Blood and Sand: A Wandering Inn Quest (Isekai/LitRPG)

Rolling… 99


You consider, briefly, pretending that you have some sort of plan. That you're an infallible expert whose words should be regarded as the height of wisdom and not questioned. That would be nice. If it were true, anyway, except you're well aware that it isn't.

The only teaching you've ever done has consisted of following a lesson plan that an actual professor gave you, but you've had many teachers over the years. You know, from the eyes of a student, what good and bad professors act like. And it's not the towering geniuses, the unquestionable masters of their field, who give the best lessons.

It's the ones who are open and honest with their students. Who can say 'I don't know,' and be excited about the answer, because it means they've still got things to learn themselves. Those are the teachers you'd loved, and it was because of people like them that you'd ended up in academia.

You'd like to be like them.

So you swallow your pride, along with your nervousness, and smile at your new students. "Alright then. Thank you all for introducing yourselves. As I said, my name is Roger Davis, though you can call me Roger. I've never taught anyone who hadn't already been studying academics for years, so this is going to be a learning experience for all of us. If you have any questions at any point, raise your hand - "

Voxitel's hand goes up.

You blink in surprise. That was fast. "Yes, Vox?"

"Is it true that human women can spray blood from their crotch? Because I heard a rumor about it back home but Kat gets mad whenever I ask."

You ignore the offended spluttering coming from Katrin. "I meant questions about the lesson I'm presenting," you say. "Which will be on the philosophy of logic. That is - "

Voxitel raises his hand again. "What's philosophy?" he asks.

You take a deep breath. He's actually, genuinely curious. That's a good trait in students. You remind yourself of this two more times before answering. "Philosophy, the word, comes from 'philos,' love, and 'sophia,' wisdom, so it means 'the love of wisdom.' But the academic discipline of philosophy is more… the study of questions that can't be answered. What is real? What is true? What is good? What do we actually know, and how can we use logic and reason to form better answers to these questions?"

Traban spits to the side, in the general direction of the Sheik's wagon. "And why are we learning this? Yon Stitchfolk is going to send us to the fighting pits. Don't think logic and reason will be of much use there."

It's a fair question, and one that brings you back down to the sands. No matter how much you try to recreate a classroom environment, your students are still slaves who will be sent to fight and die for the amusement and profit of strangers.

Voxitel leans over towards the dwarf. "Pst, you forgot to raise your hand," he whispers.

You sigh. "The Sheik said that he was curious about potential class consolidations with [Student]. Though I don't actually know what that means."

"You don't know what class consolidations are?" asks Traban.

"I never had a Class before today," you say.

"You were a Rulebreaker?" asks Barqus, the String Person joining the conversation for the first time.

"Rulebreaker?" you ask.

He nods. "It's an old term for people who rejected levels. Certain Skills act strangely upon them, breaking the normal rules of how such things work. But if you went so long without a Class, why pick one now… " he trails off, his eyes going to your collar. "Ah."

"Yeah," you say.

"Well, anyway," Barqus says, awkwardly trying to shift the subject away from slavery, "A class consolidation is when two of your Classes combine into one, more advanced Class. A [Soldier] and [Tactician] might become a [Commander], a [Tailor] and [Socialite] into [Fashion Designer], that sort of thing. The combined Class is usually better, and it's easier to level because you're not splitting your focus."

"Better?" you ask. "How?"

Barqus looks at you strangely, like you've asked a very silly question. "They have better Skills. Almost every consolidated or advanced Class is better than the basic Class," he says. He must be able to read the question on the tip of your tongue, because he continues on. "And an advanced Class is when your Class advances. My [Sewer] became [Tailor] when I reached level ten, for example. Very high level individuals will continue to advance their Class; my great-grandmother was a [Tailor of Silk and Sky], and could fashion a dress from clouds as easily as thread."

That... sounds insane. Magical. Are all Classes like that?

But you've indulged your curiosity long enough. "Thank you, Barqus," you say. "So, back to philosophy. We're going to start with the philosophy of logic, which will teach you how to structure an argument and to recognize one that is flawed. You can all sit down if you want; there's no reason you have to be standing for this."

Voxitel immediately flops to the ground, kicking his legs up behind him as he watches you intently. The others sit on the canvas more normally, save Melanhir, who continues to loom in silence. You try to keep it from distracting you, but there's a tiny part of your hindbrain screaming at you about the giant predator that's right there and why aren't you running away screaming.

You clear your throat. "The most basic sort of argument is a deductive argument, which means that the conclusion must be true if we accept that the premises are true. As an example: All cats are mammals. All mammals are animals. Thus, all cats are animals."

Voxitel's hand is in the air before you're even done. "What's a mammal? he asks after you gesture for him to speak.

You add 'taxonomy' to the ever-growing list of sciences that are foreign to this world. You think for a moment - biology was a long time ago. "Mammals are a type of animal. They're vertebrates - which means they have a spine - and they produce milk for newborns. They're also warm-blooded and… I think they have to have fur or hair? I don't remember," you admit. "Now. About the argument I made. Does anyone have any questions so far?"

You receive a series of shrugs, and continue on. "We consider a deductive argument valid if it contains no flaws in its structure. The argument I gave follows the form of 'All A are B, and all B are C, therefore all A are C.' This is a valid argument, because if we assume that the two premises of 'All A are B' and 'All B are C' are correct, then it must follow that 'All A are C.'"

You can tell that you've immediately lost them, and so you go to write out the form for them to see - visualization helps - except you have no whiteboard. After a moment, you move off the canvas and over to the sand, where you spell out the argument form with rocks. It takes time, but with a few more examples you think you've gotten them back on track.

"Humans can bleed. All things that bleed can die. Thus, humans can die," says Barqus. He seems very pleased to have figured out how this works, even if his example is a little morbid.

"All Terrandrian nobles are human. All humans are fickle. Thus, Terrandrian nobles are fickle," says Katrin.

You gesture for Melanhir to give an example. The giant bird person has been staring at you, unblinking, for more than an hour, expression unchanging. After several moments of silence, Melanhir finally relents.

"All Garuda can fly. All people who can fly are free. Thus, all Garuda are free," he says, his voice still rougher than sandpaper and reverberating with an eerie sort of weight that sets your hair to standing on end. Which is, you've learned, how he always sounds.

Voxitel tilts his head to the side. "Wait, that's not right. You're a Garuda and you're not free. And I thought some of you couldn't fly!"

You smile, happy that you don't have to bring this up yourself. "But the argument is valid. The conclusion would be true if we accepted the premises - an argument can be valid even if it isn't true. Similarly, an argument will be correct but not true if the premises are right but the argument is flawed. An argument is only true if the logic is valid and the premises are correct."

"Word games," grunts Traban, before spitting on the sands. Still, he looks intrigued, which you consider a victory. You're beginning to wonder if the spitting is just a tick and not an expression of contempt. Or maybe he's just contemptuous of everything.

"Shaman games," says Melnahir, still staring at you.

You're momentarily stunned by the fact that he said something unprompted. "Ah… your shamans teach things like this?" you ask.

Melanhir remains absolutely still, giving no indication that he's heard your question, before finally nodding. "Yes. Different words. But same game," he says, before descending into a fit of coughing. He waves off your concern. "Seven moons silent. Rusty."

The horizon has started to brighten, and the other [Slaves] have finished their morning exercises and begun to help set up the food wagon. You tell your students that the lesson is over for the day, and you'll pick up tomorrow. Normally this is the part where you'd assign them about ten hours of reading, but without that option you just ask them to think about today's lesson.

The lot of you line up to receive your morning ration, which is a large bowl of some mashed vegetable called a yellat with bits of unidentifiable but heavily salted meat sprinkled throughout. It looks awful, but it's the first meal you've had since you ended up in this world and you devour it in seconds. After you've returned the bowl, one of the [Guards] informs you that you will attend Miss Livia this afternoon.

That gives you several hours to come up with a lesson for her. Economics, you think - she doesn't seem like the introspective type who'd enjoy philosophy, and you have little interest in teaching your captors how to better use reason. After all, some day you'll be free - one way or another.

As soon as it's light enough to properly see, the [Slaves] are pushed into line and the caravan begins to trundle forwards once more. With a night's rest, you're able to observe it properly, and it baffles you. The wagons are drawn by teams of [Slaves], not camels, and the [Guards] work them until they collapse into the sands before swapping to another team. This brings the entire caravan to a halt for several minutes before resuming once more, with the exhausted team of [Slaves] moved to the back of the caravan.

If they fall behind there, [Guards] on camelback are quick to prod them back to movement with a mixture of profanities and beatings. [Slaves] who still can't rise are carried by those who can. By the time the sun reaches its zenith, every [Slave] but has had at least two turns pulling the wagons.

Every [Slave] but you, that is. Your status as Livia's property apparently exempts you from this task, and you quickly begin to draw envious glares from the other [Slaves]. You feel inexplicably awful for leaving the task to them, but it's all you can do to keep up with them as it is.

The caravan grinds to a halt beneath the sun, and a ration of water is distributed out to the [Slaves]. You drink yours greedily, lightheaded from the heat and budding sunburns already aching.

This is the least efficient way to move a caravan of [Slaves] through the desert that you can think of. Wouldn't it be faster with horses to draw the wagons? And to carry the [Slaves]? This pace, slow as it is, is grinding the [Slaves] down beyond exhaustion. You're no expert in desert survival, but you'd expect people to start dying before the day is out. The Sheik seems completely indifferent to the suffering of [Slaves], but he didn't strike you as wasteful.

The [Slaves] move to set up the canvas tarp you slept upon last night, though this time they erect a second one atop it to keep the sun off of them before collapsing into exhausted slumber.

Oh.

[Quick Recovery].

The Sheik can work them to the brink of death, and as long as they're not actively dying when they go to sleep they'll wake up with enough energy to do it all again. That Skill had seemed like such a boon when you woke this morning free of aches and pains, but now you see it for what it is: a guarantee that a [Slave]'s body can be pushed to the limit and held there without fear of damaging them. How long would it take, you think, before the agonizing, exhausting days blended together? Normally there's a limit to how much abuse can be heaped upon someone before their body gives out, but with that Skill…

You shiver despite the burning heat of the sun.

----------

Before you have a chance to rest, one of the [Guards] escorts you away from the other [Slaves]. He brings you to the Sheik's wagon, where you're greeted by a Stitch Person girl who looks to be the same age as Livia. She has the same stitch-marks outlining her features that the Sheik and his daughter do, though her face looks more natural for a girl her age than Livia's - her features are plain, almost rough, with no attempt made for inhuman beauty. Her skin is also darker, near the same shade as the sand dunes of the Zeikhal outside, and her dark, curly hair is tied back in a neat bun. Still, you can tell she's a slave by her bare feet and the long red tunic she wears, though hers is trimmed in blue.

She curtsies, lifting the edges of her tunic outwards as she gives a slight bow. "Thank you for bringing him, Marcus."

The [Guard] grunts. "Sheik Aurelius told me to bring him. I brought him. But he also said that your mistress should manage her own [Slaves], and not rely on his [Guards] to do it for her."

"I will let Miss Livia know," says the girl, head still bowed. When Marcus leaves, she rises from the curtsy and takes a moment to straighten out her tunic before turning her attention to you. Her nose immediately wrinkles. "Ew. You stink. And what are you wearing?"

There's something deeply offensive about the open and unreserved way that the little girl criticizes your smell. You cross your arms defensively. "Nice to meet you too, kid. My name's Roger."

She flushes, but stands her ground. "And I am Sophie, Miss Livia's [Handmaiden]. We cannot have you in front of her like… like that," she says, before pointing one of her fingers at you. "[Bound Spell: Cleanse]."

The accumulated sweat and grime of the past two days flakes away from you, falling to the ground in a patter of filth before turning to mist and evaporating away into the air. Your eyes go wide.

"Was that - magic?" you ask. It's the first time you've seen someone cast a spell. Is she a [Wizard]?

Sophie sniffs experimentally, then nods in satisfaction. "A bound spell from my [Handmaiden] Class. Miss Livia… used to make a lot of messes. It was really handy when we were younger. Come on, we'll find you proper clothes. Miss Livia said you were supposed to get some."

You follow the girl to one of the doors in the side of the wagon, which your brain tells you should lead outside into the desert, but which instead opens to a large closet filled with various boxes and chests. She finds a box of slave tunics, and begins rummaging through them for something that will fit you.

"You said you were with Livia when she was younger?" you ask, trying to fill the silence.

Sophie stops looking for a tunic and turns to glare at you. "Miss Livia," she says. "And I've been her [Handmaiden] since we were both babies. I'm very lucky to have her as my master."

Your heart falls. Sophie was born a [Slave], then. You don't want to think of what else a [Slave] girl her age might be doing if she weren't a [Handmaiden].

"Here," says Sophie, thrusting a tunic into your hands. "Change into this, and leave your other things behind."

You stand there awkwardly, holding the tunic as the girl stares at you.

"Well?" she asks.

"Could you… not be here when I'm changing?"

The question seems to baffle her, before she rolls her eyes and mutters, "Terrandrians. Fine. But hurry up! We can't keep Miss Livia waiting."

She steps out of the closet to give you some privacy, and you change into the provided tunic and… loincloth? It takes you several minutes to figure out how to tie the loincloth, swearing all the while, as Sophie repeatedly reminds you to hurry up. When you finally emerge from the closet, she eyes you up and down briefly.

"Good enough, I guess," she says. "But we can't be doing this every day - I have better uses for my Skills than cleaning you. I suppose I could speak to Miss Livia and see if we can let you ride in one of the wagon's closets, or something..."

==========

[ ] Spend the caravan journey riding in the wagon
This sounds much better than marching through the sands, and you'll get to spend more time with Livia and Sophie, but you've already heard the other slaves grumbling about favoritism

[ ] Spend the caravan journey marching with the other Slaves
You really don't want to do this. But it would let you spend more time with the other slaves, and might do something to bridge the gap that's already forming between them and you