by J. Tynan Burke
in Issue 96, January 2020
There are monks in the far west who you may have heard of, called Harvesters. They teach that every day changes your life forever. Of course, some days change it more than others; this is about one of those days. I was sixteen, a good age for it.
First give me a moment to tell about my ancestral home: Samyra, the Jewel of the South, the City of Palaces. This rain-drenched citadel is built on top of a crag that sticks up from the middle of the coastal Samyran Basin. During flood season—most of the year—the Basin fills to become a tidal estuary. This is the Samyra you may know: the libertine home to a hundred thousand, the last port before the sea for half a continent’s ships.
I’ll forgive you for not knowing about sheylur; non-natives rarely do. The ‘sheylur tvez yan-ti’—literally the ‘brief pause between floods’—is what we call the season when the basin drains, and Samyra becomes an oversized hillfort in the middle of a marsh. It is a time to breathe, free from the crush of commerce. Only a skeleton crew of natives stays behind, farming the revealed earth below. Groups of tradesmen go up in shifts to repave roads and do other intrusive work.
But Samyra still gets visitors, enough to warrant a weekly overnight trip up to the city itself. I used to lead these trips. This is the story of my first time, my final test before becoming a Junior Watcher, an achievement more important than the name suggests. As is often the case with stories, this one’s not too interesting until things start going sideways. So:
The visitors and I were at the tradesmen’s dinner, surrounded by my fellow Builders, when I first realized the newlyweds were thieves. The square where we ate was enclosed by apartments, many with thickets of scaffolding. The other visitors were gawking at the completed facades, but the newlyweds were inspecting the ones covered in bamboo—the ones that were easy to sneak into.
I ate a last piece of stew-soaked bread and stood up. Time to let them know I wasn’t a pushover, and maybe prove it to myself along the way. Sliding in across from them at the picnic table, I said, “First time to Samyra?”
The man’s eyes traced down a gutter pipe to look at me. I tried not to blink at his unnerving gaze. “It’s magnificent. Isn’t it, dear?” He touched his bride’s arm.
She looked away from a jut of scaffolding. “I’ve never seen such luxury. At home we all live—”
The man muttered, “No reason to bore the young lady,” and the woman trailed off, looking as nervous as I felt.
I reminded myself that I could work the roof of a twenty-story building without flinching. Surely I could handle putting a couple of thieves on notice. I’d do it by catching them in a lie; maybe then, knowing I was onto them, they’d decide not to try anything. And they’d given me an easy lie to expose: they claimed to be from the east, even though they had the Avaridian accent and pale skin of northerners.
“No, please,” I said, spreading my hands and attempting to smile. A Junior Watcher has courage, Ailyn. “I’m an apprentice Builder. I love hearing about foreign construction.”
The woman put her palm behind her neck. “Ah.” The homes she described were neither particularly eastern nor structurally sound. Either she’d made it up, or her local Builders were foreign idiots.
“Such unusual construction,” I said. The woman looked like a spooked cat. I widened my smile, which was genuine by then.
The man grumbled in a language I didn’t know.
Right then somebody struck a drum, and a drinking song roiled through the crowd of tradesmen. Some Builders had broken out a cask of yan-chu. The newlyweds scurried away, barely pausing to excuse themselves. I stayed seated a minute, partly to give them space, partly to decompress with a deep breath of the sawdust-infused air. I followed the crowd to the cask, then took my cup and sat atop a large planter, where I could see all the visitors. The yan-chu was raw and cloudy and burned my throat. I savored the sensation like adults were supposed to do.
Hopefully that would be the only hiccup during the trip. I didn’t need more unexpected developments; Watch Commander Ishenti had given me enough of one during my briefing the night before. A Harvester had come just after sundown, claiming the authority to collect a dead parishioner’s most cherished belongings. Ishenti and I had agreed that it sounded iffy, almost like theft outright. But the monk had his papers in order. I’d told myself I didn’t have a problem with it, and almost believed it.
If I could manage those two complications, I’d become a certified Junior Watcher. In exchange for the certification, my parents would let me travel as a journeyman Builder. It was an old dream, fueled by a life spent reading subversives, traveling vicariously through the heroes.
From my perch on the planter at dinner, I eyed the thieves, who were arguing quietly at the edge of the crowd. Elsewhere, the Harvester—who was not a thief, yes yes—was regarding the sky. His face was unreadable behind the owl mask he wore, a quirk of his order.
I looked up to follow the Harvester’s gaze. The storm clouds, which had been gathering in the north, had arrived. Drizzle pricked my hands. I hopped down and told the visitors to finish their drinks. We were going back to the southern landing, where we would spend the night. We had to go soon; getting caught in the rain inside the city walls would be a great way to lose track of my charges.
Head on a swivel, I minded everybody as we left the square. Soon we passed through a gate in the twenty-foot walls, which I chained shut behind us. The large links were slick and still warm from the day. I held their reassuring heft longer than I needed to. Then I turned and invited the visitors to join me in the pavilion shortly for a campfire.
First, thank the gods, I had to check the signal flags. A brief task, but a respite of routine and solitude no less. I trekked to the landing’s western edge and clacked open my spyglass. A thousand feet below, through the mist, I found the Watch tent, with no severe storm warning flag. Good—we would be safe staying on the landing, and I wouldn’t miss the new year’s festival, which began with the first bad storm of the monsoon.
Imagining a jaunty pen-stroke, I checked signal flags off my mental to-do list.
Watching the town go through its daily motions reminded me just how much I ached to travel. I’d had the same routine my entire life. At the same time, it was comforting. No matter how far I traveled, Samyra would still be there for me. I could venture out, find myself, and make my mark, safe in the knowledge that I’d be welcomed back. And make my mark I would, spreading Samyran building practices far and wide.
The energizing daydream was just what I needed. Ready to take on the rest of the evening, I lowered my spyglass, only to find a demon standing to my side. I jerked towards it, hands up in the sparring pose I’d learned from Commander Ishenti.
It turned out to be the Harvester, in his owl mask and burnoose. I stammered an apology and braced myself for another awkward conversation with him. He was harmless enough, but our exchanges had been rather forced.
“Oh, I’m used to people finding me frightful,” he said in his unfamiliar lilt. Below his mask, his mouth showed an understanding smile. He followed it up with a self-effacing bow. “Is all well?”
I tried an aloof shrug, but it felt more like a spasm. “Yep. I was just checking the forecast.”
He ignored my clumsiness. “Ah, yes, best to observe the seasons’ dictates on time. My own patron goddess, Ha-Rash, is quite strict on the topic.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” I said.
“Oh, the stories I could bore you with, child,” he said.
I winced. Child, with an implied stupid. Was that how the visitors saw me?
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he said with a wink. “I just came over to confirm that we are sticking to our schedule.” He tilted his head to the sky.
“Of course,” I said. “A little rain won’t stop us. You’ll still get to…” What was a good euphemism for taking a dead man’s valuables?
“To perform the harvest,” he offered. “Very good.”
I had to admit, that was a good euphemism. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Wonderful.” He looked to the horizon. “It is time for me to pray. I shall see you around the fire.” He ducked away, and his burnoose snapped as he turned.
A huge raindrop plopped on my head and seeped down to my scalp. My hair, which I wore close-cropped back then, would be soaked before long. My break was over; I jogged to my shelter and changed into a waxed linen tunic.
Our shelters were wood-and-canvas merchants’ stalls. Like the rest of the landing, they’d emptied for the season. Mine was near the gate. Behind it, away from the city, squatted a stone pavilion, to which I fetched a wheelbarrow of scrap wood. As I wheeled it inside between the columns, the sound of rain grew distant. Visitors were visible at the central firepit, chatting in the guttering light of the hurricane lanterns.
I prepared the kindling, mercifully avoiding splinters, while an enthusiastic visitor told me the news from his part of the world. The assassin that had killed the Avaridians’ emperor hadn’t done the same for their army; three lieutenants were each trying to become local warlords. It sounded terrible, and I told him so, though I couldn’t relate. With our walls and wealth, Samyra was too insulated from foreign politics. Just one more reason to get out.
A gust of wind brought rain hissing into the pavilion, splattering the edge of the firepit. I took it as a cue to light the fire. Soon the rest of the visitors had gathered, and we shared stories around the pit, enjoying the small cask of berry spirits I’d hauled up on the ass-cart. The first few stories I don’t need to repeat. A widow told one so bawdy I don’t dare repeat it.
The lanterns flickered in the growing breeze. Rivulets of water ran off the pavilion’s roof and gathered in pools. The heady smell of petrichor joined the wood- and oil-smoke. During a lull in the conversation, a slurring woman asked the Harvester why he was there. Her rudeness grated on me, but I was happy she’d asked. I’d been curious to hear his order’s rationale for what they did, but knew I’d just sound like a jerk asking.
“I’m always happy to explain,” the Harvester said, ignoring or oblivious to the impropriety. The chipper cadence of his accent rose above the storm. I cupped my chin in my hands and leaned forward to listen. Open mind, Ailyn, like a good Samyran.
“Consider this,” the monk said. He held up his wooden cup and ran his fingers down its carvings, which had been worn shiny by use. “One of my few belongings. It’s been to a great many places. Every polished spot, every dent, I have added to it. In a way it represents all I’ve done while I traveled with it.”
He took a sip of berry liquor and continued, “You all have things that tell stories, too.” He gestured at me. “The armband that Ailyn here wears—she told me this morning that this imbues her with the authority of Samyra’s Watch. It represents the culmination of years of training, of becoming the young woman we see today. It tells the rest of us that we are in good hands.” He shot me a smile, at which I nodded. The armband was just a loaner for this trip, but I wasn’t about to correct him for such a kind statement.
“Some of these objects, like my cup, are particularly tzanteg.” The Harvester drummed his fingers on his thigh. “The word does not translate well from the ancient tongue. It refers to something bearing the consequences of your life’s actions. For the younger of you, such tzantegita may not be apparent, but the older should be able to identify their own.”
Another insult? Or simply the truth? What did I have that would qualify? The armband wasn’t even mine to keep, not yet.
The Harvester said, “So: when a parishioner passes into the next world, it is my order’s job to identify and collect their most tzanteg objects, to harvest this cultivated fullness.”
He nodded to himself, and continued. “We consider it better to celebrate its bounty than mourn a corpse. And that, regrettably, is why I’ve come. We must harvest in the same season as the death, lest it grow stale.”
How awful. I shivered. When a Samyran died, beloved objects traditionally went into a household shrine, where the family could connect with them for generations. He was robbing the family of that connection.
Awful, to me, but… this parishioner’s family wasn’t my family. It was not my place to judge. A Junior Watcher welcomed all. And as a traveler, I’d have to deal with things even stranger. Or that was what my brain had to say on the topic. As much as I believed in these principles, it was sometimes hard to feel their truth.
The conversation seemed to run out of steam then. Perhaps everybody else was equally lost in thought. Just as well: I needed time to myself. I sent everybody to their shelters, poked the fire down into cinders, and retired to my own shelter by the city gate. The rain lashed the canvas walls; the squall was still getting worse. Had the forecasters miscalculated? No matter—our shelters could take the punishment.
I sat on my cot and pulled out the Avaridian subversive I’d brought. It told the story of a young man who’d discovered artifacts that proved the emperor to be a pretender. The emperor ruled his thinly-veiled allegory with an iron fist. You get the idea. But I couldn’t bring myself to read, instead looking past the borrowed book in my lap.
I didn’t have any truly tzanteg belongings. Things a Harvester might collect, or that would go on my memorial shrine. I got my books from the library. My Builder’s tools were rented. All I had was youth and potential, quite a prize to hear some tell it, but it didn’t feel that way to me. I’d have to remember to ask the monk about that in the morning. He’d encountered many storied lives; how had he seen people leave their marks on not just drinking cups, but the world?
I sighed as my body began to feel the effects of the day’s hike. My calves turned to mush. I decided to turn in for the evening. Since I had rounds to do at full-night, I wound a timer to wake me for it.
After it went off, I was sitting on my cot, blinking the sleep away, when a jangling and sharp crash from the north snapped me wide awake. It wasn’t the sort of sound storm-winds made. The muffled cursing afterwards wasn’t typical of the wind either. Somebody was messing with the gate—somebody who wasn’t very good at hiding it.
The trip was turning into quite an apt test for an aspiring Junior Watcher. I huffed out an exasperated laugh. I wanted adventure, right? Right. Well, duty called, then.
I slipped back into my tunic and fastened my toolbelt. Ishenti had lent me a crossbow for emergencies, stocked with flare bolts; it hung heavy from my hip. I stole out into the rain. The night was as dark as it ever got, the sky scabbed over with storm-clouds. Two shadows stood hunched by the gate, under the hurricane lanterns. I scurried between planters to get closer. I’d be safe if I only watched, for now.
It was, perhaps predictably, the suspicious honeymooners. They were scrabbling around with lockpicks and a hacksaw. Absurd, using those on the thick chains and sophisticated lock; but nobody ever said that criminals were smart.
Now what?
With the storm, nobody who mattered was likely to see a flare bolt, so I couldn’t count on backup arriving. I’d have to confront them myself, not that I had a plan. I only knew, with the certitude of youth, that my future depended on keeping them from disappearing into the city. In the moment, that was all that mattered.
Ishenti had taught me some combat, but he’d also said that a warrior’s true wisdom lay in avoiding it entirely. The latter sounded good to me. I didn’t want anybody to get hurt. Fortunately, these thieves didn’t know that. I’d use it to my advantage.
Their sawing and lockpicking continued. Could I just let them stay out in the rain until they failed? No. The chains were only supposed to stop people long enough to be noticed. There was no guarantee they’d hold.
Courage.
I slid off my useless hood, loaded the crossbow with a flare bolt, and stepped out from behind the planter, hoping I was visible enough through the sheets of rain.
“Halt!” I barked, shoving the crossbow in their direction. ‘Halt?’ part of me helpfully snickered. Only characters in subversives talk like that, Ailyn.
When the thieves turned around, I jabbed with the crossbow again. They pressed back against the gate. Their tools fell and clattered on the ground. A promising start.
“…Damn it,” the man said.
“This isn’t—” the woman said.
The man cut her off with a swipe of his hand. “So you’re going to murder us, then?” he said, face hardened.
Well, this was off to a great start. My eyes twitched down to my crossbow. Come up with something, Ailyn. “We’re going to the stable.” I nodded at the woman. “You can tie him up, and then I’ll do you. In the morning, we’ll all walk down together.”
“I’d prefer not to do that,” the man said. He stepped forward. He saw me flinch, and he flashed an animal smile. My finger twitched over the trigger.
“Oh damn the gods, Vedis!” the woman said. She yanked him back by the tunic and met my eyes. “It’s Ailyn, right? I’m Trijta, and this is obviously Vedis. Please, listen to me. And you—” She glowered at her companion. “We came to Samyra for a reason.”
Vedis slackened and snorted. “Alright.”
“Thank you,” Trijta said.
I held the crossbow as steady as I could. She’d saved me, for now, but I couldn’t back down until I was absolutely sure I was safe. Flashes of Vedis grabbing and punching me and worse came to my mind. Without thinking, I took a step backwards.
Trijta took a breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her face was full of grim determination. “We were prisoners,” she said. “Before that, I was a merchant, and Vedis—” She bit her lip. “—assisted me. Then we were dissidents. The empire threw us in prison. Our comrades broke us out during the recent… chaos.”
“And glorious chaos it was, after they slit that bastard’s throat,” Vedis said. He looked ready to spit.
“Helpful as always, Vedis.” Trijta made sure she had my eyes. She didn’t need to; hers were captivating. “We’re here on faked papers, breaking into your city, yes. But it’s because we’re trying to disappear. Samyra will be a good place for it during flood season, and in the meantime, who will look for us on an empty mountain?”
She looked at Vedis. “And we’re not murderers,” she said, with the tone I used to chide my brother. He grunted. “But we are at your mercy, Ailyn.”
I adjusted my grip on the crossbow, trying to will my heart down out of my neck. Gods help me, I wanted to believe her, but that could’ve just meant she was a skilled con artist. How was I supposed to figure out what to do? I’d been an idiot, too quick to rush in.
A lilting voice said from behind me, “Ailyn, if I were you, I’d put that thing down before it malfunctions.” The Harvester strode into view and stood to the left. The shadow of his hood was so total, I couldn’t make out his mask. “It’s none of your times to die.”
“My time—!” I said, glancing back and forth between the monk and the honeymooners. Going by Trijta and Vedis’s faces, they had no idea what was happening either. Carefully, I aimed the crossbow at the flagstones. “What are you doing here?”
“It appears I must put you in a bind. I am truly sorry.” The Harvester’s burnoose snapped back in a gust of wind. “At my full-night prayers just now, Ha-Rash told me that the season of the floods has begun. I am to harvest the tzantegita immediately. I was hoping not to disturb anybody, but…” He pointed the void of his hood at me, and the fugitives, and twenty feet up to the top of the wall.
The season had begun. The forecasters had been wrong after all. I’d miss the start of the new year’s festival—not a worthwhile concern, but the one my mind surfaced. The sort of thing a child worried about. Pull it together, Ailyn. The Harvester is an ally. Use that.
“I’ll take you inside the city if you help me restrain these two,” I said.
He shook his head, a sharp left-right. “Immediately,” he repeated. “I am already late. Again, my apologies.” And he whipped around and leapt at the wall. He kicked off the masonry, then angled towards Samyra and flapped his burnoose, shooting up and into the city. The motion reminded me of a squid. I vaguely expected trailing tentacles, but saw only the rippling fabric of his cloak, and then he was gone.
I don’t know how long I was staring at the wall, wondering what I’d just seen. Trijta brought me back to the present when she said she had an offer. “Pursue the Harvester,” she said. “Surely he’s more trouble than a couple of refugees. We’ll disappear when you open the gates, obviously, but you have my word that we’ll contact the Watch once you’ve all moved back.” She released her grip on Vedis, who held up his palms in a gesture of peace.
I wanted nothing more than to take her up on that. The monk, whatever he really was, could cause much more harm than these two. A part of me also wanted–needed–to speak to the fantastical creature. I’d already meant to ask him how to lead a life that would spread tzantegita everywhere. Now I was certain he’d have an answer worth hearing.
But could Trijta be trusted? I squinted at her. “Your word? Really.”
Trijta shrugged, unsurprised. “Fair enough. Everything we still own is in our shelter. Heirlooms, jewelry, land scrip. Things we’ll want back. Take it.” Vedis’s expression soured, but he caught himself.
There was no proof those items were in their shelter, or that Trijta and Vedis wouldn’t circle back to get them once I left. Worse, I wouldn’t get any proof; I had only my intuition to go by, and the Harvester could be gone soon. I looked them over to see if I’d missed anything that could help.
There—markings on Vedis’s arm, visible now that his hands were up. Five neat lines of text on his inner bicep, their function unmistakable: the Avaridians used them to track certain caste lineages, like others tracked livestock. Vedis’s tattoo was faint and broken, but still familiar; he’d tried and failed to abrade it off. He was, for lack of a better term, an escaped slave. Trijta had been honest about who they were fleeing.
So, what now? I knew what Samyra’s treaty with the empire said about fugitives. Under Samyran law, Vedis and Trijta were also petty criminals, even if they were bad at it. But detaining them seemed breathtakingly petty. Worse, it would perpetuate the Avaridians’ disgusting system.
From the way Vedis was shifting his weight between his feet, I could tell he was restless. I might not have much time to think before he did something regrettable. Fortunately, Watch Commander Ishenti had taught us a simple creed for moments like this: Above all, a Junior Watcher does what’s right. The moral choice was clear, though it didn’t make me any less nervous. What if they attacked me when my back was turned?
At some point you have to trust somebody, Ailyn. I decided that ‘somebody’ would be Trijta. With a nod at each of the fugitives, I pushed past her, and grabbed the padlock that secured the chains. The time it took for my shaking hands to guide the key in was agonizing. After I shoved open the gates, I took one last glance over my shoulder, then vanished into the night.
I’d obsessed about the trip a great deal the night before, which proved to be an advantage: I had the Harvester’s destination memorized. Even in my frazzled state, I was able to recall it. Through the dark streets, over a mash of wet pollen and sawdust, straight six blocks, a right there, a left here… focusing on the directions kept me from thinking about the decision I’d just made.
The hurricane lantern was already lit over the dead man’s apartment. I arrived just as the Harvester was leaving, a burlap sack perched jauntily over his shoulder. He stopped and turned, his face still enshrouded.
I froze under his hooded gaze. He hadn’t suggested I follow him. What was he thinking? What had I been thinking? *He could kill you, you idiot*.
“That was fast,” he called out over the wind whistling between the buildings. “Was it an easy decision?”
Or… he could try to be your friend? I swallowed my anxiety. “In the end,” I yelled back. It wasn’t the first time that day I’d pretended to know what I was doing. Maybe that’s what adulthood is like.
“Impressive. Please, follow me. It is necessary and proper to finish our task amicably.” He stepped onto the avenue and headed west.
Okay, so he probably isn’t going to kill me.
He walked down the street, hurricane lanterns lighting and snuffing themselves as he passed. My feet started moving before I made a conscious decision to follow. It was easy enough to rationalize as I caught up—I’d decided to trust Trijta, so why not him? Unlike her, them monk didn’t have an assistant who seemed to enjoy violence.
We did not talk as we traveled. Once again, to keep from thinking too hard, I focused on taking careful steps. The goop that littered the streets tried to force its way into my sandals whenever I stepped in it. At least the rain itself wasn’t a bother. Water had already soaked clear through my clothes, and my hair was already plastered to my skull.
Eventually we passed through the city walls and reached the western anchorage. The foundation’s edge curved north and south in a half-moon. The basin floor below was completely obscured by fog. My steps became ever warier as we approached the drop. This was a dangerous enough place when it was dry.
The Harvester turned to face me and pulled his hood off, still human, at least from the shoulders up. The hurricane lanterns around us flickered to life when he snapped his fingers. My breath caught, like a kid’s at a magic show. Stupid. Immature.
The monk tucked the burlap sack into his burnoose, where its bulk vanished. After a slight bow, he said, “Now, if you’ll accept my apology, we can conclude our business in a mutually-beneficial way.”
The same contractual formality he’d used earlier at the apartment. Reminiscent of tales of making deals with demons, or trickster gods. Just what *was* his goddess Ha-Rash? Could I trust her servant who stood before me? Might it be worse to reject his hospitality?
Too many questions. Time to go with my gut again. He’d apologized, hadn’t he? And for a justifiable decision, from his perspective. “Apology accepted,” I said.
“Excellent.” The Harvester smiled. The lanterns threw half-shadows of his mask all across his face. “It is customary that somebody who guides a Harvester to his bounty gets to ask a question.” He held out his hands in welcome, or supplication. “Any question at all.”
I opened and closed my mouth, and gave the uncanny man a terrified grin. One question. There was no doubt what I would ask, but should I? He could still be tricking me. Or maybe he granted wishes. There was even the chance he was sincere… did I have real reason to suspect he wasn’t?
“Come on, now. I’m a Harvester, not a monster,” he said. “I’m not going to trick you.”
A scoff slipped out. It must have been written all over my face. Fine; this was the most reassurance I was going to get.
My words came out carefully. “You speak of tzantegita, the marks people leave on their world. How…” It was a naive question, wasn’t it? I shifted a foot, already embarrassed. “How can I best make my own? I want to do something big, like journey up to the headwaters at Avarid and help rebuild.” I bit my lip. This all assumed I would be allowed to travel, that I hadn’t totally screwed up the overnight trip. “But I don’t actually know how to get started.” I took a deep breath and waited for his response.
He clapped once, causing me to jerk my head backwards. “An excellent question!” He withdrew a square of leather from his burnoose and pressed it between his palms. Smoke dribbled out from his grasp. When the smoke stopped, he held the square out to me. It had been branded with writing, which sizzled where the rain struck it.
How…? Another fiery trick from him, I supposed. I took the leather and used my thumb to wipe some of the char off its surface. I couldn’t recognize the script.
Smiling, he said, “My monastery runs a ship during flood season in a loop, down the rivers and around the coast, including a stop in Avarid.” He held a finger up to the sky. “The Rashta’s Glory. She always resupplies in Samyra. This will grant you a berth.”
Would it? I tried and failed to read the writing again. “Just like that?”
“Indeed.” He nodded, then tested his weight on each foot. “Now I’m afraid I have somewhere to be. Farewell, Ailyn.”
In one movement, he bowed and spun on his heel. Instinctively, I braced to catch him, but he was graceful even on the wet stone. He kicked off the foundation’s edge, and like before, swam his way through the air. Soon he vanished into the dark western sky.
So that was that. I’d made my decisions, and now I held the reward in my hand. Hopefully it had been worth it.
I watched the rain run down the anchorage walls, a sheet of water that disappeared into the mists. There were explosions then, and multicolored lights dancing against the fog. Fireworks. I was missing the first night of the new year’s festival. I learned later that the forecasters had been caught off-guard by the storm’s severity, just like the Harvester had.
I could still participate a little. I hefted my crossbow and pulled the trigger, aiming away from town and the Harvester’s path. The flare bolt streaked away, brighter than the hottest meteorite, and left a thick line in my vision.
The next day, I turned in my equipment and told Commander Ishenti about the fugitives. Mostly. I claimed that they’d successfully picked the lock right before I’d confronted them. They’d volunteered their belongings and then run away. I certainly wasn’t going to shoot them.
Ishenti grunted and said, “That’s a lot of paperwork you’ve volunteered the Watch for.”
I knew I’d let him down, but even so, his disappointment stung. “The Harvester got everything he needed, though,” I told him.
The Watch Commander leaned back and lit a smokestick. The moment of truth. I tried to limit my fidgeting to my feet, out of sight below his desk. A lot hinged on that lie, not that he would have believed the truth.
After a few puffs of smoke, he stood up and reached out a hand. “I knew I’d picked the right person for the job. Come back tomorrow morning, eh? We’ll need our newest Junior Watcher to sign a few things.”
We shook. Ishenti handed me the armband, mine to keep. I didn’t waste any time in excusing myself. He’d probably think it was to get away from the cloying smell. Truthfully, I’d needed to get away before I blurted out a confession. Junior Watchers weren’t supposed to lie.
It wasn’t that bad of a lie, though. Right? The situation had been nuanced. More importantly—and hadn’t this been the whole point?—I’d done my job, and nobody had gotten hurt.
Once more I got the impression that these were among my first truly adult thoughts.
My feet carried me to my family’s sheylur house, down the main road, which was already turning to mud. I looked up at the other side of the fog I’d seen the night before. Beyond it I caught glimpses of Samyra. It was the Jewel of the South, the City of Palaces, a cosmopolitan port of legend… and it was impossibly small.
©January 2020, J. Tynan Burke
J. Tynan Burke is a writer, editor, and software engineer. He lives in New York City with his husband and their enormous cat, Samwise. Some day, he hopes to be an old man futzing around in the garden. You can find more of his work in Metaphorosis Magazine and the upcoming Reading 5X5x2 anthology. He is the web as @tynanpants on Twitter, and at www.tynanburke.com. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.