Spit and Song (Ustlian Tales Book 2)

by Travis M. Riddle

  “Well, see, now I’m even more confused,” said Puk. “If this fucker has a gourd big enough for people to step inside, then he’s gotta be huge, right? Let’s go outside, right now. We should be able to see that giant stumbling around like a drunk in the dark, I assume.”

  She laughed at the image. “I think we’d both be disappointed if we went out there. Most of all, it’s cold as hell right now.”

  “True,” Puk said, then dipped his eyestalks slightly as a sort of strange nod while he drank. He swallowed, licked his lips, and said, “I’m perfectly content right here, in that case. Don’t you have any stories about the city? Ain’t this one of the oldest cities in the whole country?”

  “Yup.”

  “Old as shit city and you’re trying to tell me it has no good urban legends about it? Or even some true, nasty stuff that went down here? I gotta say, I was in the meat district earlier, and I’ll be damned if someone hasn’t been murdered in there and probably mixed into some sausage. Believe you me.”

  Kali cackled. “I really hope not,” she said. “Let people be murdered, sure, but leave the sausage alone. Although, I don’t eat sausage anyway, so on second thought, do what you want with your murdered bodies.”

  “I wonder if I’ve ever eaten someone while eating a sausage,” said Puk, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve had some truly bad sausage in my day, so I bet it’s possible. I’d almost call it certain.”

  “Well, if so, I suppose it can’t be too bad for you,” Kali shrugged. “You seem to be doing alright, anyway. Oh! There is something horrific that happened in the city, I just remembered!”

  “Oh, do tell!”

  “I was three or four years old when it happened, I think. So I don’t actually remember it, but my dad told me about it at some point. Apparently one day, everyone woke up and found a severed head in the Gaze.”

  Puk nearly choked on his beer laughing. “Fuck,” he sputtered. “I was not expecting that. A whole head, eh?”

  “Not quite whole. It was missing its tongue and teeth.”

  “Damn.”

  “Mhmm. I’m not sure if you know how important the Gaze is to the culture of the city, but this was a huge scandal, even beyond the fact that someone had been murdered. Finding the killer was the guards’ number one priority.”

  Puk’s eyestalks were bobbing up and down with curiosity. He said, “Let me guess the motivation: some kind of crazy religious bullshit? Sacrificing a person to some stupid god, blah blah, ascend, all that?”

  Kali shrugged, then waited for his reaction.

  He waited a second. “Is that it?” he demanded. “How can a shrug be your response?”

  “We don’t know the motivation. The guards never found the person who did it.”

  His eyes widened and he removed the beer bottle from his lips. “Never?”

  “Nope. It was an active case for over a year, but they never solved it. Eventually they just gave up. Called it a wash.”

  Puk laughed. “Wow,” he said, taking a drink before he continued. “That’s pretty wild. I can’t imagine something like that happening in Trillowan. If someone’s head showed up in the middle of town with his stalks cut off or something, no one would rest until the killer was found. Though that would partially be because half the town would be staying awake into the wee hours trying to craft the perfect song to encapsulate the tragedy and be the first to perform their masterpiece.”

  Kali laughed and asked, “Are people from your town really that vain?”

  “Oh, yeah, most of them are,” the qarm said with a smirk. “My dad Nork wasn’t a singer, but he was a painter, and he was the exact same way. Always neglecting everything else in search of ‘inspiration,’ always saying that anyone else not ‘nursing their creative energies’ was wasting their life. I mean, I enjoy singing and playin’ music, but he drove me fucking nuts with all that.”

  “I thought you said the other night your dad’s name was Doro,” Kali pointed out, confused.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got four dads and a mom.” Kali didn’t want to be rude or prod any further, but evidently her expression betrayed her. Puk laughed and explained, “Qarms need four males and one female to reproduce, and then all five raise the kids together as a unit. My unit’s a mess, honestly.”

  “I see,” Kali said. Her knowledge gap about qarmish culture was larger than she’d realized.

  “Anyway,” Puk went on, “Nork was a pretentious idiot. None of my other parents liked him.”

  “Not even your mother?”

  “Nah. He and Doro were both just necessary to the process.”

  “So I take it you did not inherit his endless creative drive.” Only as the words escaped her mouth did she realize how insulting they might sound.

  But Puk didn’t seem to notice. That, or he didn’t mind. “Not at all,” he replied bluntly.

  “Have you ever written your own music?” she asked, unsure whether anything he had sung on stage was an original.

  He shook his head in reply. “Nah. I mean, yeah, a little bit, but not in a really long time. Too much work,” he chuckled. “Singing songs is fun, but writing them? C’mon. That’s so much time and effort that can be spent on other shit. I’ll pass. I don’t need that weight on me.” He took one last swig of his beer and placed the empty bottle on the countertop.

  “I’m sort of feeling that weight right now,” Kali confessed.

  “Writing a song? Don’t bother. I’ll teach you some easy ones,” Puk teased.

  Kali smiled. “I appreciate that,” she said. “But no, just…I’m a merchant. Or at least trying to be one. I’ve had some success trading back and forth between cities here, but not enough to really branch out on my own. As you can surely tell, given that I live in my parents’ inn.”

  “What’s the weight on you, then?”

  She sighed, then gulped down some water. “Well,” she started, “it’s actually sorta simple, which is part of why it annoys me that I’m so stressed out about it. But I’m trying to save up enough money to book a boat out of Restick and travel to Atlua, to sell some foreign goods there and then buy some to bring back and sell here.”

  The qarm’s eyestalks appeared to perk up at the mention of Restick and Atlua.

  “You and I are in similar figurative boats,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep. And maybe the same literal boat, eventually,” he said. “I took this job so that I could save up enough for the same exact thing: get to Restick, then get to Atlua. I’m ready to be home. Fuck this desert.”

  “I love this desert, but right now I’m kinda right there with you: fuck it,” she grinned.

  Puk rolled the base of the bottle along the counter. She hadn’t offered to buy him more drinks, and didn’t want to spend what money she had left on doing so anyway. It seemed he didn’t have crescents to spare to buy himself another.

  “So, how do you plan on earnin’ your boat ticket?” he finally asked her, setting the bottle down flat on the bar.

  She shrugged. “Nothing specific planned. Just by trading, I guess.” She downed the remainder of her water. Then she asked him, “How are you earning yours?”

  He shrugged as well. “Oh, you know,” he said. “Just singin’, I guess.”

  Kali began rolling the base of her glass along the countertop too. David was bartending again, but he was currently preoccupied with another patron. She could tell the conversation was probably winding down anyway.

  She asked Puk, “Do you think we’ll be able to pull it off with just that?”

  He peered into the long neck of his bottle, watching the amber remnants of liquid slosh back and forth. Kali could tell he was giving her question some serious thought. She had meant for it to be somewhat lighthearted.

  “You know,” he said, “based on my experience, I’m not especially hopeful.”

  - -

  The stash of fire-spit Puk purchased was already depleted, so he found himself once again trudging throug
h Farrowheart District in search of the faded green door.

  Without Markus as a guide, it took him a bit longer than he anticipated, but finally he located it and gave the door the same rhythmic knock he’d memorized Markus doing.

  The greasy gatekeeper pried open the door a sliver to see who had come knocking. Recognizing Puk—possibly the only qarm who had ever entered this building before—he pulled the door open all the way and welcomed him.

  Inside, the scene was much the same as it had been a couple days earlier. The atrocious stench still stifled the air, threatening to choke him. He could hear murmurs from the back room and mages cooking oporist in the side rooms.

  Puk walked down the hall toward the den, where he was surprised to find that it was less of a shit-show than before. Junkies were no longer lining the walls like cheap furniture, and in fact there were no junkies at all to be found.

  A table had been set up in the center of the room, and some form of gambling was taking place. The men were playing cards, but Puk didn’t recognize the game. It definitely wasn’t Hunt, but regardless of the game, he was smart enough to not get involved this time around.

  What he did recognize, though, was one of the players: it was the red-haired man he had played Hunt with, Randolph.

  The man looked up from his hand to see who had entered the room, and he grinned at the sight of the qarm. “Look who it is!” he roared, placing his cards face-down on the table. “If it ain’t my brethren Puk!”

  He waved meekly at the man, then tried shuffling over to the side of the room where Damian was sat cross-legged with his drug bag in his lap, but Randolph insisted he join them for a moment.

  Puk approached the group of burly men and muttered, “I really can’t play. I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure I can’t afford the buy-in, and I don’t even know what this is.”

  Randolph guffawed. “As much as I’d love to take your money again, I’m in no mood to teach you another game.” He picked his cards up and read them over again as he said, “If I’m honest, I’m a bit shocked to see you’re still alive and kickin’. You looked proper fucked when you left the Tilted Tailbone.”

  “I was,” said Puk. “I’m here looking to get proper fucked again. Though not by you, this time.”

  The quip earned another hearty holler from Randolph. The man was larger than life, his voice carrying throughout the whole building. Having thoroughly assessed his cards, he pushed twenty crescents into the pot piled up in the center of the table. Puk wished he had money to throw around like that.

  “Well, it’s good seeing you, brethren,” Randolph said, motioning for the man to his left to play. “If you ever feel up to hunting again, find me in the Tailbone. I’m there most nights.”

  “You’ve got it,” Puk nodded, intending never to return to the Tilted Tailbone or play Hunt ever again in his life.

  With that awkward reunion out of the way, he walked over to Damian, who sat waiting patiently for him.

  “Welcome back.”

  “Thanks,” Puk mumbled. He felt like he was being watched now, even though Randolph had already slipped back into loud conversation with his fellow gamblers.

  “How much this time?” Damian asked. “That last pouch didn’t seem to last you long, eh?”

  “It did not,” Puk admitted. He’d gone through a lot of it during late nights after talking to Kali at the Slumber’s bar. Despite those late nights, he’d been diligent about waking up early enough to feast on the inn’s breakfast spread so that he wouldn’t have to spend his own money out buying food. He had also begun saving up for his trip, though he could admit to himself that he wasn’t doing as good a job in that department as he should. “Twenty crescents worth will do me this time, I think.”

  Damian nodded and reached into his trusty bag.

  While he did so, Puk tried to make light conversation. “Pretty empty in here. Had a full house the other day, huh?”

  Damian grunted in the affirmative.

  “What’s the deal today?” Puk asked. “Some special event goin’ on?” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder at the group playing cards.

  “They meet here once a month for their game,” Damian replied, pulling his big container of fire-spit from the bag. “Couple of bigshots from all around. Think a few are black market dealers, one’s a mercenary, one’s a banker—not sure about the rest.” He measured out the appropriate amount of spit and poured it into a smaller pouch for Puk.

  He took the pouch and thanked Damian, but hesitated leaving. The dealer knew what was on his mind.

  “Not in this room. Go back in the hall, first door on your left. That’s where I’m headed in a minute anyway. You caught me packing my bag back up after getting these fellas situated.”

  Puk nodded and thanked him again, then ducked out of the room before Randolph could holler anything else at him. He entered through the doorway Damian had indicated, and inside he discovered the scene he had been expecting, though on a smaller scale. Only a few users were milling about, one or two ashers and a guy who had rubbed so much oporist on his lip it had barely absorbed into his skin and was dribbling down his face as if he were a drooling baby.

  Slumped down near the doorway, Puk could still hear Randolph’s voice booming through the hall. He hadn’t been paying attention to the start of the conversation while he held his own with Damian, but whatever it was the men were discussing, it had intrigued them.

  “It seems like a waste of fuckin’ time to me,” Randolph said.

  “How is it a waste? Do you need to be reminded of the pay-out?” asked an incredulous second voice.

  A third chimed in with, “Ten thousand crescents is nothing special. I see that type of money thrown around every day.” Probably the banker, if Damian’s intelligence was to be trusted.

  “Ten thousand is great, before you count all the expenses!” Randolph shouted. “First, getting into Myrisih to accept the contract if you can even figure out their stupid-ass schedule, then hiring a crew for the job, then traveling to fuck-knows-where for it, then traveling all the way back. The pay-out’s gotta be a bit more than that to make a job worthwhile for me these days. Expenses aside, I’m sick of traveling! If I’m hauling my lazy ass outta the Eye, it’s gotta be worth a lot.”

  The second voice said, “Well, you might have a point. But ain’t you a little curious ’bout that book? What kind of book is worth ten thousand crescents?”

  “Probably a thick one that I’d have to lug across the desert after I found it,” Randolph snorted. “All the more reason not to take the job!”

  The gruff men soon changed the subject, having all agreed that the pay-out was not worth the hassle and costs, but Puk’s mind was racing with possibilities.

  The line of powder on his hand had gotten wet from the moisture of his skin. Ruined. He wiped it away and thought about what the men had said, and then he recalled his conversation with Kali Shiar the night before.

  Ten thousand crescents was a mighty appealing pay-out, even split two ways. Myrisih wasn’t exactly easy to get into, but Puk had been there a few times and knew somebody in Restick who could take them there. If he and Kali both needed to get to Restick anyway…

  The bounty wasn’t a particularly huge amount to split amongst a regular crew, so it was entirely possible that not many would take up the job. He had just spent the past few minutes listening to several arguments for why it was a shitty job to take.

  It might be the perfect opportunity for him and Kali.

  From the sounds of it, all they’d have to do is find some book, then bring it back to Myrisih, get paid, and be on their way back to Atlua with five thousand crescents each.

  A worthy sum. Plenty of money for Kali to start a new life with, and plenty for him to do with as he pleased.

  It seemed easy enough. Even if the book was super thick and heavy.

  Surprising himself, he hopped up off the ground without snorting a new line and darted out the door to find Kali.

  - -


  Kali had spent the past half hour reading Lissia’s textbook on Carsuak in a meager attempt to reacquaint herself with the language. No part of her believed she would ever be as fluent as her sister, but she felt some motivation to gain a better understanding.

  It was a small yet thick book, as if it were originally intended as a guidebook for one to easily carry around on their travels and refer to, but the author got carried away and went too in-depth. It was entirely impractical. But it was evidently a useful teaching tool, seeing as Lissia was required by her job to converse with elder centripts who only spoke the language.

  The book was proving to be a good refresher on what she previously knew, though she was stumbling a bit. She was reading the section on verb conjugation and getting an increasingly worse headache when a knock at the bedroom door interrupted her concentration.

  Kali stood from her desk littered with scrawled notes, an empty cup, and the textbook, which flipped shut with a thwump the moment she removed her hand from it. She took a second to make sure she was wearing something presentable, then scurried over to the door.

  On the other side was Puk. The qarm was probably somewhere near the bottom of a list of individuals she would have expected to find standing in her doorway.

  “Oh, hey,” she said.