In Constellated Wars - Part Seven
AUGH. I am so close to being caught up it is physically painful.
I have also had my first START day. (I could go into this whole long winded explanation about what a START day is, but basically it is a furlough - they're just calling it something else. Huzzah for unpaid days off.)
Still. I got to sleep in until 8:30. It was positively decadent.
Thierry usually ate breakfast at the lodging house where he rented a room, until he could afford the Helion’s tax for a house of his own. That wouldn’t be until after Alais and Yvaine were wed, by his reckoning - possibly longer.
It didn’t really matter. He wasn’t going to stay in Altera long enough to need to worry about becoming a landowner. He would move on, Sun willing, the instant his contract was up.
It was too late to go back to the lodging house now, so Thierry took the old woman’s advice and left the Temple district, heading south towards the harbor and the Floating Market.
There were two harbors in Altera - three if you counted the one at Redwater, which was all but inaccessible unless you had a death wish, which Thierry didn’t. The first was Waning Moon Harbor, which was where strangers and newcomers who hadn’t yet been approved by the Market’s officials docked. Waning Moon Harbor was for guests, the port of entry for new colonists, although there hadn’t been very many of those in years. It had been named for its shape; the harbor itself formed a crescent, a design Aubrey said was less for its aesthetic appeal and more because it was easy to defend. There was a three ship wide gap between the signal towers of the harbor, which history had shown was nearly impossible to breach. The Thaqibans had used Waning Moon Harbor to defend themselves against pirates and foreign incursion for nearly three hundred years.
The second harbor was officially named Port Prosperity, but everyone in Altera called it the Floating Market, which was a less pompous and more accurate description. The Market was located farther into the city, and merchant vessels had the option of unloading their wares at the portside marketplace or using their ships as temporary stores. Most opted for the latter. The marketplace charged a fee to display their wares on dry land, and most found it easier to make a profit if they peddled their wares themselves, which left the marketplace free to flourish with local craftsmen and food sellers and those who specialized in things which could not be properly displayed aboard a ship, like fabrics or weapons.
Thierry liked the Market. He’d been in Altera long enough that its charms should have faded, but it still seemed new and fantastic to him every time he visited, like something out of a story book. The Floating Market was the one thing he actually enjoyed about living in Altera. The trade routes had slowly been reestablished after the plague, and while Altera was no longer the heart of trade in the East, it was at least a major port of call for every vessel traveling back to the continent.
He wandered aimlessly, not looking for anything in particular. He veered to Calle Paradiso and Ferran’s shop without thinking about it, hoping for nothing more than a decent cup of tea and the chance to ask the baker a few questions without getting kicked in the shins.
He didn’t intend to stumble into the middle of someone else’s fight. One of the tables in front of Ferran’s shop had been knocked over by the furious combatants. It took him a moment to realize that one of the combatants was wearing a blue Guardsman’s uniform, and the other had hair too dark to be anyone but Ferran’s bad-tempered young apprentice.
Nuhatai couldn’t have been any more than fifteen, and the Guardsman had to be at least twice that. It wasn’t a fair fight by any stretch of the imagination, but Nuhatai seemed to be holding his own. He tripped the Guardsman as he rushed past, using the larger man’s momentum against him. He didn’t run away, though. He planted his feet and waited for the next charge, making it clear to everyone watching that they were on his territory, and he refused to forsake it.
“Enough!” Thierry shouted, leaping into the middle of the fight. He caught a glimpse of Nuhatai’s grey eyes going wide before the Guardsman tackled him. The Guardsman struck him across the face; Thierry’s skull bounced painfully against the ground, struck on all sides by pain. He brought his arms up clumsily, trying to protect his face from another blow to no avail. “Stop!” he cried.
The Guardsman didn’t listen or didn’t hear. Thierry realized that the man meant to beat him senseless at best and kill him at worst, and not a soul would raise a hand against him.
Training and instinct kicked in then. Thierry bucked his hips and threw the man off-center, making it possible to squirm out from underneath him. He lashed out with his feet, landing a solid kick in the man’s midsection, trying to buy time. He wasn’t strong enough to take the man down with force, but he might be able to do so by surprise.
Thierry flung himself forward, knocking the man to the ground. They rolled, knocking over another one of Ferran’s tables in the process, both of them grappling for dominance. Thierry had always been good at wrestling, though, and he made sure to give as good as he got in the process, lashing out with his hands and fists in a wild free-for-all.
He couldn’t have said how it would have ended if Nuhatai hadn’t knocked the Guardsman off of him when he found himself pinned a second time. The man turned on Nuhatai then, rage in his eyes.
Thierry limped back to his feet and grabbed one of the knocked over chairs. He swung, aiming wildly, and hit the Guardsman across his back, knocking him flat. He waited, holding the chair ready to deliver a second blow, but the man didn’t get up again.
“Should we call the Guard?” one onlooker wondered.
Thierry spat pink-tinged saliva out and glowered. “I am the Guard, fools,” he said, contemptuous. “And so is he. Erelim Sandoval will have my report from Erelim d’Adamo and whatever Erelim is in charge of that asshole.”
“Arriortua,” Nuhatai told him. “And if you think he’s going to tell Erelim Sandoval anything, you’re greener than I thought you were.”
Thierry sighed. “Ah,” he said. Arriortua hadn’t struck him as the type to share information with his fellow Erelim. “Perhaps not, then, but the fact that this will be handled by the Guard remains.”
That seemed to satisfy the crowd, which vanished now that there was no more entertainment to be had.
“Oh, my head,” Thierry moaned, dropping the chair. He bent over so he could brace his hands on his knees and prayed that the world would stop moving before he was sick.
“Haven’t you ever fought anyone before?” Nuhatai demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing Thierry to sit down in the chair he’d just dropped. “You’re really very bad at it.”
Thierry found he could lift his head enough to glower at the boy. “Are you always this tactful, or do Guardsmen just have this effect on you?”
“Why is it always untactful to tell people the truth?” Nuhatai wanted to know.
“It’s not,” Thierry told him. “It’s just the way you phrase things that people object to.”
Nuhatai threw his hands up in the air. “I’ll not curb my tongue to mollycoddle every over-sensitive, wet-behind-the-ears mama’s boy who’s probably too dumb to know he’s too old to still be sucking on his mother’s teat. It’s the truth, damn it all. No one said the truth had to be pleasant!”
Thierry laughed, almost in spite of himself. Nuhatai sounded like his training masters at the Accademia, only younger and less sure of himself.
“You’ve spent too much time around the sailors, haven’t you?” he asked.
Nuhatai made an expansive gesture in the direction of the Market. “What was your first clue?”
Thierry staggered slowly to his feet, despite Nuhatai’s efforts to keep him in the chair. The world was spinning slower now. He thought it might be safe to move, as long as he did so slowly. “What’s a Redwater Guardsman doing in the Market?”
“Other than harassing us, you mean?” Nuhatai asked, angry and bitter. “The same thing you are, I wager. Or that’s what he’ll say.”
Thierry looked at him sharply and promptly regretted it when the too-quick movement made his stomach lurch. “This has happened before?”
Nuhatai shrugged. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Thierry righted one of the fallen tables. “What about your father?” he asked, taking a wild stab at Ferran and Nuhatai’s relationship. It was the only explanation that made sense. Why else would two adolescent Thaqibans still be in the city the rest of their people had left behind, save one?
“Pedar’s out on business,” Nuhatai said, his tone indicating that he wasn’t going to answer any more questions on that subject. Thierry wasn’t sure if that was adolescent prickliness at work, or if it was a sign of a deeper, more familial loyalty.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the boy added, disappearing back into the shop.
Thierry righted the second table and chairs and followed. His morning hadn’t gone even a little bit like he’d planned, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least get breakfast out of it.
Nuhatai had vanished into the back of the shop, where it would be rude to follow. Ferran’s shop was in a three story building. The shop itself encompassed most of the ground floor, which left the upper two floors for living quarters. There was no staircase leading upwards, which meant that it was probably somewhere in the back. That was undoubtedly where Nuhatai had gone.
After a minute, there was an outraged feminine shriek. Thierry started, ready to charge into the back and up the stairs. He hesitated at the sound of feet hitting the stairs at a rapid pace, charging downwards to reveal Nuhatai, with Alhena right on his heels with murder in her eyes.
Thierry wasn’t entirely sure what the words Alhena was using meant, but he was willing to bet that they were unpleasant, if the words he could understand were anything to go by. Alhena wove in an out of Altagracian and Thaqiban, screaming a terrifyingly creative amount of invective at her brother, who looked like he was doing his best to become one with the wall.
“Um,” Thierry said. Breakfast was not worth this. It really, really wasn’t. “I’ll just be leaving, then.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Nuhatai said hastily, obviously hoping for someone to distract Alhena with.
At the same time, Alhena said, “You’re not going anywhere while you’re injured, Guardsman!” in tones that would have put Thierry’s training masters to shame.
“Well,” he said. “Perhaps not. If you insist.”
“We do,” they chorused. Nuhatai smiled weakly at his sister, who glared back at him.
“If you ever think to do something that foolish ever again, Nuhatai Ferran,” she said, trailing off ominously.
Nuhatai, who clearly had a fifteen-year-old’s delusions of immortality and the attendant lack of sense, said, “Of course I would. D’you know what he would’ve done with you if he’d gotten inside?”
Alhena threw a bread roll at his head. “Of course I do you jackass! But do you really think I’d rather keep my maidenhead at the cost of my brother’s life? Idiot! Dung-brained fool! You are too stupid to look at sometimes, Nuhatai.”
Nuhatai dodged the bread roll and gave Alhena a look of withering scorn. “He wouldn’t have killed me. You’ve got nothing to worry about. And of course you need to keep your maidenhead. No man’s ever going to want you if you don’t at least have that to recommend you.”
Alhena narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me, please, Guardsman,” she said, very politely. “I need to kill my brother now.”
Thierry stepped out of the way.
“Coward,” Nuhatai said, grey eyes flicking to possible escape routes.
“I’ve got five sisters,” Thierry told him. “Believe me when I say it’s much easier to submit to your fate than it is to intervene in what they think is justice.”
“You’re not the one she’s going to pummel black and blue!” Nuhatai shot back, dashing past Thierry and through the open window. He didn’t vanish into the Market the way Thierry expected him to. From the sound of it, the boy was scaling the side of Ferran’s shop.
Alhena’s purple eyes narrowed to slits. “I’ll be back to serve you in a moment,” she said, in a deceptively pleasant voice. “This won’t take long.”
“Of course not, Miss Alhena,” Thierry agreed.
Alhena vanished back up the stairs. Thierry waited, listening for the sounds of sisterly vengeance being extracted. He stood, staring at the back of the shop and forgot that he had his back to the door.
“I don’t suppose you two want to explain why the front of our shop looks like someone’s been brawling in front of it?” Ferran’s voice inquired mildly from outside the window.
Thierry turned around guiltily as Ferran opened the door.
The Thaqiban lifted both eyebrows, but otherwise betrayed no surprise at finding a battered Guardsman inside his shop. “Well,” he said, taking in Thierry’s bruises and bloody nose. “I suppose that answers that question. What are you doing here, Guardsman Mèrault?”
Thierry wasn’t entirely sure what the answer to that question was himself anymore. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me when I said all I wanted was breakfast, would you?” he asked.
“Not really,” Ferran said dryly. “But we can start with breakfast and go on from there, if you like.”
“I would,” Thierry said feelingly. “I really would.”
“Good. A moment, if you please,” Ferran said, disappearing briefly into the back of the shop. He reappeared a moment later, carrying a bowl of water and a clean towel. “You might as well get clean while you explain why you look like someone decided to beat the hell out of you in front of my shop.”
“How do you know it wasn’t the other way around?” Thierry asked.
Ferran looked him up and down. “I can’t imagine,” he said blandly.
Thierry scowled. “I see where Nuhatai gets it now,” he muttered. “Apparently I’m very bad at fighting,” he clarified.
The baker made a neutral noise. “I do hope you at least hit the other man,” he murmured.
“Oh yes,” Thierry said, smug. “With a chair.”
Ferran looked up at that. “You hit a man with a chair?”
“I didn’t want him to hurt Nuhatai,” Thierry explained.
“Ah,” said Ferran. “Start from the beginning please.”
He sounded exactly like d’Adamo did, when d’Adamo wanted information right the hell now, and wasn’t likely to take even the slightest hint of evasion with equanimity. Thierry found himself explaining his chance encounter with the old woman in the Temple district, and how getting breakfast was the only useful bit of advice his silver had paid for. He described the Guardsman, calling forth details of the man’s height and appearance for Ferran’s benefit, explaining his part in the altercation and Nuhatai’s.
“Nuhatai might’ve done better without my interference,” Thierry concluded. “He’s got no bruises on him that I can see. He managed to get his sister shut up safe before things escalated to violence, although he may yet live to regret it if Alhena has anything to say about it.”
“Perhaps,” Ferran allowed. “Perhaps not. Nuhatai is young, and he’s not yet learned his limits.”
“That’s not true!” Nuhatai protested from inside the kitchen. “I know where my limits are very definitely, thank you very much!”
“If you’re going to eavesdrop, you might have a care that I can’t hear you while you’re doing so,” his father retorted. “And bring out a cup of tea for our guest. Unless you’d care for kahve?”
“Tea is fine,” Thierry said hastily, not wanting another encounter with the bitter drink.
“I’m almost done,” Alhena called.
Ferran sighed. “Young things,” he complained. “All impatience and high drama.”
Thierry started. He’d heard that before, just this morning. “The old woman,” he blurted. “She said that too.”
Was it just his imagination, or did Ferran look the smallest bit uncomfortable at that?
“Yes,” Ferran said after a pause that went on for a second too long. “Madame Sosostris is fond of saying that about everyone who is younger than she is.”
“Which is all of Alkaiyir,” Nuhatai interjected, carrying out a pot of tea and two mugs.
“Some day,” Ferran mused. “I will teach him to be subtle.”
“And then I’ll be unstoppable,” Nuhatai said cheerfully.
“Fortunately, that day isn’t written in his stars for some time yet,” Ferran said, with a disapproving look in Nuhatai’s direction that the boy blithely ignored.
“Alkaiyir,” Thierry repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word on his tongue. He knew that the Thaqibans called Altera something else, but on the mainland he’d always heard the city called Altera, which was the closest approximation in Altagracian.
“Alkaiyir-al-zul,” Ferran clarified. “Alkaiyir of the Waters,” he translated. “Our history tells us that the city is built on the remains of another, rising from the deep.”
“Really?” Thierry asked.
“Perhaps,” Ferran said. “At any rate, I owe you a debt of gratitude, for defending my children. If Nuhatai had brought the Guardsman down, it would have created ill-will in the community, which would bring nothing but trouble to us,” he added, with a stern look at Nuhatai. This time, at least, Nuhatai had the grace to look abashed. “That it was another Guardsman who did so is a kindness to us.”
“I did no more than what anyone else would have,” Thierry said. “It doesn’t matter who you are. It’s the business of the Guard to protect you.”
“You did no more than anyone else should have,” corrected Ferran. “And seeing as it’s the Guard who make a habit of harassing us, I think you’ll find that what is practiced here is different from what is taught in the Accademia.”
“Of course it is,” Thierry said tiredly. “Everything’s different here.”
“Yes,” Ferran said. “It is.”
Thierry looked away, ashamed. It had never occurred to him that he might not be the only one who looked around at what should have been familiar things and saw only what made them strange. What would it be like to live in a place that should have been home, where there were no familiar faces: only strangers who slowly took his home and made it theirs, changing their environment to suit themselves and his with it?
“I’ll try and stop by more often,” he said, in liu of offering an apology he didn’t know how to properly articulate. “To make sure Arriortua doesn’t come back. I’m sure Aubrey would too, if I mentioned it to him. It sounds like he’s a regular here.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Nuhatai told him.
Ferran just looked at him, midnight-dark eyes assessing. Thierry held very still and tried not to flinch beneath his gaze.
After a too-long moment, Ferran transferred his gaze to Nuhatai, still saying nothing at all. Nuhatai did flinch, dropping his gaze respectfully and vanishing into the back of the shop without another word.
“I shouldn’t like to see you suffer more injuries on my family’s behalf,” Ferran said, when it became obvious that neither of his children were listening.
Thierry shrugged. “A few bruises is a small price to pay to protect a child,” he said. “Even one that’s near enough to being a man.”
“You’re not that much older than he is,” Ferran observed.
“A few years makes all the difference,” Thierry told him. It was the same answer he gave Alais and Yvaine in his letters, when they complained that they were near-women of fifteen and therefore too old for his older brotherly lectures and interfering ways.
“Yes,” said Ferran. “I suppose they do. I owe you a debt for what you did,” he added, holding up a hand to forestall Thierry’s protest. “My people do not take such things lightly. Gratitude is not something to be given casually, nor is it something to be carelessly invoked. It would be an insult to make light of it, and even worse to dismiss what you did as nothing.”
Thierry kept his mouth shut, not wanting to give offense either way.
Ferran noticed, if the wry hint of a smile tugging at his lips was any indicator. “If there is anything I can do to repay the debt in equal measure, I will do all in my power to ensure that I do so.”
“I - ” Thierry began, and stopped himself. He wanted to ask Ferran about what he knew about what had been done to Mistress Elanore and Phillip Mercier, but it didn’t seem prudent to do so after this morning. “Why did one of Arriortua’s men try and make trouble for you?” he asked, realizing suddenly that he honestly didn’t know. He had a few theories, most of them stemming from his unfavorable impression of Redwater’s Erelim, but he had yet to hear Ferran confirm one.
And Nuhatai, he realized, had suggested that such things had been common in the past, and best handled without the interference of the Guard, although Ferran had hinted that such things had changed now. Except there was no reason for change, unless Arriortua or someone else thought that Ferran was involved in their current investigation.
But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Ferran and his children were Thaqiban, but they ran a bakery, for the Sun’s sake. They weren’t mystics or magicians - they were just people, like everyone else in Altera.
“Arriortua and I have no love for one another,” Ferran said.
“I don’t imagine Arriortua’s very fond of anyone,” Thierry replied. “And I’d say sending his Guardsmen to harass you goes a bit beyond mutual dislike.”
“It might,” Ferran said, “if Arriortua objected to me for any reason other than I’m Thaqiban. Bigotry is seldom reasonable.”
“No. I suppose it isn’t.” Thierry hesitated. Mistress Elanore and Phillip Mercier had been killed by magic - nothing else could have turned their skin to glass, or slipped in and out of the Oyster Shell and the House of Night Wanderers undetected. There were no mages in Altera as far as Thierry knew. So no Carelian or Lucian or Aracelian could have done such things, which made it all the more likely that a foreigner had done it. Even d’Adamo had felt the need to ask Ferran whether or not a Thaqiban could have done such things, because magic and Thaqib were nearly synonymous terms as far as the people of the Eastern continent were concerned. It wouldn’t take much for Arrirotua to reach the same conclusions - and unlike d’Adamo, Arriortua was unlikely to take Ferran at his word when he said that his people couldn’t do such things.
If Arriortua was already harassing Ferran’s family simply for being Thaqiban, there was no telling how ugly things could get if he decided Ferran was responsible for the murders of Alteran citizens.
He was startled out of his thoughts when Ferran reached out and tilted his chin up with two strong fingers, turning Thierry’s face this way and that, inspecting the damage. “You’re never going to get clean if you keep stopping to think,” the baker told him, taking the towel and using a corner of it to dab at Thierry’s face like Thierry was a child. “Hold still,” he added, when Thierry would have taken the towel away from him. He poured them both tea when he was done, setting the pink-tinged water and the towel aside.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Thierry said finally, not sure of how else to phrase it. “If Arriortua thinks you’ve got something to do with what’s happening…”
“I know,” Ferran said, voice soft and all the more terrible for its gentleness.
“It won’t be safe for you,” Thierry said. “Any of you.” Any Erelim who’d send his Guardsmen after people’s families wouldn’t hesitate to hurt those he saw as being less than human. The way he’d spoken of the sirène left no doubt about that in Thierry’s mind.
“It never was.” Ferran sipped his tea and added, “We’ll be careful.”
“Good,” Thierry said, surprising himself with how much he meant it. He didn’t want to see the baker or his family hurt. He told himself that it was just because he still hadn’t gotten any answers out of Ferran, but that thought rang false and untrue, even inside the privacy of his own head. Thierry took a sip of his own tea to cover his sudden awkwardness.
It was no business of his, what happened to a stranger he’d only just met. Especially not a stranger who didn’t even live within the district that was his to protect.
Except Aubrey always acted like the whole of Altera was theirs to protect, and not just the Ravensgate district. He always talked about the city as a whole - as something that belonged to him and that he in turn could belong to.
Maybe Aubrey’s madness was rubbing off on him.
At the Accademia, the students who’d come back had warned him that he’d pick up his first mentor’s bad habits, but Thierry hadn’t really believed it until now.
That was probably all it was, though. Well, that and a desire for answers that it seemed no one in the entire city felt inclined to give him.
“I believe you mentioned wanting breakfast?” Ferran asked.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Thierry said.
“Of course not,” Ferran assured him, getting up. “I’ll just be a moment.”
Thierry leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea, letting its warmth soothe his hurts. He wrapped his hands a little tighter around the mug. He hadn’t yet seen a winter in Altera, but he was told they were cold - although not so cold as they’d been at home in Lucia - and wet, prone to flood and fog and other assorted natural phenomena that could make a Guardsman’s life a misery. The weather was just beginning to turn cold, despite the lateness of the year.
Thinking of the changing seasons reminded Thierry of what the old woman - Madame Sosostris - had told him. Darkness is coming she’d said, looking down at a Hemisphere made of Winter stars.
It was possible she’d meant the solstice, which was the longest night of the year and heralded the return of lengthening days: the return of the sun. It was celebrated everywhere as Carnival, the night when people hid their faces behind masks and fine costumes if they could, and celebrated the worship of Solariel and the Seven. In the days of the departing dark, Carnival had been a way for people to show that they weren’t afraid of the Night or anything the Night could bring, and to reaffirm their beliefs that Solariel’s light would protect and guide them.
She’d also said he was at the heart of whatever darkness was coming. Thierry couldn’t see himself at the center of the Carnival celebrations, so maybe she hadn’t meant the solstice after all.
It was probably nothing.
“Do you know Madame Sosostris?” he asked Ferran, when the baker reappeared with fresh bread and cold slices of meat and a bowl of dearly expensive fresh fruits that set Thierry’s mouth to watering just looking at it. He hadn’t realized how much he’d taken the fruits of the harvest for granted until he’d come to Altera, where most fresh green things had to be imported or were carefully and jealously grown in pots of earth or tiny gardens and were therefore expensive.
“We’re acquainted,” Ferran replied, setting both dishes in front of Thierry and taking a seat.
“I can’t -” Thierry began, embarrassed. Fresh fruit was a luxury. He ate what he needed to keep his health, but he couldn’t help but feel that the money would be better spent on his sisters’ dowries.
“Eat,” commanded Ferran. “You intervened on my children’s behalf. Feeding you is the least I can do.”
“Does this make us even, then?” Thierry asked, digging into the fruit with enthusiasm. He scooped a trio of berries up and popped them into his mouth, savoring the way their juices burst forth when he bit down, gloriously tart. Nothing compared to this, he thought, except the apple slice he ate next made that a lie, all crunchy sweet perfection.
“No,” Ferran said, so absolutely serious Thierry was sorry that he’d asked. He’d meant the words as a joke. Ferran had said that debts weren’t something his people took lightly. It looked like he meant it.
“I’m sorry,” Thierry said, guiltily wiping his fingers on a napkin. “That was ill-done of me. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just - it’s been awhile, since I’ve had fresh fruit. It’s worth the price of a few bruises to have such wealth at my fingertips.”
“Ah.” Ferran’s forbidding expression relaxed. “They sell fruit at the Market, you know.”
“It’s expensive,” Thierry explained.
Ferran lifted both of his eyebrows. “You’re a bit young for gambling debts, but you never can tell, can you?”
“I have sisters,” Thierry explained. “Our father died when I was Nuhatai’s age. They’ve no one but me to provide for them.”
“Is that why you joined the Guard?” Ferran asked. “To provide for them?”
“Well,” Thierry said, dry. “I can hardly provide dowries for them on a stable hand’s salary.”
Ferran startled him by laughing. “No,” he said. “I expect not. Still, I doubt your sisters would appreciate you risking your health for the sake of their dowries. Or has Aubrey not given you that lecture?”
“Oh no,” Thierry said. “I’ve heard the ‘sailors know the importance of eating fresh fruit’ lecture enough to know the damn thing by heart.”
“Well then,” said Ferran. “Eat up.”
Thierry smiled and turned his attention back to the bowl of fruit, digging into it with enthusiasm. He had to fight the urge to lick the bowl and his fingers clean when he was done. The fresh bread and meat Ferran had provided for him went forgotten until every last scrap of fruit was gone, which was a poor way to treat Ferran’s bread, Thierry mused. Aubrey hadn’t been joking when he’d said that Ferran was probably the finest baker in the entire city.
“Thank you,” he said when he was done.
“Fighting’s hungry work,” the baker replied.
“So is having someone beat the hell out of you,” Thierry said, smiling to take the sting out of the joke. “What makes us even?” he asked. “I don’t - I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing. We never dealt in debts back home.”
“You never did a favor for your neighbors?” Ferran asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“Sure I did, but that was just…” Thierry shrugged. “Our village was a small one,” he explained. “We shared what we could, and if one of us needed a bit more, well, they’d return the favor when the harvest was favorable again.”
“You could think of it like that,” suggested Ferran. “Or you could ask me a question.”
Thierry frowned at him. “What?” How was a question supposed to make them even?
“I … Honesty does not come easily to me,” Ferran said slowly. “It is what comes of being left alone, I suppose. I know you have questions. You might ask one. I swear to answer honestly, in the interest of repaying the debt between us.”
“Just one,” Thierry said.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to bring myself to answer more than that,” Ferran said candidly.
Thierry poured himself more tea and considered that. Finally, someone who was willing to speak plainly and honestly. It was everything he’d wanted since arriving in Altera - a chance to make sense of everything.
“That sounds fair,” he said slowly. “But I’ll save my question, if it’s all the same to you.”
Ferran tensed. “Will you, now?”
Thierry nodded. “I want to make sure I ask the right one.”
27183 / 50000
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I don't think I'm going to catch up today. This makes me sad.
I have, however, baked two eggnog pumpkin pies to be beta-tested by my coworkers in anticipation of Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. We'll see whether or not they like them. If they don't, I'm not bringing it to Thanksgiving, and the rest of the nog is going down the drain.
I have also had my first START day. (I could go into this whole long winded explanation about what a START day is, but basically it is a furlough - they're just calling it something else. Huzzah for unpaid days off.)
Still. I got to sleep in until 8:30. It was positively decadent.
Thierry usually ate breakfast at the lodging house where he rented a room, until he could afford the Helion’s tax for a house of his own. That wouldn’t be until after Alais and Yvaine were wed, by his reckoning - possibly longer.
It didn’t really matter. He wasn’t going to stay in Altera long enough to need to worry about becoming a landowner. He would move on, Sun willing, the instant his contract was up.
It was too late to go back to the lodging house now, so Thierry took the old woman’s advice and left the Temple district, heading south towards the harbor and the Floating Market.
There were two harbors in Altera - three if you counted the one at Redwater, which was all but inaccessible unless you had a death wish, which Thierry didn’t. The first was Waning Moon Harbor, which was where strangers and newcomers who hadn’t yet been approved by the Market’s officials docked. Waning Moon Harbor was for guests, the port of entry for new colonists, although there hadn’t been very many of those in years. It had been named for its shape; the harbor itself formed a crescent, a design Aubrey said was less for its aesthetic appeal and more because it was easy to defend. There was a three ship wide gap between the signal towers of the harbor, which history had shown was nearly impossible to breach. The Thaqibans had used Waning Moon Harbor to defend themselves against pirates and foreign incursion for nearly three hundred years.
The second harbor was officially named Port Prosperity, but everyone in Altera called it the Floating Market, which was a less pompous and more accurate description. The Market was located farther into the city, and merchant vessels had the option of unloading their wares at the portside marketplace or using their ships as temporary stores. Most opted for the latter. The marketplace charged a fee to display their wares on dry land, and most found it easier to make a profit if they peddled their wares themselves, which left the marketplace free to flourish with local craftsmen and food sellers and those who specialized in things which could not be properly displayed aboard a ship, like fabrics or weapons.
Thierry liked the Market. He’d been in Altera long enough that its charms should have faded, but it still seemed new and fantastic to him every time he visited, like something out of a story book. The Floating Market was the one thing he actually enjoyed about living in Altera. The trade routes had slowly been reestablished after the plague, and while Altera was no longer the heart of trade in the East, it was at least a major port of call for every vessel traveling back to the continent.
He wandered aimlessly, not looking for anything in particular. He veered to Calle Paradiso and Ferran’s shop without thinking about it, hoping for nothing more than a decent cup of tea and the chance to ask the baker a few questions without getting kicked in the shins.
He didn’t intend to stumble into the middle of someone else’s fight. One of the tables in front of Ferran’s shop had been knocked over by the furious combatants. It took him a moment to realize that one of the combatants was wearing a blue Guardsman’s uniform, and the other had hair too dark to be anyone but Ferran’s bad-tempered young apprentice.
Nuhatai couldn’t have been any more than fifteen, and the Guardsman had to be at least twice that. It wasn’t a fair fight by any stretch of the imagination, but Nuhatai seemed to be holding his own. He tripped the Guardsman as he rushed past, using the larger man’s momentum against him. He didn’t run away, though. He planted his feet and waited for the next charge, making it clear to everyone watching that they were on his territory, and he refused to forsake it.
“Enough!” Thierry shouted, leaping into the middle of the fight. He caught a glimpse of Nuhatai’s grey eyes going wide before the Guardsman tackled him. The Guardsman struck him across the face; Thierry’s skull bounced painfully against the ground, struck on all sides by pain. He brought his arms up clumsily, trying to protect his face from another blow to no avail. “Stop!” he cried.
The Guardsman didn’t listen or didn’t hear. Thierry realized that the man meant to beat him senseless at best and kill him at worst, and not a soul would raise a hand against him.
Training and instinct kicked in then. Thierry bucked his hips and threw the man off-center, making it possible to squirm out from underneath him. He lashed out with his feet, landing a solid kick in the man’s midsection, trying to buy time. He wasn’t strong enough to take the man down with force, but he might be able to do so by surprise.
Thierry flung himself forward, knocking the man to the ground. They rolled, knocking over another one of Ferran’s tables in the process, both of them grappling for dominance. Thierry had always been good at wrestling, though, and he made sure to give as good as he got in the process, lashing out with his hands and fists in a wild free-for-all.
He couldn’t have said how it would have ended if Nuhatai hadn’t knocked the Guardsman off of him when he found himself pinned a second time. The man turned on Nuhatai then, rage in his eyes.
Thierry limped back to his feet and grabbed one of the knocked over chairs. He swung, aiming wildly, and hit the Guardsman across his back, knocking him flat. He waited, holding the chair ready to deliver a second blow, but the man didn’t get up again.
“Should we call the Guard?” one onlooker wondered.
Thierry spat pink-tinged saliva out and glowered. “I am the Guard, fools,” he said, contemptuous. “And so is he. Erelim Sandoval will have my report from Erelim d’Adamo and whatever Erelim is in charge of that asshole.”
“Arriortua,” Nuhatai told him. “And if you think he’s going to tell Erelim Sandoval anything, you’re greener than I thought you were.”
Thierry sighed. “Ah,” he said. Arriortua hadn’t struck him as the type to share information with his fellow Erelim. “Perhaps not, then, but the fact that this will be handled by the Guard remains.”
That seemed to satisfy the crowd, which vanished now that there was no more entertainment to be had.
“Oh, my head,” Thierry moaned, dropping the chair. He bent over so he could brace his hands on his knees and prayed that the world would stop moving before he was sick.
“Haven’t you ever fought anyone before?” Nuhatai demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing Thierry to sit down in the chair he’d just dropped. “You’re really very bad at it.”
Thierry found he could lift his head enough to glower at the boy. “Are you always this tactful, or do Guardsmen just have this effect on you?”
“Why is it always untactful to tell people the truth?” Nuhatai wanted to know.
“It’s not,” Thierry told him. “It’s just the way you phrase things that people object to.”
Nuhatai threw his hands up in the air. “I’ll not curb my tongue to mollycoddle every over-sensitive, wet-behind-the-ears mama’s boy who’s probably too dumb to know he’s too old to still be sucking on his mother’s teat. It’s the truth, damn it all. No one said the truth had to be pleasant!”
Thierry laughed, almost in spite of himself. Nuhatai sounded like his training masters at the Accademia, only younger and less sure of himself.
“You’ve spent too much time around the sailors, haven’t you?” he asked.
Nuhatai made an expansive gesture in the direction of the Market. “What was your first clue?”
Thierry staggered slowly to his feet, despite Nuhatai’s efforts to keep him in the chair. The world was spinning slower now. He thought it might be safe to move, as long as he did so slowly. “What’s a Redwater Guardsman doing in the Market?”
“Other than harassing us, you mean?” Nuhatai asked, angry and bitter. “The same thing you are, I wager. Or that’s what he’ll say.”
Thierry looked at him sharply and promptly regretted it when the too-quick movement made his stomach lurch. “This has happened before?”
Nuhatai shrugged. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Thierry righted one of the fallen tables. “What about your father?” he asked, taking a wild stab at Ferran and Nuhatai’s relationship. It was the only explanation that made sense. Why else would two adolescent Thaqibans still be in the city the rest of their people had left behind, save one?
“Pedar’s out on business,” Nuhatai said, his tone indicating that he wasn’t going to answer any more questions on that subject. Thierry wasn’t sure if that was adolescent prickliness at work, or if it was a sign of a deeper, more familial loyalty.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the boy added, disappearing back into the shop.
Thierry righted the second table and chairs and followed. His morning hadn’t gone even a little bit like he’d planned, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least get breakfast out of it.
Nuhatai had vanished into the back of the shop, where it would be rude to follow. Ferran’s shop was in a three story building. The shop itself encompassed most of the ground floor, which left the upper two floors for living quarters. There was no staircase leading upwards, which meant that it was probably somewhere in the back. That was undoubtedly where Nuhatai had gone.
After a minute, there was an outraged feminine shriek. Thierry started, ready to charge into the back and up the stairs. He hesitated at the sound of feet hitting the stairs at a rapid pace, charging downwards to reveal Nuhatai, with Alhena right on his heels with murder in her eyes.
Thierry wasn’t entirely sure what the words Alhena was using meant, but he was willing to bet that they were unpleasant, if the words he could understand were anything to go by. Alhena wove in an out of Altagracian and Thaqiban, screaming a terrifyingly creative amount of invective at her brother, who looked like he was doing his best to become one with the wall.
“Um,” Thierry said. Breakfast was not worth this. It really, really wasn’t. “I’ll just be leaving, then.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Nuhatai said hastily, obviously hoping for someone to distract Alhena with.
At the same time, Alhena said, “You’re not going anywhere while you’re injured, Guardsman!” in tones that would have put Thierry’s training masters to shame.
“Well,” he said. “Perhaps not. If you insist.”
“We do,” they chorused. Nuhatai smiled weakly at his sister, who glared back at him.
“If you ever think to do something that foolish ever again, Nuhatai Ferran,” she said, trailing off ominously.
Nuhatai, who clearly had a fifteen-year-old’s delusions of immortality and the attendant lack of sense, said, “Of course I would. D’you know what he would’ve done with you if he’d gotten inside?”
Alhena threw a bread roll at his head. “Of course I do you jackass! But do you really think I’d rather keep my maidenhead at the cost of my brother’s life? Idiot! Dung-brained fool! You are too stupid to look at sometimes, Nuhatai.”
Nuhatai dodged the bread roll and gave Alhena a look of withering scorn. “He wouldn’t have killed me. You’ve got nothing to worry about. And of course you need to keep your maidenhead. No man’s ever going to want you if you don’t at least have that to recommend you.”
Alhena narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me, please, Guardsman,” she said, very politely. “I need to kill my brother now.”
Thierry stepped out of the way.
“Coward,” Nuhatai said, grey eyes flicking to possible escape routes.
“I’ve got five sisters,” Thierry told him. “Believe me when I say it’s much easier to submit to your fate than it is to intervene in what they think is justice.”
“You’re not the one she’s going to pummel black and blue!” Nuhatai shot back, dashing past Thierry and through the open window. He didn’t vanish into the Market the way Thierry expected him to. From the sound of it, the boy was scaling the side of Ferran’s shop.
Alhena’s purple eyes narrowed to slits. “I’ll be back to serve you in a moment,” she said, in a deceptively pleasant voice. “This won’t take long.”
“Of course not, Miss Alhena,” Thierry agreed.
Alhena vanished back up the stairs. Thierry waited, listening for the sounds of sisterly vengeance being extracted. He stood, staring at the back of the shop and forgot that he had his back to the door.
“I don’t suppose you two want to explain why the front of our shop looks like someone’s been brawling in front of it?” Ferran’s voice inquired mildly from outside the window.
Thierry turned around guiltily as Ferran opened the door.
The Thaqiban lifted both eyebrows, but otherwise betrayed no surprise at finding a battered Guardsman inside his shop. “Well,” he said, taking in Thierry’s bruises and bloody nose. “I suppose that answers that question. What are you doing here, Guardsman Mèrault?”
Thierry wasn’t entirely sure what the answer to that question was himself anymore. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me when I said all I wanted was breakfast, would you?” he asked.
“Not really,” Ferran said dryly. “But we can start with breakfast and go on from there, if you like.”
“I would,” Thierry said feelingly. “I really would.”
“Good. A moment, if you please,” Ferran said, disappearing briefly into the back of the shop. He reappeared a moment later, carrying a bowl of water and a clean towel. “You might as well get clean while you explain why you look like someone decided to beat the hell out of you in front of my shop.”
“How do you know it wasn’t the other way around?” Thierry asked.
Ferran looked him up and down. “I can’t imagine,” he said blandly.
Thierry scowled. “I see where Nuhatai gets it now,” he muttered. “Apparently I’m very bad at fighting,” he clarified.
The baker made a neutral noise. “I do hope you at least hit the other man,” he murmured.
“Oh yes,” Thierry said, smug. “With a chair.”
Ferran looked up at that. “You hit a man with a chair?”
“I didn’t want him to hurt Nuhatai,” Thierry explained.
“Ah,” said Ferran. “Start from the beginning please.”
He sounded exactly like d’Adamo did, when d’Adamo wanted information right the hell now, and wasn’t likely to take even the slightest hint of evasion with equanimity. Thierry found himself explaining his chance encounter with the old woman in the Temple district, and how getting breakfast was the only useful bit of advice his silver had paid for. He described the Guardsman, calling forth details of the man’s height and appearance for Ferran’s benefit, explaining his part in the altercation and Nuhatai’s.
“Nuhatai might’ve done better without my interference,” Thierry concluded. “He’s got no bruises on him that I can see. He managed to get his sister shut up safe before things escalated to violence, although he may yet live to regret it if Alhena has anything to say about it.”
“Perhaps,” Ferran allowed. “Perhaps not. Nuhatai is young, and he’s not yet learned his limits.”
“That’s not true!” Nuhatai protested from inside the kitchen. “I know where my limits are very definitely, thank you very much!”
“If you’re going to eavesdrop, you might have a care that I can’t hear you while you’re doing so,” his father retorted. “And bring out a cup of tea for our guest. Unless you’d care for kahve?”
“Tea is fine,” Thierry said hastily, not wanting another encounter with the bitter drink.
“I’m almost done,” Alhena called.
Ferran sighed. “Young things,” he complained. “All impatience and high drama.”
Thierry started. He’d heard that before, just this morning. “The old woman,” he blurted. “She said that too.”
Was it just his imagination, or did Ferran look the smallest bit uncomfortable at that?
“Yes,” Ferran said after a pause that went on for a second too long. “Madame Sosostris is fond of saying that about everyone who is younger than she is.”
“Which is all of Alkaiyir,” Nuhatai interjected, carrying out a pot of tea and two mugs.
“Some day,” Ferran mused. “I will teach him to be subtle.”
“And then I’ll be unstoppable,” Nuhatai said cheerfully.
“Fortunately, that day isn’t written in his stars for some time yet,” Ferran said, with a disapproving look in Nuhatai’s direction that the boy blithely ignored.
“Alkaiyir,” Thierry repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word on his tongue. He knew that the Thaqibans called Altera something else, but on the mainland he’d always heard the city called Altera, which was the closest approximation in Altagracian.
“Alkaiyir-al-zul,” Ferran clarified. “Alkaiyir of the Waters,” he translated. “Our history tells us that the city is built on the remains of another, rising from the deep.”
“Really?” Thierry asked.
“Perhaps,” Ferran said. “At any rate, I owe you a debt of gratitude, for defending my children. If Nuhatai had brought the Guardsman down, it would have created ill-will in the community, which would bring nothing but trouble to us,” he added, with a stern look at Nuhatai. This time, at least, Nuhatai had the grace to look abashed. “That it was another Guardsman who did so is a kindness to us.”
“I did no more than what anyone else would have,” Thierry said. “It doesn’t matter who you are. It’s the business of the Guard to protect you.”
“You did no more than anyone else should have,” corrected Ferran. “And seeing as it’s the Guard who make a habit of harassing us, I think you’ll find that what is practiced here is different from what is taught in the Accademia.”
“Of course it is,” Thierry said tiredly. “Everything’s different here.”
“Yes,” Ferran said. “It is.”
Thierry looked away, ashamed. It had never occurred to him that he might not be the only one who looked around at what should have been familiar things and saw only what made them strange. What would it be like to live in a place that should have been home, where there were no familiar faces: only strangers who slowly took his home and made it theirs, changing their environment to suit themselves and his with it?
“I’ll try and stop by more often,” he said, in liu of offering an apology he didn’t know how to properly articulate. “To make sure Arriortua doesn’t come back. I’m sure Aubrey would too, if I mentioned it to him. It sounds like he’s a regular here.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Nuhatai told him.
Ferran just looked at him, midnight-dark eyes assessing. Thierry held very still and tried not to flinch beneath his gaze.
After a too-long moment, Ferran transferred his gaze to Nuhatai, still saying nothing at all. Nuhatai did flinch, dropping his gaze respectfully and vanishing into the back of the shop without another word.
“I shouldn’t like to see you suffer more injuries on my family’s behalf,” Ferran said, when it became obvious that neither of his children were listening.
Thierry shrugged. “A few bruises is a small price to pay to protect a child,” he said. “Even one that’s near enough to being a man.”
“You’re not that much older than he is,” Ferran observed.
“A few years makes all the difference,” Thierry told him. It was the same answer he gave Alais and Yvaine in his letters, when they complained that they were near-women of fifteen and therefore too old for his older brotherly lectures and interfering ways.
“Yes,” said Ferran. “I suppose they do. I owe you a debt for what you did,” he added, holding up a hand to forestall Thierry’s protest. “My people do not take such things lightly. Gratitude is not something to be given casually, nor is it something to be carelessly invoked. It would be an insult to make light of it, and even worse to dismiss what you did as nothing.”
Thierry kept his mouth shut, not wanting to give offense either way.
Ferran noticed, if the wry hint of a smile tugging at his lips was any indicator. “If there is anything I can do to repay the debt in equal measure, I will do all in my power to ensure that I do so.”
“I - ” Thierry began, and stopped himself. He wanted to ask Ferran about what he knew about what had been done to Mistress Elanore and Phillip Mercier, but it didn’t seem prudent to do so after this morning. “Why did one of Arriortua’s men try and make trouble for you?” he asked, realizing suddenly that he honestly didn’t know. He had a few theories, most of them stemming from his unfavorable impression of Redwater’s Erelim, but he had yet to hear Ferran confirm one.
And Nuhatai, he realized, had suggested that such things had been common in the past, and best handled without the interference of the Guard, although Ferran had hinted that such things had changed now. Except there was no reason for change, unless Arriortua or someone else thought that Ferran was involved in their current investigation.
But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Ferran and his children were Thaqiban, but they ran a bakery, for the Sun’s sake. They weren’t mystics or magicians - they were just people, like everyone else in Altera.
“Arriortua and I have no love for one another,” Ferran said.
“I don’t imagine Arriortua’s very fond of anyone,” Thierry replied. “And I’d say sending his Guardsmen to harass you goes a bit beyond mutual dislike.”
“It might,” Ferran said, “if Arriortua objected to me for any reason other than I’m Thaqiban. Bigotry is seldom reasonable.”
“No. I suppose it isn’t.” Thierry hesitated. Mistress Elanore and Phillip Mercier had been killed by magic - nothing else could have turned their skin to glass, or slipped in and out of the Oyster Shell and the House of Night Wanderers undetected. There were no mages in Altera as far as Thierry knew. So no Carelian or Lucian or Aracelian could have done such things, which made it all the more likely that a foreigner had done it. Even d’Adamo had felt the need to ask Ferran whether or not a Thaqiban could have done such things, because magic and Thaqib were nearly synonymous terms as far as the people of the Eastern continent were concerned. It wouldn’t take much for Arrirotua to reach the same conclusions - and unlike d’Adamo, Arriortua was unlikely to take Ferran at his word when he said that his people couldn’t do such things.
If Arriortua was already harassing Ferran’s family simply for being Thaqiban, there was no telling how ugly things could get if he decided Ferran was responsible for the murders of Alteran citizens.
He was startled out of his thoughts when Ferran reached out and tilted his chin up with two strong fingers, turning Thierry’s face this way and that, inspecting the damage. “You’re never going to get clean if you keep stopping to think,” the baker told him, taking the towel and using a corner of it to dab at Thierry’s face like Thierry was a child. “Hold still,” he added, when Thierry would have taken the towel away from him. He poured them both tea when he was done, setting the pink-tinged water and the towel aside.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Thierry said finally, not sure of how else to phrase it. “If Arriortua thinks you’ve got something to do with what’s happening…”
“I know,” Ferran said, voice soft and all the more terrible for its gentleness.
“It won’t be safe for you,” Thierry said. “Any of you.” Any Erelim who’d send his Guardsmen after people’s families wouldn’t hesitate to hurt those he saw as being less than human. The way he’d spoken of the sirène left no doubt about that in Thierry’s mind.
“It never was.” Ferran sipped his tea and added, “We’ll be careful.”
“Good,” Thierry said, surprising himself with how much he meant it. He didn’t want to see the baker or his family hurt. He told himself that it was just because he still hadn’t gotten any answers out of Ferran, but that thought rang false and untrue, even inside the privacy of his own head. Thierry took a sip of his own tea to cover his sudden awkwardness.
It was no business of his, what happened to a stranger he’d only just met. Especially not a stranger who didn’t even live within the district that was his to protect.
Except Aubrey always acted like the whole of Altera was theirs to protect, and not just the Ravensgate district. He always talked about the city as a whole - as something that belonged to him and that he in turn could belong to.
Maybe Aubrey’s madness was rubbing off on him.
At the Accademia, the students who’d come back had warned him that he’d pick up his first mentor’s bad habits, but Thierry hadn’t really believed it until now.
That was probably all it was, though. Well, that and a desire for answers that it seemed no one in the entire city felt inclined to give him.
“I believe you mentioned wanting breakfast?” Ferran asked.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Thierry said.
“Of course not,” Ferran assured him, getting up. “I’ll just be a moment.”
Thierry leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea, letting its warmth soothe his hurts. He wrapped his hands a little tighter around the mug. He hadn’t yet seen a winter in Altera, but he was told they were cold - although not so cold as they’d been at home in Lucia - and wet, prone to flood and fog and other assorted natural phenomena that could make a Guardsman’s life a misery. The weather was just beginning to turn cold, despite the lateness of the year.
Thinking of the changing seasons reminded Thierry of what the old woman - Madame Sosostris - had told him. Darkness is coming she’d said, looking down at a Hemisphere made of Winter stars.
It was possible she’d meant the solstice, which was the longest night of the year and heralded the return of lengthening days: the return of the sun. It was celebrated everywhere as Carnival, the night when people hid their faces behind masks and fine costumes if they could, and celebrated the worship of Solariel and the Seven. In the days of the departing dark, Carnival had been a way for people to show that they weren’t afraid of the Night or anything the Night could bring, and to reaffirm their beliefs that Solariel’s light would protect and guide them.
She’d also said he was at the heart of whatever darkness was coming. Thierry couldn’t see himself at the center of the Carnival celebrations, so maybe she hadn’t meant the solstice after all.
It was probably nothing.
“Do you know Madame Sosostris?” he asked Ferran, when the baker reappeared with fresh bread and cold slices of meat and a bowl of dearly expensive fresh fruits that set Thierry’s mouth to watering just looking at it. He hadn’t realized how much he’d taken the fruits of the harvest for granted until he’d come to Altera, where most fresh green things had to be imported or were carefully and jealously grown in pots of earth or tiny gardens and were therefore expensive.
“We’re acquainted,” Ferran replied, setting both dishes in front of Thierry and taking a seat.
“I can’t -” Thierry began, embarrassed. Fresh fruit was a luxury. He ate what he needed to keep his health, but he couldn’t help but feel that the money would be better spent on his sisters’ dowries.
“Eat,” commanded Ferran. “You intervened on my children’s behalf. Feeding you is the least I can do.”
“Does this make us even, then?” Thierry asked, digging into the fruit with enthusiasm. He scooped a trio of berries up and popped them into his mouth, savoring the way their juices burst forth when he bit down, gloriously tart. Nothing compared to this, he thought, except the apple slice he ate next made that a lie, all crunchy sweet perfection.
“No,” Ferran said, so absolutely serious Thierry was sorry that he’d asked. He’d meant the words as a joke. Ferran had said that debts weren’t something his people took lightly. It looked like he meant it.
“I’m sorry,” Thierry said, guiltily wiping his fingers on a napkin. “That was ill-done of me. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just - it’s been awhile, since I’ve had fresh fruit. It’s worth the price of a few bruises to have such wealth at my fingertips.”
“Ah.” Ferran’s forbidding expression relaxed. “They sell fruit at the Market, you know.”
“It’s expensive,” Thierry explained.
Ferran lifted both of his eyebrows. “You’re a bit young for gambling debts, but you never can tell, can you?”
“I have sisters,” Thierry explained. “Our father died when I was Nuhatai’s age. They’ve no one but me to provide for them.”
“Is that why you joined the Guard?” Ferran asked. “To provide for them?”
“Well,” Thierry said, dry. “I can hardly provide dowries for them on a stable hand’s salary.”
Ferran startled him by laughing. “No,” he said. “I expect not. Still, I doubt your sisters would appreciate you risking your health for the sake of their dowries. Or has Aubrey not given you that lecture?”
“Oh no,” Thierry said. “I’ve heard the ‘sailors know the importance of eating fresh fruit’ lecture enough to know the damn thing by heart.”
“Well then,” said Ferran. “Eat up.”
Thierry smiled and turned his attention back to the bowl of fruit, digging into it with enthusiasm. He had to fight the urge to lick the bowl and his fingers clean when he was done. The fresh bread and meat Ferran had provided for him went forgotten until every last scrap of fruit was gone, which was a poor way to treat Ferran’s bread, Thierry mused. Aubrey hadn’t been joking when he’d said that Ferran was probably the finest baker in the entire city.
“Thank you,” he said when he was done.
“Fighting’s hungry work,” the baker replied.
“So is having someone beat the hell out of you,” Thierry said, smiling to take the sting out of the joke. “What makes us even?” he asked. “I don’t - I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing. We never dealt in debts back home.”
“You never did a favor for your neighbors?” Ferran asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“Sure I did, but that was just…” Thierry shrugged. “Our village was a small one,” he explained. “We shared what we could, and if one of us needed a bit more, well, they’d return the favor when the harvest was favorable again.”
“You could think of it like that,” suggested Ferran. “Or you could ask me a question.”
Thierry frowned at him. “What?” How was a question supposed to make them even?
“I … Honesty does not come easily to me,” Ferran said slowly. “It is what comes of being left alone, I suppose. I know you have questions. You might ask one. I swear to answer honestly, in the interest of repaying the debt between us.”
“Just one,” Thierry said.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to bring myself to answer more than that,” Ferran said candidly.
Thierry poured himself more tea and considered that. Finally, someone who was willing to speak plainly and honestly. It was everything he’d wanted since arriving in Altera - a chance to make sense of everything.
“That sounds fair,” he said slowly. “But I’ll save my question, if it’s all the same to you.”
Ferran tensed. “Will you, now?”
Thierry nodded. “I want to make sure I ask the right one.”
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(54.37%)
I don't think I'm going to catch up today. This makes me sad.
I have, however, baked two eggnog pumpkin pies to be beta-tested by my coworkers in anticipation of Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. We'll see whether or not they like them. If they don't, I'm not bringing it to Thanksgiving, and the rest of the nog is going down the drain.