Xesi

The Past

"To invest is to plant a copper penny and watch it grow into a golden tree." -excerpt from First Principles by Ven Praxus, founder of the World Bank

"Breathe in the chaos, Scout," said Wick, his arms spread wide like a husband coming back from a long trip to greet his wife. There was a fevered madness in his eyes Scout had only ever seen glimpses of. "This is the battlefront for the only war that matters. Money."

Whistles, chirps, and caws of different tones filled the Glimmerrest central market. Plumins, the bird people Wick spoke so highly of, gestured wildly with their flightless wings with customers from different cities. Pidgeon plumins screeched with pretend outrage. Macaws rubbed their wings in that creepy way only merchants and Lanton did. Strange aromas from the spice district wafted in from the north. Plumin nests held a mishmash of wares.

Some of the larger nests held tools made of the same pluminwood like Wick's spade while others were filled with an assortment of metal weapons that roused Scout's curiosity. Berrma had given a not-so-polite smack on the back of his head when his gaze on the weapons lingered too long for her taste.

"Pilgrims of the Limitadus do not need swords," Berrma lectured. "We are our own weapon."

Despite Scout's deep hate for Lanton and what he had done to Pebbles, the heroic tales Lanton spun had struck something in him. None of them involved barehanded fighters. They all had magical weapons that could cut up a monster or two, like the Autumn Sword himself. His favorite stories involved the heroes who were born as orphans, who never knew their parents, only to find out they were the sons or daughters of kings.

Scout knew he wasn't special. He wasn't even average. By Morgoth's unholy balls, what he would have given just to be normal. His body was weak and his lungs were just glorified fart bags. He was worse than normal. He was a liability.

That didn't stop him from sometimes dreaming that his mermother would come floating in the tide telling him he was wrong all this time, that he was special. Whenever the fantasies were wiped away by the cold reality of Outlast, Scout reminded himself that thinking like that was stupid.

Hope was dangerous.

Like all halfbreeds of the sea nymphs, Scout had been born from the foam with no memory of his own parents, washing up on Outlast's shore just like Pebbles had. Since then, he'd walked around with the knowledge that the waters didn't want him and the land barely tolerated him. It was as if he had a hole in his pocket his entire life. Even if he got his hands on something good, it'd just slip away.

It took hard lessons and his sharp mind to get used to the feeling. Eventually, he adapted, growing cold and wary.

Then, Wick had come along and changed everything. He didn't sew Scout's pockets for him the way Pebbles had. It was like Wick gave him new clothes with his new name, and in a single night, Scout had become an entirely different person.

Now, they were in the central market of the nation's capital filled with ridiculously tall buildings that should have fallen over but didn't. Things were happening so quickly that he barely had time to take it all in. Of course he felt wonder and hope for a future that no longer involved eating dead rats, but honestly? Scout was a little pissed. Wick usually took the time to explain things to him, but ever since coming out of the magical ass-end of a giant monster worm, Wick had been unusually quiet.

When Scout's mind stopped spinning at the whirlwind of the morning, he finally settled on a question. He turned to Wick whose eyes bounced between each plumin nest the way the other orphans had looked when eating rabbit stew.

He tried to keep his voice level. Even though Wick was always in control, the guy was unpredictable. Scout said, "Why are we here? No lessons please. Just give it to me straight."

Wick raised his eyebrows in surprise but still kept his gaze flicking from nest to nest. "That confidence in your voice is new. Good. Tame it."

Scout ignored the rare compliment. "I said no lessons."

Wick snorted. "We are here to spend nearly all eighteen bronze, five iron, and ten copper pennies I have on me."

Vein, who trailed behind Berrma like the bald woman was the second coming of dragons, blurted, "You had eighteen bronze pennies this whole time?"

Scout agreed with her anger and shock. Wick had been holding out on them.

Berrma tilted her head, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. "And you let me pay for the wormhole?"

Wick said, "You'll pay for our exit portal, too. Vein, this money is an investment."

Berrma clicked her tongue. "I figured for how greedy you were that you'd be a spendthrift. Whatever we're here for, make it quick. Noonbell is an hour away."

Wick chuckled. "Misers are poor people who want to stay poor. To paraphrase Ven Praxus, you can only save as much as you earn, but what you can earn is limitless. Investing is like planting a copper penny that grows into a golden tree."

Scout felt himself slip into his persona as Wick's student when he replied, "You gotta spend pennies to make pennies."

"Exactly," Wick confirmed. "But the trick is to spend the least amount for the highest value."

Scout noticed Wick's eyes settle on a single plumin. The nest was the smallest of the dozens surrounding it. Without hesitation or explanation, Wick walked toward it.

Only Scout followed. Vein trailed Berrma, who chased after a rolling cart pushed by a leatherback. The cart held a glass case with dozens of enchanted wadescrolls, each with their own symbols. Scout wondered why Berrma would need enchanted scrolls if she could break a man's back like a twig over a knee.

The plumin with the small nest was lazily smoking his hookah while pushing his pieces on a board game. From the looks of it, the bird was playing against himself. While all the other birds were a few heads taller than even the largest human, this one was as small as Scout was, maybe even smaller. It didn't even have to sit at the low table that held the game board.

To Scout, the bird seemed like the most ordinary bird of all the plumins in the market. All the other birds sported rich colors. This bird was entirely black except for a large white spot covering his chest.

Wick approached the bird slowly when they got closer, and didn't speak, only watching the bird's game intently. Even with all the noise around them, Scout tried to quiet his huffing from trying to keep up with Wick. He was always a little self-conscious of his labored breathing. It was just another reminder of his weakness.

The small black-and-white bird with a cone-shaped beak sucked in a puff from his hookah and breathed out smoke through his beak. Without a word, he looked up, nodding his head to Wick at the game board.

Wick reached out with his non-spade hand, and moved one of the pieces. Scout didn't know exactly what was going on, but he knew what it looked like when two people were squaring up for a fight.

The bird and Wick each took a turn moving the pieces back and forth, trading one for another and removing some off the board. Sometimes, the pieces would come back on the field. Scout tried to see a pattern in the game itself, but found nothing. Then he remembered one of Wick's lessons.

Don't play the game. Play the player.

With that, he shifted his focus on Wick and the bird. In an instant, it became obvious who was getting the upper hand. When the game began, both players moved the pieces without hesitation. It was only a fraction of a second, but Wick's time between moves was getting slower. He had the same frustrated expression when speaking with Rax a few days ago.

Finally, the game stopped. Nearly all the pieces were back on the board, but in reverse order, as if someone had turned the board around. Wick whistled five crisp notes, an impressive imitation of the plumin's language. Even though Scout didn't know the beautiful and chaotic language, he understood the feelings it gave: respect, admiration, and annoyance.

The black-and-white plumin whistled one note back, and gave the same look Wick gave Scout when there was a lesson to be learned. The bird spoke in a soft, high-pitched voice. "You've improved, but you're still too eager to win. The reverse-draw will always elude you if you can't tame your wants."

Wick scowled. "And you'll never beat a leatherback at xespi, you vile little penguin. May all your feathers lose oil and your beak rot by noonbell tomorrow."

The bird smiled lazily, blowing out a lazy puff of smoke. "You know the saying. It doesn't matter how good you are, there's always a leatherback better than you. Glad to see you finally have a...friend? I remember you clearly telling me you don't do friends."

Scout felt the tension between them was gone. Wick said, "Carvahal, this is my student and soon-to-be business partner, Scout. And Scout, this is Carvahal, the only plumin merchant allowed in the skillmonger guild."

"Pleasure to meet you, Scout." The bird nodded politely to Scout, and Scout noticed a few graying feathers below his beak. Carvahal's eyes stared at Wick's leather jacket. Wick seemed to squirm under the gaze. The bird smiled and said, "From the slight bulge in the secret compartment in your jacket, I'm guessing you're here to buy...I'd say one level-two skill?"

How did the bird see that?

Wick muttered quietly, "Cursed Crawl, no warming up?"

Carvahal gave him an amused look. "Do divali spiders stretch before they attack? No. They're always ready for the kill."

"True enough," Wick groaned, off balance. He closed his eyes, breathed in, and let out a slow breath. "One day, plumin, I'm going to beat you at xespi, and we're going to have a real haggle."

"Unless you find a way for me to live five hundred years, I don't see that happening," the bird shot back playfully. "Now, take a look since you don't have so much time after not playing a game with me for half a year."

"You're the one who taught me pleasantries are necessary but shouldn't be lingered on," Wick said.

Carvahal stepped aside and gestured wide with his wing like opening a curtain. Inside his small nest were three dozen cards. Scout's mouth dried up. They weren't playing cards. They were Skillcards. He didn't think he'd see one up close until the forceknights came to pick him up for his mandatory military service. Vandia loaned out a low-tier level one to all who entered.

Of course, Wick would keep the cards to himself, but Scout had a small hope. Kumhail's Elementary Principles of Elementary Sourcery said that buying skillcards was tricky business. Even if you bought it, there wasn't a guarantee you were able to equip it, even if your first skill slot was unlocked. Everyone was different. According to Berrma's lesson, it was all because each person was born with a different number of chakras.

Maybe if Wick couldn't equip one, he'd give it back to Scout. Then Scout caught himself. Hope was dangerous.

Wick inspected each card reverently, taking only a few seconds to hold them. Scout bent over to look, too. He saw something confusing and asked Carvahal, "Why do some of them have the same skill name but different effects?"

The bird whistled low and pondering. "There are a few reasons. The main one being that some of these skills were already used and sold back."

Wick cut in before Scout could ask a question. "We haven't covered that part of Kumhail's yet, but it involves skill mutation. No one knows exactly why, but if you gave a set of identical twins the exact same skill and asked them to return it back in a few years of heavy use, both of the skills would come back with different effects. We use the skills, and the skills themselves adapt to our body and how we use it. The Skillia has spent centuries studying mutations with the express purpose of creating more powerful skills."

Carvahal cooed approvingly. "Generations of passing down a mutated skill to be evolved by the descendants has made the nobles of the country powerful. I'd give up my white feathers just to own even one of their level one skills."

"How powerful can they be?" asked Scout.

Wick frowned. "Let's just say centuries of money and power allows their spoiled children to graduate the first level of the Skillia, which in turns gives them officer positions in the military. My Cut wouldn't hold a candle to one of them."

The charcoal-haired boy picked up six cards, handing them to the plumin and said, "Eighteen bronze for all of them. That's all I can afford."

Carvahal's easy demeanor tightened. "Besides your late father, you might be my favorite human, but that doesn't mean you get to push your luck with me."

Wick's voice was confident and calm. "I've come to learn exactly how much luck I should push. Bold and gold, old bird. Bold and gold."

Carvahal set aside his hookah and rifled through the six cards quietly. He hummed a quiet tune before saying, "Eighteen bronze and five iron."

Wick gritted his teeth. "Eighteen bronze and two iron."

Carvahal's expression drooped, not into anger like Scout had seen so many merchants do, but into grief. The plumin spoke so low, Scout could barely hear the words. "Normally, I'd tell you to come back tomorrow for the fun of it, but not today. I'll take eighteen and three from you without argument because your father was one of the few good men left in the world."

Wick's expression was a stone. He said tightly, "Deal. No more talk of the past."

The bird studied Wick, his grief plain. "If the group had better financial backing, they might have all come home. The fact that Path was the only one of that group to come out of the Labyrinth was a miracle and a testament to his abilities as a dungeoneer. You should be proud."

At those words, Wick's expression darkened. Everything about him screamed he was hostile. Scout felt his entire body stiffen from the pressure Wick was giving off. He'd never seen someone so angry without speaking a word, and he hoped he'd never have to witness something like that again.

Wick quietly reached inside his jacket and pulled out eighteen bronze and three iron pennies, slapping them hard on the game table. Without looking at the plumin, he picked up all the cards. He snarled venomously, "Penguin, don't you ever tell me to be proud of my dad. There is never a day I'm not proud to be his son."

He stormed off toward the central market's water fountain. Scout stood with Carvahal in silence, wondering what kind of man Wick's father had been. Maybe having parents wasn't all that great because you'd have to watch them die one day. Scout had seen that kind of grief crush adults all the time. He couldn't imagine what it'd do to a boy.