Michael

  Milton checked the pocket of his trousers and pulled out what looked like a yellow sheet of paper, which he had folded several times. He opened it and placed it over the tea table. Michael picked it up to examine it more closely.

  The paper measured about 6 inches long and 8.5 inches high, similar in size to the pamphlets and cheap novels offered by street vendors in the city, yet the paper felt of good quality. Printed on it were the portraits of two men facing each other, with the words ‘Republic of Nivewall. The bearer is guaranteed the sum of five pounds,' written between them in black letters. Below was a signed text, in which the author guaranteed immediate payment of the bond once the dream of a free Nivewall had been achieved.

  On the other side of the paper was an image of a vast waterfall, drawn with simple, thin lines, just like the portraits of the two men. Michael recognized it. The waterfall was located in the north of Nivewall, where the Thin Sea, the world's largest river, flows west. Locals call the waterfall 'The Scream of Andrasta,' because of the roar of its waters. The number five was printed in the corners of the paper, both front and back, indicating the bond's value.

  “Republic of Nivewall,” Michael said, “Do you think this is possible?”

  “Never,” Milton said disdainfully. “This rubbish is just a bloody scam they sell to fools like my granddaughter. The silly girl spent her savings believin’ in a fantasy.”

  “You always start with the young ones when a revolution is your purpose," Emma said. "They have dreams and willpower to spare, no shortage of desire to prove themselves to their elders, to show that they, at last, will find the perfect solution to those age-old problems that have plagued us since antiquity. With their courage and youth, they tell us that to move forward, we must tear down the old customs and embrace new ways of thinking, even though these customs have been the pillars that founded and maintain our current society. To make a fire, you need wood, and it doesn’t matter where you get it, even if it means demolishing the house that saw you born and gave you shelter, because what matters is that we must change, move toward the future, abandon what is old and worn out, and everything rotten or aged by time. It is contagious, and I admit, it fills you with envy, this fire the young ones carry in their souls.”

  “What nonsense about fire you're spoutin’,” Milton snorted. “This damned thin’ will only get 'em in trouble. And for what? What do they expect is goin’ to happen? They think Asprain’s just goin’ to give up the territory without a fight. Damned fools. All o’ them. They don't know how horrible war can be… They know nothin’. Absolutely nothin." Milton remained silent, glaring angrily at the bond in Michael's hands.

  “That’s the motive of my words," Emma said. “Because they don’t know. When they finally understand that tearing down and burning the old customs wasn’t just a symbolism, but the harsh reality, that they need to wash their hands and faces with mud and blood for them to achieve their goals, it will be too late to change their minds.”

  "I won’t disagree with you on that," Milton said.

  “I don’t know, old man,” Michael said, rubbing the paper. “For a scam, it looks pretty well done.”

  “I thought the same thing when I saw it,” Emma said. “You can tell they didn’t economise on the printing and paper.”

  “Who are these two?” Michael asked. “I don’t recognize these faces, or the name in the signature.”

  “The one on the left is the owner of the signature. He’s former MP Paul Reilly,” Emma said. “The one on the right is General Ben Fox. Both are in prison for high treason. I understand they are among the leaders of the Heirs of Nivewall movement.”

  “But it seems the imprisonment didn’t stop the movement,” Michael said with a smile. “And what are they raising money for?”

  Emma shrugged. “Only the gods know. It could be for many things, some of which I hope I’m mistaken and nothing serious happens.”

  “Now that I think about it,” Michael said, “last month I saw a protest in Blackferr. It was a small march led by a group of young folks, mostly women. They were carrying banners calling for the independence of Nivewall and the abolition of the monarchy. More people were watching than participating, though. But what surprised me was how loudly the women were shouting. They sounded like they wanted to take on the world by themselves.” Michael looked at Milton with a mocking smile. “Perhaps your granddaughter was at the front of the march.”

  Milton turned pale and put his hands to his head, looking down.

  “Michael!” Emma screamed. A white light suddenly exploded around her, blinding him. "If you mess with Milton again, I'm going to burn your arse. Got it?"

  Michael regained his vision and noticed that Emma's right hand was glowing. She was glaring at him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, trying not to laugh. "I just couldn't help it."

  Emma's gaze fell upon the teapot. It began to float on its own, pouring a little black tea into a cup. Then a metal spoon mimicked the teapot and flew above the table, scooping sugar from a container and pouring it into the cup twice. The spoon then stirred the sugar and tea mixture very carefully for a few seconds before coming to a standstill. Emma took the spoon and handed the cup to Milton. "Drink this to calm your nerves," she said. Milton took the cup in both hands and began to drink. "Can't you see this is upsetting him? The poor man is worried they might imprison his granddaughter for treason."

  “It’s just a bond. I don’t think they’ll make a fuss about it,” Michael said.

  “We don’t know what the authorities are thinking. Therefore, it’s better to be safe than sorry. That’s why Milton wants to inform everyone at the next meeting, to prevent other youngsters from being taken in by these people.”

  “That’s a good idea. Hey, old man, there’s nothing to worry about,” Michael said. “The protest was at noon, and if I remember correctly, you said your granddaughter works as a maid, right? I’m sure she was working that day.”

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  “That’s true. You’re right,” Milton said. He drank the rest of his tea and slumped back on the sofa. Some color returned to his face.

  “I’ve read in the newspapers about the protests that have been happening all over the kingdom, but I never imagined it was this grave,” Michael said, putting the paper back on the table. “I thought it was just a small group of anarchists trying to screw everyone's lives over. I counted about thirty people in that march. There were more constables than protesters. The strange thing was that they let them march without bothering them.”

  “The police know what they’re doing,” Emma said. “I suppose the event’s sponsors, the real culprits, weren’t at the march. That explains the police inaction. As Milton said, ‘They know nothing,’ and are therefore easily manipulated. ‘Those who dream of war are those who hope not to fight in it,’ as the saying goes.” Emma took the paper from the table and put it in her pocket. “I’ll keep this until the next meeting. Remember not to mention anything we discussed here.”

  Both men nodded.

  ?“Well, I don’t think there’s anything else to talk about, so let’s move on,” Emma said. “By the way, Michael, how’s everything at Whitehill?”

  “Wonderful. Victor is back from the city. He got a week off from his job, so he came to spend the leave with the family.”

  “I’m happy for him. Although I still don’t understand what fascinates him about that job. It cannot be the salary.”

  “He does it to distract himself and to live alone. To be independent.” Michael took the last sip of tea and placed the cup back on the tray.

  “I see. I hope he enjoys his stay.”

  "He will. By the way, I came here ‘cause I want to ask you a question, and Milton too, but his can wait. It's about the idiot you have as a patient."

  Emma smiled. “Don’t you mean, ‘my idiot’. You were the one who brought that scum into my life.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m really sorry. Please forgive me. Next time I will throw him in the river. But seriously, I need you to answer something. Has Luke asked you or said anything about Denis?”

  Emma frowned. “Luke? You mean our Luke, the village carpenter?”

  "Yes, him. Tell me, has he asked you about Denis?"

  “Yes, he did, just as most folk in the village did during Denis's first days in the clinic. Everyone was curious to know who he was, and how and why he ended up in such a bad state. I think Luke did the same as the others and also asked him directly.

  “But what about afterwards? Let's say in the last few days. Julie told me that Luke has been asking Esther about the man to the point of exhaustion.”

  “No, that… That is strange. Why didn’t he ask me? I’m his doctor.”

  “I told myself the same thing,” Michael said, shifting in his seat. “Luke has never asked me about him, even though I visit his shop often. And guess what? I saw them together today at the clinic.”

  “Do you know what they talked about?”

  “I talked to Denis. He told me that Luke asked him about what happened to him. He wanted to know where he had been attacked and if he knew who the bandits were. Then he asked him where he was from. Denis replied that he was originally from Whitecross, but Luke didn't believe him, and started pressuring him for the truth. He tried to convince Luke that he was wrong, but Luke wouldn't listen to reason. He says the old man is completely mad and is confusing him with someone else.”

  Milton laughed. “Luke may be old, but he's no fool. That one's lyin'. And I'll eat my rod if he's really from Whitecross. He's probably not even Wallish.”

  “And what is your evidence?” Michael asked.

  “Well, easy—the accent, my lad. The beggar doesn’t sound anythin' like a Wallish man.”

  Of course, the accent. That's it. Why didn't I think of that? That might explain why Luke didn't believe him, Michael thought. “And where do you think he's from?" he asked.

  “I bet he's from Alba. His accent reminds me of my old land, just like your family and Emma.”

  We have this accent because Emma taught us how to speak the local language, not because we came from Alba, Michael thought. He glanced at Emma; she winked at him.

  “So you think he’s from Alba?” Michael asked.

  “Aye, definitely."

  “I say the opposite," Emma said. “I don’t think he's from Alba or any of the countries that constitute Asprain.”

  “Do you think he’s a foreigner?” Michael asked.

  “I was the one who asked Richard to lend Denis his guitar, and then I took it to him personally. I thought that by giving him the instrument, he would stay still and stop fooling around with the village women. He was so excited when I handed him the guitar that he immediately started playing it, violently strumming the strings and tapping the guitar's body. It was a brief, intense attack that lasted around a minute, with a rhythm I hadn't heard in years. The last time I listened to that style of music, I was on a beach on southern Iberia, celebrating New Year's Eve while eating turrones and polvorones until bursting, washing it all down with sangria.”

  Iberia, not Auray. Nothing that wretch said is true, Michael thought angrily. He was already beginning to regret agreeing to help Denis. “Didn’t you ask him about that?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t want to talk about it. And what were you doing at the clinic?”

  “Agnes asked me to talk to him. She’s afraid that the idiot will do something to Esther. I truly understand her concern.”

  Milton burst out laughing. “So they sent you to warn the scoundrel to be careful where he puts it, or he might lose it.”

  “That’s correct,” Michael said coldly.

  “And what happened?’ Emma asked, looking worried. “I hope Denis is not missing anything.”

  “Nah! We only talked. Don’t worry. He got the message.”

  “I already warned him to stop playing games with the village women,” Emma said. “I have a squad of men demanding his head, and I don’t know how long I can keep them at bay. But thanks to Esliana’s grace, he’ll be gone soon.”

  “Denis told me he can leave next week,” Michael said.

  “Correct. He’s almost healed. All he needs to fully recover is to eat and rest well. We’ll be rid of him very soon. And I hope this is the last time you bring trouble to my doorstep, you hear?” Emma said, glaring at him.

  “Tell that to Esther and Ale. They were the ones who insisted on bringing you to the moribund.”

  "And don't you have a mouth, or is it only good for arguing with Agatha or Natalia?"

  “It was two against one,” Michael cried. “What could I do?”

  “You’re a…” Emma let out a long growl. “Forget it. You will only make me angrier. Tell Agnes she has nothing to worry about. Esther is safe as long as I’m here.”

  “I told her that, but she wants to be sure,” Michael said. Thinking about Agnes reminded him of what had happened the night before. “We had trouble with some wolves last night.”