Chapter Two: Avinius
The boy moved like a shadow. Obviously, he was not actually a shadow—that would defy nature, even in a world like Gielinor. He did, however, know his way around the city. Anyone who knew their way around the labyrinth of crowded streets, hidey-holes, twisting back alleys, underground passages, sewers, and rooftop routes that made up the Menaphite city of Ullek would be able to move like a shadow, too.
The boy's wiry, skinny—almost malnourished—frame allowed him to cleanly slip through the living tide of human beings flowing this way and that down the road he happened to be on.
For an outsider, the streets of Ullek were a nightmare. They twisted and turned in seemingly erratic, random directions, confusing and frustrating anyone who did not understand the layout.
The boy knew that the unusual layout of the streets had something to do with making the city much more efficient to defend in the event of an attack. He did not know how exactly the city's defensibility was affected or improved by this layout, but, at the same time, he did not care. He knew how to navigate the streets, and that was enough. Utilizing them for defense against enemies was the Qarat's job, not his.
Today, the sun was particularly hot. Heat distortion roiled up in waves from the cobblestones and buildings, shimmering in the air as it dispersed. Menaphite citizens ambled up and down the cobbled roads; on their way to meet with companions, on their way to work, on their way to the Plaza, or simply out for a walk—the streets were filled with them all, regardless of their objectives. Vendors hollered from their stands and kiosks, encouraging the people to come over and buy their goods, or shooing away loitering children.
Upper-class gentry traveled down the roads in shaded carriages drawn by ugthanki camels. If you didn't get out of the way when they came rattling by, you would be trampled and run over.
Qaratai, soldiers of the Imperial Menaphite Army—more commonly referred to as the 'Qarat' in Arrish, the language of the desert—stood guard all over the streets as well, sticking to the intersections and occasionally patrolling the spaces in between. They were all deadly fighters, else they would not have earned the honor of wearing the golden blue armor of the Qarat in the first place. They stood straight and proud, keeping a careful eye out for crime and troublemakers.
As the boy flitted past Qarat guards, they automatically eyed him with suspicion. The boy was shirtless, he was clad in ragged, black cloth shorts, and his feet were wrapped in thick, padded cloth in order to cushion his soles, but to also silence the sound of his footsteps. He also held a burlap sack over his shoulder. He looked like the epitome of a thief, and so it was natural for the Qaratai to single him out as they did. What saved him was that there were many orphans and roving children in the city of Ullek, so although the guards may suspect him when they saw him, they would quickly forget him after he vanished from their sight.
The boy ignored the glances he got from the Qaratai. He usually always received curious looks from the locals, anyway, even though he had lived in Ullek his entire life. Menaphites had made their home in the desert since the early First Age, when recorded history began. Spending such a long time in the Desert, constantly under the burning sun, had given all of the Menaphite people in general at least a deep bronze skin tone. Skin color varied in the Menaphite population. While the majority were brown-skinned, there was a significant portion of the population whose skin could be as dark as rich lager, in stark contrast to their fair, light-skinned Centralian neighbors across the Southern Ocean and the great River Lum to the northwest.
The boy, unlike his fellow Menaphites, was as pale as the desert moon. His ten years of life under the harsh desert sun had not darkened him, but the really interesting thing that no one could explain was that he did not burn in the sun, either. He simply remained pale, unaffected by the desert climate. Many fellow Menaphites often mistook him for a Centralian, until he began speaking to them in fluent Arrish. He was also fluent in the Common Tongue, the primary language of the Centralians, which was known and spoken all throughout Gielinor, but Arrish still remained his birth language.
The boy darted out of the way of a passing carriage, following the curve of the road as it ran deeper into Ullek. Eventually it opened up and, along with dozens of other roads, ran straight into the Plaza.
The Plaza was the living, pulsing heart of Ullek; the nexus of all life in the large Menaphite city. Merchant traders from the coast, which was a short distance to Ullek's southeast, filled the huge, circular plaza, doing their business alongside city vendors, vigilant guards, entertainers, and the throngs of Menaphites seeking to do business with one another, or simply seeking to spend a fun, relaxed day in the sun.
The Plaza was filled with the sound of voices more than anything else. Hundreds of voices, all layering and mixing together to form their own mosaic of noise. Commoners argued, haggled, and bartered with the vendors, vendors called out their goods and prices, trying every method they knew to lure customers with deep pockets to their stands, entertainers wandered through the space juggling balls, knives, scimitars, or flaming batons. There were even a few snake charmers—their calm, soothing pipe music flowed into the Plaza's cacophony of sound as the charmers entranced the cobras in their wicker baskets.
Ullek had a culture of its own, and there was no better way to experience it firsthand than going to the Plaza.
If an outsider were to visit the plaza, he or she would probably call it Chaos. That was most likely true, from an outsider's perspective. From a Menaphite's perspective, or from the perspective of an experienced trader or merchant who know the ropes of Menaphite culture and business, the Plaza was extremely efficient. Ullek owed much of its thriving economy to it. It was simple and straightforward trading. Consumers purchased their items with upfront gold, or with goods of their own which they bartered with to the merchants. If they did not have the money or a sufficient trade, they would not get the item they wanted. That way, it was impossible for a merchant to not get paid, and it was also impossible for a consumer to fall into debt.
The boy loved the Plaza. The bustling life, the seemingly chaotic movement of people, the high rush of emotions, temptations, and desires made the boy feel alive. It felt to him like he was submerging himself in a sea of life.
He also loved the Plaza because it was easy to evade the authorities here. The crowds could hide a skinny orphan better than an invisibility enchantment.
The boy spotted a companion of his; a tall, muscular adolescent of sixteen years with wave, shoulder-length dark hair. He stood under the lamppost he always stood under when waiting to meet someone in the Plaza. He was the reason why the boy had come to the Plaza today.
The adolescent caught sight of the boy, too, and waved, beckoning for the boy to come over.
The boy grinned and sprinted over to the lamppost, weaving his way through the crowd with the agility that only a child who has lived on the streets for his entire life knew. "Good to see you, Jafa," the boy exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.
"Likewise, Avis," Jafa chuckled in reply, pulling the boy into a crushing bear hug. Jafa had been gone for the past eight months, pressed into a hard labor work gang in the swamps north of the city, gathering wood for the traders. He had been caught on the streets with stolen jewels. Normally, the Qarat took a hand for thievery, but they did not actually catch Jafa in the act of stealing the jewels, so he was instead presented the choice of losing a hand, or getting sent to a hard labor camp.
He chose wisely, needless to say.
"Everyone at the orphanage has missed you," the boy, Avis, said, "Lessa nearly went into a depression when you were arrested. They'll be glad to have you back."
"I'll bet," Jafa mused. The adolescent inhaled and exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to see you before I headed back to the orphanage and got reacquainted with the old gang. Will I be seeing you tonight, then?"
"Bet on it," Avis nodded. The ten-year-old did not always spend his time at the hidden orphanage where Jafa and the rest of the orphans in their little gang made their living, preferring instead to take his chances wandering the vibrant streets above, but he still did return to the place where he had spent his infancy and early childhood when the situation called for it. Jafa's return was definitely worth a night at the orphanage.
"That's what I like to hear, Avinius," Jafa smiled. He was one of only two people who ever used Avis's real name, the other being Farrah, the old man who tended to the orphanage. Well, technically there were three people, but Avis did not think of the third. Jafa gave Avis a mock salute with two fingers, then turned and slid away into the crowd, vanishing from view.
The boy started to wander again, internally deliberating on where he should go next. After weighing his options, he decided to go and 'borrow' some bread from one of the vendors and have a late lunch before making his way towards the orphanage.
Avis swept his gaze through the Plaza, looking for a suitable stand that was far enough from the patrolling Qaratai, and close to a crowd of traders.
As he searched, the boy settled deep into thought. He was really excited to have Jafa back, but he also had a funny, nagging sensation at the back of his mind. There had been a light, almost invisible tension inside the older boy. Avis knew that there was something Jafa wasn't telling him.
Avis shrugged nonchalantly after coming to that conclusion. If Jafa had something to say, he would most like divulge it tonight at the orphanage. If it was something important, Avis could understand why the older boy did not want to utter it in a crowded public place.
Still…Jafa had called him 'Avinius'. He usually never did that. True, 'Avinius' was Avis's real name—meaning 'Of the Heavens' in Arrish—but no one ever called him that. He chose to go by Avis because it was shorter and it sounded more like the names of his peers. Jafa was one of the only ones who used that name, and he only did that when he was nervous or angry. Seeing as he did not seem angry when he was speaking earlier, that narrowed down the options somewhat. Something was definitely up.
The boy wrenched his mind back to the here and now as he stumbled across a baker's kiosk. A large, rotund, potbellied man reclined in his seat, fanning himself in the sun. He had not gotten very many customers yet, but that was normal. Bread usually went out in style earlier in the morning, or close to dinnertime in the evening.
Avis grabbed hold of the burlap sack he had been carrying over his shoulder, letting it fall down to his side. This vendor would do. He ambled past the kiosk of bread, closely observing the people who were around it. This was what he always did before making a move; one quick recon pass, followed up by a lightning-fast second pass which the owner would barely see coming.
Today, Avis decided to play it a little more subtle. He usually saved his blitzkrieg tactics for when he and his friends from the orphanage were executing a joint heist. This time, he was on his own, so he really did not want to alert the guards if he could help it.
After vanishing into the crowd and backtracking several hundred meters, Avis re-emerged and began walking towards the kiosk. The sweaty man reclining in his chair regarded the boy with some mild interest, recognition stirring in his eyes.
Avis looked away, obscuring his face from the bread vendor. If the vendor recognized him, then he would be two or three times as likely to suspect thievery. It was times like these when Avis's pale skin worked against him; the harsh sunlight turned it almost into a beacon. What usually saved him was that he was quick enough on his feet to scramble out of sight before the guards caught a flash of him twice.
The vendor gave a slight shrug, and returned to his previous position, finding no interest in the curious white-skinned child who had been approaching his kiosk.
Avis breathed a sigh of relief. This would be much easier without the vendor staring straight at him.
The boy cast a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, and then quickly walked past the kiosk. He continued moving after he passed the kiosk, throwing the burlap sack back over his shoulder. Though no one would have noticed unless they were actually looking for it to happen, the sack now contained three loaves of bread. The boy hadn't even seemed to bend over to pick them up. Nearly a decade of thieving on the streets had taught him well.
Avis felt the weight of the three loaves of bread he had just lifted, and the corners of his mouth twitched in a wry grin. He would eat part of one now, and then bring the rest to the orphanage. Farrah would be able to work wonders with them.
Avis was just sidestepping a pair of older women who were in his path, when he was suddenly jerked out of his thoughts of the dinner Farrah would be able to prepare with the bread. A pair of arms wrapped around his chest from behind, drawing him tightly into an iron embrace, pinning his arms to his sides and leaving his feet kicking helplessly a foot off the ground. The boy yelped in surprise, but a hand was clamped over his mouth before he could start screaming.
"I'll warrant you thought yourself so clever, taking that man's bread when you thought no one was watching," the man whispered into Avis's ear. Avis's struggles ceased, his back stiffening as he recognized the man's voice. "Ah…good…I was afraid you had forgotten me. I certainly haven't forgotten you, nor have I forgotten this," the man wrenched Avis around to face him, removing his hand from the boy's mouth, and pointed to the left side of his face.
Avis looked into the man's face, the sharp, angular, hawkish features of the Qatarai who had captured him. Even though he had recognized the man's voice, his fears were confirmed when he saw his face. The left half of his face that he was pointing to—particularly around the eye—was puckered and scarred. He had been badly burned sometime in the past. "Jhabour," the boy murmured.
The Qaratai smiled, though it was more of a vicious leer than a grin. "Actually, it's Ai-Jhabour, now," the guard corrected the boy, "In recognition of my efforts to rid this city of crime."
"Ai-Jhabour…" Avis echoed. "They promoted you, then? Standards must be going down…"
Ai-Jhabour snorted, whipping Avis back around to face front. "Oh, Avis, Avis, Avis; it's been too long since we've last met. I do miss the old banter."
The Qarat guard captain pulled Avis's hands behind his back, keeping a firm grip, produced a set of irons, and clamped them over the boy's hands. He pushed the boy forward, propelling him through the Plaza. The crowd continued to go about their daily business, not paying the Qarat captain and his captive much mind. Seeing an orphan being arrested for thievery was not an uncommon sight in any city.
Ai-Jhabour gave a sharp whistle as he neared a road that led away from the Plaza, and four Qaratai gave a quick bow and hurried off, no doubt to fetch a prison carriage. "I don't think you realize truly how much I've looked forward to finally bagging you," the guard captain said, turning down the street. The bystanders and civilians filling the street instinctively parted, creating a path for the guard captain to stroll through. "I must admit, I would have preferred it if I had the rest of your little gang in my possession as well, especially the black-haired adolescent—what's his name? Jafa?" Ai-Jhabour shrugged. "It matters not. You've always been at the top of my list."
"That so?" Avis cocked an eyebrow, stepping over the shattered remains of a piece of pottery that had been abandoned in the middle of the street. "I should be honored. I should be. What's the butcher's bill going to be, then?"
"Why are you acting so calm?" Ai-Jhabour countered, Avis's ambivalence towards his predicament sparking his old suspicion again. "Most would be blubbering, trying to buy or barter their way free."
"I have no money to give and no treasures to barter," Avis shrugged, "I have no friends nearby to help me, and I can't possibly pick the locks of these irons with you holding me. You also know this…and even if I did have anything to offer you, you still wouldn't let me go. Why should I make a scene?"
Ai-Jhabour chuckled again. "You're very intelligent for someone of your age…too intelligent, if you ask me. But do not fret; I shall remedy that. I'm bringing you in to the prisons. We shall take a hand for thievery, and then after that…who knows? I'm sure you remember our first encounter four years ago?"
Avis remembered that night all too well. He had been six years old, Jafa had been twelve. The two of them had been caught stealing by Jhabour when he was a newly-inducted member of the Qarat. Jhabour had not been like most Qaratai, however; he seemed to be in the business to provide an outlet for his lust for violence. He had pursued Avis and Jafa through the entire district for at least ten minutes. By the time he finally caught up to them, he was impatient, frustrated, bruised, injured, and angry. He had no intention of turning the two thieves over to the authorities, intending instead to finish them off right then and there on the rooftops.
Avis had thrust a burning torch into the Qaratai's face, giving the captain the scar he now sported. Ai-Jhabour had relentlessly hunted Avis through the streets of Ullek ever since, and today he had gotten lucky. He had caught Avis off guard.
Needless to say, Avis had no intention of ever even setting foot inside the prisoner carriage, but he did not need to voice his plans to the Qarat captain. Better to keep the man talking, make him less vigilant and careful, more likely to make a mistake.
"Yeah, I remember," Avis replied. "Your scar's not as red as it used to be. Too bad, I liked it when-"
Ai-Jhabour tightened his grip on the boy's neck, severely discouraging him from speaking anymore. "That tongue of yours does you little good, Avinius," Ai-Jhabour, the unmentioned third person who ever used Avis's real name, sighed. "After I take your hand, I shall take that as well. Let us see how well you will backtalk then."
Avis gulped on the inside. This was getting extreme. He had to find a way to escape soon…a distraction…anything… He would have to use his Ability, he finally decided. He had been especially careful never to use it in the presence of others, but it was looking like he was going to have to make this occasion into one huge exception.
"Ah, here we are," Ai-Jhabour hummed contentedly as the trickle of commoners ahead parted to reveal two ugthanki camels pulling along a medium-sized, rectangular iron box with barred windows. The prison carriage. Once Avis was stuffed into that metal coffin, that was it. Game over.
Avis started to cough. The cough started out as little clearings of the throat, but they got progressively louder and more violent until Avis was sagging in the Qarat captain's grip, nearly heaving his innards out.
The crowd began to cast curious glances at the convulsing boy as he finally retched all over Ai-Jhabour's sandals, their expressions turning to ones of disgust and distaste.
Avis spat the remaining vomit out of his mouth, swearing under his breath as he did so. He hated making himself throw up, but there had been no other way to throw Ai-Jhabour off-balance.
Ai-Jhabour shouted in disgust and revulsion, staggering back as his mind fully registered what the boy had vomited onto his feet. Then he made a fatal mistake; he slightly relinquished his grip on the boy's neck.
The ten-year-old moved faster than lightning. He brought his left foot stamping down onto the Qarat captain's instep, causing Ai-Jhabour to cry out in pain and stagger back even more. He then swiveled on his heel and planted a firm kick into the Qarat captain's abdomen, causing him to double over, his breath taken away from him.
As Ai-Jhabour recovered, Avis threw himself to the ground and wriggled around, managing to fold up his feet and slide his shackled arms around them. When he stood back up, his arms were now in front of him rather than behind his back.
Avis closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was not meditating—after years of practicing to improve his Ability, he no longer needed to submerge himself in meditation—but he was doing something along the same lines as it. He swept through his mind and soul and found the humming energy that was inside of him. He took another deep breath and tapped into that energy, allowing it to fill him, to surround him. He took a third deep breath, concentrating the energy into a single point near his head. He let it build and build until it started to waver, eager to be released.
Avis took one last deep breath. He opened his eyes, locked eyes with Ai-Jhabour, who had gotten back up to his feet, and then looked back down at his chained hands. He hesitated for a second, sheer habit and routine preventing him from displaying his Ability in public. But then self-preservation quickly took over. He focused on the manacles and released his breath and, with it, the pent-up energy.
The air all around him rushed past and was quickly concentrated into a thin sliver of wind which, directed by Avis's mind and breath, cleaved right through the short chain holding the two manacles around his wrists together. The chain snapped, allowing Avis full use of his hands.
The boy did not hesitate. He quickly scooped up his sack of bread, which Ai-Jhabour had dropped, and took off, sprinting as fast as he could through the throng of commoners on the streets, ducking, dodging, and weaving his way through the whole place.
A well of shouts rose from behind as Ai-Jhabour ordered all of the Qaratai in the vicinity after him.
Avis swore under his breath. This was another one of those times where his pale skin worked against him. He could not simply melt into a crowd—he had to vanish, and he had to do it now.
Spotting a group of four or five guards sprinting towards him in the opposite direction, Avis knew that the streets were no longer an option. He immediately veered off to the right and ran straight towards a vendor's kiosk. He leaped onto a stand, then onto the roof of the kiosk. From there, he jumped the short distance from the kiosk to the canopy of the store, climbing up the tough fabric to the stone rooftops.
Now that he was on the rooftops, a world of opportunities opened itself to Avis. The ten-year-old took off running again, heading south towards the orphanage. He never slowed his pace, effortlessly flying over the landscape of chimneys, the courtyard openings, the alleyway drops, and the divides between roads. There were dozens of small, thin, wooden beams that connected buildings on each side of every street, put there so that tenants could hang clothes out to dry in the desert sun. Avis utilized them instead as bridges.
The guards, who had little experience traversing the rooftops of Ullek, were hampered by the many obstacles the new environment presented. It was like trying to send cavalry through swamps—the Qaratai dominated the streets, but they did not dominate the rooftops. The rooftops were the domain of the thieves and the free-spirited. Avis fit into both categories.
The pursuing Qaratai's shouts gradually grew fainter and fainter until Avis finally paused to look back. He no longer saw them; they had fallen back so far. He had, quite literally, given them the slip.
Avis grinned to himself, trying to picture what Ai-Jhabour's reaction would be when his dogs returned empty-handed. Unless of course the captain had been personally pursuing him on the rooftops. Then he would return empty-handed as well.
Avis tightened his grip on the burlap sack of bread, which he had miraculously managed to keep ahold of during his flight, and continued south. He stuck to the rooftops, not quite willing to return to the streets yet. He passed a few other men utilizing the rooftops for travel as well. They all gave him friendly nods as they passed him, no doubt reminiscing on how they done similar things when they had been his age.
After a short while, Avis arrived at the street which the orphanage was located on. It was a small, dark, winding road in the ghettos of the southeastern reaches of Ullek. He stopped, turning around and deciding to climb up a small bell tower that jutted up into the sky. There were towers like this scattered all over the city, built mostly for decoration, but they also doubled as living or storage spaces.
Avis reached the pinnacle of the tower, which was about forty or fifty feet off of the ground, and crouched onto his knees, resting one hand on the ground in front of him and the elbow of his other arm on his knee. He closed his eyes and breathed in again, inhaling the mixed scents of the city all around him, feeling its thriving energy. Not for the first time, he wondered if other people felt the same energy of life in the city that he felt every day. He opened his eyes and watched as the sun slowly sank towards the western horizon.
Red sunset, tonight… the boy thought to himself, unaware that several days ago, halfway across the continent, a Centralian Warmaster had made the same observation.
Avis took another deep breath and reflected on his day. Jafa had returned, he would be seeing his friends again soon, he had acquired dinner for himself and everyone else at the orphanage, and he had just narrowly escaped what would probably have been a slow death at the hands of a sadistic Qarat guard captain.
Life didn't get any better than this.