It had not been as complicated as Cian had thought it would be to convince Wukong to leave the mansion. Well, almost, because the other boy had not been pleased to find Keegan and Cian standing outside his door at such a late hour. Wukong initially tried to shut his door on them, but Cian was quick to wedge his foot between the door and spew out his proposition. What acted in their favor was the innate curiosity that all Davarnians possess to see the world and experience firsthand what they had only read about.
Once Wukong was on board, they crept through the mansion like thieves in the night, their steps soft and movements hidden in shadows. The mansion sits just outside the heart of Semper Dante Luce in a quieter part, surrounded by a brick wall and gate. There are patrols, but they slip past them, hastily scaling the wall and charging down the street before they can be seen.
—————
Aside from the numerous gambling houses, Cian had also noticed that the city had an abundance of theaters. Ballets, plays, concerts, and many other performances were being announced by the criers, who tried to entice people to attend. One in particular stood out above the rest, and that was the theater called The Swallow’s Dance—its facade awash in warm yellow stone. The building boasted sweeping curves and high, airy arches. Carved motifs of swallows in flight adorned the balustrades and cornices, subtle yet regal. Broad stairs climbed in a steady sweep toward the entrance, their polished surface reflecting the grandeur above. At the summit of the steps, poised before the grand doors, stood a statue of a swallow captured mid-dance, wings flared, body arched with a grace.
“Awena said one day she would like to perform with me on stage,” Cian said as they climbed the stairs toward the statue. “How amazing would it be if we stumbled into her?”
“Impossible,” Wukong replied. “Although her parents are the ones contracted to organize the coliseum for your and Keegan’s fight, they had told Awena they did not need her assistance and for her to keep focus on her studies.”
“Oh, did she tell you this?”
“Yes… In passing,” Wukong said, indifferently, but Cian caught onto the implication.
“It’s good to hear that without your friends, you still have Awena to keep you company,” Cian teased. “You know, instead of me performing with her, you could always take my place. I imagine that would make Ms. Nisha quite happy.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed Wukong dance before,” Keegan said thoughtfully. “Can he even?”
“No, but if monkeys can be taught to dance, then there is hope for him yet.” Cian expects the kick and purposefully dances out of the way. He is carefree as he maneuvers himself outside of Wukong’s reach and rushes up the remaining stairs. “I just had an idea! How about we convince Mrs. Nisha to tutor her future son-in-law in the ways of dancing? She must be here, or better yet, we can ask Mr. Nisha. I believe I see him over there!”
It is all in good fun that Cian leads a chase through the theater’s foyer. Inside, people are looking at the painted portraits that depict the clan's history, while others have gone to the ticket counter to purchase a seat for the upcoming show, and the remainder are mingling about. The three children are careful as they twist around the patrons, earning mild scolding, but the adults giving them were not truly angry, as Cian’s infectious laughter soothed them. Wukong is voicing threats, and Keegan is trying to get them both to behave themselves—all of it made for an amusing sight, and Cian enjoyed the fun.
Cian never did come across Awena’s parents, or if he had, he would not have known, as he had never met them before. That had not halted Wukong from trying to throttle him, and he only became appeased when Keegan did so on his behalf after the boy became annoyed with Cian’s egging. Once they had calmed down, they found themselves attending the show that the theater was holding.
The Nisha clan, although adept in many forms of entertainment, predominantly focuses on choreographed group dancing in time to the rhythm of an orchestra. There can be as many as twelve of the clan on stage, and it is such a display of talent that none of them collide with the other as they move on stage. Sometimes, the performances are purely visual, and there is no story beyond the emotions the music conveys. Not this night, no, what the clan has presented is a voiceless play.
It is an old parable, the wheat and weeds, about a sower who planted wheat, but his enemy came when no one was looking and planted weeds. The sower did not know of the treachery until the both plants had sprouted. He had to wait until the plants grew before they could cull the weeds, bundling them together for burning.
The way Cian understood it, the sower was unable to tell the good from the bad until something happened to reveal it to him. As is the case with all the parables in scripture, it pertained to people. What is the age-old saying? Be wary of a wolf in sheep's clothing. The wheat and weed looked alike, and remained alike, until the day of truth was upon them. Cian appreciated the show, although the costumes for the plants seemed a bit silly.
—————
After their late-night show, they wandered the streets, letting whatever caught Cian's fancy guide them, and the next thing that caught his eye was a restaurant. The establishment in question, from the outside, could already be assumed to be small, its presence dwarfed by the other eateries on its neighboring side. It also had no details, save for a sign above the door that read Golden Panda and the one next to it, which read Fried Sweet Dumplings. “A rather unpretentious establishment,” Wukong commented. “That's putting it kindly,” Keegan said. “It seems more like a hole in the wall.”
“Which makes it quaint,” Cian said chirpily. “And can't you smell the aroma coming from it? Why not indulge in a late-night treat?” It did not matter what the others thought because Cian was already pushing the door open.
The interior is rectangular. One side is the kitchen, sectioned off by a long bar, and on the other side is a row of tables and chairs. There is a mother and father with their child sitting at the table in front, and toward the back is a lone man drinking from a cup as he reads a book. They chose to sit in the middle, and instantly an older woman came to attend to them. “What can I feed you, darlings?” the woman asked, her voice gentle despite the hard, tired look on her face. “Six orders of your fried sweet dumplings, thank you,” Cian replied, his mouth already salivating because inside the aroma was more potent. As they sat and waited for their food, they began to converse, being mindful to keep conversation away from the impending ceremony. Mostly, Wukong relayed all that they had missed at The Cornucopia, nothing truly noteworthy, but Cian enjoyed listening. He was nostalgic for his younger years when all he had to worry about was not getting in trouble with the Grandmaster and graduating.
Their conversation soon died out when their host presented before them steaming, golden spears resting in simple wooden baskets. Their surface glimmered with a delicate sheen of oil and was dusted lightly with sugar. They prayed for their meal, and with the first bite, the crisp, warm exterior gave way to a pillowy inside, causing Cian to pray again in reverence at being allowed to taste such a delicacy. Sweetness lingered from whatever fruit filled the inside, and a hint of cinnamon mingled with it. The treat paired well with the complimentary black coffee they were also given. “I knew this was the right place to be,” Cian said triumphantly around a mouthful of the fried sweet bun. “You found it by chance,” Keegan contradicted. “Don’t pretend you didn’t choose this place simply because it looked queer on the outside. By the grace of God, the food is actually worthwhile.”
“If you don’t trust my instincts, then by all means, lead the way when we leave.”
Cian’s words got a rise out of his brother, and the boy went on a small tirade over how he must stop following Cian in whatever he does. Wukong rolled his eyes while Cian continued to munch on his sweet bun happily. As Keegan continued to voice his grievances, Cian’s attention was briefly drawn away by the small child that emerged from the back hallway. The child appeared to be between the ages of four and five; his complexion pale, his cheeks gaunt, his crimson eyes dull, and he wore beaten, black trousers and a tunic. His off-white hair hung loosely around him in wild, tangled locks, and his feet were bare. It is unimaginable how such a small child could be so thin, and it had not taken long for their hostess to approach the boy, her face contorted in worry. “My dear child, what’s happened to you?”
The child did not fidget as the hostess fussed over him, checking him over for signs of injury. “Are you lost? When last did you eat? Where are your parents?” she asked in quick succession. The boy looked around the restaurant, ignoring the woman’s questions and taking in the other patrons before settling on Cian. It took a moment to realize the boy was intently watching the sweet bun he had half raised to bite. “Can I have food?”
“Oh, yes, my dear!” The woman turned to bark orders at the man in the kitchen. “Alton, make this boy a light soup to nourish him!” The man hastened to do as he was told, and the hostess took the child by the hand to guide him over to an empty table. “Can you tell me your name, darling? Maybe we can find your parents, or perhaps we’ll go to the officer’s station and they can help.”
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The boy suddenly pulled against the woman’s hold. “No. Food. I want food!”
“Alright, alright, it’s okay. We’ll have you fed first, but can I at least know what to call you, darling?” The child seemed to calm down at the hostess’ words, and he ceased yanking his arm. “Nathaniel… My name is Nathaniel… Yatim.”
Almost as if time was at a standstill, everyone in the building, besides Cian and his companions, froze. “Get out,” the hostess said. Nathaniel just looked at the woman, who moments before had been trying to provide him comfort, and this seemed to displease her. “Get out!” she screamed, tossing the boy’s hand away from her and going as far as to shove him. Nathaniel whimpered, almost toppling over, his weak frame unable to support him against the harsh force used, but Cian had stepped in. The wrongness of the situation was baffling, yet what was intolerable was for the hostess to lay a hand on the child. Cian steadied him from behind, and seeking some sort of safety, Nathaniel turned and buried his face in Cian’s side. “He’s a Yatim! His blood is cursed, and we will be too! Get him away!” the mother sitting up front cried out. She was clutching her child to her, and her husband was shielding them both with his body.
The man in the back, meanwhile, had knocked over his chair in a hasty retreat into the corner of the restaurant. His book lay forgotten on the table, and the contents of his cup had spilled over onto it.
“Why do you fear a child?” Cian asked. “Can't you see he's no threat to you?”
“He's unclean!” Came the voice of the man in the kitchen. “His whole lineage is unclean!”
Cian wanted to question the logic behind the claims again, but he was mortified to see the man grab a knife and throw it in his direction. Before he could react, Wukong, who was nearest, stood up and used one of the wooden baskets from the sweet buns to take the hit from the knife and redirected its momentum, sending it into the nearby wall. At the same time, Keegan chucked his empty coffee cup at the man, Alton, hitting him squarely in the face, and readied another.
“Love!” the hostess shouted in distress, torn between wanting to check on her husband, glaring at Keegan, and keeping an eye on Nathaniel. The situation was getting out of hand, and Cian's stomach churned because he did not particularly want to fight anyone within the restaurant. It would be one-sided, although if it were to defend the young child, he would do what was necessary.
“The boy is coming with us," Cian said, his tone in the same cadence as if speaking to a frightened animal. “We’ll take him away, so please cease your hostilities.”
“You'd do better than to involve yourself with him,” their hostess warned. “Every Yatim born is cursed! Look at the misfortune he's already brought! He is a disgusting blight on this world!”
The hatred in the woman's words was evident, and Nathaniel hugged Cian tighter, letting out muffled whimpers. He kept the young child close as he went over to dislodge the knife before brandishing it in the woman's direction. “Cursed is the one condemning a child for simply living,” Cian rebutted. “I don't know what strife you hold against his clan, and I don't care. He's coming with us, and if anyone stands in our way, I'll do what I must to ensure his safety.”
Cian frowned when the woman spat at his foot. “May God forgive you for your naivety, darlings.”
—————
They had left through the rear door from where the child had wandered in from. Cian had thought it best for the child not to be seen because if he had elicited such a visceral response from those in the restaurant, then he could only imagine how the rest of the public would react. It still puzzled him because the mentality had been superstitious, and all tribes and clans preach against such beliefs, yet those people deemed the frail boy a bad omen.
Cian gently pushed Nathaniel away from him so that he could kneel before the much younger boy. Tears and mucus covered the boy’s face, adding to the dirt that smeared his cheeks. “Hmmm, I'm sure I saw a little tike. Where'd he go?” He bunched up his sleeve and gently cleaned the child, smiling kindly as he did so. “Ah, there he is! All you needed was a good clean, and now my sleeve also does,” Cian said, his face contorting ridiculously in disgust as he flapped his sleeve, making a big show. His performance is enough to earn him a light giggle from the child, his hiccups from weeping having quieted down.
“What are we going to do with him?” Keegan asked. He still kept hold of the coffee cup from before, idly catching and tossing it into the air. “He scared the hostess enough that she forgot to ask us to pay. Not that I would’ve given them any money for their inconsiderate service.”
“We must first ascertain what sort of trouble the child is in,” Wukong said. “His trouble might become ours, and I do not care to be caught unaware.” By this point, Cian had stood up, carrying the child in his arms, and allowing him to rest against his shoulder. Nathaniel faced outward, and Wukong came close to him, peering at the boy intently. “Tell us, little one, were you taken from your family, or are you a beggar?”
As far as Cian is aware, Faux Point has no impoverished clans; the residing tribe claims their most needy of civilians can always find work within one of the cities or at the ports. The continent is also supposed to be divided among the children of the reigning patriarch or matriarch, as well as any trusted officials, to ensure that every inch is being governed. It is one of the aspects that make Faux Point unique, for the other continents are not as watched, especially Amalga, which is the most massive. For Nathaniel to appear as he is, Cian wagers someone must have stolen him from his family, and the boy somehow escaped. If that is the circumstance, they needed to be mindful of the possibility that his captors would come searching for him.
“Mama was scared. She told me to run. She told me it was okay to leave. I listened,” Nathaniel replied. Cian soothingly rubbed his hand over the child’s back before asking the obvious question. “Why was your mother scared?”
“She did something bad.”
“What bad thing did she do?”
“Mama said we can’t leave because we have to work. She said the leaders are happy when we work. They aren’t happy when we don’t. Mama didn’t wanna work. Papa said she didn’t have to work because we were going. They got in trouble.”
“Tell us about the leaders you speak of,” Wukong urged. “What work did they have you do?”
Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. I carried rocks. Can I eat? I’m hungry. Grandma was angry and forgot to feed me.”
Cian used his free hand to rummage through the pocket of his clothes, pulling out a sweet bun he had snagged before they departed. He gave it to Nathaniel. Instructing him to eat slowly so as not to throw up in case his body had grown unaccustomed to rich foods. The boy was obedient, and Cian could feel him chewing as another question came to mind. “Nathaniel, do you think you could guide us back to where you last saw your mother?”
“I don’t know where under dirt she is.” The three older boys shared a look. “Under dirt?”
“Yes. Papa stayed with Mama. They're under dirt.”
They went quiet, the only noise coming from the open street ahead of them, the city never seeming to lose life. “You must at least have other family. Relatives we can help you find, and give you to.”
“They’re under dirt, too. Everyone is there, but not me,” Nathaniel replied, his mouth full from a large bite he had taken of the sweet bun.
“His entire clan is gone,” Keegan voiced, catching the cup more aggressively than needed. “Whoever took him captive is strong enough to wipe a clan from existence. What are we supposed to do against that?”
“Firstly, we’re taking the child with us.” In unison, the boys looked up to see a figure peering at them from atop the restaurant, and Cian instantly recognized him. He, and most likely Wukong, had noticed the shadow behind them when leaving Patriarch Julian’s mansion.
The figure vaulted over the edge, one hand catching the stone lip as his weight swung him into the open air. He dangled there, boots scraping against the wall, before letting go, body sliding down the side of the building, palms and soles skimming the rough surface to slow his descent. Kumo landed in a low crouch, weight rolling into his heels before he rose smoothly to his feet, his trademark airy expression in place. “He needs proper care and a change of clothing. Then we can involve your father and Patriarch Julian. If this child’s clan was murdered, I’m positive Patriarch Julian would want to bring the culprits to justice as soon as possible. These are his lands after all, and this child is under his rule.”
“How long have you been following us?” Keegan asked, incredulously. Wukong scoffed next to him. “Your guard has been trailing after us since we left the premises.”
“Indeed, I must keep a watchful eye over my patriarch and his family. It’s my duty. Even more so when we travel to different lands.”
“Then proceed to take care of us,” Cian said, hugging Nathaniel tighter. “On my word as Son Cian, child of Patriarch Bomin and the tribe of Heartsease, no harm will come to you, Nathaniel. I will protect you, as will my friends.”
“Such a noble declaration from someone so young.” Came a voice, this time not from someone they knew. Down the opposite end of the alley, standing at a distance, were a group of several individuals clothed in all black garments. Their faces were hidden behind white masks resembling expressionless faces, and their sudden appearance made Nathaniel lift his head. When the child laid eyes on the men, he let out an ear-piercing scream of terror. His shrill voice had Cian cringing, and he was caught off guard when Nathaniel began to struggle. The child fought like a caged animal, clawing at Cian to release him, and in the struggle, he managed to slip out of Cian’s hold and run the opposite way.
“Nathaniel!” Cian yelled, taking off after the child.
“Follow after Son Cian!” Kumo ordered Keegan and Wukong. “I will stay and keep my Scion’s promise to the child.”
Keegan and Wukong had a moment of hesitation, but all three of the boys had not brought any weapons with them—an oversight brought about by their blind faith in the supposed safety that the city presented. Keegan only had the coffee cup, and that would be of no help to Kumo. If they stayed, they might end up accosting him more than aiding him. It felt wrong, but the two boys did as they were told, consoled by the knowledge that Kumo was at least no mere man. There is a reason people liken him to the Grim Reaper.
