The savory-sweet smell caused Scorio’s stomach to cramp and his mouth to flood with spit. The urge to just clamber out of the window and run at him was near overwhelming, but he forced himself to swallow and stay still.
First, he’d no means to pay. Second, everyone in the little market appeared familiar with each other; the air was convivial, relaxed, and he’d no doubt stand out like the stranger he was.
Fading away from the window, he scrutinized himself. His white robe and golden belt were now so dirty and torn that they looked little better than rags. His thin sandals were falling apart, the left having nearly lost its sole. His hands were gray with dirt, his fingernails grimy, and moving his hand up to his face he felt four days’ worth of stubble. Hair? Dusty and tangled.
No. Emerging like this would cause a stir. People would demand to know who he was, and what would he say? Stumbling out of the ruins like that?
So Scorio ignored the tormented cramps in his stomach and moved cautiously back to the window.
The wares on sale were few. Most of the little stalls had a dozen items on display at best: one a bunch of withered roots, another a collection of bowls, clearly hand-carved, a third had just three small loaves, blackened and dusted with white flour. A fourth simply had a large stone wheel affixed to the side of a little cart, a pedal and series of straps turning it into some kind of contraption.
Not a lot of wealth here. The people themselves were soberly dressed, many of them in patched and threadbare robes. Faces were gaunt, but for the most part clean. The adults, he saw, had long scabbarded daggers affixed to their belts, the scabbards being brightly colored and adorned with beads, markings, and emblems he couldn’t understand. A marker of their identity? Clearly, they were important.
Was the light changing? It was subtle, but he thought it was—the dusty yellow was becoming a syrupy amber, the shadows more distinct, color stealing back into what had been washed out, everything with a lazy patina over it, as if the light were waxing the city into deeper hues.
The sun-wire had grown a trifle dimmer.
A few of the stalls began to close up. Some simply packed away their wares and hoisted their planks up under an arm. Others, after calling out their goodbyes, stored their wares within little cabinets in the body of their stalls then began to wheel away their carts.
A better-dressed child with a blue sash had shown up with a luxuriously fluffy pet in her scrawny arms, a six-legged cat-like creature that appeared to be all white down, with over-sized blue insectile eyes, moth-like antennae, and large, ivory-colored butterfly wings. The gaggle of children immediately encircled her, eager to pet the strange creature, then followed her away as she left the market.
Scorio wanted to go out amongst those people that remained. To introduce himself, to ask for a blackened loaf, a cup of fresh water. To explain that he was lost, knew nothing, needed help, charity, friendship.
But he stayed still, ignored his bitter hunger and drifting inability to focus. He was scraped and raw, hurt and exhausted. He didn’t trust his judgment, nor what the people out there might do to him.
So he waited, and the syrupy amber light turned honeyed, the shadows growing larger, their edges less distinct, and the last of the stalls closed up shop.
The skewer-man’s departure was particularly painful, but when the meat was out of sight, he found himself better able to think.
The pair of musicians were the last to give up the market. They played even as the final stall owners left, until the fiddler finally lowered her instrument with a frustrated grimace and gave a caustically mocking bow to the empty market.
Scorio watched them. They didn’t seem to be part of the communal tapestry; nobody had engaged them in conversation, and the few that did seemed to only thank them for their skillful playing before moving on.
The seated woman rolled her pipes into a tight parcel with measured, deliberate movements, tied a pair of thongs around it, and slung it over her shoulder as she stood.
Scorio watched, curious.
The fiddler picked up her cap, emptied some octagonal tokens into her hand, counted them, and then her square shoulders slumped.
The pair spoke in desultory tones as the fiddler stowed her instrument in a badly battered case. The conversation pricked the fiddler’s temper; she glared up from where she crouched to say something withering, and the other woman turned away, expression tightly controlled, jaw clenched.
The fiddler took up her case, and then to Scorio’s delight led the other musician not deeper into the hospitable section of Bastion, but down one of the deserted streets into the ruins.
Homeless, then, just like him.
Scorio slipped out of the building and did his best to trail after them, trying to figure out the best approach. In the end, he decided to be direct. Anything else would rightfully cause them to regard him with suspicion.
“Hello?” He raised a hand and stepped out into the middle of the rubble-strewn street. “Excuse me?”
Both women spun around as if expecting an attack. They were only a few blocks from the market, but clearly, they were ready for trouble. The pipe player placed a hand over the haft of a large mallet that hung from her hip, while the fiddler reached behind her back to ghost her fingers over the hilt of a short stabbing blade.
Scorio approached slowly, both hands raised, trying for a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of a better way of introducing myself, and this is already going terribly. Is there any way we could talk? You set the terms.”
The musicians exchanged a glance, and what passed between them was enough for the fiddler to lower her hands to her hips. She was tall, rangy, skin a deep bronze and with a thick brown braid with a crimson ribbon spiraling through it hanging down nearly to her waist.
“That’s close enough,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I need help, but don’t have any of those octagonal coins with which to buy supplies—”
Their expressions hardened, eyes narrowing, and he could practically read their thoughts: A beggar, wasting our time, trying to grift a pair of grifters—
“But I do have this,” he continued and drew out the glowing sapphire the size of his fist.
“The Imperators wept,” said the fiddler, face going slack, eyes opening wide.
“He must have stolen it,” said her companion, voice deeper, suspicious. “He’ll have people after him. Best we steer clear.”
“To starve in perfect grace by ourselves?” The fiddler’s wide lips broadened into a smile. “I’d rather a little trouble. Better than playing Elenor’s Fall to a bunch of halfwits. What’s your name, stranger?”
“Scorio.” He slipped the sapphire back into his robe. “May we talk?”
“I’m Helena,” said the fiddler, and her smile was predatory, her gaze alive with surmises and stratagems. “This grouch is my partner in crime, Feiyan. How’d you come across that gem?”
“Found it,” he said, then gave a low laugh. “Which, weirdly enough, is actually true. It was in a large nest underground. And I’ll be willing to discuss how I might be convinced to part with it in exchange for help.”
“This help,” said Helena, stepping toward him, moving warily as if afraid he might bolt and run. “What are we talking about?”
“We don’t have the octs to give you fair value,” said Feiyan. She was shorter than her partner, her black hair styled into a pompadour, vivid against her pale skin, her frame that of a blacksmith. “And I’d rather gut you than sleep with you.”
Which earned her a warning glower from Helena that she ignored with sublime indifference.
“Fair enough,” said Scorio. “I’m not looking for market value. I suffered a blow to the head while exploring underground, and lost most of my memories. All I ask for is some food, some answers, and perhaps some new robes so that I’ll look less like a murderous madman.”