"Thank you for getting all of this together," Oak said and made sure not to drop the plaque, the ink bottle or the little paintbrush Halit had handed to him. "This will mean a lot to her."

"No need to thank me. This is just common decency," Halit replied, rubbing his long and thin fingers together. "Please tell Sadia my condolences. Losing a parent is no small thing."

"Decency ain't so common. And yes, I will pass your sympathies on to her."

Halit nodded. His unremarkable face held a sickly pale pallor, and he had dark circles under his green eyes. The Ensi of Kesh looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. "Sadly, true. Though, you showed some decency yourself last night, didn't you?"

Oak leaned against the wall surrounding Halit's manor. His gaze wandered around the square, from grieving family to grieving family. The market square was a moving tapestry of sorrow. "I would be hard pressed to call what I did decency. Would have split Flaka's skull open if she wasn't so bloody hard to kill. Her girl too, if she got in my way."

The words flowed out of Oak like water gushing down the rapids, with no regard for propriety or his own reputation. He was not the best at accepting praise on a good day, but tonight he couldn't stomach a single compliment. Behar's death weighed heavy on his shoulders. He felt so rotten that the idea of Halit thinking it fitting to compliment him on his good deeds made him feel ill.

"You only made a deal with her because she might have caught you with a crossbow bolt otherwise?" Halit asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Why, that is cold."

"Ain't proud of it, but that is the truth."

Even this confession felt like a sad half truth, uttered to mask his real guilt. Since he doubted he would find the courage to come clean to Zef and admit he had killed Behar, Oak confessed something else to someone else. As if he could level the scales of justice with such a pitiful mirage.

They stood there for a time, watching the vigil. Plaque after plaque joined the fire at the center of the square and the flames climbed higher, casting a forest of shadows across the square.

"I gave her a job," Halit said.

"What? Flaka?"

"Yes. The man in charge of my holdings is getting on in years. He will train her as his replacement and head to well-earned retirement."

"Right. Keeping your friends close and your enemies even closer, are you?" Oak asked, shaking his head. "Not sure that is wise."

"Please. I am giving her daughter a future, and Flaka is well aware of that. She is a very practical woman, as you might have noticed." Halit fingered the cold trim decorating the cuffs of his white robes. "Not to mention, Flaka was a shipmistress for ten years. Logistics is in her blood and it would be a shame to let such talent go to waste."

Oak tried to imagine any of the Jarls of his homeland doing the same thing and failed. In the Northlands, when you destroyed a clan, you either put them all to the sword or woke up one day with a knife in your back. Deep winters beget dark thoughts, and the people of his homeland could hold a grudge with the best of them.

Crabs and buckets. Maybe this is how a crab would feel, if it could climb out of the bucket and gaze upon its fellows, pulling each other down. Not that it matters. Crabs can't imagine a better world, and on most days, men can't either.

"I mean this as a sincere compliment, Halit Dushaj. You are one of the strangest men I have ever met." Oak combed his hair with the calloused fingers of his free hand, clutching the wooden plaque and the writing implements with the other. "I am glad to have met you, even if our paths crossed under dark clouds."

"I could say the same, Oak of the Northlands," Halit replied. "I could say the same."

***

When Oak returned to the center of the market square with plaque, ink and brush in tow, he found Sadia sitting on a bench next to Nadire, the ancient matriarch of clan Ferhati. The pair were engaged in hushed conversation. Nadire had her stiletto in hand and she stabbed the air repeatedly with quick and controlled motions.

"You see, most people think knife-work requires fancy footwork and decent timing. Idiots with their heads in the clouds, the lot of em. Out here in the real world, you just grab a hold of the bastard and stab as fast as you can manage until they stop twitching."

Nadire mimed another vicious stab with her stiletto. "I find it helpful to make these little stabbing noises inside my head. Shk, shk, shk. Sounds dumb as shit, but it makes me stab twice as fast."

"Um. That is…fascinating?" Sadia said, staring at the tip of Nadire's stiletto with barely disguised fear in her eyes.

"You don't even own a knife, do you?" Nadire shook her head in disappointment. "Back in my day, a woman without a good knife was no woman at all. That right there is the problem with today's young ladies. You've got no blades strapped to your thighs."

"Thighs?"

"Well, you can't hide a dagger between your ass cheeks, can you girl?" Nadire slid her stiletto back in its place in her hairdo, right through the tight bun keeping all of her wispy gray hair out of her face. "And believe me, keeping a knife between your tits is downright impractical."

Sadia spluttered, face red like a ripe tomato.

By the Corpse-God, I am going to miss this crazy granny.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Greetings, Nadire. You two seem to be having fun," Oak said.

"Why, I always enjoy the chance to educate the younger generations." Nadire squinted at Oak and frowned in thought. "Say, how many knives do you have on you, Northerner?"

"Well, I never go outside without my hunting knife, but it's not the only thing I am carrying." Oak opened his jacket and showed Nadire the massive meat cleaver in its sheath, strapped to the side of his body. "Strictly speaking, this is not a knife, but it is a blade, alright."

Nadire cackled and slapped her bony knees. "At least you have some common sense." She sighed and shook her head, fingering a strand of gray hair that had escaped from her bun. "What has the world come to when the only sensible person you run into is a foreigner?"

"If I'm the sensible one, we should all be deeply worried."

"For once, I agree completely," Sadia said, eyes fixed on the gnarly looking implement of violence hidden inside Oak's jacket.

"Here you go, as promised," Oak said and handed the wooden plaque, ink and the small brush to Sadia. "Halit sends his condolences."

"Hmm. That is kind of him. I will have to thank him later." Sadia set the plaque in her lap, opened the ink bottle, and dunked the brush into the ink. With a sure hand and meticulous strokes, she wrote her mother's name on the plaque in thick, bold letters.

Fariha Al-Sharekh. Oak considered the letters with a critical eye. Her writing is beautiful. Elegant even. I guess university is good for something.

"Who have you lost, child?" Nadire asked. Her earlier playfulness was gone, replaced by an exhaustion that reached beyond flesh and bone. Many Ferhati had died last night to bring Endrit Carcani to justice. Nadire had been a woman grown already when those men had still crawled around in diapers.

Tonight, she had given those babies her goodbyes.

Oak hated vigils, and he was twenty-seven summers old. He doubted he would hate them less by the time he reached Nadire's age. How many children have you buried, matriarch? He shivered at the thought. A small coffin was a terrible thing. In the eyes of an elder, even the coffin of a man grown might look small enough to shatter the heart.

"My mother," Sadia replied. Her voice caught in her throat and a shudder passed through her.

"Ah." Nadire hung her head and stared at the ground, biting at her bottom lip. "How long ago?"

"About a week."

"Heavens, child!" Nadire exclaimed. "Who did she worship?"

"The Ophanim have claim to her soul."

Nadire looked closely at the plaque in Sadia's lap and nodded to herself, scratching the tip of her pointy chin with a thump. "Fariha Al-Sharekh. I will pray for her tonight, even though her soul is in good hands."

"Thank you, Nadire." Sadia's eyes were wet with tears. She bowed her head at the elder, gathered herself and stood up, plaque in hand. "I am going to the fire now, before I lose my nerve."

Oak sat down to watch as Sadia approached the fire at the center of the square. Just like the other mourners flanking the thin girl, her silhouette was stark against the bright flames, like a hole in the face of Creation.

Sadia stopped in front of the flames and hugged the plaque with her mother's name on it close to her chest. Out of respect, Oak turned down the sensitivity of his enhanced hearing. Some words were not meant for the living, and he had no right to pry.

Nadire wiped the corners of her eyes. "Bugger. I still cry every time, even after all these years. You would think you would get used to these things, but I never do."

"Would you believe me, if I said I understand you completely?" Oak sighed and blinked away his own tears.

Fucking Hell.

When Sadia had said all she had to say, she threw her mother's name in the flames, and watched the fire consume the plaque until there was nothing left but ash and smoke, trailing towards the Heavens above.

***

Oak was about to leave the vigil when he noticed Zef talking with a middle-aged woman by a burning brazier. There was something familiar about her, but he didn't grasp it until Zef and the woman dressed in black hugged and he could see her grief-stricken face.

It was clear as dawn. She had the same round cheeks and sweet eyes as Behar. The woman was Behar's mother.

Shit. I don't know why, but I thought this couldn't get any worse. Oak cringed and looked away. He could not face Behar's mother, but he felt he had to at least talk to Zef and give his condolences to the veteran. Not saying anything could look suspicious. He would just have to wait for the woman to leave Zef alone.

"Stop looking so guilty. It does not suit you, Northerner." Ur-Namma clapped Oak on the shoulder. "Me and Sadia are leaving for the inn. Don't linger too long."

"Right. Don't you worry about me, Ur-Namma." Oak rolled his shoulders. "I'm a bastard and a half."

"Truer words have never been–"

"Weren't you going to the inn, elf?"

"Hmm. See you in the morning, Oak," Ur-Namma replied and walked off, sipping from a cup of spiced wine.

Walking up to Zef felt like crossing a burning field covered in broken glass. The hollowness in Oak's chest held his heart in an icy grip, refusing to let go. He stopped a hand-span away from the man and coughed into his fist.

"Zef."

"Oak." Zef nodded at him.

The older man had a giant purple bump in the middle of his forehead, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Physically, at least. Oak could hazard a guess what dark thoughts stalked the corridors of Zef's mind, whispering their poison. He had been in the same position as the other veteran often enough.

"I'm sorry, for Behar. I know you two were close." Oak shuffled his feet, uncertain how to proceed. "I came to offer my condolences."

"I appreciate it. The lad was too young to die like that, face cleaved in two." Zef chuckled, but there was little mirth in the noise. "Take heart. I ain't the only one shaken by his passing. The women of this town will feel his absence, that is for sure."

"Have many young ladies come to say their goodbyes?"

"Let's just say Behar got around, even more than he had me believe, the rascal," Zef replied. He grew serious and glanced at Oak from the corner of his eye. "Did you see how it went down? I got my nogging rocked real good in that blasted hallway, and most of what happened after is a blur."

Here it was. The chance to do the right thing and come clean. Oak imagined saying the words. How Zef's expression would change from deep sorrow to blistering rage as he told the sorry tale from beginning to end and admitted the truth.

It was no Carcani that laid Behar low. I killed him. I cleaved his face in two and laughed at the sight.

Oak swallowed the bile trying to escape his stomach, and shook his head. As he had told Ur-Namma, he was a bastard and a half.

"Sorry, Zef. It was chaos. I'm afraid I don't know anymore than you do."

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