A letter from Ellewyn:

Erika,

I find the wording of your last letter most offensive. When you speak of 'your people,' why do you specify the race of Men? Do you feel you identify with such loathsome creatures? If so, then I question the potency of the phrase, 'sisters of blood,' that you flaunt so proudly. Let me tell you something, my pretentious Princess of Kaligar: sisters do not go to war for Men. Sisters keep to their own, as they always have, and leave Men to whatever fate the Goddess has intended for them. You cannot hope to change this. At the end of the day, your ideals are faulty and your passion a flaw.

Make no mistake; Sorena will come, and Ellewyn will not stand in her way. The lives of a million slaves are not worth the life of even a single Woman. Regardless of your beliefs, what you are asking for is a betrayal of me, my kingdom, and my people. I would never agree to such terms. And, as you seem to have forgotten, every member on the council who matters has already decided to welcome Sorena on a red carpet. If you hope to retain any status in your kingdom when this is over, you will do the same. Confronting the council with your ill-conceived reasons for protecting Penee or prolonging the false notion that Men are anything more than vermin will only damage you and your reputation.

I will make sure of that.

Your sister,
Queen Isabella

-------------------------

Most days in Masiela were peaceful. Every morning, as predictable and precise and as rhythmic as the hands of a clock, the clouds would peel apart like a flower in bloom and a warm, steady rain would cloak the city in a veil of mist. By midday, the rain would either clear, giving way to a tropical sun and the buzzing of mosquitoes, or the white beads from the heavens would continue to splatter against the muddy earth as merchants and traders set up their tents in the city's market square. During this time, the beating of drums could always be heard in the distance. 'Thunder music,' as the natives of Masiela called it, was a friendly reminder to the citizens that they were protected by the many tribes, vagrants, and gypsies who made their homes in the surrounding rainforest.

When evening rolled around, the great drawbridge to the city would rise and seal off contact with the outside world. Soon after, the palace gates would open and all the Women of the village would gather inside to socialize. This was done for two reasons. The first reason—and the most readily apparent to anyone who has ever had the chance to visit Masiela—was that the walls outside the city weren't safe after nightfall. Bandits had just as many camps as gypsies in those hills, and night was the perfect time for them to prey on lone merchants wandering the winding trails of the rainforest. Even the centurions, the fearless guardians of Masiela, who were renowned for their bravery, strength, and expertise in all fields of combat, would surrender their outside posts when the sun disappeared over the treetops. As a poet once wrote, Masiela, for all its beauty, money, and power, was but a rich oasis in a green desert of outlaws and killers—and these scoundrels had the centurions outnumbered ten-to-one.

The second reason the Women were invited into the palace walls in the evening was because Princess Erika used this time of the day to meet with them and discuss issues that might be of concern. In addition, she would often lead or participate in ceremonial rituals and customs. She was, after all, a princess of ceremony—meaning that she was given power because the people liked her. Unlike in Ellewyn, where royal titles were always passed down from mother to daughter, the only way to gain power in Kaligar was to gain support. Of course, this not only applied to the political structure of Masiela, but it also played a critical role in deciding the hierarchical system that formed the ranks of tribal groups and gangs of outlaws that inhabited the wild Kaligarian lands outside of the city.

Because of this, it was important that Erika remained in good relations with her people. But for someone like Erika, this was not hard. She was patient and wise, despite her age, and she had a strong spiritual side and respected all the cultures of her land. She spoke many different tongues, so she spent much of her time communicating talks of peace and friendship between the people of her village and the tribes outside of Masiela. During her short, seven-year reign as a stewardess of Kaligar, she fought hard to keep the cultures, traditions, and people of her land alive. There were some who would even claim that, without her efforts, Masiela would have crumbled to the hands of smugglers and become just another hideaway for their kind to scurry into.

For this, Erika was loved by almost all. In fact, in a recent poll elicited by Queen Isabella, Erika was the most popular and well-received member of the royal council since the days of Countess Gwendolyn of the House of Sienna, over twenty years ago. Her fame even carried into the tribes outside her village. Those who played their thunder music considered Erika a goddess. She denied these claims, of course, but semi-modest caricatures of her body and face could still be recognized in their idols, totems, and artwork.

But tonight, as the citizens of Masiela gathered in the courtyard for their usual powwow, Erika was nowhere to be found. This wasn't the first time. Ever since rumors of Sorena's return reached the gates of their fair city, the princess had been spending more and more time by herself, locked in her room. For tonight, her absence went by mostly unnoticed, but there was a certain uneasiness that hovered over the people like a fog—because if Erika was troubled, they knew they should be as well.

Regardless, the Women talked, as they always did, about the weather, about the day's events, about the suffering trade market or the latest achievements in a tapestry they had been working on or how much better Erika was than that horrible, no good, very bad Isabella—but, mostly, they talked about Sorena. Three years ago, many of them had never heard of her. But now, the Dark Lady filled their every thought. What would she do to them? Would their lives be spared? If not, could Erika really save them from such an awesome foe? They knew a world existed outside of Masiela, but, up until now, their stone walls had never been breached. Were they safe here? Would Ellewyn, their alleged sister of blood, protect them from her reach? These things were a mystery, a fear, and an unwavering fog that wouldn't clear as easily as a summer rain.

But children rarely have such thoughts. While mothers mused over matters outside of their control, their daughters young and old went off to play games of merriment elsewhere. For a while, tag seemed to be the sport of choice—but, as the evening went on, more and more of these children began to find their way to the back of the courtyard, in a small arena surrounded by torchlit, where a centurion was sparring with a brown-haired fencer under the flickering flames.

Curious and amazed—two states of mind that can effectively calm even the wildest of children—the young girls perched on whatever bench, rock, or branch they could find, and watched the two battlers dance across the cobblestone path like two butterflies in mating. The centurion was quick, despite her heavy armor, but the fencer was the one that all the eyes were on. She never once allowed the tip of her opponent's sabre to tap her. It was truly remarkable, they would later tell their mothers, the way she could bend her body in ways that would make a contortionist wince, and dodge attacks that were so accurate on execution that they could skewer a fly right out of midair.

It wasn't long before the audience had grown so big that the children had to stand on each other's shoulders. And they watched, openly spellbound, as the fencer continued to block and parry every attack thrown her way before finally side-stepping a forward assault and then thrusting her rapier into the chest of the centurion, causing a loud 'tink' to echo through their ears.

The children tried not to cheer, for they knew better than to celebrate the defeat of a centurion, but some of them couldn't help themselves. It was, after all, a phenomenal performance.

But the centurion just let out a good-natured laugh and lowered her blade.

"We should stop this before I get hurt," she said, and then extended her arm in a friendly gesture. "Lady Fallon, you may have bested me in battle, but I feel it is I who have won to be able to duel a legend such as yourself. I now understand why your name is always followed by such admiration."

Fallon took off her glove and tucked it under her arm to shake the centurion's hand.

"I take no pleasure in besting one I view as an equal," she said. "Your swordsmanship is truly stunning. Odessa has done well in training you."

The centurion seemed a bit taken aback. "How did you know I trained under Odessa?"

"I suppose that's where I had the upper hand. I have dueled Odessa many times, and I saw her sword technique in you."

"I'm impressed. I didn't know I was so easy to read."

"Oh, believe me—you are not. I learned to read Odessa's techniques the hard way. Dueling you has only reminded me how many times I let her sword pass through my guard."

"And yet, I couldn't get a single hit in..."

"I am not the person to compare yourself to. We have top knights in Ellewyn who struggle with the very same thrusts and blocks that you executed perfectly. Do I have the honor of knowing your name?"

The centurion removed her helmet and cast it aside. "Eleanor Tearwind, milady."

"Ah..." Fallon flashed a warm smile. "The hurricane herself. Odessa speaks highly of you, Eleanor."

"She speaks the same of you," Eleanor said. "And it brings to mind a question that is so forward that I almost hate to ask, but I feel I must, for you have piqued my curiosity."

"Please," Fallon said, and Eleanor led her to the edge of the cobblestone path, where they would be out of earshot of the children who were still gathered around.

"I am as curious as I am confused," the centurion confessed. "How does a courier of the royal court become as capable as you with a blade and not join the militia? I know the training in Ellewyn has become more difficult in recent years, but there is no doubt in my mind, based on what I've seen here tonight, that you could easily become a second-in-command to Duchess May."

Fallon's smile never broke.

"I get this question a lot," she said. "My answer remains the same; I have nothing against the militia or Duchess May, but I am bound to Isabella. I cared for her from the time we were both children, and I will continue to do so until the day I die."

"Then I do not understand why your queen feels she needs the services of the Black Knight. With you around, only a crazed fool would try to get near her!"

Fallon laughed. "Well, I am not her bodyguard. These days, I serve as her messenger and an ambassador of peace. But Roxanne—er, the Black Knight, if you will—has only one task, and that is protecting the queen. That is a lifetime commitment, I assure you. You wouldn't believe the number of death threats Isabella receives every day."

But Eleanor had a pretty good idea in mind.

"I suppose tending to her every need eats up a lot of your time as well," she said. "When do you have time to yourself, Fallon?"

"Mostly at night," she answered. "I've found it easier to...get things done after Isabella has gone to sleep. That's when I do most of my work."

"Then I should leave you to your work then," Eleanor said.

"There will be no work tonight. I am on vacation."

"Really? I thought you and Princess Erika were discussing the terms of alliance between Kaligar and Ellewyn during the upcoming war."

"Upcoming war?"

"With Sorena."

Fallon frowned.

"I just...assumed that's what you were here for. I heard she received a letter from Queen Isabella today, and I figured you were the one to deliver it."

"I know of no such letter."

"Oh..."

"I suppose I'll hear about it soon enough," Fallon said. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Eleanor."

"Not a problem," the centurion said, going back to retrieve her helmet. "I look forward to seeing you again. Enjoy your stay in Masiela, Lady Fallon."

Fallon nodded and bowed to her. When she turned around, she saw all the children were still in their seats, watching her every movement intently. Slowly, Fallon put away her rapier.

"It's always nice to have an audience," she said, "but I'd much rather have students."

The children's eyes lit up.

"You would teach us to fence?" one of them asked.

"Well, I don't think your mothers would approve of me teaching you how to use a sword, but I don't see any harm in teaching you a few techniques on how to defend yourself."

The other girls cheered and the one who was standing up jumped off the rock she was on.

"I want to go first!" she said.

Fallon looked down at her. The little girl was only about waist-high, but she was wearing a ridiculous, red-haired wig that added an extra six or seven inches. In one hand, she was holding a wooden sword, and her other hand was being used to pinch together the corners of a cloak had draped over her shoulders to keep it from falling down.

"And what's your name?" Fallon asked, kneeling down.

The girl beamed. "I'm Rene Chandel!"

"You're too short to be Rene," one of the girls behind her said, and the others snickered.

"Shut up! I am so Rene."

Another girl leaned over and poked her with a stick. "Ha! If you were Rene, you woulda blocked that."

The girl in the wig dropped her sword and tried to grab the stick, but the stick was thrown over her hair and she was poked in the back again. Turning as red as her hair, she twirled around and tackled the new assailant. They tumbled into the grass and rolled over on top of each other for a while, clawing and biting each other, until Fallon was able to separate them.

"That's enough," she said, holding them at arms-length apart. "If I'm going to teach you girls anything, you have to promise me that you can be mature about it." She looked at them. "Can you do that?"

The girls glared at each other until the one with the stick surrendered her weapon.

"You fight like a man anyway," she said.

Enraged, the girl in the wig threw a punch, but it went wide and Fallon pulled her back.

"Say that again and I'll cut out your tongue!" the girl screamed.

"Excuse you!" Fallon said. "Where did you learn to talk like that?"

"What? That's what Rene would do if somebody insulted her."

Fallon stared at her.

"It's true," another girl said. "I heard someone once called Rene a cheater, so she cut off their tongue, slapped them with it, and then stuffed it back in their mouth so they could eat their own words."

"That's horrible," Fallon said. "Where do you children—"

"I heard Rene once stepped in quicksand, and the quicksand almost drowned!" another chimed in.

"I heard she got really hungry one day, so she found a dragon, challenged it to a duel, and ended up strangling it with a lock of her own hair! Then she cooked it and it lasted her almost twenty-four hours."

"Well, I heard she can fly! You know—whoooosh!"

Everybody was quiet until someone slapped that person.

"We'll have none of that here."

"Girls..." Fallon said. "I'm familiar with her work, but I'm not sure Rene Chandel is the best role model to have." With a troubled smile, she took a seat on the rock and gestured for the children to gather around her.

The girl who had the stick before was the first to reach Fallon's side. "Rene is okay, but she's nothing compared to you. I bet you could beat her in a swordfight any day of the week, Fallon!"

Her comment was met with nods and murmurs of agreement. In fact, the only one who didn't seem completely convinced that her statement was true was the girl in the red-haired wig.

"Nobody can beat Rene," she said. "She's invincible."

Fallon folded her hands in her lap. "I know it's hard to realize, but nobody is truly invincible."

"Well, have you ever slain a dragon?"

The other girls were quick to jump to Fallon's defense.

"I bet she's slain twenty of them!" one of them said.

"I'm afraid I've never even seen a dragon," Fallon admitted. " I spend most of my time in the castle. Coming here was one of the few chances I've had to get away in a long time."

"I knew it," the girl in the wig said.

"But...if you ever saw a dragon, you'd kill it, right?" a girl in the back asked.

Fallon laughed. "I don't suppose I would. Unless, of course, the dragon did something that would warrant such an act."

"Why? They're big and ugly. They deserve to die."

"Is that really what you think?" Fallon looked around. "How many of you think that something deserves to die if it looks a little different than you or me?"

A few hands went up.

Fallon's smile faded. "...Let me try again. I notice that most of you are blondes. Do you think any less of the brunettes like me?"

One or two of the hands went down.

"That's not really a fair question," the girl in the back said.

"It's not?"

"No... I mean, you have brown hair, but you still look like one of us."

"So, at what point does something have to look different enough that it becomes acceptable to contemplating killing such a creature?"

"Well...when they're big and ugly. Like dragons."

"Or small and ugly—like Men," one of the girls said and the rest snickered.

"...That's called something, you know," Fallon said. "It's called bigotry. It is the worst kind of mindset a person can have, and it's a mindset you must absolutely overcome if you ever want to learn how to fence."

"Why?"

"Because fencing is a sport where reading your opponent is essential. It's not enough to be good. The best fencers aren't the ones with the quickest wrists or the lightest feet. I should know—I have two left feet and I'm a horrible dancer."

The children giggled.

"But I put bigotry behind me a long time ago. Bigotry is a product of fear—the fear of something or someone different than you—and it's a far more dangerous enemy to you than the person on the other end of the sword you're trying to dodge. Fear is easy to read, and a truly experienced fencer will see it, know it, and, most importantly, know how to counter it." Leaning back for a moment, she drew out her rapier and placed it across her thigh. "Reading your opponent is everything. The easiest ones to defeat are the ones who are the most predictable."

"But what if you're not afraid of your opponent?" one of the girls asked. "What's so bad about bigotry then?"

Fallon nodded her head. "In real life, we often hide our fear. If I asked how many of you who raised your hands before are actually afraid of Men, you'd laugh at me. And that's completely understandable. The thought of being afraid of something the size of a spider is pretty ridiculous, isn't it?"

For once, the children were quiet.

"It's easy to see and understand how someone can be afraid when facing a dragon. How Rene Chandel does it is beyond me. But not many people are afraid of me when I go to face them in a duel. I suppose I don't look very menacing, and these colorful ribbons in my hair don't help any, but it's precisely because of these things that I am able to win, more often than not. Do you know why?"

"Do the ribbons give you special powers?" someone asked.

Fallon laughed.

"No," she said. "It's because when somebody feels you are weaker or inferior to them, they become arrogant. And can you guess what the most predictable people in any combat situation are?"

"...Arrogant?"

"And do you know what bigotry leads to?"

"...Arrogance?"

Fallon moved her hand. "...There's a reason I always have a difficult time dueling the centurions here. Women like Eleanor Tearwind are trained to respect their opponent. Even before they go into battle, they take the time to study their opponents, to know their technique and culture and training. They have learned that no fight is a joke and that no battle is impossible. They have overcome fear and bigotry, and they live by a code in which there is never an excuse for underestimating one's opponent. That is why you children are blessed to have the greatest battalion of soldiers in the history of Adelais guarding your city."

"...Wow," they said.

The girl in the wig stood in front of Fallon and put her hands on her hips.

"Maybe that works for you," she said, "but I bet Rene never has to think about any of that."

"Yes," Fallon said, "but that's because Rene Chandel can apparently slay a dragon by pointing her finger at it and saying 'Stab!'"

The girls behind her barreled over in laughter.

Even the girl in the wig managed to break a smile.

"You do have a point..." she said.

Fallon started to say something, but her view of the girl was suddenly blocked off by a long pair of legs jutting out of a beaded red skirt.

"How do you stand her?"

Fallon had already recognized those legs, but she recognized the voice even better. Standing up, she stood face to face with Erika, whose face was as red as her skirt.

"What do you mean?" Fallon asked, putting away her rapier.

Erika didn't say a word as she shoved a piece of parchment into the courier's hand.

Curiously, Fallon unraveled the note and began to read.

"...This does not sound like Isabella," she said, after she had finished. "I've known her for a very long time. I even taught her how to read and write, and I can assure you that this writing is neither her tongue nor her hand."

Erika was quick on her retort. "I noticed the same thing. For a while, I couldn't be convinced it actually came from her. I even entertained a notion that it might be the work of one of her lackeys, in a feeble attempt to get me riled up so that I might do something I regret, and then... Then, I remembered that every time I receive a letter from Isabella, you're the one to deliver it to me." Her eyebrows lifted and seemed to sadden. "You are, Fallon."

"...Pardon my confusion," Fallon said. "Are you suggesting I rewrite her letters before I hand them to you?"

"Isn't it your job to make Isabella come across as eloquent and polite? We both know she's neither of those. Now, I realize you're just covering for her, the way you always do."

"Erika, that's not true. I could never pretend to be someone I am not."

"I'm just glad you weren't able to intercept this one," she said, taking the letter back. Then, Erika paused for a moment, looking down, and studied her feet closely, as if she had to give very careful thought to the next words out of her mouth. "Fallon... I've spent the greater part of today trying to figure out how I was going to confront you with this. You've always been very direct with me, so I thought I would extend the same courtesy to you... But, honestly, I can't even look you in the face right now. I am so disappointed."

"Erika..."

"You really hurt me today. You're like a sister to me. Maybe not of blood, but of something stronger and more meaningful, and I thought you respected that." She turned away. "You've truly tested the weight of that bond today by lying to me."

"I have not lied," Fallon said. "Though I may advise Isabella on diplomatic concerns, I do not write letters in her name, nor do I believe the document you hold in your hand now came from her or even passed her eyes before it was sent to you. This reeks of foul play."

"...You'll have to excuse me," Erika said. "I have to decide how I'm going to deal with that monster of yours." She crinkled up the letter. "And please, do not try to follow me. I've already instructed my centurions to keep you out of the palace until I handle this matter."

Fallon watched her leave, but did not try to follow.

"Erika..." she said softly. "I would not lie to you."

The children behind her had remained quiet and still until now. Maintaining their silence, they slid off the rock and slowly scattered in different directions as silently as ripples in a pond.

Only the girl in the red-haired wig remained. She looked around for a moment, biting her lip, and then moved closer to Fallon's side.

"...Lady Fallon?" she said, pulling on the courier's white bodice.

Fallon broke out of her trance.

"I believe you," the girl said. "A long time ago, my mother taught me how to see if a person is lying. I was watching your face the whole time, and I know you're telling the truth about that letter."

A weak smile appeared on Fallon's face.

"...Your mother sounds like a wise person," she said. "I think she would make a better role model than Rene Chandel, don't you?"

The little girl flopped her shoulders. "Maybe..."

Smiling wider now, Fallon knelt down, put a hand around either side of the girl's head, and gently removed the wig.

"I think I prefer you as a brunette," she said, tossing the red hair aside.

"Yeah... That's what my mom says, too."

"Well, you should listen to her. I bet there's a lot she could teach you."

"I dunno..." The girl looked away. "She's not around much these days."

"Oh... I'm sorry. I know how that is. I didn't know my mother either."

She shrugged. "It's okay. I've learned to take care of myself. Yesterday, I killed a bird with a stick, and cooked it and ate it without help from anybody else."

"...Did your mom teach you that as well?"

"Sure did!"

"That's, uh..."

"Lady Fallon?"

"Yes?"

"I'm joking."

"....Very funny," Fallon said, and she tried to laugh, but something was obviously holding her back.

"Naw, but I'm okay, really," the girl said, dismissing the subject as quickly as a child dismisses a scraped knee. "I have a feeling my mom will be coming back very soon, and we'll get to have fun again."

"Well, that's great. I hope I get to meet her some time."

"Me too! I know she'd like you."

Then, with a smirk, the girl turned to walk home. When she saw the wig that was lying on the ground, she stopped for a moment, mused over it, and then brushed it out of the way with her foot.

"Good girl," Fallon said.

"Ha. I have ten at home just like it."

"I'm sure you do."

Then, the girl was quiet.

"...Amelie," she said at last.

"What?"

"A while ago, you asked me for my name. I told you it was Rene Chandel." She peered over her shoulder. "I lied... It's Amelie. I figure if you can be honest, then so can I."

Fallon smiled. "Okay. It's nice to meet you, Amelie. Perhaps I will see you around again sometime."

"Perhaps."

She left and Fallon was standing alone.

-------------------------

Adelais had undergone many changes since the fall of the Last King, some five hundred years ago. Some of these changes were obvious: Men no longer held status or power, Women stood alone as the dominant race in the world, and toilets no longer required adjustable seats—but perhaps one of the more subtle changes was how the trade market had been affected by all of this. Once a foreign concept, slavery was now more popular than ever, and it was of no great surprise for anyone to learn that one of the highest-grossing exports in all the land today...was Man.

"Ready, guys?" Malkav asked.

Although it's true that most Women of the world did not tolerate Men, there was also a general consensus that Men were a rare delicacy when seasoned and packaged correctly. In more recent years, this had led to the practice of 'Man-smuggling' in Kaligar, where the Man population was high and so were the number of outlaws looking to get rich quickly. The practice of Man-smuggling was made illegal by Princess Erika, but—like most other laws in Kaligar—it was ignored even by the people who swore to uphold it. In fact, it was no secret that some of the richest smugglers lived in the palace of Masiela, pretending to be just and honorable people.
Blackthorn picked up three heavy stones that were sitting in a rail cart and tossed one to Malkav and another to Adam.

"Let's do this," he said.

There were at least as many Men as Women in the world, but their lifestyles were quite different. For the average Man born in Penee, there were only two paths in life. If he was lucky, he would show signs of intelligence from an early age and be allowed to remain in Penee, given a good education, and live out the rest of his days as an engineer or mechanic or gadgeteer within the walls of his native kingdom. But most Men were not lucky. When those unlucky ones became of age (usually before their sixth birthday), they would be taken away and sentenced to work as slaves in Kaligar. It wasn't a bad life there, as Erika treated her people well, but it wouldn't last forever. Eventually, the Men would be packaged up like fruit, shipped off, and wind up on the dinner plate of some girl in Ellewyn when they were too old or weak to work any longer. For these Men, the entire process didn't take very long, and their average lifespan of a Man could be anywhere from fifteen to twenty years of age.

Malkav tested the weight of the stone by bouncing it a few times in his hands. Once he was satisfied, he put both hands on the stone and held it to his chest. Blackthorn and Adam did the same. Then, they lined up at the edge of the pool, took a few deep breaths, and jumped in.

But not all Men who were taken from Penee were exported to Kaligar to serve as slaves or Ellewyn to be served as a meal. A large portion of these Men were sent out to sea, to the underwater city of Atlantis, where they served in yet another Adelain trade for the rest of their days...

The stones carried the Men to the bottom of the pool. Once they were there, they released the stones, kicked off the sandy bottom, and swam over to an oyster that was bigger than a house to them. Malkav was the first to reach it and used hand signals to direct Adam to the right side of the oyster and Blackthorn to the left. He then took his spot at the front lip of the oyster and waited for them to get into position.

At his call, they each unhooked a metal pry bar from the back of their wetsuits and began wedging the devices between the tightly-sealed lips of the bivalve. Then, pushing in unison, they were able to pry open the oyster's shell wide enough that they could squeeze through. The muscles of the agitated creature tried to shut, but Adam and Blackthorn held their pry bars stiff while Malkav swam into the oyster and wedged his device near the hinge to keep it from closing.

Once it was in place, he gave the signal to Adam and Blackthorn, and then swam back to the surface alone.

"Go!" he yelled the moment his head was out of the water. Beads of an artificial sun glittered across his face.

Before he was even finished speaking, an elderly man standing at the shore had jumped into the water, carrying one end of a rope and a rock under his arm. The rock allowed him to quickly sink to the bottom of the pool, and then he tugged on the rope and kicked towards the open lip of the oyster. Sitting on a pink tissue throne inside was a beautiful pearl, as pure and white and round as the full moon, but he didn't take time to admire it. Once he was in, he lassoed the rope around the pearl, working quickly but carefully, like a hardened blacksmith who knew the dangers of his trade. The man's hands were old, but they were as steady as a leather strap, and he had put three solid knots around the pearl by the time Malkav had dove back down to help him with the fourth and final knot.

As soon as the knot was finished, the old man tugged on the rope and followed it back to the surface.

Meanwhile, on the shore above, Captain Jargon felt the tug on the rope and his muscles swelled as he yanked back. He had to dig the nail he had for a leg into the ground, but Exthame was pulling on the rope as well, and Malkav was still underwater, pushing at the pearl from behind. In less than seven seconds, they were able to roll the pearl out of the oyster, and they continued to drag it across the sandy bottom of the pool while Malkav went back for his pry bar.

He unhitched it and swam out of the oyster, waving to Adam and Blackthorn, who immediately unlatched their devices as well. The oyster's lips slammed shut, creating a sudden jet of water that blasted them forward. For an extra boost, they kicked off the top shell of the oyster and made for the surface, swinging their legs like the tails of fish.

Their heads popped out—one, two, three—and they gasped and breathed in the fresh air for a moment.

With the hard part over, they paddled to the shore and joined Jargon, Blackthorn, and now the old man, who were all dragging the pearl onto shore. With the six of them working at it, they were able to lift the pearl out of water and undo the knots. The threads of the rope fell to their feet and they stepped back, dripping wet, to admire the beauty they had just harvested.

"Ain't she sweet," the old man said, stroking the outside of the pearl.

"She sure is," Malkav said. "This will work perfectly."

This process of extracting pearls was repeated a thousand times a day, by a hundred groups just like them. Every group was a little different, in terms of its members and its strengths and its weaknesses, but the basis of every pearl diving team could be broken down into three roles: pryers, divers, and pullers.

Now, the mermaids allowed the Men to divide the positions amongst themselves, but this usually led to problems. Because pullers had the smallest chance for a work-related hazard, every Man wanted to be one. The only thing a puller had to worry about were rope burns and the occasional pulled muscle. Of course, not everyone could be a puller, so the job was usually surrendered to the biggest and toughest Men on each team, who would puff up their chests and demand it.

The next obvious position was diver. Divers may have had a dangerous job, having to swim inside the oyster to secure the pearl, but statistics showed that pryers were in the worst spot because they would be underwater the entire time. Because of this, it was the weakest Men on the team who would end up as pryers, and they often didn't have the strength to open the oyster, let alone to keep it open long enough for the diver to do his job. Many pryers had drowned in the line of duty, and many divers had been crushed to death inside an oyster. And, once a team couldn't perform their job, the mermaids would step in—at which point, not even the pullers would be safe.

This was the problem with the system.

Understandably, then, it was incredibly rare for one team to last as long as the pirates had. But they weren't fools. Instead of fighting for the best positions, they decided long ago that Adam and Blackthorn were the best-suited to be pryers because they had large hands to pry open the oyster and large lungs to store enough air to survive the three or four minutes they would be underwater. Malkav was the captain of the pryers, and his nimble body helped him to get back to the surface quickly so that he could signal the old man—better known as Coop—that the oyster was secured. Exthame, despite being blind, was unbelievably strong, and so was Jargon, despite missing an eye, leg, and one hand, so they both made good pullers—especially after considering the fact that neither would be capable of swimming.

"You boys load 'er on the cart and I'll turn in this work order," the old man said, picking up a clipboard.

Malkav took off his wetsuit and flipped back his wet hair that had grown all the way down to his shoulders during his extended stay in Atlantis, where stylists were hard to find.

"You still haven't said if you're going, Coop," he said.

The old man pretended not to hear him and turned the other way.

"I'm going to need an answer from you, one way or the other."

Coop sighed and lowered the clipboard to his waist.

"If you had shown up twenty years ago, I would be right there with you,," he said, putting a finger in his ear and turning it like a screw. "I'm afraid this body just ain't what it used to be, son."

"That's ridiculous. You're in great shape. You can swim circles around any man here, including me."

"A man lives by doing what he is good at. I can't say I'm happy with the way things turned out, but I've been here for too long, outlived all my friends, and it's only a matter of time now before the mermaids have my old hide on a platter with a side of fish chips." He put a comforting hand on Malkav's shoulder. "When you get to be my age, that's more of a blessing than a curse. Trust me."

"Bull. You don't want to die any more than we do."

Coop laughed. "What I want stopped mattering a very long time ago. These days, it's all about what I'm willing to accept." He put on his eyeglasses, scribbled something down on the clipboard, and then set them both down on the work table next to him. "I think you need to consider that, too. Just what are you willing to accept?"

"Well, I'm not going to accept letting the mermaids kill you, if that's what you mean," he said.

Adam tapped Malkav on the shoulder. "Uh, oh... Here comes Bruzzeli. Better look busy."

Adam bent down and pretended to be fixing his shoe with a pry bar.

Malkav ignored his advice and turned to see a man in blue overalls marching towards them. He was about a heads-length taller than Malkav, with a long nose, hair as dark and greasy as his oil-stained hands, and shoulders that were wide enough to serve dinner on. A utility belt swung from his hips. When he was close enough, he reached for the belt, pulled out a knife, and slapped it into Malkav's palm.

"You guys look like you need one of these," he said.

"...Thanks," Malkav said. He turned the knife around and handed it back. "But I think we're good."

Grinning so wide that the gaps between his teeth in the back were visible, Bruzzeli first looked to the left, then to the right, and then seized the knife—and Malkav's hand—and yanked him closer.

"I suggest you take it," he whispered into Malkav's ear. "It would be very unfortunate for you to find yourself in a situation where you desperately need something like this and don't have it around because you thought you could do the job without it. Know what I mean?"

Malkav flashed him a smirk. "You think I'm going to leave you behind, Bruzzeli?"

"Oh, the thought had crossed my mind once or twice."

"Well, then it's a good thing I desperately need you, isn't it?"

Bruzzeli's grin turned into a scowl. For a moment, it looked like he was ready to snap Malkav's wrist, and Jargon and Blackthorn edged a little closer—just in case. Then, Bruzzeli chuckled, squeezed Malkav's hand a little tighter, and let go.

"I suppose it is," he said. He took a step back and didn't even acknowledge the pirates on either side of him. " ...If you need any more tools, you know where to find me."

Malkav waited until he was out of sight to wince and drop the knife. Kicking it away, he grabbed his wrist and wriggled the fingers that had almost been broken.

Sensing that danger was gone, and because he had already put a hole in his shoe with the pry bar, Adam stood back and turned in the direction Bruzzeli had went.

"...I don't trust that guy," he said.

"I don't either, but we need him." Malkav popped his thumb back into place. "More importantly, he needs us, so I guess we're stuck together."

"Does that make us blood brothers or something?"

Malkav looked down and a stream of crimson blood was running down his palm. He tore a piece of cloth from his pant leg and wrapped it tightly around his hand.

"Something like that..." he said.

-------------------------

At the center of the pearl farms, like a large, twisted, green-bellied hydra, there was a spire with five necks that loomed over the shores of white sand and glittering pools of water. Each of these necks were attached to the base of the spire, but they had separate tower heads that could be reached either by a winding staircase around the outside of the neck or by an elevator shaft on the inside. The tops of these towers had two windows a piece, positioned only a few paces apart, to resemble the eyes of a monster.

Inside the central tower, which was higher up than the other four, there were about half a dozen pygmies, but only one of them was standing by the window. Her eyes were fixated on one spot below. The other pygmies were gathered in the corner of the room, gossiping and giggling, while their boss—a blonde-haired pygmy by the name of Zana—sat at her desk, behind an aquarium of fish that were bigger than her, and read the newest edition of Atlantis' most popular magazine, Starfish.

After a while, she casually turned the page and folded it in her lap.

"...I don't see what the attraction is," she said aloud.

Fayrelin was the only one within earshot, and she had been standing with her face pressed against the window long enough to leave a smudge mark on the glass, so she knew exactly who her boss was talking to.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Zana didn't look up. "You've been staring at those fish all day."

"I'm just making sure they're staying on task."

"I can't imagine why you would be doing that." She began to mindlessly drum her fingers along the pages of the magazine. "Unless, of course, you caught them screwing around before."

"No."

"No?"

"I mean, no, they're not screwing around."

The drumming stopped. "Then what's your obsession with them?"

"It's just.." She stopped when Malkav glanced up from his work station below and caught her eyes for a moment. "One of them said something to me this morning, and..."

"Did he threaten you?"

"No."

"Did he insult you?" Zana dropped her magazine excitedly. "If he did, we can have him on a dinner plate by nightfall. Yours, if you want."

Fayrelin shook her head. "No, it's nothing like that."

"...Hm." Zana leaned back on her chair. "Well, maybe I should alert the mermaids anyway."

"Why? I told you he didn't do anything wrong."

Zana shrugged. "I don't like those fish."

"They're not fish anymore, Zana. They've been here for a long time."

"Why do you hang out with them so much?"

"I told you."

"You told me they were slaves on your ship before you ended up in Atlantis."

"Well... They were."

"That doesn't explain why you should feel any sort of connection to them." Zana laughed. "After all, they're just Men."

"But they're my Men... I own them. I feel I should have a say in what happens to them, you know?"

"Fay, Fay, Fay..." Zana spun her chair around, stood up, and walked over to the window. "Girl, I like you. You know I like you."

"I know, Zana..."

"But those Men down there..." She pointed out the window to Malkav and his friends. "They're fish. One day, they're going to slip up, like fish always do, and I'm going to be forced to report them to the mermaids. That's my job, you understand?"

"I know it is."

"And when I report them, they're going to die. All of them. Dead. Gone. Poof. No more."

"Well, we're all going to die here," Fayrelin argued. "We're not any different than them."

"Of course we are!" Zana put an arm around Fayrelin and led her away from the window. "Saying we're the same as them... What's gotten into you lately? You like it here, don't you?"

"Sure, I do," Fayrelin lied.

"That's good. We're a lot alike, Fay."

"We are?"

"Why, sure! When I first came here, I felt a closer connection to the Men than the mermaids. I thought, because I was small, I would be treated the same way as a fish. But the mermaids understand that pygmies are superior to Men." She grinned shamelessly. "...I bet those fish never respected you when they were your slaves."

Fayrelin thought about for a moment. "Well, they did use my ship a lot without my permission..."

"I'm sure they did! Men are so stupid. They obey Women and mermaids because of their size, but they're not willing to accept that pygmies come from the exact same blood. That's why we're seen as foreigners in places like Penee. We're one of the very few races to have no land to call our own."

"I guess you're right..." Fayrelin lifted her heel and scratched the back of her leg. "Gee, I'm sorry, Zana. I don't know what's wrong with me today. I was talking to one of the Men down there this morning, and he said something to me, and it got me thinking about stuff I usually don't think about, and...I don't know. I just got confused."

"Hey... It's okay. You just gotta forget about those fish. They're not one of us." Then she snapped her finger. "I know what will make you feel better."

"What's that?"

"Let's go harass the workers! We can tell them what a bad job they're doing, and how worthless they are, and how we're going to call the mermaids on them if they don't shape up."

"Well, okay..."

They got into the elevator and rode it down to the base of the spire. When the door opened, Zana ambled over to Malkav and his pirate crew while Fayrelin tagged along from behind, trying to look inconspicuous.

Zana was quite the opposite.

"What are you fish doing!?" she yelled. "It's not time for a lunch break!"

Adam looked down at the sandwich he had just dropped and then up at the giant clock on the spire. "Um... Yes, it is."

"New rule," Zana said. "You can only eat if I give you permission to eat."

"Oh..." Adam stared at his sandwich on the ground. "...Can I eat now?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." He picked up the sandwich.

Zana slapped it out of his hand. "Lunch time is over!"

"Hey, you can't do that," Jargon said, hobbling over from where he had been drinking. He only made it about halfway before he stumbled over, drunk, and landed at Zana's feet.

"...You fish are pathetic," she said, making a face of disgust. "Here." She bent down, scooped up Adam's sandwich, and handed it back to him. "You can eat it now."

Adam held it up to his face.

"...It's covered in sand," he said.

"Well, now it's a proper sandwich, isn't it?" Zana laughed.

"I...guess..."

Malkav glared in their direction, but said nothing.

"Anyway," Zana said, stepping over Jargon's body, "Fayrelin has been watching you fish very closely today, and she hasn't had very many good things to report. Your performance has certainly declined since you first started working here."

"It's only noon and we've already met the day's quota," Malkav said. He hid his face behind his mug for a moment to take a long sip of his ale. "...We should get the afternoon off."

"...Like hell you should," Fayrelin said quietly.

All eyes turned to her.

"This pearl is cracked," she said, pointing to the specimen that was sitting on the rail cart next to them. "Do you have any idea how much the value of a pearl drops from a single crack like that?"

"We'll buff it out tomorrow," Malkav said, and he looked away.

Fayrelin's face turned red.

"You'll buff it out now if I tell you!" she snapped.

Malkav nearly spilled his drink.

"Geez, Fay," he said, setting down his mug. "This wouldn't have something to do with what I said to you earlier, would it?"

"...So what if it does?"

"Well, I think it's a little unfair for you to come in here and start harassing us about our job just because you're a little peeved that I—"

"Buff it." Fayrelin threw a rag at him. "Buff it now."

Malkav glowered at her and then at Zana, who only smirked.

"Better do what you're told," she said.

Malkav didn't say a word as he stood up. He gave a dirty look to Fayrelin, walked the long way around her, and kept his back to her as he held up the rag to the pearl. After two minutes of running his hands back and forth as hard as he could, he threw down the rag and stepped back.

"...No way," he said. He scratched the crack with his fingernail. "It's too deep. We won't be able to get this one out."

"You idiots," Zana said. "How could you even scratch a pearl that much? It looks like somebody took a knife to it."

"It was like that when we found it," Malkav said.

"Then how do we know all the rest of the pearls you harvested today aren't scratched up as well?" Fayrelin asked.

"That's a good point," Zana said. She looked at Malkav. "Well?"

Malkav shrugged. "I...I guess we could go back and inspect the other ones we extracted today. Maybe some of the equipment we've been using is faulty."

"Then there's no telling how far back these scratches could go," Fayrelin said. "You better reinspect every pearl since the last shipment was sent to the surface, just to be sure."

"The last shipment? That was three weeks ago! We'll be backlogged for months if we do that."

"Not if you work nights, too." Fayrelin looked at Zana. "You can arrange that, can't you?"

Zana laughed. "I sure can. You fish are going to be busy." Then she patted Fayrelin on the back. "Way to go, sister. I knew it was a good idea to bring you down here."

Malkav and the rest of the pirates (except for Jargon, who was unconscious) stared at the ground and waited for Zana to leave. When only Fayrelin was left, they looked up.

"Well?" she asked. "How did I do?"

"Perfect," Malkav said, grinning.