Spit and Song (Ustlian Tales Book 2)

by Travis M. Riddle

  So while she was home, each day she’d take a walk outside the city limits to absorb some sun and relax in the peaceful quiet on the other side of Seroo’s skull. This time, she exited through the Spine Gate on the northern end of the city, which was directly connected to the Ribroad that snaked through the desert all the way to Restick. The aeon’s bones curved up and out of the sands, providing a good amount of shade on their own, with the spaces in between each bone covered by a leather awning stretched taut across them.

  Kali stepped out from between two of the wide-set, towering bones to escape the shade and take in the invigorating sunlight. It was a particularly bright and hot day in the Gogol, and the sun was refreshing on her skin. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. The smell of the sand was subtle, but it soothed her.

  She sat down in the sand, leaning her back against the massive skull, and stretched her bare legs out in front of her to take in as much sunlight as possible. It helped fend off hunger, so combined with her breakfast, she was feeling pretty full and satisfied. She basked in the warmth.

  It was nowhere near visible, but she gazed in the direction of Restick. From where she sat, the most she could see was the Ribroad bending toward the coast and disappearing into the wavering distance.

  She imagined what was at the end of that road. A bustling coastal city, with its crowded docks and busy markets and the glimmering sea lapping up on the shore. Part of her had always daydreamed about living on the coast, and perhaps there was no better time than now to move there, to help facilitate her new lifestyle traveling back and forth between countries.

  It had been a while since she’d last visited the sea. She shut her eyes again and dug her fingers into the hot sand, pretending she was on the beach. She inhaled again, trying to smell the saltwater tickling her feet. Waves crashing in the distance. She took another deep breath.

  - -

  His first night on the job had been a piece of cake. Barely any crowd, and the people present were drunk, so they hardly gave a shit what he did up on that stage. A perfect scenario, and one that he expected would repeat each night he performed.

  But his performance after the performance had been even better. Telling stories in exchange for free beer was probably the easiest thing Puk ever agreed to, though he might’ve loaded up on more than his small body could handle. He knew his limits, and he had completely ignored them.

  When he awoke the next morning, well past breakfast hours, he discovered an envelope slipped underneath his door with his first payment and a short note from Botro tucked away inside explaining that he didn’t want to disturb him. An explanation Puk did not particularly care about, so the note was hastily tossed in the trash and the crescents stuffed into a pocket.

  He knew precisely what he wanted to spend them on.

  Before he left his room, he did pause for the thought that he should set aside a bit of the money to start saving up for his trip back to Atlua, but mere seconds later he eschewed said thought and decided he could start saving with the next payment. But he was proud of himself for having the thought in the first place, and gave himself credit for that much.

  After patting himself on the back, Puk puttered out of the inn with his head pounding and praised whatever gods there were for placing him in a city that blocked out the sun, because even the small amount that filtered through the bone was enough to make him dizzy. Waking up in Seroo’s Eye with a hangover was becoming a habit. His father Doro would be proud.

  With the Shiar’s Slumber kitchens temporarily closed between breakfast and lunch hours, the first place Puk found himself was a street cart near the Gaze he and his troupe had eaten at the night they rolled into town. It was a simple joint, run by one sweaty man, which served a dish called a fajik, derived from the Carsuak word for “morning,” fajikiis, which was one of perhaps three (if he was being generous) Carsuak words Puk knew.

  Fajik consisted of a bread pocket stuffed with fried cactus, hard-boiled eggs, fresh peppers and onions, and a healthy drizzle of sweet and spicy red sauce he did not know the origin of, but loved. He ordered his with extra sauce and found a nearby step to sit on while he ate.

  With lunch consumed, he set out to complete the next and only other task on his to-do list, another thing that would have filled the late Doro with pride: buying some fire-spit.

  He sought out the orange-overalled rat-faced man from a couple days prior, but he was not in the same spot as before. Puk asked around in a few of the more run-down taverns, eventually learning the man’s name was Damian, and was told where he could be found that day.

  Lucky for Puk, his source was already planning on making a purchase from Damian, so he led the way. Puk followed him through twisting, unlit alleyways back toward the northwestern edge of the city. They were walking along the curve of the bone wall on a mostly-deserted street when his escort came to a stop outside of an unmarked, faded green door.

  The man rapped his knuckles on the wood in a staccato pattern that Puk mentally noted, and a moment later the door creaked open. A sniveling face filled the crack.

  “Hey, Markus,” the man indoors said in a rasp, opening the door up all the way. His eyes then trailed down to Markus’s side and narrowed to a glare at Puk. “Who’s this, then?”

  “A new friend,” replied Markus. “He’s alright. Damian’ll vouch for him.”

  The gatekeeper remained unconvinced. “I’ll let Damian do that, then,” he said, closing the door again. The metallic click of a lock sounded from inside.

  “I’m flattered he thinks I’m a threat,” Puk joked. Markus remained silent. “The only thing I’m a threat to is a buffet line.” Still nothing.

  While the two stewed in his failed attempts at humor, Puk spared a glance at their surroundings. They were on the opposite side of the city from his lodgings, which filled him with relief. The last thing he wanted was Botro or any member of his family stumbling upon him here.

  Based on Markus’s mumblings in the pub, Puk knew they were in a district called Farrowheart. It was mostly devoted to slaughterhouses and meat production, and the scent wafting on the air certainly corroborated that fact. The entire district smelled heavily of shit and blood, which he had to admit was a solid cover-up for drug production, to mask the associated scents. Puk couldn’t fathom anything cutting through what he was currently smelling.

  Puk was on the cusp of foolishly asking Markus what his least favorite smell was when the greasy man swung the door open again. He shot another glare toward the qarm, then told Markus, “Damian says he’s alright.”

  “Told you.”

  With that, they were allowed entry.

  The den smelled better than the outdoors, but only by an inch. The air was musty, like everything was caked in sweat or grime. Puk heard the licking of a flame somewhere around a corner but couldn’t detect if it was food or drugs being cooked. If it was food, it was rancid. The smell of shit was pervasive in the building as well.

  The gatekeeper led Markus and Puk down the hall to a room at the back of the building with shuttered windows and bright lamps set up in each of the four corners, illuminating the pitiful proceedings.

  Men and women lined the walls, slouched over with dazed looks in their eyes, if they weren’t already unconscious. Most of those who were passed out had needle marks tattooing their arms, which made Puk queasy. He knew a straight injection was much more potent, but he had never been able to handle needles. He would stick to the powder, thank you very much.

  Others were clearly not on fire-spit at all, and were instead rubbing a pitch-black powder on their gums. Puk had tried ash a few times but despite his affinity for powdery substances, he always found it to be either too intense or he would experience not even the tiniest buzz. Always one of two extremes, and never satisfying either way.

  Words and phrases were carved into the walls around dark smears of unknown substances, the blathering of paranoid drug addicts. Insane thoughts like “The Asrani still rule” and “Seroo isn’t dead”
and “The jeornish are eradicating us.” Utter nonsense, all of it. Puk chuckled at an etching that only said, in nearly unintelligible lettering, “Mama and Papa.”

  Damian, wearing his orange overalls once again (or at least Puk hoped it was “again” rather than “still”), was sat in the back of the room next to one of the lamps, leeching off its residual heat. Looking in his eyes, he appeared to be relatively clear-headed at the moment. Puk and his escort approached the man, who grinned at the sight of Markus.

  “Hey there, old pal,” Damian greeted the tall man. “Come for the usual?”

  “Come for the usual,” Markus nodded.

  The dealer reached into a surprisingly clean bag propped up beside him, but didn’t remove his gaze from Puk. “Way he described you was familiar,” he muttered, squinting his eyes in thought. “What was it you bought, again?”

  “I bought some spit off you a few days ago. Well, actually, shit—I didn’t buy it, we shared some,” Puk corrected.

  “Ah, that’s right!” said Damian. His eyes widened in faint recognition. He finally found what he was looking for in his bag and extracted a considerable pouch of ash, which he tossed to Markus.

  The man inspected the goods for a brief moment and then, deeming the product worthy, handed over a large amount of crescents that Puk couldn’t count before Damian stuffed them into his bag, not bothering to count them either.

  “Pleasure,” Markus nodded, stuffing the pouch into the inside pocket of the vest he wore.

  “See you next week,” Damian smiled, exposing a gap in his bottom row of teeth. While dazed on fire-spit the other day, he had told Puk about the brawl he’d gotten in a month ago that resulted in him losing the teeth. He advised not getting on a rocyan’s bad side, especially taking Puk’s small stature into account. As Markus departed, Damian turned his attention back toward Puk. “What can I help you with, then, new pal?”

  “Same old, same old,” Puk told him. “I can pay this time, though.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  The grubby man submerged his hands deep into his bag, shuffling trinkets and bottles and pouches around in search of Puk’s fire-spit. The qarm swayed back and forth, his eyestalks rotating around to observe the others in the room, growing antsier by the second.

  Damian asked him, “Can I interest you in some ash or oporist?” He held up a small jar of the orange slime, and Puk realized a lot of what was smeared on the walls was likely oporist.

  “No, thanks,” he shook his head. “Just the spit.”

  He didn’t trust ingesting a substance that had to be crafted by black mages. It was perhaps the only drug he hadn’t tried. Seeing that the man dealt oporist, Puk realized the rancid odor floating through the building was black mages creating it in another room.

  Damian shrugged and placed the jar back in his sack, then pulled out a large container full of powdered fire-spit. “This is the kind you like, yeah?” Puk nodded, and he popped open the container. “How much you lookin’ for today?”

  Puk wasn’t entirely sure of the man’s prices, so he said, “However much twenty-five crescents can get me.” Botro had paid him twenty-five for his services the night before, and he’d spent the three he’d already had on the fajik. The money was burning a hole in his pocket.

  It took a minute for Damian to dole out the correct amount, which he then handed over to Puk in exchange for the twenty-five crescents. Awake for barely over two hours and he had already spent all the money he had.

  “You’re in for a treat,” Damian grinned. Puk could see the pink flesh of his tongue in the gap of his teeth. “We just got that from our guy up in Toralas. Way better than the shit you and I were on the other day.”

  Puk smiled politely and said, “Great. Always glad to hear that.”

  He was about to make for the exit when Damian said, “You wanna hang here a while?”

  In truth, the answer was no, he absolutely did not want to hang there a while. Powdered spit was a much lighter, more recreational sort of drug than its liquid form, and both were far less severe than ash or oporist. So Puk was wildly uncomfortable indulging while surrounded by the junkies propped against the walls like life-sized dolls.

  But another side of the truth was that he realistically had nowhere else to go. The risk of getting caught on the street was unappealing, and he wanted to avoid getting high at the inn if at all possible so that Botro didn’t throw him out.

  So he said, “Sure.”

  The dealer was thrilled and pulled out the diminutive jar of oporist he’d offered only a minute prior. “You sure I can’t tempt you?” When Puk again refused, Damian shrugged and uncorked the bottle. He dipped a finger into the viscous slime, swirling it around like he was digging in his nose, and scooped out a hefty chunk which he then began to rub across his upper lip. Most of the slime was rubbed into his skin, though some globules were caught in his wiry mustache. The oporist left behind a dull sheen on his lip, and he breathed in deep, inhaling the vapors.

  Meanwhile, Puk had taken a seat on the floor beside Damian. There was no seating of any kind in the room—everybody was either sitting or lying on the floor. He was careful to avoid leaning his head or stalks on any wall stains. He lined up a bit of powder on the back of his sticky blue hand and sniffed it up with a grunt before letting out a tiny yelp. The batch really did have a bit of a kick to it.

  He felt invigorated.

  “Good shit, right?” Damian laughed.

  For now, he couldn’t form any words. He just nodded.

  Damian laughed at him again.

  Puk’s vision doubled as he stared ahead blankly, reading words on the walls before they grew too fuzzy to make out anymore.

  A jeornish woman to his left grinned at him and mumbled something that he couldn’t understand, but he assumed that she was asking if she could have a hit as well, so he obliged. She gleefully took a bit of powder from him, placing it along her index finger. Puk noticed fresh Ustrel symbols etched into her arms and wondered if she was one of oporist-producing mages or merely a fellow customer.

  His body tingled as he leaned back against the wall, no longer caring what nastiness his skin touched. It didn’t matter anymore. Colors swirled before him and remained in his vision even when he closed his eyes, drooping his stalks downward.

  He could faintly hear other voices in the room, Damian’s and the jeornish woman’s among them, but the syllables morphed and twisted together into white noise. Even the smell of shit and burning chemicals and blood from the slaughterhouses was beginning to fade away.

  It didn’t matter anymore. He breathed out, the tension in his muscles relaxing. He was at ease.

  - -

  The qarm’s second performance was considerably livelier than the first, much to Kali and her parents’ enjoyment. She supposed he was settling into the groove of things, becoming more comfortable with this type of audience.

  Once again, he sang “Hop Along,” encouraging those in the crowd to raise their glasses and bellow the tune with him. He wrangled many enthusiastic, tipsy participants.

  Other songs on his setlist included a catchy melody about two quarreling qarmish brothers, another drinking song that one particular table was deeply invested in, and a somber tune with lyrics about watching the light through swaying tree branches and a lost love and other depressing things that brought the room down. Thankfully, he had ended on a high note—both figuratively and literally—with “Hail to the Sea,” which he described as an Atluan folk song traditionally sung at the commencement of the west’s spring hunt.

  Afterwards, Kali congratulated Puk on another successful show and invited him to join her at the bar.

  “I’d be a fool to turn that down,” he said, ambling over to the same stool. She took her place as well.

  He ordered his free beer and Kali asked for a glass of water.

  She took a sip of hers. It was cold and refreshing on her throat. “I’ve been trying to think of a good story to tell you, to make
up for the ones you told me.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yep, been wracking my brain all day.”

  “No, I mean have you thought of one?”

  She mulled it over for a second. “I thought of a few, but none are all that great. Nothing like your haunted house.”

  Puk gulped down a mouthful of beer and said, “You sayin’ nothing interesting happens in this big, empty desert? I’m shocked.”

  Kali grinned and said, “The desert is actually the source of the single decent one I can think of, about a giant that travels across the dunes—”

  Before she could even properly begin telling the tale, Puk interrupted her by asking, “If a giant is walking around outside, how come no one can see it? Wouldn’t it be visible from, like, everywhere?” He took another swig.

  “You have a point,” she said. “Not much about it adds up at all. It involves answering a question the thing asks, and if you get it right, it lets you step into its mouth to take a treasure home.”