CHAPTER TWO

  Malmyera, Laogüen

  The harp was a beautiful Relic. Well-kept. Gold-gilded. Masterfully crafted, though like all Relics, its maker remained unknown.

  From the moment Jans the Sparrow had been commissioned to play by Iego Miatsu the Eighth and the harp had been placed in his hands, he had fallen in love. Its highest strings were impossibly thin. Its thickest strings were impossibly supple. Even after the House of Miatsu retired, he would sit and play long into night, only the lamplight dancing to the verses he spun.

  Jans was the most well-renowned bard in all of Laogüen. He’d played for kings and queens, for esteemed magisters and wealthy merchants. He’d drawn tears from sellswords with a single verse. He’d been showered with instruments imported from the finest of craftsmen in Kalluu-ton, studded with diamonds and dragon-scales harvested at five summers, carved from the oldest of sycamores felled in the Ahta Mountains, strung with the heart sinew of whales hunted in the northernmost seas, blessed by the High Priestess of Selenaia under the light of the Weeping Moon.

  Nothing compared.

  Never again would he know sweeter chords. Never again would he be satisfied with the sound of any other instrument. He’d spent the last week in a daze, his nights restless and his sleep fitful, so consumed were his thoughts by the music of the harp.

  His fingers flowed, lifting the ballad to life. The notes echoed off the cornices and wrapped rings around the tops of his knuckles, spiraling into the ceiling above. He leaned forward into the melody. When he closed his eyes, he saw flickers of a hall he did not know, where honeysuckle grew thick upon columns like tapestries for a feast; where a black doe, legs folded beneath her, sat by a fountain made of stones that shone bright as the sun, and a child stood beside her, stroking her velvet nose; where there were dancers with silver eyes, whirling as an entire orchestra of Relics spurred them on, the music weaving with that of the harp and turning the chords a shimmering gold.

  Jans needed nothing else but the music he played. He kept his eyes closed, and reveled in the ghostly dancers that flickered before him. He paid no mind to the blisters that began to form and burst on his fingers; he played on and on, blood trickling down his wrists, his smile never leaving his face.

  ————————

  Malmyera, Laogüen

  The sun streamed through the shop’s front windows, curling over Cyrus’s features lovingly, lightening the bags underneath his eyes and trimming his hair with copper. The hollow of his throat was touched blue-black in shadow. Charcoal was smudged on the brown skin of his jaw where he tended to rest his head in his hands.

  Cyrus Kazemu was a cobbler, highly regarded in Malmyera, praised for the intricacy and speed of his work. He used only the highest quality leather for noblemen, and charged this upper class three-fold the value; this allowed him to, more quietly on the side, repair many a commoner’s boot for a heavily reduced fee. On good days, no fee at all.

  His shop was small and cramped, with two western facing windows that made evening summers unbearable. But it was his, and had been his family’s for generations. The crooked shelves in the corner that overflowed with strings and hides, the worn wood flooring that creaked with every step, the dulled glass that seemed to internalize dust that couldn’t be scrubbed away. The smell of shoe polish and leather. It was his.

  His main workspace faced away from the door. Because of that he’d installed a bell that rang whenever the door was opened, and he rose whenever the chime echoed through the small space. He was careful to schedule his days in advance; talented as he was, he could afford to select his clientele, and appointments were separated by at least a half-mark. He needed the time in between to have to himself. The performative rituals of salesmanship exhausted him far more than any of the drudge work of his craft.

  He sat, hunched over the table, a skiving knife and a half-fashioned brogue laid out before him, skimming his appointment book. Upon reaching the next entry, he sighed at the sight of Oliya’s handwriting; when his hands ached and spasmed too much to hold a quill, his book was instead filled by his friend. For a near professional historian, Oliya’s letterings were frequently illegible. Cyrus hadn’t the heart to tell her that. Yet.

  The bell sounded, and he made to stand, rising slowly and unsteadily. When he caught sight of the visitor, he relaxed, and a beautiful smile stretched across his face. A bright smile, a happy smile, one that lightened the hazel of his eyes and brought forth a youthfulness he often seemed to lack, though he’d seen not even twenty-eight summers.

  “You’re a half-mark late,” he said.

  “And that, love, is a candlemark early, as well you know,” Fausta replied cheerily.

  Out of everybody, Cyrus had always loved Fausta the best. He loved everything about her. Her eyes were his favorite shade of grey, her skin his favorite shade of brown. Her laugh, deep and loud like a river, was his favorite sound, and the smile she saved for him alone was his favorite smile in all of Malmyera, in all of Laogüen, in all the known and unknown world. He loved that she never sat still, that she was always thinking and and sketching out inventions and Relic improvements, and he loved that she would get lost in her thoughts like nobody else he knew.

  “Mother nearly locked me out of the workshop,” she continued. “Thom was pressed into booting me out to call on you.”

  “He owes me a drink for that, then. I never get anything done with you around.” He reached forward and embraced her. She smelled of lavender after the rain.

  Fausta let out a sigh into his neck, her arms tightening briefly before she let go and perched atop his worktable. “I didn’t know I was so distracting, Cyrus.” Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

  “I think you know that very well whenever you move around my tools.” He leaned over to take an awl from her hands that she’d begun to fiddle with, placing it back where it belonged.

  “Sorry, darling.” She rifled through her satchel, and withdrew a package wrapped in satin, tied neatly with a bow. “Let me give you this now, lest I forget.”

  “Excellent. A fortnight’s worth?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you, Fausta.” He said, quiet and serious; he knew the risk she took smuggling him the sleeping powder.

  “Access is no real issue.” She waved a hand in the air. “The laboratory has many uses for most of the powder’s components. But the quantity begins to worry me; if the hatchling continues to need a higher dosage each night, Razin is bound to notice. Some of these components aren’t used at all in new projects we’ve planned. We’ll have to find another source.”

  “New projects?”

  “Oh, it’s all very exciting. The magister wants us to investigate how Relics function, not simply optimize their practical applications.” She began to pull at a loose thread on her shirt.

  He smiled. That was Fausta; always moving, always fidgeting, only calm when she was deep in her calculations or bringing to life her newest invention.

  “Was that not already part of your work?” He asked.

  “Well, yes, it was, in a way. Some understanding has always been required to complete any repairs or improvements. But we’ve always been ordered to approach such tests from a purely practical angle, and now we’ve been—ah, unshackled, you might say. Any and all theoretical tests can be submitted for approval. Within reason, of course.”

  “I see,” he said. He did not see.

  “Hmm,” she peered at him. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  Cyrus gave her a sheepish smile, rubbing his chin, smearing more charcoal underneath his lips which she motioned to with a laugh. He grabbed a clean cloth nearby and wiped at his face.

  “I have time enough for you to try to explain.” He said, turning back to his book. “Lord…” He paused, trying to decipher Oliya’s scribbles. “Lord Majin is late.”

  “Do you mean Majih? Zarir Majih, of the capital?”

  “Perhaps.” He inspected his notebook once more, bringing his nose close to the page, muttering to himself: “I could’ve sworn that was an ’n.’ Ah, no—Majih it is.” I must have a word with Oliya. He looked up at Fausta. “You know of this man?”

  “Short. Rude. Talks of himself and his sons and little else. An awful dancer.”

  “Your sort of fellow, then.”

  “Precisely. I swoon over coarse, pathetic men who are entirely bereft of grace.”

  Cyrus nodded, feigning a grave air as he made a note in his book next to Lord Majih’s name, speaking the words aloud as he did: “Competition for Fausta’s hand… Make arches ill-fitting…”

  She laughed; he couldn’t help his smile at the sound. She began to fidget with the loose thread on her shirt once more, and his smiled widened.

  “Come,” he said. “Tell me more of your experiments.”

  “They haven’t begun quite yet. I’m submitting my proposals tomorrow. Rough proposals, yes, but we can afford to be aggressive in our tests, since we’ve received more Relics in the past moon than the last hundred.”

  “I’d thought the Kalluu notorious for hoarding them.”

  “They have been. Rumor is that King Bahram has promised a heavily reduced import levy on high-end goods, or some other favorable deal. Frankly, Cyrus, I don’t care one whit for the machinations that made these experiments possible. I only care that they are possible.”

  He hummed an agreement, rapping lightly on the sole to start the set of the glue. Fausta, when in a mood such as this, preferred to ramble; and he, always, preferred to indulge her and listen, though he understood little the intricacies of her work.

  “Would you believe that the king has even gifted Relics to his cronies? Suhriyar, Miatsu. A handful of the other most established houses.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Wealthiest, you mean.” He inspected the sole, holding the brogue up to examine from all angles.

  “But of course.” She grinned a crooked grin. “Our wise ruler wouldn’t waste such treasures on those who can give him little in return.” She began to twirl a skiving knife. The blade glinted as it wove between her knuckles. “Foolish, if you ask me, but I suppose his generosity is paying two-fold. The chatter at the last fête I unfortunately attended was most flattering of His Excellence. Nobles are a loyal folk, as well you know.”

  Cyrus snorted. Her eyes crinkled at their corners.

  “But I’ve been going on and on, yet again,” she continued. “What of you, darling?”

  He’d opened his mouth to respond when the shop’s bell rang once again. A middling man, portly and handsome—though less so with his nose in the air, haughty—stepped into the shop. His hair was slicked back, accentuating his already absurdly large forehead. His eyes were the green of the emerald rings adorning his hands. His clothes were finely crafted, unwrinkled, and the ruby lining of his waistcoat shone, gaudy in the sun.

  Cyrus rose and bowed. Fausta merely wiggled her fingers in a half-hearted wave.

  The nobleman tipped his hat to Fausta, and permitted Cyrus to straighten with a gesture of his hand. “Lady Fausta, Master Cyrus.” He greeted them. His voice was slimy and low.

  “Lord Zarir. A pleasure to see you.” Fausta intoned.

  Cyrus bowed. “Lord Majih. You honor me with your business.”

  With the Silent Revolution had come equality of all folk in the eyes of Laogüenese law; yet customs were harder to be rid of, even many summers later. Thus Cyrus, not of noble birth, referred to Zarir Majih by his surname. Cyrus’s thoughts drifted briefly to the infantry, the only place where such perfunctory niceties were cast aside, pulling himself back from memories when he realized the nobleman had finished his inane introductions.

  “—I simply had to come to the best cordwainer in town,” Lord Majih simpered.

  Cobbler, Cyrus thought, but did not offer this correction; clearly the man didn’t care for repairs. A noble like him would likely discard any damaged shoe without even considering a mend.

  “I had heard from the Houtan’s steward that you, Master Cyrus, were not only a master, but also a decorous young man. As befits my family’s close ties with the army, I strive to support those who have served Laogüen in combat whenever possible.”

  “An admirable practice, m’lord.” Cyrus plastered on a polite, empty smile.

  “You were in the cavalry, yes? Attached to the Immortals?” The nobleman peered at Cyrus, making no attempt to conceal his fascination.

  You know this very well. Bitterness crept into the corners of Cyrus’s mind—the whispers had never ceased. Not truly. The annihilation of the long-revered Immortals, the fiercest infantry in all the land, had begot many tales and many more falsehoods.

  “Yes, m’lord.” Cyrus said. He felt Fausta’s watchful gaze upon him, and kept his face unreadable.

  The insufferable man prattled on. “My brother was a captain. A fine fighter, slain at the Battle of Nahtua. I pray every day for a curse upon the rogues.”

  “A great many do, m’lord.”

  “Nahtua. Such a tragedy.” Lord Majih’s eyes were hungry. “It’s said even the Immortals lasted only a candlemark.”

  Cyrus felt as if he were a carcass, the nobleman a vulture pecking at his body, tearing tatters of skin from his bones. “I wouldn’t know, m’lord. I was not there.” The memory of the smell of charred human flesh stung his eyes and nose. The shop felt too small, the sun too hot, his clothes too tight. His heart was beating painfully within his chest.

  “Strange, I had thought—”

  “Pardon, Lord Zarir,” Fausta interrupted. “On the subject of Laogüen’s military, I’d heard your son has returned from training exercises. Is he also to attend the ball?”

  Cyrus loved her very much.

  The nobleman floundered for a moment, displeased at the disruption in his inquisition yet compelled by his lesser station to answer. “Yes, Lady Fausta. Nikzad will arrive tomorrow with the rest of his unit.”

  He made as if to turn back to Cyrus, who didn’t know if words would even come should he need them. Fausta’s jaw tightened; her voice remained level as she demanded the nobleman’s attention once more. “No doubt Lord Nikzad will make a fine cataphract. And your daughter, Lady Golnessa?”

  “My entire house shall enjoy Lord Iego’s hospitality, Lady Fausta.” Lord Majih’s voice, still slimy, took on a squeaky pitch.

  “How wonderful. I look forward to reacquainting myself. I expect it to be a fabulous event—one can spare no expense for socials such as these, which is why I too have come to Master Cyrus. In fact, he is readying my own pair for the welcoming feast tonight. A rush order, you see.” Her tone was pointed.

  Lord Majih pulled at his collar, his chest inflating and his face flushing florid. Cyrus was reminded of a pufferfish he’d once seen in a summer-market in the Isles; bloated and silly and dead, forever full of nothing but air.

  He regretted this thought immediately. The poor pufferfish had done nothing to warrant such a comparison.

  Fausta simply stared at the nobleman, calm, the grey of her eyes cold and unyielding. Lord Majih pulled at his collar once more before sighing. He outlined his needs to Cyrus, peppering his asks with dull anecdotes of his sons, and Cyrus dutifully wrote relevant requirements and measurements in his sketchbook for planning.

  At long last, the nobleman took a deep breath—Cyrus wondered if that were the first such breath he’d drawn in a quarter-mark, garrulous as he was—and asked: “Have you the information you need to complete my order, Master Cyrus?”

  “Near enough, m’lord. Will you need special ornamentation? Insignias, bespoke embossing?”

  “Crimson stitching of my seal, of course. You must know by now the standards for such a ball. I’m likely to dance with Lady Parva Miatsu, and have heard she takes note of such minutiae.”

  Cyrus opened his mouth to spout some empty flattery, the smile he’d practiced in the mirror for irritating customers stretched across his mouth, but hadn’t the chance to inquire after golden buckles before Fausta responded.

  “How thoughtful of you,” she said. “Lady Parva will certainly note the splendid detailing. After all, she’ll come to know your shoes very well when the dancing begins.”

  The nobleman paused. He eyed her suspiciously; she flashed him a saccharine smile, dimples and all. Turning red under his collar, the nobleman straightened his waistcoat with a huff and looked back to Cyrus. “Have them ready by tomorrow’s time.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  With another sidelong look towards Fausta, Lord Majih tipped his hat and left the shop. Cyrus waited until the door had closed behind him before asking, words fragile and rough: “Must you insult customers of mine?”

  “He irritates me. He should not have interrogated you so.” She tilted her head and regarded him openly. He couldn’t bear to look back at her for more than a moment, and turned instead to his work before him, watching her from the corner of his eye.

  One day, he promised her silently. One day I will find the words to tell you what I never know how to tell you now.

  She rolled her shoulders back, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her smile, though wry, had a shade of sadness. “Besides, the last time I was forced to dance with him, he stomped on my feet like an ox and gave me quite a few bruises.”

  “Ah,” Cyrus said. “Carry on, then.” His voice still shook. He worked the leather for a moment before adding, “Though in the future perhaps not when I’m trying to upsell.”

  “Anything for you, Cyrus.” Liar. Fondness stole into his heart, nearly causing him to smile.

  She began to wander around and inspect his designs as she was wont to do. He worked in silence, wrapping up the toe cap with sure fingers. The leather was cool beneath his skin; the repetitions of the needle were familiar. His heartbeat slowed with each stitch. When he finished, he set the brogue back down, flexing his hands with a sigh, rubbing away the cramp that had formed on his thumb.

  “Is it a bad day today?” She asked from the other side of the shop.

  He paused, cataloguing his joints. Some minor pains, and a bout of stiffness that had resolved with a candlemark’s rest. “No.” He answered truthfully. “It’s a good day, thus far.”

  “Good,” she said, sidling over to kiss him on the cheek. He blushed, just as he always did when she kissed him, no matter that it was the first or hundredth or thousandth time. She sat upon the worktable, knocking her knees gently into his shoulder, and leaned closer to his ear. Her voice lowered, “How is she? Has she grown much? Is she eating well?”

  “She’s doing splendidly. I taught her three new signs last night.” He felt a burst of pride at the hatchling’s acuity. “She’s a smart one, to be sure.” He stood, his left hip only mildly protesting the movement, and walked over to the doorway that led to his sleeping-quarters. The hatchling’s shoulder was now level with his chest; he took out a piece of charcoal from his pocket, marking the spot on the doorframe, the latest of many such marks upon the frame and by far the tallest. He turned back to Fausta and pointed to the new line.

  She whistled. “My, my! She’s grown a hand in the last day.”

  “And her appetite grows with her.” Cyrus made his way back to the bench. “It’s becoming a problem—I can only carry so much meat each night. Not to mention the amount of mutton I’ve bought in the last moon. Every butcher in town must think me half-wolf.”

  She frowned. “Such behavior is bound to rouse suspicion soon.” She rubbed her eyebrow, a nervous habit she’d always had.

  “Stop that,” he chided, catching her hand in his. “You’ll lose the rest of it.”

  “What would I, and my eyebrows, do without you?”

  “Hmm. Many silly things. Live a lopsided life, for one.”

  “Lopsided,” She let out a laugh. Her eyes flashed like quicksilver. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

  He nodded, a solemn look on his face. His eyes danced. “Gods themselves have fallen for less. You’d best be careful, Fausta, lest that eyebrow succumb to your assaults.”

  “Would you think me unappealing, Cyrus? Too asymmetrical?”

  “You’ll always be appealing, no matter how asymmetrical. However,” he paused. He rubbed his chin, pinching his features together into a philosopher’s frown, and she clasped her free hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. “That would put off every other suitor in town. You’d be stuck with me. By all means, carry on.” He winked, letting go of her wrist. She just laughed, and knocked his shoulder with her knee again; she left it resting there and he leaned against her. In habit her hand raised to caress him. She began to card her fingers through his hair, untangling the unruly curls, smoothing the locks back from his face.

  The two of them sat quietly for a moment, soaking in the sun.

  Fausta was first to break the silence. “I will come with you, when you next visit the hatchling.”

  “You needn’t do that,” he said abruptly. His nerves pressed needling fingers once more into the hollows of his bones at the very thought of Fausta in harm’s way. He took a breath, pressing a hand briefly to his heart to calm its furious beat. “I can handle it.”

  She kept her silence, measuring him with her silver eyes, her face unreadable. He kept his own face open, hoping she would see the root of his fears, that he couldn’t bear to lose her as he’d already lost so many. At last she clicked her tongue, hopping off of the table and cupping his face in a hand. “Very well,” she said. “But in return, Cyrus, I need you to swear to me that you that you’ll ask for my help, should you need me. Far too often you don’t ask until it’s too late, and by that time you’re in too deep.”

  “I promise.” He touched his hand to first his lips, and then his heart.

  “Good.” She said. “Just remember that you’re not alone. Not as long as you have me.”

  She pressed another kiss to his cheek—he blushed yet again—and whirled away, gathering her coat under an arm and slinging her satchel over her head. “I must return to the workshop. I need to have Thom review my proposals once more before the day's end. I’ll return tomorrow, love.”

  “Fausta,” he called out as she opened the door.

  She turned, happiness curling the edge of her mouth, the sounds of passerby floating in from the street. The sun spilled with eager rays over her profile; he was certain he’d never seen a sight more lovely.

  “You—” His throat felt filled with sand. He swallowed roughly. “You know I’m serious, don’t you?”

  “Serious about what?”

  “My suit.”

  She ducked her head and bit her lip to stop the smile from spreading. When she raised her eyes to meet his they were soft, so soft, like tufts of fur behind a house-cat’s ears. “Are you sure you’d be able to put up with me?”

  “Not all the time.” He answered truthfully. “But I get along with you more than anyone else I know, or have known, or will know. You’ve always been the one I wanted to marry. I’ve loved you for years, Fausta. You must know that.”

  “I do,” she said. “And you know that I—well—” Her eyes darted away. She began to rub at her eyebrow. He murmured her name and her hand dropped to pull at the loose thread of her shirt.

  He did not fault her, that she couldn’t say the words. Memories swelled in the air between the two of them: a kiss in an orchard where apple blossoms floated to rest upon blades of grass; legions of warriors, spear-tips iron and hungry in the young light of dawn; always, always, Nahtua, where the desert sands shifted with splinters of buffalo bones, and the sun leeched the water from the blood of war and the wind swept the color of rust into the dunes.

  Cyrus waited, patient, silent and calm.

  Fausta took a breath. “You know my heart.”

  Bright, clear days, hay blades waist-high; a cornflower he couldn’t help but bend.

  “I do,” he said. He did not fault her. “Till next we meet.”

  “Till next.” She echoed, and slipped out the door.

  He watched her walk away, saw her spin to blow him a kiss through the window and grin when he reached out to catch it. She set off, heading west, her hands folded behind her back and her head lowered; thinking as she walked, as she always did.

  Cyrus smiled and turned back to the work that lay before him. He picked up a boot in need of re-soling that Tabal the blacksmith had dropped off that morning. He flexed his hands, setting to the task—in a mark’s time he’d rest.

  He whistled as he worked. A child’s song, one that reminded him of his mother and raspberries in the summer and days long gone. Simpler days, softer days, hazier days. Days where he and Fausta would lie in the old field and watch the clouds, where green stained the curves of their spines and clover tickled the backs of their necks, and the sunset kissed a sweet blush upon the shifting fields of wheat.

  actually nixed in favor of an email, or whatever else best floats your boat.