04. A Bitter Taste (Gadarien)¶
Gadarien marked the Anashi as soon as she entered the square. He had only ever encountered Anashi as nomadic families wandering through Cantereia with all their possessions on their backs. They never stayed for long and didn’t interact much with the locals. This woman looked like them, but there was something different about her—a sense of purpose, perhaps. She had emerged from the Fringe, where the Sihiri were running a perimeter sweep in advance of the cynosure, so she was likely involved in the illicit witchglass trade. That made her someone he wanted to know. A non-Cantereian contact in the underworld could prove very useful.
He was observing her weaving her way through the crowd when Adranaya exited Feather and Vine and hurried after her. Interesting. What did the Sarmalan want with the Anashi?
Gadarien adjusted his hood. His disguise was minimal: a cloak, a bit of makeup to alter the patchwork patterns of his skin, and a refinement of his normal gait. It was just enough to make him unrecognizable without making him remarkable. As he followed the two women into the crowd, the city watchmen looked right at him and he met their eyes, counting on being forgettable rather than unseen.
The Anashi glanced over her shoulder and saw Adranaya, then ducked under a table and angled back toward the Fringe, losing the Sarmalan in the press. A deft maneuver for an amateur. For a moment, Gadarien considered following the Anashi, but decided to stick with his original plan. She’d be easy enough to find again.
Adranaya continued toward the platform. Gadarien hadn’t yet managed to coax the young aristocrat’s history out of her, but it was clear that she’d been through something traumatic, something involving her family and a Cantereian boy. It wasn’t hard to put together the story: a rich Sarmalan socialite dips her toes into the waters of impropriety, only to find it a bit too hot for her liking. It made his job almost too easy.
He stayed well back from the line of city watchmen, circling around to get a decent view of Adranaya’s face. Jovadão himself was leading the Cynosure today, a duty he no doubt enjoyed. The crowd quieted as the Sihiri raised their weapons. Gadarien looked up at the condemned, his fingernails cutting into his palms. He forced himself to watch them die, refusing to look away even as the light etched bright spots into his vision and the smoke stung his throat. He could only hope that Jovadão would eventually face justice, that the focused rays of hatred emanating from Cantereian eyes would one day char him to cinders.
Adranaya’s reaction was markedly different from the mix of disgust and titillation on the faces of the Sarmalans around her. Her horror was more than merely visceral. There was a history here, a true understanding of the darkness she was witnessing. Perhaps her sympathies for Cantereia were more than an experiment in fashionable rebellion like the witchglass that pierced her skin. Perhaps he should feel guilty for using her.
No. He forced his gaze back to the victims on the scaffold. His work was for them, and for all those beaten down by Sarmala’s fist. He choked down the bitter taste of death and digested it into resolve. For this crime and a thousand others like it, Sarmala would burn. And if accomplishing that mission meant sacrificing some rich Sarmalan girl, that was a burden he would happily bear.
He followed Adranaya as she forced her way out of the crowd, passing a trio of watchmen as they made a show of arresting a troublemaker. The man’s beard marked him as Tementeira, a member of the largest separatist group other than Gadarien’s, the Feiçeira. The two organizations shared the goal of liberating Cantereia, but the commonality ended there. The Feiçeira were the inheritors of Harmony, a sorcerous tradition that had once made Cantereia the greatest nation in Telua. The Tementeira, by contrast, were loudmouthed, sanctimonious fanatics whose two primary skills were getting themselves killed and making things more difficult for the professionals. The imbeciles believed Harmony to be so holy that it should only be used for prayer, never for fighting. Sheer lunacy. If the Deucanta hadn’t meant Harmony to be used, why would they have Sung it into being in the first place?
Gadarien stopped briefly to remove his disguise, ignoring the shouting martyr. Getting the makeup off required scrubbing with a rag soaked in harsh solvent. It stung his eyes and the scar tissue on his cheek, but he didn’t have time to be gentle. Not with himself, and not with anyone else.
Feather and Vine was one of those places that advertised its exclusivity through its obscurity. The door was a solid slab of ironwood, marked only by a tiny witchglass inlay of the shop logo, a stylized vine with feathers for leaves. The lack of other signage sent a clear message: either you already knew what this place was or you had no business going inside.
He pushed the door open as though it were perfectly normal for someone like him to walk into a place like this. A breathtaking witchglass chandelier shaped like a rack of antlers channeled daylight in from the roof and scattered it around the room like a dappled clearing. The plaster walls were glazed in shades of green, simple and refined, and the floor was crafted of intricate marquetry in a pattern of fallen leaves. All made by Cantereian hands, no doubt.
Adranaya was seated behind a counter at the back and didn’t look up from the pile of linen cards she was inscribing. “Welcome to Feather and Vine,” she said absently. “Be right with you.” Her voice was uncharacteristically flat, its harmonics bespeaking an ocean of pain. Her hand trembled as she wrote. She was desperately trying to distract herself.
“Adra,” he said, quietly enough to avoid startling her. Still, she jumped when she saw him, knocking over her pot and spilling the dark red ink.
“Shit!” she yelped, immediately ducking behind the counter.
Gadarien found her crouched down, frantically opening and closing cabinets. The puddle of ink was growing dangerously close to dripping onto the beautiful floor. “Can I help?”
She glanced up, a flush creeping beneath the delicate iridescence of her cheeks. “I’m just looking for a towel,” she mumbled. Her eyes were red and her hair was sweaty and disheveled, but she still would have drawn all eyes in any room she walked into. She was the kind of person who had been praised for her beauty her whole life and therefore lost respect for anyone who complimented her on it. Like anyone, though, she still wanted to be wanted. He’d simply have to convey it without words.
She finally found some rags and began sopping up the ink. “This counter is made of silverbough imported all the way from Tisuul. My parents will kill me if it gets stained.” Beneath the embarrassment, the melody of her voice conveyed anger and fear as she spoke of her family. He definitely needed to find out what they’d done to her.
“Here,” he said, offering his water skin. The Sarmalan flashed a quick smile as she dribbled some water onto the counter and began scrubbing. The small rectangles of linen she’d been writing on were soaked through with deep crimson. “What were you making?” he asked.
“Tags for the new inventory,” she said. “Calligraphy relaxes me. It’s an old Sarmalan tradition. I’ve been doing it since I was little. I was trying to take my mind off…” She paused in her scrubbing, then lurched forward as though hit by a sudden gust of wind. She dropped the rag and covered her face with her hands as the sobs bubbled up.
Almost without thinking, Gadarien came around the counter and put his arms around her, generating a low, soothing hum. He instinctively attuned her heartbeat, modulating his harmonics to create a subtle, matching rhythm, gradually slowing it down and pulling her into a state of calm. For Cantereians, comforting each other both physically and harmonically was second-nature, but he belatedly remembered that Sarmalans disapproved of such openness. Adranaya didn’t seem bothered, though, and of course she didn’t understand what he was doing. She leaned into his shoulder, resting her palms on his chest as she cried. It was a real struggle to avoid feeling true sympathy for her.
She finally took a shuddering breath and lifted her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”
“It’s morning.”
“A long morning, then.” She leaned back and scrunched up her nose. “Sorry, I made a mess on your shirt.”
He shrugged. “Well, as it happens, I collect Sarmalan tears.” He brushed a thumb across her cheek as though gathering morning dew from a flower petal. She gaped at his daring. Holding her gaze, he slowly licked the drop off.
“How does it taste?” she said. Her voice was raspy, and he didn’t need sorcery to hear her thirst.
He let the moment stretch out a bit longer. Then, leaning close, he whispered a single word.
“Salty.”
She laughed and punched his shoulder. “Buffoon.” She disentangled herself and turned back to the counter, wiping her remaining tears away with her palms. She took a deep breath, collecting herself as she dropped the dirty rag into a bucket. “I was actually hoping I’d see you today,” she said at last, attempting a casual tone. “Something funny happened this morning.”
He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Oh?”
“The alley behind the shop was full of Cantereian merchants, like every Market Day. Hucksters, counterfeiters, the usual. A pair of Sihiri showed up and ran them off, even though they weren’t bothering anyone. One of the soldiers had the gall to try and flirt with me, so I made a fool out of him.” She grinned, displaying her crooked canine tooth—a minor imperfection that somehow added to her charm. “Well, he made a fool out of himself. But I helped.”
“Are you sure antagonizing the Sihiri is a good idea?” A blatant act like that would have earned Gadarien a beating or worse. The fact that Adranaya could laugh about it told him far more than she said out loud.
She scoffed. “They won’t do anything. My mother and uncle both sit on the Sunlight Council. That’s why I have a duty to stand up to the Sihiri.” She glanced at him, wincing. “Sorry. I’m insufferable, I know.”
“You don’t need to apologize for doing the right thing,” he replied, telling her what she wanted to hear. “Although I guess to some people, it might come across as pity.”
She turned, eyes wide, clutching the wet rag like a doll. “No, no. I don’t pity Cantereians at all. I’m just tired of seeing how badly they’re treated. I’ve been thinking about it since… Since this morning.” Her voice wavered, catching on her recent trauma. “I can’t just act as though everything is fine. It’s not fine. Something has to change.”
Gadarien almost couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d assumed he’d have to push her toward the next step, but instead she was offering the opportunity to him in a silver bowl. “Only the rich and powerful are capable of truly changing anything,” he said.
She smiled wryly. “I’ve got one of those two things locked down, and the path to the other is to enroll in the School of the Storm.” Her smile faded and she wrapped her arms around herself. “That was the life my parents wanted for me, as the youngest child. A stint in the military, then a career in civil service, close to the center of power. But things went bad back home, and that plan burned up.” She shook her head and took another long, shuddering breath. Gadarien sorely wanted to press her on her history, but their current thread of conversation was more important. The details could wait. “No one knows my parents sent me here to keep me hidden away,” she continued. “I could still enroll at the School and no one would know the difference.”
Gadarien kept his expression solemn, but inside, he was praising the Deucanta. This was perfect. It even offered him a chance to put her in his debt. “That sounds like a tough road,” he said, loading his harmonics with respect and admiration. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She straightened, lifting her chin. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m going to enroll.”
He nodded, mirroring her change of posture. “Then I’ll do the same,” he said, as though just now deciding.
Her expression cycled though surprise and gratitude, finally landing on concern. “You’re going to try to enroll?” she said. “It’ll be easy for me—my family has legacy status, and I’ve been studying for it my whole life. But very few Cantereians have ever been admitted.”
He winked, putting on his most charming grin. “Then it’s a good thing I’m the best.”
She smiled tentatively, realizing that she wouldn’t be taking her journey alone. Defying Sarmalan decorum, she threw her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“No, thank you,” he replied. “It’s your courage that inspired me. Maybe together we can help my people.”
She stepped back, wiping her eyes. “Yeah, and not just them. As bad as Cantereians have it, the Anashi have it even worse.”
Her sincerity took him aback. Everyone agreed that the Anashi had earned their ostracism. To hear such an unpopular opinion from Adranaya was surprising, even alluring. Maybe there was more to her than he had assumed. He would really have to stay focused on his priorities.
There was something else, though, a note of tension and excitement in her voice that had to be related to the Anashi woman she’d been following in the market. “Yes, it’s terrible how they’re treated. I wish we had a way to support them,” he said, leading her on.
Eager to impress, Adranaya took the bait. “There’s this Anashi woman who collects our scraps. I’m not sure what she does with them or how she gets into the box—it’s always locked after she leaves. But I’ve been sneaking extra pieces out of our workshop and putting them in there for her.” She shrugged. “I know it’s not much, but it’s something.”
Gadarien smiled. It was something indeed. The thrill in her harmonics and her flushed skin both pointed to more than mere altruism. She was smitten.
“I think it’s a lovely gesture.” He floated his words atop a melody of the approval Adranaya so clearly craved. Her desire for the Anashi was an unexpected gift, like going for a hard climb and discovering a ladder bolted to the rock. He would use that desire to control her. And if he could recruit the Anashi in the bargain, his view would be all the sweeter when he reached the top.
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