Spit and Song (Ustlian Tales Book 2)

by Travis M. Riddle

  “But—”

  “I am sorry, Kallia, but it is just not worth the cost right now. I am not selling any. I could do five and take a couple bottles off of your hands, but no more than that.”

  Kali sighed. There was obviously no further negotiating with him. “Okay,” she said. “I can sell you three.”

  “Two would suffice.”

  So she grabbed two bottles, leaving the other eight in her bag, and placed them next to the duraga.

  - -

  A substantial crowd had gathered for the troupe’s performance.

  Hin, their leader, booked the gig at a run-down theater near the edge of the city (the only venue that would have them), and much to everyone’s surprise, it had sold out.

  The assumption among the group was that the city’s residents were not necessarily starved for entertainment, but had not seen a qarmish troupe perform before. They were a novelty.

  Up next was Puk and Dern’s skit, which Puk had gained no traction in memorizing due to how high he was. A high which he had not yet come down from, though the slurring had lessened.

  Puk managed to throw himself out of bed and stumble through the city to the theater, which he personally felt was a magnificent feat that earned him the right to abstain from performing for the rest of the night.

  He stood backstage, swaying mindlessly, the weight of his body seeming to fluctuate. He could still barely process a coherent thought beyond “be on the stage.” The amplified effects of the fire-spit would have been cause for concern if he were able to form a concerned thought.

  Jit was finishing her act, and Puk’s eyestalks twisted together as they rocked back and forth, the room spinning all around him.

  “You alright?”

  Dern’s voice knocked him out of his daze. His friend clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  “Mmfine,” Puk mumbled.

  “You seem a bit out of sorts,” said Dern. He was taller than Puk, but only by an inch and a half. The absurd length of his eyestalks gave him an extra half-inch on top of that.

  Puk shook his head, untangling his stalks. The sight was not a very convincing retort.

  “You gonna be able to perform?” Dern asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can sit this one out if you need to. Hin will prob’ly be pissed, but if you’re feelin’ sick, she’d understand.”

  “Mmfine,” he grumbled again.

  He did not know why he was being so adamant. He had an out, but was too braindead to take it.

  “Okay,” Dern said, uncertainty in his voice. He crossed his arms and stood next to Puk. The two watched Jit juggle three balls that had been set on fire, much to the crowd’s delight.

  After another minute or two, Jit gave Puk a pat as she exited the stage and said, “You’re up!”

  Puk thought a nasty thought then put one foot in front of the other and slowly ambled out onto the stage.

  He stood underneath a blaring lamp shining down from the rafters and his skin felt like it was going to leap off his body and crawl away. He could not see the audience seated before him, which congealed into a huge, dark mass, and for that he was thankful.

  Dern dove right into the skit he’d written, crossing his arms and tapping his foot in irritation. His character was meant to be waiting on Puk’s, who was late for their meeting.

  “I’m late,” Puk blurted out, without even taking a step toward his scene partner or turning to face him. He stared out at the blank audience, who laughed at his awkward, unconvincing delivery.

  Dern cocked an eyebrow, already disoriented by Puk veering off-script. “…you’re late,” he said anyway, trying to steer things back in the right direction.

  “I’m late,” Puk said again, louder this time. He then turned to Dern and yelled, “I’m late!” This garnered a boom of laughter from the crowd.

  But Dern was less amused. He had never been one for improvisation. He was too proud of the words he wrote to merely throw them out the window in lieu of improvisation.

  So he stuck to the script.

  “I’ve been waiting over an hour for you!” Dern said angrily. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Puk glared at him. Silence hung between the two for excruciatingly long seconds.

  Script, was all he could think. No actual words came to mind.

  “Well?” Dern urged him.

  And so Puk said, “…I’m late!”

  The rest of the performance lasted another five minutes and went similarly well. The audience grew more and more wearied by Puk’s lack of improvisational prowess, and Dern became much angrier as the skit dragged on. He had to go against his own personal values and improvise as well, conjuring up a halfway-believable reason for the scene to end. He was steaming as he stomped off the stage, leaving Puk alone to perform his solo act.

  Somehow, he had to sing.

  Script, he thought.

  He couldn’t see their eyes, but Puk knew there were a hundred pairs fixed on him at that moment.

  All watching and waiting for him to do something. To entertain them. Show them a good time.

  The first song he was planning to sing was one he’d learned years ago in a tavern in Din’s Keep. A rocyan whose name he’d forgotten over the years taught it to him as they sung over countless rounds at the bar. It was a tune called “Sweet Sheri,” detailing a summertime tryst in the woods. A light, breezy song that always won people over with its catchy melody.

  Suddenly, he could hear the song perfectly in his head—

  I saw her underneath the sway

  Of branches twisted a hundred ways

  She smiled and the leaves, they fell

  And I saw her close her eyes, I pray

  Sweet, sweet Sheri, sweet, sweet Sheri,

  It’s hard to believe, what I can see

  The shade of the tree

  Left me in peace, somehow

  He was filled with newfound confidence. The song was within him. An adoring crowd awaited.

  Puk opened his mouth and vomit spewed out onto the wooden stage.

  The audience screamed.

  He was altogether extremely aware of where he was and what he was doing, and he prayed none of his puke had splashed out onto the people in the front row.

  From backstage, Hin began to shout. Dern and Vick rushed onstage and ushered Puk away, bile still dribbling down his chin.

  That did not go well, he thought, though he was impressed by the complete sentence.

  Two hours later, Puk had finally sobered up and Hin had been railing into him for ten solid minutes.

  She paced back and forth in his room while he sat on his bed being scolded like a child.

  “It’s gotten to the point of ludicrousy,” she huffed, unable to tear her eyes from the ground. She couldn’t even look at him.

  “Is ‘ludicrousy’ a word?” he asked her, genuinely unsure.

  “I don’t know or give a fuck,” Hin barked. She turned one eyestalk toward him while the other remained focused on the ground. Hin’s vocabulary was usually fairly tame, so when she started swearing, things were serious. “You’ve gotten out of control, Puk. This shit has happened way too many times.”

  “I’ve never puked on stage before!” he cried.

  Hin halted and faced him. “Yes you have!” she said. “You did three months ago, in Marshwind!”

  “Oh,” he muttered. “Well, I didn’t know that time counted. It was barely more than spittle.”

  “Any amount of vomit is too much vomit!” Hin looked as if a vein was going to burst in her head.

  Puk shrugged. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You guys get drunk and high all the time too.”

  “No we don’t.”

  “What are you talking about? I met you all in a bar!”

  “Yeah, where we were performing and you were getting drunk.”

  “Well, my point stands.”

  “The point
is that we don’t indulge when we’re about to perform. We have our fun on off days. When we need to perform and be in peak shape, we have fucking self-control and do our jobs so that we can make money and earn a living. Don’t you give a shit about that?”

  The answer was that of course he did, but Puk was too proud to admit he was in the wrong. He remained silent while Hin stared at him expectantly.

  Finally, Hin asked him, “What were you even on?”

  “Fire-spit,” he answered meekly.

  “Did you do your usual dosage?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re massively dehydrated. We all are. Qarms weren’t built to live in the desert. That’s why your regular amount fucked you up so much. How could you not realize that would happen? Aren’t you a pro by now?”

  It was a reasonable question. One that he did not have a reasonable answer for. He offered her a shrug.

  So it was my own fault, then. Sorry for disparaging your good name, Pillbug, he mentally apologized.

  Hin looked him up and down then heaved a sigh. “You know what I gotta do, Puk.”

  His eyestalks scrunched up. “You don’t,” he said. His pride was slipping away by the second.

  “I do.”

  “C’mon, Hin.”

  “Don’t grovel. You fucked up. You fucked up one too many times and now something actually has to be done. I wish I didn’t have to, but you don’t leave me much choice. You’re bringing down the whole troupe.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked. “The rest of the troupe did fine. The crowd loved the song you and Dern closed with.”

  Hin chortled. “Like you’d know. You were conked out on the floor behind the curtain. I’m surprised you even know we closed with a song.”

  “Well, I mean, you close with a song every night.”

  “The tips were at an all-time low. And of course a quarter of the audience left after your little incident. The ones who stuck around loved our song, sure, but—”

  “I’m sorry,” Puk interrupted, hopping up off the bed. “Really, I am. I dunno what I gotta do to make it up to you guys, but I’ll do it. Name it, and I’ll do it.”

  He looked into her eyes, pleading with his own, hoping she could see the sincerity in them.

  But it didn’t matter whether she did or not.

  “You’ve gotta leave the troupe.”

  The words sank into him like his body was made of sand. He never imagined he would spend his entire life performing in The Rusty Halberd, but he didn’t want to go out like this. Not in some shitty inn in the middle of a desert.

  “C’mon, Hin.”

  “You come on, Puk!”

  “I’m an invaluable member of this team!” he said, finding some fight within himself. If he was going to leave the troupe, he wanted it to be on his terms and at the time of his choosing. Not now.

  Hin irritably rubbed the area between the base of her stalks. “You’re not really, though. You never learn your lines, you sing the same three songs over and over again—”

  “It’s always a different audience! How would they know? Who gives a shit!”

  “—and you’re always either drunk or high! We can’t ever predict how you’re gonna behave from one day to the next! Who wants to watch a qarmish troupe throw up on stage every night? What venue would want to book that? We’d never go on tour again.”

  “This whole tour is because of me,” said Puk. “I’m the one who had the bright idea to do our show in Herrilock. I’m invaluable, like I said.”

  Hin shook her head again. “You’re not,” she told him. “You’re expendable, and it’s about time we shed your dead weight.”

  The room was quiet. They could hear children laughing on the streets outside, the shutting of doors, people conversing. The two stared at each other, wishing the words could be taken back.

  “Okay,” Puk said. He couldn’t think of any other reply.

  It had been a long time coming. He knew that.

  Even if he hadn’t, Hin had just made it abundantly clear. He had been coasting for far too long, living an unsustainable lifestyle, and it had finally caught up to him.

  His biggest problem now was that he had nowhere to sleep and probably not enough money to afford a room anywhere. And if he couldn’t afford a room, he definitely couldn’t afford to book passage back to Atlua. Back to his home in Trillowan.

  He turned and gathered his belongings, stuffing them into the burlap sack by his bed. The last thing he tossed inside was the little pouch of remaining fire-spit.

  He slipped his shoulders through the bag’s straps and made his way to the door. He reached out and turned to Hin with his hand on the knob.

  “See you around,” he said. He swung the door open and stepped through.

  “I’m sorry,” Hin said again from the other side.

  Puk nodded and shut the door behind him.

  - -

  Her usual inn was a few blocks over from Bryieshk’s Bazaar, on a street called Niesolkm #3, a name which Kali had no idea how to pronounce.

  The innkeeper was working the front desk when Kali arrived to check in. The nightly rate stung after her exchange with Bryieshk, but there was nothing to be done. It was already the cheapest lodging she knew of in the city. She reluctantly paid the woman and marched upstairs to her room.

  The room was slightly cramped, but cozy all the same. There was a window on the wall, a charmingly misshapen oval, which peered out over Niesolkm #3.

  Kali set her belongings down and then spent a few minutes gazing out the window, watching people wander in and out of buildings. It was a much busier street than the one that housed her friend’s shop.

  She had managed to convince Bryieshk to buy a few more goods—some spices, leather pouches, a cheap watch she had found left behind in a savannah—but the profits did not amount to much. Not what she had been expecting, in any case. None of the items fetched a high price.

  Her mind unavoidably drifted to the exotic ranneth from Atlua.

  Ever since she was a young girl, Kali had wanted to become a traveling merchant. The prospect of traveling the world, seeing its beautiful and fascinating sights, made her heart race.

  She refrained from mentioning it to Bryieshk, but a piece of her envied the band of sightseers passing through Yspleash. Personally, she had only seen a fraction of Vanap’s Peaks, and she longed to experience the famous oasis in Nawa. Not to mention the sparkling beaches on the other side of the range, on the coastline.

  Forty crescents, she thought again. Forty per bottle.

  The mage she knew in Seroo’s Eye had walked her through the process of distilling quillis into a ranneth potion once or twice before, and it was not especially complex or time-consuming. She had to assume the process was similar, if not identical, with whatever herb was being used in Atlua. Meaning the base cost had to be the same too. The profit margin for a bottle of exotic ranneth was huge.

  If only she could afford to sail to Atlua and acquire some.

  There was no telling what other goods she could obtain while overseas then bring back to sell in Yspleash, in Seroo’s Eye, maybe even in Restick. Glamorous clothes, bizarre contraptions, exotic foods. The list was endless.

  Not to mention the items she could grab in Herrilock for cheap and sell in Atlua. Goods that Atluans had no other way of obtaining.

  She knew ayotes were only found in desert regions, and Atlua contained no desert at all. She could name a high price for duragas over there. Way more than the hundred-and-twenty she’d gotten from Bryieshk, which was already pretty good, in her book.

  Kali tore her gaze from the window and threw herself face-down onto the bed, slamming her nose into the hard mattress. She let out a pained exhalation and continued to fantasize about traveling the world.

  She turned herself over and stared at the ceiling, thinking about ranneth potions and duragas.

  I need to get to Atlua, she thought.

  But she had no idea how.

  CHAPTER
II

  BUY-IN

  At home, Kali could sleep until midday without issue. She could wrap herself up in her blanket, sink into her pillow, and be swallowed up in the darkness of her bedroom for hours on end.

  While in other cities, though, something itched at her in the mornings and she always awoke early. It was annoying, but she also thought it might be a good quality in a traveling merchant: always getting an early start to make the most of the day.

  When she went downstairs the next morning, a centript clerk had replaced the innkeeper at the front desk. He greeted Kali with a polite click of his mandibles. His golden yellow carapace was shiny, as if recently cleaned.

  As she approached the counter, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “Just checking out,” she said through her mask. She knew of one or two more places to make some easy sales in the city, but beyond that it didn’t make any sense to stay another night. The cost outweighed the benefit. Hardly anyone wanted what she had to offer, apparently.