“And you’re saying folks don’t mind?” asked Trypp, incredulously. “A foreign army just walking around their home. As the big man said, that’s not right.”
“Not so much. As long as they’re fat and their purses are jingling, most Iothans will ignore what’s right in front of their face. There are all manner of rumors flying around. The Emperor himself is going to come visit. The church is going to spread to Pyrfew. This is just the beginning to put Ioth back in charge on the Sapphire Sea,” Tasa clucked, shaking her head. “I wonder how much of these are true. But not everyone is happy; there are grumblings in some quarters that Ioth should follow Kingshold’s lead.”
Motega tapped his fingers against the ancient wood that propped him up, trying to act nonchalant. He was hoping that Tasa hadn’t heard they were involved in all of that. “Do you think that’s likely?”
“What? Have an election here? No fucking way. The Assembly has run this place since before Arloth was a golden flower bed. There’s no way they’ll let that happen. Some of the rabble rousers have been rounded up already. Anyway, are you here to shop or to gab? Because I’m about out of gabbing.”
“We need some stuff,” said Trypp, taking the not-so-subtle hint. “Come on lads, let’s get what we need.”
“I want to talk to Tasa about something else. I’ll help in a minute,” said Motega to his friends. Turning his attention back to the fiery storekeeper he grabbed his unstrung bow from where it was fastened on his back and laid it on the countertop. It was painted black, covering the off-white color of what had appeared to be bone, and it was engraved from tip to tip with swirls and whorls and curlicues. The gift from Jyuth was beautiful and his sister had given him some information about it, but he wasn’t really sure whether to believe it or not.
“Where did you get that?” asked Tasa, immediately in awe. “Can I touch it?”
Motega’s mind drifted off to what else she could… No. Time to be serious. Not trusting his mouth, he simply nodded and she picked it up reverentially. She turned it between her nimble fingers, sighting down its length, inspecting the decorations with her glasses on. She put it back down between them, pushing the spectacles to the top of her head.
“So, where did you get it?” she repeated.
“It was a gift. What do you think it is?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you taking the piss? You must have some idea of what you have here? It comes from the Valley of Estaya, but I’ve only ever seen fakes. Not that many creatures have a bone to make a bow that size.” Motega stared expectantly at her.
“It’s dragon bone.”
He blew out his cheeks slowly. So what Neenahwi had told him was true. Where had Jyuth found it? The few dragons there were had died out centuries ago. Motega thought back to all the lucky shots he’d been making. “Is it enchanted?”
“I’m not a wizard or a priest, so I’m not certain, but I have a little bit of the magic sight so I can see that it’s got something in it. But I don’t know if it’s just residual.” Motega nodded.
“What’s it worth?” he asked, though he was scared of the answer. He generally didn’t have anything of value, that way you could never be too disappointed if you had to leave it behind.
“Hah! More than my whole fucking store,” she whispered. “You’d better not sell it. Or lose it.”
Motega smiled and secured the bow once more on his back. Now he was going to be even more afraid to leave it alone in the inn.
Trypp and Florian came back to the counter and dumped a bunch of flasks (hopefully there was some more goblin fire in there), silken rope, long metal pins, and various other supplies they had recently depleted. Motega thanked Tasa for her opinion and Trypp settled up for what they owed her.
Laden with gear they headed back to Atarah’s Hearth to stow it away. It made sense not to have to cart around things that they hopefully wouldn’t need.
“I’m hungry again,” said Florian. “Let’s have lunch.”
“And a beer,” said Motega. Trypp looked at him with an eye-full of ‘we’re supposed to be working’. “You know, just while we talk about what we heard. Don’t worry, it’s just the one.”
One beer had turned into a few, and before they knew it, night had settled in. There’d been some conversing with some of the locals, and they’d heard the odd snippet that folks dropped into the conversation about the Pyrfew presence. Overall, it continued to be a generally positive sentiment. Everyone was feeling a little richer, a little more optimistic for the future.
They’d had to beat a hasty retreat to bed though when Florian had pointed out to a few of the locals that the people of Redpool had felt similarly ten years ago when Pyrfew had waltzed in and taken over. At least until they had conscripted them to fight against the Edland army anyway. Motega had seen that faraway look in Florian’s eyes as he’d remembered what had happened, but the other patrons didn’t want to hear it. They’d retorted and blamed Edland for provoking Pyrfew; steam almost bursting out of Florian’s ears at the comment. That’s when Trypp had made the call that it was time to drag the man away before any fisticuffs. No need to draw attention to themselves.
Over the next couple of days, they made their way around town, talking to the people they knew, and hearing basically the same things time after time—at least while they were in the oldest, and richest, parts of the city. Pyrfew was good for business, and that was the foundation that Ioth had really been built on, not a bunch of islands. Motega realized that the mindset of these people was actually not that different from that of the pirates that Pyrfew was ostensibly providing protection from. Profit first.
As they visited the newer parts of the city on the outer islands, the general feeling changed as less of the Pyrfew coin trickled down. People from Spilver (originally called Spillover) were more interested in what had been happening in Edland, after hearing tales that had come back with the crews that had visited Kingshold. The sentiment was vague—if common people could vote on who ruled them there, then why couldn’t Iothans—and lacking in any real substance or ambition as far as Motega could see. But even then, they were still not especially perturbed by the fleet and the small army that was nearby; for those people, Pyrfew was inconsequential. They had briefly considered going to the Ladders, but they’d all decided that no good would come of heading into that towering monstrosity. There were some things that were best avoided unless you were being paid to do it.
There was a purely business trip to their favorite brothel, Fondiequals Fancies, to speak with their favorite whores, and this time it was Florian who kept them all on the straight and narrow and focused on the task. Sukori was Motega’s favorite, and though she remembered him, she was not too happy that they weren’t there for her kind of business. Apparently, the only people who weren’t benefiting from the Pyrfew presence were the city’s prostitutes; even though there had been a few thousand troops come through, not one had paid a visit. She told him that they were all married and wanted to stay true to the person at home, or in some cases they even had their partners with them in the service too. Motega found it strange to think of the Pyrfew troops as a collection of normal people with spouses and families of their own (and even stranger to think that not one would sneak off to Sukori). It had been a long time since he had been held hostage in Fymrius, and while his captors hadn’t been that cruel, since then he had been exposed to so few people from Pyrfew that he’d come to accept the typical Edland thinking that they were all the enemy. Faceless and looming. Although, frankly, given what the empire had done to his family and clan, he wasn’t going to change his opinion anytime soon.
On the third day of their general reconnaissance they heard back from Mames Manni, a priest at the Sanctum that they had done a job for a few years back. That had been a strange one. A woman and her child needed to be relocated from Ioth to Carlburg, and it wasn’t quite the typical familial goodbye that he had given her when she’d left. Motega and his friends had made it a habit to pop in and see how t
he pair of them were doing whenever they were in Carlburg, and though it had been almost nine moons since they were last there, Trypp was still carrying around a note for the priest.
They met at dusk in a quiet alley across the bridge from the Isle of the Sanctum. The same place they met every time. Trypp handed him the note and they watched as he read it, a tear trickling down his cheek.
“Do they look well?” asked Mames, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Aye,” said Florian warmly. “The girl is growing up fast. Looks like her mother.”
“Thank you,” said Mames. “I do appreciate this. Until next time.”
The priest moved to leave, but Trypp gently held on to his arm to keep him in the shadows. “Mames, what’s going on with the green and gold? Do you know anything?”
“Apparently they’ve seen the light,” he said. “Or in the process of, anyway. I’ve seen a few of them in the Sanctum recently, not just the armored ones either. Emissaries, one with a bird like you.” He nodded at Motega.
“Do you believe that? About them seeing the light” asked Motega, passing over the comment about the bird—falconry was something many nobles thought was a fun past-time, it didn’t mean they had a bird like Per. He certainly couldn’t believe they were interested in believing in Arloth. He was one of the few people in the Jeweled Continent to have met Llewdon, and to see just how devoted his people were in their worship of him. Neenahwi had told him all about her Quana vision too, and a man that was driven by jealousy to murder his own people in the attempt to become a god didn’t seem likely to want competition for hearts and minds in the empire.
“I don’t know. The Saint likes them apparently. They’ve made good donations to the church.” Memes shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t believe that someone can lie before Arloth for their own gain, so maybe… Look, thank you, all of you, for bringing me word of my Fresca. It means a lot to me. I know you don’t have to do it. But I do have to go. I will pray for you.”
Trypp released his arm to let him leave and Florian answered. “Thank you, Mames. We might need it.”
The tavern they had chosen was heaving. Packed to the gills with drunken revelers celebrating the Blessing of the Sea ceremony and the start of Wintertide. Motega and his friends had been out on the promenade earlier that day, watching the flotilla bob out into the mouth of the lagoon that connected Ioth with the Sapphire Sea. The crowds had been happy, enjoying the sunshine of the day and the prospect of plenty of feast days over the next week, and the good mood had generally been contagious. They’d picked up knots of fried dough dusted in sugar from one of the vendors that lined the street, and watched with interest as the colorful boats flooded out from the grand canal and around the foreign quarter and the armory.
He’d been in a good mood until he saw the green leaf-shaped boats of Pyrfew. The sight of the soldiers in the green and gold armor were always enough to piss on his fire but there was something much worse today. His eyesight was poor, and so he had melded his mind with Per, flying out across the water to see what was going on. Without too much of a second thought, he had soared over to where the Pyrfew flotilla had joined the procession, aware of the cheers the arseholes were getting from the crowd. Each boat was filled with about a score of soldiers, along with a couple of individuals who were dressed in civilian clothing. Almost all were human, but a handful of soldiers were bigger, taller, with long black hair braided in a twist that hung down their backs. It was a fleeting sight, but they looked like his own people—the Alfjarun. Surely that was not possible? He must have been mistaken?
Before he knew it, the voice of the Saint had rung out across the crowd and the sea had gone still; flat and smooth as a piece of glass. From Per’s eyes, he’d seen scores of seagulls drop into the sea to catch fish, like plucking them out of a barrel at the market. Then he’d been back in his own body, staring up at the people around him as feet pressed in on him from all around. Florian had grabbed his hand and helped him back up, sheepishly apologizing for letting go of him when he’d thrown his hands in the air to cheer along with the rest of the city at the culmination of the ceremony.
His mood had been soured by the ceremony, and as they moved with the throng back toward the Fan, he became lost in his own thoughts. Were they really Alfjarun? Perhaps the same people who had sold him and Neenahwi so long ago? He was sure he was going to hear about this the next time his ghost family paid a visit in his dreams. As he walked and thought, he was vaguely aware of a man hopping around on top of a cart ahead, babbling about Arloth. He always had the same opinion about religious festivals; they would be much better if they could keep the food and drink, and just drop the god stuff. Motega ignored the man, until they were almost alongside him and the crazy switched his attention to them.
“Fire! Fire!” he had cackled, pointing his grimy long-nailed finger in their direction.
“Keep going,” said Trypp, doing his best to ignore the attention, but Motega found himself staring into his face, studying the raggedy beard and weeping sores and wondering what had happened to break the poor man’s mind.
Then the man jumped from the cart to land in front of Florian, his pointed finger weaving in Florian’s face like a snake from a basket. “Fire! Fire!” he cried again.
“Fuck off,” said Florian pushing him away and marching on to their destination.
Motega knew that crazies were plentiful in any city, but Ioth seemed to attract more than its fair share. He knew he should ignore it, normally would have moved on without a second thought. But he was reminded of his dream from a few nights before and it unsettled him. So Motega made for a fairly miserable drinking companion by the time they were seated in the Lion of the Sea.
They had eaten bowls of roasted fowl with root vegetables, drank ale, swayed along to the minstrel strumming out tales of heroes of old, and they’d even played dice with some locals. But winning a few silvers had not improved his mood. The place was packed and the table service was slow. Motega’s cup was empty, as it had a frustrating habit of being that night, and he was tired of waiting for a serving girl.
“Same again, lads?” he asked, as he stood up from the table. They weren’t finished with their drinks but they nodded all the same; by the time he got back they would likely be done. Motega pushed his way through the crowd until he made it to the bar, squeezing between a couple standing there to order another round. He stared straight ahead while his drinks were prepared, until there was a gentle tap on his hand.
“I like your hair,” said a voice to his right. He turned and looked into the face of a woman. She stared at him appraisingly as her hand held his in place. He rubbed at his short black hair self-consciously.
“Er, thanks,” he said. She was pretty; pasty white complexion—he’d have guessed that she was from Skaria—with full pink lips and blue eyes. His eyes were drawn down to her presented cleavage and the promise of the breasts contained in what was probably her best dress. He met her gaze again and said, “I like your… hair, too.”
She laughed and smiled and Motega’s mood went up a notch. Maybe he just needed a visit with Sukori and he’d feel better. It had definitely been a long time. But then again, maybe he wouldn’t need to.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun Motega around, spilling the ale that was in his hand. “Oi! What do you think you’re doing? She’s with me.” A man shoved his face into Motega’s, curling his lip in a snarl, his yellow mustache quivering in tell-tale rage. He was a big bastard, probably Skarian too, and his breath smelled rotten, stinging Motega’s eyes. That woman had to kiss this foul-mouthed rabid dog? He was trying to think of something witty to say. He knew that Trypp would have had a line by now, but the malodorous haze coming from the man’s mouth was putting him off.
So he pushed him away with both hands.
The big Skarian tumbled backwards, falling into other punters who stopped him hitting the sawdust covered floor. They pushed Shit-mouth back to his feet and he came at Motega, arm sw
inging in a big roundhouse.
Like a magic spell, Motega’s spirits lifted. This is what he needed! Motega dipped under the wild swing and fired a couple of rabbit punches into Shit-mouth’s gut, turning away to get out of his spot by the bar. Shit-mouth jabbed and Motega dodged, but he didn’t see the left hook until too late, not quite moving in time and taking a knock to the top of his head. That hurt. Shit-mouth took another step forward to capitalize on his opening but Motega stamped down on his foot, and then drove his forehead into the man’s face. Motega felt Shit-mouth’s nose pop, the splash of blood on his own face and a sharp pain. Shit-mouth had bent over, his hands over his face, and Motega touched at his forehead, dislodging a tooth that had become embedded there. Motega shivered at the thought of a tooth from that foul orifice having stuck in his skin. He’d have to teach Shit-mouth a proper lesson now.
Suddenly, the door to the inn was flung open with a crash, dragging Motega’s attention away from the fight, fearing the guard had suddenly appeared. A skinny man, one hand on the door frame to steady himself, called out. “Tad! Time to get everyone home!”
“Fuck off, Rai. Plenty more time for drinking,” said the barman.
“No, listen to me. The guard are coming to shut everything down. You didn’t hear what happened at the ball?”
Chapter 32
The Ball
Alana knew that Mareth, if he could see her now, would enjoy what she was going through. Once he had accepted the nomination to stand for Lord Protector, Lady Grey had forced him to get cleaned up and look the part. She laughed when Petra told her how worried he was about having his hair cut short and how much his appearance was going to change.
Ioth, City of Lights Page 33
