingenious in a way. Of course! If merchants could band together and take their trade to new heights through organizations such as guilds, if shipbuilders could achieve together what none of them could alone, why wouldn't the same be true for healers and herbalists? The closest analogy Jeod could think of were almshouses, but those were not akin to actual guilds who pursued their craft as a mercantile activity.

Even Helen seemed taken by the idea. "A guild of healers and physicians concocting remedies for trade, making commerce out of healing... Why hasn't anyone in the Empire thought of this!" she exclaimed. "But some islanders did?!"

"Perhaps the Empire alone does not have all the answers," surmised Jeod. Was it possible that in a very few areas, the Empire actually had something to learn from Nihon, from a small island of barbarian status? It seemed outrageous, blasphemous…

"If it is not glass that the needle is connected to, then what is it?" asked Jeod, pointing to the transparent pipe.

"Don't know word," said Tsubasa. "In nihongo, poo-rah-stick-oo. Poorah-stickoo."

Marie sighed, shaking her head while murmuring something in their language, nihongo. Then she turned to Jeod, "Call it plastic, Jeod. Is similar to your language."

Jeod nodded, filing the names away for later. So this was a new material then, the likes of which did not exist in the Empire or Surda.

He decided to ask something that had occupied his mind for a while: "How did all of you escape the plague's reach? Did you use the needle on yourselves and Helen?"

"No," Helen chimed in. "They've been feeding us some sort of bead-like object, which we are not supposed to chew on."

"Ahh yes," said Marie. She grabbed some type of bottle—it was shaped almost like a small urn or a jug without a handle, tinted in dark brown and with thin white parchment or linen wrapped around it, on which were displayed symbols of foreign meaning. She then removed what appeared to be a seal at the top, and snatched something from the inside. Something multicolored, oblong-shaped, and perfectly symmetrical.

"It is a remedy for a plague, the name is tetracycline," stated Marie. "If you want, you can eat it instead of sticking the needle, but don't chew, instead swallow with water."

"Another remedy…" mumbled Jeod. He respired. "Is that also from the Dye-eechee guild?"

"No, from taa-kaeda, I think," replied Tsubasa.

"Another guild," Marie supplied. "You want to eat tetracycline instead of sticking the needle, Jeod?"

"Another healer's guild?!" Helen spouted. "You have more than one?" Jeod had to concur; that seemed quite outlandish.

"Yes," said Marie. "Jeod?"

Jeod stared at the bead-like remedy. "This little thing heals the black sickness?" he all but whispered. So many cures, remedies, treatments had been conceived and exhausted. Bloodletting, purging, ointments, poultices, potions, elixirs, and excrement and smoke to ward off the miasma. And nothing but mass graves to show for it.

"I scarcely believe it myself," said Helen while Marie nodded. "The remedy made me lose my appetite, but so far the plague has eluded me and the islanders, even as it is consuming Teirm."

Should he? What if the bead-like remedy was spurious, like all the other ones had been? If indeed he had survived thanks to the needle, unbelievable as that may be, switching remedies was an unnecessary risk to take. And yet, so far the nihonjin seemed to know what they were doing. He might as well trust them on this.

"I will have the tetra—" Jeod pointed to the oblong-shaped remedy.

"Good." Marie nodded, smiling encouragingly. "Wait an hour after the meal, then eat it."

Jeod turned his attention to the meal, all the while avoiding looking at Helen. Their marriage was on the precipice and it was only a matter of time, but he didn't yet feel ready for the altercation, not when he was still convalescing.

He pondered about the Shade. It was almost a certainty that the Shade had unleashed the plague on the city through the rats. He still remembered the nightmare approaching him, and shuddered. He had to alert the Varden as soon as possible, yet with the city decimated by the plague, that would prove a tall order. Who knew how many agents remained in the city. Was Galbatorix's court aware of the Shade stalking his lands? For perhaps the first time in his life, he found himself rooting for Galbatorix, for the king to subdue the nightmare.

Could the Varden even defeat the Shade? he thought duplicitously.

He considered telling Helen, but quickly scrapped the thought. No doubt she would denounce him as insane, which would devolve into the very resolution he had hoped to avoid for now. Before the thought could bother him too much, he asked, "I remember calling for chamber pots of our excrement—feces, to ward off the miasma when you first discovered me sick. I take it that is not done in Nihon?" He turned to the two nihonjin.

Marie caught on immediately to his question and translated to Tsubasa, who frowned noticeably. "No," he shook his head, "we do not!"

Jeod nodded. "Perhaps that is a good thing." His mind clearer and no longer in a panicked state like on that day, he realized he himself had many a misgiving on the practice. The elven texts he had browsed through had been especially scathing on any mentionings of miasma purifications. And the nihonjin… at this point, he had a nagging suspicion their erudition and their skills on the arts of healing were not much inferior to those of the Empire. If at all.

"Every country and society is different," Marie said while nodding. "Even if different, we should respect each other."

Both Helen and Tsubasa snorted at this, and Jeod blinked, trying to digest her words. He had never heard such a notion being uttered, and it went against everything he associated with orthodoxy. "You are right," he answered.

Helen seemed aghast at Jeod's verdict. "The tribes of Marna used to eat their meat and fish raw, before the Empire brought civilization to them!" she countered. "Should we have to respect the absence of civilization, when it is in the Empire's power to bestow it upon the world? Marie herself acquired the civilized tongue and can now speak, allowing her to join civilization. Which is a wonderful thing!" She actually smiled at Marie, who appeared confused. "If we respected those 'societies' unfortunate enough to be beyond the reaches of our civilizing grace, none of this would have occurred, and they would all have been worse off for it."

"Besides," she added just as Jeod thought she had finally finished her recital of sanctioned Imperial thought, "they do not respect us. If the barbarians of the periphery had their way, our lands would be overrun, civilization would be extinguished, and savagery would descend across the four corners of the world."

Jeod had heard variations of this so many times before. The standard Imperial sermon, painting a world of opposing forces; Imperial civilization with King Galbatorix as its guardian, and the barbarian hordes laying siege to the flame of civilization for all perpetuity.

And it worked.

Jeod placed his platter on the bedside table before fixing his gaze on Helen. "Why then did the flame of civilization not manage to find the cure for the plague, but 'barbarians' did, Helen?" Or what remains of the flame after the plague has run its course.

Uncertainty flickered across her face for a moment, then she harrumphed and stomped out of the room. Jeod felt relieved, and then felt guilty about it.

He leaned back against the headboard, the exhaustion starting to settle in. All the talking and thinking had thoroughly drained him, and now he longed to rest and recover. He still had questions that had yet to be uncovered, but that could wait until tomorrow, when he was more well-rested and his mind had better processed all that he had learned today. He would use the time to prepare and formulate all the questions on his mind.

Tomorrow, he would uncover everything he had ever wanted to ask about the country of Nihon.

---

"From now on, I will be Neal and you will be my nephew Evan. Do not mention the fact that we are from Carvahall. If anyone asks, we hail from Therinsford."

Eragon nodded. "Have they even heard of either village?"

Brom puffed out some smoke. "Many have not. To them villages, apart from those adjacent from here, are so dim and distant from their daily lives that they have never heard of them. Our lives and their lives almost never cross." Brom added more cardus weed to his pipe. "But most have heard of the Earldom of Palancar Valley, known for its exquisite glassware, which incidentally is made mostly in Carvahall. There is a reason Carvahall has such an abundance of windows covered by glass, a rarity elsewhere, as you have seen."

And he had seen it. The past villages had been utterly lacking in anything to do with glass. Most houses Eragon had seen did not feature any windows at all, and those few that did had shutters instead of glass. And it filled him with pride.

The next day, they finally caught sight of Teirm, and it was a sight to behold. White walls that rose above the trees, ships larger than he thought possible floating by the docks… and the sea. It was as magnificent as Eragon had imagined, boundless water as far as the eye could see, blue as the sky. The vastness of it evoked some deep feeling within him that he could not readily identify.

A great castle of stone was visible beyond the walls, but the rest of the city was shielded from view. A thrill filled Eragon, where previously there had been a muted excitement. They were about to step into a world few villagers had ever gazed from a distance; the centers of wealth, seats of power, and heart of civilization. Mother, he thought, am I following in your footsteps?

From Saphira he sensed regret, for she could not join them at this juncture of their wayfare. Saphira may have liked to tease about humans and their ways, but even she was fascinated by this most human creation. Besides, she was unhappy about having to part with Eragon, even for a few days.

I smell trouble ahead, Saphira warned.

We will be fine, Eragon assured. Brom and I are far from helpless. Brom has also been to the cities before, so he knows the dangers and how to avoid them.

Brom, on the other hand, was frowning, his eyes on the docks. "I have never seen such a ship," he muttered. Eragon tried to trace his gaze. He was not sure which ship Brom was referring to. His knowledge on the subject was lacking, and they all looked rather alike, except for perhaps one of the larger ones which had a flatter shape and an orange-colored hull, topped with two large masts. Before Eragon could ask, Brom spurred his horse forward. "Quite impressive, is it not?" Brom remarked, his hand gesturing toward the city. "And there are cities that are even bigger. Urû'baen has ten times as many people."

Eragon gaped at that. "I could scarcely believe it."

"The world is much bigger than the confines of one's village," said Brom. "Your sense of the world has expanded as we traveled, and it will once more as we step through the gates of Teirm. I will admit though; the walls of Teirm are grander than those of any city save for Urû'baen. The legacies of the elves are not easily undone, although the king has impressed upon his subjects that the walls are of human make."

They approached the southern gate, an archway through the walls. Eragon remembered Brom's instructions on how to behave around the guards, and he tried his best to appear relaxed and unsuspicious. He wondered when they would see the guards…

Brom reined in his horse, his expression leery. "The portcullis is raised. Where are the guards?" he questioned.

"We aren't supposed to enter?" asked Eragon.

"Entry and exit is managed by city watchmen," Brom briskly answered. "The portcullis is only raised when they are present, but they are not."

"Perhaps they are just loafing around, enjoying the weather, or having a luncheon?"

Brom shook his head. "In cities, one's profession is strictly ordered. If a watchman is tasked to guard, he does so without distractions!"

The air smells wrong, said Saphira.

"We will wait a few minutes for the guards to return," Brom decided.

Wrong? Can you describe what it smells like?

Like… Saphira paused. Like in Yazuac.

"Teirm is quieter than the las—hey!"

Eragon rode forward, quickly passing the entrance to the city. "There are dead people here!" he burst out.

He heard Brom following him. "Be on your watch," Brom instructed. "Use magic only if you have to." He rode up to Eragon, before taking the lead.

Eragon was greeted by arrays of houses, more plentiful and closely packed than he had ever seen in his life, with timber frames and roofs of slate shingles. Before he had time to be awed by the display, the smell hit him.

Then the dead.

Their bodies were scattered across the cobblestone streets, rather than piled like mountains as in wretched Yazuac. They lay at the fringes and by the corners, many almost hidden out of view. Blood and grime soaked their clothes, their faces were sickly and haunted, their bodies ghoulish as rats nibbled at them. On closer examination, he saw hands turned black as charcoal.

"This is the plague," Brom uttered. "I do not sense any hostile presence nearby."

Eragon felt the already cold air chill. The black sickness, here. "Why has Teirm incurred God's wrath?" Eragon asked quietly. His stomach turned, and he held his breath, fingers tightly gripping the reins. No one survived the plague. Moans and wails surrounded them, and then his eyes caught a young girl who sat crumpled by a house, blood running down her chins. Her eyes were clouded but still open.

Before Eragon realized it, he had dismounted and was approaching her, ignoring Brom's calls. He had to do something, even if God had been wronged.

He directed the flat of his palm toward her, driving through the barrier in his mind. "Waíse—"

"No," said Brom curtly, grasping his arm. "That girl is beyond your power to save. And certainly not with such a basic spell."

Eragon turned harshly to Brom. "Then what spell should I use?!" he barked. "Tell me!" His breathing quickened as he waited for an answer.

But Brom shook his head. "There is nothing we can do."

"Words?!" demanded Eragon. "What are the words?!" Saphira's voice sounded in the background, her words indistinct.

"There are no words!" shouted Brom. He grabbed Eragon by the arms, shaking him roughly. Their gazes met, and Eragon saw the pain in the man's eyes. "There is nothing we can do," he repeated.

He released Eragon, who didn't move. "There are no routine words for healing the black sickness once it has reached that state," Brom explained. "Instead, highly complex gramarye is required, along with a profound understanding of the human body, and the healing varies by case. You essentially have to improvise with your gramarye and design the spell according to the situation, and that is far above your current abilities."

Eragon had difficulty comprehending Brom's words, even more so in his frantic state. "Can you do it?" he instead asked.

"I'm too old for this," Brom whispered, his eyes downcast. "And healing was never my strength."

The girl coughed, and more blood left her mouth. "No…" Eragon begged. It was Yazuac anew, and he was yet again powerless to change things. "Who, why did this happen?" he asked, defeated.

"The… barbarians," the girl sputtered weakly.

"Barbarians?" Eragon mumbled, shocked that she was still speaking.

"They… caused it… the plague." With a soft whine, she slumped over, lifeless.

Eragon clenched his fists hard enough to cause pain. His shoulders were shaking, and he tried to steady his breath. The barbarians. So the people of Teirm had not brought it down on themselves after all. They had not sinned. Instead, brutes of the wild had inflicted the plague upon the city. Anger and grief mixed with relief.

For a moment, all was quiet. Then he turned to Brom, the man blurry before his wet eyes. "The barbarians will pay for this," Eragon said quietly. "On my word as a Rider, they will pay." His hand rested on the hilt of Zar'roc, ready to draw it at a moment's notice.

"We need to find Jeod's house with haste," Brom said gently. "Come on." He led Eragon to his horse.

Little one, Saphira soothed. She showed him images of a mossy cliff surrounded by maples. It provided some respite, but as his rage settled down, it was overtaken by another feeling, and he felt as though the sights of death were coming closer and closer.

Even cats lay dead. No one survived the plague. Beneath the stench of excrement, smells of rot and sickly sweetness reached him. Eragon felt cold sweat starting to pour from his back, and dared not move his hands from the reins. Was this a sign? That the miasma had reached him?

"Do not approach any more sick people, Evan," Brom stated. "Nor the corpses or the rats, or you will put yourself at great risk of catching the black sickness."

"But how do we evade the… miasma?" his voice trembled.

"As long as we stay clear of the sickened, so the sickness will stay clear of us," Brom answered.

"Are you sure?" Eragon asked intently.

To Eragon's dread, a look of uncertainty came over Brom. "I believe so," Brom said succinctly.

But how can that be true if the scents can still reach us?

We have to trust him, Eragon, said Saphira. He has lived for far longer than either of us, and for a good reason. But Eragon could sense her worries.

"How do you know Jeod has not been…" the unspoken words hung in the air.

Brom did not react to his remark. He faced ahead, his eyes on the road, and Eragon wondered if he had not heard him.

"I don't," Brom finally said.

The two passed by abandoned wagons, carriages, and the remains of a horse lying in the middle of the street. Eragon could hear Brom mutter to himself.

They stumbled upon a man who looked to be free of the affliction. He appeared much like any villager, except for the finer cloak and footwear. A slight look of surprise came upon his otherwise dispirited face. "Strangers?" he asked. "You come from the hinterlands?" His voice was clear, refined. The city was his abode.

Brom nodded. "We hail from Therinsford. It seems that harsh times have befallen Teirm. You have my regrets."

"You should not have left Therinsford, peasants," the man lamented. "Now you too will be stricken by God, may we sate his anger." He offered a twisted smile. "You have my regrets as well."

"Do you know of a man, Jeod, and where he lives?" Brom asked.

The man let out a humorless laugh. "I know where he lives, but does he still live?"

"And where is that?" pressed Brom.

"On the western portion of the city," came the answer. "Well, I have nothing better to do while waiting to join my offspring, so why don't I show you?"

"Thanks. The name's Neal. This is Evan." The man met Eragon's gaze as he was introduced, who shifted uneasily.

"And I'm Bertram, spawn of Reinard." Bertram chuckled inanely. He gesticulated theatrically. "This way." They followed on their horses.

As they traversed, Bertram asked, "And for what reason would two peasants seek an audience with a wealthy merchant?"

"We are old friends," Brom answered simply.

Bertram grinned ravingly. "Your answer is too stupid for a lie. It must be the truth then!"

Eragon hesitated before saying, "Excuse me, sir?"

Bertram turned to Eragon. "Yes, what do you want, peasant boy?"

"The barbarians who caused the plague," Eragon stated, feeling his ire once more bubble up within him. "Are they still here? What do they look like?"

"Aye, they are still here," responded Bertram, losing his mildly frenetic look.

Eragon's heart missed a beat. "What?!" he exclaimed. "Where?! What do they look like?!"

"Their hair and eyes are black as crows," Bertram said, "and they dress in strange, vibrant gowns with wide sleeves and short skirts, not sewn by any seamstress of the Empire. And for that, the barbarian's presence is unmistakable once you see him. Some of them can speak, but very crudely and with strange twistings of words. Most do not comprehend language." Eragon was drawn to his every word, his mind conjuring up the monstrosity and his emotions rising.

"Where are they from?" asked Brom, unexpectedly calm.

"From some island across the ocean, is what they claim," said Bertram. "They call themselves Japarians, from the island of Japan."

"What a vile name," cursed Eragon. First the Ra'zac, then the Urgals, and now the barbarian hordes. It seemed as if the very forces of depravity were conspiring against them. Will they assail Carvahall next? he thought vexedly. Carvahall had always feared the specter of the barbarians, being on the outskirts of the Empire. Thus they were prepared, but for attacks by the axe, not attacks by the affliction.

"And how did these Japarians bring about the plague?" further asked Brom.

Bertram shrugged. "They used to bathe every day before the bathhouse closed, to invite the miasma." Eragon shuddered. "I heard once they offered some people raw fish to eat, because that is what they eat. Bah!"

"And," he added, "not one of them has fallen sick. Curious, is it not?"

"On that account," began Brom, "are most people here already dead?"

Bertram chuckled. "Nay, perhaps half are still alive! They are just tucking away in their homes, hoping to elude the plague."

Eragon heard Brom sigh with what sounded like relief. Then he said to Eragon, "Remember our purpose here, Evan. We came here to visit Jeod, not start crusades against some barbarian tribe we never heard of until today."

Eragon wanted to protest, but held his tongue. There was time later, he told himself. First he would avenge his uncle, and after that he could seek vengeance for the fallen of Teirm. This would ensure he still had an ambition after he had felled the Ra'zac. He felt a sense of closure at the realization. Brom would join them, he knew.

They were now in a more affluent part of Teirm. The houses were cleaner, larger, more ornate. Even the corpses were fewer.

Bertram pointed to one of the houses. "That's Jeod's estate."

Brom stopped, and Eragon soon after. "You have our thanks, Bertram," thanked Brom.

Bertram nodded. "I can tell you want your reception out of prying eyes. Very well." He departed, cackling eagerly about his mortality.

They passed by carved stone structures gushing water. Fountains, Eragon realized. Just like in the tales. Stopping before the wrought-iron gate, Brom took a deep breath before he banged the door. He repeated it as no one answered, a frown marring his face, and Eragon started to worry. How would Brom take his friend's death? Should he suggest—

Sounds of footsteps were heard, and then the door slowly opened. Before them stood someone with black hair, black eyes, and clad in a unique-looking, vibrant gown which had wide sleeves and a short skirt, and Eragon's breath caught in his throat. "Who are you?" it asked, its accent strange and thick.

Images of the dying girl flashed before him, then Zar'roc was out of its scabbard. "You will pay for your evil deeds, fiend!" declared Eragon. Words alone could not describe the vehemence he was feeling. He saw the barbarian's eyes widen, but it did not move. Its face morphed into an expression that aggravated Eragon. He had expected glee, hate, fury, but not…

"Era—Evan, no!" cried Brom, as another barbarian rushed toward them from inside the house. This one was smaller, with longer hair, wearing the same type of clothing. With it quickly approaching, Eragon had to act. He slashed his sword at its midsection just as it placed itself before the first barbarian, its arms outstretched as if to protect the other barbarian.

"Letta!" shouted Brom, and Eragon felt resistance hit his strike before it had reached the barbarian. Even with that, Zar'roc still managed to drive into the barbarian deep enough to draw blood, although the blade did not stick. The creature staggered, a shrill scream escaping its throat, and Eragon froze.

For it sounded like the pained screams of a woman.

"Flauga aptr!" commanded Brom, and suddenly Eragon was flying backwards through the air. He landed on his feet but could not break the fall as his buttocks hit the ground. Dazed, Eragon fixed his gaze on the barbarians who were now more than fifteen feet away. He saw the smaller barbarian—the female barbarian?—urgently push the other one back into the entrance, sobbing and keening all the while. Drops of blood trailed their path.

Just then another figure appeared by the doorway, this time a young woman with a pale complexion and light blond hair. Before she could so much as blink, she was dragged backwards by the passing female barbarian. "Run Helen they dead you!" the barbarian gasped painedly.

And then yet another person arrived at the entrance, a rapier held shakely in his hand. His fingers were blackened, his face haggard, but there was steel in his eyes as he stared at Eragon.

"Run Jeod they kill!" the barbarian screamed from the depths of the house, as the man with the rapier glanced from Eragon to Brom, suddenly gaping. He looked much like Eragon felt at the moment. "Brom?" the man Jeod said incredulously, voice hoarse. "You are alive…" He recovered from his stupor, his rapier raised before him as he regarded Eragon. "He tried to kill us," Jeod stated, eyes not leaving Eragon. "I saw the blood—he has injured at least one." He slowly advanced on Eragon, seeming to struggle with the steps.

Eragon was speechless, his mind still stumbling to grasp everything that had transpired. He fumbled for Zar'roc which lay at his side.

Brom stepped before Eragon. "He is with me," Brom interjected. He turned to Eragon who was just rising to his feet, and growled: "Do not move!"

"He is not a threat any further, I promise that," Brom spoke quickly as he turned back to Jeod. "We can deal with his transgressions later, but Jeod, you are ailing from the black sickness. Let me—"

"I must tend to the wounded," Jeod interrupted as he hurried back inside. "Do not let your wayward companion enter!" Then he was gone.

All was quiet except for the deathly wails and moans, and the screams of the barbarian which echoed in his mind. A female barbarian? The idea was harebrained and utterly bizarre, but it did not go against reason. Had he… hurt a barbarian woman? But no, they were barbarians, it wasn't the same, was—

"Stay where you are!" ordered Brom, his tone biting. "Watch over the horses, and do nothing else, do you hear me, boy?"

Eragon nodded wordlessly.

"Do not attack anyone, unless they attack you first. I do not care if it's Urgals, barbarians, or the king himself! Do not attack."

"I understand," Eragon mumbled, fidgeting under Brom's stare. He had never seen Brom look so disappointed, so disapproving.

Without another word, Brom dashed after Jeod.

---

Brom recited various swear words in his head as he stepped into the sumptuous house. He knew his son was a little careless, but to rush headfirst into battle whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself? In fairness, it had come from the right place—wariness toward potential threats was a quality he could appreciate. Except wariness should mean embracing caution, not throwing it to the wind! Eragon's tendency for reckless actions could end up getting him killed, and it was something they would have to address.

Not to mention the mess he had caused.

Brom's eyes sought Jeod, who was standing outside a room where sounds of sniffling and heavy breathing could be heard. The man had clearly caught the plague, but how far along was he? Brom would have to start the healing as soon as they had tended to that barbarian woman. He idly wondered how angry Eragon would be once the boy found out he had healed Jeod, right after having refused his pleas to heal that little girl.

Jeod wobblingly turned around as he heard Brom approaching. "I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to show yourself, given your association with the culprit," Jeod said quietly.

"I share the blame by association, which is why I'll set it right," said Brom.

Jeod nodded, then opened the door. Inside, the two barbarians who called themselves Japarians were by the corner, along with that other fair-haired woman. As they saw Brom, the Japarian woman started pushing the other Japarian into the wall with her back, as if to shield him. She reminded Brom of a cornered animal, and so Brom did his best to appear harmless, entering the room with slow, careful steps.

"This is Brom, an old friend, he is not dangerous," assured Jeod. "That other man will not enter. Helen, did the other man hurt you?"

"No," answered Helen, her face growing more indignant. "How dare peasants encroach on our estate and attempt to murder us?" She glared at Brom.

"Marie, we must tend to your wounds," continued Jeod. "Please, sit down. I give you my word that you have nothing to fear from Brom."

At those words, the Japarian woman relented, staggering from the corner with pained breaths, blood seeping from her side. The Japarian man behind her fell on all fours, and started retching. She turned her head, speaking words Brom could not understand except for the mix of pain and worry in the tone. Brom was puzzled. Was that another language?

"I will fetch the rags and bandages," said Helen before walking out of the room.

"Let me help," Brom spoke to the Japarian woman, meeting her teary eyes. "I have some skill in healing."

She looked at him waringly, her face pale and twisted in pain.

He and Jeod approached the two. "Tsubasa, are you injured as well?" Jeod asked the Japarian man. Meanwhile, the Japarian woman sat down on the wooden floor, hands on her wound. From what he saw, it looked rather grievous. Had he been an instant slower to react, she would not have lived to see dusk.

"No," Tsubasa breathed, looking like he would vomit at any moment. "Marie is much. We help her," he panted. His voice had a noticeable accent that Brom found impossible to pin down.

"Helen is fetching the bandages," Jeod assuaged just as Helen entered the room with the supplies in her arms.

"Let me do it," Brom said, and Jeod stood aside. Brom looked questioningly at Tsubasa, not knowing if he needed the man's permission, or if Tsubasa had guardianship over her in the first place. But there might not be enough time to clear such things up, and he and Eragon had already caused great offense; they were long past the point where decorum would do any good.

Tsubasa stood up shakely. "I return to the ship. They have… things. For Marie." He seemed to struggle with his words. Not fluent in the common language? wondered Brom. And what ship? Brom shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I'll heal her now."

Breaking through the mental barrier, he reached for Aren with his mind, tapping into the near bottomless pool of energy. The power to level a castle, to freeze rivers, all that swirling energy in his grasp. He felt invincible.

"Waíse heill," Brom said as he raised his hand, not bothering to devise a more suitable spell. It was best to get this out of the way as quickly as possible before the Japarians grew too spooked, and before Jeod grew too sick with plague. With Aren, he could achieve what he wanted even with a rudimentary spell.

The power of Aren coursed through him and his palm glowed. He heard Marie gasp as her wound started knitting itself together. "Marie senpie!" Tsubasa rasped.

"Don't worry, Brom is healing her with magic," Jeod quickly placated.

"Magic!" exclaimed Helen, amazement coloring her voice. "You did not tell me you had a magician for a friend, Jeod!" She turned to Jeod, as if expecting him to explain himself.

And he would not have had to, thought Brom, if not for Eragon.

The light from his palm receded as the last of Marie's wound mended, and then it was done. The woman said something he did not understand. "Jeod," Brom spoke, his eyes now fully on the man, "we must begin healing you off the plague immediately. When—"

"Don't worry, I'm already well recovered," interrupted Jeod, casting a quick glance at the Japarians, who appeared to be frozen in shock. "Sure, I have some bouts of weakness and pain, but I was on my deathbed nary a week ago." He turned to the two Japarians, inquiring about their well-being and assuring them that all was well, before turning back to Brom.

"You have been extraordinarily lucky then, friend," said Brom, not able to keep the surprise from his tone. If Jeod was in no mortal danger after all, Brom had no more reason to stay here; he needed to return to Eragon as soon as possible, even if he longed to speak more with his old friend. "I must see to Eragon. May we speak later?"

"Certainly!" stated Jeod. "It is unfortunate that our reunion was marred by the crimes of your companion. Please come by later today, but without your companion. We have much to talk about, Brom."

Brom hesitated. "The Japarians, will they demand a blood price for Eragon's deeds, or some other restitution?" What Eragon had done was rather inconsequential, all things considered, but he was still obliged to ask.

"Japarians…" Jeod frowned. "I've known them as the nihonjin. I don't know what compensation they will demand, if any"—he glanced at the two, who were silently whispering to each other, not that Brom would understand a word—"but I will ask them about it."

"That lowborn peasant should not get away with what he did to the nihonjin," said Helen. "You were right Jeod, the nihonjins are more deserving of Imperial status than our own peasantry."

While angry on Eragon's behalf, Brom chose to tread carefully, for he recognized her as a typical Imperial acolyte. "I will give him an earful myself, goodwife."

Jeod escorted Brom to the front door. "I will see you later, friend," Brom said. He wished he could shake Jeod's hand, but the black fingers discouraged him, and he was still unsure about the details of Jeod's convalescence, and whether he was what the elves called contagious.

Jeod nodded. "Be back the soonest you can. I bring important tidings, and I'm sure you do as well."

"I will, as soon as I've knocked some sense into the boy." And with that, he departed for Eragon.