by Aldrea Alien
“Who said she has to be told what we ate?” Bruce suggested. The boy waggled his brows slyly and Darshan had to cough or forsake his neutral face to laughter.
Fortunately, his lover seemed a little more hardened to the act. “Now lad,” Hamish warned, shaking his head. “You ken that mums have ways of finding out. Even if we dinnae breathe a word, she’ll ken.”
“But—” Mac blurted, instantly silencing his protest as his uncle raised a finger.
“Dinnae think I’m at all willing to go toe to toe with your mum over this. She’ll want good food in you and that’s what you lads are going to get. You want honey cakes? You have something else first.”
Three heads lowered in the most dejected stance Darshan had ever witnessed. He had never seen anyone other than his father manage to wrangle his siblings with barely an argument. How ever did Hamish manage to quell them so deftly?
Catching Ethan eyeing him, Darshan swiftly backed up with his hands held high. “I do hope you are not thinking of dragging me into this. As far as I am concerned, what your uncle says goes.”
One by one, the boys’ shoulders slumped. They each grabbed what looked to be a rather inedible clump of pastry and began to unenthusiastically devour them whilst their uncle paid.
“Here,” Hamish said, offering up one of the pastry clumps. “I ken it’s nae your usual palace fare, but you’d do well to get something in your belly.”
Darshan accepted the food, although still slightly hesitant to call it such. A glance at the boys revealed that the clumps were pies with thick crusts. Whatever lurked inside had to be cold, the outer crust certainly was. He bit into the pie.
The aroma of meat hit him. Hard to tell if it was meant to be beef or mutton. Flakes of pastry and a tepid, claggy substance filled his mouth. Coughing and fighting back the bile rising in his throat, he choked down the mouthful.
“I didnae think they tasted that bad,” Hamish said, attempting to hide a smile behind his hand.
Darshan discreetly wiped the corners of his eyes, sniffing in an effort to clear his head even with an echo of his old Nanny Daama berating the uncouthness of such a sound. “Not so much the flavour,” he clarified, his voice a little hoarse. “More the consistency. The pies back home are a little… firmer.” And with meat he could readily identify. Even looking at the pale brown, minced mess sitting mournfully in its crumbly shell told him nothing.
A gentle nudge in the ribs drew his gaze up to meet Bruce’s eyes who flicked his gaze down to the pie like a ravenous crow.
“If you’re nae going to eat that…”
Darshan wordlessly handed over the remainder of the pie, his stomach bubbling at the sight of the boy happily devouring the slop. He rather doubted his ability to take another bite from anything containing meat for quite some time.
Hamish clapped an arm around Darshan’s shoulder. “Sorry about that. Let me get you something that’ll have the taste out of your mouth.”
A kiss would be nice. The thought surfaced and sank almost immediately. If the mere sight of Bruce eating the pie was enough to turn his stomach, then kissing his lover after the man had finished one would definitely not be a good idea. The last thing he wanted was to throw up. “One of those honey cakes sounds interesting.”
It took only a mention of them for the boys to start clamouring for their own promised treat. They circled Hamish like fledgling birds whilst the man made good on his word.
They strolled along the street with the boys silently munching away. The honey cakes were more bun-like than Darshan had expected. Spongy, soft and incredibly sweet. After a few bites, he could see why Hamish insisted on other foods first. It wasn’t as sweet as the cane syrup they produced back home, but it was filling nevertheless and quite sticky. Not that the latter bothered the boys, who merely licked their fingers clean and wiped them on their shirts, much to their uncle’s disgruntlement.
“Try and show a bit of decorum, lads,” Hamish grumbled at the trio. “You’re in the public eye, for Goddess’ sake. What would your mother say seeing you lot dirtying up your clothes like wee pigs in a pen?”
Darshan discreetly covered his hands with a faint layer of ice and rubbed until it melted. It didn’t remove all of the stickiness, although the remainder was more tacky bits of crumb that he could easily—
The street opened out into what had to be the central market square.
He slowed, the remnants of his honey cake all but forgotten. With what had to be the vast majority of Mullhind crammed into such a space, Darshan had to stand on his toes and crane his neck to see more than a few feet in front of him.
It wasn’t that there weren’t similar squares dotted across Minamist’s merchant quarter, because there were a great many that were more expansive and draped in far richer trappings. Nor did the elements of a spring festival faze him for, with as many deities as the Udynea Empire had, there was bound to be some sort of celebration each month. Sometimes there would be two or three festivals within a few days of each other.
But nothing back home had the same warm rustic air about it. Shops with their lush awnings and signage lined the outer edge whilst temporary stands crowded the middle of the square, rubbing shoulders with more permanent stalls.
Darshan remained rooted to the spot, hesitant to move on and be disappointed by what he would find amongst the stock. Oh Ange, how I wish you were here. His twin would’ve adored this. She’d a fondness for all things… “Quaint.” Could he perhaps find a trinket for her amongst these stalls? He swung towards the children. “Right, boys. I have gold burning a hole in my money pouch and siblings to buy for. Where to first?”
“I know!” Ethan declared, grabbing Darshan’s sleeve and towing him through the crowd. The boy moved with an agility that spoke of numerous times dodging around those far taller than he and with a distinct air of determination.
They halted roughly a third of the way into the centre of the square. Stalls bearing all manner of wares flanked him just as expansively as other stall spread out before him. He perused a nearby stall from a distance. Sadly, they had little more than the same trite baubles he’d seen echoed amongst the festivals markets back home. Cautiously hopeful, he strolled along the stall fronts, with the other two boys and Hamish easily catching up to them.
“It would probably help if you told us what you’re looking for,” his lover suggested. “Otherwise, you could be hours here and find nae even a sign of a gnat’s knee.”
“I wish I knew,” Darshan confessed. His twin was perhaps the hardest to find a gift for, if only because she already boasted a great deal. Modest trinkets were always greeted with delight, but—
He halted before a stall displaying a number of carved chunks of stone. Animals were a favourite of Anjali. She had a few crudely-carved statuettes from Cezhory, a finely-spun glass figurine of a dolphin leaping from the water that’d survived a heart-stopping trip all the way from a prominent glass baroness in Niholia, and a scrimshawed shell gifted to her by the ambassador of the Independent Isles. What would fit best amongst those pieces?
“What about this?” Mac asked, holding up a painted, stone statue of a tortoise almost as big as his head. If the merchant had also made it, then the man had some skill for both the fine detail in the stone carving and the paints. Combined, it gave the piece an unerringly life-like air. “It’s pretty.”
Extremely. The habitual noncommittal grunt passed his lips before Darshan could check it. “You have quite the eye. However, my oldest sister has a real one.”
Mac’s eyes widened. “Real?” he squeaked. “Really real?”
Darshan grinned. The boy couldn’t have looked any more amazed if he had been told dragons were real. “Yes. She calls him Mani. He came from the Independent Isles about ten—maybe twelve—years ago.” Anjali had acquired quite a number of gifts back then, before the man courting her realised she wasn’t at all interested in… anyone really. Whilst most of his sisters sought marriages, Anjali preferred her animals and her b
ooks. “I would say it is about the size of the average dog now. Looks quite like that, actually.” He tapped the stone tortoise on the nose.
The boy stared at the statue as if he held a live animal rather than stone. “Uncle ‘Mish,” he said, his voice little more than a peep in the crowd. “Can I have this?”
“You already have three,” pointed out Mac’s oldest brother.
“And you broke those within a day,” Hamish grumbled. “The last thing you need is another one to destroy.”
“Have a heart, Uncle ‘Mish,” Darshan purred, batting his lashes and nudging his lover. “It is the Spring Festival after all; a time for frivolity and excess.” At least, that’s how the nobles in Minamist celebrated the Fresh Year. He assumed they were comparable. “Who actually spends their festival money on necessities, anyway?”
“I do,” Hamish shot back. “And you should think about acquiring something a wee bit warmer than that.” He indicated Darshan’s modest attire of fine linen and silk. “Especially if you plan to journey with us tomorrow.”
Darshan flapped a hand, dismissing the idea. If he was cold along the way, then his magic could serve to warm him well enough. “I am certain Mac will take good care of this one,” he said, returning to his original point. He handed two gold coins over to the merchant. “Especially with it being a gift from a friend afield.”
If he thought Mac’s eyes couldn’t get any larger, he was wrong. “I can keep it?” he whispered. The boy hunched his shoulders, almost fearful that the answer would be negative.
“Of course you can keep it,” Darshan insisted, gently taking the stone animal from the boy. He turned back to the merchant, who was still staring at the coins, and handed the statue over. “See that this makes the castle in one piece, would you? Let them know it is a gift for Prince Mac.”
“A-aye, me lord.” The merchant snapped a salute, his dark eyes darting to the boy and back. Had the man not realised who stood before him? “I’ll oversee it meself. Watch the stall whilst I’m gone, lad,” he added to a young man, waving the boy over. His son, judging by the similarity in their features and tanned skin. Packing the tortoise into a box already sitting on a handcart, the man pushed the clunky thing off into the crowd.
Darshan perused the rest of the stall’s offerings. Little caught his eye. What scant pieces did draw his attention certainly weren’t suitable gifts for his sister. He laid his hand on the brow of a sitting stone dog. Cool, polish stone greeted his palm. It sat about as high as his hip, its nose pointed up and its floppy ears perked in anticipation of a command. Whilst the piece was carved as finely as the tortoise, he feared the journey to Minamist would see it reach her broken. A pity. Anjali was quite fond of their father’s lanky hunting hounds.
There was a stone mouse tucked behind a pair of black, polished seashells, white as pipe smoke. He plucked the creature from its mournful place to find the piece was almost round. The carver had chosen a pose that had the dear thing on its haunches and peeking over its shoulder, its cheeks stuffed with food and a crumb of bread still in its little paws. In the full light of the afternoon, the stone had a translucent quality. A chunk of marble, perhaps.
“Why a mouse?” he mumbled to himself. The little things were both pest and pet in Minamist—and sometimes also training aide for falconers, although he’d never had the heart to feed them live to his father’s birds. But surely mice could only be considered as pests in Tirglas.
“For good luck,” answered a soft voice disturbingly close to his ear. “Stone ones, anyway.”
He glanced over his shoulder to find Ethan staring adoringly up at him. The boy was perhaps half a foot shorter than himself, and he appeared to be bouncing on his toes to gain a smidgen of extra height, but there was no mistaking that slight tilt of his head that suggested mischief or an attempt to curry favour. Had the boy been older, he would’ve labelled him as smitten.
Darshan looked about for the others, spotting them two stalls down, before returning his focus to the boy. “Luck?” he queried. “Are they not vermin?”
Ethan gave a disinterested jerk of his shoulder. “Sure. But the priests say mice always pop up in times of plenty and, when Great Ailein was trapped in the cave of the Grey Bear, unable to leave, it was mice of ivory and onyx that the Goddess sent to him with food.”
“Great Ailein, huh?” he murmured, handing over a silver coin to the merchant’s son and ignoring the young man’s gaping mouth. It sounded like common folklore. His knowledge of that was sadly lacking. If only he’d had the chance to immerse himself in the nuances of Tirglasian culture before arriving then he wouldn’t be left feeling wool-headed over simple things. But his father had opted to give him little time to prepare.
“Do you nae ken the tale?”
“Not a bit,” he confessed. A glance down the row of stalls revealed the rest of their group was steadily moving further away. “You must tell me it. But at another time.” Popping the mouse into the small, rather empty, pouch dangling beside the one bristling with coin, he hastened to catch up to the wandering trio.
Ethan trotted at his side, bouncing past the stalls without a care towards losing sight of his siblings or uncle. “Does your sister really have a tortoise the size of a dog?”
“Yes.” He thought of the hounds wandering the castle. Did they come in any size apart from massive? “Although, maybe a touch smaller than you are imagining,” he conceded.
They meandered around the stalls, pausing every so often to peruse the more likely establishments and finding little in the way of suitable offerings. I could return with nothing. He often did for his half-siblings, preferring not to show favour to any lest one of the others targeted them. But if he came home empty-handed after such a journey, Anjali would never let him forget it.
A ramshackle stall almost tucked away around the corner of a building drew his eye. He sidled closer, hesitant to show any obvious interest to what could amount to little more than utter filth.
An old woman sat behind the rickety table. Her dark eyes seemed to light up as he stopped to survey the little wooden ornaments scattered across the cloth, each piece glittery with scraps of metal and bits of seashell cobbled together. “See anything you like, love?”
“No, I think—” A tiny bear no bigger than his thumb lay at the feet of far chunkier works. Darshan plucked it from the table. Where the carving of the other pieces was crude, this had the sheen of time and care. Small black stones had been worked into the paws, held there by fine pieces of wire.
She doesn’t have a bear. He couldn’t be certain of the other animals, but there were no bears amongst Anjali’s collection of Cezhorian figures. They considered the animals akin to demons and ill omens to have in any form. “This one.” Not taking his eyes off the creation, he handed over a coin before slipping the bear into the pouch with the marble mouse.
Content with his purchase, he relaxed a little and ambled along the outer ring of stalls and shops. The storefronts were largely walls with a single doorway. It was most unlike the merchant square back home, where the more exclusive shops boasted large glass window displays with people modelling whatever was sold within.
Darshan halted at a store bearing the familiar sign of a solitaire ring. A jeweller’s store? He poked his head inside. He didn’t often get the chance to peruse the ones back home. All the good jewellers were under house commission for this or that noble and the rest generally weren’t worth bothering over for more than gaudy trinkets.
A man stood at the counter, buffing the dark wood. He glanced up as they entered and resumed his task.
It was a small room, barely big enough to squeeze the five of them in. The counter stretched across one end. Displays sat nested into the wall behind it. Silver and gold, bearing gemstones of every imaginable colour, glittered back at him from behind thick glass.
“All right,” Hamish grumbled. “I’ll bite. What are we doing here?”
Darshan hastened to shush his lover with the flap of a hand. His
gaze fastened on an array of silver rings in a box propped up just enough to lure the curious customer. One fat ring sat proudly in the middle, its light blue colour almost lost against the silver backing. “May I?” he enquired, pointing at the box. “The blue one.”
At his back, Hamish issued a faint groan.
Nevertheless, the jeweller looked over him, no doubt taking in the gold thread embroidery and gems of Darshan’s attire, before producing a set of keys and unlocking the cabinet. It took all of a few moments for the man to fish out the ring and lock the rest away. “This is a good one,” he rasped, each word sounding as if it had to escape a grinding before being spoken. “Carved each line with me own hand.” He shook out a cloth from his belt and laid it onto the counter.
The ring’s diameter was quite large. Far bigger than Darshan’s thumb, at any rate. The design that curved down the side was one of leaves and vines, so detailed that he almost believed they’d move in the gust of his breath. Sitting proudly on the top was a sparkling, oval-cut aquamarine gemstone, its colour the crystal shade of blue that reminded him of the tropical ocean waves of home… and a certain man’s eyes.
Darshan went to pick up the ring only to have the jeweller’s hands slam down either side of the cloth—one hand, at least, the other appeared to stop at the wrist.
The jeweller glared at him, his shoulders seeming to triple in size. “You dinnae touch unless you got the gold to buy.”
Wordlessly, Darshan placed the pouch of coins on the bench. The neck opened, the warm glow of the lanterns reflecting off the gold.
The man plucked one of the coins from the pouch and examined it with a wary eye. Whatever he searched for, the gold seemed to almost disappoint him. Grunting, he waved his arm at Darshan in an offer for him to inspect the ring.
He snatched up the ring, holding it so that the candlelight glittered off the gem. “Gorgeous.” He swung back to Hamish and held the piece up beside the man’s face. “A perfect match. You simply must get it.”