Fire-spit was a specialty of Herrilock, gathered from creatures called cordols that buried themselves in the dunes. Naturally, given its name, it was a product of gathering the animals’ saliva, which contained chemicals that, when ingested, created a tingly, euphoric sensation that Puk was in dire need of at the present. It hit a little harder and faster than marshweed, but the general effects were the same. It came in both liquid and powder forms (Puk was blissfully ignorant as to how either was produced), though he had an affinity for the powder.
The pouch of fire-spit he purchased from Pillbug was likely cut with something else, just like it always was, but it would still get the job done. He harbored no ill will toward stupid little Pillbug.
Puk carefully poured a thin line of the dull gray powder onto the back of his hand. The line contrasted with his blue skin, which was slick with sweat from the desert heat. His eyestalks twisted to peer at the doorway, and he listened intently for any sign of his companions’ return.
Others in the troupe dabbled in marshweed and fire-spit all the time, naturally, but it was generally frowned upon during a tour. The drugs clouded their senses and logic too much to give their best performances, according to Hin.
But Puk was not one for following that rule.
The coast was seemingly clear, so he brought his hand to his face and inhaled the line of powder. A bit of it still stuck to the wetness of his skin, but it didn’t hinder the effects of the rest from kicking in almost immediately.
His body sank back into the pillow, propped up against the marred wall with its peeling paint. Even for a qarm, Puk was pretty stout, and so his whole upper body was enveloped by the warmth and fluffiness of the pillow.
For a minute, his mind was completely blank.
He shut his eyes and welcomed the darkness, matching his mental state, nothing registering at all except the softness of the pillow and a gentle rippling sensation throughout his body.
His eyelids slowly drifted open and he rotated his stalks to face the wooden bedside table. On top of it lay the dirtied pages of the script he was supposed to be memorizing for his skit with Dern later that night, after flubbing it during their show in Rus Rahl.
He had hoped against hope that a bottle of gin had materialized on the table, but alas, he was still lacking any alcohol.
“That sure would hit the spot,” he croaked to an empty room.
His lips moved sluggishly and his tongue was heavy, like it threatened to tumble out of his mouth and bounce off his prominent belly onto the thin yellow sheets.
That was a new side effect.
Typically, fire-spit was just like marshweed. It would make him feel slightly tingly, a bit more jovial than normal, more carefree. He’d feel like he was going through a timewarp if he took a sizeable hit of either drug, but given that he would be performing soon, he had made sure to be conservative.
This was not a normal reaction.
“Fudking Pillbug,” he slurred, tapping the side of the pouch housing the rest of his supply. “So’d me bu-shit.”
He struggled to sit back up. His body was being swallowed by the fabric of the pillow and the tangle of the sheets.
Soon he would be lost to comfort. It was a noble way to die.
While he sat there immobile in his bed, his mind was still a blank canvas, with no intrusion of any thoughts or images. Until finally, he heard himself say in his head, Script.
Out loud, he mumbled, “I got to read da script. I got to know da script.”
There was no mental filter stopping him from expressing every thought aloud. If he had been more cognizant of his current state, he would have thought himself an imbecile. But the fire-spit was hitting him harder than it ever had before, and the few thoughts he had were scattered.
He muttered another jab at Pillbug, then slapped his hand down on the script and crumpled it in his hand in a sloppy attempt to pick it up. Remnants of the spit powder tumbled off his hand and onto the floor.
“Got to read,” he said, un-wrinkling the couple pieces of paper he had nearly ruined.
Puk stared at the first page of the script, which was where his previous mess-ups had occurred. He had not even been able to make it three lines into the skit before derailing the entire thing.
Acting had never been his strong suit, but The Rusty Halberd liked to interject short, comedic performances in between each member’s act in order to pad out time and garner more tips from patrons. Jit and Dern loved acting and wrote all of the scripts together, but Puk would have been much happier being left alone to his songs.
“Got to read,” he said again. With the effort it took to shove three words out, singing tonight was a dicey prospect. His eyes scanned the page, but every word written on it was incomprehensible to him.
At least the bed was comfortable.
Puk eyed the clock adorning the wall by the doorway, ticking away methodically. Only three hours stood between him and their performance across town. His companions would surely be back soon so they could commence final rehearsals and grab a bite to eat.
“Goddu read,” he grumbled. “Fudking Pillbug.”
- -
The streets were surprisingly vacant as Kali made her way through Yspleash, following the directions she had written for herself so long ago, the first time she’d dealt with Bryieshk.
The scrap of paper she’d written on was now torn and faded yellow, but it was still getting the job done. While finishing her knaff, she had also scribbled down directions to Delightful Desserts for her next trip.
She turned left onto a street called Greshiiks #2, designated by an old, wooden sign with the name carved into it, likely done with a centript’s pincer rather than any tools.
The first time she had visited the city, she had made the mistake of wandering up and down Greshiiks #1 for over half an hour, desperately seeking out Bryieshk’s storefront. The man had laughed heartily, a skittering squeak of a sound, when she regaled the story to him. She did not make the same mistake twice, though it was beyond her why such a vast city would have multiple streets with the same names.
Kali came to a halt outside Bryieshk’s shop, a humble building located at the end of Greshiiks #2 called Bryieshk’s Bazaar, a name that always amused her. The use of Commonspeak and alliteration was a far cry from the naming conventions of surrounding establishments.
She entered the unassuming building to the sounds of Bryieshk haggling with who she assumed was a customer rather than another merchant like herself. The centript perked up at the sight of her and gave her a wave with one of his many hands.
The two were speaking in Carsuak, the native language of centripts, though nowadays almost every centript grew up learning Commonspeak as well. Carsuak vocabulary was incredibly complicated to pronounce, and nearly impossible for those without centript anatomy. Kali could mostly read it, but actually pronouncing the words was somewhat of a struggle for her. The unfamiliar combinations of consonants and vowels was easy for a centript, but not so for others. Very few people could speak it, and Kali’s sister was one of those few. She wasn’t fluent by any means, but she could get by in a casual conversation.
While Bryieshk wrapped up his business, Kali perused the shop’s wares.
Bryieshk’s Bazaar housed an eclectic assortment of items, ranging from clothes to musical instruments to potions to whatever else one could imagine. It was truly a one-stop shop, but given its location, the guy did not receive as much foot traffic as he deserved. With his low prices, though, word seemed to spread around town and he received a steady stream of customers.
Parts of the walls had been molded inward to create natural shelving along the perimeter of the store, and every shelf was packed to the brim. There were additional shelves throughout the floorspace, commissioned when Bryieshk had run out of room and started storing items on the floor, oftentimes being trampled by customers. He had kept this going for a short while, hoping that a “broken items must be paid for” policy would generate solid income, but m
ore often than not it led to irate customers, so he eventually relented.
Kali picked up a dusty harmonica, plated with thin red metal and bearing sixteen holes. The device was caked in a layer of dust, and she had to wonder when the last time a non-centript had browsed the store. There was no possible way for a centript to form the embouchure required for the instrument. She might be the harmonica’s only salvation.
Alas, she placed it back down on the shelf next to a ragged notebook (marked “free with any purchase” in Carsuak) as Bryieshk’s customer scuttled out of the store, grumbling a pleased-sounding noise.
“Kallia! My favorite person!” said Bryieshk as she turned her attention to him. It was impossible to tell if he was smiling, but he sounded happy to see her.
He skittered toward her on his twenty or so tiny, sharp feet, which clacked against the hard floor. Bryieshk’s body was long in comparison to other centripts she had met, nearly seven feet, which made him tower above her despite his full height being shortened by the S-shape centripts contorted their bodies into.
His carapace was a muddy brown and his crimson-colored head stood out in sharp contrast to the rest of him. In spite of his larger body, the horns on his head were shorter than most, and one on the left was broken after a particularly bad kerfuffle a few years prior.
Bryieshk snapped his bulky mandibles together, a sign of excitement. He said, “I am glad to see you. Sorry for the wait.”
“No trouble,” she assured him.
“Great,” said Bryieshk, carefully turning around and returning to his counter near the back of the store. “How was your journey across the mighty Gogol this time?”
Kali followed him to the counter and placed her knapsack down on the ground. She leaned her elbows on the countertop and cradled her head in her hands.
“It was fine,” she replied. “Just hot. Always so hot.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. Turns out the desert is pretty hot.”
“I am surprised it took you this many trips across it to realize.”
“I’m a slow learner,” she grinned.
“Ahh, you see, I already knew that,” Bryieshk said with a laugh. Or the closest approximation to a laugh a centript could make. “I know because you decide to keep doing business with me.”
Kali stood up straight. “What can I say?” she asked him. “I like you, for some reason.”
“One of the great mysteries of this world,” the centript said. “Did you caravan with that band of sightseers?”
Kali shook her head. “What band?”
Bryieshk’s long line of arms on either side of his body shifted upward, one after another, resembling a shrug that traveled the length of his upper body. “Just people who are evidently visiting the major cities along Vanap’s Peaks. I cannot imagine what sights there are to see, but I am jaded, of course.” As far as Kali knew, he had lived in Yspleash all his life.
Kali returned his shrug. “Nawa has that huge oasis, so I’m sure they’ll be stopping there. I would think that the Repository would be more of a destination, though. Not the mountainside.”
He nodded. “That is certainly a much prettier centript accomplishment than this city. We are in dire need of some reconstruction. Or at least another mural somewhere to brighten up the place.”
“Some color would certainly spice things up,” Kali chuckled. “But anyway, no, I traveled on my own.”
“On the back of a trusty ayote, I presume?”
“Yep, same one as always.”
“And how is Bango doing?”
“Very well,” she answered. “Toughest guy I know. I was told he had a stomach bug a few weeks ago, but he’s in top form now.” Bryieshk always asked her about Bango; like other centripts, he had no desire to actually encounter the animal in fear of contracting the mold, but he appreciated them all the same.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Bryieshk. “And now, I am going to perfectly segue into our next topic. It will impress you. Here we go: were you able to bring what I requested?”
Kali laughed at him. “I did,” she said, reaching for her bag.
She opened up the flap and pulled out the duraga that he asked her to obtain. She held it by the neck and gently laid it out flat on the counter in front of him.
The duraga was a small instrument, only a few feet long, with a slender neck and a base that was crafted from dried pieces of ayote shell. It was outfitted with ten slim strings and there was a rough painting of Seroo on its body, with the creature wrapping itself around the sound hole.
Bryieshk lifted the duraga and Kali saw his six eyes all dart back and forth in varying directions, observing every inch of the instrument.
“Breathtaking,” he said.
In truth, it was the cheapest one she could commission, but she was relieved that her buyer was still so impressed with it.
He set it back down with tenderness and addressed her. “Is the price we previously agreed upon still suitable?”
She nodded. The duraga had cost her thirty crescents back in Seroo’s Eye, where ayote shells were plentiful, and Bryieshk had offered one-hundred and twenty if she could deliver one to him.
Bryieshk tittered giddily as he gathered the money. Kali had no idea if centripts could even play a duraga, but perhaps the mere novelty of owning one would be sufficient to land a sale.
“I take it that is not all you brought for me?” Bryieshk asked.
It wasn’t. She had not made the three-day journey for only ninety crescents in profit.
“I have more ranneth,” she said. The potion was always a guaranteed seller, so she always scouted savannahs for quillis, which her apothecary friend back home had to then distill into a potion that fought the mold. Quillis was used by mercenaries as a poison, but it could be manipulated by skilled white mages into abating the centript disease.
“Local or exotic?” Bryieshk asked.
The question puzzled her. “What do you mean by ‘exotic’?”
Bryieshk placed the agreed-upon crescents on the countertop beside the duraga. Kali scooped them into her pack, clanking against the glass bottles of ranneth as they rained down.
“A white mage in Atlua came up with a new type of ranneth,” he explained. “They use some sort of herb that grows in the forests there. It is much stronger than what we have here. It can even reverse some of the effects, not just prevent them from spreading. Or so I hear.”
Kali was baffled. She had never heard of a potion that could reverse the effects of molding.
The mold was a disease only found in centripts, and its effects were horrific. If a centript was afflicted, their body deteriorated segment by segment. The skin underneath their shell would begin to rot, leading to the carapace cracking and falling off. It was possible for a centript to survive with some of their shell missing, but it could become an issue depending on which segments were exposed, making it difficult to walk or use their arms. The centript then died once the disease reached their head, though it was impossible to know when that would happen—it could be the third segment affected or the twentieth.
If Bryieshk was to be believed, this new version of ranneth could be used to undo the putrefying effects of molding. There couldn’t possibly be a way for the centript’s shell segment to grow back, but from the sound of it, this new potion could stop the part from rotting and help return it to normal. The ranneth potion distilled from quillis could only delay the mold from spreading to any other segment after it finished with one where it had already been introduced, but in time it would eventually spread.
A new potion would change everything for centripts.
“Judging by your silence and also your lack of knowledge about the exotic ranneth, I take it yours is just local,” said Bryieshk.
Kali nodded dumbly. She asked him, “Has someone been bringing in exotic ranneth?”
“I have only seen it sold in one store here,” said Bryieshk, “but I have heard talk of it being more common on the coast, where tra
ders come in from Atlua. A majority of their supply is bought up before they can ever make it inland, but Vonoshreb managed to snag a few bottles during his vacation to Restick, the bastard. He got a ton of bottles and is making a fortune.”
She couldn’t resist asking, “How much does a bottle go for?”
“Forty crescents.”
The words struck her across the face. Her mouth hung agape, and Bryieshk uttered a laugh.
Forty? Forty fucking crescents?
The average bottle of “local” ranneth could net her ten crescents, maybe fifteen at the absolute most, which still wasn’t a great profit after having to pay her associate to distill it.
“Well…” she muttered, “…I just have local. Sorry.”
Bryieshk considered this, then said, “I could pay you five per bottle.”
“Five? The usual is ten per bottle,” she objected.
“There is a new ‘usual’ now,” he said with a shrug. “Nobody wants the local stuff anymore. Not when something considerably better is on shelves somewhere. I have only had two people buy any ranneth from me since Vonoshreb started selling his. The bastard.”
Spit and Song (Ustlian Tales Book 2) Page 2
