Big Mouth Simon's gaze darted between Carl and Tyler. He nearly volunteered to stay behind—but the fat man reconsidered. If more death-defying rioters appeared, he might end up needing the wounded knight to protect him instead. (Better to follow Tyler, he swallowed hard. At least then I've got some guarantee of safety.)

  "You needn't do this," the wounded knight said once Tyler and Simon had disappeared from sight. With Carl's help, he dismounted painfully. "Imperial commands are strict, military orders even more so. I'd hate to see you punished on my account."

  "Our captain, Devalosfang Dear, is stern but reasonable, and he maintains good relations with us," Carl said, supporting the knight. "If we explain the situation, he'll render a fair judgment."

  "Let's hope this fair judgment doesn't end with your head on a block, hero—oof!" Pain lanced through him as he sat. The stunted red pine at his back was low and poorly developed. "No need to fuss over me like a mother hen, hero," the knight said, waving him off with a pained laugh. "I just need a moment's rest. Truly—agh!"

  "You're still bleeding. It hasn't slowed at all." Carl knelt to examine the wound. "I still don't understand why your armor is missing a section."

  "I wear the title of knight, but not the wealth that's meant to go with it," he said, leaning his head back against the tree bark. "No lands, no high income. Even this shoddy suit of plate was a struggle to acquire."

  "So you're not directly sworn to the Emperor?"

  "Isn't that bloody obvious?—ah!" He spat at the tree roots and drew a deep, shuddering breath. "The Emperor's knights have their equipment issued by the Empire. Those of us serving lesser lords must provide our own. I should never have trusted that village blacksmith, the bastard. This wretched armor might well be the death of me. I'd have been better off buying decent leather or mail beyond the city walls, damn it all."

  "I don't even know your name. Carl, of... Sitinna."

  "Ah, Sitinna. Lovely place—if you don't mind sheep dung coating every lane." He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. "Farone—Farone Bolhart—sworn to Baron Charman, of... hmm, Tangabul."

  "Ah, Tangabul. Lovely place," Carl mimicked his tone. "Provided the pirates don't carve you into ribbons in the street."

  Farone merely snorted, unimpressed by Carl's wit. "You know nothing of Tangabul, hero Carl. True, it breeds pirates aplenty—but they follow a code. They never harm fellow Tangabulians."

  "I admit I know little of Tangabul," Carl said, sitting beside him. "Only what travels by word of mouth—that the city is renowned for its pirates, rivaling even those of the Seven Seas Kingdoms."

  "It is unjust to judge a city by its rumors. You must set foot on its soil, walk its streets, before you can claim to know it from every side."

  "Should the opportunity arise, I'll visit. That I promise you, Farone of Tangabul."

  "Hmph. You make it sound as though all of Tangabul were my personal fief." He lightly tapped Carl's right shoulder. "I'll wager you've never seen the ocean."

  "Oh?" Carl Clawyn asked with genuine interest. "What makes you say that? You should know," he borrowed without hesitation someone else's description, "that any Sitinnaer need only cross the Drelon Mountains to behold the magnificent coastline. This is common knowledge to every Sitinna child from birth. How can you be so certain I've never seen the sea?"

  "From your manner of speaking just now, and your expression," Farone said vaguely. "But first answer me—am I right or wrong?"

  Carl decided on honesty and nodded.

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  "I knew it," the wounded knight said with satisfaction.

  "But your reasoning isn't convincing," Carl said. His mount was sampling the wild grass nearby, its tail occasionally flicking against his face. "Is it because crossing the Drelon Mountains is difficult, leading you to conclude that many Sitinnaers, myself included, have never seen the ocean?"

  Farone shook his head. "You're half right. Crossing the Drelon isn't particularly difficult—it just requires patience. But that's not the true reason. The truth is, most Sitinnaers have never seen that coast. I assumed you were the same. But it is not the mountains that stop them. It is because they 'know' the sea is there."

  Carl Clawyn wasn't born in Sitinna, so he neither understood Farone's meaning nor the mindset of Sitinnaers. "'Know' the sea lies beyond?" He carefully measured his response. "That's an intriguing concept. I've never heard it expressed that way before."

  "It's hardly a novel insight. I believe that if a person doesn't 'know' something exists, then for them, it simply doesn't 'exist.'"

  "That sounds remarkably similar to the elven philosopher Latour Lo Faklantes's perspective... So you're saying that because Sitinnaers already 'know' the sea exists, they don't feel compelled to cross the Drelon Mountains to witness it firsthand?"

  "Precisely."

  "That sounds... perverse. It defies logic," Carl Clawyn said with an uneasy smile. "Why would 'knowing' stop someone from seeing? Isn't it the 'knowing' that should drive you to cross the mountains and lay your own eyes upon it?"

  "You're the first Sitinnaer I've met who thinks that way," Farone said, blinking in surprise. "A significant portion of your countrymen don't share your perspective."

  "You've encountered many Sitinnaers?" Carl suspected the man was simply fabricating, likely as unfamiliar with Sitinna and its people as he himself was. "I lived there. Though only briefly, I came to understand much about Sitinna during that time," he continued. "Most Sitinnaers believe that simply 'knowing' the sea lies beyond the Drelon Mountains is sufficient, because that knowledge constitutes 'existence.' Therefore, they see no need to confirm that the sea actually 'exists.'"

  "But what they claim to 'know' might merely be rumors or hearsay. Is that really enough to assert with certainty that the sea 'exists'?" Carl shook his head. "I find it difficult to believe in the 'existence' of something I haven't witnessed with my own eyes. Let alone claim to truly 'know' it."

  "Regardless of the philosophy behind it, Sitinnaers behave exactly as I've described. An elderly Sitinna man once told me that in his youth, he already 'knew' of the sea's existence, yet never felt compelled to journey there. He believed the sea already 'existed' then and would continue to 'exist' decades later, so the timing of when one might view it made no difference. This represents a minority view among Sitinnaers—but it leads to the same outcome."

  "And he ultimately never crossed the Drelon Mountains?"

  "Never. Once the initial impulse fades, inertia buries you."

  "I struggle to comprehend such a perspective," Carl said, picking up a small stone and tossing it away. "What about you? Have you ever seen Sitinna's sea?"

  To his surprise, Farone shook his head. "I have my reasons. First, as a Tangabulian, I interact with the sea daily, so I lack that particular curiosity. Second, after spending time among Sitinnaers, you gradually abandon such fixations, while remaining confident in the sea's 'existence.' I too once wished to see it for myself, but under the locals' influence, I quickly abandoned the idea. There is something... deeply frightening... about finding contentment in 'knowing' alone."

  "I hope I haven't given you that impression, Farone. It seems I'm rather an unusual Sitinnaer."

  "You do present quite differently from most Sitinnaers I've met, hero Carl. Nevertheless, I find it regrettable that you've never witnessed Sitinna's sea for yourself."

  "I had my own reasons for not going," he replied, his voice filled with a genuine regret. "Perhaps... perhaps for most Sitinnaers, 'knowing' makes it exist. But if they crossed the mountains, if they truly knew... perhaps the reality of it would destroy what they 'knew.' That is my thought."

  Farone lifted his head, his clouded eyes widening with surprise. "Perhaps you're right. That might indeed be why they resist witnessing it firsthand."

  The conversation lapsed into silence as the wounded knight rested quietly for a while. "Your wound shows no sign of improvement."

  "No, Carl," Farone said, sweat beading on his eyelashes. "That Cynthian's blade might have been coated with something... damn. I'm seeing six or seven hero Carls before me now."

  "This will only worsen if left untreated," Carl said, rising to his feet and surveying their surroundings. "There—a house." He pointed northward to a solitary farmhouse standing about twelve hundred feet away at the edge of the wild grassland. "The residents might have herbs and salves."

  "Herbs and salves, they keep for their own. For men like us, Carl, they keep their sickles and their hoes."

  "It's risky—but we must try. Otherwise, you might die here." Farone waved dismissively, groaning through clenched teeth.