Pyrebound - 12.3
Author: theredsheep

Chapter 12.3 – Pyrebound

The Temple of Dul Atellu reigned over the Teshalun from atop great rocky cliffs on its east bank—“High Atellu,” the locals called it. That was their name for the good and respectable half of the pyre, full of estates every bit as fine as the ones Shimrun had wrecked at Dul Karagi. Dul Atellu was the eastern end of the great Jatu trade, and profited nicely from it, but didn’t care to deal with all the people involved directly. High Atellu was their solution; if you didn’t have a skybarque, it could only be accessed by a single staircase with a fortified gate at the top.

As it happened, Ram and company didn’t have a skybarque anymore. They’d hidden theirs in the wilderness yesterday, with a dulsphere buried in the sand below so they could find it again. This was as far north as even Mana’s ebullient fire could take them. Fortunately, they had no business with High Atellu, and never would. They’d froghitched right past it on their trip to Dul Misishi two months ago.

Low Atellu was the logical name for the pyre’s far less desirable half, a dense mass of unsavory constructions embedded in a long, narrow island in the Teshalun. Most of it was given over to seasonal entertainment and lodging for travelers of the trail. In about a month, it would be swarming with migrants, and they would be too busy to trouble over checking the bona fides of everyone passing through. At the moment, it was quiet.

Ram had hoped they would welcome any visitors during their slow period, even a fairly pathetic set of blackbands with dubious documentation. It was only Low Atellu, after all. But he was wrong. The whole island was secured behind thick stone walls, fifteen feet tall, and the gates were watched night and day to keep the riff-raff out.

The flamekeeper on dutyon the south end squinted at the sheet of fine vellum Ram had just given him. “I never heard of any Lusingama outfit,” he said. “Or seen any of you before.”

Ram waved his black-wrapped arm in the man’s face, as if it were proof of something. They were trying to look harmlessly naive. “We’re countenanced out of—“

“Dul Misishi. Yes, I can read. But this ain’t Dul Misishi. You got countenance here? I don’t think so.” He glanced over their ‘merchandise,’ standing uneasily on the dock behind them. “Nobody’s going to want any of that anyhow.”

It was a fair assessment. Between Rinti, Mana, Shimrun, and Shennai, it was hard to imagine a less valuable-looking set of bondservants for sale. Pimna might have looked fit for manual labor, at least, but Ram couldn’t be a blackband by himself. They didn’t work alone. She was his taciturn partner-in-crime, staring morosely at her feet while their bondservants scratched and tugged at their fetters. That was the best they could hope for; if Pimna tried to act, she’d give them away for sure.

Darun had to be veiled, and therefore out of place in either role, so she was their client. Or boss. Or something. Her best surviving dress was pretty shabby by this point, and they were all hoping nobody would inquire too closely. Aside from a bit of burn poking out the bottom of her right sleeve, she still looked like an alluring young woman—provided she was fully dressed and veiled, with a scarf over her hair.

“Misishi’s countenance is as good as anyone else’s,” Darun insisted, tapping the sheet with her left forefinger. “Don’t you recognize Zasha zen-Tirnun’s signature?” They were confident that she’d forged that part perfectly. She’d done it dozens of times, after all.

“Mmm-hmm. Don’t know you, though. You could have stolen it.” He flicked his eyes over her. “Tell you what, you want to step in the gatehouse and talk it over, just you and me, I won’t be watching the gate.”

Ram shot Darun a warning look; this wasn’t the time or place for a ribald comeback. But she was frozen in place, and said nothing.

The flamekeeper frowned. “What? Don’t act like you ain’t given it up before, little woman, in your line of work.” Then he put a hand to his chest. “Ngh. Shit.” His other hand went out to steady him against the frame of the gate. “Not … must have … the hell?” He vanished into the gatehouse without a backward glance.

“That was risky,” Ram said to Shennai.

“My hand was forced. Darun, are you all right?”

Darun was trembling. “It’s not the same,” she said, her voice scarcely steadier than her hands. “When I know I don’t have the goods to back it up. Don’t ask me how, it just isn’t.”

“Let’s just get through, before he recovers,” Ram said. “I bet his heartburn won’t last as long as the normal kind.” He took Darun by the left arm, and gently tugged her forward. She stumbled a bit, but didn’t resist.

Ostensibly, they were here to resupply; Shimrun was almost out of the glop for his lungs, and Ram thought they mightget something for Darun’s burns at the same time. She was mostly running on Rumshizan opium at present, with a hefty supplement of beer. To judge by her breathing, and the way she leaned against him as they walked, it was about time for another dose.

There wasn’t a lot of hope for her looks. She’d blistered her face badly, along with half her torso, one hip, and most of her right arm. The lot of it was wrapped up in the remains of her wardrobe now, with generous amounts of oil. Her hair might grow back in time, but she would be hideous when the burns healed. The girls had cried half the night when they saw, apologizing until Darun screamed at them to stop. She didn’t like to be alone with Ram now, and slept by herself. Nothing he could say could put her at ease; she couldn’t bear to be seen ugly.

Really, they were here to have a moment’s peace, a brief interlude of sanity where they could rest , gather news, and re-immerse themselves in the Dominion. They’d been alone in the wild for too long, and Ram was convinced they would all go mad without relief. He and Shennai were still reasonably stable, he thought. Pimna and Darun were iffy. As for Shimrun and the girls, Ram had stopped asking. It did more harm than good.

Healing. They were all here for healing.

Darun knew a good half-dozen people they could trade with around this pyre. Unfortunately, they knew her too, and she didn’t trust any of them not to run to the authorities. That left them one option—an acquaintance of Shennai’s, who worked as a low-level pawnbroker and fence near the middle of the island. It would be long walk, at least two miles.

From outside the walls, the island had looked cramped and cluttered, a delvers’ mound of brown brick. It was still more claustrophobic on the inside; the streets were barely eight feet wide, while the average house looked to be six stories tall and ill-made. Most of the houses on the street were locked and shuttered for the season. The exceptions all ran along the left-hand side of their current road, where everything was built into the outer curtain wall. They would have little postern gates leading down to the water, for the regular supply of goods from the pyre’s farmland on the western bank, and give High Atellu a healthy income when they were running. Only half of them were, at present.

The street itself was virtually deserted, and filthy to boot. Trash had been thrown out of windows to rot in the rain-gutters, and there was a persistent stink of piss. The few people Ram saw were loiterers, leaning or sitting against the walls. A trio of moonchildren in tattered coats conferred in an alleyway, cutting off their discussion to stare at Ram and company as they passed.

The main market was much like Karagi’s South Gate scene, only larger, and arranged around a central square. Its stalls were all deserted now, but a little shop across the street on the east side had its door open. Shennai directed them inside, where they found a young man playing tiles against himself on a counter before several shelves full of utterly miscellaneous goods.

He only glanced up from his game as they entered. “I don’t move people,” he said. It was difficult to say what he did move; the wall behind him sported a mixture of pottery, cookware, toys, dolls, instruments and utensils, statuettes and ornaments, the odd scroll, and a life-sized bronze replica of some sort of waterfowl, with jeweled eyes and chipped enamel on its feathers. All of it, Ram assumed, was valuable to someone, but he couldn’t guess who.

Shennai went right up to the counter, dragging the others behind her by their shackle, and rapped her knuckles on the wood surface. “We’re here for a favor, Zisapa.”

The man flinched, knocking a couple of his tiles onto the floor, then cocked his head back to look her over warily. “What’d you call me?”

“Zisapa. Zisapa im-Demmiringu ni-Karagi. Great-nephew to the late Lashantu hun-Pirigit. I can’t remember what you’re calling yourself now, but if you’ve forgotten me I can refresh your memory by setting your shop on fire. I’d rather not, though, since it cost so much to set up. How is business, by the way?”

Zisapa licked his lips. “It’s all right. Can’t complain.”

“Good. Do you remember me now?”

“Very good.” She looked at Ram. “Sir, if you please?”

Ram tossed his pack to the floor and started rummaging around inside. It took time, since he was fumbling blind; he didn’t need Zisapa to see the two flamekeeper swords taking up most of the space. At length he fetched up a handful of gold, silver, and copper bits, and slapped them down on the counter next to the tiles.

“You don’t need to pay me, ma’am,” Zisapa said. “You need something, I won’t charge you.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Shennai said. “However, we are not currently in need of an imitation duck, and I don’t think you have enough money on hand to buy what we do require. You will be our buyer. Do you have contacts among the tinapi, or those who deal with them?”

Zisapa nodded eagerly. “Sure. I know a guy.”

“Good. We need as much as you can get of the substances known as waters-of-release and peace-in-soundness. Prioritize the former, but get both. Do you know them?”

He hesitated, looking down at the tanbir fragments on the counter. “Yeah. But that won’t buy much, will it?”

“No, it won’t. I expect you will have to be generous. You were never reluctant to part with money before.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he sighed, and scooped the metal into his pocket. “You need me to do this now, right?”

“Assuming you’re not too busy. We’ll be in touch … Zisapa.”

He locked the door behind them when they left, and scurried out the back door thirty seconds later. “I wouldn’t trust him,” Darun said. “He’s a snitch.”

“Yes, he is,” Shennai answered. “As well as a coward, a cheat, a liar, and a fool. Fortunately, I frighten him more than anything else on this island. Now, I have done my part. If you could direct us to some reasonably cheap and insect-free accommodations, I’d appreciate it.”

Darun did her best, Ram was sure, but the two conditions were all but mutually exclusive. It was probably for the best that she erred on the side of economy; the girls could pass the time spotting vermin for Shennai to snuff. Shimrun and Pimna retreated to a closet to dose the Ensi, who’d exerted himself on the walk. Ram cornered Darun by the window in the other room, and tried to do likewise. Unfortunately, he didn’t have Pimna’s firm manner.

“I hate that shit,” Darun complained when he broke out the opium bottle. “It makes me want to barf.”

“Would you rather hurt from the burns?”

“Why not? It sucks either way, so I might as well have some variety.” She looked out the window, though there was nothing interesting on the street and she likely couldn’t see it through her veil anyway. “That little bastard is going to fink on us, I know it.”

“He seemed pretty frightened of Shennai to me. Here, we’ll try a half-dose this time.”

“Try it yourself, if you want. I’m good. But think about it: he sells cheap secondhand crap, and not even very well. I’ve met this guy before, even if I didn’t deal with him direct. Before Shennai set him up here, he ran a dozen unimaginative scams in a row, cocked half of them up, and ran up a gambling debt that could have bought most of this island. Pissed off his whole family. He’s not going to get any kind of rate on tinap goods, if he even knows what they are.”

“Shennai says they’re used for a lot of things. The people up on the cliff must buy plenty of both. Come on, even a little bit will take the edge—“

“Try waving the spoon around and making funny noises till I open my mouth, like Tir does with her brats. It won’t work, but you’ll be less annoying. I might pop a blister if I have to slap you.”

And I’d pop a lot more than one, if I slapped you. Ram took a deep breath. “Darun, I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t see why; you’re not going to get any. You couldn’t take enough of that stuff to make me pretty again.”

“What if it’s not just about that for me?”

“I don’t remember you wanting to talk about food or literature, all those nights we went to bed together. Honestly, you probably ought to ditch me; there’s like three hundred girls in that pile of bricks you own, they can’t all be as ugly as Pimna, and Shimrun can get you the hookup any time.”

“What? Darun, that’s—“

“Give it a couple more blooms, and you can give the orders yourself. I bet your buddy gives you serious stamina, too, if you’re close enough. Ten times a day, and you can’t get sore. Ever think of that? That’s a hell of a way to spend your last kindling alive. Way better than hanging out in Low Atellu pushing that sludge on me.”

“That’s not what I want,” he said firmly, putting a hand on her good shoulder.

“It’s the best you’re going to get now,” she said, and threw the hand back off. “Haven’t I taught you anything, Ram? Nobody’s going to give you prizes for being a noble faithful husband to a deformed ex-whore who never even married you. Nobody’s going to give you anything. Seriously, do I have to throw myself out of this damn window to—“

“Don’t you say that!” He yanked her back from the window, squeezing her wrist so hard she yelped. He pulled her close enough that he could look through the veil into her ruined face. “Ever. We’re in this together, remember?”

“That was a pretty dream,” she said. “Now it’s time to wake up. Remember the gate? You can’t live in dreams, Ram. Not any more.”

Ram was still trying to think of a reply when he felt a lone haranu coming down the street outside—a local haranu. That would be unremarkable in most other pyres, where handmaidens and flamekeepers were ubiquitous. But neither had any reason to bother with low Atellu. He peered out the window; it was a veiled woman in ordinary clothes, walking quickly and stiffly.

He ran into the other room, not bothering to knock. “Shimrun, there’s—“

“I see her,” the Ensi said from his own window. “Out of costume, isn’t she?”

“But still conspicuous.” No ordinary woman would wander around this neighborhood alone. Their room was on the third floor, so they couldn’t hear how the building’s owners greeted her, but she evidently went unchallenged; she made her way up the stairs and down the narrow hallway.

She didn’t knock either. “Ensi,” she said, as she knelt on the floor before Shimrun. “You have been betrayed.”

Shimrun shot Ram a frightened look. “How long do we have?” Ram asked the handmaiden.

“You are in no immediate danger,” she answered, still on her knees. “The traitor is gone. Who are you, Ensi?”

It sounded like Zisapa had just been killed. This kind of news would have appalled him six months back. Now he just felt relieved. “If Zisapa told on us, shouldn’t you know that already?” Ram asked.

“I didn’t hear much of it,” she said irritably. “I saw you come in, and sent this one to investigate, but I couldn’t get her through the north gate quietly—the guard was insolent. Then the traitor came from the other side with a wild story. I destroyed both, but I couldn’t get rid of the bodies without making a big fire. Someone will notice them, and there will be an alarm. I have risked a lot. This woman, Ninshuma, might have to die. Now tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here. Please.”

Ram and all four handmaidens looked to the Ensi. “My name is Shimrun im-Sutiri. I am the heir of Karagi. And you are my brother, the heir of Atellu. What is your name?”

“I am Mannagiri. What are you doing away from your fire?”

Slowly, question by curious question, the whole story came out. Mannagiri frequently interrupted to have some trivial detail explained. Ram got the impression that Atellu’s priest wasn’t especially bright or mature, and knew no more of the Dominion than Shimrun had. It took most of an hour to explain even the general outlines. Ram wondered what the poor woman made of the whole thing.

“Thank you, Shimrun im-Sutiri,” she said at last. “That was an interesting story. And what will you do now?”

Shimrun looked flummoxed by the question. “We need tinap medicine before we do anything,” Ram told her. “The traitor was supposed to get us some.”

“Is that all? I can help you with that. Give me a moment.” Ninshuma gasped, and fell onto her hands and knees. Shennai hurried to help her, only to be shoved roughly away. For a few seconds, the handmaiden trembled in place on the floor. Then she retreated on all fours into the corner by the door, and began to cry.