The First Binding, page 47
“I’m feeling charitable. And our treasure is plenty. We can stand a day’s earnings, if it’ll even take that, to get everyone a dinner that’s hot and meaty.”
Some of the sparrows standing in the usual ring around Nika and Juggi heard my declaration. They broke into excited clamoring as I exited the doors.
I allowed myself a smile. Let them hold to the little hope of better eating tonight. Even if no coin came in, an unlikely thing, I’d fund the dinner myself.
Because everyone could use a little hope now and again. Be they lordling high, or sparrow low. Hope gives us a promise of betterness to hold to when everything else seems bad, or when things don’t change.
I knew this in my heart as I walked the streets of Keshum. Some of the sparrows would never grow to be anything beyond what they were. And that brought barbs to my chest.
No one likes the thought of knowing their brothers and sisters would live and die the way they’d always lived. It may have meant one thing if they had come to this world with privileged lives.
But there is no privilege in belonging to the lowest caste, and being a sparrow at that.
The thought made me reconsider Kaesha’s idea. A desert king coming this far would not do so to trade trinkets and trash. He’d come for treasure. Real treasure.
The sort kept for and in storybook myths and legends. The kind told to young boys and girls to get their eyes glittering as best and bright as gold.
And if we could get a piece of it for ourselves, well, then the sparrows might not have to live as sparrows any longer.
The idea sat with me until I reached the Zanzikari.
The inn had been set up along one of Keshum’s busier thoroughfares. Bathri Street. A place that did nothing but cater to the weary-worn businessman of the world passing through. And it did well for that.
The inn featured a sign in the shape of a stallion in full gallop. The building had taken its name from the kind of horse it showed, a popular and expensive breed used in races down south and beyond the more crowded areas of the Empire. The beast had been painted a black so dark no night could hope to hide it. It would stand out truer black against anything. Gold letters ran across the horse’s broad body and named the inn for what it was.
I slipped through the doors as another patron opened them, owing to not wanting to make any noise of my own and attract attention. Sparrows may not have been known to all, but some of Keshum’s citizens had keener eyes than others.
They knew our look. And my reputation had slowly grown among some circles, aided in part by certain letters and rumors being passed along by my brothers and sisters.
As much as I peddled truthful secrets for profit, I saw no harm then to spread a few lies to bolster our standing. And in turn, mine grew by greater measure than I expected.
According to some, I had been the son of a noble, trained from early age in my sums, letters, and speech, and of course, the soldier’s art. My father had the money and the time.
And every young boy has time enough to play with things that can just as easily hurt him. In fact, it seems always we make time for that. One of our many little flaws.
I’d run away after my wealthy father died at the hands of another trader, and swearing revenge, I turned myself into a trickster thief to learn the subtler ways to exact a toll. I learned to sneak quieter than the stone lizards who scuttled without a sound over the rocks they so resembled. I learned to listen through walls and pluck men’s deepest secrets, all ready and spun to be sold about to any who could offer the tidy sums I asked.
And I still held to the swordsman’s skills, testing them out on the second father of mine: Mithu.
He’d wronged me badly and had taken part in my father’s death, you see. At least, that’s how some of the stories took shape. Others had me more in the fashion of those told the day I’d watched Mithu fall. Demon, they called me.
Born of them with something twisted wrong and dark inside me. I craved blood and all things far from the way of Brahm. So, I killed. I stole. I sowed temptation where and when I could among the gentle folk of Keshum and Abhar whole.
It’s easy for men to find scapegoats for their own misdeeds, and when you have someone so convenient at hand, why not label him for worse?
In truth, my reputation didn’t suffer for it.
But it did mean I’d catch the occasional side-eye more often than I would have liked.
People wondering if I was that Ari. The one from the tiny tales told around the city.
That attention wouldn’t do today. I needed someone else to be the focus of a story, and I needed their tale to give me answers I’d craved for a long time.
I searched the taproom. People bustled by, all fixed on their business with no room or mind for anything else. There was an energy of quiet purpose here. Nothing wasted down to the food, the movements of men, and their speech.
Many of them, if not all, were merchants of a sort. And while this was a place of rest, it was equally a place to continue dealings away from the loud and busy streets.
So I gave it that respect. All places have silent rules to them, and if you watch them long enough, you can begin to see the shapes of those rules.
Here, interrupting a person, even to ask an innocent question, could cost them dearly in matters of money. That would earn you more than just the sharp side of someone’s tongue. It’d earn you a beating, perhaps worse when dealing with those who had the coin to bribe city officials and the kuthri.
Everything here was of solid but simple stone, and just as shineless sturdy wood. Nothing here of gaudy show or of false luxury—no. You knew what you got.
The floors were tiled in gray brick that refused to hold any dirt and grime. Every bit clumped and scraped off boots only to be swept away by cleaning hands. The wood absorbed no light from outside or from any candles. Dull.
But unmarred too.
No knives had ticked a surface of its original face. No splinters. No cracks.
This place saw no brawls or violent disagreements. And if it did, or ever had, anything broken was replaced as quickly as damaged. This place had all the signs of quiet efficiency.
Which might be why it attracted the folks it did.
I looked to the counter, another mix of hard-set stone and wood. The man behind it had gone bald long ago. He had the jowls and gentle rolls along the face and upper body you’d expect of a prosperous innkeeper.
His face shone brighter than bits of mirrorglass. Some of it came from sweat, more from the heat than anything else, and the rest owed to oily skin. It gave him a dark and healthy look, however. He held much of the sun in his skin.
He locked eyes with me and I took it as a silent cue to approach. His bushy brows, long turned gray, rose as I drew closer. “You’re young.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I am.”
“Too young to be here alone. I’m not selling you a thimble of spit without your mother or father by your side. Unless you’ve coin yourself?” He cocked his head to the side.
I pulled a copper round from my pocket, moving it through the air before fanning my fingers wide. Four tin chips sprouted from behind the larger coin due to a trick another of the sparrows had taught me. It didn’t do much, but I’d learned little flourishes draw more than some men’s eyes.
They take the minds as well. Even if only in small measure.
It softened his demeanor toward me and he eased his elbows off the counter. “What do you want?”
I slipped the coins back inside my pocket, tucking them away with the remaining ones I’d taken from the treasury.
Kaesha had told me the storyteller took payment. “No stories come free,” he’d said. “And every story is worth something, even if not to you.”
I agreed with the sentiment.
“Do you have any yogurt?” I rubbed my fingers against the coins, idly keeping count of them and wondering how many I’d need for the storyteller.
The barkeeper nodded. “Fresh this morning. Won’t keep for much longer, though.”
“Can you make a lushi?”
He bowed his head and moved to fetch my drink.
“Wait, with honey?”
He waved a hand in a gesture I took to mean he’d heard me. The man busied himself at the other end of the counter before vanishing to a back room out of sight. He returned minutes later with a cup, placing it before me. “Two chips.”
“Two? That’s a chip more than I figured.” I produced the coins and passed them to him, grabbing hold of my drink just as he’d plucked the money from me. “Are mangos high in rates? Or is it the yogurt?”
The barman put a hand to the side of his head, pushing once to elicit an audible crack from his neck. “Bit of both. We pay a premium on our mangos. Fresher, not as close to ripe. Gives us more time to sit on some with business as busy as it is. And we have an ice box to keep the yogurt longer. That costs us.”
I could imagine. Those contraptions let one keep things cold for longer than possible, and some could even chill the air inside far enough to turn water hard and cold. “One more thing.”
The man stopped moving toward the other side of the bar, his mouth pulling to one side in a tight and lopsided frown.
“I’ve been hearing there’s a performer here some days.”
The man said nothing.
“Is that true?” I knew Kaesha had been honest with me, but I needed to hear it from someone who worked the inn.
The barkeeper rolled his shoulders, glancing down the way to a small makeshift stage of wood set on brick stands. It matched the style of the rest of the inn: simple, clean, sturdy. One could comfortably be assured it would not give way under any performance, be it a rousing dance, or feet-kicking song and step. “He comes sometimes. It’s up to him. But he’s been here nearly every day this set. Why?”
I ignored his question. “What’s he charge for a story?”
The barkeeper took an empty glass from a young woman who’d been collecting them. He set to stacking them neatly behind himself in a basin for washing later. “Four chips. You want to spend that much, boy?”
I bristled. While he’d said it in passing, and it struck true to the mark, I’d grown to hate being called “boy.” I pulled free more coins, showing I had them to spare. “I’m bored. And I can’t see this place hurting from someone telling a story.”
The barkeeper grunted and took another glass from one of the serving ladies. “You don’t know people here, then.”
I know them better than you might think, and only by first glance at that. I kept that thought to myself.
No one likes to be told their business by someone else, especially a stranger. Doubly so if that stranger is a child.
“People here like their business kept quiet and done in about as much. Understand?” He raised both brows and managed to look down the bridge of his nose at me all the while.
I nodded. “Shame. I figured he’d probably buy a drink or two, wet his whistle before speaking. Or maybe while. Storytelling parches folks. That’s coin earned back to the house, right?”
The barkeeper blinked several times. “You have a head for business, but you’re too young for it.”
I shrugged.
“What caste are you? Are your parents merchants—nobles?”
My throat ran dry. If he knew I was Sullied, he could have me thrown from the establishment. While there weren’t any laws preventing people of my caste from being here, there was enough societal disdain among certain classes of folks. That extended, by rule of thumb and trade, to merchants from outside the Empire. They knew enough not to talk and do business around undesirables.
I refused to answer and bypassed that conversation altogether by taking a sip of my lushi.
The drink consisted of mango juice and pulp folded into a mixture of water and yogurt. Cool, tangy, and sweetly refreshing. It pulled away any of the day’s heat and discomfort at the first sip.
“This is good. You’ve got a hand for drinks, sahm.”
The compliment hardly registered with the man, but he didn’t press his earlier question. “You might have struck a truth in the storyteller wanting drinks. He might have people in a mood to order more for themselves while they listen. If business is postponed while he talks, people might get to eating and sipping to pass the time.” He stroked his chin and mused under his breath for a moment.
“You have a good head on you, boy. So, yes. The storyteller will be here.”
I stared at him. A moment ago he didn’t sound all too sure, and now he all but said it with the surety of telling me the sun would rise tomorrow. “How do you know?”
The barkeeper gestured with an elbow down to one end of the counter. “That’s him there. He’s been here, drinking his first drink.”
I glowered at the man. “So why bother with all the talk of shearing sheep and weighing rice? I paid.” I tapped the side of my drink before taking another few sips. “I don’t appreciate the useless busy talk.”
The barkeeper raised his hands in placation. “Easy, boy. No need to light a fire between your brow, hm. I didn’t know what someone like you would want with a storyteller. No parents? Asking after a man when I haven’t seen you before? A fellow’s got a right to his privacy. Especially under my roof. That, and, by a quick look at you, I’d have thunk you were Sullied. How’re my customers to take it if I’ve got Sullied asking around after them? What’s one to think?”
I held my heated stare, but let it go a moment later. There was no point in starting trouble or antagonizing the barkeeper. He’d given me what I wanted. So I thanked him and eased away from the bar, heading toward the storyteller he pointed out.
“Oi, boy.”
I stopped, looking back to the barman.
“He likes ruhah.” The barkeeper winked and returned to his work.
That was good to know. Ruhah had been created long ago, well before the Mutri Empire had even become what it was. Just a series of neighboring kingdoms, all squabbling for greater power paid for with a price of blood and bodies. The drink came from brewed rice meal, sugar cane, wheat, and a mixture of fruits.
Some stories said that the god Hahn favored it. It was as bitter as it was sweet and quick to intoxicate the unwary man.
And it would probably cost me more than I would have liked for the price of a story.
I reached the place where the storyteller sat and took him in.
He couldn’t have been into his thirtieth year, yet. Fresh-faced and full-bronzed. His hair had all the blackness and shine of oiled ink. He wore it down past his ears in a mix of waves and curls. His eyes had the same brown in them of wood and whisky in the sun. The cut of his jaw fell somewhere between bottle-glass sharp and as hard as cinder brick.
He had the kind of face young women pined for and every other man envied enough to want to hit. The man dressed in a sleeveless shirt as black as his hair, and pants to match. A few cords of bright red were braided around his biceps, and a series of black ink dots had been pricked into one of his muscles. They resembled a bird with large eyes and a short beak. Rounded head, and large talons. An owl, perhaps?
The man caught me staring. “Yes?”
“Are you the one telling stories here?”
He raised a finger to shush me as he took another sip of his drink.
I waited for the taste to end, but it didn’t.
He held the glass to his mouth, taking longer than I’d ever seen someone take to drain a thimble’s worth of alcohol. Done, he smacked his lips with more show and noise than necessary, following with an exaggerated exhale. “That is a drink.”
I fidgeted, wanting an answer to my question.
“You’re impatient.” The man hadn’t even looked my way this time. “A good storyteller builds anticipation. It’s like feeding wood to a fire, boy. You build it.” He took another sip, succeeding only in building my agitation, not anticipation. “Layers.” He set the glass down, and just as I opened my mouth to press him, he brought the drink back to his mouth. Another smack of the lips and I felt soon enough I’d give him one as well, courtesy of my fist. “Like that.” He set the glass down and finally looked like he had no desire to further tear the already fraying edges of my patience.
“Are you going to perform today?” One of my hands already went into my pocket, fumbling over the coins.
Silence.
I couldn’t bear him dragging this out any longer, so I did the childish thing and took a long and loud sip of my own drink. The noise carried none of his subtlety and exaggerated air. It had all the annoyance of a donkey braying in the middle of a temple service. Loud, rolling, like a child slurping soup.
One of his eyes twitched, like the sound bothered him more than he’d thought it would.
It may have been a small spiteful thing to do, but I was young. And in desperate need of what he had to tell.
“You keep that up, boy, and you might make one fine storyteller yourself one day.”
I smiled at that.
“The sort so fine at pissing off the right people and being tossed from any establishment worth telling and trading tales in. The sort people shoo away more than they usher in.” He grinned and my own faded. “So, you want a story, is that it?”
I nodded. “I can pay.”
“I should hope so.” Another sip. Then he looked at me over the rim of the glass. Sip. Look. He put the drink down. “No good storyteller tells a tale for free. Remember that. It’s an art. And all good art must be paid for. Anything less is a sin of two measures. First, you giving away something so special for naught. Second, the person who values something so private and precious for nothing at all.” He raised the glass again and sipped.
I fidgeted again, wanting to at least know if he damned well wanted to tell a story.
“Patience is another mark of a storyteller. You might have need for it.” While he didn’t look at me, I had a feeling his eyes glimmered in amusement.
“I’ve been patient for longer than you know.” I pulled coins from my pocket and slammed them by his cup. “I think this is enough for a new drink.”
He turned, leaving his glass where it rested. Both his hands moved and one came to rest on my shoulder. “Ari, I know more than you think.” He smiled and rose from the seat.
