by A. R. Cook
Desert Rain smiled. “I suspect you’ve learned that you can’t go randomly picking on anyone. You might come upon someone who’ll teach you a lesson.”
The three nodded vigorously.
Desert Rain reached into her pocket (which made the Vermins wince, suspecting she was about to pull out a fireball), and pulled out a small pouch of roasted scorpions. She took one out and popped it into her mouth, crunching down on it. She emptied some more into her hand and offered it to them. “Want to share some scorpi-bites with me? I made them myself.”
The three gawked at her, dumbfounded. They glanced at each other. Finally, the two bigger brothers shoved Gank forward. The little Vermin slowly made his way over, reached out and took one of the scorpion treats. He shoved it into his mouth and chewed on it for a good while. When he nodded to Gimch and Goude, they too took scorpi-bites. Desert Rain looked over at the Laspher, who had lowered its head and returned to rest.
All she got was a weak “thanks” from the three brothers before they scrambled off into the darkness of the night.
Once they had gone, Desert Rain could feel the aching pain in her fingers from what tiny bits of Blueshine she had begun to conjure before restraining it…and thanked Bellaluna she had not succumbed to doing the horrible deed.
***
By the evening of day three of Desert Rain’s trip, the rock pass shifted into clean, cool grass. Spring green plains stretched for miles, embroidered with streams of rushing water and trees of scarlet leaf. She was not too far from her destination now. This was Malthic Valley, a link between the dry lands and the forested lands, with lakes hidden by a plethora of green plants and vines.
In Malthic Valley was Syphurius, one of the most dazzling cities in Luuva Gros. This was a place were any tradable item known to existence could be found, and many of the Noble Races called this their home. The most prominent race was the bird people of beauty, style, class and wit. The two different genders of this race had separate names: the females were Queztalin, colorful and graceful, and the males were Falcolin, proud and dynamic. There was no official term to represent them both, and this was how Quetzalin and Falcolin wanted it. Anyone who even referred to them as “the feathered people” had to be careful not to say that in a Falcolin’s or Quetzalin’s presence. Such gender-politics was not surprising due to Quetzalin and Falcolin nature, for they were characteristically arrogant, quick-tempered, and exceptionally vain. If it were not for the mutual agreement between both Quetzalin and Falcolin, that they wanted to keep their race as purebred as possible, it caused one to wonder if there would be any of them left at all.
Desert Rain settled down in a pasture outside the city for that night, allowing her Laspher to graze among a herd of woolly brown Pougas. She was barely able to fall asleep from the anticipation of the busy day ahead of her.
CHAPTER SIX
The Memory Seller
Syphurius was bustling with activity the next morning, as was the norm. One could not walk a single step without bumping into a brightly-painted stand by the side of the road, or a mob of people carrying cloth bags of purchased goods. This was Luuva’s metropolis, and every walk of life could be found here, as well as every material good known to the imagination—and even some that people could not have imagined before seeing them. This was a surprisingly clean place, the limestone-brick streets void of litter, massive artistic fountains of marble spouting spring water, and even the horses and strongbacks people rode were groomed to the utmost perfection. Sanitation was at least the one thing the three mayors of Syphurius agreed must be maintained to the upmost degree—yes, there were three mayors, for there was a Falcolin mayor and therefore there had to be a Quetzalin one as well to avoid a social uprising. The third mayor acted as the odd deciding vote in almost all matters, and as mediator to the other two officials. This job had fallen to a most unfortunate human who came close daily to having his eyes pecked out from one or both of his fellow mayors.
Minstrels played charming tunes on pipes and drums on street corners, and in front of the Academy of Fine Spellcasting, students were taking a lunch break and practicing simple illusionary tricks. Humans dressed in fine silk tunics and dresses loitered in cafes that secreted perfumes of coffee and baked goods, bright-eyed Ahshi elves sat in the whimsical public gardens sharing tales, wines and snacks from the delicatessen carts, and Quetzalin and Falcolin adorned every possible bench in the square. The Quetzalin were the main occupants of the main shops and salons, for truth be told, many of them were not naturally colorful and fluffed-up. Many were slaves to feather dyes and tail extensions, talon polish and excessive amounts of preening. Falcolin did not care for such things, although they were not shy to the occasional bird bath at the steam-soaked bath house.
Desert Rain was fascinated by Quetzalin and Falcolin. They resembled the smaller birds of Luuva, the ones who spoke with song instead of words. Quetzalin and Falcolin were commonly smaller than humans and elves, but some could tower to a substantial height. They had evolved beyond the need for wings, and these appendages were now slender arms with taloned hands, covered in a light layer of feathers like the rest of their bodies. They had broad muscular chests, backwards-bending legs covered in fine down, and streamlined forms. Their faces had altered
slightly over time, their beaks being fleshier and they could express smiles and frowns.
But they were as finicky as common birds, and tried at all costs to avoid too much stress, lest one should drop over dead from panic.
Desert Rain could not help but feel small among all this, being naturally used to the simple life and wide open spaces. She knew a place like Syphirius would spoil her, but there were so many places in this city she wanted to visit. She hadn’t been to the Talis Leaf Library, the best one in all of Luuva Gros, for ages, or any of the random art galleries. Today, however, she was on a mission, and after she sold her crop of desert roses to a hat-maker, who liked the idea of using real long-lasting flowers in the hats instead of silk ones, she wandered around for hours trying to remember where she had fallen upon the memory stand she had spotted on her last visit years ago. She draped her shawl over her head to hide her ears and moonstone, and kept her gaze downcast to avoid eye contact with anyone. She wore a tunic she had modified with extra long sleeves to hide her hands and fingers, so most of her irregular features were well hidden. She still felt that a few people must be giving her odd glances, for the only way to hide her prehensile toes was to mummify them in cloth wrappings—there were no shoe or sandal styles that could cover her feet comfortably.
She took rest by a fountain of green crystal, an icy structure of stalagmite tiers dripping streams of cool asmanthe tea – Desert Rain could smell the odor of the star-shaped asmanthe powder blended into the water. She sat for a few minutes before hearing voices shouting.
“Watch where you’re steering that strongback, idjit!” came the gruff voice of a man carting bundles of grain.
“I say Kurl-clk here has the right of way, if you don’t-tkk want to get smashed!”
Desert Rain recognized that voice. She looked up to see a red-haired merchant perched atop his strongback passing through the square. The lizard merchant was still in human form, wearing a plain white sleeveless tunic. He had taken extra care to hide his reptilian legs with white elven drape pants and a green waist wrap to hide his coiled-up tail.
She got up from the fountain and started making her way towards him. “Mac! Mister Mac!”
Mac looked her way, and he beamed a flashy smile at her. “Hey, Gila Gul! Fancy meeting you here. Don’t-tkk you look pretty—” He stopped short, clearing his throat and turning his gaze skyward. “I mean, it’s-ssck a pretty nice day, don’t you think-clk?”
“It’s a surprise to see you.” Desert Rain rose and walked over to him. “You’re doing well, I see. Being a merchant in Syphurius is quite different from Ulomin, I imagine.”
“Eh, I’ve been takin’ it easy on the merchandise-ssck,” he admitted. “Fortunately, e
nough folks come and go ‘round here that most-tkk of them don’t know who I am. So, what brings Gila all the way out to Syphurius-ssck this time of year?”
“Do you know where they sell memories here?”
“Ah, you’re looking for Ol’ Hibbletom’s Memory Shop. You’re looking to buy someone’s dirty secrets-ssck?” he asked with a sly grin.
“No, shopping for a friend.”
“Well, that’s-ssck nice of you. Follow me.”
Mac left Kurl in one of the nearby city stables, and led Desert Rain through a labyrinth of shop districts, up and down stairways, through winding alleys, past town houses and hopping over a few finely-crafted fences. Finally he led her up a narrow steep pathway into a cul-de-sac of old fashioned shops, and one had a wooden hand-drawn sign saying, Hibbletom’s Memory Shop: A Penny for your Thoughts.
“This was a little roadside stand the last time I was here,” Desert Rain commented.
“Hibbletom’s-ssck worked his way up in the world.” Mac pushed open the door to the shop, allowing Desert Rain to enter first.
Shelves bombarded every wall, and on these shelves were rows upon rows of tiny orbs of all colors. Inside each orb was a tiny wormy fish, or so they appeared to be fish. Desert Rain could imagine that if sunlight entered the room at the right angle, the whole room would be a cacophony of blazing hues and lights. The beauty of all those orbs was enough to distract one from the fact that the floor was poorly carpeted, and the walls were stained in a lifeless paint, and the counter at the back of the shop was a meager banged-up desk. There was one other customer in the store, a Falcolin, his feathers a ruddy color, and had a head crest that resembled a fan of black plumes. He was dressed in finery that bordered on bragging, including a dark
purple overcoat with onyx buttons down the front. Sitting at the desk in the back was a human man, a decade or so past middle age, leaning back in his tattered leather chair and smoking a cigar in his sleep.
“Hey Ol’ Fart!” Mac shouted playfully.
The old man jumped in his chair, his cigar falling into his lap. He gave a yelp and batted the cigar onto the floor. A small hole was now in the inner right thigh of his pants.
“Damn it, Mac!” he bellowed as the merchant laughed. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
“You don’t need my help for that-tkk, when you got Chiriku,” Mac replied.
“I heard that, you pustule!” came a rough feminine voice from a back room.
“Hib, I have a friend here who would like-kk to purchase something,” Mac said, nudging Desert Rain forward. Desert Rain gave a sheepish smile and an awkward “hello” wave.
Hibbletom squinted at Desert Rain, pulling a pair of small spectacles from his coat’s breast pocket and setting them on his nose. “What’re you supposed to be, Miss Goldie?”
Desert Rain swallowed hard. “I…I…”
“You got money?”
Desert Rain made a small nod and took out the copper pieces she earned from selling her roses, and a few gold rings she had brought with her from home. She set them on the edge of the desk. Hibbletom picked up one of the rings, looking it over. “Got strange engravings on it. Bit tarnished. But looks like real gold. A girl like you wouldn’t try to swindle me, right?”
“Not Dez,” Mac said. “She’s the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet.”
Hib snorted, taking a fresh cigar out of his desk and lighting it with an oil lamp that hung on the wall behind him. He took a few puffs before saying, “Where you come from?”
“Ulomin.”
Hibbletom made a short laugh. “You look like you crawled out of the desert. What is it you’re looking for?”
“A spellcaster’s memory.”
A similar laugh like Hibbletom’s came from the room in the back. Hibbletom smirked. “Haven’t got many of those. Those’ll cost a pretty penny.”
“Can I look at a couple of them?”
“Depends. You got any more gold?”
“Will you stop being an old bastard?!” came the female voice.
“Will you shut that beak of yours?” Hib retorted. He turned to Desert Rain. “You’ll have to ignore the girl. She’s a really squawker.”
“Is she Quetzalin?”
“She’s a damn vulture, that’s what she is. Tell you what, I’ll pull a few memories for you, see if we can find something you like.” He forced himself up and began to search along the shelves. He checked in on the Falcolin, giving him a cheerful smile. Desert Rain gathered that the Falcolin must be rich.
“Take-kk a look around in the meantime,” Mac whispered to her. “When the richies are here, Hib gets distracted. Of course, you could always-ss tell ‘im you’re a…you-know-what-ttk. That’ll get-ttk his attention real fast.” He winked at her.
Desert Rain tightened her lips. Mac had been there in Ulomin the night Clova blabbed about her being Hijn, and he had probably asked her thousands of questions about it when escorting her to Desert Rain’s home. She shook her head.
“You don’t want folks around here to know, that’s-ss fine by me,” Mac said, shrugging. “Anyway, all you gotta do is hold one of those memory globes in the palm of your hand, close your eyes, and you can take a peak-kk at it. But don’t-tkk hold it to your forehead, ‘cause it’ll blend into your brain and then you gotta have it sucked out in the tank in the back-crk. That’ll cost-tkk you a small fee. Maybe Chiriku will give you a hand, since you’re a girl- I mean, lady. I best get-tkk back to Kurl, he might be getting antsy.” With that he gave Desert Rain a good-bye
nod and left the store.
Desert Rain ventured to take a look into the back room. It was a cluttered mess, random papers all over the floor, junk here and there shoved into corners; it resembled a forsaken closet. In the corner was the “tank” Mac had mentioned, an awful-looking contraption that was a sort of aquarium with a snorkel and a pump attached to it. Sitting at a small table was the young Quetzalin, royal blue in color with speckles of white on her cheeks, stocky in stature, wearing baggy work pants and a ragged shirt. She had a stubbier beak than most Quetzalin, and wider eyes, signifying that she must have been in her teenage years, perhaps seventeen or so. She was slamming ink stamps onto a pile of papers when she noticed Desert Rain staring at her.
“What in the Eternal Deep do you want?” the Quetzalin grumbled.
“Are you Chiriku?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Desert Rain.”
“I didn’t ask for your name.” She pounded a stamp onto a sheet.
“Mac said that maybe you could help me.”
“What does that belly-crawler know? He’s a bum.” Chiriku frowned. “You want me to pump your head?”
“No, that’s all right,” Desert Rain said, wrinkling her nose at the dirty tank. “Is that really how you extract memories?”
“You soak your head in a citrus solution in that tank for about an hour and we see what stuff falls out of your head. We pluck out the memory you want to sell, and then pump all the rest back into your skull.”
“That seems kind of dangerous…and very unsanitary.”
“Yeah, especially since I don’t clean that thing out.” She snorted at Desert Rain. “If you’re looking for a spellcaster memory, forget it. The windbag out there wouldn’t sell it to you.”
“Maybe you could sell one to me?”
Chiriku sighed, putting down her stamp and advancing on Desert Rain. “You must be one of those lazy prats who thinks she could learn an easy magic trick for parties without doing all the work. Look, a memory isn’t always the same as knowledge. Some people can do things without remembering how they did it, or remember they could do something once they no longer can do. I suggest you find a better way to make friends. I’d start by getting an eye patch for that freak-eye of yours.”
Desert Rain studied Chiriku, trying to figure out what it was that struck her as strange. She figured it out when Chiriku accidentally bumped into her table, knocking her stamp and some papers ont
o the floor. With an irritated huff, she bent over to pick up the stamp and papers. Her knees did not bend like a Quetzalin’s, but forwards like a human’s. Chiriku’s bare feet did not
have the four clawed toes of her kind, but feathered human feet. Her arms were different as well, more muscular than they should have been. Her posture was not rigidly upright like a Quetzalin, for she sat in her hips and slouched.
Chiriku looked up, noticing how Desert Rain was staring at her legs. “Yeah, I got messed-up legs. You got a problem with that?”
Desert Rain shook her head. “No. I think it’s good to be different.”
“You would.” Chiriku tossed the stamp up and down in her hand. “Try looking on the third case on the right wall, second shelf to the bottom.”
Desert Rain smiled, and exited back into the front room. She figured Chiriku told her that in order to get her to leave. Hib approached her with three orbs in hand.
“These ones are pretty nice and in your price range. Take a look,” Hib said.
He handed an amber one to Desert Rain. She held it in her hand and closed her eyes. It took a moment, but a tiny image, almost too small to truly see, flashed across her eyelids, one of a young elf girl receiving a glass wand as a birthday present. Why such a nice memory would be sold, Desert Rain did not know. The next orb was the image of a spell gone wrong, a Falcolin spellcaster transforming a cat into a furry frog. The third one was about a young man, who from his coral-spotted skin and webbed hands must have been one of the Coast People. He was performing a fire spell for a loved one, a spell where a candle flame took the shape of a heart.
“That’s an interesting one, ain’t it?” Hib encouraged her. “Normally that would be a mighty expensive one, but I see by your grin you got a soft spot for romance. I’ll give it to you 10% off.”
“That was a sweet memory,” Desert Rain admitted, “but I’m looking for a more specific spell. Do you have any of a spellcaster skin-molding?”
Hib’s face took on an irritated look. “No one would sell that kind of memory, or if they did, that one would’ve been snatched up in one minute flat. Not to mention you don’t have enough money for such a thing. That kind of memory is rare.”