Maashtun

Whispers follow them through the streets. There they go, the voices say, coloured with fear and awe and intrigue. They ooh and they aah, at the silver horses, the gilt frame of the carriage, they marvel at what might lie hidden within, the thought of jewel bedecked walls and velvet floors.

Among them are those more wary. They speak only in soft murmurs, they trade rumours and pass judgements. Heathens. Cambions. Witches.

And one phrase rises above it all, louder than the muttered insults, more hushed than the awestruck wonder. 

There go the ones that know magic.

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Of course, magic is merely a matter of perspective.

Inside the carriage the floors are velvet, though the walls are plain panelled wood. The people of Ibex have always valued comfort over show, and thick, soft carpet was easier on the haunches than hardwood seats.

Inside the carriage, on the velvet floor, sit two figures, a man and a woman, cross-legged and leaning in towards each other. They are Akriya and Ekram, of the Ibex Isles, and nominally they are here on official State Business. 

Unofficially, they may not have been completely transparent about whose State or Business they represent.

But to understand the political landscape they’re about to navigate you must first understand the nation of Osmya.

And the most important thing to understand about Osmya, is that it's held together by a single thread. It’s lands and its peoples, with their different cultures and leaders and customs, are bound by nothing more than their common tongue, and with the foundation of the union so fundamentally fragile, it is no wonder that Osmya constantly seems on the cusp of collapse. It is a nation at cold war with itself, where alliances are forged from mutual cynicism, and your enemies are the only people you can trust to act with any predictability. 

In the sea at the edge of Osmya sit the Ibex Isles. ‘Isles’ may be something of a misnomer, it’s just barely more than a single island. It is a small state, with a close-knit community and elected Chief and, for at least some definitions of the word, its people do indeed know magic.

It is not the magic of story books, of evil sorcerers and devilish chants. On the Isle, it is not known as magic at all, but as understanding, of the world, of the natural order. And perhaps that is all it is. But such an understanding has not yet been found to exist beyond Ibex, and so for now magic is as good a word as any other.

It is a subtle magic, to be sure. Useless, most would think, and that may be why, though folktales have spread far throughout the masses, so few in the ruling classes of the mainland will let themselves believe. After all, they do not need to interpret the movements of birds, do not want to feel an impending lightning storm deep within their bones, or seek to learn the wisdom held in plants. Why torture yourself by thinking your rivals may possess powers you cannot, if you think such knowledge could never be worthwhile? They think it better to dismiss the claims as rambling nonsense, and the people as empty-headed, idle fools, and the people of Ibex have never sought to correct them.

To be underestimated is the greatest power of all, and they need use no magic for that.

This is the thought at the forefront of their minds as the carriage pulls through the street, and eventually comes to a stop outside a large, palatial manor.

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As much as the people of Ibex value comfort, Ru’d culture dictates that the respect a man commands is directly proportional to his societal status, which is proportional to his financial status, which is proportional to the maximum number of riches he displays on his person at any given time.

Ru’d culture also dictates that only a man can command any respect. 

Either one of these facts alone is a source of mockery and amusement in most of the rest of Osmya. Together they are a powerful weapon in the espionage artist’s toolkit.

The Ru’d is one of the largest states in Osmya, and the most prosperous. As such it is also the most fragile in the union, the most prone to declaring war, or independence, or both. And the Ibex Isles look out for their own, but it’s easier to do that from within a collective than without, so the Chief keeps an ear to the ground, and whenever rumours of separationist movements start to crop up she dispatches someone to go deal with it. The Ibex Isles is famous for their host of trained diplomats. Akriya and Ekram are the best.

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Osmya is a nation united by a common tongue, but the native languages are not forgotten. There is a word in Ibe, that more accurately describes the role Akriya and Ekram hold. It has no perfect common counterpart, but diplomacy is close enough. It suits their purpose, at any rate.

Maashtun. It has no real translation, but loosely it is the idea of adapting your outward image to match whatever the environment expects you to be, or would be comfortable with. It stems from two root words: maash, meaning clothing, or armour, and tun, which means lie.

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A groom from the manor household walks over to park the carriage and stable their horses. When he opens the door for them, Ekram steps out, draped in a heavily jeweled cloak that’s pinned at the throat with a bright metal star, and followed by a veiled woman in long flowing skirts. 

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Concubinage isn’t all that common in the Ru’d, not anymore, but it’s not been so long that it doesn’t inspire some sense of awe in the local upper classes. They arrive in the afternoon, and in the handful of hours they have before the big welcome dinner Ekram integrates himself into the small crowd with an almost frightening ease .

As for Akruti, well. A concubine is of no greater status than a maid servant, and no one pays a maid servant any mind. She stands in corners with her head down and her ears open, and spends much of the following meal the same way, and all the time she is listening to the words that fall from loosened tongues. Reconnaissance isn’t their primary purpose for being there but knowledge never hurts.

Knowledge is power. Knowledge is magic.

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Between the concubine line and their less than candid motives for visiting, the two of them have a tidy haul of secrets they’re keeping.

Here is another.

Though most of the people of Ibex have a basic understanding of magic, some are naturally more gifted at it than others, and each tend towards different areas. Now, Akruti doesn’t get on with animals as a rule, but there are two key exceptions, and they come wherever she goes.

Right now they hide in the pleats of her skirt, all sixteen eyes and legs. Styx and Mar, the most trusted beings in her life. They stay with her through all walks of life, emotional companions and sometimes, more often than not, work colleagues.

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Styx she found first. He’s the size of her palm, with a dark glossy body, and spins conical webs all over her bedroom floor. His fangs are long and sharp, and though she knows that he can vary the venom dosage to keep it non-lethal, they’ve never really had any cause to.

Mar, on the other hand, is smaller, black, body adorned with small red triangles. Her venom rarely kills, but pain akin to a nervous system being set ablaze is a useful tool nonetheless.

They make a good team, and, secure in the knowledge that no one can see her face, she smiles slightly beneath her hood, as Ekram works on finding their mark over at the high table.

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She is alone in a corridor when he finds her. Kug-i. She doesn’t know what Ekram told him to send him out here, but as he grabs her wrist and starts to walk, she notes the metal pin clipped to his back, confirmation that this is their mark.

His fingers are wrapped tight enough to bruise, but do not be fooled, she is allowing herself to be led. Her free hand brushes her skirt, fourth finger bent in signal. Light hairs tickle her palm and she gently curls her fingers in, bringing her hand up to her neck to deposit Styx in a gap in her hood. She feels a light pinch at her ankle, and knows she’ll probably take this skirt off tonight to find the pleats all webbed together in protest. 

But this is not the time to think of how to make things up to Mar. They are at his room, and then inside, and then he releases her to close the door. Now is the time to act.

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The matter is over in minutes. It’s anti-climatic, as it always is. Days of travel, at times, merely to facilitate a spider who needs but a moment to plant its poison.

Styx climbs back into her palm, and she sets him on her shoulder. He climbs down her back back to the skirt and Mar.

Kug-i, in his endless capacity for selfishness, had elected to collapse onto the floor. She had managed to cushion the fall somewhat, hastily tugging free his sheets, but he was a big man and it’s still a struggle to hoist his limp body into the bed before it stiffens. The aim is to arouse the least suspicion, so she settles the body as if it were sleeping, and unclips the metal star. The two small puncture wounds sit just inside his ankle, where they’ll hopefully avoid detection. 

A quick scan of the room yields no useful information, but that was as they expected. A final sweep ensures she left nothing incriminating behind, and with that she returns to her own room, footsteps silent.

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The room has but the one bed, that Ekram is currently sprawled over, but he and Akruti are used to having to share. He raises an eyebrow as she walks in, and she tosses him back his pin in answer. He laughs, and moves over to make room. There’s a small set of drawers next to the bed; she pulls the top one open and sets Styx and Mar inside. She doesn’t envy whoever tries to use that drawer next.

Stripping quickly to her under clothes, she finds that her overskirt is indeed sticky beyond belief. It’s of no consequence, she can burn it later. She settles down, and Ekram pulls the covers up over the two of them.

“Learn anything new?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “Nothing with any sense of urgency. We can head back tomorrow.”

He sighs with his whole body. “Good.”

And it is. They’d both rather expend the effort for a short trip than stay a few weeks and make the journey worth their while. Tomorrow morning they can start the ride back to the Isles, whilst Kug-i’s body is discovered and his death put down, not wholly inaccurately, to natural causes.

A thought occurs to her, and she laughs.

“Huh?”

“It just hit me. All this disbelief about our propensity for magic, and not one of them stops to wonder how our horses can navigate without a driver.”