by Sam Sykes
“That went easier than expected,” he muttered. “So, Denaos, you’ll search the stalls with Asper and—”
“No.”
She said it with such ferocity that Lenk started. When he turned and looked at Kataria, her eyes were alight beneath the brim of her hat.
“Asper always goes off with Denaos,” the shict growled. “And I’m always with you.” She seized Asper by the upper arm, pulling the priestess to her side with the same intensity she showed when someone touched her meat. “This time, this one is mine.”
Lenk merely blinked. He didn’t dare do more. He had once touched her meat and he knew how that ended.
“Uh, all right,” he said. “Why?”
“What if I want to spend time with her?” Kataria asked. “What if I want…” She made a brief expression like she was choking. “Woman… talk. Or something.”
“Woman talk?” Asper asked, looking slightly worried. “Like… what?”
Kataria furrowed her brow. “Hair.”
“Hair?”
“Yes. I have concerns about hair. Hairs. Scalps. Manes. That sort of thing.”
Lenk looked horrified. “So, should I—”
“You should search that side.” She made a vague gesture to the northern half of the Souk. “We’ll search the other.”
Asper looked at him pleadingly for a moment as she was hauled off into the crowd of people. Lenk could offer only an apologetic shrug; to do anything more meant one of them would lose an appendage. They vanished into the crowd.
“It would probably be wiser not to follow her,” he muttered to himself. That Denaos overheard was just his poor luck.
“Seems a little late to start considering wisdom a factor in this plan,” the rogue replied.
“Your harping on my plans is beginning to grow tiresome,” Lenk snapped, whirling upon him. “They’ve had sound foundations, and aside from a few setbacks, things have gone better than I expected.”
“Wisdom and intellect aren’t the same thing,” Denaos replied. “Intellect bade you set your expectations low. And if you had more wisdom, you’d have set them even lower.”
Lenk felt a brief sensation at the back of his scalp, like a little hand grabbing a fistful of the root of his hair and giving a sharp tug. He found himself searching the crowd for a flash of blond hair, a green-eyed scowl.
“Kataria didn’t seem to be thinking clearly,” he muttered. “Should we go after her or…”
“When a wolf decides to chew on someone else instead of you, you don’t put your hand in its mouth,” Denaos said.
“She’s not a wolf,” Lenk snapped. He rubbed his eyes. “She knows I’m planning on leaving.”
“How would she? Did you tell her?”
“No, and she’s probably not too pleased about that, either.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to hide things from her. She looks at me and…” He tried—and failed—to illustrate with his hands. “She just knows. But it’s not like her to be coy with what enrages her. She always lets me know.”
“I see I’ll be getting no end of opportunity to lecture today,” Denaos said, walking past him and toward the crowd. “See, to appreciate a woman you have to appreciate a woman’s right to change. And to appreciate a woman’s right to change, you have to realize that she’ll do it with maddening frequency, usually just to confuse you so that you’ll never see her coming when she decides to rip your throat out and drink your blood.”
“So, you think women are half-wolf, half-demon she-beasts,” Lenk said, hurrying to catch up, “out to eat men alive.”
“This is the source of most of our problems, yes.”
“I see,” Lenk hummed. “And you don’t think it’s distressing that between your alcoholism, numerous character flaws, and likely uncountable sexual diseases that you don’t feel you have enough problems already?”
“Ah, my friend,” Denaos sighed wistfully, draping an arm around Lenk’s shoulder, “this is why you’re not a romantic.”
FIVE
THE CAULDRON
It came out in a red-orange sludge, chunks of meat floating in it that were old enough that one would call them “dignified” just to be polite. The fever-reeking stuff sat before her, in a wooden bowl, on a lump of rice, looking quite smugly at her.
And the man behind the counter called it food.
“So, it’s…” Asper’s face screwed up in an attempt to comprehend. “Curry?”
“Yes.” The merchant sighed. “It is curry. My daughter makes it.” He gestured to the dark-haired girl stirring a pot behind him. “I sell it. It tastes delicious and sets your pasty northern behind ablaze. And it costs three zan a bowl.”
“Zan?”
“Zan. Pennies. Copper.”
“Oh.” She fished three small pieces from her pouch and set them on the counter. “In Muraska, we just call them copper pieces. Seems simpler.”
“Northerners give them simple names because you don’t have respect for them.” The man snatched away her coin. “Djaalics know better.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t bother arguing. Instead, she held the bowl a respectable distance from her nose and sniffed at it warily. “It seems a little rank, though. Maybe you could add something to improve the aroma? Like raisins or something?”
The girl stopped stirring and looked up, eyes aghast. The merchant shot Asper an expression reserved for war criminals and people who had extremely sentimental opinions of sheep.
“Perhaps it’s no longer my grandfather’s time when you would be hanged for that sort of thing,” the merchant said, holding up his hands. “But Ancaa help me if you bring such deviancy to my place of business again. Go. Go.”
He swept his hand out with such fury as to send her back a step. She felt herself collide with something, or someone, it appeared, as a pair of gloved hands set upon her shoulders to steady her.
She whirled about, befuddled at the man standing before her. In the north, someone like him—tall, pale, fair-haired—would be as common as someone like her. But among the dark skin and black hair of the people of Cier’Djaal, he would have been an odd enough sight even without his uniform.
Over creased trousers and a belted coat with brass buttons, a long blue overcoat hung from his shoulders, secured at the breast with a sigil of a six-pointed star of blue and red. If the insignia suggested it, the saber at his hip and the military-style tail of hair tucked beneath a three-cornered hat all but screamed “soldier.”
He gave her a curt nod, the stiff incline of a neck that had any hint of friendliness beaten out of it by some corporal long ago. Pushing her aside gently, he marched to the curry stall, the merchant offering him an eager smile.
“Ah, the Queen’s Finest come calling!” The merchant gestured to a blue and red banner hanging from his stall, the same six-pointed star displayed as on the soldier’s breast. “The usual today, my friend?”
“Make it a bucket, aye?” the soldier replied, voice thick with a northern accent. “Convoy got held up by shicts in the north. Rations are lagging.”
“Ah, yes. What better way to enjoy the cuisine I have spent my life perfecting than out of a bucket?” the merchant asked with a pained smile.
“Lively now, civilian,” the soldier said. “Karnie bastards are afoot and I won’t be caught out here alone.”
He stood rod-rigid, staring straight ahead even as Asper stared straight at him. When he looked at her, the glare beneath the brim of his hat suggested he had been aware of her eyes upon him for some time.
“What?” he asked.
“Oh!” She shook her head. “Uh, nothing. It’s just…” She scratched the back of her neck. “You’re not the first Sainite I’ve seen today.”
“Aye,” the man replied. “We’ve a garrison in Temple Row.”
“What for?”
“Everything you’d expect a garrison to be used for,” he said. “Cier’Djaal’s got gold for blood. A lot of both of ours went into it.”
“And that involves going out
for curry?”
“Ah, no,” the soldier replied. “That’s just my job as the chief S.C.Q. officer.”
She furrowed her brow. “What do your duties include?”
“Just what’s in the name,” he said flatly. “My sole obligation is to wander around waiting for someone to ask me a stupid civilian question.”
“Oh. Oh.” Asper’s face shifted seamlessly into a glare. “Well, did they also promote you to the head of the U.S.B., uh, W.M.S.P.Q.R.?” The soldier was no longer listening, nor even looking at her, and so she turned about, muttering under her breath. “Uptight, stupid bastard who molests…”
“Anything else today, Hand of the Queen?” The merchant grunted, hauling up a hefty bucket onto the counter. “If not, that will be forty zan.”
“Why don’t you Djaalics just call them ‘coppers’?” the soldier muttered as he slammed a scrap of paper onto the counter and seized the bucket. “Recompensation slip. Turn it in to the garrison at your convenience; Watch-Sergeant will get you your money.”
“I know what it is,” the merchant grumbled. “I have a dozen more you gave me and so far none—”
The soldier, demonstrating a finely honed ability to ignore anything not in a uniform, spun on his heel and toted his burden away. The merchant murmured very carefully softened curses at his back.
“For years, the fashas’ coin has bought enough mercenaries that we needed no army.” He shoved the recompensation slip somewhere dark. “Now, because of that coin, Cier’Djaal has two.”
“Two armies?” Asper asked. “Where’s the—”
The merchant’s eyes looked over her head. Faster than she could blink, he had torn down the Sainite banner from his shop and replaced it with a flowing banner depicting white horns on a black field. He raised his hand in salute and Asper turned.
In perfect rhythm, a small regiment of eight men came marching down the street, their harmoniously ordered step cutting a path through the crowds. Their breastplates and helms, the color of perfectly cut obsidian, reflected polished sunlight. Their spears rose proudly over their heads. And every muscle beneath dark, hairless flesh twitched in military unison.
Arms swinging as one, feet marching as one, sixteen eyes staring straight ahead as one, the regiment of soldiers marched down the street, through the crowd, and past the curry shack.
“Hail Karneria!” the merchant shouted after them. “Hail the Emperor and His Divine Mission! Welcome to Cier’Djaal! Buy a curry!” His enthusiasm faded as the soldiers did. “You cheap bastards.”
Asper’s eyes could not will themselves to blink. “The Karnerians? They’re here, too?”
“Oh, yes, the ‘Karnie fucks,’” the merchant said. “Here and ready to take our silks, same as the Sainites. The only thing stopping either of them from doing that is both of them.”
“But they’ve been warring for years! They can’t both be here.” She glanced to the banner. “And you can’t support both of them.”
“I support whichever army will not kill me, burn my stand to the ground, and rape my daughter,” the merchant replied. “And since neither of them will guarantee that, I hedge my bets.”
“But that’s horrible!”
“Yes, but not nearly as horrible as losing business because some northern woman won’t get out of the way and let paying customers through.” He made a shooing gesture. “Well? Scamper along.”
She tried formulating a response that wasn’t merely a bunch of angry-sounding noises. And had she more time, she surely would have. But as it stood, someone was waiting for her, and she turned and left.
Maybe it was her, she reasoned. Maybe civilization had always been this insane before she had followed Lenk to become an adventurer and she had just forgotten. Perhaps that would explain why she was busy buying curry instead of looking for Miron.
She should have been more concerned with his whereabouts, she knew. He was a priest of her order—a direct superior, even. He would doubtlessly insist that she stay here with him in the city to tend its many ills and heal its many wounded—just like she had always trained for. She couldn’t explain why that thought sat unwell with her.
Maybe civilization hadn’t changed. Maybe she had.
She found Kataria lingering near a derelict-looking stall brimming with curious knickknacks and dominated by a large portrait of a gentle-looking woman in repose. The shict looked up at her expectantly.
“Took you long enough,” Kataria grunted. She snatched the bowl from Asper’s hand and shot a disparaging look at its contents. “What’s this?”
“Curry.”
“What’s that?”
“Something produced by assholes that goes into assholes and later comes out of assholes.”
Kataria looked at the food curiously before leaning in and giving it a brief sniff. Her eyes widened in appreciation.
“Oh.”
She pulled off one glove with her teeth and began to scoop handfuls of curry and rice into her mouth. She didn’t look up until she noticed Asper staring at her. At the priestess’s aghast expression, she wiped her hand off on her breeches and offered the bowl to her companion.
Perhaps it was the way Kataria tried to look friendly by smiling through those oversized canines, or maybe it was the way the glistening sauce of the curry so richly resembled blood smeared across her lips. Either way, Asper waved the bowl away.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“It’s not that bad,” Kataria said, dipping back in. “And it’s kind of nice eating something you didn’t have to kill yourself.”
“The joys of civilization,” Asper sighed.
“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” the shict asked through a mouthful of sauce and rice. “We’re surrounded by your people. I thought you’d be happy.”
“These aren’t my people.”
“They’re human.”
“They’re Djaalics, Sainites, and Karnerians. Big difference between them and northerners.”
“Like what?”
“They’re rude, pushy, and try to force their way upon everyone else.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah, but I’m a priestess of Talanas. I do that as a matter of faith, not choice.” Asper sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been away from civilization so long I forgot it wasn’t the same thing as civility. It’s hard to have to deal with someone when you can’t physically assault them.”
Asper had never believed Kataria’s grin could be more unpleasant, but then she went and looked positively ecstatic.
“There was a time you detested violence,” Kataria said. “You thought it violated your oaths as a healer.”
“I figure if I help them after I punch them, I’m still doing the Healer’s work.” She returned the shict’s smile. “And what’s got you in such a good mood? We are, after all, surrounded by humans.”
Kataria’s smile faded. She licked her chops clean and snorted.
“We’re always surrounded by humans.”
“You looked ready to kill them all a moment ago,” Asper said.
“Just the one,” Kataria grunted, casting a glare toward Asper. “Not that I’d object to more if one of them kept asking questions.”
Asper’s sigh was bone deep. “Not that I couldn’t get sarcasm and threats from anyone else, but if I were with Denaos, at least I’d be used to his. You were the one that wanted me to come with you, so obviously you’ve got a problem you want to unload onto me, so if you want to act menacing and belligerent, do it to someone other than me.”
Kataria opened her mouth to retort. No words came out. She bared her teeth to snarl. No sound emerged. She clenched her fist to punch. And slowly, her fingers came loose with a long, slow sigh as her chin fell to her chest and her hair fell over her eyes.
“I couldn’t hear them.”
“Who?” Asper asked.
“The shicts. My people.”
“Where?” The priestess looked around. “I thought nonhumans weren’t allowed in
the Souk.”
Nonhumans not in disguise, anyway, she added mentally, eyeing the shict’s hat.
“At the harbor. They reached out to me. I could feel them, trying to speak to me with their…” She looked up, mouth quivering with the need to explain. But she found no words in the empty air. “I couldn’t understand it.” She looked to Asper. “And that was my language. Our language. And I can’t hear it anymore.” Her ears quivered under her hat. Her teeth came out. “Because of him.”
“Lenk?” Asper blinked. “How?”
“I don’t know!” Kataria said, throwing her hands up. “I don’t know how he did this to me, I don’t know why I let it happen, and I don’t know how to fix it!”
“Then what makes you think he caused it?”
“I don’t know that, either.” She ran a hand down her face, exasperation leaking between her fingers. “I’ve always heard that prolonged contact with humans causes these kinds of things.”
“Well, we’ve been adventuring together for close to two years now,” Asper said. “If it is caused by contact with humans, then aren’t Denaos and Dreadaeleon and I all to blame?”
Kataria turned a glare upon her. “Not that kind of contact.”
“Oh.” A bashful smile crept across Asper’s face involuntarily. “Oh.” She cleared her throat, seizing her composure and plastering it back onto her face. “So, did you… know this would happen before you… uh…”
“Obviously not.” Kataria sighed, leaning against the stall. “There are stories that are meant to make us feel better about shooting and killing humans,” the shict replied with a shrug. “I mean, it feels okay as it is, but without a gripping narrative—”
“I get it,” Asper interjected. “So, you’re not mad at Lenk?”
“Not for that.”
“For what, then?”
Kataria gestured around her, to the teeming masses, to the sea of stalls, to the rhythm of clinking coins and pleading voices and guttering sounds.
“For this,” she said, scorn dripping from every word, “all of this. This gold, this smell, this noise.” Her eyes narrowed to thin daggers. “These humans.”
“I see.” Asper coughed. “You do know Lenk is—”
