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Dearest Readers, may your fields be bordered, not by walls, but by roads to adventures bright and amazing.
THE HIDDEN SWORD: A TALE OF BALDUR'S GATE
Book One: From the Earth | Chapter 31: Borders, Part Two
Nearly an hour before sundown, a handful yet remained of the cookies. By all accounts, Irse knew she ought to be proud of herself. How light one's conscience felt when one needn't be ready to wipe off telltale crumbs from their mouth and chin for every shadow darkening the doorway.
Unfortunately, the rather pathetic pile of coins in the till weighed on her mind. Quite a slow day for none of the customers had bought anything of substantial value, though she tried her utmost to pique their interest with the weapons and larger tools. But what use would a scullery maid have for a sword instead of the simple paring knife she needed? A buckler to a landscaper instead of the humble trowel he sought for his gardens?
She drummed on the counter, exhaling, glancing around, finally deciding to rehearse how to report this dismal turnout to her Teacher. If anything, Okami has always been a reasonable man, surely not above admitting that perhaps he had been overgenerous with their customers.
Bored, Irse opened the box and sighed longingly. Might as well have a bit of fun, if only pretend.
Standing to face the gingersnaps, she bowed to them with the swagger of an imagined cape, twirling a feather pen as it were a bejeweled double-edged blade. Throat cleared to feign a masculine tone, she imagined herself as she were a heroic martial warrior in one of the Shou-based adventure serials from the chapbooks and addressed the unjustly imprisoned baked treats.
"Fear not my friends, I give my word that I shall exhaust all means to liberate you from this unwarranted confinement. Mayhap, the August and Wise Emperor of the Heavenly Kitchen would lend his exotic rounded ears to my impassioned plea for your freedom."
Irse leaned over the box, cupping an ear over the leader cookie, the largest and chunkiest among its kin.
"What is that you say? A suggestion to strengthen my appeal? Tell the Emperor that he is Handsome as well, Most Desired By All Maidens, like the ruddiest and sweetest fruit of the Majestic Cosmic Ornamented Peach Tree? Well, I do not know about the sweetest, maybe the fuzziest for sure," she pondered, rubbing her chin.
She straightened up, one hand on the chest, the other extended towards the far horizon. "No, that will not work on him, oh crunchy little friend. For the Lord of High Braising and Stewing cannot be swayed by common flattery. Perhaps a crystal-diamond jar filled with the best piquant pickled radish plucked from the Celestial Jade Vegetable Plots might better serve to persuade him instead."
"Bravo," a man slow-clapped and spoke up from the door.
"Hells' teeth!" Irse cussed under her breath, startled. She fumbled with the feather pen, finally slamming it awkwardly on the counter as she faced the visitor.
Before her stood a gentleman, tall and stately.
"Some stores seek to entice with chartered minstrels, others with women of beauty yet hawking the most banal of wares. And in a house for devices of iron and combat," he said, casting a quick and sweeping inspection of the store before looking at her once more.
"…A one-elf drama act," he concluded, undisguised amusement in his voice, deep and resonant with a hint of a foreign accent.
"Ah, but where are my manners? Good day to you," the man hailed. He removed his cap, revealing a clean-shaven head, followed by a gracious bow.
Irse responded with a hasty nod. "Good day to you, as well. And it wasn't a play to lure customers. It's a - never mind," she retorted, then noticed with alarm at where his eyes rested on her person as he straightened himself.
The tall man was staring down at her ankles, a confounded expression on his face. Almost going cross-eyed looking at her socks – one checkered red and black, the other a toile of gold against white. And what of it then? They were Turmishan and expensive.
My eyes are up here, Irse coughed, feeling some sense of satisfaction at seeing him blink before meeting her gaze.
"How may I help you, Sir?"
He canted his head, a coltish grin on his striking features.
"Perhaps my father might learn a thing or two from a merchant of Iriaebor about pitching our trade through more equitable means. Ways that benefit and profit without the complete and utter ruin of the other party," he remarked with a barely disguised caustic note.
An odd thing to say to a stranger. Either he hasn't done business with the merchants of this city or his father must be some extra piece of work.
Irse answered with quiet pride, "From my Teacher he might see how. But that might be the reason why with half a decade in this enterprise, we're still here in a rented store and not in our own marble spire on the Tor."
He rejoined with a sonorous chuckle. "Honorable but unfortunate. Yet even if you could share your wisdom, it will all be for naught. After all, an old hound cannot be schooled in new tricks."
The man gestured at the weapons rack. "May I?"
Irse casually waved her assent and he walked over to the displayed merchandise. With his considerable height he had to bend to pick up a sword.
Contemplating his peculiar choice of talk, the elf observed him as he examined the blade. The son of some trading baron from overseas? However, the fine jacket slung over his shoulder and the garb of velvet and silk belied the bearing of one familiar with either battle or rigorous labors, judging by the broad shoulders, posture taut and proud, rolled sleeves exposing forearms corded with muscle, the coarseness and old scars upon his ungloved hands.
Someone more accustomed to the sword than the abacus.
Undeniably, a man who is…
Sudden recognition jolted through her, the revelation speeding her pulse.
A customer interested in weapons!
Irse narrowed her eyes in an appraising gaze.
And no doubt a very rich one too. Perhaps that girth isn't all muscle – probably money bags sewn in his shirt to deter pickpockets.
Now get over there and sell to him! Sell! Sell! Sell!
But a sobering limitation emerged to dash that hope. A man of evident wealth, he must already have his own weapons, perhaps even a personal set, customized, possibly even enchanted. He wouldn't be interested in their rather ordinary merchandise, despite the quality workmanship.
But what if…
Irse put a hand on her waist, cocked her hips and cast a conspiratorial side glance.
… she could sweeten the deal?
"Care for some refreshments while you peruse our wares?" Irse held up the open box to him, offering the remaining gingersnaps.
He looked them over, finally settling for the largest piece. "Generous of you. Here, let me relieve your hands of their burden," he replied, taking the box from her.
Irse couldn't help but smile in amusement, for the man looked every bit the wandering tourist with his rather-out-of-place finery for a stroll in the Open Market, a box in one hand and a cookie in the other. And munching already. He certainly wasted no time with that one, as she likewise wouldn't.
"Say, you don't seem to be from around here, Sir."
He paused from his careful chewing, swallowing with haste, grinding his jaw as if to make sure no stray morsel remained before opening his mouth. Such an elegant and well-mannered fellow, Irse weighed him. She would have simply covered her mouth with another cookie to keep the crumbs and spit from spraying as she chewed and talked at the same time, not out of crassness, rather to save precious seconds.
"You're correct in your assessment," he replied. "I arrived this morning after a carriage ride straightway from Westgate, for no sane creature can willingly spend a day in that cesspit. Tomorrow I proceed to the Gate where my father awaits. I was summoned to assist him in matters of trade, for after all, who best to trust in such delicate affairs other than your own family?"
A clink of irony in those words, caught by ear and heart. Irse nodded in solemn agreement.
"He preceded me by some months, sailing from our home in Saerloon to seek opportunities for commerce in the Sword Coast. I myself have been to neighboring Cormry and Turmish, even as far as Thay; but this is the first that I've set foot in the Heartlands."
A Sembian, no wonder, from his somewhat haughty manner of speech. Though there was a hint of deliberate toning down in his accent.
Irse bristled on reflex. Not the first she had met. Over the years, encounters with Sembian buyers had proved less than pleasant, whether outright ignoring her existence or sneering down at the elf. And she knew why they were hostile to her People. Vague recollections of the yawn-inducing history books from her childhood days reminded her of mentions of hostilities between Sembia and the Elven Court in Cormanthor, but that was from hundreds of years ago.
Certainly, that was too long a time to be holding grudges over some sneakily extended picket fence between the backyard and the woods?
Okami had always seemed bothered, perhaps torn by the dictates of civility. But Irse, more riled at being called a granny than a knife-ear, tried to make light of it, not wishing to cause trouble and lose customers for them. Maybe Sembians just like walking around with their money bags shoved up where the sun dare not shine, she would tell him.
Until one particularly rude Sembian merchant went as far as to order the blacksmith to immediately banish this savage-treacherous-cowardly-arrow-sucking-murderer-from-the-backwoods away from his presence. Pompous sod couldn't even point his finger at her for fear of soiling his manicured nails.
And when the man refused Okami's demand for an apology to his apprentice, the Sembian was promptly shown the door and sternly told never to show his face to them ever again.
Banned by the hammer! Irse had inwardly cheered her Teacher. And that was just months ago.
Not long after the merchant had gone, the elf tried to ease the lingering tension. "It was nothing, Teacher. That idiot is mere breakfast compared to what the Master of Tomes served me all day since I could understand words."
"Fortunate for him and his ilk that we all possess liberties in this City, regardless of our stature. Such affront would not have been tolerated in my homeland. To speak with blatant disrespect towards a lord of the court warrants execution by his retainers upon the very ground one stands," Okami had murmured, barely concealing his displeasure at the incident.
"Fortunate for him, I am no Lord," she had said, laughing, fists on her waist, posing as she were a snooty dignitary.
Okami had eased from his stance.
"No. It is a relief that you are not," he agreed, a slight crook in the corner of his mouth.
Irse eyed the Sembian with wariness. Evidently noticing the sudden change in her aura towards him, the easy grin faded from the man's face.
"I am aware of my countrymen's animosity towards the elves. Simply because of ancient border disputes best learned from rather than constantly dredged by my people to divert paranoia from their own family and friends robbing them blind."
In a clear show of deference, he made a slight bow. "Be assured, I myself hold no ill will towards you and your kin. Let this be a meeting of equals, hopefully towards a common goal."
He seemed sincere enough. Seeing her relax, he chuckled again and gestured to the weapons and sat on one of the chairs. Irse showed him the swords, for he appeared more interested in them. One by one, she expounded on the virtue of their make and quality as the Sembian listened intently while munching on a cookie, his curiosity encouraging as he likewise inquired about the materials and the forging process.
"What of that one?" he inquired, pointing at a display.
Her gaze followed to where he indicated, to the sheathed katana upon the counter. A commissioned work, requested by a Council member sending an envoy to Wa, perhaps a ceremonial gift to some powerful local lord or silk trader. It was scheduled to be claimed by the nobleman's servant by sundown.
Irse picked up the sword, held its sheathed length flat upon both palms, then bowed slightly to the blade before tucking it into her belt. Slowly she unsheathed the sword, and upon fully drawing, laid the blade flat on the sleeve of her left forearm to keep the finish unsoiled, cutting edge facing inward in the perfunctory gesture of preventing a mistaken threat to another.
"A katana," the Sembian remarked with apparent familiarity and reverence.
"We don't make a lot of these. The bladesmithing's more painstaking than with the swords we are accustomed."
"How so?"
"Many preparations are required beforehand, for the blacksmith prefers to make this the traditional way and without any changes to the process, even if it could make things easier for us."
Irse briefly explained the need to assemble a tatara, the Kozakuran clay furnace and its housing solely purposed for smelting the ironsand. But it could never be used again since the tatara was to be broken apart to get at the steel bloom. Working on a single blade took weeks notwithstanding all the heating and forging and folding and polishing the process entailed, separate from the fabrication of the other parts such as the scabbard, hilt, guard, among others.
"By Tethrin, there is no end to the polishing! I swear my hands are always about to fall off, if only I could teach my toes to do it instead."
The Sembian laughed. "Then teach your feet to fly at the rags! Nothing is impossible even for the mortal mind. But indeed, ever an exquisite blade, honed for the hand that leads the outcome of the battle, the field of the world where all enemies are reaped and the wielder remains standing."
A field of reaping. Her eyes ran along the length of the clean razor's edge, for a moment her sight veiled by an imagined landscape, the ruined aftermath, a dazed Kozakuran youth in dented cuirass and dragging a bloody sword. Sunbeams through the window struck at the cutting edge, glint drawing her to return to the present.
Her face lit up as she raised her sight back to the Sembian. "Want to see a neat trick?"
Clearly intrigued, he nodded.
Stepping back a good distance from him and settling on a neutral stance, the elf raised the sword at her side until it hovered parallel to the ground. A pivot of the wrist and the broad side angled with the horizon, reflecting none else but the floor, the clean outline neatly blending with the background.
The Sembian's eyes widened in astonishment as he laid down a gingersnap at his lap. "Fascinating. The blade is almost invisible to the naked eye. When it finally strikes, it would appear as if the sword were conjured out of thin air."
"Handy, isn't it? Keeps the enemy from spotting its true dimensions. A momentary ruse, but as with duels, victory is decided in the blink of an eye."
He leaned back in his seat and broke off a piece off his cookie, chewing and swallowing hastily. "Useful as it is, were I to find myself in such situation, I prefer intimidation over subterfuge. A blade that proclaims its power from its sheer size alone."
Irse fought the urge to smirk. Oh, so the big man likes big swords. Unsurprising.
Half-bitten morsel still nestled between his fingers, the Sembian lifted both hands, taking on a grip as if hoisting an imaginary great sword. "For in war and combat, might rules all. The display of your immense power sufficient to break the spirit of your foe. In that alone you are already victorious."
She bobbed her head in acknowledgement. "Quite true, Sir. And if such allows you to win the fight itself through the opponent's immediate surrender, you avoid wasteful bloodshed as well. An effective strategy, securing your victory even before the battle has begun."
"The victorious strategist only seeks battle after the victory has been won," he affirmed casually.
Irse stared at the man, a spark of recollection kindled within. Heart pounding, the rush of blood in the head echoing rare instances when with certainty she knew the answer to a question posed by Brother Karan in her childhood studies, and in those illuminating moments when understanding finally dawned in quiet discourses with her Teacher.
Irse looked him in the eye. "But what if the enemy isn't cowed by your display of might, and instead seeks to check your strength?" she tested him.
"Then you uphold your claim with true force. To charge into war without hesitation and smite openly, that is the sole path to complete victory."
Irse leaned back as she considered his words. "I see. But do you think that to fight in the open with superior strength and numbers is the only proper way to wage war?"
"There is no other approach that compares."
"But is it not," the elf questioned with a testing smirk. "All warfare is based on deception?"
The Sembian paused and seemed to regard her with knowing. Eyes sharp in meeting the challenge, he quoted back, "Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive."
Irse fluidly sheathed the katana, fingers hovering at the sword hilt as if readying to draw again. "When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near," she continued without remiss.
"Hold out baits to entice the enemy," he recounted, leaning forward from his seat.
"Feign disorder," she recited, standing prouder.
"And crush him," they concluded in unison, suddenly of the same mind, both raising a grasping fist in a gesture of complete conquest. The elf laughed at the ridiculous coincidence while the Sembian leaned back and beamed at her.
"The Aesthetics of Large-Scale Armed Conflict, penned by Moon Tzu, a general of great renown in Shou," he cited, a note of approval in his tone.
"The eighteenth to twentieth verses of the first chapter, to be exact" Irse pointed out, having read and taken to heart the pages of the book that Okami had bought for her years ago; dog-eared, doodled-on, a crooked nail tied with a string at the spine for a bookmark.
"Bet you didn't expect a western tree-hugger to know of that," she teased.
"On the contrary, I anticipated no less from one whose People orchestrated a protracted and bloody war among their own kin."
Irse paused, surprised. A great war among the elves? She knew now there were hidden enclaves of her People scattered throughout Faerun though it seemed improbable they would have engaged in open and massive conflict with each other in recent times.
The Sembian arched a brow as he retrieved another cookie from the box.
"Crown Wars?" he quizzed the elf as if expecting the words to ring a bell with her.
She shook her head slowly, gaze falling blank. "Nope. Forgive me. I'm not aware. That didn't just happen a tenday ago, did it?"
He chuckled at her obliviousness. "A tenday prior? No, it took place more than ten thousand years before Dalereckoning. Have your elders not taught you the complete history of your People? Though I wouldn't be surprised if they did not, perhaps themselves contrite for the blood-stained deeds of their ancestors."
The Sembian rubbed his knuckles, a faraway look on his face as if reminiscing a tale where one wished they had partaken.
"After all, though glorious the battles may have been for the skill in combat and magic of the Tel'Quessir, it was the unfettered desire for rulership over others that led to the downfall of the once proud elven kingdom of Aryvandaar who started the war. What bitter irony that their ambition to expand dominion almost led to the obliteration of all elves in the realm."
Irse listened, fascinated yet unmoved, detached from events already passed beyond known lifetimes. And besides, it proved only one thing she had suspected all the while – some grownups, no matter how old and learned and experienced, think too highly of themselves and thus can't get along and still make a great mess of things.
Still, she had not heard nor read of this, perhaps a history known only among her People. Surely a tome recounting the Crown Wars in detail could be found in the Great Library, but her foster father seemed inclined to impose other more human-relevant knowledge upon her. Like flower-themed poetry.
"That's interesting, though. How did you learn about that?" she probed.
"One of my childhood tutors spoke of it. He was always of the opinion that the study of the drivers of historic conflicts lends itself better to the general understanding of the mind and soul in all situations. A rather strict and relentless mentor, I might add."
Irse quirked her lips in sympathy, remembering the initial batch of tutors who believed more in the stick than the carrot, yet immediately gave up on her. Much praise and thanks to Ohgma for the kind and gentle Brother Karan armed with his bottomless jar of sweets. Should she thank Tethrin as well, Irse mused, grinning while clutching at the exact spot on the shoulder where an iaito found its mark the other day.
The rest of the conversation passed amiably. He inquired about the other tools and she obliged his curiosity. She asked him about his travels, and in the span of another gingersnap, he spoke of sailing the Sea of Fallen Stars and the ride through Trader's Road from Westgate, passing briefly through the towns of Elversult, Priapurl, and Easting before arriving at Iriaebor.
It was only with a glance at the window did they realize that it was nearing sundown.
"Ah, how time swiftly passes. I must return to the inn and rest, for tomorrow we sail before dawn. Though I confess, this has been a pleasant interlude in my journey," he announced, patting the crumbs from his lap and hands while rising from his seat.
"Likewise with my day. I wish you a safe trip, Sir."
He walked to the door, turning to face her. "And unto you, Mistress Elf, a good evening and profitable days to follow," he said with a genial smile, bowing deeply before stepping out.
Irse watched him as he walked down the street, soon disappearing into the crowds.
What a polite gentleman, quite the pleasant company.
Her shoulders dropped.
Even though he didn't buy anything at all despite her efforts.
Ah well, the day wasn't a total loss. Tomorrow would be a clean plate and who knew if the gods might look kindly upon them, send a customer or two who would finally buy their weapons or larger tools.
Irse spied the box, now closed, upon the counter where the gentleman had left it. At least there were still some gingersnaps remaining for tomorrow's customers. She grabbed the box. And paused. And shook the container next to her ear. And opened the cover.
Empty. The cookies. Gone. Not even a dust of cinnamon left behind. The audacity, when he didn't even need to eat every single piece!
Through clenched teeth she hissed in frustration. Teacher will not be pleased at this.
The elf turned to look at the door, at the threshold where the man had crossed the border between their worlds.
Irse narrowed her eyes in a suspicious gaze.
Sembians!
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Scribblings and citations:
Obvious quotes cited in their Epic Book Recitation Battle were lifted from The Art of War (Sun Tzu).