Sorore looked out upon the mass of gently rocking boats, all possessing their own colours and embellishments.
“What do you mean by that?” she said with a nervous laugh.
“There’s only one way to get to the plaza from the canal,” said Ivers, pointing to the corner of the buildings, from where a cacophony of sound was coming.
“Come on!” said Frare, hopping across from boat to boat with ease, “it’s not hard.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Ivers, then turned to Sorore, “my lady?”
He extended his hand, helping her at a gentle pace through moored vessels.
“Well, this is not the first time you’ve done this, is it?” she said, her feet coming down hard onto the hull.
“No,” admitted Ivers, “usually it’s the elderly that require such assistance. Not to say that you move like one!”
Good catch, Sorore thought as they weaved their way to the end of the alley.
“All children in Karkos learn to do such things,” he said, helping her leap a particularly wide gap, “we have to get used to falling into the canal.”
“That doesn’t make me confident,” she said flatly, as the plaza came into view.
It was largely the same as when they came there the previous day, the stalls and traceries flowing in the light breeze. What was different was the sheer amount of people that wandered, almost all wearing what looked to be masks of one type or another.
“Last stretch,” Ivers said, indicating the bend of the canal as it flowed around the plaza, “we’re almost at the steps.”
There were one or two treacherous moments where Sorore almost tumbled in, but with Ivers’s help, she managed. Frare was looking bored, sitting on the steps up to the plaza, whereas Niche stood there, watching her closely. He had elected to not wear his armour, arguing that it would make travelling around the city risky should he fall in. Sorore suspected that it was also in an attempt to blend into the crowds, though he still wore hardened leather under the thin silk, which made him look larger than he was.
Soon, they were awash with the people who’d come for the festival, so much so that Ivers had to shout to make his voice known.
“What a party, no?” he called, “and this isn’t even gunnel-full yet.”
Sorore looked around at the sea of people, wondering what on earth constituted ‘full’. Around her was an impenetrable wall of coloured silks and accented masks. Some of them were clearly foreign, but most of the Karkosians were of pale porcelain, highlighted in brass, copper, and gold. Of course, there were many variations, with feathers, scraps of brightly coloured cloth, and one or two ones with gemstones embedded within.
“Ah, that’s right!” said Ivers as he prompted them to a stall, lined with masks of a similar description.
He paid for them, denying them a chance for Niche to use his gold. Ivers explained that it wasn’t his money, nor his choice, as Kieren had bade him to provide for the guests when they got to the plaza. All three were made to sit upon a stool while the elderly craftsman examined their features and selected the proper mask.
Sorore was pleased when the mask and its holding wire slipped over her face with minimal discomfort and a tight fit. Judging by the expression of mischievous joy on the face of Frare, it was much the same for him. Ivers was wearing his own, streaks of black stone accented in brass inlays distinguishing it from many in the crowd.
“You like it?” he said to Sorore, “it was my father’s childhood one, which he wore for decades. Some of the masks here are centuries old, passed down from generations past.”
Sorore looked around with renewed wonder, looking from one ceramic face to another, trying to determine which might show the signs of such an age. The crowd on the whole was moving too fast to make such determinations, and Ivers was keen to show them his favourite events of the day. They were led around in a dizzying parade of sights and sounds, from stall to stall.
Some were delicious foods, including skewers of meat that set Sorore’s mouth ablaze and slabs of thin bread drenched in garlic and butter. Some were fine odds and ends, trinkets and little pieces of craftswork, of such a like that Sorore had not seen before. She’d gotten particularly engrossed in a clockwork timepiece emblazoned with sun and moon motifs before she was pulled away to the next attraction.
As the sun began to grow low in the sky, they were led to a large clear area, with the longest series of tables Sorore had ever seen. There were at least a dozen rows, all lining the widths of the plaza, great cooking stations set up between them at intervals. Sorore wanted to get a closer look at the massive cast iron pots and brick and stone counters, but was pulled into a bench before she could do so.
“Seating is on a ‘first come, first served’ basis,” Ivers said, “we don’t want to go to the outer benches. Sometimes the food gets cool before it’s served there.”
The benches slowly filled up around her, the chatter growing around her as they did so.
“You know, if you think this is impressive, you should see the main street festival,” he said, “the tables go up its whole length, from the canal to the front gate.”
Sorore tried to imagine the brown wood stretching from one end to another. How many people might that sit? A thousand, two thousand? And where were they being served from?
“The stalls and shops,” Ivers said, “they serve them.”
“You read my mind!” she exclaimed.
“Oh hardly, usually it's the first thing that the newcomers ask,” he said, “hey, hey! Look!”
Near the back of the plazas, there were a series of slightly raised platforms, too high to be called a dias. There was a procession of people in unbelievably opulent clothing, all in the colours of their houses, taking their places at the tables.
“There!” whispered Ivers, pointing to assemblies of red and blue that Sorore immediately recognized, “that’s aunt Kieren and master Balae.”
So it was, though Sorore might be hard pressed to recognize them through the masks. Even from this distance, she could see the intricate goldwork, the studded blue gemstones, and the long trailing plume of red feathers from the nasal bridge. Soon, they were all seated, and at the sound of a silver trumpet, the crowds began to be silent.
The centre of the raised platforms was dominated by three separate tables, as well as its own cooking station. The first was one done in a rich red and white, stationed by a half-dozen people in matching clothes. The second was green and gold, and the third was bereft of people, draped down in purple.
“Is that, the…” Frare snapped his fingers, “the Miram?”
“Yes,” Iver said, “they keep the table in their honour, but no one can claim a seat. Now hush, the Eisen matriarch is about to speak.”
Sorore felt a thrill as she realised who the woman was, dressed in a tight corset of emerald with long golden sleeves. She raised a lined hand to the crowd, and the last remnants of conversation vanished into the sunset. Coughing once to clear her throat, her powerful voice echoed off the buildings surrounding the plaza.
“Children of Karkos!” she proclaimed, “We come together in the final hours of the year, to celebrate the highest point of our lives!”
There were a few cheers, but, curiously, there was a quiet laughter from some of the tables. Sorore looked around, wondering what could give cause to that mirth in such a solemn moment.
“But humility, humility my friends!” she said, “in this moment, in this festival, you must remember those old words of wisdom, laid down by our forefathers.”
The collective roar of the crowd, joined in by Ivers, was those words.
“Death comes first!” they called.
“Always,” said the matriarch, holding up her hands again in silence, “Death is the first concern of us all. We keep that in mind as we sail the waters we call home, as we work our land and count our wealth. Death should never be a stranger or a surprise, but rather, an old friend.”
There were a couple of outright laughs at that and Sorore began to feel second-hand embarrassment. That was until she saw that the woman was grinning from ear to ear.
“And that’s that. Another year, and the only speech you’ll get out of me!” she said, in a far less sanctimonious tone, “You lot, who wants to eat?”
The laughter grew to riotous guffawing, as the whole of the crowd began to applaud the matriarch. It would appear that her informality was well liked in the city, despite how much it personally chafed at Sorore. Soon, there were bowels of clear broth, all small, but wonderfully seasoned and salted.
She and her brother had sailed around the edges of the continent, staying for smaller sojourns in various ports with her father. They’d also been well off in Erratz and had a personal chef. At Angorrah, though modesty in all things were encouraged, including meals, they often feasted on what was claimed to be some of the finest food on the continent.
The courses of meats and salads, soups and drinks that were served that evening put all of those to shame. Braised beef and green beans, in wine with a tangy punch. Bitter greens that had been fried to paper-thickness, delivering a satisfying salty crunch. A fish that melted in her mouth like butter, joined by potatoes flavoured by lemon juice and black pepper.
Even Niche’s stoic demeanour was pushed aside by the sheer quantity of quality on display. He remarked in surprise at dish after dish, wondering at the flavours, saying that he’d never tasted the like of it. Frare was happily shovelling away, and for once Sorore didn’t begrudge him his manners. She was having trouble keeping herself from attacking the food with vigour. Meanwhile, Ivers was clearly enjoying his guest’s awe, answering questions as well as he could.
People were beginning to get up and mingle between tables, goblets full of wine and beer. This was, sheepishly explained by Ivers, known as “the intercourse” among some members of the city. It was apparently where some of the biggest deals, or at least their first seeds, were laid down. Sorore didn’t exactly understand why the young man looked so embarrassed by the term, though perhaps it was a dirty joke.
The highlight of the night was the martirach herself, along with an array of cooks from what was called the ‘Emroe’ school, butchered and cooking the next course. It was several massive creatures, looking somewhere between a black-scaled snake and a toad, its back streaked with a bright red. The matriarch had eschewed working with long sleeves, and rather had a sleeveless vest, still in the customary colours of her house, along with a pair of short pants.
Such was the strangeness of this attire that it took a moment for Sorore to wonder at the matriarch's work. As best she could guess, the Eisen matriarch was in her elder years, yet she butchered at such a pace that only a handful of younger cooks could keep up. The entire crowd was watching as the entrails were removed, followed by the hide, peeled off in great strips.
“Going straight to the tanners, then Nieth,” Ivers offered as the hide stripes were carried off to waiting canal boats..
Soon the creatures were divided up and slabs of their meat were carted around the plaza to various cooking stations. The smell of melted fat, searing meat, and seasoned oils filled the square. Sorore’s head began to float on that warm scented air, still watching as the cooks at the centre prepared yet more creatures.
It was then, quite by chance, that she spied a cook, the only other dressed in the green and gold of the house of Eisen. They, no she, Sorore judged, was much younger than the other cooks. Dressed in the same, yet less richly detailed mask as the matriarch, and with a short bob of dark hair…
Aya. Of course, it must’ve been. Sorore smiled to see her working with her grandmother, trying to keep pace with the more experienced students. But something was wrong, wasn’t it?
Well of course, she should not be dressed in those colours. Now that must’ve been it. Yes, they didn’t suit her, in fact, they weren’t her, as far as she could judge.
Wait.
How did she know that?
It wasn’t some vague aesthetic sense of the girl, it was a pertinent observation of something deeper. The bridge of logic in her head began to crumble as the loaming observation heightened. She didn’t know from whence it came, but now she was conscious of just how heavy her head was. Her mouth was dry, her hands and neck were so hot, and her vision began to swim.
Niche and Ivers were wrapt up in the performances, their faces slowled and contorted as they observed the display. In fact the cheers deepened and lengthened, the motions of the crowds, of the birds that flew above waiting for scraps, of the knives that skinned and sliced, all slid backwards in time until everything was a mere picture.
Only her brother stood out in that, staring directly at her, the provided cutlery falling from his hand as he stared at her. She was sure at that moment that he was experiencing the exact same thing. Her head throbbed with the strain of it all, the whine of the crowd, the heat of the night. She needed to get somewhere quiet, somewhere cool. She didn’t think about what she was doing or where she was going, merely pushed through the crowd, its oppressive sound and heat bearing down on her.
She managed to stumble her way to one of the stepped plaza rims, seeing the delightfully dark water peaking through between gently bobbing hulls. She stumbled down, crashing to the stones as she thrust her head and arms below its surface. The blissful cold and muting of the din washed away the pain, leaving behind it a light headedness.
And in that feeling, she felt something, the imprint of a sight upon a long lost mind, trying to respond to a similar sensation. A deja vu that pervaded her own vision, superimposed upon it as it tried to resolve a contradiction it’d spawned. It was an image of limitless waters, a sunset with orange-red skies and an endless expanse of silver and black.
In the centre, was someone tall and dark, clad in the very sea.
Then she was being pulled up, water running off of her to fall into the canal. She was coughing, unknowingly having drawn water into her lungs as she’d fallen into memory’s depths. She lay on the steps, her hair hanging in loose dark clumps on the steps. When she turned back to thank Ivers, or Niche, or maybe Frare, she was shocked to find someone else.
The mask was of generic Karkos made much like the one she wore. The skin below the ridge of the mask was ashen, drawn into a concerned line. The hair of what must’ve been the man, was a long, thin grey-white, drawn into a ponytail.
“My goodness,” said the man, “are you alright?”
“I-I-” she said, coughing profusely as water scratched at her windpipe.
He helped her up to a sitting position, where she coughed up even more water, both ruining her dress and embarrassing her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “the heat got all a bit too much so…”
“Ah-ha,” the man said, offering her a small cloth, “I was wondering. Not the first time this has happened here, I assure you.”
“We should go,” came another voice from behind him.
Sorore looked, and found another tall, gaunt figure dressed in grey-white robes. Unlike most of the spectators in the evening, his was full and perfectly smooth, with only the barest slits for eyes.
“Of course,” said the other man, looking behind him, “do you have someone with you that we could take you to? I’d hate to leave you by yourself.”
“Um, thank you but-”
It was at that moment that Frare burst out from the crowd, Niche and Ivers not far behind him. He practically leapt down the steps to where she was, looking with thinly veiled suspicion at the two men.
“Here they are,” she said weakly, coughing up a little more water.
“I see,” he said, before turning to her companions, “we found her, dunking her head in the canal. I was getting a little worried about how long she was spending.”
‘How long she was spending’? Surely it was only a few moments.
“Right, thank you,” said Niche, “it’s quite under control.”
“I doubt that,” said the other man.
His voice sounded familiar to Sorore, but she couldn’t quite place it in the haze.
“You should not stay long in this place,” he continued, “you’re expected.”
“And I think that’s your queue. He’s one of the Occluded, and now you must be on your way to the hall of the dead, I think.”
He gestured out to the edge of the crush of boats, where another poleman in grey robes and a perfectly smooth mask stood waiting for them to board.
Sorore looked out upon the mass of gently rocking boats, all possessing their own colours and embellishments.
“What do you mean by that?” she said with a nervous laugh.
“There’s only one way to get to the plaza from the canal,” said Ivers, pointing to the corner of the buildings, from where a cacophony of sound was coming.
“Come on!” said Frare, hopping across from boat to boat with ease, “it’s not hard.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Ivers, then turned to Sorore, “my lady?”
He extended his hand, helping her at a gentle pace through moored vessels.
“Well, this is not the first time you’ve done this, is it?” she said, her feet coming down hard onto the hull.
“No,” admitted Ivers, “usually it’s the elderly that require such assistance. Not to say that you move like one!”
Good catch, Sorore thought as they weaved their way to the end of the alley.
“All children in Karkos learn to do such things,” he said, helping her leap a particularly wide gap, “we have to get used to falling into the canal.”
“That doesn’t make me confident,” she said flatly, as the plaza came into view.
It was largely the same as when they came there the previous day, the stalls and traceries flowing in the light breeze. What was different was the sheer amount of people that wandered, almost all wearing what looked to be masks of one type or another.
“Last stretch,” Ivers said, indicating the bend of the canal as it flowed around the plaza, “we’re almost at the steps.”
There were one or two treacherous moments where Sorore almost tumbled in, but with Ivers’s help, she managed. Frare was looking bored, sitting on the steps up to the plaza, whereas Niche stood there, watching her closely. He had elected to not wear his armour, arguing that it would make travelling around the city risky should he fall in. Sorore suspected that it was also in an attempt to blend into the crowds, though he still wore hardened leather under the thin silk, which made him look larger than he was.
Soon, they were awash with the people who’d come for the festival, so much so that Ivers had to shout to make his voice known.
“What a party, no?” he called, “and this isn’t even gunnel-full yet.”
Sorore looked around at the sea of people, wondering what on earth constituted ‘full’. Around her was an impenetrable wall of coloured silks and accented masks. Some of them were clearly foreign, but most of the Karkosians were of pale porcelain, highlighted in brass, copper, and gold. Of course, there were many variations, with feathers, scraps of brightly coloured cloth, and one or two ones with gemstones embedded within.
“Ah, that’s right!” said Ivers as he prompted them to a stall, lined with masks of a similar description.
He paid for them, denying them a chance for Niche to use his gold. Ivers explained that it wasn’t his money, nor his choice, as Kieren had bade him to provide for the guests when they got to the plaza. All three were made to sit upon a stool while the elderly craftsman examined their features and selected the proper mask.
Sorore was pleased when the mask and its holding wire slipped over her face with minimal discomfort and a tight fit. Judging by the expression of mischievous joy on the face of Frare, it was much the same for him. Ivers was wearing his own, streaks of black stone accented in brass inlays distinguishing it from many in the crowd.
“You like it?” he said to Sorore, “it was my father’s childhood one, which he wore for decades. Some of the masks here are centuries old, passed down from generations past.”
Sorore looked around with renewed wonder, looking from one ceramic face to another, trying to determine which might show the signs of such an age. The crowd on the whole was moving too fast to make such determinations, and Ivers was keen to show them his favourite events of the day. They were led around in a dizzying parade of sights and sounds, from stall to stall.
Some were delicious foods, including skewers of meat that set Sorore’s mouth ablaze and slabs of thin bread drenched in garlic and butter. Some were fine odds and ends, trinkets and little pieces of craftswork, of such a like that Sorore had not seen before. She’d gotten particularly engrossed in a clockwork timepiece emblazoned with sun and moon motifs before she was pulled away to the next attraction.
As the sun began to grow low in the sky, they were led to a large clear area, with the longest series of tables Sorore had ever seen. There were at least a dozen rows, all lining the widths of the plaza, great cooking stations set up between them at intervals. Sorore wanted to get a closer look at the massive cast iron pots and brick and stone counters, but was pulled into a bench before she could do so.
“Seating is on a ‘first come, first served’ basis,” Ivers said, “we don’t want to go to the outer benches. Sometimes the food gets cool before it’s served there.”
The benches slowly filled up around her, the chatter growing around her as they did so.
“You know, if you think this is impressive, you should see the main street festival,” he said, “the tables go up its whole length, from the canal to the front gate.”
Sorore tried to imagine the brown wood stretching from one end to another. How many people might that sit? A thousand, two thousand? And where were they being served from?
“The stalls and shops,” Ivers said, “they serve them.”
“You read my mind!” she exclaimed.
“Oh hardly, usually it's the first thing that the newcomers ask,” he said, “hey, hey! Look!”
Near the back of the plazas, there were a series of slightly raised platforms, too high to be called a dias. There was a procession of people in unbelievably opulent clothing, all in the colours of their houses, taking their places at the tables.
“There!” whispered Ivers, pointing to assemblies of red and blue that Sorore immediately recognized, “that’s aunt Kieren and master Balae.”
So it was, though Sorore might be hard pressed to recognize them through the masks. Even from this distance, she could see the intricate goldwork, the studded blue gemstones, and the long trailing plume of red feathers from the nasal bridge. Soon, they were all seated, and at the sound of a silver trumpet, the crowds began to be silent.
The centre of the raised platforms was dominated by three separate tables, as well as its own cooking station. The first was one done in a rich red and white, stationed by a half-dozen people in matching clothes. The second was green and gold, and the third was bereft of people, draped down in purple.
“Is that, the…” Frare snapped his fingers, “the Miram?”
“Yes,” Iver said, “they keep the table in their honour, but no one can claim a seat. Now hush, the Eisen matriarch is about to speak.”
Sorore felt a thrill as she realised who the woman was, dressed in a tight corset of emerald with long golden sleeves. She raised a lined hand to the crowd, and the last remnants of conversation vanished into the sunset. Coughing once to clear her throat, her powerful voice echoed off the buildings surrounding the plaza.
“Children of Karkos!” she proclaimed, “We come together in the final hours of the year, to celebrate the highest point of our lives!”
There were a few cheers, but, curiously, there was a quiet laughter from some of the tables. Sorore looked around, wondering what could give cause to that mirth in such a solemn moment.
“But humility, humility my friends!” she said, “in this moment, in this festival, you must remember those old words of wisdom, laid down by our forefathers.”
The collective roar of the crowd, joined in by Ivers, was those words.
“Death comes first!” they called.
“Always,” said the matriarch, holding up her hands again in silence, “Death is the first concern of us all. We keep that in mind as we sail the waters we call home, as we work our land and count our wealth. Death should never be a stranger or a surprise, but rather, an old friend.”
There were a couple of outright laughs at that and Sorore began to feel second-hand embarrassment. That was until she saw that the woman was grinning from ear to ear.
“And that’s that. Another year, and the only speech you’ll get out of me!” she said, in a far less sanctimonious tone, “You lot, who wants to eat?”
The laughter grew to riotous guffawing, as the whole of the crowd began to applaud the matriarch. It would appear that her informality was well liked in the city, despite how much it personally chafed at Sorore. Soon, there were bowels of clear broth, all small, but wonderfully seasoned and salted.
She and her brother had sailed around the edges of the continent, staying for smaller sojourns in various ports with her father. They’d also been well off in Erratz and had a personal chef. At Angorrah, though modesty in all things were encouraged, including meals, they often feasted on what was claimed to be some of the finest food on the continent.
The courses of meats and salads, soups and drinks that were served that evening put all of those to shame. Braised beef and green beans, in wine with a tangy punch. Bitter greens that had been fried to paper-thickness, delivering a satisfying salty crunch. A fish that melted in her mouth like butter, joined by potatoes flavoured by lemon juice and black pepper.
Even Niche’s stoic demeanour was pushed aside by the sheer quantity of quality on display. He remarked in surprise at dish after dish, wondering at the flavours, saying that he’d never tasted the like of it. Frare was happily shovelling away, and for once Sorore didn’t begrudge him his manners. She was having trouble keeping herself from attacking the food with vigour. Meanwhile, Ivers was clearly enjoying his guest’s awe, answering questions as well as he could.
People were beginning to get up and mingle between tables, goblets full of wine and beer. This was, sheepishly explained by Ivers, known as “the intercourse” among some members of the city. It was apparently where some of the biggest deals, or at least their first seeds, were laid down. Sorore didn’t exactly understand why the young man looked so embarrassed by the term, though perhaps it was a dirty joke.
The highlight of the night was the martirach herself, along with an array of cooks from what was called the ‘Emroe’ school, butchered and cooking the next course. It was several massive creatures, looking somewhere between a black-scaled snake and a toad, its back streaked with a bright red. The matriarch had eschewed working with long sleeves, and rather had a sleeveless vest, still in the customary colours of her house, along with a pair of short pants.
Such was the strangeness of this attire that it took a moment for Sorore to wonder at the matriarch's work. As best she could guess, the Eisen matriarch was in her elder years, yet she butchered at such a pace that only a handful of younger cooks could keep up. The entire crowd was watching as the entrails were removed, followed by the hide, peeled off in great strips.
“Going straight to the tanners, then Nieth,” Ivers offered as the hide stripes were carried off to waiting canal boats..
Soon the creatures were divided up and slabs of their meat were carted around the plaza to various cooking stations. The smell of melted fat, searing meat, and seasoned oils filled the square. Sorore’s head began to float on that warm scented air, still watching as the cooks at the centre prepared yet more creatures.
It was then, quite by chance, that she spied a cook, the only other dressed in the green and gold of the house of Eisen. They, no she, Sorore judged, was much younger than the other cooks. Dressed in the same, yet less richly detailed mask as the matriarch, and with a short bob of dark hair…
Aya. Of course, it must’ve been. Sorore smiled to see her working with her grandmother, trying to keep pace with the more experienced students. But something was wrong, wasn’t it?
Well of course, she should not be dressed in those colours. Now that must’ve been it. Yes, they didn’t suit her, in fact, they weren’t her, as far as she could judge.
Wait.
How did she know that?
It wasn’t some vague aesthetic sense of the girl, it was a pertinent observation of something deeper. The bridge of logic in her head began to crumble as the loaming observation heightened. She didn’t know from whence it came, but now she was conscious of just how heavy her head was. Her mouth was dry, her hands and neck were so hot, and her vision began to swim.
Niche and Ivers were wrapt up in the performances, their faces slowled and contorted as they observed the display. In fact the cheers deepened and lengthened, the motions of the crowds, of the birds that flew above waiting for scraps, of the knives that skinned and sliced, all slid backwards in time until everything was a mere picture.
Only her brother stood out in that, staring directly at her, the provided cutlery falling from his hand as he stared at her. She was sure at that moment that he was experiencing the exact same thing. Her head throbbed with the strain of it all, the whine of the crowd, the heat of the night. She needed to get somewhere quiet, somewhere cool. She didn’t think about what she was doing or where she was going, merely pushed through the crowd, its oppressive sound and heat bearing down on her.
She managed to stumble her way to one of the stepped plaza rims, seeing the delightfully dark water peaking through between gently bobbing hulls. She stumbled down, crashing to the stones as she thrust her head and arms below its surface. The blissful cold and muting of the din washed away the pain, leaving behind it a light headedness.
And in that feeling, she felt something, the imprint of a sight upon a long lost mind, trying to respond to a similar sensation. A deja vu that pervaded her own vision, superimposed upon it as it tried to resolve a contradiction it’d spawned. It was an image of limitless waters, a sunset with orange-red skies and an endless expanse of silver and black.
In the centre, was someone tall and dark, clad in the very sea.
Then she was being pulled up, water running off of her to fall into the canal. She was coughing, unknowingly having drawn water into her lungs as she’d fallen into memory’s depths. She lay on the steps, her hair hanging in loose dark clumps on the steps. When she turned back to thank Ivers, or Niche, or maybe Frare, she was shocked to find someone else.
The mask was of generic Karkos made much like the one she wore. The skin below the ridge of the mask was ashen, drawn into a concerned line. The hair of what must’ve been the man, was a long, thin grey-white, drawn into a ponytail.
“My goodness,” said the man, “are you alright?”
“I-I-” she said, coughing profusely as water scratched at her windpipe.
He helped her up to a sitting position, where she coughed up even more water, both ruining her dress and embarrassing her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “the heat got all a bit too much so…”
“Ah-ha,” the man said, offering her a small cloth, “I was wondering. Not the first time this has happened here, I assure you.”
“We should go,” came another voice from behind him.
Sorore looked, and found another tall, gaunt figure dressed in grey-white robes. Unlike most of the spectators in the evening, his was full and perfectly smooth, with only the barest slits for eyes.
“Of course,” said the other man, looking behind him, “do you have someone with you that we could take you to? I’d hate to leave you by yourself.”
“Um, thank you but-”
It was at that moment that Frare burst out from the crowd, Niche and Ivers not far behind him. He practically leapt down the steps to where she was, looking with thinly veiled suspicion at the two men.
“Here they are,” she said weakly, coughing up a little more water.
“I see,” he said, before turning to her companions, “we found her, dunking her head in the canal. I was getting a little worried about how long she was spending.”
‘How long she was spending’? Surely it was only a few moments.
“Right, thank you,” said Niche, “it’s quite under control.”
“I doubt that,” said the other man.
His voice sounded familiar to Sorore, but she couldn’t quite place it in the haze.
“You should not stay long in this place,” he continued, “you’re expected.”
“And I think that’s your queue. He’s one of the Occluded, and now you must be on your way to the hall of the dead, I think.”
He gestured out to the edge of the crush of boats, where another poleman in grey robes and a perfectly smooth mask stood waiting for them to board.
