"Tell me, does the boy have it?" Jiord reaches out and grabs my forearm.
"If we can't find a substitute soon, a messenger from the Board will come to investigate and that will turn ugly. We could educate him, guide him into the role, all with your supervision."
"How could I tell?" I ask.
"A mark manifests on the skin, like some sort of divine image drawn in black ink."
I wave him off. "Now's not the time for this. Perhaps, later"
"Wait—your palm, that's it! "By the Great Khan's Oath…" He grips my shoulder. "You've saved us. Tomorrow. Midday. The church. We have much to discuss."
"What are you talking about, I see." I turn my hand around. The two words 'One Promise' stain my palm in bloody scrawl.
This?
Looking back up I see him about to walk away, his gaze has snapped to someone from across the crowd, another man in clothes too fine for this place, watching us with keen interest.
"I must go. Do not mention this to anyone." He straightens his hat and strides away, already wearing that familiar smile.
After Jiord's departure, my shoulders droop and I breathe out.
You really trusted me, huh, Jim.
Or maybe this isn't just a power but a burden, one he couldn't let Tim handle. Either way, I am thankful for your trust in me and for this power I can use.
A shadow looms over covering me in shade.
I look up.
Two familiar figures, one big and one small stand before me and introduce themselves.
I glance at Tim, still sitting, and sigh. "So... Marcus and Marsley, yeah? Which one's which?"
A light chuckle echoes from the small one. "That's right I'm Marcus. Get it right next time. How was my hankie? Did it feel good using stolen property?" Marcus complains, tipping his brown sock-like hat to reveal a head of orange hair; all as he bows in mock ceremony.
"That was yours?"
"Well of course, why else would we be here, other than to return stolen property to the rightful owner?" he says with a wry grin, slamming his chest.
"You look way too dangerous and lonely out here in that night gown, why else would we risk approaching you" He straightens up, letting the hat wobble back onto his head, as he jumps off the table.
Finally some real fucken people.
"Sorry bout that, I think it looks good on me though. Considering you were one of the ones who dragged me out here, I think you simply wanted to see some of my bare skin."
"Why you little!"
"…Wait, Marcus?" That name seems familiar. Oh, I remember too—that Marcus.
The one I owe a drink to.
"You knew Jim, didn't you?" shifting the topic I probe.
"Ya figured it out small guy, sharp one, aren't ya. Now if I were to ask the same dumb question to you, what were yer answer be?"
"..."
"Some thinker, aint ya?"
Of course this scoundrel was your friend.
"Jimson said I had to pick his tab up for you." A joyful smile begins to form on his face, one he doesn't bother trying to hide.
"HAHAHA that's so him, pawning off his debt to you."
He continues chuckling, leaning on Marsley's waist for stability as his whole body wobbles.
"That made my day thanks for that" he adds, wiping a tear from his eye and blowing out a large dump of snot from his nostril onto the ground.
"So, Marsley, right? Nice to meet you too." I turn to the tall one and put out my hand.
He grabs it with a firm grip, causing me to suddenly wince, pulling it back.
"Ah, forgot to mention. This big guy can't speak a lick of anything, but he can hold his liquor amongst the other things." He gestures his thumb, pointing to a towering Marsley standing beside him.
"We've been my lifelong brother since way back, even before we came to this town. Had his tongue ripped out for… well, let's just say an indiscretion with a senior student of his righteous house. Hehe."
Rip out his tongue??
"That's horrible. What about the other guy?"
Marcus laughs, a higher, crackling sound this time. "Funny, right? Us unrelated trainees don't have rights. "Ain't that right, Mars?" He pats Marsley's bald head, now standing on a nearby chair he just dragged over.
"Get this, that senior even stood up for him! Must've really been in love. He was all like, 'No, don't execute him, on my name just please only cut out his tongue, so that he can't tell anyone.' Really nice bloke, that one."
"Nice." I can't help but snort.
"Happens all the time. People get worse for less, and we actually prefer it here. Country airs freedom, though the jobs are a bit dusty."
"So you're a couple then?"
"What! Oh no, no, not like that." Marcus waves his hands dismissively covering his face flushed. He trips over the chair and falls into Marsley's embrace.
"He saved my life once. I decided to stick with him to the end. That's all it's about."
"Right," I narrow my eyes, incredulous at the physical irony before me.
"What's with that look? You like pairing people up in your head? I can play that game too." Marcus pokes his head out from being cradled, grinning wickedly.
"You and the boy, bonded through tragedy, sharing a yurt, building a house together as tradition. Who knows what forbidden things happened last night? Bet you even cracked open his dad's special book—"
"Fuck no, he's a child!"
"Oh, but I bet you made him feel like a real man that night." He interjects.
I tense. My stomach sinks.
Where are your limits? That blow was low, even for you, tiny.
"See! Not so fun now, is it! Baseless accusations, they hurt deep!" Marcus throws his hat on the ground.
"You can put me down now, bro." he whispers up to Marsley and then is gently placed down so he can stamp back on his hat with his leather boot, jumping erratically as he does so.
Marsley then picks him up by his collar, resets the chair, and plops him back down, fixing his ruffled collar in the process.
"People talk. They always do. Best you learn that now short stuff." His eyes flicks to Marsley, then back to me.
Slowly exhaling, I nod. "Point taken."
"So where were we at matey. Ah that's right, what's yer name"
"Desmond, now tell me what lessons this world hasn't taught me yet, Boot Master Marcus."
Frowning to himself, his head visibly scans me up and down before responding.
"I may be the tallest and most handsome man you've ever seen but that doesn't mean I don't get around. Many people round here can't hold their liquor, and thus, you could say I know a thing or two."
I frown. "So…Heavenly Protection Board?" I shrug.
Marcus shrugs back. "What? Didn't Jiord not just tell you that?"
"No, he strangely ran off after mentioning it."
"Coward. Talks big about the ascendors, and his workload, but when push comes to shove, buries his head in the dirt. Few see past the exterior—they just see the charismatic fella steering the ship from the front. Hopeless at actually manning it from the rear."
I lean forward. "Then, what is it?!"
Marcus leans back, eyes glinting. Staring at me in silence. He gestures his finger for me to come closer.
Leaning in, his breath tickles against my skin.
"Why should I tell you, buckeroo?"
No way I'm this dumb.
"Ah." as I begin to open my mouth he speaks over me.
"How about this, if anyone gifts you any alcohol, save some for me"
"Deal!" I shove my hand out, "Now spill the drink for me brother!"
"That's a good one. I'll use that line next time I chat. Now, where do I start? Right right. Years back, there was this revolutionary bastard with brains, steel abs, a golden heart.
His name... Guttman Butch, dis fella, executed corrupt leaders, liberated his people, stole resources, even went toe-to-toe with the Heavenly Sky Palace.
Ascendors needed their resources, see, but our ancestor mort workers? Heh.. They bloated the shit out of dem prices. Even the simplest herb became expensive."
"What happened to him then?"
Marcus's voice lowers. "Ten days, ten nights. He fought a prophet from the Sky Palace's Pale Order. Desperate stuff—usually they fight demons up north, even used that renowned demon-extinguishing punch. Nothing survives that, well except him, he did, and it was for that action that they commended his bravery.
In recognition, they even formed the Democratic Board for Protection and Management of Non-Cultivators. Officially referred to as the 'Heavenly Protection Board'.
Each town/city was given the right to elect a mortal leader, called the Title Holder. They were allowed to govern us non-ascendors. Mort's govern the secular world; transcendents traverse the heavenly plains; or so it was designed to be."
"That sounds reasonable,"
Marcus snorts. "Pigs, In service to the Righteous Association. You think they'd actually give us power? Worst part—they titled Guttman a figurehead. Good excuse to take more from us. Refugees fled, camps like this were set up after the civil war all to burn the bodies of course. Discontent is still rising. We're already slaves, but at least we still have dignity."
I frown. "What makes them so bad?"
Marcus counts on his fingers. "Let's see: protection fees, things called tariffs on local trade, stockpiling necessities to drive up prices, forced indirect marriages to pay off fees related to burrowing, containing dissent… and, of course, mandatory yearly contributions to your local representatives.
Commit crime? They remove your mana core 'for safety.' Rare, but sometimes you're left deficient for the rest of your life all for stealing some bread—unable to walk, diseased, you name it. Supposedly it's all due to the nine detrimental cursed physiques you could be born with."
I wince.
"Sounds… awful."
"No way, really!" He retorts, slapping his forehead and looking confused. Marsley looks away and covers a huge grin plastered across his face as a rough puff of air escapes his throat. A moment later he leans back, returning to his usual stoic self.
"You little shit. If you think you're so great, come show me that drinker's spirit."
I grab a nearby bottle and toss it at him.
"You're on, Twinkle Bell!" he growls, hurling a bottle back, hard, aimed straight for my head. I just barely manage to just catch it.
For the next hour, Marcus and I trade insults and bottles, drinking each other under the table.
Tim cheers me on, letting out pure, unrestrained laughter every time I successfully balance the bottle on my head as I break into my clumsy adaptation of my signature Cossack dance.