Faestivul of Coming Cold – Dee One of Five, 768 A.E.
There was a celebratory air about Rummas. It hung like a haze over the trio of islands collectively called Rummas, the largest of which was shaped like a V pointing west. But then, part of that palpable sense of celebration might have been actual haze from the smoky fires of Rummas’ many inns.
The mesquite flavors of various spitted meats being cooked in hundreds of establishments over coals of scented woods or roasted meats being sold on the street wafted out onto the water, joining with the pleasant odors of spiced tobaccos and mead. The smells met each of their noses, and except for Bedros, who was an herbivore, their mouths began to water and each of them felt drawn to the city as if the scents were hooks on the end of some proprietor’s fishing line.
Anticipation of the Faestivul had been building among the crew, and Rolf found that it was likewise with himself and his companions. Each had reasons for looking forward to the Faestivul, even if they were celebrating among strangers in a strange port. The Faestivuls were universally celebrated among the peoples of the Broken Crown, and though the flavor of the celebration could vary from place to place according to the populace and the available fare, the basic reasons and practices were mostly unchanged.
After Dees of hard sailing, avoiding even a stop to take on supplies a Dee past at Respite Island, the sailors were weary. They had pushed the dhow hard, and with Makan’s sailing abilities to add to their own not insignificant pool of talent, they had made excellent time. Even Rolf, who was usually the first to throw out some sort of snide comment about Makan’s apparent proclivities for crashing boats, had refrained from making any such remarks after seeing the man in his native environment, or nearer to it at least. He had to admit to himself that the fishing boat they’d made their escape from Maethlin in was not a true test of what the man could do with a real vessel.
While he was not helpless on a boat, he was not skilled enough on the Elegian style of craft to be of much aid to the sailors. So, Rolf had spent his time cleaning and checking his weapons for any signs of ill use. Sagira had surprised him one Dee, sitting down not far from him to clean a very stylish and yet quite functional hand pistol of Elegian design. They favored darker woods and a shorter barrel of a smaller bore than the Kerathi did, but it was still a fine weapon.
Other than that, there had been little more he could do but stare out at the endless crests of blue-grey water for hours on end. He spoke sparingly to his companions, each of which seemed to be more comfortable than he with the contemplative silence that had surrounded them on the vessel full of strangers. That might have just been because they didn’t know how many extra ears would hear what they said and where those things would end up being repeated. Who could say why people did what they did?
During the entire trip, there had been a niggling worry at the back of his mind. When he thought about it, he had to admit that the worry had probably sprung into existence earlier than their departure from Miniya. Most likely it would have been the idle time in Miniya, mind and body refreshed after being thrown about in four Dees of storms and then punished further by the walk down the Empress’ Arm, that the doubt had taken seed. In the Dees working there, and the trip from there to Rummas, the seed of worry had grown, and it was in full bloom by the time Rolf regarded the foreign setting of Rummas’ main port.
He was worried about the fate of his mother and his village; if Norsjalde had been so blatantly attacked, worse could have befallen his own clan. Still, the port of Rummas was such a diverse and hectic gathering of humanity that his mind was driven away from its festering worries for a time at least.
Rolf had never considered himself sheltered, especially now that he had seen Miniya, but the spectrum of variety in both ships and the crews that manned them displayed before him was quite stunning. Every trade that required traversing the seas was represented in Rummas’ main harbor. He saw whaling ships manned by mostly Aynglicans, though there was some crew among them that were Mueran or Uleauts. Makan turned a dark eye on them; his disgust was plainly evident, for he and most of his people had more respect for whales than they. Then there were merchant vessels from all corners of the Aynglican isles, from Elegius, a few Kerathi Longrunner Galleys, some of the rickety-looking Mueran ships and catamarans, and many others.
Every hull type and sail plan imaginable was displayed before them. There were so many ships that Rolf thought he could probably walk from plank to plank and reach the shore from half a Kilome out if the ships chose to link in such a way. Some had linked together in such a manner, but most left only a skeleton crew behind. Some didn’t look to have left any crew behind at all. Their ships were either looted or already emptied of anything of enough value to make them worth raiding.
It took an Ouer to weave their way close enough to make a landing, and even then, they had to walk down hundreds of Mayters of makeshift docks and quays before they reached the crowded streets of Rummas. Had they been able to see to its full extent the mismatched blend of cultures displayed in the buildings around them, they’d probably have felt rather out of place, as if a mad architect had randomly sampled a little bit of everything offered by the peoples of the Broken Crown and had tossed it together to form one giant mess. The crowds of people obstructed any view of much more than rooftops and buildings that were at a few stories tall, unless you towered over the crowd as Bedros did.
Rolf shook his head at the strange blend of building materials and styles, often adjacent or even abutting buildings were of totally different make and materials. Rounded Elegian arches and simple geometries were not meant to flow into complex artistic Aynglican décor and then Mueran thatch and tropical wood huts. It was just too bizarre. Here and there Rolf could even see touches of Kerathi architecture, like miniature versions of a Stammheim thrown together to make an interesting barroom atmosphere.
Yet all the varied architectural designs were draped with similar décor. Long garlands of white and blue were strung across streets, and sculptures of ice and many things painted in white were a telling of the Saysuhn of White just a few Dees away. Yet if Yenis was the Goddess of the Faestivul and her elements were ice and snow, it was not forgotten that harvest had just finished. There were also decorations that spoke of the plentiful harvest, lest anyone forget the fruits of everyone’s efforts that Yarre.
Anthea looked about the strange city. Each new one she visited was so different from Cenalium, but none had yet been this crowded. She huddled between layers of protective companions, with Bedros behind them to take up the rear, and Makan taking the vanguard with Rolf. Sagira fell in at Anthea’s side, her hands never more than a flinch away from her hand pistol or from drawing a curved knife out of her belt to cut a needing throat.
For Rolf, the sound of Kerathi accents carrying loudly over the clamor brought pangs of homesickness and the need to find news of his homeland. He scanned the crowd anxiously and then erupted into action he spotted a circle of laughing, drunken Kerathi men, most with clothes sodden from an odorous mix of ale, food, and occasional vomit. They all had their backs turned to the crowd to form a tight circle of perhaps a dozen men that gathered around a mostly empty keg, which sat atop another empty one.
“Brothers!” Rolf exclaimed, elbowing into the circle.
This earned him a round of dirty looks from men expecting one of another races. Then, noticing that he was Kerathi, if of another clan, they erupted in a chorus of cheers that made Anthea flinch. Their welcome had been so vigorous and loud that it had seemed almost more like a battle cry than a hello. Bedros’ heavy hand laid on her shoulder reassured her, but Rolf’s quick ingratiation into this loud group worried her, mostly because she couldn’t hear all of what was being said.
Rolf licked his lips nervously and eyed the keg, wanting a strong draught of mead more than anything else at that moment – except news that is. “What of Maethlin and Harsbrukke? Have you any news?” Rolf inquired.
A hallowed sort of solemn silence fell over the rambunctious group. They lowered their eyes and tankards for a moment. Then one spoke. “Maethlin is all but lost, brother. Cainel has chosen to test us, and many are still trying to decide how best to go about it.” The oldest of the circle answered.
“Tactics are best left to the weak. The Kerathi have lived and died by brute force for hundreds of Yarres.” One of the Kerathi roared, his reddish beard around his mouth shaking and filling with saliva and beer froth.
This, of course, earned a loud round of cheers and a clank of tankards followed by loud slurping and hollering when mugs were sufficiently drained.
“Please, I hail from there. What else can you tell me?” Rolf half pleaded and half demanded, his hand firm on the forearm of the first who had spoken.
“How is it you don’t know then, if you’re from there? And who are these strange fellows you carry on about?” The older warrior asked, nodding his head toward Bedros mostly, but also the others.
“Who my companions are is an issue separate of my need to know of home. Believe me that, on the word of a blooded man of Esben’s clan. I must know of my family.”
“Esben fell in battle to the Aureans. They burned your village, boy.” The older warrior declared in disgust, as much for the Aureans who would dishonor such a renowned warrior as for a man who would not be at his village when it was needed. “While you were out playing with these foreigners, the Aureans razed your Stammheim, burned half of Norsjalde, and they are rumored to be pushing on to Fjorlen, grinding the warriors of your brother clans under their filthy heels with the help of their mountain machines.”
“No. You must be mistaken. Tell me you’re joking.” Rolf pleaded, his hands shaking. The worst possible imaginings he’d had were not that bad.
“It’s true. I shipped with a man who ported out of Fjorlen right after it all happened.” Another among the circle replied. “I wish it were not, but it is.”
The older warrior waved him off, saying, “Best you get along, before you bring your ill luck upon us, boy.”
“Then tell me your name, that I might remember you as a crow cawing bad news, old man. Let me remember the face that brought me grief without a hint of sympathy. Let me recall a man who does not mourn men and women of another clan, Kerathi brothers, savagely murdered by a devious foe that has hunted him. Let me hear the name of one who forgets that Kerathi stand together against outside forces, lest they be lost once more under the dominion of another people!” Rolf shouted, each phrase pouring out of him with more anger and frustration.
“Torgny.” The old man replied, his jaw tight as he heard the truth spoken to him with such blunt accusations.
“Well, then, Torgny, may I see you on the Dee that we make the Aureans pay, for I declare unto you a Ehrenschuld. May you be there that Dee to reclaim the honor you so casually threw to the wind todee because you were too drunk to keep your wits about you.” Rolf said ominously. “Until then, may Cainel and Comrain not let you rest with your honor intact, and may Nelius offer you no rest if you are of such ill luck to die before you can redeem yourself.” He touched his knuckled fists together and bowed his head.
A hush fell over even the nearby onlookers, for they recognized a curse called down, even if it was in heated words of a dialect of Low Elegian foreign to most of them. Torgny swallowed hard and emptied his cup out on the ground his face full of shame as he acknowledged his Ehrenschuld, a debt of honor. As Rolf walked away, none of them lifted a hand to harm him for the curse he had uttered to their clansman.
Anthea regarded Rolf in sympathy, the pain in his features evident. A haunted expression had filled his face, and he looked as if he might become sick.
“Let’s get out of here.” Makan suggested diplomatically, scanning the crowd around them. Rolf had already caused something of a stir, and their strange group didn’t draw any less attention for being in such a mixed crowd.
“Let’s go somewhere that Anthea can use her flowers to look at my home from afar.” Rolf insisted. “I need to know if what they said was true – or if it’s as bad as they say.”
“I don’t know if I can do that…” Anthea said worriedly.
“You can and you will.” Rolf replied assuredly, though it was more of a command than a request.
“Regardless, shut your fool mouth.” Makan said angrily, leaning in so that only Rolf could hear his next words. “This is not the place to talk of such things. Whatever your pain or dishonor, it does not give you the right to endanger Anthea by speaking so casually of her in a crowd.”
Rolf grabbed for Makan’s scaly shirt of Mueran Seaskins, its leathery fabric made from the hides of various sea creatures, but as he did so, he found the tip of one of Sagira’s yataghans at his throat.
“Kerathi, recognize wisdom when you hear it and let’s move along. You’re not exactly making friends, and we just got here.” Sagira remarked, nodding her head at the crowd around them.
Rolf lowered his hands and took a moment to master his emotions before replying, “You’re right. Let’s move.” Then, to Anthea he added softly, “I am sorry, Anthea, but I have concerns that are beyond my ability to contain.”
She nodded briefly, glad the tense situation was diffused so easily this time, and even gladder when they began cutting through the crowd once more, with Makan finding the way as easily as if he were picking his way across waves in the sea.
Finding lodgings in the middle of a Faestivul was no small undertaking, and in the end, after an Ouer of searching, they ended up paying an exorbitant amount for a glorified closet that all five of them would have to pack into.
Compound the frustration of having to elbow and push through a crowd of humanity having more fun than you with the fact that what they spent on the room was going to leave them with little or no money in a few Dees, and that was enough of a reason to have a sour mood to begin with. Rolf’s rapidly deteriorating mood just added to the mix, and each delay made him angrier and angrier. Even Makan, often the direction and reassurance of the group, was at a loss for what to do, though Anthea thought maybe he just didn’t want to risk pushing Rolf into an open fight because of what he was feeling.
They filed into the modest room and took their seats in a rough circle where they could. Though Bedros had to kneel and Sagira had to sit on one of the two cots with threadbare sheets that had cost them good money to rent. The place smelled of sweat and beer, the former being only partially because of them and the latter not at all because of them. Truth be told, it wasn’t much worse than the cramped cabin in the dhow had been, but on the boat Makan and Rolf had bunked down in a pair of empty sailor’s hammocks at night so they’d not all had to sleep like stacked cordwood.
“Well, can we be about this?” Rolf asked impatiently as the last of them got situated and closed the door.
“Patience, please, it will take me a few Mynettes to prepare.” Anthea said with a distracted sigh.
“Well, start then. This is not a matter without urgency.” Rolf pressed her.
Makan cleared his throat. “Rolf.”
“What?” Rolf snapped angrily.
“I realize that you are worried but remember that Anthea is not the cause of your troubles.”
“When I’m in need of fatherly advice, Mueran, I’ll go to one of Nelius’ shrine and ask for guidance from my real father.” Rolf said spitefully. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean I need you to step up and volunteer to take his place.”
“Fair enough,” Makan replied evenly, raising his open palms in acquiescence, “but I won’t have you upsetting Anthea. It’s not her fault.”
“Perhaps.” Rolf admitted, but he didn’t sound very convinced.
Bedros grunted in agitation and the stirring of the Ox-Man was enough to quiet Rolf, though he continued to fidget anxiously while she dug through the wilting blossoms and leaves in her collection.
Sagira watched the process perhaps more intently than any of them, having never seen it before. She’d heard whispers and offhand comments from her companions about Anthea’s abilities, and of course Anthea had mentioned it rather nonchalantly herself, but that was different from seeing the actual working of her magicks.
Finally, Anthea selected an elongated white blossom with a flared end. It grew wider near the opening, where the curled ends were tinged pink. The blossom had seen better Dees, though Sagira couldn’t help but wonder how what seemed like dozens of flowers packed into a rather small silver box weren’t all squished and brown.
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Anthea, seeming to sense her question, smiled. “There’s an enchantment on the box. It keeps them much longer than they would last in open air.”
“That’s well and good, but let’s get to the enchanting.” Rolf insisted.
She sighed and shook her head. “Fine, fine. Quiet please and let me concentrate.”
“I was quiet.” Rolf grumbled, but four sets of irritated eyes on him quieted any further words that he might have wished to speak.
Anthea’s face went blank as she stared at the blossom, focusing her thoughts. Then, it lifted gently from her hand. Her eyes, and everyone else’s in the room followed the blossom as it rose out of her palm and up to a point just between her eyes in front of the middle of her forehead where it came to rest. Light suffused the blossom, making the veins of the petals glow brightly and throb for a Saycund before the entire blossom was engulfed in white. Strongly intoned words poured from her mouth in a deeper voice than she ever spoke in normally.
Trumpet of greater beings,
There is that which we wish for seeing;
Cast our eyes far and wide,
Show us that which great distance hides.
In the space between them all, a wavering image of Harsbrukke appeared in crude three-dimensional constructs of light and motes of dust that was nearly monochromatic except for hints of color here and there. Rolf’s breath caught as he saw what remained of Harsbrukke – the burnt-out shells of Familienheimes and the collapsed roof beams of the Stammheim, also awash with ash and charred into a shell that resembled the rib bones of a great whale. Scatted bones were strewn in piles that had already been picked clean by scavengers, and they waited for the sun’s bleaching with no one to bury them.
Rolf cried out a savage wail of grief, and his hands curled up into fists that he gnawed at. He feared to watch lest something worse be shown, yet he needed to see more so he would know the truth. “My mother. Show her please.”
They all looked to Anthea, whose eyes had rolled back as she concentrated, the blossom had faded to an oval of light that seemed to be a third eye in the middle of her forehead. From it the images of Harsbrukke were being projected.
“Show Beljd at least.” Rolf urged. “Surely my mother is with him. Or Olin! Show Olin, he promised to protect her.”
Anthea’s mouth twisted into a grimace and her eyes flickered to and fro. The image shifted from darkness into a series of unintelligible glimpses of trees and blurred faces.
“No, no. That’s not her. None of it’s right.” A man’s face came into view for a moment, a broad-featured Kerathi man. Rolf’s eyes widened in surprise and he said, “Olin! But where is mother?”
The image shifted away, but for a moment it looked as if Olin had heard Rolf. He had stopped and looked around, like a person does when they think they hear a whisper or something at the edge of their hearing.
“Go back.” Rolf pleaded, but the image was gone.
Another image crept into view, a woman in robes amidst a sea of faces. It took most of them a moment to realize the faces in the crowd were Aurean, though the angles of their faces were all wrong. The strange woman appeared to be speaking to them or gesturing at least. She, too, paused and got a far off look on her face, as Olin had.
“That’s not your mother, I take it?” Sagira asked Rolf.
“No, definitely not. I don’t know who that is.”
Anthea cried out in anguish and the light vanished from between her eyes. The flower was gone and with it the images. Anthea slumped back, swooning as the enchantment ended.
Rolf reached over and grabbed her arm, shaking her roughly. “My mother? Where is she? Show us.”
“Rolf! It’s over.” Makan shouted, nearly stepping on Sagira as he pushed over to throw Rolf’s hands off of Anthea, just beating Bedros’ heavy hands to the task.
Rolf straightened and stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of the long knife he wore on his right hip that matched the saber on his left. He breathed heavily in Makan’s face as he spoke in anger. “Mueran, if you touch me again, you and I are going to make a mess out of this room. I’d not like to be the one to clean it.”
“I’ll not back down from a boy’s threats.” Makan growled, his reddish face heated with protective anger. “You cannot abuse her like this. She has limitations.”
“Apparently,” Rolf scoffed, “or she’d have found my mother.”
“Don’t blame her for what the Aureans have done. You are in the wrong here.”
“She is Aurean, Porceth damn you.” Rolf hissed. “My life was fine before she came along. Her arrival brought the death of my Hersker, the destruction of my village, caused me to have to kill my half-brother, and she’s taken me away from my people when they need me most.”
Bedros made as close to a growling noise as his mouth allowed and he pushed himself up. Rolf shot the Ox-Man a warning glance, but the Ox-Man was more worried about placing his bulk between the angry Kerathi and Anthea. He knew, that if he did much more than stand where he was, he stood a good chance of crushing her and some of the others.
“You’d be dead with your family then, if you’d stayed.” Sagira pointed out, disliking this whole situation.
“Woman, you’d better learn your place, or I’ll teach it to you.” Rolf threatened, stabbing a finger at the Elegian woman.
Before she could respond with a few eager threats of her own, Makan’s balled fist landed heavily on Rolf’s chin, staggering the younger man. When he recovered, his eyes went wild with anger, and he threw himself at the Mueran.
Makan used Rolf’s anger and momentum against him, twisting his hips as the Kerathi’s hands went for his throat. A well-placed leg tripped Rolf, and a strike to the back of the head as he tumbled by, sent Rolf crashing to the floor with his nose against the door.
Dazed, he pushed himself up slowly, rubbing his chin, where a long splinter from the rough floor had pierced through the skin beneath his beard. He’d bitten his lip as well, and brightly colored blood dribbled into his reddish-brown beard.
“Rolf, we are your friends, and you need to realize that. Friends don’t do this. Let us help you.” Makan said, stepping past Sagira, who looked all too eager to get into the scrap.
“Burn in Kaneitha’s darkness, you mongrels.” Rolf spat angrily at them, casting an accusing look at them all before opening the door long enough to let himself out and slam it behind him.
None of them went after him or moved to stop him as he went.
“He needs to let the fire of his anger burn out.” Makan said quietly, frowning at the hands that he’d just used to strike a friend. That was a bad omen for a Mueran. Yet the only thing worse than striking a friend was standing idly by while another friend was harmed, so he felt justified in what he had done.
“He’ll probably find a few fistfights or a whore and then come back like a whipped puppy.” Sagira predicted with a sigh.
They turned then to Bedros, who cradled Anthea in his considerable arms. He’d dug out an extra crystal pod that sat beside them. Under the light of the Aurean globe, Anthea was pale from exertion, she was breathing shallowly, and a clammy sweat had broken out on her face and neck. Her thin limbs looked so casually thrown over Bedros’ broad lap that Makan felt choked up to see her so weak.
“It’s just not right what she goes through.” He whispered.
Sagira felt similarly moved to see her in such a state, but she chose to watch the door, hiding the tears forming in her eyes. Something about the girl inspired protecting, yet this time she’d needed protecting from one of her own.
Sagira sunk to the floor beside the door, staring into the nearest dark corner to avoid seeing the defeated look on Makan’s normally optimistic face or Bedros’ paternal and worried face.
“Where is Rolf?” Anthea asked weakly after a time, her voice cracking.
“Gone.” Sagira answered hastily, drying her eyes.
“He’s just out blowing off some steam. The events of the Dee and what he has learned weigh heavily on him.” Makan explained.
“Did he say when he was coming back? Is he coming back?”
“I’m not sure.” Makan admitted to her, though he knew she would not be happy about it.
“What? He must come back.” Anthea said worriedly, climbing out of Bedros’ lap to push herself up into a kneeling position. She swayed woozily and lowered her head for a few moments to regain her bearings.
“Why? Maybe your enchantment is done with him. Do you know for sure that you will need him again? Perhaps his usefulness is at an end.” Sagira suggested pragmatically.
“No, I’d know if that was so.”
“Would you?” Makan asked her; he was impartial on the actual answer, but he wondered if she’d actually considered such a thing yet.
“I would.” She insisted. “I will not cut him loose. He needs me as much as I need him.”
“What can we do then? There are thousands of people out there. They will be here for four more Dees. We can’t find him in all of this. It’s all but impossible.” Sagira tried to be realistic, but she knew she sounded as if they’d already lost.
Anthea bit her lip as she considered what her friends were telling her. “The enchantment will lead me to him.”
“You’re awfully sure of that.” Makan said, shaking his head in doubt.
“I thought you wouldn’t doubt me again?” Anthea asked Makan, reminding him of his promise.
Makan looked abashed. “You are right. I am sorry, Anthea. What do you want us to do?”
“Search for him, of course.”
“Do you have a plan? That is a rather tall order.” Sagira remarked, coming to Makan’s defense. “Without a plan we won’t have any method of searching other than plain luck.”
Anthea frowned and stubbornly crossed her arms in front of her. “My luck has held in the past.”
Sagira crossed her arms as well, showing that she too could play at this contest of wills. She wasn’t about to do something foolish for no good reason. “That’s still no reason to trust for mere luck to make things aright. Sometimes you just have to use common sense and forethought instead of trusting the Gods to deliver what you need right into your hands.”
“And sometimes, you don’t have time to plan, you just have to act.” Anthea replied. “He’s out there hurting. He needs the comfort and protection of his friends.”
Sagira shook her head. “He’s burning off some steam, Anthea. It’s how men – people – deal with things that are frustratingly out of their control sometimes.”
“Maybe I’m being na?ve, but I’m not about to let him wander the streets alone and in need. We don’t know what he’ll do when he’s upset.” Anthea replied. Then, as much to convince herself as the others, she added, “His wandering and carelessness might even draw attention unwanted onto us.”
Sagira nodded finally, relenting. It was clear that Anthea would not rest until Rolf was found. “Alright, Makan and I will look, but you will stay here with Bedros and recover.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I think she’s right.” Makan seconded supportively after a glance from Sagira.
“I’m the one the enchantment works for. What good would it be to search for him without me?” Anthea asked.
“There are other ways to go about things than trusting a few uttered words, no matter how well they have led you thus far. Makan and I are much more used to crowds and people of these sorts than you must be.” Sagira insisted. She would give on one point, but some things just couldn’t be given in on so easily. “It will be safer for you to remain here.”
“I refuse. The four of us will search together.”
Bedros grunted in complaint.
Anthea eyed the Ox-Man. “Don’t you start, too.” She said crossly. “We will search together, and that’s final.” That the three faces around her were plain in their misgivings didn’t bother her. As she’d said, some things had to be done no matter the price.
The four of them elbowed their way into the busy streets, though with Bedros’ considerable mass, people were prone to giving way without much complaint. An occasional loud grunt from the Ox-Man worked something like the prow of a ship cutting swiftly through water. Celebrating men and women stepped aside, whether they were Rumani, Aynglican, Kerathi, Elegian, the occasional Mueran, or even an Uleaut, rarely seen in these parts.
Being that the Munths of Harvest and Falling had just ended and the Faestivul of Coming Cold looked forward to a time when there was less food to be found other than that which was preserved, the food was plentiful and colorful. There were imported grains, gourds, corn, and beans from Aynglican lands, a veritable rainbow of fruit from Elegian orchards and fields, all manners of sea life collected by the Muerans and the fishermen of other races, the bounties of honey, ale, and wild game from Kerathi lands, and extravagant the meats of seals, arctic foxes and bears provided by a few adventurous and profit-minded Uleauts. The Rumani provided the coin for many of these foods, but sea captains and merchants from all corners of the Broken Crown provided a fare share in the spirit of generosity and in the name of the festivities.
There were entertainers on every street corner and on everything resembling a platform, be it a stack of crates, a tall barrel, or even a rooftop. Women in little more than flowing ribbons of harvest or snow-colored silk tumbled and danced for crowds of adoring fans. Anyone who thought they could sing or play an instrument had found a few friends that could do the same and the many groups had struck up music of varying levels of listenability all over the city. So, wherever they went, broken clips of songs could be heard over the noise of a mass of humanity going about their merrymaking. They were the celebratory songs of six races being raised up by musicians of lessening quality as the Ouer grew later and the people as well as the players grew drunker.
Gambling and gaming went about with a raucous level of noise, as much from the participants as from the drunken onlookers. Men tested their strength against each other in arm-wrestling or in boxing and throws. Others showed off their skills with knives, crafting, or illusion. Still other gatherings were for more unsavory pleasures, the kind that celebration and drinking can bring out in people. The odors of hallucinogenic smokes wafted out of alleys and establishments that would be avoided many other nights of the Yarre. The flesh trade was doing well too. Every taste or fetish was catered to if one was willing to look hard enough and pay enough.
Anthea shivered at the utter hedonism and indulgence she saw taking place around her. The crowd became a whirring maelstrom of drunken faces and laughter. Yet as long as Bedros was near, the faces did not take on a sinister cast. This was not Cenalium; that much was certain. Things were much more subdued and tasteful there.
“I don’t see him yet.” Sagira called out, shouting just to be heard.
Anthea nodded and closed her eyes for a moment, searching for some hint of Rolf around her, even if it was just an inkling as to which direction to walk. They’d already been searching for half an Ouer, and all she’d seen was morality and decency cast to Aaren’s winds under the pretense of celebration.
Ahead she saw a knot of bearded men. They did not wear the half-beards and mustaches of the Aynglicans, but instead they had the braided knots of red and brown hair that marked them as Kerathi. That and the strong, crisp consonants of the Kerathi dialect that came to her ears was enough to assure her that they were indeed Kerathi. She wondered if Rolf might have been drawn to these men of his own kind. After all, when a man feels most alone, will he not seek out others that are most like him?
“Up there!” Anthea called out to the others, surging ahead in the crowd. She heard Makan’s worried protests, but Bedros was still near, so she continued on.
To her surprise, there among the circle of Kerathi, was Rolf. His arm was around a woman who appeared to be even drunker than he was. Her curls of dark hair, pale skin, and sultry eyes made her a Rumani. She filled out her ruffled blouse rather nicely, and her features wore a pleasant and constantly amused expression.
Anthea paused in mid-stride and was nearly plowed over by a heavyset Aynglican man who smelled of sweat and pork fat. She pushed around the heavy man, who said something less than gentlemanly and wanted to make a big deal out of it, but he waddled off in a hurry when Bedros came up behind her. She hardly noticed, watching Rolf in surprise instead.
Part of her was shocked to have found him so easily amid all this, and another part of her felt betrayed that he would go find a woman so quickly. Did he have no loyalty? Had he not pledged to help her? What was he doing with his arm around that Rumani girl? Surely, she was much too old for him anyway. She must have been at least twenty-two Yarres of age, and he was but sixteen.
“Rolf!” Anthea screamed at the top of her lungs.
Rolf’s smile faded, and his eyes raked past the Kerathi faces around him before sliding between a pair of his drinking companions to meet her eyes. A scowl settled in on his face, and he looked away. He whispered something into the ear of his companion, who laughed and cast a brief glimpse Anthea’s way before the two slipped away into the crowd, arms around each other.
Anthea dove into the crowd after him, like a diver leaping off a cliff to cut into the sea below. Bedros’ bulk betrayed him then, as people simply had nowhere to go to permit his quick passage. He bellowed in dismay as Anthea’s silvery-haired head slipped further away, first only a couple people away, and then more. Soon there was a crowd between him and the girl he was charged to protect.
Makan and Sagira worked their way up to the angry Ox-Man, who was pushing people out of the way rather roughly, but to no avail. It did little more than stir up some anger from those nearby, most of which had imbibed more than a reasonable amount of liquor and ale. They were not in their right minds though.
“Where is she?” Makan shouted, looking around. Being Mueran, he did not have Bedros’ height and vantage point above the crowd.
Bedros cast a long arm off in the direction they were roughly heading, but he was having trouble keeping an eye on her. Then a bottle came sailing at his head. It shattered on his shaggy, fur-covered cheek. He howled in frustration and his muscles tensed to lash out at whomever had struck him, much like a person might swat a mosquito that had bitten them.
He was already worked up, and cruel shouts disparaging his nature accompanied by a second bottle were all he needed to push him over the edge. Heavy fists were thrown with the force of small cannonballs and bodies were cast aside like cornstalks before the scythe. Howls of pain filled the air as the wounded picked themselves up to find bones broken and joints twisted the wrong way. Those howls were filled with whoops of drunken glee as people threw themselves into the fray, not really caring who they hit and why. Innocents were hit, but the Ox-Man at the center of it all was the overall target.
Bottles, knives, truncheons, and fists began to fly in earnest, and Sagira found herself drawing her pair of yataghans, each the length of her forearms. Makan judiciously began laying out ne’er-do-wells with the butt of his fish spear, covering Bedros’ flank with Sagira’s help. The knot of drunken Kerathi jumped into the fight, working alongside Bedros, Sagira, and Makan. They worked as an effective team that decimated the drunken hosts that assailed them, seeming to enjoy the challenge of attacking a more organized and drunker force.
The Kerathi were in their element, but Makan feared for what would happen when the Rumani Peacekeepers broke into the square, as they surely would. Rummas’ head-knockers and leg-breakers were legendary for doling out uneven and savage justice. They fractured skulls and asked questions later. Makan looked for a break in the crowd that he could charge through, clearing himself and his companions of the entire mess. With each tiring moment, it looked less and less likely, and until he could escape, he couldn’t search for Anthea.
Anthea hurried through the crowd, using her small size to her advantage. She slipped past partygoers, dodging into openings between people that opened only for a moment. Her nimble feet danced over toes and bottles that lay on the cobbled streets, trying to trip her up. But she couldn’t seem to catch up with Rolf. It was as if the crowd worked against her to keep him from her.
Why the Gods would wish to part her from her oldest companion, other than Bedros, she couldn’t fathom. Granted they’d only been together for a few Waykes, but she valued his presence and aid. Surely, she’d not have made it off of Maethlin without his help. She could not let him go now. She needed him, and she was sure he needed her.
Besides, she felt somewhat responsible for the things he had accused her of. Perhaps if he’d stayed, he could have prevented some of what happened, and he’d at least have known what had befallen his mother. Yet she’d taken him away. He’d willingly come, but if he’d known, surely he would have stayed. Death was not something a Kerathi was afraid of.
“I couldn’t have known.” Anthea muttered to herself, squeezing through a group of couples slow dancing to soft music.
Ahead, she thought she saw Rolf once again. Yes! It was he. The woman with him was unmistakable, even amidst a crowd that must have held hundreds of dark-haired Rumani girls in low-cut dresses of lace and chiffon. Her face was burned into the back of Anthea’s eyes it seemed. She could still recall the way the woman had smiled as she had cast that wanton gaze toward her. It was a look that seemed to say: “I have him now. You missed your chance.”
That was foolish though, because Anthea only wanted him near because he was a friend and he had saved her life at least once. He was practically part of her family now. What else would she want with the foolish boy, the boy that had told her she was too young to understand the interactions of men and women?
She blushed fiercely thinking about that, and shoved her way past a particularly affectionate couple, interrupting their lip lock. She laughed at their irritated faces, and it was only then that she realized that she had lost Rolf again. She wheeled about, looking in all directions, bobbing her head up and down to look around as she slid between yet more people. He was nowhere in sight.
Cursing her luck, she turned back to say something to Bedros, who wasn’t there. Where had Bedros and the others gone off? They had been just behind her before. Now they were nowhere in sight. When was the last time she’d seen them?
Her heart caught in her throat. Blood pounded in her ears. She was lost, and there was no one nearby that she knew. Suddenly, the faces around her looked that much more threatening and predatory. These were not her friends, and it was so dark, oh so dark. Her stomach lurched, and she knew fear even in the midst of so many people experiencing joy and pleasure.
