Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

Every day, a new beggar stopped her to plead for food or money. No one had much food anymore, especially not the Parched Ones. No one had money. Everyone wished for those things, but wishes were worth even less.

  Haral had halved the size of his store, but it prospered. Crest's men purchased steel, and Haral demanded they be allowed to buy. However, a candle merchant paid good coins to occupy the other half of the tent, and so they'd hung a series of planks to divide the stall.

  Kipra slipped behind the tables.

  Haral grunted. "It's about time. You could've told me you'd stay out half the morning."

  "The sun is barely in the sky."

  "I've been here two hours!"

  "I did what I had to do."

  She never meant to hurt him, despite her actions—the late nights on the hilltop, a snapped insult, or her sullen silence. With her mind bubbling like a cauldron of tar, it was hard to remain civil.

  He sold weapons to the enemy. He made things worse.

  Kipra unlocked one of the heavy chests beneath their display table. They secured the weapons in these boxes at night, anchoring them to the ground with a wrist-thick chain Bran had forged. Three breastplates lay within, and she tugged them out to hang on a row of pegs at the top of the stall.

  "Your mother told me you stayed out all night," Haral said.

  She'd spent her night in the calming darkness, atop the hill overlooking Farren. She needed time to herself, time to think and ponder and remember. In addition, her early practices soothed her. They brought her closer to the man she tried so hard to hate.

  "Crest's men are growing bolder, Kipra. The city isn't like it once was. Not even close. It's worse than when Eenan Ark was captain, and you know it. I don't—"

  "I can handle myself." She nudged the weapons at her hips. "These make sure of that."

  He offered a sarcastic snort, staring at those blades as if he couldn't believe she wore them. "I don't want to be the one to tell your mother they found you in an alley gutter. We lov—"

  "Don't."

  He clicked his mouth shut, and she slammed a dagger to the table with enough force to rattle the tent poles. Haral respected her choices, one of the very few men who did, and he allowed her to work the shop as she wished. For that, at least, she could remain thankful.

  The morning passed in relative silence, with the shuffling of weapons, the careful watching of customers, the faint stench of the market. Dressed in an assortment of drab grays, with the occasional red or blue spattered amongst them, people purchased candles, fruits, vegetables, clothes, pottery, and anything else they might need.

  A man approached from the corner of her eye. He wore a gray robe and hood, but the fabric fell to reveal the whitened, cracking skin of a Parched Man. Three aged, jagged lines stretched from his forehead to his chin, as if some bird or beast had slashed him as a child.

  She'd long ago learned to force herself to speak to their customers, mostly men who eyed her chest more than the wares. She didn't have any choice but to speak to them, even the Parched Ones.

  Sell to them.

  The man shuffled forward to examine a polished wristguard, reaching out a finger to touch its metal, then snatched his hand back. She frowned, but he returned a strange, lopsided smile.

  "How much?" he murmured.

  Kipra forced herself to say, "Five silvers. No less."

  The Parched Man jerked his head to the side, peering at the wristguard as if he couldn't quite see it. His eyes were wide and focused, but the twitch of his lips, the lines of his forehead—he saw through the wristguard as if it weren't there.

  Yet he'd asked about it, so why the confusion?

  The Parched Man held out five coins. "I'll take it."

  Pieces of skin mingled with the coins, and Kipra carefully plucked up each coin to avoid the dry, white flakes. As she grabbed the last, the Parched Man grinned, a motion that split and cracked his face like a broken spider's web. He lifted the wristguard from the post and tightened its straps around his arm.

  "It's beautiful," he murmured.

  "It fits you, but why would someone like you—" She licked her lips before pressing on. "Why would you need a wristguard?"

  Sunlight reflected from his skin like the whitened peaks of a distant mountain, and he wrenched the wristband back and forth to find the correct placement. Satisfied, he smirked. "Abennak will sweep down from the north. The armies of my southern kingdom, those shining pillars of justice and defense, will march to meet him. And they'll find no right or wrong, only the emotion I'll give them."

  Kipra wheezed as if strangled, attempting to find anything to fill her lungs. For the most part, the Parched Ones acted as if they were human. Sure, they didn't know they weren't, but they'd shown they were no more dangerous than any other man or woman. But this one had spoken with Ark's voice. The same tone and pitch. As if he were Ark.

  It wasn't possible.

  "Glorious, untainted battle." He opened his mouth to moan, ending it with a raspy wheeze. "Blades and axes and armors, and brilliance. I mustn't forget brilliance."

  Her blades hung at her hips—comforting, cool, ready to use if needed. The Parched Man simply gazed at his new wristband, but that moan, and the confidence in his last word, chilled her.

  The Parched Man shuffled into the crowd, once again twisting the wristguard to find the correct placement. A shrill whistle burst from his lips as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't said anything. People closed around him, and his gray robe vanished amongst a sea of others.

  Kipra remained still, dubious but frightened, the memory of that man stark and white in her mind. Void take me, what happened? I need to talk to Bran. He'll know what to think, what to do. Maybe.

  Haral tapped her on the shoulder, and she swung to his frowning face.

  "We can't make money if you send every customer away," he said.

  "There was something wrong with him. He's a Parch—"

  "No, there wasn—"

  "Yes, there was. Don't argue with me! I saw it. I know it."

  Haral heaved a sigh, took the coins from her, and placed them in an iron lockbox at their feet. Once finished, he shook his head in exasperation and moved to the other side of the store.

  Kipra slumped to the ground, placed her back against one of the sturdy chests. She needed to believe her encounter with the Parched Man was a coincidence, that he'd only sounded like Ark to her. People sometimes sounded like others.

  If only she could hate him. If only she could forget him.

  Demon-damned Ark!

  She needed to speak to Bran, to tell him of what had happened. The blacksmith would understand. He always understood. He'd tell her she was a fool for hearing things.

  A woman's voice drew Kipra to her feet. "Father, Sister."

  Kleni stood on the opposite side of the table. She wore a bright white dress, but the thin, sultry fabric did nothing to conceal her breasts, which proudly jutted for all to see. Two grizzled men stood at her back, arms folded, glaring at Kipra and Haral.

  Kipra's fingers tingled. She'd never wanted to see the whore again, the slut, the cute little toy who allowed men to wrap their hands around her body. Kleni was like their mother: used, pathetic. But she was also strong, a leader. These two men at her back, and the confidence in her eyes, proved it.

  I'm not like her. I'll never be like her!

  "Crest needs money," Kleni said.

  Haral shook his head. "Kleni, we've no coins for him. You should—"

  "He's not asking," Kleni murmured.

  The two men flexed. No one else was in the shop.

  The thick crowd, more than half of them Parched, had skirted wide of Crest's thugs and their pretty little whore, but they kept their eyes to the ground, refusing to allow these men any reason to single them out.

  Kleni glanced across the shop with a cruel, callous gleam in her eye, as if she considered it beneath her. "I don't want to do this. I don't. But he needs the money. He's expanding, growing more powerful. The nort
hern district is already under him, and he'll stop paying me if I don't help—"

  "You're full of shit, Kleni," Kipra snorted, and she placed a hand to her hilt. This was why she'd trained day after day. She'd backed down the last time she'd met her sister, but not this time. "He won't stop paying his prize whore. Go back to your hole and leave us alone."

  "Irreor Ark still isn't here, is he?" Kleni unleashed a sly smirk. "No, I thought not. Are you sure you know how to use those weapons? These men do. Crest isn't a bad man, and I'm sure he'd pay if you wished it. It's not all terrible, you just spread your legs a few times a day, and the men grovel."

  Crest's men eyed Kipra up and down, and one of them, a flat-faced, splotchy pig, licked his floppy lips. Kipra tightened her fist around her shortsword, but they grinned all the wider.

  "You'd steal from your own family?" Haral asked.

  "You were never my family, and the city will be his soon. I made my allegiance early, and he's rewarded me for it. No, I think I'll see it through to the end. I'm a whore, but I have my own sort of honor."

  "You'll burn with it," Kipra snarled. Haral yanked her back another step, but she thrust him away to rip her blades from their sheaths. "I'm not like you."

  Kleni laughed a silvery peal of sarcasm. "You never knew what I was like. You're weak, Sister. You never wanted to find your own way. I work for what I have, but you hide behind this shop and curse the day our mother bore you."

  Kleni motioned to her two thugs.

  Kipra readied herself as they tugged broadswords from their backs and shoved the table aside. It overturned and spilled armor and knives to the stones, just like so many years ago when Ark had driven the men off. But this day wouldn't end like that. This day would end with their heads rolling in the dirt.

  She skipped forward, weapons angled to plunge home.

  "Stop!"

  She halted at Haral's pained shout. For a moment, the thugs' broadswords hovered above their heads. She inched beyond their reach. Her sister smirked, but she ignored it.

  Haral Steel had given her much—a house and a life, such as it was. Other than Bran, and perhaps Ark, he was the only man who respected and trusted her. Could she betray that?

  She gritted her teeth, again readying to leap forward.

  Kleni motioned her men back. "Crest said you'd cave as soon as we threatened your daughter. I honestly didn't believ—"

  "How much do you want?" Haral said.

  "No," Kipra hissed. "I'll kill—"

  "No, you won't." He gripped her shoulder and pulled her close to whisper, "I know you can kill them, but you don't have to prove it. I don't want that for you. This is my shop, and so it's my decision."

  He looked to the elder sister. "How much?"

  "Nekaron Rellik's records show you brought in thirty gold over the past six months," Kleni said, and she held out her hand. "We just need a small percentage. Five golds."

  Kipra shook her head in disbelief as Haral knelt to open their lockbox.

  He pulled out five coins—the coins that would've supported the shop, the coins that would've fed them for months. With a touch of iron, he said, "You'll get them on one condition, Kleni. Never show yourself here, and never let Crest's men come around when my daughter is here. She'll tear out their throats, and I've no wish to see that. She's better than you are."

  I don't care if I'm better than she. She's disgusting, vile.

  Kleni sneered. "She's—"

  The merchant tossed the coins to her, and they bounced from her chest to jingle against the cobblestones. "You were never part of this family. Don't come here again."

  Kipra wanted to return her sister's sneer, wanted to laugh at the clumsy way the woman knelt to swipe up the coins, wanted to shout and scream as they melted into the crowd. She couldn't. Her sister used her body to manipulate men—all to get a coin, all to gain power. Now, her sister manipulated them a different way.

  Haral again gripped her shoulder. "I didn't have a choice."

  Still simmering with anger, Kipra said, "I didn't ask you to stop me. I would've killed them. Now they'll be back."

  "Yes, they'll be back. But sometimes, my dear, a man must pay something to keep something he loves. Sometimes, a man must protect his daughter from herself, no matter the cost."

  The shouts of the market pressed in on them. Her sister's image flickered in her mind—undeniably beautiful eyes, dark hair that matched her own, and a cruel twist of her lips. Did her own lips twist like that? Did Haral protect her from becoming like Kleni?

  Would Ark have let her drive her blades home?

  No matter. He was better left forgotten, better left ignored.

  Kipra hung her head low and, for the first time since she was a child, allowed Haral to pull her into a tight embrace. The closeness felt foreign, strange, and she attempted to ignore the itching that accompanied his touch.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered.

  She peered at the stones, unable to meet his eyes. Things would change for the worse. Always for the worse. Crest would grow more powerful. He'd command more of the city, using his influence to disrupt the entire island.

  And, at the heart of it all, Kleni whispered in his ear.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "She also came here," Bran admitted.

  "How much?" Kipra said.

  The blacksmith fidgeted with the tankard in his hands. They'd chosen to meet in a tavern halfway between forge and market, a dingy place with thin walls and thinner ale. Its tables were filled with splinters, its walls riddled with cracks and holes. The barkeep, an older man with a needy stare, watched them from across the empty room.

  This wasn't the perfect place to talk, but it served well enough.

  "Four," Bran said, "but she said they might need more after reviewing Rellik's records."

  "Void-forsaken.... Can you afford it?"

  "Do we have a choice?"

  At that, she could only match his shrug. None of them had a choice, not unless they wanted to defy Crest. Yet, if they did that, the man would see their businesses torn down, their homes taken, their lives ruined. Had Haral been right to pay Kleni?

  Kipra shook her head in anger. "He should've let me stop them. I could've—"

  "Made a foolish mistake."

  "Burn on a pyre, Bran. You don't think I could've beaten them? King's cock, they were slow and stupid, little more than muscle on a bone. A big sword doesn't make a man. You of all people should know that. Ark would've done something."

  She fell silent, cursing herself for mentioning him yet again. But the Parched Man's words—what he'd said, how he'd said it—they'd floated in her thoughts the entire day.

  "Never mind," she muttered. "The fool would've simply left."

  "I think you could've easily won," he said quietly. "But it wouldn't have solved anything. You think to take the city back with a blade? How? One thrust in the dark and have done with it? That wouldn't work, Kipra, and you know it."

  "Then how!"

  He took a large swallow of ale, sucking in his cheeks as he thought. "Crest didn't take the city with violence. Not at first, at least. He did it with a promise."

  "Of?"

  "Something better. He promised to fill pockets with gold, and he made that argument very convincingly. So they gave him what he wanted, and now he takes more. It's too late for them to change their mistake."

  "Then what do we do?"

  "We wait." He cast his eyes to the floor. "Should we do what Irreor did? Leave? It's not a horrible idea at this point."

  "Ark is a twice-knotted fool!"

  He smirked. "So you've claimed, but think about it. We're hardly prepared to take on Crest. He commands an entire network, has a whisper in every ear. You and I? The few people we know wouldn't listen to us, much less believe us. We're nothing but a tick on his arm. Sooner or later he'd douse us in oil and burn us."

  "So waiting is the best bloody answer? That's—"

  "For now."

  Bran was right, she realized.
They couldn't do anything. Not today, not tomorrow or the day after. Perhaps never.

  The barkeep shuffled over to tower above their table like a rotund statue. "Another?"

  Bran nodded, though Kipra shook her head. More drink would only muddle her thoughts, keep her from saying what she needed to say. Her thoughts were muddled enough already.

  The barkeep plopped an ale down and returned to the far side of the room.

  Kipra wet her lips, searching for words that wouldn't speak. "I heard Ark today. No, not like that. I'm not crazy. It was a Parched Man, but he spoke like Ark."

  Bran's lips twisted strangely, half amused, half concerned.

  "Is it so hard to admit you miss him?"

  "I don't—"

  "We both do."

  "Void take you, listen to what I'm saying. Yes, I bloody miss him. And yes, I hate it, but it's there. I'll deal with it. But this was more... as if the man somehow was Ark." She shivered and hugged her arms to her chest. "It's stupid, impossible, but I know what I heard."

  He took a thoughtful swallow of ale.

  She couldn't blame him. This wasn't exactly a sane discussion.

  "You're certain?" he asked.

  "Very."

  "When I was a boy, my father owned a pig." He held up a hand to halt her protest. "Hear me out. I was little more than a toddler, but I followed it everywhere. I listened to it squeal, watched it slurp food into its mouth. The thing stank like nothing I'd ever smelled, but that didn't stop me. I was a curious boy."

  "Your point?"

  "My father slaughtered the pig one day. It was fat and meaty, plump from a life of feeding. Ah, but the most curious thing happened. For an entire week afterward, I could hear it eating. I smelled it."

  "Oh, for the love of.... This isn't a—"

  "Memories are like that pig, Kipra." He placed his tankard on the table. "We feed them when they're young, and we can't help but remember them. Sometimes, even when they're gone, they're still with us. You understand?"

  She smiled to herself, amused at the mental image of Ark mucking through a trough. "I understand enough."

  Ark was a pig. He was a memory, one she needed to stop feeding.

  That worked.