Faestivul of Coming Cold – Dee Two of Five, 768 A.E.
Sagira shouldered the door open, using a quick flick of the wrist to twist the handle and unlatch the catch. She stumbled into their room afterward, half dragging Makan with her. He limped along with his arm thrown around Sagira’s neck and he used his fish spear as a crutch. She eased him as gently as she could down onto the floor and fell beside him, panting.
She looked briefly over to where Bedros sat with his back against the corner of their dingy room, with his head hanging low and his mallet laying across his lap. He was asleep, likely because it was less painful than dealing with pain of being awake. With wakefulness came the soreness and fatigue that was only compounded by the numerous small wounds he’d taken. His fur was matted with blood, beer, and sweat. She sighed and rubbed her own sore shoulders, each in turn.
The effort of half-carrying a man several city blocks was exhausting even for a quite fit and reasonably strong woman like she was. Sagira had never been able to let things ride on personality or looks, so she’d made certain that her body would carry her where it needed to go. Still, little in her life before Rummas had ever been as exhausting as battling a drunken mob for nearly an Ouer before managing to slip away to hide in alleys until it was safe to drag her companion’s home.
Images from what seemed a lifetime ago already replayed in her mind. She remembered Bedros’ frustration at losing Anthea that erupted when someone foolish had thrown a bottle at him. From there it had just gotten uglier with each passing moment. What might have started as a few men scrapping with Bedros quickly became an all out battle. Once the Kerathi contingent had jumped into the fray, blood had started to pour quite freely, even if it was only drawn from fists, booted feet, and the occasional truncheon or bottle.
Then the Peacekeepers had showed up, and things had really started to come to a boil. Knives were drawn and a few people were probably killed in the midst of it all. Sagira herself had been forced to wound a few men who thought a woman might make something fun to whittle on, and while she’d taught them all lessons that they’d have scars to remember her by, she’d not dealt any lethal sort of wounds.
If she had shown restraint, the Peacekeepers certainly had less compunction about doling out brutality and generous quantities of force. Heads had been cracked open and limbs had been snapped as heavy staves and truncheons were slammed into anyone who got in their way. Most of the Peacekeepers had leather sacks filled with sand and gravel attached to the end of their truncheons to make their weapons that much more damaging; some even had them on a length of chain in an imitation of a flail.
The Peacekeepers had hit the crowd in a wedge of a full two score of armed men, cutting right into the center with ease. Then they’d flattened out into a phalanx and fought back-to-back. Their wall had broken the drunken charges thrown at them rather easily. Anyone who had been foolish enough to attack them was clearly not in their right mind or too intoxicated to know how they were toying with their own lives.
It had taken very little time to take the fight out of people who were just looking for a little fun by means of a little brawl. Getting your skull split open hadn’t fit with most of the partygoers’ definition of fun, so they’d taken flight from the square. But then there was the Kerathi. Their definition of fun and glory seemed to have been taunting and challenging the Peacekeepers, who were better armed and outnumbered them at least three to one.
Raucous intoxicated war cries had filled the night air, and the Kerathi with a few random allies of mixed races who either had a death wishes or had some reasons to dislike the Peacekeepers – of which there were many due to their long history of excessive force – had charged the Peacekeeper formation. Apparently, in all their long Yarres of keeping crowds in order, they’d never quite faced something like that.
The Kerathi group had, as is the custom of the almost fearless warriors, charged the center of the formation and shattered it. They had mowed down the dark uniformed men and trampled them underfoot as they fell upon the thirty or so that remained standing. The Peacekeepers that were still standing after the assault had fallen back into two tight knots and they had tried to crush the Kerathi between them. With their buckler shields and heavy saps they’d likely have made short work of the dozen Kerathi, and their few allies left after their charge, but their small triumph over the vaunted Peacekeepers had drawn cheers and encouragement from those who were still watching.
Encouragement that had been exhilarating to a crowd of drunken Faestivul celebrants, and it had only brought more allies to the side of the Kerathi. Soon the Peacekeepers were surrounded by a surge of people who really had no stake in the affair, but who for some reason found the anarchy contagious. They too, had a wish to see the Peacekeepers laid low, even if it was just to say they had been there and had participated in the once-in-a-lifetime event.
The Peacekeepers had simply been unable to deal with such numbers. Men and woman alike, often unarmed, had climbed over each other to bear down the police force. Young men, always itching to prove themselves, had been thick in the swarm.
Even Sagira had felt the urge to join in, though the three of them had escaped into an alley at the first opportunity, which had been a long time in coming. It’s not often you get to see hounds pull down a bear, for that’s what the scene on the streets had reminded her most strongly of. She’d seen it happen once in a sporting arena, and the memory had stuck with her. Most strongly, though, she recalled the memory of two Kerathi men, both had been bloodied and laughing, being raised on the shoulders of the crowd after their triumph over the Peacekeepers.
Sagira had led Bedros back to the inn first, leaving the wounded Makan, as he had insisted, in the alley until she could come back for him. It was better, they had decided as a trio, to not be seen as a group if they could help it. Upon her return, she had witnessed the ugly retribution of the Peacekeepers, who had descended upon the corner in full force less than twenty Mynettes later.
Likely, they had roused all their sleeping members and put them in uniform, and they’d come upon the scene as fast as they could. By then, most of the drunk and wounded had cleared, but the Peacekeepers had a reputation to uphold, lest they be challenged at every turn in the future because they were no longer considered an impregnable force. Three hundred of them had beaten everyone they could lay hands on into unconsciousness or even death. Most of the people they’d assaulted were not even the ones who had participated in the fight earlier, but that had not mattered to them.
It had been an act of savagery that repulsed Sagira. She could hardly judge them, because her own people had a history of cruel treatment of its citizens to maintain their strict adherence to laws, not to mention what they’d done to Ox-Men. Society would crumble without order, and order was often bought at the cost of blood.
Sagira had been happy to turn her back on that sight and help Makan back to their room. Fleeing drunks had streamed down the alleys and streets, like mice abandoning a sinking ship. Even more than the rising sun, the clearing of several city blocks of those who had still been celebrating had signaled the end of the first Dee of the Faestivul.
Yet they’d all be back at it the next Dee, albeit it with a bit more restraint and likely a constant patrol of Peacekeepers to insure such an event would not happen again. Although, those who had died or had been severely wounded would not continue their celebration, and they had not been few. Still, Rummas was packed to the rafters with people, and even a few hundred dead and wounded wouldn’t put a dent in the festivities.
Makan clicked his tongue and groaned, as he tightened the crude bandage that he’d wrapped his thigh with.
“Hurts?” Sagira asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to voice her concern anyway.
“Yes. I’ll live.” Makan promised. “Don’t worry.”
Sagira chuckled, but that pained her, for she’d taken a heavy blow to her ribs at one point during the fighting. “Muerans are a sturdy breed. You fought even after being wounded. Your stamina surpasses mine I think.”
“The seas are not always kind, so we must be durable.”
“Yeah, but I doubt Fallu, Tulis, and Marceaupo ever meant for us to get involved in a pitched battle in the streets this past night.” Sagira replied, mentioning the Gods that the Muerans held most dear. “You were out of your element, but you did well enough.”
“The Mueran have dealt with invaders and pirates for a long time. If the ocean has had memory, we have had to fight on land and sea. Even the Mueran can’t live on a boat all his life.”
“And there’s always infighting among your own kind, right?”
Makan nodded and rolled a bit more onto his side to face her, though in the dimness he could make out little of her features. “Not so much these Dees, but in Dees past there were a lot of savage wars between our islands. The peoples of Far Muera and the Mueran Belt have many differing opinions as well, and those differences cause strife even todee.”
“I’m worried about Anthea.” Sagira announced after a brief silence. She turned her head toward Makan, who she could see better than he could her. He, too, wore a pensive look on his face.
“We are of the same mind in this.”
“Is she alright? Do you think so anyway?”
Makan made another wincing noise as he shifted once more. “She is a survivor. I believe her strong will to be her strongest weapon, and fate is often on her side when she needs it most. I can’t say that she will come out of all this any more unscathed than we are, but I truly believe that we will see her again.”
“I pray that you are right.” Sagira said softly.
“Then let us hope that it is Gandahar who watches over her, and not He who opposes him and all others.” Makan whispered, purposely avoiding mentioning Porceth, the God of Misfortune. It was ill to speak his name lest you draw his unwanted attention.
“May Maletos and Haestos shine upon her and bathe her in their merciful light.” Sagira said in return, mentioning the God and Goddess most revered by Anthea’s Aurean kin.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
“I am sorry, friend, but I must rest if I am to be of any use searching for Anthea.” Makan said wearily.
“Sleep then, Mueran. You’ve earned it.”
“Thank you. Wake me when you must.”
Sagira lay there then, unable to sleep as she stared at the ceiling and listened to the breathing of her two companions. In her mind she thought about what she had seen that night and she couldn’t help but be reminded of what had befallen her and the men under her command in the Gnat Marshes. This had been the closest thing to true battle that she had seen since then, and her heart ached from the memories. Neither Makan nor Bedros heard her crying softly in the darkness.
Walking through Rummas in the morning would have been a much more pleasant sight were it not for the remnants of the previous night’s skirmish between the celebrants and the Peacekeepers. Blood had dried into sticky brown blotches on the cobbles, and there were occasional clumps of hair or lost teeth and a random finger or two lying in the gutters where they’d been deposited by the halfhearted efforts of the street sweepers. Flies congregated around the square lapping at fluids spilled so carelessly the Dee before.
Such things tended to spoil a salty sea breeze and a cloudless sky of deep azure quite quickly. Even the cries of the hawkers and venders were halfhearted. Sagira wrinkled her nose at the competing smells of urine, stale beer, and sweat that pervaded the morning air whenever the breeze let up for a more than a few Saycunds. Makan nodded in understanding at her reaction and shook his head. Yet for a few small but often significant details, signs of last night’s conflict had all but disappeared. He had a feeling that the maimed and wounded would not forget the night as quickly as the venders and cooks who had set their booths up once more in the square had. The dead, well, they had nothing but time to remember after Nelius had taken them.
“Somber thoughts are fouling my mood.” Makan said in hushed tones to Sagira. “The events of yesterdee are too fresh in my mind to be at peace in this place.”
She nodded, her eyes scanning the thin fourth Ouer crowds. Most people were likely still sleeping off last night’s excesses, so the streets were passable with only a minimum of congestion.
Sagira abruptly grabbed Makan’s arm and pulled him over under the awning of a salesman’s cart. He stumbled to keep up, still limping from the thigh and knee wounds he’d taken the night before. Makan opened his mouth to protest but saw the dozen Peacekeepers on patrol entering the opposite side of the square from a side avenue and decided to shut his mouth.
“Are you interested in buying anything, or are you just hiding out until that patrol passes?” The salesman asked, his wrinkled face twisting into a look of wry amusement.
“We’re not…” Sagira started to argue, but she decided that any excuse she made would be quite transparent, so she didn’t bother. Instead, she held on tight to Makan’s upper arm as the patrol grew closer and made a show of looking rather interested in the salesman’s wares, which happened to be rather garishly painted Faestivul ribbons and small tokens that women might give to a man they were interested in or vice versa.
“We haven’t much money.” Makan confided to the man.
“Neither have I.” The salesman said with a chuckle. “Else I’d not be here right now. I’d be out enjoying the company of a younger woman or two. We can’t all be as lucky as you though, can we?” He asked, winking at Makan.
Makan glanced at the woman on his arm and laughed warmly, earning a nervous laugh from her, but Sagira was more interested in watching the patrol out of the corner of her eye than listening to this man. Sagira stood taller than him and was slender with a wiry set of muscles where he was stocky. She was also young enough that she could have feasibly been his daughter were they of the same heritage. “Would that your idea were reality, but in truth she’s merely a companion. We’re searching for a friend who was lost in the chaos last night.” Makan ventured.
“A friend?”
“A young lady friend of ours.”
The salesman laughed again. “Many men weren’t able to hold on to their women last night. Many more found new ones. Were you one of the former or latter?”
Makan frowned slightly, his brow furrowing at the man’s frequent assertions that he was only interested in carnal delights. “Truly, sir, you are mistaken. She is our charge and her father will be quite wroth with us if we cannot bring her safely to his side.”
The salesman never looked more Rumani than when he leaned forward at that moment, the gleam of a potential profit in his eyes. His breath stunk of tooth decay and the fish he’d had for his morning meal, and his stringy hair was quite in need of a washing, but Makan didn’t flinch back, even if Sagira did.
“It’d help me if I knew more about your missing charge. You see, I see and hear many things here, things that may be of use to you or may not be. How am I to sort through them all with such a vague understanding of the situation?”
“We don’t know this guy. We can’t tell him anything.” Sagira said in a low tone, urging him to caution.
“We’re searching for a boat lost at sea. We haven’t her ‘wisdom’ in seeing such things.” Makan said, making offhand mention of Anthea’s enchantment that guided her path. “Every moment wasted is a moment she could be getting into trouble. We must take risks to get payoffs. Trusting our luck to hold is foolhardy.”
“That doesn’t mean we should trust this guy.” Sagira countered, and leaning closer she whispered, “I mean, just look at him. He looks shady.”
Makan ignored any warning glances from Sagira and proceeded to bargain with the man. “What will it cost us to get you to peruse your recent memories and dredge through recent rumors hidden within your head then?”
“Were I younger and she less obviously repulsed by me, I’d beg off a kiss from your caramel-colored lady, but I am not a picky man. I’d settle for a meager offering of coins and that quaint necklace you wear around your neck, fishman.” The salesman said ruefully.
Makan looked down at his necklace, something he’d made from a collection of bones and scales of the fishes and creatures found only in the Outer Seas. It was not irreplaceable, but the sentimental value of the treasures collected during his manhood or taitoatanga trials was not something to be discounted or cheaply discarded.
With a depressed intake of breath, Makan reached up and untied the necklace and offered it to the man. “The necklace you may have, though I doubt you understand the value of such a thing to a Mueran. You may have it, but not our coins.”
“Oh, but I do understand, and the fact that you’d give up such a thing shows me your true character. This girl must be valuable to you if you would part with it for her sake.” The salesman replied, covetously grabbing the necklace in his wrinkly hand.
“If you know, why did you take it?” Sagira demanded, disliking the man more with each passing moment.
“Because I will never journey the Outer Seas myself, and I’ve always dreamed of what they might be. Now I have a piece of them to content myself with. Call it foolishness or call it greed, I am what I am.”
“I’ll call you beaten and bruised if your rumors are worthless.” Sagira threatened, but the salesman’s laughs silenced any further outbursts.
“First you must tell me more about your friend, and then I will tell you what I know.” The salesman urged Makan.
Makan nodded. “We seek two people. The first is a girl of mixed heritage. She and her family flee from Kerathi lands to make their home in a place of less strife. The second is a Kerathi man who was aiding us in our travels, also one of her guardians as we are. We had a disagreement and he lost himself in the celebration, wanting to be alone.”
The salesman whistled to himself as he scratched at his scalp, as if the act could draw out lost memories. “Of the second I have no news.”
“And the first?” Makan asked.
“I would venture a guess, looking at your company and the fact that you mentioned you travel with a girl of ‘mixed heritage’ as well as a Kerathi, that you are a much sought after traveling group.”
“What does that mean?” Sagira asked, her accent coming in thickly when she spoke with such force. She glanced over her shoulder at the Peacekeeper patrol that had passed them by and was exiting the square, almost as if their departure was her license for taking out her wrath on this man.
“It means, sweet one, that the girl is being sought after not only here, but in many of the isles of the Broken Crown. Those who may have presumed her and her companions dead are quite thorough in making sure she hadn’t somehow slipped past them. And, after last night’s fiasco with that Ox-Man, who might just be your companion as well if the rumors are true and you are the ones mentioned in them, I wouldn’t be too surprised to see that girl’s pursuers seek her out here.”
“Then they know who started the fight last night?” Sagira asked.
“In truth?”
Makan cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, the complete truth. Marceaupo knows I have paid fairly for it.”
“The Peacekeepers are searching for an Ox-Man, a Kerathi, a Mueran, and an Aurean girl of mixed heritage. There is a large reward being offered by unknown parties, and since there are few Ox-Men in Rummas and one had something to do with that awful business last night, they would have been more than willing to help for free, let alone for a reward.” The salesman put on an apologetic face then, frowning in such a way that his entire face wrinkled up even more than it normally was. “As to their location, I can be of no help, but at least you know what troubles you may face in finding her.”
“It’s worse that I could have imagined.” Makan whispered, his heart speeding to a crazed pace. Horrible imaginings crept into his mind, sitting heavily on his shoulders.
“We must find Anthea. Quickly.” Sagira hissed at Makan, tugging at his arm to get him moving.
“Wait!” The salesman cried, holding up an open hand.
“Why?” Sagira asked suspiciously.
The man stooped down and dug through the shelves on the backside of his cart, where he kept his trinkets and ribbons boxed up when he was not selling them. Sagira’s hand crept toward the yataghans hidden under her belt sash, lest the man pull out a pistol and try to hold them for a reward – supposing the reward wasn’t the same for them if they were dead that is.
The man came up abruptly, holding out a pair of rain ponchos, each of them with a hood. They didn’t look that clean, as the stains on them illustrated, but his intentions were clear.
“Thank you.” Makan said, holding out his arms for them.
“Ah, ah, ah! Our bargain was for information, not ponchos.”
Makan sighed. “I told you, we haven’t much to pay you with, not that those filthy rags are worth much.”
The man’s eyes upon Sagira spoke volumes, and after a long moment of silence that ended with a disgusted grunt from her, she leaned in and gave the man a very chaste kiss on the cheek. He cackled in glee and handed her the ponchos. Makan shook his head and reached for one of the ponchos.
“Earn your own!” She growled at him, slapping away his hand.
“But…” Makan started to protest, earning a laugh from the salesman. Sagira relented and handed him one anyway.
As they turned to go, having donned the smelly ponchos that were not entirely unpleasant in the brisk sea winds that raked the city, the salesman caught Makan’s attention. With a quick gesture, he leaned over his stand and pressed something small into Makan’s hand. Sagira missed the motion, being too busy adjusting the folds of her poncho to fall more naturally around her shoulders.
Makan glanced at what was in his hand: a mated pair of bracelets of carved bone painted skillfully to depict the God Solmin in congress with his mate, the Goddess Ithilia. The two were the famous lovers among the Pantheon of Gods, and they appeared frequently on gifts exchanged between lovers. The craftsman’s name, Ince, was inscribed on the last segment of each of the bracelets. Makan had no doubt that it was this old man before them now, that had painted such images, and a quick glance at the other merchandise bearing the same name confirmed his suspicions.
“Good luck, travelers.” Ince bid them. He winked at Makan as he nodded toward Sagira, who was oblivious to the exchange.
Makan shook his head and crammed the bracelets into the pocket of his poncho with a level of embarrassment that surprised him. He had nothing to be ashamed of, yet he didn’t want to offend the man by refusing the gift, and he certainly didn’t want Sagira seeing them.
He sighed as they ducked out from under the threadbare yellow and blue striped awning and made their way into the multiplying crowds to search for Anthea. They would have to trust fate and Anthea’s enchantment to lead them to each other. If what Ince had said was true, and it seemed likely, they could not risk asking more people if they’d seen her, as that would just draw more attention to them.
More doubts and worries crept into his mind. How would they sneak Bedros into a better hiding place? Surely the innkeeper would turn them in at the first opportunity if he realized whom he was putting up in his rooms. Whatever was going to happen, they had to do it fast, or things would get ugly for them in a hurry. It wasn’t like they were in any shape to battle their way out of another confrontation either.
Sagira tugged him along by his arm, ushering him through the crowd faster than his knee would like. His leg protested at the treatment, but he wasn’t about to let a little pain stop him from finding Anthea before it was too late. He would not fail her, or Fallu, who set these tasks before him.
