by Scott King
"I don't have any money."
"Then move along."
"Please," Doug said, "I saw one of these a long time ago, but never knew what the creature living inside was called."
"They are garden crab shells." The girl scooted the largest of the sculptures, back and out of Doug's reach. "My pa gets them imported from the East Reach Sea."
"It's lovely." He meant it. There was a sense of motion in all the sculptures, as if each of the dragons were seconds from leaping off her cart. "I've not seen work of this nature before."
The girl shrugged. "Something I'm playing around with. I thought with all the dragon talk maybe they would sell, but so far they ain't doing it. You sure you don't want to buy one? I'll sell it to you for five rounds!"
"I would,"–Doug patted his belt where a pouch should hang–"but I really don't have any money."
"You came in with the group from Holton?" She nodded answering her own question. "I bet you've not visited the Registrar yet, either?"
"I don't know what that is."
"Same thing happened to me and pa when we got to Compitum." The girl rolled her eyes. "These things probably ain't gonna sell. Let me take you to the Registrar."
Doug's state of hunger had reached the point where his belly constantly ached. He felt a strange bubble of pain, like he had to hiccup, but instead of air needing to escape his insides, it was a sense of emptiness. He needed to find food. "I appreciate the offer but..."
"You are tired and hungry?" She finished for him. "That's why I'm saying I'll take you to the Registrar. It's where all the refugees are supposed to head for food and a place to sleep. It gets cold in the city at night."
Food. She had said the magic word.
It took her but a few moments to pack up her cart. The entire thing folded down to a trunk with wheels, which she loaded and was able to pull with a single hand.
"We got here a year ago." She led him over one of the lattice bridges and out of the park. "I'm Francine, by the way, but you can call me Frankie. We weren't the first survivors to arrive in Compitum, 'cause they did have the Registrar all set up, but we were one of the earliest groups to survive a dragon attack.
"You lived through an attack?"
"Pa and I watched the fabric shop and our apartment above it burn."
"Your mother?"
"Gone." She paused at an intersection, looking right and then left. "We should avoid the Painter's Brush area tonight. The Guild House Players are performing in the East Center. It's gotta be crowded like heck, which could be why Clover Market was so dead. Though on Sahene Eve, you'd think more people would show, you know?"
Doug didn't know what to say, so he kept quiet hoping whichever route she choose would soon take him to food.
"Back home, Pa was a third generation seamster, and after the dragon attacks we had no stock or supplies, so we came here to start over. There are guilds and politics, so even if we had the funds, he couldn't open a new shop, but he scored a nice teaching gig at Saul Western. It don't pay much, but I get to take classes for free, and we eat at night, so it ain't bad. What did you do for work?"
Doug gave a nonanswer. It became a series of nonanswers as she led him through the maze of the city. With every step, his belly grumbled, desiring that anything be placed inside it. Block after block, Frankie talked, and only a fraction of what she talked about made sense to him.
After twenty minutes, he could tell they had reached a different section of the city because he kept sniffing hints of straw and barnyards. There was a funk in the air, and his biggest concern was no longer eating, but trying to avoid breathing through is nose.
"This is it." Frankie stopped in front of an arched doorway. "There should be a clerk on duty who can help you. By The Silver Lady's graces, I hope you get back on your feet."
"Thank you for this."
"It's a big city. Lots of bad things can happen. I'm doing what I wish someone had done for me a time or two."
She wheeled her cart away, but her words lingered in Doug's head. Outside of Owen, who also seemed to lack a filter, she was the most sincere human he had come across since this whole ordeal began.
Doug walked through the doorway and the stench of livestock grew.
The building was long with a high ceiling, like a warehouse. It was stuffed with rows and rows of bunk beds, each filled with humans. Dirty humans who had not bathed in days, or maybe weeks. Feces. Fish. Ashes. Sensory overload. He grimaced and took a step backward.
"New arrival?" a mustached middle-aged man asked. He sat behind a desk that had been placed sideways in front of the entrance to a side room. Behind him were shelves of blankets, clothing, and food.
"Yes," Doug said. "I arrived to the city today."
"Let's get started," The man waved him over. "I need your name and city of origin."
"Doug. I'm from Holton." He had been lucky Frankie mentioned the city earlier.
"Ahhh yes, I heard the City Watch missed a whole group of you today. Sorry about that, chap." The man made a mark on a piece of parchment and scribbled notes next to it. "Any skills?"
Doug nodded, trying to come off confident.
"You a farmer? You look like a farmer."
"Uh no."
"Then what? I need to know where to place you."
"Midwife," Doug blurted. He felt foolish for saying it, but for some reason, his mind had narrowed in on a story Carter had told him about Owen overseeing births in Hal.
"I don't have anything open in the medical field right now, but you look strong. I'm going to put you down as a dockhand."
"A what? I'm sorry. I'm a bit confused."
The man ran a thumb down one side of his mustache. "Right, right, right. That's on me. Compitum does its best to take care of its citizens. The more that are fed and have a roof, the less crime we have. Begging is illegal here, and so we will provide a place for you to sleep and food for you to eat. In return, you will work for the city to pay off your cost of living. In time, if you are frugal, you should be able to make it on your own without any assistance. Make sense?"
"Yes." It didn't. Not in the slightest.
"Since you are a big'n, you'll excel at being a dockhand, loading and unloading the ships. As long as you aren't lazy, I have a feeling you might prosper at it." The man went into the little room behind him, and when he came back, he had a blanket roll he passed to Doug. "This is yours. An olive loaf, freshly baked this morning, is inside. Think of it as a welcome gift, but don't expect treats every day. Meals are served at dawn and dusk. Make sure you are back in time, or you'll be eating nothing."
Doug sniffed, trying to smell the loaf of bread, but the stench of the room hid it. "Where do I go?"
"Grab any spot you can find." The man waved an arm to the row of bunks. "When the morning bell rings, make sure you get up and head over to the docks. You know where that is, right?"
Doug nodded. He had no intention of going to the docks. All he needed was food and a place to sleep. In the morning, he would figure out where Kale was and how to get there.
"Move along then," the man said.
Doug clutched his blanket roll and walked into the tangle of beds. The paths between the rows were so tight in places that, when turning sideways, his gut or butt still shook the bunks. The first few times it happened, Doug apologized, but soon he realized it didn't matter because the bed occupants were used to it.
The bunks along the center of the room and back were filled, but he did find a series of empty ones on the side of the room near the privy. He drew the line there. The pungent odor was too much, and he'd rather sleep outside.
"Try the mess hall," a man told him. "When the bunks fill up, there are usually spots under or on the tables. You'll have to get up early, but it means it will be impossible for you to miss the next meal."
Doug followed the man's instructions, shuffling to the back right corner of the warehouse. From there, he took a catwalk, crossed over a street, and entered the building on the other side.
To his relief, the smell was much better. There was still a stink, but also trace smells of onions and broth. At least here he would be able to sleep.
Picking a spot as far away as possible from other people, Doug rolled out his blanket so it was halfway under a table. He picked up the olive loaf and breathed it in. Rosemary and a sweet oil coated the loaf, keeping the entire thing soft.
"What's that?" a child asked.
Doug looked up to see the face of a boy peering over the edge of the table. The face was thin, but more notable were the scars. A blotchy patch of wrinkles ran down his neck. "I'm about to eat the bread they gave me."
The child stared at him with wide eyes. Doug knew what the boy wanted. The boy wanted the bread, but Doug didn't care. It was his bread.
"Welcome bread is good stuff." The boy smiled, but it was lopsided thanks to his scarred cheek, which didn't move. "All we get is the stale stuff. It's so tough that when you soak it in stew it never softens."
Doug's stomach grumbled. It wanted the food. Yet his heart ached 'cause it wanted to share. Maybe he could give the boy a quarter? That would still leave plenty for him. "Would you like some?"
"You eat. I'll watch and smell." The boy rolled off the table, landing on his butt. "I like the smell, but I think I'm getting sick, so I may not be able to smell it."
"You sure? I don't mind sharing."
"I would of course, what idiot turns down bread?" The boy looked over his shoulder and then leaned in and whispered. "It's my baby sisters and mama. I wouldn't feel right sneaking food and not giving them any. I'm the man of the family now. It's my job to provide for them."
The gurgling hunger in Doug's stomach screamed. It knew what he was thinking, and it rebelled against the idea. "Take the whole loaf."
"You mean it, mister?" The boy's mouth hung open.
"Yes."
"Thank you." The boy snatched the loaf and ran across the mess hall. Doug lost sight of him, so he resorted to listening instead. He was able to pick out the boy's voice easily.
"Worked like a charm," the boy said. "Always does."
"Did you mention dragon fire this time?" a man asked.
"Naw, I did what you said. I let him make his own assumptions."
"Good," the man said. "The more attention you draw to it, the greater the chance someone will realize it's not a burn from fire."
Doug had been played. Again. First by the Sisters and now by a boy who had tricked him out of his food. He was tired, hungry, and done with letting people take advantage of him.
Standing on his table for a better view, Doug found the ragged boy. The kid sat against the far wall with a bearded man eating the olive loaf. Doug's olive loaf.
In three leaps, he crossed the mess hall and landed in front of the boy and man. Both continued eating the bread. "That's mine," he told them.
The man's eyes were clouded over, and instead of looking at Doug, he pointed his ears toward him. "The guy found us, didn't he?"
"Yep," the boy said.
"Of course, it's yours." The man fumbled for the boy's hands and took the bread. Then the blind man held the two remaining chunks out to Doug. "We want no trouble. Take it."
Doug did so and protectively held them against his chest. The moment he did, the boy fell to the floor screaming. He shouted, cried, and yelled, flailing his arms about.
"What's wrong with him?" Doug asked.
"What do you expect?" the man yelled. Every head in the mess hall looked up and over to see what the commotion was. "You steal food from a child and then want to know why he cries!"
"You stole the bread from me!"
"I'm blind, and he's but a child. How could we steal anything from a monster like you?"
The doors to the mess hall swung open, and three soldiers wearing platemail entered. They held drawn crossbows.
"You better run." The blind man smiled at Doug. "The City Watch has a strict policy regarding theft."
Doug didn't think of himself as violent, and yet he wanted to pick up the blind man and throw him across the room. This whole situation was wrong. Flat out wrong. It was his bread. They had conned it from him, and now they were going to get him in trouble with whatever the City Watch was.
"What's the problem?" the soldier in the lead said.
"We were minding our own business when this brute stole from us." The blind man turned his head in the opposite direction as if speaking to someone who wasn't there. The move was so choreographed and over the top that Doug didn't know how the soldier didn't pick up on its fakeness.
"Sir, is this true?" the soldier asked Doug.
"No. It's my bread. I arrived today from Holton, and they stole it from me."
"Give me the bread." The soldier lowered his crossbow and held out his palm. "Now."
Doug handed it over. The soldier dropped it onto the ground and stomped on it. "I don't know whose bread it was, but now it's no ones."
The boy with scars stopped crying. He wiped away the fake tears and crawled to the flattened bread. He peeled the shrapnel off the stone floor, making sure not to miss a crumb.
The tips of the crossbows drooped. The soldiers seemed as surprised by the boy's actions as Doug was. The boy, with a satisfied grin, leaned against the wall, chewing the bread extra loud, as if on purpose.
"That settles that." The soldier pointed his bow back at Doug. "Unless you still have a problem?"
Doug clenched his jaw, showing the soldiers his teeth. He could bash their heads in before they knew what happened. He could throw them off the catwalk and onto the streets below. He could–
A rumble surged from Doug's stomach.
He was hungry and wanted nothing to do with humans. Blowing past the soldiers, he stepped onto the catwalk and leapt to the street below. A gust of wind nipped at him, and he thought Frankie had been right. The city was cold at night.
20
Feast
Ulesday, 27th of Hearfest, 1162.111
Jintzy was not around. He was attending a play in the Painter's Brush and would not return till dinner time. It gave Alex and Carter a much-needed break because once word spread that the queen-in-waiting was present, the embassy's staff scurried about drawing baths, cooking food, and trying to cram a week's worth of preparation into a few hours.
Luckily, Arwyn had little in the way of internal politics. There was still some tension with the eastern barons, but for the most part, Alex could be herself without having to put on a show. Had she been attending a dinner with representatives of Gara or Kelsam, it would have been all drama and the meaning of unspoken things.
The warm salt bath was relaxing, but what Alex treasured was getting back into some of her own clothing. Since she and Gideon lost their travel gear back on the caravan, she had been stuck wearing the same clothes. She didn't have Doug's super smelling skills, but even she knew they stunk.
She picked a loose ivory undershirt with a chartreuse leather tunic and black leather pants. She of course wore her dirk at her side and had her personal pouch attached to her belt. The outfit gave her an air of seriousness, not that Jintzy wouldn't believe her, but she felt it was important for the rest of the staff to see she was here on business.
A woman from the kitchen told Alex the food was ready. She headed to the royal family's dining room, which was two floors above her personal quarters. She used it only when dinning with her father or Gideon.
Glass covered an entire wall of the dining room, providing a splendid view. As night loomed, the city glimmered with twinkling agyl lamps. The mornings were always her time with her father, and they had spent more mornings than she could count eating in front of the window.
Carter sat at the dining table. His ratty, torn clothes were gone, and instead, he wore a puffy teal shirt and black velvet vest. The vest was covered in an alabaster floral pattern and was a bit too big for him.
"What are you wearing?" Alex asked.
"What they gave me." Carter fiddled with the vest's silver buttons. "Does it look bad?"
"It works," Alex said. "If you were trying to look like an actor pretending to be a pirate."
"Hey! I like the vest." He straightened it. "I feel fancy."
She took a seat across from him. "Did they tell you yet what the kitchen staff whipped up?"
"I've got no clue. I assume some frilly fancy slop like sautéed goose liver."
"No way. Dad hates that crap. Maybe it's smoked mutton or roasted crenzel. Either way, I hope there are potatoes with lots of butter."
A thin man dressed in Arwynian blue entered carrying two plates. He placed one in front of each of them. The food wasn't attractive. It was a pile of meat with a cream sauce and a biscuit on the side.
"What is it?" Carter leaned down and sniffed his plate.
"Boar. Pulled and separated and then covered with gravy." Alex picked up the biscuit, dipped it in the gravy, and then took a huge bite. "The biscuit is sweet potato and so good."
Carter mimicked her and nodded his approval.
They ate mostly in silence, both enjoying the hot meal, the best either had eaten in weeks. When they were done, the blue garbed kitchen worker took their plates and brought out strawberry tarts stuffed with custard. They were so delicious Alex asked for a second helping.
"I'm not complaining," Carter said. "It's nice to not be walking, but how long are we going to be here?"
"Depends," she said. "A ship is going to be the fastest way to Kale. I don't know what is docked here. We might have to wait a day or two for something seafaring to arrive. Jintzy will know when we talk to him."
"I've never been on a ship."
"It's smoother than riding a caravan and way faster. What has me worried is the journey back from Kale. We will probably have to dock in Brand and make the rest of the trip on foot. I don't know if we have that kind of time."
"I still can't believe this is all happening."
"It's like the kind of stories my dad tells about when he was our age. Going on big adventures to do some great thing, but he never mentioned the weight or the queasiness that forms in your stomach."
