The Protagonist Speaks

Dear readers, tonight we have something different. We reprint an interrogation of a protagonist by a border guard. The guard is rightfully suspicious, as the protagonist is a master thief, a selfish drunkard, and as it happens, stone cold dead.

‘Name?’ asked the demanding crow behind the tower-like lectern. Her break of a nose was impressive enough without somebody playing the practical joke of dressing her in feathers.

‘What in the One-Eyed God’s arse-crack is this?’ I spluttered. ‘I’ve already given my name to the port-master—’

‘Name!’ she yelled. ‘No dawdling! By order of the Allmark, refuse to answer and it’ll be the cells for a rancorous ghost like you.’

‘My name is Caltro Basalt. And what a fine welcome home this is, I must say. I sail all this way from the city of Araxes only to be greeted like a leper? I am a free soul, I tell you.’

‘Home, you say?’ The crone sucked on the end of her quill. ‘Where did you grew up?’

‘Taymar, here in Krass, if you insist on knowing my history. Near the mountains of Kold Rift.’

‘Who’s your family?’

‘I have none.’

‘Your people, then! Or are you refusing to answer?’

In my peripheries, I saw stout Krass guards inching closer, looking eager to teach a ghost like me a lesson.  There were many in Krass who were not fond of my kind. Yet all kinds of locks and doors can be opened with a smile. I tried one on.

‘Not in the slightest, scribe. I have no people. I was born to a pair of healers who lived on the wild steppes. They had me late in life to cure their boredom and had the dream of me continuing the family trade. I preferred stealing things instead, you see. It started with my parents’ clothes and trinkets, then food from the village markets. Enjoyed the thrill of it so much I joined a few Taymar gangs to hone my skills and my nerve. Can’t tell you the number of times my father came to retrieve me from the local prisons, spending hard-earned coin on bribes or favours. I was too young to realise I was dragging my parents’ reputations through the mud and towards penury. When I turned twelve, I didn’t think twice about running away. I did it for me, but in a way, it was to give my parents the peace they deserved. My parents both died the winter after. Swelterflux, the letter said, but it was their time. Quick and painless, and their ghosts didn’t rise. They were buried by the Nyx under a lemon tree with a copper coin in each of their mouths, and through guilt I stayed in Taymar for almost a decade.” I was impressed I’d kept my smile. ‘Does that answer your question?’