by J. C. Staudt
The dam who entered the room from somewhere deeper within was a squat letwozhe with one chipped longtooth that was considerably shorter than the other. She was wrapped in a goat-hide hood and smock that had been patched many times and was stained with several layers of colorful spatterings. The air she brought with her bore the suggestion of something chemical. It was mixed with her haick like a permanent mark, the same way the fisherfolk of Bolck-Azock were braided with the inescapable scent of low tide. Long tufts of brown fur sprouted from around the edges of the dam’s hood, though parts of her snout were nothing more than bare skin, pink and blistered from chemical burns.
“Lizneth, this is Jakrizah, the Poisoner,” Artolo said by way of introduction.
“Ooh, will you stop saying that,” the old dam squeaked, slapping him on the arm. “That happened one time. And not entirely of my doing either, I’ll have you remember.”
Lizneth was amused.
Artolo noticed her amusement and shot her a look of faked embarrassment. “Don’t be so modest, Mama Jak,” he said. “The kedozhe had it coming.”
“He was a nice fellow,” said Jakrizah, her face drawing into a frown. The frown became a rictus as she noticed Lizneth for the first time. “Now who’s this?”
“This is Lizneth,” Artolo said. “She’s new in town, and I’m showing her around. Introducing her to all the important folk.”
“I’m sure that’s what you’re doing,” Jakrizah muttered, stepping around him to extend Lizneth a dainty hand. “Pleased to have met you, Lizneth. Don’t you go taking up with this knucklehead. He looks like trouble, doesn’t he? Well, he’s less trouble than you’d expect… which is a lot more than he’s worth.”
“That can’t be true,” Lizneth said, smiling at Artolo. “He’s been a perfect kegemikua all evening.”
“Don’t be fooled. He’s a swindler,” the old dam told her with a pragmatic glance.
“Mama Jak, I’m trying to impress this ledozhe. You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“Cheeky. Since when do you reckon it’s up to me to get you dyagtheh?” Jakrizah said, her mouth wrinkling in an audacious smile.
Artolo snorted, his words tumbling into laugher. “Oh, Mama Jak, you’re terrible. Lizneth, I apologize for her behavior. You don’t have to listen to this.”
“It’s alright,” Lizneth said, even as she felt herself blushing.
“Why are you really here?” Jakrizah asked, waving exasperated hands. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“What is it? Let me see it,” Artolo said, suddenly excited. “What aezoghil are you getting into back there? It smells like dumkrahz phylectayeh.”
Jakrizah guffawed, and they laughed with her. “Okay,” she said when they’d gotten hold of themselves. “But you…” She wagged a finger at Lizneth. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll get on dreadfully if you do, that’s Mama Jak’s promise.” She motioned for them to follow, then waddled down the long hallway ahead of them.
The condition of the old dam’s workshop made Lizneth second-guess the neatness of the room they’d just come from. Not an inch of the workshop was unused or uncovered. It seemed to move with a vague but discernible tempo; one that Lizneth at least sensed if not understood. Liquid and vapor caromed through mazes of glass, expelled from bubbling tubes and underlit flasks, swirling in deep earthen hues that shifted and changed along the way. There was at least a hint of Jakrizah’s tidiness in the shelves that were stacked with neat rows of ingredients in corked bottles.
Jakrizah plucked a glass beaker from the tangled milieu and held it to Artolo’s face. “Drink,” she said, expectancy flashing in her eyes.
Artolo cringed and pushed her arm away. “Don’t test your poisons on me.”
“Drink. Drink!”
Artolo cleared his throat, looked back and forth between them, and snatched the beaker from Jakrizah’s hand. He held it up and took a deep breath. “Beh dyagth,” he said to himself, before inverting the beaker and downing its contents in one gulp. When he set it onto the table, an oily brown residue oozed down the glass. Artolo sucked air through his longteeth, then puffed out his cheeks and bent over, hands on his knees. A sound rather like a footstep in mud came from somewhere inside him. “That was the foulest thing I’ve had to drink since the last time I was here,” he said, righting himself.
Jakrizah gave him a contemplative frown, nodding as if to agree with him, then returned the beaker to its place. The thick substance began to drip from its slow spigot and pool at the bottom. “You were here yesterday,” she said.
Artolo shuddered. “Yeah, that didn’t compare.”
Lizneth watched the contraptions course through their routines, mesmerized. She put a finger to one of the beakers to see if the white solution inside was as cold as it looked. Jakrizah chittered; a rapid, wordless clucking. “No touching!”
“Sorry,” Lizneth said. She almost took a step back, but that would’ve put her in danger of knocking over another one of the apparatuses.
“How do you feel?” Jakrizah asked Artolo. Her stare was observant.
“Like someone just punched me in the stomach with a goat.”
Jakrizah gave a wide-eyed smile of mad delight. “It’s working,” she breathed.
“It’s doing something,” Artolo said. He placed a hand over his stomach, his face tightening into a pained grimace. “I wouldn’t say it’s… working, but while we’re waiting… Lizneth has… this dagger. Will—will you… look at it?”
Lizneth unfastened the buckle and handed the belt to Jakrizah. The letwozhe accepted it, her attention still rapt on Artolo and his apparent suffering. She drew the blade enough to get a close look at the green sludge, scented it, and examined the sturdy scabbard. Her eyes kept going back to Artolo. Before long she was watching him in open-mouthed anticipation, the belt hanging limply at her side, all but forgotten.
Artolo was breathing heavily, his eyes moist and pink-rimmed. When he rubbed them, his hands came away wet, and the black fur on his face was matted in deep crimson. Blinking, he looked at his hands, then back and forth between the two ledozhehn. His eyes were welling up, and his nose was running. He sniffled and wiped his face with the back of his arm, then leaned forward again. “Ehi lahmivh,” he moaned. “Ehi lahmivh.” He covered his face. Crimson droplets began to run through his fingers. Before long they grew into a steady stream that puddled on the floor, and in moments a torrent burst forth like water poured from a pitcher. “Ehi lahmivh!” he screamed.
He wasn’t dying, though. Lizneth came forward and put a worried hand on Artolo’s back, paying no mind to the puddle that was running over her feet and splashing her legs, its scarlet color stark against her white fur. “What did you do to him?” she asked.
Jakrizah was bouncing on the pads of her feet, hands clasped to her chest. “The red tears,” she said. “He’s crying the red tears.”
Lizneth had cried red before. Every ikzhe was familiar with the residue that crusted around their eyes whenever they were stressed or sick. She’d seen it happen to other ikzhehn in more severe circumstances, but she’d never heard of it happening like this. “What did you give him?” she asked.
“My wonderful Oculus Cordial,” Jakrizah said. “The excess tearing is normal. The irritation is a side-effect I haven’t eliminated yet. Now we’ll see whether I’ve worked out the other kinks. Either his sight will be rubbish, or he’ll see better than any ikzhe has before.” Turning her gaze onto Artolo, she said, “How do you feel now?”
The flow had all but stopped. Artolo was blinking away the last of the tears, his eyes darting around the room as if to stretch them like muscles before exercise. “I still feel like there’s a rock in my stomach,” he said. “My eyes hurt like they’re about to explode, and I can’t see for a dyagth.”
“Zholiqeh. You made him blind?” Lizneth said.
“No, my dear. He’s perfectly alright. The effects should wear off after a few days.”
“Lizneth,�
� Artolo said. “I’m glad to know you’re worried about me. But I trust Mama Jak with my life. The point of all this is to help us in the blind-world.”
“Eyeglasses work too, and they don’t make you cry red,” Lizneth said, holding up the goggles Zhigdain had given her.
“She’s as cheeky as you are,” Jakrizah told Artolo. “Maybe she does deserve to keep company with your like.”
Lizneth wanted to make a good impression, so she smiled as if she’d thought the remark was a compliment. She liked Artolo, but she still didn’t relish the thought of taking a mate, even if his haick did scent dangerous in all the right ways.
Artolo sniffed and spat, trying to shake off the last vestiges of the episode. “Eyeglasses will let you see in daylight, but not in the dark,” he said. “They’re uncomfortable. They restrict your vision. They fog up sometimes. There aren’t enough pairs of them to go around. There are lots of problems with eyeglasses.”
“What is it you want to do in the blind-world that eyeglasses aren’t good enough for?” Lizneth asked.
Artolo and Jakrizah exchanged a look.
“I’ll do just about any task someone’s willing to pay me for,” Artolo said. “‘Even a blind slave is better than a dead one.’ That’s a saying the calaihn have. They say our uses are limited because we can’t see in the daylight, so those who keep ikzhehn as slaves rarely bring us on overland trips or put us to work in the market. Those are places we can earn good wages for all sorts of things, but the heat and the bright light make that difficult.”
“Overland,” Lizneth said, hardly hearing him. “If your cordial works, I wouldn’t have to find passage on a ship. I could travel home across the blind-world.”
“You could try,” Artolo said. “Reaching Bolck-Azock overland from here would be a feat, even with Mama Jak’s potions.”
“A feat… but a possible one,” Lizneth said.
Artolo shrugged. “You’ll still need food and drink. Gathering enough of it in Gris-Mirahz will be no simple task.”
“Do you see how badly he already wants you to stay?” Jakrizah said, swatting Artolo on the arm again.
“I’m just warning her,” Artolo said, defensive. “I don’t want her to make any bad decisions.”
Jakrizah clucked her tongue. “So sensitive.” She gave Lizneth a knowing look, then mouthed, “He likes you.”
“Zholiqeh. Will you just tell her about the dagger?” said Artolo.
“Naturally,” Jakrizah said, her smile lingering. “A very valuable piece for the venom alone, but the scabbard, too, is rare. Note the thickness of it compared to the blade. There are spring levers inside and a reservoir surrounding the sheath. It’s designed to re-slick the blade whenever it enters.”
Artolo giggled.
Jakrizah rolled her eyes and continued. “Now, I’m not saying you aren’t a smart lecuzhe, Lizneth. But I wonder at how anyone could be daft enough to carry this around, given what this particular brand of venom can do. A few drops of this in the right place and you’ll be tails-up before you can spit. These crannies here are probably meant for—”
“There was an antidote there,” Lizneth cut in, “but it’s all used up. Can you make more of it?”
“Can I… My dear lecuzhe. Yes, naturally. My question to you is, how do you intend to pay for the cost of my work?”
“I told you, the dagger is the only thing I own. These eyeglasses aren’t even mine.”
“Then we shall do things in the old way. A favor for a favor.”
Lizneth could only imagine what kind of favor a dam like Jakrizah would want done for her. The thought made her nervous. “Okay,” she said hesitantly.
“Right then, there’s no getting around it: I need a fresh eh-calai. Unspoiled.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lizneth said. In truth, she thought she did know what Jakrizah meant; she just didn’t want to believe what she was hearing.
“My aezoghil requires the body of an eh-calai. Please don’t be alarmed; I don’t kill them when it can be helped.”
The idea of an eh-calai being killed didn’t concern Lizneth nearly as much as the thought of trying to capture one herself. She would do whatever it took to get home, but she was neither strong nor cunning enough to ensnare an eh-calai and bring it back alive. “I doubt I’d be able to do that,” she said. “I guess I don’t need the antidote that much. I’ll just sell the dagger.”
“If you do plan to eventually travel home overland, you’ll want a weapon you can easily defend yourself with. You’ll want the Oculus Cordial too, won’t you? And I can only presume that the tincture I’ve formulated to keep an ikzhe cool in the blind-world would be of interest to you as well. What would you say if I were to offer you such a tincture?”
“It would be too good to believe,” Lizneth said. “And I’d be in doubt as to why you’d want me to do such a thing for you when you know others who are more capable, and who would do the same for much less.”
“Your worries are understood,” Jakrizah said, handing the belt back to her. “There are two simple reasons why you’re perfect for the task: you don’t live in Gris-Mirahz, and your foremost desire is to leave here as soon as possible. The calai slavers will follow a fugitive to Gris-Mirahz from time to time, but they’re less likely to follow one who disappears into the blind-world and is never heard from again. Do this for me, and I’ll repay you with all the potions, food, and drink you can carry. I’ll fill that belt of yours with antivenom and see that you’re protected until you’re safely out of the vale.”
Lizneth ground her longteeth and paced, partly to consider Jakrizah’s proposal, and partly to escape the puddle of porphyrin she was standing in. She fastened the belt around her waist and let her fingertips dance over the dagger’s hilt as she thought. Before she agreed to anything, there were a few things she had to know. “A calai won’t do?” she asked. “It must be an eh-calai?”
“Either will serve. However, taking the wrong calai from Sai Calgoar is sure to bring the city’s wrath on Gris-Mirahz. Better not to risk it. An eh-calai would be safer. Most of the eh-calai you’ll find there are slaves, and their masters will only come so far to find them.”
“And what about the slavers who are already looking for me? I came to Gris-Mirahz with four others, and we weren’t the first escaped slaves from our galley to come here. Other masters may only go so far to find one missing slave, but ours lost an entire ship full of rowing slaves, and several of their own number were killed during the escape. I doubt Qeddiker and his taskmasters will stray from the trail of our haick until they find us. Gris-Mirahz is where that trail will lead.”
Artolo and Jakrizah exchanged another look. “We want to help you,” Jakrizah said. “We don’t have a lot, but we will see that you get started on your way home if you can only have a little patience.”
I’ve heard that before, Lizneth thought. She hadn’t forgotten Curznack’s deceptions, and she wouldn’t be so quick to trust a stranger again. Friendly as they might appear, Jakrizah and Artolo could be as mischievous and crooked as any in Curznack’s crew, for all she knew. She decided that whatever they were up to with this aezoghil, she wanted nothing to do with it. “Going back toward Sai Calgoar seems a fool thing for me to do when the haick will bring them here. I’d flee overland for home without any provisions before I’d ever go back toward the port. I won’t do it.”
“You don’t have to go back the way you came,” Artolo said. “There are other paths.”
“It doesn’t matter which route I take if the destination is the same,” Lizneth said.
“Name any city on the Aionach, blind-world or below, and there are a thousand ikzhehn who know a hundred ways to enter and leave without being seen,” Artolo said.
“Yes, and you forget that ikzhehn who live near the blind-world are more dependent on the calaihn than you low-dwellers,” Jakrizah added. “And not always because they have to be, mind you. Exploiting the hard work of others is easier than doing it yourself. I
t’s time you learned how satisfying it is, stealing from humans.”
“I have to go,” Lizneth said. She was growing irritated with both of them. “I’ll trade you this dagger for some clean water and a little of that cooling tincture. Whatever you can give to help me on my way home would be generous.”
“You don’t have to go,” Artolo said. “You’re working yourself into a frenzy. You’ve seen how well we watch our borders. As long as you’re here, I won’t let anyone take you away.”
How chivalrous of you. “If your borders are so well-guarded, how do you explain the slaves we came across on our way here?”
Artolo was stoic. He blinked again and rubbed his eyes while he spoke. “I explained to your friend big-ears that everyone earns their keep here in Gris-Mirahz, or they’re asked to leave. Those captives—the ones you let follow you home like hounds—are troublesome ones. They didn’t do their share, and they wouldn’t leave. From time to time, we need to have some of our residents forcibly removed. We provide the slavers in Sai Calgoar with a list of names and let them in. As long as they keep to the list, we look the other way, and in turn they don’t come back to bother us as often.”
“You betray your own zhehn to the slavers and allow them to be taken away.”
“We clean house. We offer tribute to appease those who would otherwise see us all driven out or enslaved. Even in a place like this, there are people whose behavior is too destructive.”
“Those slaves were only cripples and quinzhehn,” Lizneth said, remembering.
“Most of them suffer from some malady of body or mind, yes. A cripple can’t carry his weight, and a quinzhe says and does things he doesn’t understand and can’t control. Both are hindrances to our way of life.”
“What real harm could they have done? This is supposed to be a haven for those in need.”
“Krahzeh what it’s supposed to be,” Artolo said. “Gris-Mirahz does what it can. I didn’t bring you here so you could chastise me. Mama Jak and I try to help everyone, but some people can’t be helped, and those people have to be sent away. You’re lucky you aren’t like most of them; you actually have a place to go. You have a home. If we can get you there instead of sending you back into a slaver’s shackles, we’ll find a way to do that. But you have to be patient, and we’re asking you to help us first. That’s how we do things here. It’s how we survive. You either work with us… or you leave.”
