Drifters

Inti's Watcher

Peter finished breakfast, still debating thanking Sophie for not taking his poncho. He'd been amused at the switch after the initial panic had passed. But bringing it up might encourage her to do it again.

Marie came into the area with a chalkboard. She put it on the table, calling Sophie and Razan over.

"All right," she said, sitting down. "We're starting to get settled. Routines are being created. We need a schedule."

Razan nodded seriously, sliding into his chair. Sophie grumbled the word, slumping in her chair.

"Schedule for what?" Peter asked.

"Mostly exercise," Marie answered. "There isn't much organic need for exercise here. If we only exert ourselves four times a month we'll grow weak. We need to stay strong."

"Will that include fighting?" Sophie asked.

"Yes," Marie said. "You need to learn the basics at least." She made a grid on the chalkboard. "We usually begin dinner at six in the evening, and finish breakfast at eight in the morning. I won't schedule anything between those times. Lunch is between noon and one, so it needs to remain free. Fridays and Saturdays might be partially or wholly taken up by contests, so nothing there. Sunday morning we all need to be here until we've decided if we're joining the contest or not, so I'll schedule that for all morning. Anything else?"

"The report?" Sophie asked.

Marie shook her head. "That's after six. It isn't necessary for us to be there, so I won't put it in."

"I believe that's all," Razan nodded.

"Good. Sophie, I've seen you on that swing in the climbing room enough times to know you regularly climb up. Do you just go there and back, or do you climb around?"

"We climb around," Sophie said. "Rani and I race across the ceiling sometimes, and when other people come in we climb with them."

"Good. Razan, both times I've gone into the sparring room you were having tea. Do you fight there, too?" Marie asked.

"Yes," he said, bowing slightly. "We train our bodies in the morning and our minds in the afternoon."

"Not sure what that means, but I don't care enough to ask," Marie decided. "I've mostly been following Ebba on her routines. Peter, what have you been doing?"

Peter shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. "Nothing. Just… sleeping."

Marie looked him in the eye, her gaze piercing his soul. She knew everything, and he hated it.

"Last week I swam a lot," he tried, smiling apologetically.

"Right," she said, looking at the chalkboard. "Razan, I'm sure you'll be fine. Sophie, one afternoon a week I want you and Peter to spar. Learn how to hold a weapon, any weapon. Rani can help, if she wishes."

"Should we start today? Monday afternoon?" Sophie suggested.

Peter nodded. "That works."

Marie wrote it in. "Peter, I'll have you join Louis and Ebba and I for a few things. Other than that, it seems important we learn endurance. There's a room here where the floor constantly moves at a walking pace. I want everyone to spend all of every Tuesday afternoon in there. From one until six. Understood?"

"Five hours of walking?" Sophie squeaked.

"That seems a bit excessive," Razan agreed.

Peter looked at him. "We spent longer than that on the mountain. And chances are we'll have to walk for several hours this week."

"Exactly," Marie nodded. "We can take breaks, but I just want to make sure we can do this week after week. If ever a week comes when we can't, I want it to be because we're sick. Not because we're fat and lazy."

"Fine," Sophie grumbled.

Razan still looked undecided. "It will become unbearably boring."

"Nop said she can show us old contests as we walk," Marie told him. "We can use the time to train both bodies and minds."

He nodded, satisfied.

"Good," Marie said again. She wrote the plan in. "I'll put this in the kitchen so we don't forget. Razan, Sophie, you're dismissed. Peter, with me." She picked up the board and went to her room.

Peter sighed, following. He sat on a chair, resigned, as she perched on her sea chest.

"Are you sick?" she asked in Spanish, watching him carefully.

"Probably," he shrugged, switching to that language as well. "I'm eating enough here to not feel hungry but I'm still starving. In the… needing way."

"I know what you mean," she said. "Any idea what you lack?"

"No; most I know is it isn't rickets or scurvy." He smiled sheepishly. "When… When I eat Mexican food I feel fine. I starve on American food. It's always been like that."

She watched him thoughtfully. "Could it be an allergy?"

He immediately switched into English. "Yes, I'm allergic to anythin' that ain't my mama's cookin'."

Marie grinned appreciatively. "Just for that… Nop!"

A bird hopped out of the wall. "Yes?"

"Is there a way to test Peter for allergies or worms?"

"I don't have-"

"Hush, boy."

Nop nodded. "We removed all intestinal parasites when you arrived. We can scan again if you wish. For allergies it's a bit more complicated, and will require you to go to a special room. It would be faster if you suspected what you were allergic to."

"Something Americans cook with that Mexicans don't," Marie said. "Take Peter and test him, please."

The bird paused. "That would require Peter's consent."

"I consent," Peter said. "And I do it before I'm ordered to."

Marie smiled. "Good lad."

Razan frowned at the clothes Peter had bought for him. They were… not what he would have chosen.

He pulled on the loose, blue-green trousers and tightened their drawstring around his waist. The fabric almost felt like paper. Next he slid his arms through a red-orange Chinese-style shirt with blue-green trim. This fabric felt closer to silk.

Peter had told him to use the belt, boots and coat from their first contest, so Razan had no complaints for those.

That left… the hat. He hated hats. They made his head itchy. He'd worn a proper jingasa when needed, but this was a common sugegasa. Razan decided to ask Marie if wearing it was required.

He put on his belt and went to the group area. The rostari were increasing the temperature in preparation for the contest, so he was fine in light clothes.

Marie and Peter were playing their card game at the table. Razan kept debating asking to be taught the rules, but so far had decided not to.

"Does everything fit?" Peter asked, seeing him.

"It does," Razan said, bowing slightly. "Thank you for making the preparations."

"Any time," Peter said, putting two cards on the table.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Marie looked at Razan. "I've made truces for this contest with the Windwards, Stars, Foxes, and Wasps. It's allowed to have truces with five groups, but I've decided to only make four unless we feel we need the help. Matter of pride."

"I say we should take all the help we're allowed, always," Peter said softly.

"And that's the difference between us," Marie said, laying two cards over his. She lifted half the deck.

"What does a truce entail for this contest?" Razan asked, watching Peter turn over the top card.

Marie slid her half of the deck under the other. "That is not a good card… Four." She glanced at Razan as they played. "There are two groups per supply pad. If we happen to be paired with a group we have a truce with, whoever gets to the pad first may claim it without a fight. They'll give the other team their fair share of supplies, then send them off to find a different area to claim."

"I see," Razan said thoughtfully. "So if we claim a supply area, there may be multiple groups who try to take it from us."

"Exactly. Lydia said their strategy will be to not claim an area at all, but to go around taking out as many people as possible. The winning groups will have all four people survive a full day, so if they cut a group down to three people, that group has already lost."

"Clever," Razan said. "Will we do something similar?"

"It'll depend on the supplies and if we get to our pad first," Peter said, putting his last card on the table and moving a peg. "If there's no defenses, I'd rather not stay on one."

Razan nodded. "Supplies are good but defense is vital."

"Precisely," Marie said. "We've prepared all we can; I like our odds."

"Don't say that yet," Peter warned. "The desert might kill us all by itself."

"That's why our desert expert is leading this time," she countered. "Now count your cards before I die of old age."

"It's my crib, you count first."

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

Razan went to make tea, leaving them to their game.

Marie found Louis and Ebba in the shooting range. The bullets provided by the rostari were soft and full of paint, but they served their purpose.

"Didn't you practice yesterday?" she asked, walking up to them.

"Ranged attacks are good for this contest," Louis said.

Marie took one of his pistols and aimed, using his lane. "This one shoots left, aye?"

He nodded, reloading the rest of them. "And low."

"I was meaning to ask, is shooting people allowed? I assume so, as you convinced me to buy a rifle, but just to be certain…" She pulled the trigger. Paint hit the yellow ring around the center of her target.

"Not with lead," Ebba said, offering Marie one of her small revolvers. "Paint balls are used in tournaments. The rules are complicated but fair. Outside of them, the only rule is if someone gets hit three times they're transported away."

"Three times?" Marie echoed, taking aim.

"Aye," Louis said, reloading the pistol she'd used. "In tournaments, if you're hit twice in a limb, that limb is considered unusable. Twice in the torso and you're dead. Once in the head and you're dead. Three times at all and you're dead."

Marie pulled the trigger. "Good to know." Some paint hit the white center, but most was in the yellow. She frowned, and a ball hit the exact center of her target. She turned, eyebrows raised at Ebba.

"Only the killshot counts," the Swedish woman said, smirking.

Louis put his hands together in the praying position. "May I set up a private duel between you? Please? I would love to watch you-"

Marie and Ebba shot him in the chest. He brushed paint off his shirt, looking like a puppy denied a treat.

"That does hurt, you know…"

"Hush," Marie ordered, turning back to the targets.

"Corpses don't speak," Ebba added.

Marie smiled, using an English phrase. "Dead men tell no tales."

Ebba glanced at her. "Is that a common saying? Louis used to say it all the time, and thought it was funny."

"It's common enough, but usually threatening."

Louis finished reloading and moved to the next lane. "Yes, but remember, love: we're already dead."

"Hmm, that does make it amus-" Marie stopped, looking at him. "Which of us were you calling 'love'?"

He gave the room a winning smile. "I said 'loves'. Both of you. Equally."

Ebba shot him in the head.

Peter followed Marie to the shooting range after dinner. There were eight lanes; a man was on the far end with what looked like an atlatl for cannonballs. They watched him for a moment before claiming their own lanes. Peter put his crossbow on the table, requesting proper ammunition from the bird that had hopped up.

Marie set her two pistols on the table, then another pistol, then a revolver, a slingshot, a throwing ax, two throwing stars, and then she pulled a full rifle out from under her jacket. She turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Show me what you can do, cowboy."

"Do you have any more weapons on you?" he asked in Spanish.

She smirked, switching to that language as well. "Only a dozen or so knives and daggers."

Peter picked up the slingshot. "Are you saying I can't throw a dagger?"

She pulled a dagger off her belt and placed it on the table. "Impress me."

He put the slingshot down and picked up her dagger. "We'll see if I can." He tested the weight then tossed it up, letting it flip in the air before catching it. After looking it over he pulled his arm back and threw the dagger at his target.

It bounced off.

Marie shook her head as a hawk returned the dagger.

"I did throw it," Peter said, flashing her a smile.

"Aye, that you did," she agreed in English.

He picked up the slingshot again, fit a ball of paint into it, aimed, and let the paint fly. It hit the exact center of the target.

"Much better," Marie said.

Peter nodded, deciding to try the rifle next. "Are these loaded?"

"Yes." She watched him aim. "How did it go with Sophie?"

Peter pulled the trigger. Paint hit the green ring. "She's good at stealing things," he said, reloading. "In a few months she might make a passable assassin. But I wouldn't put her in a fight for another year."

Marie nodded slowly. "About what I suspected. Has she seduced you yet?"

"Not yet," he shrugged, taking another shot. This time paint hit the center. Peter smiled, setting the rifle aside to pick up one of the pistols. It had an A engraved on the grip. "Do these shoot straight?"

"No," she answered calmly, watching.

He took aim. "Don't tell me, I'll figure it out…" Paint hit to the right of where he'd aimed, and a bit lower. He took aim again.

"And how did it go with the allergy tests?" Marie asked.

Paint hit the center of the target. "Captain, I was a soldier. If you want to distract me you'll need to do better than that."

She smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. But if I were trying to distract you, you'd be distracted. I'm just trying to hold a conversation."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, picking up his crossbow. The bird had left him five paint-tipped bolts. "Apparently I can't eat wheat, barley, or rye. Nop says she'll get me grits for breakfast instead of bread."

"That cuts out a decent number of alcohols," Marie pointed out.

"I can live without beer and whiskey," Peter shrugged, aiming. "My pa made tequila; that's all I need." His bolt went through the center of the target. "Can we move those further away?"

"Can't, I asked," she said. "I've only had tequila once. Was already so drunk I have no idea what it tastes like."

"Sweet garbage on fire." Peter moved to Marie's lane to shoot his target from an angle.

"Ah. Same as everything else."

"They say sailors love rum," he said, putting a bolt through the center of the target again.

"No, it's just cheapest and easy to find. Don't particularly care for the stuff."

Peter picked up the throwing ax and tested its weight. "Next time we win I'll challenge you to a drinking competition."

Marie laughed. "Deal."

Sophie peered into the pot Peter was stirring. He smiled faintly, plucking his hat off her head.

"What is it?" she asked, smelling the grainy stuff.

"Grits," he answered, fitting the hat over his hair. "With egg yolk and butter."

"Is grits porridge?"

"No, it's similar but made with corn."

She watched his spoon. "There are eggs that only have the yolk?"

"What?"

"How did you only get egg yolk?" Sophie asked.

"I separated it," he said slowly, like it was obvious.

"How?"

He gave her an odd look, then picked up an egg and cracked it over the sink. He juggled the yellow part back and forth between the shell halves a few times, letting the clear stuff drip down the drain. Finally he dropped the yolk into the pot, set the shells aside, and continued stirring.

Sophie looked into the sink. "How did you learn to do that?"

"Cooking was one of my jobs as a ranch hand," he told her. "I've been making food since I was ten."

"You've been working since you were ten?"

"I've been working since the day I was born," he laughed. "They didn't trust me with a skillet until I was ten."

She watched him, wondering how well he'd get along with her brother. They were complete opposites, but she wanted to introduce Peter to her world. She wanted to take him to England and dance with him at every party. As he looked at her with his dark eyes she could imagine him in the finest of-

"Are you awake?" he asked, amused.

Sophie blinked out of her daydream. "Wish I wasn't…"

"Maybe if you spent more time sleeping and less time stealing my things you wouldn't be as tired," he said.

"Impossible," she yawned. "How else am I supposed to get your attention?"

He turned off the stove, focusing on the pot for a few seconds before speaking. "You already have it."

"I do?"

"Of course." Peter cautiously took her hand, turning towards her.

Sophie's mind was filled with a pink haze. Her heart raced. She shrugged, trying to act casual. "Good, I'm glad to know all my efforts have not been in vain. Razan said he'd murder me if I stole any of his things, and I don't know how else to flirt with anyone."

Peter looked conflicted. Sophie wondered if there were any nearby bridges she could throw herself off for saying something so stupid. She pulled her hand away, cheeks burning.

"Not- Not that I'd want to flirt with him, just saying I couldn't regardless, so it's just as well I'm… I… Well…"

Thankfully at that moment Marie came out of her room, eyes bleary and hair sticking out at odd angles.

"There'd better be some of that for me, cowboy," she grumbled, stumbling to the kitchen. "Thief, why haven't you made tea yet?"

Sophie filled the kettle with water as Peter assured Marie there was enough food for everyone.