What My Beloved Taught Me

A Personal View of Chimeri Culture

Who are you?

A gutter-get, a daggerlad, a netchiman’s son. I have my own gang. Get away from me or they’ll stare.

Who are we?

‘We’..? You mean ‘you’. You, sera, wear the namesake of a tramp’s house and your sandals are dusty. I’d guess you the guard of some canvasari, if I had to, and your lordship if you paid. Come now. A six-bitten dram and I’ll touch. A scrib-roll and we’ll have candles. Closer and in your ear: I was born a whelp-wench in my under, if that suits you.

What makes us great?

For true, you ask me this? I see only a sandal-foot sword in love with Mephala's teachings, and Veloth's. Won’t you love me, too? Or does his lordship want it Saliache, weeping and weak-kneed with their lisp, their lilt, as I can do that, too.

Where do we live?

Eh? This is the Mourning Hold, you may keep what inn you need. As for me, I call these alleys home, or the under-docks, and mark my only-known days with sores. You tilt your head in a way that I do not like.

How do we live?

You? You seem to live no life that I can match, and seem to do it from behind a mask. Drinksweat tubes beneath, if I’m no mistake. Fair, then: you have riches and a good master. So pay now or move on. I live by gutting those that would estimate me as some other worth; higher, lower, base, or dumb beast.

What is important in my life?

That’s for yourself to esteem. By now, and little offense, but you’ve set me bored. Have you brought a skoomerpipe with you, or flin? I’d show you a roof where we could look on this poor country of ash-woven outcasts and share sigils. Share spears.

Who rules us?

That bitch-whore of a storm that runs The Orphanage, if the writs be read. And I’ve yet to learn that bit of tradecraft. I see now only in the sigils, and yours are recognizable enough. Would you let me wear that mask, if only for a minute?

What makes a Chimer great?

Making sure the other dies before you.

What is the difference between men and women?

There is no difference in me, milord. Come: rooftop. Bring your money.

What is evil?

Teasing.

What is my lot in life?

A sixth-dram dropped, and you flinch from my hand. Good, muthsera. Good for you. I have the third’s eye fire and can tell you the story of your house. In the all honest Vel, I’d rather have that than your hand. It has the ghartoki on it. Hold now, they both do. Who are you, sandal man?

How do we deal with others?

For you, I would shave this head. It would not do that your new friend shook an inconstant kwam-lice from it. I'd take the sigil of Vel, the V, and wear it twice. And I would be new, and believe in the one moon and star as your banner does. I’d make a legend of this netch longhook. Make no frown that this will be my weapon in your guard, however low its station. We all drink from the milk of our fathers. I’d learn to read and then write so that I could see right your name forever. And I would clean your feet so that the next time you made treaty it would be with an assured step.

Who are our enemies?

He that says your name wrong, in sky beard, or fourth corner, or the mock-walkers of our cousins, the tunnelers. This, too: the bitch-whore of storm if she does not take your hand when you ask it. And I see this idea behind that mask of yours already. You aim to take the land anew. You aim to wake the old sleeper. You aim to make the sky red. You have a name for it already.

Who are our gods?

Old things. Leftovers. We left them all behind with the weepers. Their names now are only numbers. I’ll become good with those, my Grace. Trust me. The ending of the words is HORTATOR.