The hubbub of quiet voices seemed to grow quieter after Aralim spoke. He had lain amidst the shambling cots and mismatched bedsheets of the abandoned wooden house, along with a hundred paupers and lost people, but now they were sharing an enormous pot of morning stew that a charitable nobleman had brought to the shelter.
The bowls, lifted to people’s lips or resting on old wooden boards-made-tabletops, paused at Aralim’s question. “What’s the biggest difference between the people like us and the rulers of Maga, aside from finances?” he has asked the man he was sitting with.
A woman sitting to the man’s right leaned towards them, though she was eying his lantern staff. “That’s a dangerous question to ask. The bandits in these parts call themselves kings, and say there is no difference. Guards are looking out for talk like that… so we won’t be discussing it here.”
There were no guards around, save a patrol earlier that morning. “Humour an old man’s curiosity,” Aralim said to his companions, grinning innocently.
“Look what they did to Queen Zanna,” the man across from Aralim said, pulling a long strand of hair away from his mouth and tucking it behind his ear. He received a glare from the woman who had spoken and a few others. “I’m not saying I approve of her decisions. But how are they any different than us, killing each other in the dirt of this magnificent world?”
“They? The bandits? Or…?”
The man raised his hands, dropping his empty stew bowl. “No! The fine lords and ladies of our renowned city,” he declared. An old man three seats down the table from them scowled and stood up. He wasn’t the only one to seek some distance outside the shelter.
“The kindness of Maga…” Aralim muttered, though he raised a concerned eyebrow at the bluntness of the man’s remark.
“Truly,” the man muttered. “Still, it’s safer than other lands I’ve travelled. But in response to your question, nothing separates the rulers and the people save their opportunity.”
“The teachings of my land would say that’s no difference at all,” Aralim whispered.
The man smiled and went to fill a second bowl, if there was any stew left. They didn’t speak much after that. Aralim had spent a few days amidst these people, the earthen folk of Maga, who lived along the lake without ever touching it or drinking it. His comrades still stayed in the gracious accommodations of King Eilar, and, as he finished off his only bowl of stew with soured lips, he decided it was time to return to them. The Eye of Maga had nothing more for his Path, from the way it seemed. It was time to follow onward.
Dullah and Devran were each sitting in the shared living area of their Palace suite. They blinked when Aralim appeared, more dishevelled than he’d been in many months, in the anteroom of their temporary home. Dullah even stood up, her soft silky dress swaying over her curves as she leaned back against the block arm of the broad lounging chair. “Is it time?” Dullah asked. “Are you done your stint as a homeless man?”
“The stench will be worse on the road, I’m sure,” Aralim replied, smiling.
She laughed, but then mocked sadness. “I’ll go change,” she said, pinching a fold of the red and yellow pattern. The dress was thin enough to pick up her own dark complexion to tone it as a dark blouse, not a vibrant one.
“Letter came for you,” Devran piped up, slamming shut the covers of the book he’d bene writing in. He reached into the book satchel that hung from one shoulder and produced a sealed scroll.
Aralim pursed his lips. His blue-lit staff clacked the smooth wooden floorboards—each with a mazelike golden etching bordering where it joined the next plank—and grabbed the scroll from his friend. It bore a blue and gold design, the same sigil of the Royal Court of Maga, the light on the fields. He snapped the seal, which ironically divided the sun from the savannah, and opened the letter.
Its words were read quietly, in his mind, though his lips mimicked some of the words as he delved into his thoughts. “To the Walker Aralim, Please treat this letter with a diplomatic confidentiality, though it is more out of our personal connection as men of intellect that I share this with you. As Aide to great rulers, I am privy to a great deal of information. You seemed admiring of the Eternal Emperor but not blinded by him, so I would like to offer you a warning.
“Among a significant deal of evidence collected over the years is some concerning aspects of the Emperor’s identity—we have proof that he has personally received shipments of a wide variety of drugs. Many of these are serious hallucinogens, and some have permanent side effects to the subject’s psyche.
“I don’t expect this to change anything for you, but I respect your dedication to whom you perceive to be a great man. And I simply urge caution for you and those you care for. That said, I wish you speed and fortune in your travels. Rel.”
Aralim reread the message once, committing its contents to memory as best he could. Then he opened the tiny, tinted shutter on his staff and set fire to the end of the scroll with the oily flame inside. He held it as long as he could, until the smoky fire had claimed most of the parchment. Then he set it on the platter where the wine was held. The clay glowed with condensation as the cinders blackened.
The streets of Maga were often completely shadowed from the bright blue skies by tall two- and three-storey houses that were built directly against one another. There were few alleyways, fewer side-streets, and a large number of foot traffic. It took nearly an hour to find the proper street that led toward the Red Gate. And where else to find the Crimson Highway than the Red Gate?
The travellers from Rema were not expecting the fortress that awaited them beyond the broad archway of the wooden gate. Aralim wasn’t sure what he had thought would begin the Highway. Instead, they crossed a small footbridge from the city over a creek of the Toringa, and toward a three-storey fortress. The battlements and balconies hung red and burgundy banners toward guards with long spears or long bows. Their emblem was a shovel crossed with knife, but their colour itself seemed far more prevalent. The road wasn’t literally red, but everything else had a scarlet taint and an air of self-righteous force.
Aralim tried to speak with the guards at the double door in front of the veritable castle, only to be greeted by an open doorway. The blue lantern staff led them into a wide foyer, where two other red-badged guards stood on duty. Their armour, their weapons, their clothes—some were adorned with red paint, but all of them wore the same badge.
“Ah,” said a nasally voice. The speaker, a squat, bald man with a cleanly shaven jawbone and the smallest scar in his eyebrow, opened his arms peacefully as he entered the foyer from another way. “Welcome to our Maga Waystation, travellers. Whomever is in charge, and one witness, can speak with me in my office, just here. The rest are welcome to be seated in our comfortable waiting area.”
Dullah and Devran both looked at Aralim for his choice. “Grendar,” the Walker said. “Shall we?”
Grendar nodded stoically and followed Aralim. The pair entered a room through an empty doorframe, to find a solid stone desk arranged carefully into stacks of papers and stationary. Aralim noticed a tattoo on the side of their host’s temple, a small pond with palm trees on either side.
The man spread his palms on the desk as he sat, but then examined one of his nails as he spoke. “I am Coren of the Blood Falcon. Have you travelled on the Crimson Highway before?”
“I haven’t, no,” Aralim replied. Grendar and he were left to stand, awkwardly, while the man dabbed a grey and black quill in an silver inkwell.
Coren made a note in the broad open ledger on the table in front of him. “There are two options for using the Highway,” he explained. “If you’re wealthy enough, you can simply pay for passage between here and your destination. Or you can offer your toil, trade, or skill, to earn passage after an agree upon service period.”
Aralim preferred not to toil for a group he didn’t know a thing about. “How much is the charge for our group?”
“What’s your destination?” When Aralim replied, the pages of the ledger turned into the waving reeds of grass they had sailed past on the Toringa, swiftly fanning a breeze through the room as Coren checked an early page labelled ‘The Torn Shore.’ The administer did a quick summation in the margin of a scrap page nearby, and then replied, “It’s a long distance. Four-hundred Raderans per fellow. There were how many—eight of you? So, three-thousand-two-hundred Raderan coins?”
“How does that convert to Numa’nakres iron?” Grendar asked, before Aralim could speak. Aralim didn’t even know what amount of wealth they were travelling with.
Coren inhaled, and opened one of his drawers to reveal a small set of scrolls. It took him a moment to select the correct one, and then he read out, “Every ten Numa coins are twelve Raderans, so…” More math was scrawled, though Aralim couldn’t quite follow it. “Three-eight and change?”
Grendar nodded, and then stepped aside with Aralim. “Is it reasonable?” the Walker asked. He was not familiar with currency on this continent.
His guard chuckled. “It’s the Crimson Highway. Nothing reasonable about it. But there is something necessary about it—we’d be at risk to make the journey off the road.” Grendar folded his arms. His wispy beard looked blond in the rays of dusty sunlight through the tall window. “But we can afford it. And we can afford the return still, with coin to spare.”
“Then I guess we’ll pay,” Aralim said, returning to the table.
The Crimson Highwayman scraped his quill over a line on the page. “And will you be requiring a troop, an escort, or a guide? The way along the Highway is clear, but we still recommend one of these options be purchased as well.”
“We should be fine without,” Aralim said.
Coren shrugged. “Very well,” he said. He withdrew a page from his desk and made a few notes on it. A big round seal was visible at the bottom, similar to the badge the man wore on his tunic. “Sign or seal, please. Just here.”
Aralim glanced the document over. Though it’s topics were repeated for clarity, the purpose was straightforward and twofold: travellers were, firstly, not to deviate from their route—Coren had marked Crossroads to Tal’lashar—and secondly, not to assault, rob, or otherwise antagonize the Highwaymen. He took the quill offered by Coren and wrote ‘Aralim the Walker’ in the place indicated.
Coren passed him a blank copy of the agreement and then placed a large red coin on the tabletop. It bore the crossed shovel and blade emblem of their enterprise, and on the back, the character for the number eight. With a thick finger, the Highwayman tapped the coin and explained, “This is further proof of payment as documents can be forged. It also holds a few other purposes. If you cannot procure it for a Highwayman on the way, you’ll be deemed to be travelling without permission. If any Highwayman has reason to refute our contract based on the rules I have discussed with you today, he will take the red coin from you, thus costing you any passage further. Upon reaching Tal’lashar, the Fort there will take the coin back from you.”
Aralim picked up the coin and waved it in front of him once, before tucking it into an inside pocket, next to Rattar’s little pouch of flame powder. “Thank you,” he said. It seemed like the sort of business exchange that warranted a handshake, while Grendar counted out coins. Coren saw his hand, smirked, and then shook it.
Before they left, Aralim turned back to ask him one more question. “Aside from business, I have a strange question,” he said. “Do you happen to keep a ledge of items found, along the Highway, by your men?”
Coren blinked, and then chuckled. “No, there’s no record of that. Our men ‘find’ too much, as it were,” he said.
“Ah, I see,” Aralim replied. “Well, if you hear of one of them finding a dagger, one was stolen from the Eternal Emperor’s collection and may have passed through this way. He’d pay well to have it returned.”
The administer nodded, and made a note in the margin of his folio. Aralim only glimpsed the capital E’s of Eternal Emperor before the book thumped close and Grendar led the way out, into the foyer where their friends awaited in quiet boredom.
As they set out along the worn, brown cobblestones of the Crimson Highway, a few men fell into stride with them. There were three, a thick-necked man with a mace in a sling on his back, a lanky man with a bow, and a small, grinning man with his hands resting on two weapon pommels near his belt, who was somehow the leader of the three. They didn’t say much, aside from they intended to travel this way. Their gaunt leader, Mulio, looked Dullah up and down, whistled, and then winked at Aralim. Dullah shrugged it off, but Aralim’s fingers clenched the hem of his travelling robe as they set out from Maga across the waving marshes of golden grass.