Despite his insistence on dying in bed, a free breakfast did sound pretty alluring, so Puk forced himself to sit up and crawl out from under the sheets. He examined himself in a full-length mirror propped up by the window and frowned at the unfortunate visage that was frowning back at him.
His general appearance left a lot to be desired. His stalks were droopy and his posture was slouched; his shirt was covered in a dried brown liquid that he hoped was some sort of alcohol as opposed to vomit or, somehow, shit; and he would swear his gut was paunchier than usual. He burped.
With trepidation, he stepped out into the hallway and looked in either direction. He spotted an open door several feet away to his left, across the hall, and figured it must be the communal bathroom. He trundled that way and locked the door behind him, stripping off his shirt and tossing it into the sink, running warm water over it.
Puk slumped down on the floor, leaning against the door, while the water soaked into his dirtied shirt. He knew he should probably be scrubbing it already, but resting his eyes felt good. He momentarily dozed off but was awoken by a ginger knock on the door, to which he replied he’d be done in a minute.
After he finished scrubbing out as much of the stain as he could manage (which was not a lot, given that he had no actual cleaning supplies), Puk realized that he also had no way of drying off the shirt, which was now sopping wet after soaking for close to ten minutes.
There came another knock at the door, and Puk said, “Yeah, just a second!”
“I’m ’bout ready to burst out here!” a man barked on the other side, pounding on the door again to accentuate the burst.
“Fuck me,” Puk mumbled to himself, holding up his wet shirt, which would be even worse to wear amongst company than if it was just dirty. He felt like an absolute buffoon.
But probably worse than going downstairs for breakfast in a dirty or wet shirt would be going half nude, so Puk reluctantly pulled the shirt over his head. He struggled to slide his arms through the sleeves and push his head out through the hole. The wet fabric refused to cooperate with his naturally sticky skin.
“What in the hell you doin’ in there?” the man in the hall demanded to know. “You shittin’ all your innards out?”
“No!” Puk shouted from within the confines of his shirt. “I’m trying to put my fucking wet shirt back on!” He finally poked his head and one arm through, which he used to help the other arm along.
The man mumbled to himself, “Wet shirt…?”
Puk flung the door open, smacking it against the man’s body as he stumbled backward out of the way. He gaped at the qarm standing before him with his shirt dripping onto the floor.
“Yeah, a wet shirt,” said Puk.
“Why’s your shirt wet? What happened in there?”
Puk shoved past the man and told him, “Go piss.” He marched toward the staircase in a sour mood.
The stairs led down to the lobby, where a receptionist had his elbows propped up on the counter and was holding his head in his hands. He glanced over at Puk with a befuddled look.
“Are…you alright, sir?” he asked, not bothering to sit up. “Do you need me to…” He trailed off, not sure what service he could offer.
Botro appeared in the wide doorway to the adjoining room on Puk’s right, which led into the dining area. Behind the man, Puk spotted a long table furnished with steaming plates of fresh food waiting to be devoured.
As more water dripped onto the floor, Botro cocked an eyebrow and said, “Let’s get you some dry clothes.”
Puk appreciated him not asking what had happened. “I don’t think you’ve got anything in my size,” he said.
But Botro assured him, “Of course we do. We have something for everyone here. Could you please fetch our guest here a new shirt?” he asked the young man behind the nearby desk. “Perhaps a pair of pants, as well.”
The receptionist hopped up and scurried into a back room behind the counter to obtain the clothes.
Given the general lack of qarmish travelers in the desert, the inn’s preparedness surprised Puk. “Thank you,” he said to Botro. “Sorry I got your floor wet.”
“That’s alright,” Botro said, displaying what Puk considered an extraordinary amount of patience in spite of how much trouble he had already put this man through. “It’s just water. Easily wiped away.”
The receptionist returned a minute later with the requested clothing, and Botro showed Puk to the downstairs bathroom, where he promptly changed out of his wet attire and handed it over to the innkeeper for a proper wash.
The clothes he now wore were all white, with the flourish of a red S embroidered on the left breast. Puk knew eating in white clothes would be a dangerous game given his proclivity to spill, but after Botro Shiar’s seemingly endless generosity, he was going to make a concerted effort to be careful.
Shiar’s Slumber had an impressive Herrilockian breakfast spread. Puk wondered if this was a daily occurrence or something for a special occasion, but he had no idea what day of the week it even was, so he had no way of knowing if there was a special occasion to celebrate.
The main attraction was a large skillet filled with eggs poached in a mixture of tomatoes, onion, peppers, and various spices. It was a classic regional breakfast to give a person a kick of heat on their tastebuds before heading out into the desert, which seemed unwise to Puk, but he knew the dish was delicious so he was all in.
He scooped a pile of eggs onto his plate, as well as a few thin strips of fried hollion meat and a slice of toast with a lavish heaping of butter. That would do for round one.
The meat was crispy and flavorful, pairing well with the creamy richness of the eggs and tomatoes (which, due to being a hotel spread trying to accommodate the widest swathe of people possible, were not particularly spicy).
Puk sat alone at a circular table that could easily seat four, which was the smallest accommodation in the room. He breathed deep through his nostrils as he shoveled food into his mouth, which helped settle his roiling stomach.
While he ate, he pondered what the day would bring.
Deep down, he felt like he needed to repay Botro in some way, but he had very little money and even fewer possessions, and therefore couldn’t think of anything that would make up for how the man had taken care of him.
Surely there’s something in a pawn shop you could buy, he told himself. Or you could just spend that money on fire-spit.
He immediately chastised himself. There was no way he was going to blow his last six crescents on drugs.
That wouldn’t even get me much of it, if any at all. Not in any good quality, anyway.
Puk shook the thought and tried to think of any shops he could browse for a gift.
Beyond that, with his troupe abandoning him, he needed to get back home to Atlua, which meant purchasing a ticket on a ship in a coastal city such as Restick or Toralas.
But given that Seroo’s Eye was in the middle of the desert, the voyage to the coast would be long. And hot. Even if he traveled along the Ribroad, he doubted it would offer enough protection from the climate for him to survive walking all the way there. He’d have to buy passage on a carriage.
So that was what he’d do: search for a gift and buy a ticket to Restick. Although the ticket would probably require all of his current funds, if not more. Maybe he could steal a gift instead.
But before that, round two. He was shocked to discover his plate was already empty.
- -
The first day of travel had been uneventful and mercifully less exhausting than Kali had feared, both for herself and for Bango. The animal plodded along without a care in the world, reaching the first travelers’ outpost between Yspleash and home well before sundown.
They were now bounding across the Gogol Desert once more, Bango filled with energy after a long night of rest and a hearty breakfast of dried beetles and raw cactus. Kali did not eat anything; after the knaff in Yspleash, combined with the sunlight crashing down on her, she wou
ld be perfectly fine for several days.
Day two was shaping up to be just as boring. It was a trip Kali had undertaken countless times, and surely one that she would undertake countless more if she failed to work out a deal with Zara.
The ride gave her plenty of time to reflect on how she would approach the conversation with the merchant. There was a bit of excitement in planning the interaction, but also a great deal of stress. It felt like her only opportunity to make this work. If she blew it, then what?
She was nearly thirty years old, yet still felt like a kid. She still felt as if her parents were “adults” but she wasn’t, and yet at this point in their lives her parents had already gotten married and had their first kid.
Not to mention Lissia, who was the same age as her but far more accomplished. It was a prestigious position, becoming a scholar at the Repository, especially for a non-centript. But her sister had worked hard and achieved her dream.
She knew it was stupid to compare her life to theirs, and that she shouldn’t try to adhere to some imaginary roadmap for how a life was meant to play out. Still, she felt like she was running out of time to make her mark. To feel fulfilled.
And so she was stressed about talking to Zara.
A typical trip to Atlua would cost someone around six hundred crescents, if they wanted to book passage on a ship that was not halfway falling apart and crewed by miscreants. It was closer to eight hundred if they wanted to fly on an airship instead, which were all-around nicer than seafaring ships. She would not be on an airship any time soon.
Kali had roughly six hundred crescents to her name, including all of her savings. The profit margins on the products she sold were not spectacular, and she was endlessly grateful for still being able to live with her parents. But leeching off them was yet another reason why she needed to make this work, to get over to Atlua and truly strike out on her own.
Bango came to an abrupt stop, thrusting Kali from her pitiful thoughts and nearly literally thrusting her over the ayote’s head. He let out a low, threatening growl.
She swiveled her head side to side, but could not make out anything in the vast expanse of glittering white sand. It sparkled like gemstones in the unrelenting sun. They were utterly alone, not a thing in sight apart from the towering spire a few miles away to indicate that they were still on the correct path to the next outpost.
“What’s wrong with you?” she muttered, rubbing Bango behind the ears. He stared straight ahead while she soothed him.
And then she saw it. It was subtle, and she guessed the ayote had been able to smell or hear the animals. An ayote’s sense of sight was best in the dark, so if she could barely see it then Bango surely couldn’t. When she really concentrated, she could see the shifting of sand about half a mile ahead of them, moving across her field of vision from left to right.
It had to be a cordol migration. This pack was heading north, in the direction of the gulf coast. The creatures would bury under the sand and travel across the desert in packs, though Kali did not personally know the reason for the behavior.
Lissia would probably know. Her sister knew everything that she didn’t. Perhaps Lissia had left behind some sort of bestiary at home that Kali could consult.
Generally, cordols left people alone, but if they felt threatened they could quickly turn vicious. Bango had been smart to halt and allow them to pass rather than incite any fury by running above their pack.
“Good boy,” Kali cooed, patting the ayote on his head. His reaction was to let out another low growl and continue staring at the pack of cordols as they made their way north.
Once the cordols were out of sight, Bango deemed it safe to continue their journey. His demeanor changed immediately and he was back to being the spunky, excitable guy that Kali knew him to be.
She smiled, but her expression soon changed as she returned to swirling thoughts of how to approach Zara or raise enough money to buy a ticket to Atlua.
The sun beat down on them as they traveled in near silence. The only sounds were of Bango’s feet plodding along the sand and Kali’s knapsack slapping against the side of his shell. She absentmindedly ran a hand along the banded shell, her fingertips rubbing against the granular bumps.
She sighed.
- -
After eating a second, and third, and fourth round of food, Puk thanked Botro profusely and sauntered out of Shiar’s Slumber with a full, swinging belly and his sights set on Restick.
He had been wandering through the streets for close to twenty minutes before realizing he should have asked the receptionist at the inn for directions to the carriage station. He cursed his own incompetence and then cursed the young man as well for good measure. With a clear head and satisfied appetite, he was feeling reenergized, and cursing people felt good.
Seroo’s Eye was one of the largest, densest cities in the country, and Puk had been incapacitated the previous night when he’d made his way from the pub to Botro’s inn, so his sense of direction was entirely shot and he hadn’t the faintest clue where he was. He had not spent enough time in the city for anything to look particularly familiar. At least he wasn’t roving aimlessly in a wet shirt.
Part of him felt like he should be more stressed about the situation he had landed in. He was stuck in a foreign country with almost no money, he had been kicked out of his qarmish troupe, and he had a severe hankering for some fire-spit. None of these things were good on their own, and combined they were downright terrible.
Yet he strolled down the streets, peering through shop windows as he passed and smiling to other denizens as they smiled at him.
Despite it all, he was cheery.
Though it might have been that he was simply still a bit drunk and the reality of it all had not yet seeped in. For the time being, he decided to enjoy his stint in the massive dead animal’s skull while he could.
It was then he noticed a sign on a shop door that promised CHEAP BUT GOOD. If that didn’t describe Puk, he didn’t know what did. He didn’t even take the time to glance at the shop’s name before sliding through the front door with the tinny ring of a bell overhead.
The place was small and dingy, as he had anticipated given its advertisement. The only word he could think to describe its odor was “old.” Its floor was a cheap, faded wood dusted with sand kicked in by customers from outside. Shelves towered from the floor to the ceiling, several feet higher than Puk would ever dream to reach, and were set up like a labyrinth from the front of the store presumably all the way to the back. There was not an employee (or anyone at all) in sight as Puk ventured further into the store.
“Hullo, there!” came a disembodied voice from somewhere in the stacks. It was light and jolly, leading Puk to picture an exceptionally tall, skinny man with rosy cheeks and a smile from ear to ear. A real creepy guy.
“…hi!” Puk yelled back with a touch of confusion.
“Welcome!” said the jolly creep.
“Okay!”
Puk hoped that would be the end of the exchange and that someone else would be handling his payment. He was not confident he could deal with that level of cheeriness from someone who worked in a shop such as this every day of his or her life. It was hard for him to imagine extracting any joy whatsoever from any job, let alone one as seemingly drab as this.
He scanned the lofty shelves for anything at his eye-level that he might give to Botro.
It was starting to dawn on him that they’d only shared a handful of interactions, and one hundred percent of them had involved Botro aiding him in some way, so he knew nothing about the man’s interests or hobbies. An unfortunate realization to have while shopping for a gift.
“What the hell do innkeepers like…?” Puk muttered absently under his breath.
“What was that?”
“The hell?” Puk sputtered before shouting back, “Nothing! Just talking to myself!”
“Feel free to talk to me!”
“Okay!”
Puk made a note to keep his thou
ghts internal so as to not draw the attention of the jolly creep with supernatural hearing. Was the guy a rocyan? Puk had never heard such a happy rocyan.
Nothing was catching his eye. He slowly snaked his way through several rows of shelves and figured he must be in the middle of the shop by now, nearing its proprietor. His eyestalks drooped with disappointment, but he continued the search. He owed Botro that much.
Ahead of him, on a shelf that he could probably reach if he stood on his toes, was a dusty yet pretty tea set. Or part of one, anyhow. There was one cup with a chipped saucer, a pot without a lid, and a two-tier pastry tray that was in surprisingly good condition. There was no sugar bowl, but Puk knew nothing about tea or tea sets, so he wasn’t totally sure whether they came with sugar bowls or not.
But inns served tea. It might make a good gift, despite its smattering of imperfections. The ceramic was white, with delicate purple and blue lines painted all over the surfaces, depicting scenes of the ancient Ustrel battles against the Asrani. The set must have been crafted by the jeornish, and Botro was jeornish. It was all coming together.
There was no price listed near the set, however. Puk sighed and called out, “How much for this jeornish tea set?”
“The good one or the shitty one?”
“I guess the shitty one?”
“Three crescents!”
Spit and Song (Ustlian Tales Book 2) Page 7