98. [INTERLUDE] Hide and Seek

  The sun had just peeked over the Roots of the Realmtree, brightening a forest-green sky into seafoam. The hour was just early enough that most of the busybodies who lived on the Trunk would still be in bed.

  Normally, Renate Sandvik didn’t like to rob people when they were asleep. Not out of some pretentious moral, but simply because asleep was also when souls were at their least trusting—and therefore the most defensive. Vendors would invariably lock up their wares once the trading day was over. If they had keys, they’d keep them hidden or close to their chests.

  Stammers could imagine the Finless as some shadowy phantom all they wished, but in reality, Renate Sandvik was as corporeal and subject to the laws of ripples as any other Yaksha. She had neither the skills nor the inclination to sneak into people’s houses, which was why she committed all of her thefts in broad daylight. For when it really came down to it, hers was a game of hide-and-seek—except in her case, she was both the hider and the seeker.

  The routine was nearly always the same. Pick a vantage point from which to hide, read, and observe, waiting for the moment when the mark let their guard down—a crack in the defense. That was when she turned seeker, swooping in unseen, unheard, and unread to snatch the goods, using DREDGER as an extension of herself if necessary.

  For her approach to work, she needed the Stammers’ caution and awareness of her to ebb. Which was why she always waited at least several weeks in between jobs. Why she’d never hit the same mark twice in a row. And why she’d certainly never try anything while the whole town was in an uproar over the once-in-a-lifetime arrival of ascended outrealmers.

  All that to say… she was breaking all of her own rules to do this latest job.

  Palmr Jorgensen lived and shat where he worked and ate. Which was to say his general store, Jorgen & Sons, doubled as the home in which he kept his wares locked up overnight. As the sun made its slow progress across a seafoam sky, it shone upon the tree hollows that served as the storefront, presently all boarded up before the start of the trading day.

  Renate had neither the skill nor the inclination to sneak into people’s houses. And on this occasion, she also lacked for time. As such, she settled for the only way she knew how to break down doors, knowing full well it’d instantly wake the house’s occupant.

  [Auxiliary Technique: ELEMENTAL SURGE]

  One of the heavy doors disintegrated into splinters and sawdust. Renate had taken care to aim the [Surge] skyward, meaning most of the debris ended up hitting the ceiling instead of flying further into the building where they could hurt someone. Not that she much cared about Palmr Jorgensen’s well-being, but she still might need him for information.

  The man himself was slumped against a table in the back—the very same corner where he took his meals every day and oversaw the goings-on of his business. Despite her urgency, Renate felt a twinge of disgust at the sight. When she’d mused that Palmr shat where he ate, she hadn’t meant it quite this literally.

  In any case, the catfish man did wake at the loud intrusion, with the many rolls upon his corpulent body bouncing grotesquely as he rose to his feet. While Palmr’s frame wasn’t quite as large as those of his sturgeon bodyguards, it was still enough to dwarf a diminutive tree-frog twice over. Indeed, he seemed to fill the very room with his presence as he grinned down his whiskers at Renate.

  “Finless. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Palmr enunciated his words clearly, showing no signs of lingering sleep. Either the man was a true professional, or he’d been more awake than he’d first let on. On any other day, that observation alone might’ve been enough to spook Renate, but right now, she was in too deep.

  “You already know what I’m after,” she said, doing away with pleasantries altogether. “Your box of the Realmtree Dew. Hand it over.”

  “Of course. You know I’m always up for a trade.” Palmr, still smiling, didn’t miss a beat. “And may I commend you on your expensive tastes? By today’s exchange rates, a whole box would run you… oh, say, 212 shards of dragon-blood resin? Or 37,356 acorns, if you’d prefer a more… granular mode of payment.”

  Renate had seen, heard, and read enough of the man to know that those figures hadn’t been pulled out of his ample backside. He really had calculated them on the spot—a feat most Wayfarers couldn’t hope to emulate. Palmr Jorgensen’s head for numbers was one of multiple reasons he’d climbed to such a position of power despite being an Anchored soul.

  But Renate also possessed power—one of a more primitive nature, and therefore easier for all parties to understand. She raised DREDGER and pointed the edge of its blade into the catfish’s face.

  “I’m not here to haggle,” she said, herself maintaining her calm demeanor. “Hand it over this instant, or the last thing you taste in this life will be my iron.”

  Palmr’s smile never faltered.

  “Are you sure about this, miss?” he asked with mock concern. “Far be it for me to question the Path of a seasoned Wayfarer, but… aren’t there forces in the afterlife that frown upon and punish the senseless killing of innocent souls?”

  You? Innocent? Renate wanted to spit, but she instead forced herself to say, “I’m well aware. Killing you would indeed run me afoul of said forces, but that’s a price I’d happily pay. The box. Now.”

  Still, the catfish continued to smile. In fact, he took it a step further and chuckled, letting his whiskers sway languidly as he did.

  “So, you’re not afraid of the gods that watch from the heavens. But what about a king, a queen, an army… right here in our very own Realm? I’m not one to blow my own bubbles, but I do have some friends in high places. If King Tyr has been tolerating your antics up to now, Finless, he certainly won’t be, once you’ve struck down his favorite supplier.”

  If Palmr didn’t falter in his blasé attitude, neither did Renate in her threatening posture.

  “I thank you for your concern,” she deadpanned. “But you’ll have nothing to worry about once you’re dead. You think I’m afraid of being hunted by King Tyr and his precious Kronvakt? Why should I be? When the whole Realm already is against me? Now, quit stalling and show me to your wares. If the next word out of your mouth isn’t a ‘yes’, I’ll shut it for you, and for good.”

  For the first time, the ‘negotiation’ ground to halt, as both parties stared each other down. Direct violence against the prospect of royal retribution. What happened next came down to exactly how convincing Renate had been when she’d dismissed Palmr’s threat as no threat at all.

  And that was when Renate suddenly saw the fatal flaw in her not-much-of-a-plan.

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  What would happen if Palmr called her bluff? Could she do it? Strike down an Anchored soul in cold blood?

  She’d already helped many an Anchored soul pass on in [Serenity], each time incurring a Karma penalty. But she now realized that and the kind of violence she intended now were two completely different beasts. Did she really have it in her to mete out the final judgment unto a fellow Yaksha—even one as vile and mean-spirited as a Palmr Jorgensen?

  It’s not a question of ‘can’. She tried to steel herself. I must do it. Simple as that. Inge is counting on me, and I’ve already lost so much time. If the next word out of the catfish’s mouth isn’t a ‘yes’, then I must—

  “I believe you.”

  “What?”

  Palmr’s unexpected response had rendered Renate momentarily unable to react. Not quite a ‘yes’, but it also sounded very different to a ‘no’. Not only that, but the man had stopped smiling, instead putting on a solemn gaze that he reserved for the most serious of trades.

  “I said I believe you when you say you’re willing to take on the whole Realm by yourself. And I’m man enough to admit I value my own life over my products, no matter how expensive they might be. The Realmtree Dew, was it? Won’t be a moment.”

  With that, Palmr strode over to the store’s counter, leaving Renate to ponder his words. He believes that I’m willing to take on the whole Realm. But did he believe that I was willing to ‘smite’ an Anchored soul for that to happen?

  Slowly, uncertainly, Renate lowered DREDGER and reslung it across her back. She watched quietly as the most powerful businessman in all of Pretjord bent over a safe, with a keychain dangling from between the rolls of his chin. Locked up wares and keys kept close to the chest. At least on that count, Renate hadn’t been wrong.

  As Palmr set down the goods, he also played the part of a dutiful vendor, opening the box for his customer’s inspection. Rows of glass vials, all half-filled with the same lurid-green liquid—freshly squeezed and neatly bottled, straight from the leaves that adorned the Crown of the Realmtree.

  Renate had stolen many a vial of the Realmtree Dew in her days, but never in so large a quantity and so pristine a condition. There must’ve been enough for her to brew another year’s supply of [Pearls of Rebalancing]. Another year of Inge staying by her side…

  Renate held her breath, forcing her expression to remain neutral. She matched the catfish in solemnity as she looked up and nodded her approval. Only then did Palmr’s smile return.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, Finless,” he said, managing to sound almost sincere, “and do come again.”

  ***

  As Renate Sandvik raced her way home, her heart filled with strange emotions.

  A kind of ebullient lightness. Ripples that spread across her feet and lifted her into the air, as if to carry her to the very heavens.

  It was… joy. Cheer. Optimism. Which, in her case, were rare and strange emotions indeed.

  Her mood had been elevated to such heights that it couldn’t even be dragged down by the arrival of the Tomasen twins, as the three of them very nearly crossed paths just outside the Town Market. Luckily, she’d gotten a read on the twins before they could her, and she’d dove deep into the river just in time, where she stilled herself and hid—until it was safe to seek again.

  She could never be too careful around those sturgeons. She’d rather face a Kronvakt strike team than those OAR-swinging brutes, who could [Paralyze] or [Snap Freeze] her into submission if she weren’t careful. For the only thing a Pretjordian Wayfarer feared more than starvation was to be held against her will in another’s magic.

  With that close call avoided, the only other things that might’ve dampened her mood were the changes happening to Rotgard itself.

  One unexpected byproduct of the cave expedition had been the ‘unclogging’ of the Realmtree’s taproot. Renate had yet to theorize on all the mechanisms at work, but one thing was clear. The removal of Mulaharta had brought back much of the river flow that Rotgard had sorely lacked for years.

  It was a strange sight—powerful currents that filled and reinvigorated the long-dried grooves upon the Roots. As if welcoming a pair of outrealmers hadn’t been enough, the Realmtree now played host to a second life-altering event in as many days.

  For Yakshas, water was life. Water would revitalize and strengthen the downtrodden people of Rotgard like never before. They would rise, with years of pent-up anger and generations of inherited bitterness in their hearts. And who was to say their anger and bitterness wouldn’t spill across the borders that separated the Roots from the Trunks?

  As if to underscore that point, today of all days, said borders were left all but undefended. The soldiers must be acting on an entirely different set of orders now, Renate mused as she completed the easiest border crossing of her life. Must be scrambling all over Rotgard now, trying to get ahead of the shitstorm that’s sure to follow.

  The thought amused and worried her in equal measure. Whatever was about to go down now, it’d be a miracle if it did so without bloodshed.

  Renate had neither the time nor the sympathy to spare anyone other than Inge and herself. But she couldn’t deny having a soft spot for the Rotters, who clearly suffered the most under King Tyr’s rule and had been largely blameless in the border conflict.

  Even putting that aside, however, she couldn’t discount the impact all this would have on Inge and herself. The increased military presence could mean having to move Munkfred around more frequently, which would be a strain on Inge’s already failing health. Paradoxically, it also meant restricted freedom of movement for their little family. She’d have to be extra careful about covering her and her house/tortoise’s tracks.

  Yet, despite all the fresh headaches, Renate’s mood continued to be joyful. Cheerful. Optimistic. And as she neared her hiding place and slowed her steps, she searched in her heart for the why.

  Was it the box she’d lashed onto her back—a year’s supply of the Realmtree Dew? That was the obvious answer, and at least partially correct, to be sure. But somehow, the tree-frog Yaksha knew that it was more than that.

  One unexpected byproduct of the cave expedition had been the connection—no, friendship—she’d forged with her fellow Wayfarers.

  With the Manusya she’d bumped into first, then promptly had to nurse back to health. With the bumbling, fast-sinking Rakshasa, she of the hundred bullets and thousand questions. And… yes, perhaps even with the sturgeon twins. Renate was woman enough to admit that the Tomasens weren’t terrible company as long as their COASTER wasn’t aimed in her direction.

  But her mind kept replaying one moment in particular. For as she and the Rakshasa stood around waiting for their turn at meditation, the devil-horned woman in her endless cheer had called her Renna.

  “…”

  Renna Sandvik recalled that moment now as she descended the taproot (from the outside this time). Looking back, she couldn’t even say why she’d given her real name at all. She’d held back her surname, of course, but she also could’ve invented any number of aliases with which to appease the Rakshasa—or simply ignored her pleas altogether.

  What was done was done. She’d given her name to a complete stranger—an outrealmer, no less—and from there, that stranger had stumbled upon a childhood nickname very few souls in all the Realm had ever been privy to.

  Indeed, throughout Renate’s life, only three souls had ever called her by that name. Inge Bjornsdatter was one. Ansig Sandvik had been another. And now, Serac Edin became the third.

  Joy. Cheer. Optimism. Even after all that self-scrutiny, Renate was not much closer to a satisfactory answer. But she sighed contentedly and allowed herself a small, vapid smile as she climbed down one of the branches that formed the niche where she’d hidden her house.

  As soon as she did, however, said ‘house’ jumped out towards her with alarming speed. Munkfred the giant tortoise shook off the entirety of its camouflage—dirt, leaves, branches, and all—as it stared at its tree-frog master with wide, pleading, panicked eyes.

  And that was all it took to deflate Renate’s mood in an instant.

  Inge!

  Renate clambered onto the tortoise’s shell in a mad rush, reaching for the hatch handle. In less than the space of a Ksana, she’d forgotten all about her eventful day—and about the friendships forged therein.

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