by J. S. Morin
Preoccupied as he was with figuring out how to wear the sword, he momentarily forgot about Stevin, as the younger man had fallen into step behind him as they left the pier where the Harbinger was moored.
SLAP!
Kyrus withdrew the stinging hand from the sword hilt and snapped his head around to see what had just happened.
“Stop that. You look like you never use sword before,” Stevin chided him, giving him a stern look.
Kyrus looked the lad up and down. He was wiry of build with exotic yellow-orange skin and a mop of blond hair that he kept shaved at the sides. His arms, exposed now that the weather was warm enough for rolled sleeves, were covered in tattoos of dragons, serpents, knives, and the like. Around his neck was a pendant that Kyrus thought he recognized as a Kheshi totem for invoking bad luck on one’s enemies. It seemed that Stevin knew his tricks when it came to not looking like an easy mark.
The tattoos in particular were something that Kyrus had been wondering about. Ever since the warm turn of weather as they sailed southward, the crew had more and more taken to rolling up sleeves or working bare chested up on the main deck. As a result, Kyrus had seen a collage of human-based artwork; nearly every man aboard seemed to bear some sort of marking. Some had fearsome collections of beasts and omens inscribed on their bodies to make themselves appear more dangerous—or, as Kyrus occasionally considered, properly identify themselves as dangerous. Names and mottoes were commonplace as well, with men paying tribute to lovers or parents, lost brothers and devoted friends, or expressing the values they lived by—nothing says a man loves gold, rum, and whores like a tattoo that says “Gold & Rum & Whores.” A few others had patterns that seemed to be strictly decorative, with no deeper meaning.
It finally occurred to Kyrus that he had never seen a tattoo in his dreams of Veydrus. Brannis and his contemporaries were unfamiliar with them. The ogre tribes often painted their bodies for war and rituals, but nothing like the permanent, subcutaneous markings that were so common in Tellurak.
“Stevin, where can I find a place to get a tattoo, like yours?” Kyrus asked.
“Ah, now you thinkin’. No hand on sword, get tattoo. You be scary guy soon, huh?” Stevin smiled at him.
“Something like that,” Kyrus replied. He had something different in mind, though.
* * * * * * * *
The tattoo den was nestled in a corner of an open-air market, one of the fixed structures that surrounded a plaza filled with carts and booths. Kyrus had been following Stevin around what felt like half the island chain.
The interior was dimly lit by a pair of braziers that were burning some sort of incense. It gave a reddish glow to everything in the parlor. The walls were covered in exotic artwork: masks, little carved wooden reliefs, scrolls with strange symbols similar to runes but which Kyrus thought might be Kheshi script, and tassels with bells on them. There was a low couch to one side of the room with a chair next to it, surrounded by tables with various implements whose purpose Kyrus could surmise, with some trepidation.
Seated in the chair was a wrinkled old man whose bald head, and most of his body, was a mass of intermingled tattoos. The man had a pinched face and puckered mouth, an impression heightened by a long, thin pipe he was puffing at, jetting out little purple-grey wisps of smoke. A pair of tiny round spectacles perched on his nose, and he stared through them at a thin book—a soft-covered piece of trash that was likely made by typesetters, Kyrus thought disdainfully—whose front cover he had curled around the back to allow it to stay open when held with one hand.
Bells had clattered and jingled from the top of the door as Kyrus and Stevin had entered, yet the old man had not stirred from his book. The whole of the parlor smelled of the combined smokes of the braziers and the old man’s pipe, a cloying, sickly sweet scent that stung the eyes until they became accustomed to it.
Stevin called something out in a language Kyrus did not understand. Based on his guess about the symbols on the walls, he supposed that the lad was using Kheshi. Stevin seemed to be very polite in addressing the older man, which he gathered meant Stevin respected him more than Kyrus.
I suppose either he was just raised to respect his elders, or he figures that Captain Zayne set him as my nanny for the day, so how much respect should I deserve?
“What are you saying to him?” Kyrus asked, after the two appeared to be holding a conversation rather than making the pleasantries of a greeting as a prelude to a business transaction.
“Oh, I know him long time,” Stevin said. “I grow up Marker’s Point. He a good guy. You can trust him.”
“Does he speak Acardian?” Kyrus asked.
What he had in mind would be a lot easier if he could communicate with the old man directly.
“No. Speak Kheshi,” Stevin said, confirming Kyrus’s conjecture about the language at least, unhelpful though the information was.
Stevin then launched into Kheshi speech at length with the old man, then took Kyrus by the hands and arranged them such that Kyrus’s hands were palm up, spread in front of him.
“Tell him name now,” he prompted Kyrus.
“Kyrus Hinterdale,” Kyrus said dutifully, presumably a part of a formal introduction.
“(Something Kheshi) Shao,” the old man replied, finally setting down the book and mirroring Kyrus’s spread palms gesture.
“Grandfather Shao take good care you.” Stevin nodded at Kyrus.
“Ask him if he can copy from a design I draw,” Kyrus said.
Stevin relayed the message. Grandfather Shao carried on at length before stopping to let Stevin translate back.
“He says ya, just draw it and he put anywhere you want,” Stevin said.
“That sounded like a lot more than what you translated,” Kyrus said.
“He is proud old man. He say a lot you don’t care about; I tell you da good stuff,” Stevin assured him.
“Find out how much it will cost,” Kyrus ordered.
Again, Stevin launched into a conversation that sounded like it included a lot more than his initial request.
“Six thousan’ zimbals. I get you good deal,” Stevin said, and Kyrus agreed.
Unlike much of the crew, the math behind just how little each zimbal was worth was not so difficult for him. It would have been about the price of a meal at a nicer tavern.
“Umm, he think you not draw too much. You draw all day, he make you pay more, ya?”
“Well, I can deal with that when the time comes,” Kyrus said. “Can you ask him for something to draw on?”
A few minutes later, Kyrus was working on the design for the tattoo he wanted. Stevin seemed like he was not the type for waiting and started getting restless after not terribly long. Grandfather Shao had initially showed some slight interest in what Kyrus was starting to draw, but seeing that he did not recognize the design, he went back to his book.
“Stevin, I think I will be fine here, if you wish to enjoy the markets. I do not think I will get into any trouble here,” Kyrus assured the lad.
“You not have tell me twice.” Stevin winked and ducked out of the parlor in a clamor of bells before Kyrus could say another word.
Kyrus worked for a few minutes, double- and then triple-checking his work. His final check was less obvious, but the design seemed to hold up to all scrutiny—it held the tiny bit of aether he released into it. He got Grandfather Shao’s attention and showed him the design, a vertical series of runes, nearly identical to the ones he had carved into the door of his cabin.
The old man examined it critically, nodding slightly, then looked at Kyrus and raised an eyebrow eloquently, glancing over Kyrus. Kyrus took the hint and worked his way out of his tunic. He described an area of his upper left arm by pointing and outlining with his finger. Grandfather Shao nodded again, seeming satisfied. He gestured Kyrus to recline on the couch and then dragged his chair around to where Kyrus’s shoulder was. He took the paper from Kyrus and turned it this way and that, until Kyrus took hold of it and lined i
t up on his shoulder right where he wanted it. Then Shao took his thumb and forefinger and held them together, then widened them, then narrowed them, and cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.
“Just like it is there.” Kyrus pointed emphatically at the drawn version he had done. He had already accounted for the proper size.
Grandfather Shao nodded sagely.
The old man went to a cupboard in the back of the shop and gathered some glasses and jars contained therein. He poured a glass of something that smelled strongly of alcohol, but had naught but a bit of yellow in it to keep it from being completely clear. The old man daubed a cloth in it and wiped the area clean where he was about to work. Then he poured a second glass of another liquid and handed it to Kyrus. Shao made a quick motion with his wrist, which Kyrus mimicked with the hand not holding the glass, trying to confirm whether he was meant to drink it.
“If you say so,” Kyrus muttered, and downed the contents.
It burned all the way down and back up when he exhaled afterward. While he was certain he had actually swallowed it, the fumes cleared his nose and made his eyes water.
“You could warn a fellow,” Kyrus protested.
The old man chuckled.
“You … do not speak Acardian … do you?” Kyrus asked.
Grandfather Shao held out one hand and wobbled it side to side, and shrugged. “Mebbe li’l,” he admitted, and the two of them shared a chuckle.
Kyrus winced as the first needle pierced his skin, and several times throughout the ordeal Grandfather Shao had stopped his work to cuff him on the side of the head and lay into him in a string of invectives in Kheshi that, despite the language barrier, clearly called into question his manhood.
It seemed like a day, and in truth had taken hours, but at the end—like so many things—it was done.
The whole of his left shoulder felt bee-stung, but Kyrus looked at the result and compared it to the paper copy he had made. If Kyrus had been an Expert Scrivener, then Grandfather Shao had every right to be called an Expert Tattooist. The markings matched identically, with not a line out of place or a proportion amiss.
The true test was in practice, and Kyrus drew aether. Watching in his now habitual split aether-vision, he directed it into the ward that Grandfather Shao had carved into his arm. It glowed in the aether, just like his cabin door had, and a grin spread widely across his face. Grandfather Shao assumed that he was just especially pleased with the work, and he smiled in return.
“Can you keep a secret?” Kyrus asked, but Shao just looked at him quizzically. “Well, let me show you something anyway.”
Kyrus slowly and carefully drew the cutlass from its scabbard, turning away from Shao, lest he feel threatened. With equal care, he pressed the blade against his forearm, gently at first, and when he saw no sign of duress from the ward, pressed firmly. When that showed no sign of affecting the ward either, he pulled back the blade and swung it lightly into his arm. Again the ward held.
Grandfather Shao’s eyes were wide; he rambled something in Kheshi that Kyrus could not understand, but seemed rather shocked. Kyrus just slid the blade back into its scabbard and pointed to the markings on his arm, which Shao had just tattooed there. Shao just pointed to himself in confusion, incredulous that he was being credited with the result he had just seen.
Kyrus caught the old man’s eye straying to the drawing on the table, where he had left it after confirming it was an accurate copy. Kyrus could see gold reflected in those eyes, which he could understand, even if Shao could not understand that without the knowledge of how to activate it, the ward would be nothing but decoration.
To save Shao some trouble in his future, Kyrus reached over and picked up the drawing. He raised his own eyebrows in imitation of Shao’s own gesture, and smiled. Then he incinerated the drawing with a quick jolt of aether, sending it to the floor and ceiling, half smoke, half ash, letting go of it just in time to avoid burning himself badly.
“Sorry,” Kyrus said. “ I hope this will make up for it.”
He pulled a trade bar from his pocket and handed it to the old man. It was worth twenty times the price he had been asked.
“Thank you,” Kryus told Grandfather Shao as he stood to leave, gathering his tunic and pulling it over his head.
“Tanks you,” Grandfather Shao replied, wide-eyed.
* * * * * * * *
Kyrus had a swagger in his step as he wandered the marketplace. He had just put Kadrin wards and Acardian—or, in this case, Marker’s Point—tattooing together in a way that he felt was sure to protect him from anything that he was likely to get stuck, slashed, or run through with in the marketplace. He was feeling rightly proud of himself as he casually browsed the wares offered from all across the Tellurak.
It actually reminded him a lot of the day that the trading ships’ merchants had set up shop in Acardia. He wished Abbiley could have been there to see all the bizarre sights of Marker’s Point’s much larger version. It somehow seemed more authentic here, without the backdrop of Kyrus’s hometown making everything seem safe and compartmentalized. Here, there was no scrivener’s shop to go home to, just a pirate ship.
He wondered what Expert Davin would think of him, signing on with Captain Zayne. I hope he would be able to see the extenuating circumstances. I mean, I was going to be executed, and Captain Zayne and that big fellow, Tawmund, came and helped me break out of jail.
While every marketplace had food, drink, and various cloth and baubles, Marker’s Point seemed to go well beyond those hawkers’ staples. One stall was set up with displays of wicker baskets, each containing a deadly venomous snake. Blades were widely sold, mainly the small, easily concealed type. Though all were considered contraband in Acardia, here there was mindroot, red-leafed clover, ru-spider venom, kokoi grass, firebat fur, dami juice, and lichberries, all sold openly. Kyrus could not even remember which among them were deadly poisons and which were recreational hallucinogens.
Kyrus kept one eye to seeing if he could spot Stevin again, but generally he just enjoyed browsing among the various transient merchants who had set up shop for a week, a season, or longer, depending how quickly they ran out of the wares they had brought from their homelands. He stopped at the more permanent structures as well, mostly run by trading houses and longstanding traders who had goods shipped to Marker’s Point just to resell them. It was slow going for a while, until Kyrus learned that with enough persistence, he could usually find someone who spoke enough Acardian to help make a deal.
By the time the sun had gone down, Kyrus had cleared quite a lot of space in his pockets. He had purchased an entire new set of clothing that fit him properly. He wore a new set of low-cut boots that the shopkeeper who he bought them from insisted would help him keep his footing on the deck of a ship. He also found a shop that had a comb made from a seashell, a material that Kyrus was rather indifferent to, just wanting to get a comb of any sort, and purchased that as well. Somewhere along the way, he also bought a rucksack, as his awkward bundle was beginning to worry him. At what he best thought was dinnertime by the ache in his stomach, Kyrus tried eel-on-a-stick for the first time—though possibly for the only time, as it was not terribly tasty. An impulse purchase of salt, pepper, and something nice-smelling called “raosh” rounded out his shopping trip.
As Kyrus wended his way back toward where the Harbinger was moored, he found a place with an unbroken view to the west to watch the colors in the sky change. He had never seen the sunset over the water before; Scar Harbor only saw sunrises. The pinks and reds were supposed to mean something about the weather the next day, but Kyrus did not care about that. He just stopped to enjoy the colors over the water, again wishing that he had Abbiley to watch it with.
Night had fully fallen well before Kyrus got halfway back to the ship. He continued along in a circular fashion, keeping the bay to his right hand as best he could manage. There was nothing quite resembling a main thoroughfare in the whole of the city, just an endless web of interwoven
streets and alleys. The roads were often lit by lanterns, but many could only be followed by starlight. Even as late as it was, there were the noises of taverns and brothels keeping the night from seeming either peaceful or eerie, merely seedy.
Kyrus had learned a few tricks of getting bearings by the night sky during Stalyart’s first few lessons on navigation, and he used them when he was unsure whether he was still proceeding in the right direction. At one desolate intersection, when he stopped to look up, he heard a voice that he could only surmise was addressing him.
“You lost, kid?” he heard from the shadows of a nearby building. The voice spoke Acardian like a native, but did not sound friendly toward its countryman.
Kyrus thought better of answering and just made a hasty decision about a direction and got moving.
“Hey now, no reason to be runnin’ off like that,” another voice joined in from an alley he was passing by.
“This is our territory here, and at night, there’s a fee for passin’ through it,” the first voice came again, and this time Kyrus could make out a figure approaching him.
Correction, several figures, Kyrus realized as the friends of the first voice came out of hiding.
Kyrus realized he had let his aether-vision slip during his time admiring the offerings in the marketplace, and he fixed his vision back into its hybrid view. Instantly the night came alive in Kyrus’s sight. While the roads and alleys were as much of a mystery as before, his antagonists came into clear focus. There were eleven of them, which was a larger number than Kyrus had hoped for, and it seemed that they had all the routes of escape manned.
“I shall pay no fee. I will just be on my way,” Kyrus said to no one in particular.
“I thinks ya will,” replied a new, third voice. “What’s ya got in that sack? We be takin’ that fer starters.”
“I think not, now stand back.”
Kyrus pulled his cutlass from its scabbard. He gave a quick glance at his shoulder and could see the runes clearly even through his tunic, glowing with aether. Kyrus drew in a bit more aether and funneled it into the ward, making sure it would have all that it could need in what was clearly looking like it was going to become a fight.