Cobwebs -- Gracen

[Colombina]

"Who overcomes by force, has overcome but half his foe." Continued from here. ___ “Yes, a West-Winder. The beer-makers,” he answered, pride bronzing his voice. “She’s Dimourla’s niece, if you know any of that story.” The deposed Queen’s name had the power of a curse. People shifted and glared as if Rezon released a wasp into the crowd. It was vulgar to attach any worth to the woman who straddled Ahnatep only to break its spine. Dimourla and khur-va had the same sting. Even the sharp, half veiled countenance had turned away and vanished with the flux of the crowd. Aware he had created another small furor, the young man grinned. “Sensitive lot.” Mistaking Gracen’s initial question for encouragement, the young man rounded out his commentary. “I bet both will be at the South’s party tonight instead of the East Wind’s.” His useful information stopped there, so he closed his mouth and let the parade pass. When the final boats were showing their stern the crowd began to shed bodies. They either trailed after the boats, beautiful as floating lotus or slipped into the festive crook of the shore. Eypharian vanity had ascended to artistry for the occasion. They were not people, but archetypes, mimicking what they wished to be in place of what they were. Apparel was not a tool to display wealth but to conjure a subtle mythology. A “shepherdess” with flowers crowning her unbound hair jauntily threw an egg at the young man’s feet. It broke with the scent of myrrh and cedar. He jumped half a span, startled by the “attack”. It jangled his laden belt and he was forced to gather dropped Mizas and colored stones from amongst the broken shells. His glass expression radiated embarrassment. In his hurry to recapture the girl he filled his pouch with more dust that money. Mercifully, Gracen was spared any more idle conversation. The young man was hot in pursuit, eager to break the curtain of bodies that had drawn about the girl. In his wake was only a forgotten copper Miza and a white pebble carved with a feather.

[Gracen]

Gracen, a foreigner, knew better than to talk politics, but here was a native Eypharian speaking to him of the dread queen, the fallen Pressorah. He could only hope this would not draw down the wrath of the locals on his head by association. Eypharians were a touchy lot, and too clever by half. If one took offense, Gracen might roam the world for another few years, forget about this day, and return to Ahnatep only to find a knife in his back or, more likely, die of some odd desert fever or ague. Poison was almost as skillfully handled by an Eypharian as a Dhani. But he too had an invitation to join the lady Izdihar of the House of the West Winds, Dimourla's Noble House, for the fete at the Port of the House of the South Winds. He knew for a fact the hoity-toity nobles of Ahnatep broke wind just as much as the next person, but he came from a city as steeped in tradition and ceremony, so he merely fell into step with it, the better to survive its currents. "Hey, you dropped your--" But when he came back up, copper miza and feather-etched stone in hand, the young blabbermouth was gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish, he supposed, but sometimes conversation with another helped bring him out of himself. Wherever he was, he was in hell, the absence of Lord Sivah as fresh a void in his soul now as it had been a dozen years previous when he was but a lad. Sighing, he slung them in his pouch and started off after the arse ends of the frilly boats to see what could be seen.

[Colombina]

The last boat had been the Inkara's by design. It straddled the line between titillating and offensive, an accomplishment in Ahnatep, no stranger to hedonism. It was a larger vessel, fit for travel along the Eyktol coast while the others were reed crafts meant for afternoon excursions. Its body was hung in swaths of black and gold, the unofficial colors of the Pressorah's line and was heaped high with the treasures of a funerary barge. The sails had been slashed to ghostly tatters and only handsome, half-nude oarsmen propelled it forward. At the prow was the Inkara her skin painted pale and glittering with crushed pearls. Black linen covered precious little of her young body. Her hands held chains that fastened around two slave's necks: broad men painted in black and white. They were allowed to wear even less than the Inkara. She stroked them with both derision and seduction as they wove about her legs as Dira's jackals. Against the Captain's advice, the Inkara had demanded ghostly acrobats to dance among the rigging. They threw cactus flowers in a constant rain of red when not suggestively wrapped around one another. Sex and death: there was an admirable simplicity and cheeky crudeness to the theme. Caught between criticism and fascination part of the crowd chose to continue chasing this last boat, as if further scrutiny would solidify an opinion. Gracen found himself in this patch of people. It was mostly comprised of youths, sensing the mildly taboo quality of the sight. The tiny fiends were tangling over themselves and their elders in pursuit. The acceptable jostle of a moving crowd sharply moved to the assault as a little shyke slammed into Gracen's hip. It was the other child, though, that stole his pouch. Gracen could feel the quick lightness after nimble fingers did their work.

[Gracen]

The Inkara's vessel was certainly a sight to behold, even bolder in its epicurean pageantry than his own home, exile though he was. But just as he was prepared to leave that and possibly track down the fellow who had dropped his things, those selfsame things were stolen from him. In Kenash, he had never worried after his things, as nobody would rob a man of his station for fear of the law and their god. But here... "Thief!" he called, and instantly pelted after the retreating back of the child, intent on getting his booty back, even if he wouldn't have the pleasure of taking his hand or his life for not wanting trouble with local authority.

[Colombina]

Gracen's declaration caused a shudder around him as people lifted arms and checked their own possessions. Some may have even tried to look about for the offender, proving the race was not entirely indifferent to the pain of others. The figure scrambled into the fluid crowd, moving over and under bodies festooned with bright fabrics, paints and gems. The bright press of Eypharians was staggering to accomodate the chase, but was stilted by its own density. A short, skinny frame would have been useful, for once, able to maneuver through narrow spaces. A few boys, who were unfortunate enough to be running somewhere, were snatched around the collar by older Eypharians. A thief's fingers could not be left unbound. Eypharians loved their possessions too much to tolerate pickpockets. Regrettably, none of the captured faces or garb matched the child that had gleefully lightened Gracen's belt. The child-thief had been lost, and with him Gracen's purse. Three bells wore on. Parade boats were eventually docked near the shore's festivities. Eypharians admired and critiqued the vessels up close, ever free with their opinions despite lack of contribution to the endeavor. Amidst booths selling food and beer, young men and women played games that were less about wining and more about beginning entanglements. Those who established the game were half-hearted in their enforcement of the rules, save making sure each game ended quickly enough for another batch of players to cycle through. "Gracen," came a woman's voice. Her sheath of a dress was an ombre of white, purple and red, strongly resembling a gloam flower. One was tucked behind her ear, as if no more symbolic than a rose. One set of hands were on the child thief's shoulders. He did not look at Gracen but mechanically extended the human's empty pouch. "Come talk with me, Gracen," she said, enjoying her ability to wield his name when he knew nothing of her. "And I will fill that purse in a style almost obscene."

[Gracen]

All that running proved fruitless until his name was spoken out of nowhere. There were a few people who knew him here, but the voice was not familiar. He had no weapon drawn as he turned, but he could whip it out between one thought and the next. Quick on the draw was Gracen. He took in the sight of contrite thief and the power broker; she could not be anything else. Though far from the social structures of his home, he could recognize influence, taste it on his tongue in the air around him. A gloam flower. He wondered if Izdihar had sent her, or if she was the one who sent Izdihar places. He took the pouch despite the fact it held nothing for him, nor for the man who had dropped it. But perhaps he could get to the bottom of this, or at least down into the murky depths. Revenge was what he wanted; one, two, three. But his funds were low, most of them spent managing a trip to Hai that did not involve getting thrown in, and even so he had received his share of injuries for teasing the abyssal prison. Her obscene gifts might make his revenge possible, and so he nodded and stepped toward her.

[Colombina]

The woman smiled and whispered in the boy's ear. He nodded without looking up and hurried away, grateful to be let loose from such uncertainty. For Gracen, the smile endured. Without obvious transition, two arms were slipped around the human's. They adopted the cadence of a stroll as she easily ushered him into her confidences. "You're a very understanding man, Gracen. No wheedling or whining. I appreciate brevity without indignation." Though she moved like a woman being led, the path had been chosen by her quiet footfall. "I am Shepemna, your guide for this brief season of your life. It is my job to ply you with whispers and promises. Most of which are sincere." Her expression had a light twist of wryness. "Reputation is paramount in this city." There was a span of quiet as they passed through an accumulation of revelers straining to see a play. She broke it only with idle remarks. "Will you be attending The Seduction? Rumati is a treat in that. I had hoped one of her divine..." she dragged the word languorously, "...cousins would be Royet this afternoon, but he is abroad." One shoulder raised in a shrug of acceptance. A false wistfulness made her voice airy as she continued, but it's wilting effect was offset by the predatory keenness of her eyes. "A girl can hope, can't she?" As the crowd became an echo, she moved closer to her purpose. "Gracen, dearest, my employer thinks you know something worth a princely sum and would like to trade in either knowledge or gold. Would you be amenable to that?" She leaned away to read his expression, her own bright with curiosity. "Fair warning, should you choose to meet him, be on good behavior. We are all very courteous until we are not."

[Gracen]

"Were the contents precious to me," he said, "the reach of my sword might have stolen his hand, but I should have made an effort to be a more difficult mark. It were a waste of energy to be angry at a thief for following his nature." The way his body fell into the ballet of chivalry, one might have thought him a prince or paladin, but in any case, he was a natural with a woman on his arm even if her arms outnumbered his. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Shepemna. I have no real plans for Ahnatep. I am, as they say, as free as the breeze." And then she came closer to the meat of their meeting, and he considered his options for only a moment. From what he knew of Ahnatep, she must be a member of the House of the West Winds, or in their employ. They had a stranglehold on the gloam market. But he didn't speak Izdihar's name. If they knew his, they likely knew that he had met her, but it didn't do to give it away on the off chance they did not. He knew several dangerous people in Ahnatep. One more who wanted to do business with him would not hurt. After all, there were few reasons to go to such trouble to kill him. He nodded to her question, then assured her, "I shall be the very pink of courtesy."

[Colombina]

"The very pink," she repeated, running the words over scarlet laughter. "I'd keep you, dear Gracen, if I could. I've never met a brute so well spoken." Gracen's inherent gallantry was the last stroke of the charmed glyph. He and the gloam maiden ought to have been cast in bronze, he for his broad, cruel looking body contorted to gentility and her for the silken way she obscured her poisonous claws. Dangerous things could be at peace with one another. Their oppressive presence was felt primarily by the weak, who were meant to be drunk dry and tossed carelessly away. In this pretty pavane, they moved nearer the poorer quarters. The roads degraded from stone to rubble to packed earth, and the houses began to leer instead of casting imperious poses. At one point, Shepemna paid for two litters to carry them across the dirtier streets. They followed her murmured commands, and left swiftly after the pair's feet touched earth again. They were at the Pillars of Dust. Human refuse crossed walkways and bundled itself in shaded corners. Some dreamed and others spoke wild words. Most the larks had fled to the festival, removing their bittersweet song from the district. Shepenma led briskly on, passing Scorpions without a glance. She was Inkara here. A modest dwelling, remarkable only for its comparative cleanliness was their final destination. Shepenma turned towards Gracen, attentive as a mother about to send her child to school. "I like you, Gracen. No man has ever walked so well with two arms, so be good and have a care." Sincerity might have dappled her brow, as she spoke. "Don't lie, he smells them like a Jackal," here she smiled, "And stand up straight." She gestured towards the door, flanked by two men who played at being distracted. The door opened into a tiled entry with stairs going up and down. The faint sounds of the living trickled down from the higher level.

[Gracen]

She spoke of knowledge as if it were the prize, and then offered a deal of it for free, perhaps thinking she was casting pearls before swine, or calculating that he might be a noble porker among the human herd. He danced with her, using words instead of daggers, and held his own, but he was leery of Eypharian politics. They were even more twisted than those he had observed in his youth at home. He was generally quiet when someone else spoke, offering him information that might keep him alive, or even earn him coin or a lead on his death list of three. And while they were carried in litters, he was quietly meditative, threading djed into his muscles, into his bones, ready for fight or flight. These litters could easily become funeral palls. But then they were among the Pillars of Dust and he began to feel more at home even if he did not relax. "Such compliments," he acknowledged, smiling as if they hit home. Gracen bowed to the woman, a bow from an exotic court. "Thank you for the advice, Lady. I shall endeavor to reflect well upon you." If there was to be nothing else, he nodded to the guards, who would likely ignore him, and walked into the building to see what there was to see.