5. A Pleasant Encounter

As soon as he was out of sight of the Chant and the port wall hid the ship from view, Alistair slipped into the shadow of a storehouse and finally opened the pouch Captain Harlan had given him.

There were twenty shards inside.

They looked almost unimpressive resting in his palm, dull and small. Even so, they were more wealth than he had ever possessed. For a moment, he simply stood there closing his fingers around them, reminding himself that no one had snatched them away.

Then he tucked the pouch inside his sleeve again and forced himself to think. His next steps had to be chosen carefully.

Survival came first: food, shelter, and some margin between himself and desperation. Discretion came next, because survival would not last long if someone discovered his class. Growth had to wait until after that, even if growth was what would make everything else possible. No one with a class could afford to ignore it.

Emerier fit that need. The island could give him time, offered enough traffic to hide in, and sat far enough from the Company’s center that their shadow had not pressed over the port the moment he arrived. The nearby nest isle only made the place more attractive. Sooner or later, he wanted access to it. Opportunities that appeared close to a harbor town rarely stayed unclaimed for long. Wanting access did not make him ready for it. His level was too low. His body was still pitifully weak. Even the more useful combat classes he had won in the Hall remained largely untested. A sensible newbie would attach himself to a hunter team, keep his head down, and learn.

Unfortunately, he could not hunt in a team while making clones appear and vanish around him. Perhaps he would be able to do it later, when the level and duration of the skill increased enough. For now, if he ever went after voidlings in the nest, it would have to be alone.

In the end, everything returned to shards.

He needed more shards and enough room to practice without a dozen eyes watching every strange movement. The port was too tight for that. Ports were full of watchers, idlers, carriers, guards, and people who remembered faces. Verevain proper was a better option. It lay inland, large enough to offer more alleys, streets, and ways to disappear into ordinary life. Five miles, if he remembered Miles correctly. Close enough to walk.

He briefly considered taking a cart. Then he asked the nearest driver the cost and nearly laughed when the man said ten shards without embarrassment. Half his wealth for a few miles of dust and wheel-rattle. No. He could still walk, even if the last part of the journey might punish him for it.

After getting the road directions from a woman sorting baskets outside a grain shed, he set off.

The land beyond the port turned greener than he had expected. The road itself was plain dirt, wide enough for two carts to pass, but it had been maintained with care. The worst ruts were filled, the drainage cut well enough that recent damp had not become sludge, and the grass on either side had been controlled. Fields stretched farther out, broken by hedges, trees, and the occasional low stone line, making the Company island feel barren by contrast.

The sight tugged at some old memory.

His home had been green too. It was not the same, but it was close enough to bring back memories before he could stop them. A patch of shade near a wall. The sound of someone laughing while carrying water. The smell of damp leaves after rain. For a few breaths, the memories were almost pleasant. Then the rest followed, as they always did. Loss. Blood. Fire. Hands dragging him away from everything. By the time the memories ended, they had turned hard. Hatred was easier to carry than grief.

For the first mile, maybe a little more, the food, drink, and night aboard the Chant carried him. He felt almost light by comparison to the day before. The clones had done the worst of the work in the resonance chamber. His own body had rested.

Unfortunately, a night’s rest and two decent meals could not repair years of neglect. The strength he had borrowed began to fade well before the town walls appeared. His pace slowed. He took a short break under a tree and told himself it was caution rather than fatigue. A while later he did it again, this time without pretending.

When he looked up at the yellow star, shielding his eyes with one hand, it seemed there were still a few hours of light left. Three, maybe four. He had no proper measure for Emerier’s day yet. Every island followed its own cycle according to the path of its star or stars. He had heard of places with long blazing days and short nights, and others where the light barely touched the ground before vanishing again into the cold darkness. Emerier seemed balanced, at least from first glance. He cursed himself for not asking Miles or Eline.

By the time the walls of Verevain finally appeared ahead, he let out a long breath. They were still distant, pale against the light, but the sight eased something in him.

That small relief lasted only a few more steps.

Three figures emerged from the sparse trees to his left and spread across the road with enough confidence to show they had done this before. Two men and a woman, all in poor clothes worn hard by use, but still better than what he had been wearing. One of the men carried a long knife that in no way could be called a sword. The other had a cudgel. While the woman held nothing visible.

“Hand over your purse,” the knife-man said. “and you walk away breathing.”

It was almost insulting.

He was poor, exhausted, half-starved by any honest measure, and these people still thought he looked worth robbing. For one second anger surged through him, then fear followed it, and after that came the frustration of knowing he was still weak enough to be chosen as an easy target.

His mind raced through options. There were classes he could use. Classes he wanted to try. But if he revealed too much, none of the three could be allowed to walk away. The thought rose in him with frightening ease. Some older part of himself that still remembered common morals was horrified. But the rest of him was not. If they forced him, he would not hesitate.

But he was not ready yet. He had been free for barely a day. Testing his clones against strangers could wait.

He ran.

Instead of fleeing back down the road, where they could watch every step and overtake him in the open, he cut sideways into the rougher wilderness beyond it. Grass slapped at his legs. A few desperate strides carried him into the first trees of a thin wood where trunks and brush might at least break the line of sight.

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Behind him came a pause of stunned silence, then curses and pursuit.

Most sane people stayed on the road unless they had no choice. Even on a harbor isle there could be stray voidlings in the brush, especially closer to dusk, and there was always the risk of getting lost. Their hesitation bought him only seconds, but it was enough.

He pushed harder.

For a few breaths the only thing in the world was impact and the certainty that his body was not built for this. Branches clawed at his sleeves. Loose ground shifted under his boots. Pain flashed through muscles that had never truly healed from years of abuse. Soon enough the sounds behind him grew clearer instead of fainter. Of course they did. Even gutter thieves had better bodies than a newly classed former slave.

He could not outrun them like this.

The realization came suddenly, without panic. Then instinct moved first.

Alistair flung himself behind a heavy bush and pulled on his skill. The air beside him shimmered. A clone split away and kept running without pause, bursting through the wild in the direction his body had already been moving.

At the same time, Alistair curled into stillness and held his breathing tight.

The difference between the two bodies intensified the moment he chose the class. The clone’s stride changed. Its posture lowered. Its footing grew certain, more efficient, as if the ground itself had become easier to read. Through that second layer of consciousness, Alistair felt the Runner class act on the duplicate with wonderful precision. He had got the class in the Hall after failing the trial of a more advanced variation. At the time, he had accepted it as another barely useful option. Now it was saving his life.

Sprint, the class skill, was very simple. His breathing settled into a steadier rhythm, his strides wasted less effort, and his balance improved. His footing even adjusted just before he stumbled. The skill relied heavily on the body’s own stamina and endurance, then pushed as much speed from them as it could without exhausting them. In a stronger body, it would have been impressive.

The three robbers rushed past his hiding place a few breaths later, following the noise and movement of the fleeing clone. One nearly brushed the bush where his real body crouched. Alistair went still enough to hurt. Through the connection he drove the clone harder, forcing it deeper between the trees while the skill kept the body from breaking stride.