Ivers’s presence proved to be less awkward than Soroe would’ve thought. The two were of an age, after all, and had plenty to talk about regarding their respective cities. Sorore didn’t even notice others joining them in the bath until the young man greeted them with a quiet nod. “Tell me,” he said, “do all girls in your city have such hair?”
He indicated her fan of red curls, now dark from the water.
“No,” she said, pulling them back from her face, “No, only a few.”
“Sun-kissed? Spice-kissed?” said Ivers, “I wonder what the proper term is. In Karkosian it’s emakja. Which doesn’t translate properly into continental. Something like ‘sunset-light on sea cliffs’.”
“Poetic,” Sorore laughed as she sank beneath the water.
“Ours is a city of poetry!” said Ivers, his chest slightly puffed with pride, “why, we have the best poets on the continent!”
“Bold words, boy,” said one of the older men with a wicked facial scar, who’d come in with what seemed to be his wife, “say that to a Niethe, and they’ll gut you where you stand.”
“Oh please,” Ivers huffed, “the only fine thing about the Niethe are their women.”
“Who do you think the poets are?” said the scared-man’s wife, prompting a laugh from the older members of the party. “Let the young bucks scrap,” said a man of perhaps sixty, smiling, “best they get it out now, surrounded by the four walls. Let the festival be free of such things. Especially since there will be plenty of Niethe at the tables there.”
“If only the Madros and Carim could do the same.”
The others turned to look at the younger woman who’d spoken, a maiden who’d come in alone. The jovial mood of the room did not die, but it certainly stilled.
“It’d be best to leave that subject untouched,” said the scarred man.
“Getting into a quarrel right before the Festival,” said his wife, shaking his head, “what a shame.”
“It’s more of a shame that the son of Carim didn’t use his words rather than a poisoned blade,” said Ivers, his face darkening.
“Ivers,” said the elderly man, “you know that’s mere rumour. That is something best left unsaid.”
“Why should we be afraid to speak it? If the man wasn’t guilty, why run?” Ivers said, “he should’ve faced the guards and their judgement rather than hide like a coward.”
The younger maiden nodded fervently in agreement.
“We do not know all the ends,” said the scarred man, “besides, it couldn’t have happened at a worst time. After the festival, the houses will find him and sit in judgement. Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for all of this. Perhaps not. We shall see.”
Iver’s face softened slightly as he turned back to Sorore.
“You’ll love the festival, I’m sure,” he said, “In fact, I’d be happy to lead you around. Show you all the sights.”
One of the older men stifled a snort, though Sorore pretended not to notice.
“That would be lovely,” she said, flashing her most winning smile, “my brother will be tagging along, however, along with Niche. He’s a bit like a guard dog - goes mad if he can’t do his work.” The snort quickly turned into a laugh, which was silenced by a reproachful look by one of the women.
“Well, we’d better get started sooner than later,” Ivers said, taking the subtle rebuke with grace.
He rose from the pool and clambered to one of the screens. Sorore hoped that she wasn’t looking a little too long to be polite. She was helped by Keiro into one of the long sleeved gowns that marked the woman of the city. The dressing was actually a fairly complex affair, and she was glad to have the servant’s expertise to help her.
The ultimate result was an assembly that clung surprisingly close to her body despite its layers. It wouldn’t be proper, as a guest rather than a member of the family, to fully wear the light blue and red of the Assendras, Keiro explained. However, she was given a pair of ribbons of silk of their colours, wrapping around her wrist.
With that, Sorore took off towards the main hall, hoping to find her brother there. Probably eating, no, definitely eating something if she was there. Her guess was more or less correct, though a space had been cleared for Niche and him to practise swordplay. Frare was chewing on a piece of bread, half in mouth, while he ducked, dodged and attempted to parry.
Sorore thought he looked more refreshed than in the evening. Perhaps he’d avoided the dreams that had bothered him before. That was good, no point going into a celebration in a poor state of mind if they could help it. She winced as Niche brought a carved stick onto his shoulder with a crack.
“You’re too focused on the ideal of movement,” he said, “efficiency first, above all. Fancies will take you to death.”
Sorore was surprised at the flowery Niche being so clipped and curt in instruction. Perhaps it was simply another facet of her guardian, one that he rarely had a chance to show. Either way, Frare was clearly in for a thrashing, one that some members of the hall were watching with a beleaguered interest as they ate a light lunch. Ivers came over and offered her some soup and bread, which she accepted gratefully.
“So this is what swordplay is in the holy lands?” he said, “your brother seems to be having a rough time of it.”
“He just started learning,” she said, swallowing a mouthful of the light shrimp broth, “and the paladins are both strong.”
“Maybe they’ll get a chance to compete,” said Ivers with a wicked smile, “there are a few fighting events around the festival. Not on the first day, though.”
“They’d probably consider that demeaning,” Sorore said, draining the bowl, surprised at her own hunger.
“A chance to show their strength? How could that be ‘demeaning’ for a warrior?” said Ivers.
“Their job is to keep us safe,” Sorore said, remembering what Lillian had said about honour on the roof of the church, “everything else is less important.”
“My, you must be quite the lady in Angorrah,” said Ivers, “to have such dedicated guardians.”
There was something almost mocking in the boy’s tone, but Sorore chose to ignore it.
“Well? Weren’t you going to show us around?” she said, hopping off the bench as Frare was sent stumbling back by a blow to his body.
“At once,” he said with a little bow. That was cute, she thought as she watched her brother come at Niche, to fail succinctly.
She managed to convince Frare that there might be better things than swordplay in the city. Ivers led the three to one of the blue and red clad boats of the Assendra. They might not be able to wear their colours, but his cousin would be damned if they were loudly proclaimed as guests.
“The festival begins just after sunset,” he explained as the polemen pushed off the dock, “there are three main areas. The first, and greatest place of honour, is the grand square, the second, the old street that leads away from the canals up to the main gate. You’ve been to both already. So, I’ll take you to the third.”
He had that wicked grin that Sorore could not help but like.
“And that is?” Niche said, hardly paying attention to the conversation.
“Why, my friend, the hall of the dead!” he said.
That got Niche’s attention.
“No, no, it’s quite safe,” he said, “But Kieren thought it best that you know the rules. Should you be caught by a hand of the Occluded on the eves of the festivals, you must go there, and pay a tithe. Then you’ll be let out. We didn’t want you to be surprised.”
“Does that happen often?” said Frare, obviously much more interested in the conversation now that ‘dead’ was involved.
“No,” said Ivers with a shrug, “honestly, most of those that go to the hall are piss drunk. I sometimes suspect that the priest of the hall made up the rule so they wouldn’t have to fish out anyone from Emyaka the morning after. Still, it’s good to visit once in a while.”
They were pushed to the north, and ultimately came out into a series of wooden piers and docks built on sand bars. In the distance there was a large building, covered in greenery, but solitary.
“The hall,” Ivers said, waving to it, “quite a swim to it, no? Hopefully you won’t have to do that.”
“Why is it so distant?” Frare said.
“Disease, death, decay,” Ivers said, once again struggling, “all things people would prefer to keep out of the city. Though the reputation is deceiving - it’s quite a nice place.”
The broad stone steps of the Hall led up to a pair of wooden doors under a crimson arch. They were greeted by a priest, wearing a sleeveless, dark red robe, who took them inside the building. Contrary to its name, the hall of the Dead was populated very much by the, albeit sick, living. There were numerous stone plinths, surrounded by potted plants, with the feverish and pale on them. Most were being tended to by the priests, who held their hands and whispered soothing words to them.
“We should probably show them the actual hall, shouldn’t we?” said Ivers.
They were led down into the base of the structure, where rows upon rows of stone beds were cut into the walls. On most, there were bodies wrapped in cloth.
“Don’t get caught, or this will be where you go,” he said, pointing to a set of lower doors that must’ve led to the outside.
“Do you keep all your dead here?” Niche said, wrinkling his nose at the prospect.
The priest, through Ivers as a translator, explained that no, this was simply a temporary holding place, where they would see last rites before being sent out to the open sea. Niche’s disdain abated somewhat at that, but she was sure that he’d prefer burning or burying the dead, as was the church’s custom. As they returned back up to the sick hall, the priest offering explanations as to its history, Ivers grew rather grim.
“I’m sorry to be rude,” he said, “but I have to attend to a friend quickly. Would you mind waiting for a few minutes?” Soroe, while curious about this change in demeanour, agreed to wait with her brother and Niche. They sat on one of the benches, with beautiful rose-like plants growing on short trellises to either side. Frare was clearly getting rather impatient - the quiet, careful atmosphere of the hall disagreeing with him. Sorore by contrast felt some of the tension over last night’s events ebb away as she lay back on the bench.
There were some noises to her right and an odd, not entirely nice smell began to gnaw at the edge of her perception. Frare stiffened, Niche put his hand on his belt, and one of those sliding doors shot open. What stepped out was tall, broad, and covered in blood. Sorore shrieked in surprise, Frare shot to his feet, and Niche’s sword was a quarter way out of the sheath.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Claralelle, wiping a crimson hand over her eyes.
“What in the-?” said Niche, unsure of whether to draw or not.
A priest, who was also soaked, ran out after her.
“My lady, we can’t go out like this!” he hissed, “it’ll disturb the patients.”
Clarallell, still wearing the same vacuous smile she always did, pushed him away.
“Oh come on. It’ll be fine. Besides, my friends are here.”
“What happened to you?” asked Frare, eyes wide.
“One of the priests nicked an artery,” she said, “I had to fix it before the man bled out. I’m glad I didn’t wear my books today.”
They were attracting stares from pretty much everyone in the room.
“Ma’am, please!” said the priest, “we must cleanse ourselves now that the man’s life is saved.”
“Oh, he’ll be dead in three months. His liver is failing,” said Claralelle casually, before practically skipping over to the trio, who shrank back. “So where have you been?” she said, looking at Sorore so intently that the girl began to squirm, “I love your clothes.”
“T-thank you,” said Sorore, trying to press herself through the wall without much success.
“Clara, you’re covered in blood, clean yourself off,” said Frare, seemingly fully recovered from the surprise.
The woman looked down at herself as if not realising that was indeed the case.
“Oh right,” she said, “I’ll be back in a moment.”
With a long stride, and the priest trailing after her, both leaving bloody tracks behind them, they disappeared out of the entrance.
“Clara?” Sorore looked at her brother, who shrugged.
“What of it? You don’t always notice who I’ve spent my time with,” he said, sitting back down.
There was a loud yell from the entrance, and two large splashes. Perhaps a minute later the pair came back in, soaking wet but clean. The priest looked mortified at whatever had occurred, while Claralllell couldn’t be happier. It was at that moment that Ivers also chose to appear through one of the doors to a stairwell. The priest, the tall woman, and the youth all stared at each other, Sorore, Frare and Niche caught in between.
“Who are you?” asked Claralelle with not so much as a break in her expression.
“I should be asking you that?” said Ivers, looking up and down, as if he didn’t really believe the height of the woman before him.
“I’m Claralelle,” she said, offering him a wet hand, which Ivers did not take.
“So, Ivers,” cut in Sorore hurriedly, “did you see who you needed to?”
“Yes, I did,” Ivers said, his face drawn with pain, “he’s not doing well. Bastards poisoned him.”
“Are you talking about that one boy?” Clara said, holding the priest by the shoulder before he could get away, “who was it? Carom? Claem?”
“Carim, ma’am,” said the priest, resigning to the fact he couldn’t escape her grip.
“Oh, he wasn’t poisoned,” said Clara, tilting her head and looking up to the ceiling.
“What?” “He. Wasn’t. Poisoned,” Clara said, so slowly as to be almost insulting, “the wound is infected, that’s all.”
“That kind of swelling is caused by infection?” said Ivers, horror on his face
“Yup,” said Clara, nodding vigorously, “and it better go down soon. The flesh will start to die if the blood is cut off for much longer. Then we might have to take off the arm. But it’s not poison.”
“How could you possibly know-”
“Most of the venomous subspecies here act on the nerves,” Clara said, “if that was true, your friend would have died long ago. So, either the blade was impregnated with imported poison, which your friend’s symptoms don’t seem to match up with, or it’s just an infection from bad luck.”
She paused to consider for a moment.
“Well, I guess it could’ve been smeared with mud and excrement, was the blade brown?”
“Ma’am!” gasped the priest, “That is enough. Come with me at once.”
Innocently as a lamb she followed the priest. Ivers stood in silence, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“Is that- was that a friend of yours?” he said, turning to Sorore.
“Well, no-” she began.
“Sort of,” said Frare, “more like a companion. She’s good with wounds and stuff though. If she said that about your friend, she was probably right.”
“Huh.”
After taking a moment to think, Ivers straightened himself and offered his hand to Sorore.
“We’d best get going,” he said, “the festival will begin in a couple of hours. And you want to be there before the crowds really start amassing.”
She took his head, and allowed him to lead her out through the entrance. They were stopped once more as, lounging on the steps in the fading sun, there was a massive black-grey cat. Innialysia turned her amber eyes to the trio.
“Ah, I was wondering what that was,” she said, getting up.
Ivers looked like he was about to fall over at the disembodied voice of the creature.
“Steady on boy,” she snapped, “you’ve got a lady’s hand in yours. You can’t show fear.”
Ivers stared in confusion, and his hand crept towards the edge of his robe. The cat chuckled, rounded up the steps and looked back.
“If you see Efrain, tell him I’m here. He’s getting lost in nostalgia I’m betting,” she said, “while I’m stuck surrounded by all this water. Ugh.”
With that, she disappeared into the hall of the dead.
“She seemed… unhappy,” said Frare.
“What was that?” said Ivers, his hand still poised over his chest.
Sorore, on the step above him, could just peek down enough to see something metal at his breast. Distracted, she tripped and nearly fell down the steps before she caught her.
“Forest spirit,” said Frare, chuckling at the pair of them as he passed, “I think. Actually, that may be why she’s so unhappy. No forest.”
“...right,” Ivers said, “so, we’d uh… best get to the festival.”
“Lead the way,” Frare said, jumping into one of the boats, trimmed in black, waiting for them on the pier.
“Frare, that’s the wrong boat,” she said, rolling her eyes at his efforts to seem nonchalant about the cat spirit.
“Right, right,” he said, skipping across one or two others, much to the irritation of their polemen, before he settled on the boat trimmed in blue and red.
They left the northern outflow behind them, crossing over into the city proper. Soon they’d reached a clog of empty boats, near the square, where Ivers stood up and turned toward them.
“By the way,” he said, his wicked grin returned once more, “how’s your balance?”
Ivers’s presence proved to be less awkward than Soroe would’ve thought. The two were of an age, after all, and had plenty to talk about regarding their respective cities. Sorore didn’t even notice others joining them in the bath until the young man greeted them with a quiet nod. “Tell me,” he said, “do all girls in your city have such hair?”
He indicated her fan of red curls, now dark from the water.
“No,” she said, pulling them back from her face, “No, only a few.”
“Sun-kissed? Spice-kissed?” said Ivers, “I wonder what the proper term is. In Karkosian it’s emakja. Which doesn’t translate properly into continental. Something like ‘sunset-light on sea cliffs’.”
“Poetic,” Sorore laughed as she sank beneath the water.
“Ours is a city of poetry!” said Ivers, his chest slightly puffed with pride, “why, we have the best poets on the continent!”
“Bold words, boy,” said one of the older men with a wicked facial scar, who’d come in with what seemed to be his wife, “say that to a Niethe, and they’ll gut you where you stand.”
“Oh please,” Ivers huffed, “the only fine thing about the Niethe are their women.”
“Who do you think the poets are?” said the scared-man’s wife, prompting a laugh from the older members of the party. “Let the young bucks scrap,” said a man of perhaps sixty, smiling, “best they get it out now, surrounded by the four walls. Let the festival be free of such things. Especially since there will be plenty of Niethe at the tables there.”
“If only the Madros and Carim could do the same.”
The others turned to look at the younger woman who’d spoken, a maiden who’d come in alone. The jovial mood of the room did not die, but it certainly stilled.
“It’d be best to leave that subject untouched,” said the scarred man.
“Getting into a quarrel right before the Festival,” said his wife, shaking his head, “what a shame.”
“It’s more of a shame that the son of Carim didn’t use his words rather than a poisoned blade,” said Ivers, his face darkening.
“Ivers,” said the elderly man, “you know that’s mere rumour. That is something best left unsaid.”
“Why should we be afraid to speak it? If the man wasn’t guilty, why run?” Ivers said, “he should’ve faced the guards and their judgement rather than hide like a coward.”
The younger maiden nodded fervently in agreement.
“We do not know all the ends,” said the scarred man, “besides, it couldn’t have happened at a worst time. After the festival, the houses will find him and sit in judgement. Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for all of this. Perhaps not. We shall see.”
Iver’s face softened slightly as he turned back to Sorore.
“You’ll love the festival, I’m sure,” he said, “In fact, I’d be happy to lead you around. Show you all the sights.”
One of the older men stifled a snort, though Sorore pretended not to notice.
“That would be lovely,” she said, flashing her most winning smile, “my brother will be tagging along, however, along with Niche. He’s a bit like a guard dog - goes mad if he can’t do his work.” The snort quickly turned into a laugh, which was silenced by a reproachful look by one of the women.
“Well, we’d better get started sooner than later,” Ivers said, taking the subtle rebuke with grace.
He rose from the pool and clambered to one of the screens. Sorore hoped that she wasn’t looking a little too long to be polite. She was helped by Keiro into one of the long sleeved gowns that marked the woman of the city. The dressing was actually a fairly complex affair, and she was glad to have the servant’s expertise to help her.
The ultimate result was an assembly that clung surprisingly close to her body despite its layers. It wouldn’t be proper, as a guest rather than a member of the family, to fully wear the light blue and red of the Assendras, Keiro explained. However, she was given a pair of ribbons of silk of their colours, wrapping around her wrist.
With that, Sorore took off towards the main hall, hoping to find her brother there. Probably eating, no, definitely eating something if she was there. Her guess was more or less correct, though a space had been cleared for Niche and him to practise swordplay. Frare was chewing on a piece of bread, half in mouth, while he ducked, dodged and attempted to parry.
Sorore thought he looked more refreshed than in the evening. Perhaps he’d avoided the dreams that had bothered him before. That was good, no point going into a celebration in a poor state of mind if they could help it. She winced as Niche brought a carved stick onto his shoulder with a crack.
“You’re too focused on the ideal of movement,” he said, “efficiency first, above all. Fancies will take you to death.”
Sorore was surprised at the flowery Niche being so clipped and curt in instruction. Perhaps it was simply another facet of her guardian, one that he rarely had a chance to show. Either way, Frare was clearly in for a thrashing, one that some members of the hall were watching with a beleaguered interest as they ate a light lunch. Ivers came over and offered her some soup and bread, which she accepted gratefully.
“So this is what swordplay is in the holy lands?” he said, “your brother seems to be having a rough time of it.”
“He just started learning,” she said, swallowing a mouthful of the light shrimp broth, “and the paladins are both strong.”
“Maybe they’ll get a chance to compete,” said Ivers with a wicked smile, “there are a few fighting events around the festival. Not on the first day, though.”
“They’d probably consider that demeaning,” Sorore said, draining the bowl, surprised at her own hunger.
“A chance to show their strength? How could that be ‘demeaning’ for a warrior?” said Ivers.
“Their job is to keep us safe,” Sorore said, remembering what Lillian had said about honour on the roof of the church, “everything else is less important.”
“My, you must be quite the lady in Angorrah,” said Ivers, “to have such dedicated guardians.”
There was something almost mocking in the boy’s tone, but Sorore chose to ignore it.
“Well? Weren’t you going to show us around?” she said, hopping off the bench as Frare was sent stumbling back by a blow to his body.
“At once,” he said with a little bow. That was cute, she thought as she watched her brother come at Niche, to fail succinctly.
She managed to convince Frare that there might be better things than swordplay in the city. Ivers led the three to one of the blue and red clad boats of the Assendra. They might not be able to wear their colours, but his cousin would be damned if they were loudly proclaimed as guests.
“The festival begins just after sunset,” he explained as the polemen pushed off the dock, “there are three main areas. The first, and greatest place of honour, is the grand square, the second, the old street that leads away from the canals up to the main gate. You’ve been to both already. So, I’ll take you to the third.”
He had that wicked grin that Sorore could not help but like.
“And that is?” Niche said, hardly paying attention to the conversation.
“Why, my friend, the hall of the dead!” he said.
That got Niche’s attention.
“No, no, it’s quite safe,” he said, “But Kieren thought it best that you know the rules. Should you be caught by a hand of the Occluded on the eves of the festivals, you must go there, and pay a tithe. Then you’ll be let out. We didn’t want you to be surprised.”
“Does that happen often?” said Frare, obviously much more interested in the conversation now that ‘dead’ was involved.
“No,” said Ivers with a shrug, “honestly, most of those that go to the hall are piss drunk. I sometimes suspect that the priest of the hall made up the rule so they wouldn’t have to fish out anyone from Emyaka the morning after. Still, it’s good to visit once in a while.”
They were pushed to the north, and ultimately came out into a series of wooden piers and docks built on sand bars. In the distance there was a large building, covered in greenery, but solitary.
“The hall,” Ivers said, waving to it, “quite a swim to it, no? Hopefully you won’t have to do that.”
“Why is it so distant?” Frare said.
“Disease, death, decay,” Ivers said, once again struggling, “all things people would prefer to keep out of the city. Though the reputation is deceiving - it’s quite a nice place.”
The broad stone steps of the Hall led up to a pair of wooden doors under a crimson arch. They were greeted by a priest, wearing a sleeveless, dark red robe, who took them inside the building. Contrary to its name, the hall of the Dead was populated very much by the, albeit sick, living. There were numerous stone plinths, surrounded by potted plants, with the feverish and pale on them. Most were being tended to by the priests, who held their hands and whispered soothing words to them.
“We should probably show them the actual hall, shouldn’t we?” said Ivers.
They were led down into the base of the structure, where rows upon rows of stone beds were cut into the walls. On most, there were bodies wrapped in cloth.
“Don’t get caught, or this will be where you go,” he said, pointing to a set of lower doors that must’ve led to the outside.
“Do you keep all your dead here?” Niche said, wrinkling his nose at the prospect.
The priest, through Ivers as a translator, explained that no, this was simply a temporary holding place, where they would see last rites before being sent out to the open sea. Niche’s disdain abated somewhat at that, but she was sure that he’d prefer burning or burying the dead, as was the church’s custom. As they returned back up to the sick hall, the priest offering explanations as to its history, Ivers grew rather grim.
“I’m sorry to be rude,” he said, “but I have to attend to a friend quickly. Would you mind waiting for a few minutes?” Soroe, while curious about this change in demeanour, agreed to wait with her brother and Niche. They sat on one of the benches, with beautiful rose-like plants growing on short trellises to either side. Frare was clearly getting rather impatient - the quiet, careful atmosphere of the hall disagreeing with him. Sorore by contrast felt some of the tension over last night’s events ebb away as she lay back on the bench.
There were some noises to her right and an odd, not entirely nice smell began to gnaw at the edge of her perception. Frare stiffened, Niche put his hand on his belt, and one of those sliding doors shot open. What stepped out was tall, broad, and covered in blood. Sorore shrieked in surprise, Frare shot to his feet, and Niche’s sword was a quarter way out of the sheath.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Claralelle, wiping a crimson hand over her eyes.
“What in the-?” said Niche, unsure of whether to draw or not.
A priest, who was also soaked, ran out after her.
“My lady, we can’t go out like this!” he hissed, “it’ll disturb the patients.”
Clarallell, still wearing the same vacuous smile she always did, pushed him away.
“Oh come on. It’ll be fine. Besides, my friends are here.”
“What happened to you?” asked Frare, eyes wide.
“One of the priests nicked an artery,” she said, “I had to fix it before the man bled out. I’m glad I didn’t wear my books today.”
They were attracting stares from pretty much everyone in the room.
“Ma’am, please!” said the priest, “we must cleanse ourselves now that the man’s life is saved.”
“Oh, he’ll be dead in three months. His liver is failing,” said Claralelle casually, before practically skipping over to the trio, who shrank back. “So where have you been?” she said, looking at Sorore so intently that the girl began to squirm, “I love your clothes.”
“T-thank you,” said Sorore, trying to press herself through the wall without much success.
“Clara, you’re covered in blood, clean yourself off,” said Frare, seemingly fully recovered from the surprise.
The woman looked down at herself as if not realising that was indeed the case.
“Oh right,” she said, “I’ll be back in a moment.”
With a long stride, and the priest trailing after her, both leaving bloody tracks behind them, they disappeared out of the entrance.
“Clara?” Sorore looked at her brother, who shrugged.
“What of it? You don’t always notice who I’ve spent my time with,” he said, sitting back down.
There was a loud yell from the entrance, and two large splashes. Perhaps a minute later the pair came back in, soaking wet but clean. The priest looked mortified at whatever had occurred, while Claralllell couldn’t be happier. It was at that moment that Ivers also chose to appear through one of the doors to a stairwell. The priest, the tall woman, and the youth all stared at each other, Sorore, Frare and Niche caught in between.
“Who are you?” asked Claralelle with not so much as a break in her expression.
“I should be asking you that?” said Ivers, looking up and down, as if he didn’t really believe the height of the woman before him.
“I’m Claralelle,” she said, offering him a wet hand, which Ivers did not take.
“So, Ivers,” cut in Sorore hurriedly, “did you see who you needed to?”
“Yes, I did,” Ivers said, his face drawn with pain, “he’s not doing well. Bastards poisoned him.”
“Are you talking about that one boy?” Clara said, holding the priest by the shoulder before he could get away, “who was it? Carom? Claem?”
“Carim, ma’am,” said the priest, resigning to the fact he couldn’t escape her grip.
“Oh, he wasn’t poisoned,” said Clara, tilting her head and looking up to the ceiling.
“What?” “He. Wasn’t. Poisoned,” Clara said, so slowly as to be almost insulting, “the wound is infected, that’s all.”
“That kind of swelling is caused by infection?” said Ivers, horror on his face
“Yup,” said Clara, nodding vigorously, “and it better go down soon. The flesh will start to die if the blood is cut off for much longer. Then we might have to take off the arm. But it’s not poison.”
“How could you possibly know-”
“Most of the venomous subspecies here act on the nerves,” Clara said, “if that was true, your friend would have died long ago. So, either the blade was impregnated with imported poison, which your friend’s symptoms don’t seem to match up with, or it’s just an infection from bad luck.”
She paused to consider for a moment.
“Well, I guess it could’ve been smeared with mud and excrement, was the blade brown?”
“Ma’am!” gasped the priest, “That is enough. Come with me at once.”
Innocently as a lamb she followed the priest. Ivers stood in silence, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“Is that- was that a friend of yours?” he said, turning to Sorore.
“Well, no-” she began.
“Sort of,” said Frare, “more like a companion. She’s good with wounds and stuff though. If she said that about your friend, she was probably right.”
“Huh.”
After taking a moment to think, Ivers straightened himself and offered his hand to Sorore.
“We’d best get going,” he said, “the festival will begin in a couple of hours. And you want to be there before the crowds really start amassing.”
She took his head, and allowed him to lead her out through the entrance. They were stopped once more as, lounging on the steps in the fading sun, there was a massive black-grey cat. Innialysia turned her amber eyes to the trio.
“Ah, I was wondering what that was,” she said, getting up.
Ivers looked like he was about to fall over at the disembodied voice of the creature.
“Steady on boy,” she snapped, “you’ve got a lady’s hand in yours. You can’t show fear.”
Ivers stared in confusion, and his hand crept towards the edge of his robe. The cat chuckled, rounded up the steps and looked back.
“If you see Efrain, tell him I’m here. He’s getting lost in nostalgia I’m betting,” she said, “while I’m stuck surrounded by all this water. Ugh.”
With that, she disappeared into the hall of the dead.
“She seemed… unhappy,” said Frare.
“What was that?” said Ivers, his hand still poised over his chest.
Sorore, on the step above him, could just peek down enough to see something metal at his breast. Distracted, she tripped and nearly fell down the steps before she caught her.
“Forest spirit,” said Frare, chuckling at the pair of them as he passed, “I think. Actually, that may be why she’s so unhappy. No forest.”
“...right,” Ivers said, “so, we’d uh… best get to the festival.”
“Lead the way,” Frare said, jumping into one of the boats, trimmed in black, waiting for them on the pier.
“Frare, that’s the wrong boat,” she said, rolling her eyes at his efforts to seem nonchalant about the cat spirit.
“Right, right,” he said, skipping across one or two others, much to the irritation of their polemen, before he settled on the boat trimmed in blue and red.
They left the northern outflow behind them, crossing over into the city proper. Soon they’d reached a clog of empty boats, near the square, where Ivers stood up and turned toward them.
“By the way,” he said, his wicked grin returned once more, “how’s your balance?”
