The realm has always been known for its protectionism and patriotic pride. Its strategic location means that a majority of trade and travel between the Eastern Isles and its neighbouring continents of Terra Sol and Cor Regnis passes through Surikh waters.
As such, generations of Surikh kings have jealously guarded its territories from foes both real and imagined.

—Tides and Times of Surikhand, an histoire by Setja Asmaradan

11

↝ THE MAKE OF A VILLAIN ↜

She let them take her on the fifth night. Isla had planned everything just so. The day before, she had bought a generous amount of rice wine, and under the pretext of celebrating their successes, made sure Bartol had drunk enough that night to last him far into the next evening.

The others had not been so difficult to pass. The girls were asleep before midnight; none so much as stirred when Isla crawled out of bed. She shed off her night gown and wrapped a dagger to her thigh. Her hand brushed the scar on her hip as she did so, and for a moment, she hesitated.

I'll be careful, this time. She promised herself. It's different, now. Tonight, I'm prepared. She pulled on a tattered cloak, and once Mother Shapor's snores started thundering in the next room, Isla had slipped away.

Pepper kept the way lit to Trader's Square. Once there, Isla made sure to wander well within sights of Nagendra's tent. When she saw the man, it took but a second to sneak into his drink-addled mind and nudge his attention towards her.

She waited in one of the smaller passageways, deserted but for a drifter passed out against the mildewed wall. The snatchers could not have asked for better bait.

In her head, Noi was scolding her; the handmaid's voice so fresh in her memory that she may as well have been there.

Thinking of Noi steeled Isla's resolve. Isla had seen those border offices. They know I'm here. They won't be sending more silver-servants to Elingar.

Noi was safe. Now Isla only needed to make sure her sister was, too.

That was when the cloth fell over her head and she lost consciousness.
     

❖ ❖ ❖
      

It was the cold that woke Isla. She was in an empty chamber, her hands tied behind her, but feet unbound. Her pockets were light; too light to contain anything. Even the wrapping around her thigh had been taken. Isla pushed against the wall to regain footing. Nothing adorned the room but a wooden chair between her and the door.

Noises came from outside; voices, a key being turned, and then the door grinding open. Briefly, Isla saw the small room adjoining hers, and the large man standing guard.

A young girl stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She carried a tray of water and bread, which she placed on the chair.

'Who are you?' Isla assessed the girl. She was not much younger than herself, dressed in a plain, dirt-yellow frock, and had the look of a frightened mouse. 'Where am I?'

The girl did not answer. 'You ought to eat. You ain't gonna be fed again until tomorrow night.'

Isla tried to rouse her core, but her head was beating far too much. She groaned at the effort. 'What did they do to me?'

'I'm sorry,' whispered the girl. 'That'd be Master's sleep-weaver. The hurt's gonna last a bit. Some water'll help.'

A sleep-weaver. Nothing she could not handle. Isla had known of only one other, and that was a long time ago in Elingar, though there they called him a hypnost. 'I can't drink with my hands tied.'

The girl took the glass to Isla's mouth. Cold liquid went down her throat, and Isla's head started to clear. Soon, the girl was feeding her bits of bread.

'What will you do with me?' she asked between bites.

The girl bit her lips, as though deciding whether or not to engage. Isla had no time to wait for her to make up her mind. She fought through the ache in her head, squeezed out a bit of theurgy. Only then did the girl reply.

'You're real unlucky. Master don't normally make a snatch in town. It ain't safe. But he was real clear he wanted to take you.' She squatted beside Isla and broke off another piece of bread. 'Your skin's real clean. It's lighter than most girls' I've seen. You're too skinny for a noble girl, though.'

'My father's a rich merchant. He'll help you if you help me get out of here.'

'Don't talk like that,' the girl whispered frantically. 'It's the first thing they'll teach you. Don't even think about running.'

'What else did they teach you?'

'You'll see for yourself. Real soon. They'll take you to the other trainees in the morning. It's far out of here, and you'll stay there for months until you're proper trained. Sometimes years. Just be good, and it'll be over quick. Then you best hope someone kind buys you.'

The girl bent to clear the tray, revealing welts and scars over her back. Lashes? Beatings? Is that what Tam Mai had to endure? Isla'sblood pumped at the thought, clearing her head completely of the sleep-weaver'safter-effects.

She turned her attention back towards the girl. 'What's your name?'

'I ... we ain't got names.'

'You must have had one.'

'That's another thing they'll be teaching you. Whoever you were, that ain't who you are no more. You'd best forget her.'

'So what do I call you? Strayling?'

'Doesn't matter. You won't be seeing me again.' The girl started to leave, but Isla circled to block her path. 'Please. I can't be staying long, or Gorlem will come get me.'

'Gorlem? That's the gorilla outside?' Isla stepped back. There was no need to make the girl anxious. 'Listen, Strayling. I'll take care of Gorlem. But I need you to undo my ropes.'

'You've gone and lost your head. I ain't gonna risk mine.'

'It's all right. Just untie my hands, and I'll make sure you're free by dawn. Don't you want to be free?' Isla laced her question with a touch of compulsion. She stood back and watched as her theurgy did its work.

The little strayling put her tray back down and started working on Isla's ropes. By the time Isla's hands were free, the girl's fingernails were broken and spotted with blood.

Isla wiped the girl's fingers with her shirt. 'I want you to stay here until I take Gorlem away. After that, you should leave. Get out of here. Go home.'

The girl lowered her gaze. 'I ain't got no home. I've got no where. I've been with Master all my life, I –'

'Listen to me.' Isla knelt to meet the stray's eyes. 'Go to the edge of town. Watch for families that seem kind, and offer yourself as a maid until one takes you in.'

'But –'

'Street-servants. They're common enough. That's how we found our handmaid. She came to us when I was too young to remember. She also didn't have anywhere to go, like you. But now, she's family.'

The thought of Noi made her pause, and in the silence they heard Gorlem pounding on the other side of the door. 'Hurry it up in there!'

Isla willed the girl to pay him no heed. 'The family won't pay you much, especially if they're poor, but they let you stay with them, and you can leave whenever you like. So if they start beating you ...'

She did not need to finish. The girl was nodding and had wiped the tears off her eyes. Regardless, Isla sent one last wave of theurgy her way, just to make sure her instructions set in.

Isla rose and made for the door. She flared her theurgy for a sense of the brute on the other side. The walls muffled his presence, but it was there. Isla tiptoed into him; enticed him with the thought of fresh air, drew his mind upon his own hunger ...

But his was a will of steel, whether Isla cared to admit. Not all the fanciest of foods and women could persuade him to leave his post. Eshe did warn some will be harder. If it's going to work at all, it'd need more time.

Isla did not have more time. There was no alternative; she would have to go about it the hard way.

How did Eshe put it?

Like a boar thrashing blindly through a campfire.

She hoped Eshe was well, wherever she was. Isla gathered her theurgy and with one hand opened the door.

'You took your bloody sweet ti—' Gorlem's mouth dropped when he saw it was not the young stray. His reflexes were fast – the knife in his belt was quickly unsheathed – but Isla was faster.

She hit him instantly and hard; a fraction of her theurgy, really, but it was enough. Gorlem made a feeble attempt of raising his mind-shield. Isla flicked it away.

Too little, too late. His squirming tickled like a worm lodged in her brain, but with one clamp of Isla's will, Gorlem's knife dropped to the floor along with his resistance.

Calmly she asked him, 'Where is my salamander?'

Gorlem's eyes darted to the corner of the room, where upon a table she spotted her dagger and Pepper trapped under glass.

She crossed the room, exposing her back to the guard. He growled like a good little watchdog, but did not move from his kennel by the door. Isla freed Pepper first, tucking the salamander into her pocket before taking the dagger. 'Now tell me. Is this Nagendra's home?'

Gorlem refused to answer. Isla watched, fascinated, at the effect his resistance played on him. His muscles tightened, jaws clenched, struggling against something that ate at him from within. Isla pushed again, willing him to speak. His forehead glistened with sweat under the yellow gaslights. A vein popped in his temple.

Finally, Gorlem nodded, falling to the floor. 'Yes, gods damn you! Yes! It is!' He was crouched there for several more seconds, gasping for air; but the redness slowly left his face.

'Where is he now?'

'Asleep ... in his chambers!' He bit his lip until Isla saw blood. She sent another prod to loosen his tongue. 'He's guarded. You'll never get him.'

'How many?'

'Just ... one ...'

Still, he fights. Isla was impressed by his fortitude. 'What?'

'His sleep-weaver ...' said Gorlem between grit teeth. 'Viktar.'

An idea crossed Isla's mind. Hopefully this sleep-weaver is not as mighty as his name suggests. 'You will take me to Nagendra. Don't forget your knife.'

Before long, he was leading her down a hallway. His knuckles were white where he gripped his weapon. He rose against her as they walked; trying to seep through her clutches. It was more an annoyance than any real cause for concern. Isla kept him in check with one breath.

Another presence lurked into her senses. Isla braced. Her walls were set, but she never had the occasion to test them in a real combat before.

They came to a corner and Isla knew Viktar was just around the bend. Gorlem scowled, but his only defiance burned through his eyes. Isla pressed again into his will, this time tamping more strength behind her coercion.

Gorlem disappeared around the corner.

'Gor?' Viktar's surprise was fast replaced by anger. 'What are you doing here?—oy! What was that for?'

A thrum, then the sound of someone hitting the wall. Isla took the corner to see the two men grappling. Viktar was taller, but Gorlem was larger by far and had him by the neck. He beat the slighter man against the wall, each knock eliciting a weak retch from the sleep-weaver. But the next thing they knew, Viktar had a dagger in his hand and thrust it into Gorlem's back.

The guard did not so much as yelp, for Isla commanded his mouth shut. He ignored the knife, buried to the hilt in the centre of his back. The image reminded Isla of a wind-up toy, which suited him.

While Gorlem fought to reclaim his advantage, Isla probed through the door Viktar once guarded.

Someone was inside. Sleeping, judging by the stillness of his mind.

Gorlem grabbed the sleep-weaver's wrist and twisted. Viktar's cry was quickly muffled by Gorlem's palm, but the damage was done. The presence inside stirred. Isla compelled it with whispers of sleep, and the stillness took over once more.

Viktar's face was greying. He stopped thrashing, but his eyes were still alert when they found Isla's. She knew that look. He was rousing his core. Isla urged her puppet to finish him. She was protected, but Gorlem ...

Two things happened at once that caught Isla off-guard. Gorlem wrenched the hypnost's head to one side with an eerie crack; but not before a burst of theurgy had pulsated from Viktar – a wave of heat Isla felt with her mind rather than her body. It battered against her walls, and for a split second she was trapped; a little bunker in the midst of a hurricane.

Both Gorlem and Viktar fell; one with his head at a grotesque angle, the other in a less permanent sleep.

Viktar's somniferous burst died with him. Isla stood, gasping for air. She lifted her dagger, stepped tentatively towards Gorlem, now snoring on the floor.

He's no threat like this. But if he wakes in the middle of things ... Isla was not daft. She knew what happened to heroes who left their adversaries dangling from a cliff.

She crouched before the sleeping giant, holding her weapon over him. Her hand trembled. It seemed so ... unnecessary. Cowardly. She was no killer.

Isla trembled before she plunged her dagger into his neck.