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ILIAS VAN PAYNE

Thirty-two days until the rings dissolve.

Including Jaime, Clint, and I, the Desperados planning to cross the desert numbered fifty-eight. The bartender said the more people crossing with us, the better our chances of making it to Roa were. He distinctly said thirty was a good number, so fifty-eight was fine by me.

Filthy Frank had made two more trips into town after accepting us into his company.

"So, I've been wondering something," Jaime said. "Why does everyone call Frank Filthy Frank?"

"It's quite simple," Yukon said. He was a Desperado who owned nothing but sunbathed clothes and a satchel whose strap had once snapped. "That's what everyone in town was calling him."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Alright. Frank was always accompanied by Melissa and she clung to him. Now, an ageing man like him and a young girl like her—and they look nothing alike, so they aren't relatives. They ask her about him, but she doesn't answer—they assume she's his plaything. And seeing as she's but a child, that's where filthy comes from."

"Filthy Frank," Jaime understood. "Is it true, though?"

"No!" Melissa said in a quiet but firm voice. She just appeared behind us. "They don't know anything about us. Why would their whispers be true? He's doing so much work to help you all across and you're staining his name."

Yukon raised his hands in defence. "Sorry, m'lady. They just asked why he's called Filthy Frank."

"We're often stuck with the names our enemies give us," I told her. "That's how history usually works."

Melissa walked away in annoyance. The three of us followed her, leaving behind Yukon to pick off his leg hair.

"M'lady? You're a noble?" I asked as we joined her in sitting under the shade of the nearby oak tree.

Melissa shook her head. "Everyone here says I'm a princess and that Frank is my sworn knight. So they all call me My Lady."

"Well, compared to everyone else, you do look like a princess. And Frank does look like a knight minus the armour."

"You don't need armour to be a knight."

"I know, I was just trying to sound poetic."

"By the way, thanks for fixing the cart earlier. Everyone was planning on staying up all night to fix it."

When we arrived, there was a cart missing its wheels on the outskirts of the camp. Jaime carved out two large wheels that would make it easy for the cart to traverse the sands. It took me a little under an hour to fix it to the cart.

The cart would house all of our water and supplies. It would be pulled by a strong horse Frank planned on renting from the Rohan Company with the little money they had.

"So you and Frank aren't related?" Jaime wondered, stroking her chin. "So what is he to you?"

Melissa didn't know how to answer at first. When she thought of an answer, she gave a smirk. "He's my knight."

The encampment looked like the beginnings of a slum. Tents with holes and fabric made of disfigured colours. Unkempt and grimy people with grotesque body parts left over from a disease they couldn't afford to treat. And the worst part of it all was the smell.

What had these people suffered that dying while crossing the desert would be the preferred option?

I didn't know—or maybe I just didn't want to. I had passed by and confronted the poor numerous times while I was Decan and ran into a few of them while I was at the Capital, but I never really paid attention.

Now that I was among them and could share the boat, I realized they were no different. They were just people who were down on their luck. If fate had treated me a little differently, I would be one of them.

I never would've had my eyes opened like this if I didn't get this second chance at life.

The Desperados called out to us, letting us know that Frank and the others had returned.

Jaime and Clint went out to meet them, but I grabbed Melissa by the shoulder so that we could stay behind alone.

"M'lady," I corrected her.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Lowborn girls say M'lady, not My Lady. I've been around nobles long enough to know the difference. If you're going to pose as a commoner, it's the small things that give you away."

Melissa just stood there. For a moment, I noticed an arm phase out of her own. A yellow arm with round hands and three fingers.

By instinct, I partially summoned Zenyatta's arm coming out of mine.

And just like that, her phantom arm was gone the next moment.

Is she a Stand User?

"I don't know who you are or why you're hiding. I'm not trying to hurt you or do anything against you. I'm just giving you friendly advice. It's a good thing I caught it before anyone else did."

Melissa let out a breath of relief. "I'm sorry. It's nothing."

The Desperados had formed a circle around Frank and the others. They made a path for Melissa and me to get through.

"No luck?" she asked.

"I'm afraid we've run out of it," he said. "Or maybe fate is just telling us to save it for when we actually cross."

I butted in. "What are you trying to find, anyways?"

"None of us know how to cross the desert. I've been trying to find someone who can draw us a map to get to Roa. I've asked around and found no one that can help."

"Wouldn't the tracks from the expedition team still be there?" Jaime asked.

"On normal terrain, definitely. But this is the Great Sand Sea. This thing has a mind of its own. It will hide the tracks."

"Have you asked the archaeologist guy or whatever?"

"Archaeologist?"

"Yeah, he's gone into the desert multiple times to look for lost cities and came out alive. Maybe he can draw us one."

Now that she mentioned it, I remember who she was talking about. The worker at the Rohan Company yesterday mentioned this man.

He might be in town!

With nothing to lose, Jaime and I, with Clint forced to tag along, accompanied Frank to the Rohan building. The worker we talked to yesterday was at the back cleaning horseshoes.

"Oh, it's you two kids again," he said after we asked his coworker to call him. "What can I do for you?"

I took charge of conversing for the group. "You told us yesterday that an archaeologist had gone into the desert and come back eleven times. Do you happen to know who he is?"

"Now that you've asked, I never really asked for his name. He just comes in and rents horses a couple of times. Our talks never lasted more than a few minutes."

"Is there anything you can tell us about him?"

"He's in town. I'm sure of it. There's always talk whenever he leaves. Oh! Talking about him has gotten the gears in my head moving. He always mentioned that he enjoyed hanging out at this tavern. It's called the Lost Ark, if I remember correctly."

After an hour of walking around town and asking the locals, we found the tavern the worker mentioned right in the middle of Orisa.

Since it was nearing the end of the day, the regular patrons began showing up. The morning workers were finishing up the delivery of booze.

The customers gathered around a table that was in the middle of a heated poker game.

We have to find this archaeologist and get out as fast as we can. We don't want to be trapped in the evening rush.

A bartender made his way to serve us. "What can I do for you?"

"We heard that an archaeologist enjoys hanging out here," Frank said. "We want to know about him."

"Hmm. This is a business, you'll have to buy something if you want me to serve you."

Frank scratched his shaved chin. "Fine. Four lemonades. Put a shot of vodka into one."

The bartender poured us our drinks while he kept an eye on the rising poker game. The four of us grabbed our glasses and chugged them in one go. Frank gritted his teeth a bit at the alcohol.

"So, you're looking for an archaeologist, huh? You'll have to be more specific. This town and Roa have about two thousand aspiring archaeologists between them."

"The archaeologist we're talking about has ventured far into the desert and has come back every single time."

"Oh. Him." The bartender pointed to the gambling table. "He's the man at the far end."

The man he referred to had about half as many coins on his side of the table. His eyes focused on the dealer shuffling the cards. He crossed his arms, studying his opponent. There was a scar on his chin that made him look like a man with experience.

The dealer dealt them their cards faced down on the table.

His opponent picked up his five cards, switching out two of them. "Are you going to switch any of your cards?"

"No." The archaeologist interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on them. "These cards will do."

"Huh? Those cards will do?" the opponent pointed at the remaining five face-down cards on the table. "You haven't even looked at them."

"These cards will do."

"You're telling me you're willing to raise to my bet? You're going to call?"

"I'm going to tell you what your hand is. From your left to your right—four of diamonds, five of diamonds, six of diamonds, seven of diamonds, and eight of diamonds. You have a straight flush."

His opponent placed his cards on the table. "What the hell? Are you cheating?"

"I'm not cheating. You can ask everyone who's been watching. So, that means the only hand that can beat yours is a royal flush."

"Are you telling me the cards you haven't even looked at is a royal flush?! You've got to be joking."

"I'm going to raise the pot." The archaeologist pushed all of his money forwards. "I'm all in."

"Raise?!" the opponent shrieked. "There's no way you have a royal flush. At least not without switching out a few cards!"

"Then call! If you have so much confidence in your hand, raise it. What'll it be? Call or fold?"

The opponent began to rapidly draw breaths. So many things must've been going through his mind. In contrast, the archaeologist remained unwavering. Even someone who was a master at reading people wouldn't be able to tell if he actually had a royal flush or not.

I have no stakes in the game and even my heart is beating.

"Call or fold? Come on, it's only money!"

"Cheating scum!" The opponent pushed his chair back, drawing his pistol.

Instinctively, I summoned Zenyatta, commanding it to put my companions in its three protective bubbles and put itself in front of me.

The cracking of a whip was how long the 'fight' lasted. In one slick motion, the archaeologist had taken out his bullwhip and used it to disarm his opponent's pistol.

"I wouldn't have cared if you grabbed your money and ran," he explained. "I don't care that you drew your pistol at me. What pisses me off is your disregard for the safety of everyone else here. There are people in between us and behind me. People you could've hit and killed. Get the hell out of here."

The opponent was frozen in place for a few seconds. Moving with desperation, he grabbed as much of his money as he could and fled. He left behind about half.

The archaeologist slid the gun to the bartender, who tossed it into a bin full of firearms. With the danger behind us, I unsummoned Zenyatta and its bubbles.

That whip. It's weak, but I know a cursed artifact when I feel one.

"He left some of his money behind, but I don't think he's going to come back for it." The archaeologist put away his whip and raised his glass. "The next round is on him!"

The bar erupted into cheers as the bartender made his workers take out a barrel of the newest shipment of booze.

"Did he really have a royal flush?" Jaime wondered, turning over the archaeologist's cards to reveal—a three of clubs, five of spades, seven of hearts, four of clubs, and ten of hearts. "Mister, your hand was utter shit!"

He grabbed and handed the four of us cups. "I know."

Clint began to happily drink the ale.

"Wait, you knew drew a bad hand? Why did you go all in?"

"I had to bluff him into thinking I had a royal flush. If we kept on playing, I would've gone broke. So I scared him into forfeiting—though I didn't expect him to draw his pistol."

Frank cleared his throat, reminding everyone why we were there. "So, are you the archaeologist who's crossed the desert and come back eleven times?"

"The one and only." He put on his hat and spread his arms to show himself in full before chugging his drink. "I'm the one and only Coleman Trebor—but I prefer if you only called me Trebor."

When we explained how we wanted to cross the desert on our own, he just sat there, nodding and asking the occasional question. People from the bar would come up and thank him for the drink but he would return his focus to us immediately.

Trebor was all ears.

"I suppose I can draw you a map on how to cross the desert."

He wanted something. You could always tell if a person wanted something just by the way they phrased things.

Frank tsked. "We're Desperados. We don't have much money to offer."

Trebor studied the four of us, slowly drinking his now warm mug of ale. "You, Desperados? The people outside town are desperados, but you four definitely aren't. I've seen enough to see the difference."

"What?"

"Desperados own nothing. The wizard's got an expensive staff, the girl has three well-made swords—cursed swords at that, the gunslinger's wearing a tailored outfit, and you, Old Man, are wearing an expensive locket."

Frank instantly put his locket down his shirt. "So you want us to sell you our stuff for a map? Like hell we would."

"That's not what I want. All I'm saying is that you're not the type of people who would usually cross the desert on foot. Desperados own nothing and if you were one, you would've sold what you have to pay for the fare across instead." Trebor leaned back in his chair. "You watched my poker game. I'm a man that knows how to read people. And you, Frank, are an open book. There's something from your past that gnaws away at your heart."

"Enough."

"You think that the only way to make it go away is if you do this one deed. If you do this one thing, maybe it'll stop hurting. You're broken. You've lost a part of yourself when you lost someone close to you and you're trying to forget, trying to move on."

"That's enough." Frank curled a fist, slamming his left hand into the table. Suddenly, the table transformed into several large pieces of uncut lumber, all crashing to the ground.

"Do you know how I know, Frank? It's easy to read someone when their wounds are the same as yours. I too have something that gnaws at my heart. That's why what I want is not money. All that is meaningless."

Frank sighed, lightly punching the lumber as they repaired themselves back to a table. "What do you want, Trebor?"

"I want you to let me join your group. I want to escort you through the desert myself."

"What else?"

"If we find any ruins that I haven't explored yet, you must let me explore and investigate. If there are any artifacts, they belong to me, but your group will help carry them. And lastly, I will receive credit for any finds."

"Hold on," Jaime shouted. "I have to be in Roa in a month. Why the hell do we have to stop to study broken buildings? Besides, the people we're with have limited supplies and can't afford to wait while you play historian."

Trebor nodded in agreement. "You do bring up a good point with the supplies. I'll lead you straight to Roa, which'll give us seven days to spare. But once you finish up your business there, you must help me with digging up the artifacts."

" I don't care what you want me to do as long as it's after I finish up my business."

Frank finally drank his ale. "We're on a tight schedule. How do you feel about us leaving early in the morning tomorrow?"

Trebor adjusted his hat so we could see his grinning face. "I feel great about it."