The crowd milled in the copperlight, all of them young, most of them beautiful, dressed in artfully torn robes and with all manner of patterned silk scarves wrapped around their necks. They eyed Scorio and the oud player with distaste as they walked up to the large man, whose eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“Back of the line,” said the man, not even looking at Scorio.
“I’m a friend of Helena’s. Please tell her Scorio is here and would like to talk to her.”
“Back of the line,” said the man, his voice almost mechanical with boredom.
“Come, come, let us not tempt the fates,” said Old Memek, plucking at Scorio’s sleeve.
“What will it take to allow us inside?” asked Scorio.
“You make me repeat myself one more time, I’m chucking you into the canal,” said the bald man, still not even looking down at where Scorio stood.
“Into the canal, hmm?” He turned, considered the black waters, his pulse starting to pound. “So that’s the way it’s done?”
Old Memek gripped his elbow forcibly. “Scorio, dear friend, come, we do not wish to—”
But Scorio wasn’t listening. In a moment he’d summoned his Igneous Heart, and reached out with his senses, seeking mana. Copper wisps floated around him, but within the bright fuchsia overhead, it burned brightly, bottled up and refulgent.
Scorio reached for that nexus of power, drew it forth with his paddle, finding that his will could force it out of its container, and pulled it swiftly into his obsidian Heart.
Which, obedient to his will, immediately caught fire with a whoomph.
Smiling blandly, Scorio grasped the large man by the belt and shoulder, pivoted on his foot, and hurled him across the entirety of the pavement to disappear into the canal below.
A large gout of water burst up and spattered over the narrow street, eliciting shrieks of dismay from the crowd which pressed itself against the wall in horror.
The sign overhead had gone dark, the patch of pavement before The Flame now an island of darkness.
“There,” said Scorio, tugging his robe back into place. “Old Memek, shall we?”
The oud player was gaping at him but didn’t resist as Scorio guided him through the door and into the establishment beyond.
It was charged with music, activity, the smell of people, and lit by slender bars of blacklight set along the tops of the walls so that they shed no visible light but rather caused the dancers to glow.
Or more accurately, caused the pigments that were painted over their features and drenched into their hair to smolder with gaudy, impossible light. In the darkness people cavorted, moved to the charging rhythm of the guitars, their hair burning in bright, unnatural tones, their faces covered in constellations of vivid yellows and blues, oranges, and pinks, as if some fey power had blown magic, fluorescent dust across their features.
A dozen musicians sat atop a stage at the back of the room, all of them bent over their instruments, all of them stamping their feet and occasionally drumming their hands on the bodies of their guitars as they let loose a riot of sound. Scorio couldn’t guess how many people danced under the glow of the imprisoned Coal, but he didn’t care; slowly and methodically he pressed his way through the crowd, pulling Old Memek along behind him, looking all around as he searched out his quarry.
Helena was on the stage, looking wild and exhilarated, sawing at her fiddle in wild abandon, her wide lips revealing her glowing teeth, green stripes painted down her cheeks, the ribbons intertwined in her braid burning as if aflame.
And there—Feiyan sat at a recessed booth amongst a half-dozen others, sandaled foot up on the table’s edge, a cup of something in one hand, watching the musicians, the upper half of her face painted a blinding crimson which glowed like artificial blood, a black band crossing narrowly over her eyes.
Scorio moved to stand before the table, and when Feiyan glanced at him in disinterest he inclined his head and gave an apologetic smile.
For a moment Feiyan simply stared through him, and then recognition slipped into place, and she sat up, almost spilling her drink, eyes narrowing in fury.
But the music was too loud for them to converse, so rather than shout futilely at him, she slammed her drink down, escaped from the throng of friends, and rose to stand bristling before him.
Scorio met her gaze with equanimity, and when she stabbed him in the chest with a finger and then pointed over her shoulder, indicating that he should follow her, he nodded.
Old Memek, mesmerized, eyes wide and mouth opened wider, stumbled along behind him, clutching his oud case to his chest.
Feiyan led them both through a side door and into a narrow corridor whose length was littered with even narrower doors.
But that was as far as they were going. Feiyan rounded on Scorio and stepped right into his face, glaring up at him. “What by the ten hells are you doing here? How did you even get through the door?”
“The door?” Scorio blinked innocently. “It was just open. I let myself in.”
“You’re lying.” Her voice was low with anger, and he saw her pat her hip where her hammer usually hung. “I told you to stay well clear of us, Scorio. You broke your word!”
“I recall the warning. I don’t recall promising to obey it.”
“I want you out before Helena sees you. She’ll take every starving dog and beggar off the street. Come on—”
“I’ve an offer to make, Feiyan.” When she paused, he continued smoothly. “Be honest. You profited richly off our last exchange. You telling me you couldn’t use further treasures?”
She glared at him, then fixed Old Memek with her stare, causing him to shrink back. “Who’s he?”
“Allow me to introduce Old Memek, a fantastic oud player and immense fan of yours.”
“He part of your offer?”
“N-no,” stammered Memek quickly. “I am but a casualty of our mutual friend’s ambitions.”
To which Feiyan grunted and nodded at the door leading back into the darkened room. “Wait for us in there, then.”
Old Memek scampered back out into the music, and when the door closed Feiyan crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve got one minute.”
“That’s plenty.” Scorio leaned back against the wall, affecting nonchalance. “In exchange for some information and a favor, I’m willing to bring you another sunphire.”
“What information? What favor?”
“The first one’s easy, I’m sure. I just want a way to get in touch with members of the Academy. Do you know of a means to get inside? Could you find one?”
“Great Souls?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s no need to get into the Academy. They come into the city every Eighthday to explore and spend their allowance in the markets. Keep an eye out and you’ll see your target easy enough.”
“That so? Excellent. There a particular market they frequent?”
Feiyan’s brows lowered. “I’ve not agreed to this deal yet. The favor?”
“Smuggle myself and another out of Bastion and onto the Rascor Plains.”
“Ha!” Her bark rang off the walls. “I gave up exactly those kinds of connections when I decided to make this my life. No.”
“Two sunphires.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t get that many.”
“Say I could. Would you help?”
“For two?” She frowned at him pensively. “Perhaps.”
“Then you start looking into it, and I’ll start collecting them.”
“Give me one first, and then I’ll start turning over old stones.”
“Fair enough.” Though he’d no idea how long that would take him. “And the market?”
She snorted. “Easy enough. The Academy is in Ward 7, and a stone’s throw from the Graveyard. Every Eighthday, the place turns into a circus. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” He could ask for directions there from Old Memek. “You and Helena have done well for yourselves.”