Authors: Ginn Hale
“Why not?” Ravishan demanded.
“Because Dayyid would be furious if he discovered you staggering around drunk in front of all the common folk at the fair,” Hann’yu informed him.
John stole a glance back at the men seated nearby. Most kept their heads down and spoke softly among themselves. Only one or two openly observed Ravishan’s inebriated behavior and they looked quickly away when they noticed John returning their gazes.
“And what would Dayyid do?” Ravishan lifted his head challengingly. “Take away my torch-bearing privilege? Let him.”
“He’d blame Jahn and I for letting you get into trouble,” Hann’yu replied.
“As if Jahn would ever let me get into trouble.” Ravishan picked up the cup of daru’sira John had passed him and then set it back down on the table. “Dayyid doesn’t know anything about anyone.”
“He knows a great deal more than you give him credit for.” Hann’yu looked like he was going to go on, but then the woman serving them approached the table again. Hann’yu offered her a silent smile as she placed a tray of bread and salt-cured goat meat in front of them. John thanked her but declined when she offered to bring them more flower liqueur.
After she drifted to the other tables, Hann’yu turned his attention back to Ravishan.
“I understand why you might want to be relieved of your duties today,” Hann’yu said quietly, “but tomorrow and all the days after you would regret it if Dayyid made you step down.”
“He has no one to take my place,” Ravishan said.
“There’s always Fikiri,” Hann’yu replied.
Ravishan responded with a contemptuous sneer. “I could rip Fikiri apart with my bare hands and Dayyid knows it.”
“Jealousy is unbecoming in an ushiri,” Hann’yu stated. “You shouldn’t hate Fikiri for his skill.”
“I don’t.” Ravishan contemplated the platter of goat meat and bread for a moment. “I hate him for his cowardice and conniving.”
In spite of himself, John smiled at the frankness of Ravishan’s response. It was like him to be too honest.
“Well then,” Hann’yu pressed on, “you don’t want to be replaced by him, do you?”
“Maybe.” Ravishan stared at the stained tabletop. He slumped forward slightly, letting his chin rest on his hands. “I think I’m ready to start drinking again.”
“Have some food,” John suggested.
Ravishan scowled at the tray of rough bread and salt-encrusted goat meat. He tore a piece of bread off and took a bite. He chewed unenthusiastically and didn’t eat anything more. Instead he simply stared at the pitcher of flower liqueur.
Hann’yu sighed and then stood up. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“You’re not going to tell Dayyid where I am, are you?” Ravishan demanded.
“No, Ravishan, I’m a gentleman. And more than that, I’m your friend,” Hann’yu replied offhandedly. But he shot John a meaningful glance. “If I see Dayyid, I’ll tell him that I have no idea where you are, though it isn’t as if Dayyid won’t find this place once he decides to come looking.”
John knew Hann’yu was right. Dayyid would only tolerate Ravishan’s absence for so long before he’d hunt him down.
As Hann’yu departed, two young women held the tent flaps open. John watched Hann’yu disappear into the crowds of passersby.
Golden light poured in through the open mouth of the tent and John glimpsed the world outside. The common, weathered inhabitants of Amura’taye flirted and gossiped as they bustled past, all of them caught up in their surroundings. The loud calls of vendors, the songs of working women, the bright swaths of cloth, the pungent scents of food and animals, all swirled and rolled into an exotic atmosphere of constant experience. The fair sparkled and cried for all attention to be focused on the spectacle of the moment. It was not a place of recollection, reflection, or regret.
A herd of small black goats rushed past, followed by two laughing young boys.
Then the tent flaps fell closed again, enclosing him and Ravishan in this oasis of alcohol and shadows where the very air seemed to hang with loss and melancholy.
Beside him, Ravishan tossed back another shot of flower liqueur. He shuddered and glanced to John.
“I have a right to get drunk one day out of the entire year,” Ravishan murmured.
John studied him intently and Ravishan dropped his gaze back to the tabletop. This wasn’t like him and it wasn’t doing him any good.
Exuberant rebellion didn’t drive him to toss back drink after drink. They both knew that. Outside, in the midst of the fair, there would at least be distractions.
John stood up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before Dayyid finds us.”
“I haven’t finished my drink,” Ravishan objected, but he rose to his feet. John started for the exit. Ravishan caught up with him just outside of the tent.
Despite the blue sky and high noon sun, a chill pervaded the air. It was particularly notable after the warm darkness of the tavern tent. John took in a deep breath, smelling honey and the crispness of the approaching winter. At his feet, drifts of red and gold leaves colored the packed dirt. Ravishan kicked several aside, stirring up that musky autumn scent that even now evoked John’s childhood memories of Halloween.
The shifting weather and changing colors of the foliage conjured memories of wild costumes and sacks full of candy. But now a dread infused his sense of the season. The red-flecked and fallen leaves looked as if they’d been spattered with blood. For a moment just the smell of smoke and roasting meat brought him visions of bodies writhing in the flames of a pyre.
John searched the surrounding corridors of brightly dyed tents and painted stalls for something to distract the morose direction of his own thoughts. He wasn’t going to cheer Ravishan
up by brooding himself.
Behind them a vendor sang out the astonishing attributes of his cast iron pots. Two older women flaunted strings of glittering beads and a shabby quartet of men strummed their instruments beside a stall displaying a variety of southern quill pens. A small black goat butted into the back of his leg and bleated loudly before being pulled away by a young man. The music all around him, the stalls of bright beads and fragrant southern fruit, only seemed to make him think of it all the more. The joy and fervent energy of the Harvest Fair struck him as a desperate deception, an attempt to overcompensate for the terrible cruelty yet to come.
Next to him, Ravishan watched a group of laughing young men with an almost wistful expression.
“Why don’t we try to find more of that violet ink that Ashan’ahma likes,” John suggested. “He’s nearly out.”
“I still had half a pitcher left back in the taverner’s tent,” Ravishan commented, but he didn’t look too annoyed.
“It was nearly empty,” John replied. “Come on, Ravishan, walk with me and I’ll buy you something that tastes decent.”
“All right,” Ravishan agreed. “But I should warn you that I’m a little drunk and perhaps slightly surly as well.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” John told him. “I’m still glad for your company.”
Ravishan flushed handsomely in response.
They strolled together, their arms brushing a little more closely than other men, but in the shove and push of the crowd no one noticed. John made what light conversation he could, but often as not they fell into a companionable quiet. Somehow in the chaos of surrounding song and noise just brushing Ravishan’s hand and meeting that flash of his smile seemed to carry far more between them than any number of words.
At last they stopped at a stand selling sweet honey cakes. John remembered the dull yellow tent and the women working beneath it from the previous year. The old women’s red widows’ veils looked dull russet in the sharp noon light. They sat, as they had the year before, singing with their daughter-in-law and pounding out the cakes.
“Yellow honey cakes,” the vendor shouted over the rumble of the crowd. “Fresh and sweet! The best you’ll ever taste!”
“He should have said eat,” Ravishan commented. “It rhymes.”
“Clearly he’s not a poet.”
“Clearly not. The cakes smell good though.”
Instead of competing with the cries of the vendors and customers all around him, John simply held up four fingers. Seconds later John exchanged two prayer stones for four piping hot cakes wrapped in some large dried leaf. Reflexively, John tried to identify the leaf. It certainly hadn’t come from any of the native flora of the cold north. The big frond resembled a banana leaf.
“Here,” John raised his voice so that Ravishan would hear him clearly, “these two are for you.”
Ravishan’s hands bumped John’s as he took the cakes. His fingers felt hot. Both of them hung back, close to the stand while they ate. The flavor of the cakes reminded John of sweetened polenta. Beside him, Ravishan chewed carefully, obviously aware that he was still clumsy from the flower liqueur.
All around them strangers bumped and jostled through the rows of tents, wagons, and stalls. The sweet smell of the honey cakes mingled with the odors of living breath and sweat. Everywhere John looked billowing bright tents and gaudily painted wagons hid the crumbling remnants of abandoned buildings and fissured city walls.
Ravishan leaned closer to him. “Candle Alley isn’t far from here, you know,” Ravishan murmured into his ear.
John studied the cracked wall, trying to place it in his mental map of the city. Ravishan was right. Candle Alley would only be a few blocks away on the other side of this wall. A normal man would have to walk all the way around to the nearest city gate to reach it, but Ravishan could simply step through to it. Walls were nearly meaningless to him.
“No one would look for us there,” Ravishan whispered. His hand brushed against John’s hip and then quickly dropped away.
“It’s broad daylight.” John could hardly believe what Ravishan seemed to be suggesting. Then again, he was young, drunk, and depressed. John supposed it shouldn’t have been all that surprising. And in all honesty John recognized that Ravishan’s suggestion disturbed him because of his own susceptibility. He had no doubt that the respite of even a few minutes of ecstasy appealed to him just as much as it did to Ravishan.
He yearned for it so badly that he didn’t dare to think too long on the temptation. It could get them both killed.
“It’s always dark in the alley,” Ravishan whispered. “No one ever looks at you.”
“We should try the Quillers’ Row for that ink.”
Ravishan gave him a hard, vexed glare. “Why don’t we go to Candle Alley?”
“Because that would be incredibly stupid of us,” John responded as quietly as he could. “We have to be careful. You know that.”
“I’m sick to death of being careful,” Ravishan snapped. “I’m tired of doing what’s right and wise. And living like this, I don’t feel anything.” He pulled back from John.
“Ravishan.” John stepped after him, keeping his voice low and reasonable. “I know this is hard for you. What you have to do tonight—”
“What I have to do tonight isn’t what I want to talk about,” Ravishan cut him off. “It doesn’t matter right now. Now, I want to have a good time. I want to be happy. And all you want is to drag me around this crowd of goats and peasants looking for ink for Ashan’ahma. I don’t care about Ashan’ahma! I don’t care about his damn ink!”
People around them gawked, and then recognizing Ravishan’s ushiri coat, quickly looked away. Women and girls scuttled into tents or ducked behind wagons. Men turned away, feigning interest in anything but the scene Ravishan seemed intent on making.
“This isn’t the place for this conversation,” John told him.
Ravishan glared around him and then turned his attention back to John. He swayed on his feet, looking furious and frustrated.
“Are you coming with me or not?” Ravishan demanded in a low whisper.
“I don’t—” John began.
“Yes or no?”
“I’m not going to—”
“Fine.” Ravishan cut him off again. “I’ll have a good time without you. I can do that, you know. I hope Ashan’ahma really enjoys his ink.”
“Ravishan…” John didn’t bother going on. Ravishan was already gone. The chill of the torn Gray Space hung in his wake.
John sighed. “You idiot.”
It would serve Ravishan right if he did just go off and find gifts for Hann’yu, Samsango, and Ashan’ahma. Ravishan could stagger around half-drunk, complaining to the women in Candle Alley, and then he’d see just how sorry they felt for him.
John glowered at the wall that separated him from Candle Alley as if the sheer force of his annoyance could knock it down. Unwillingly, he wondered how well Ravishan could navigate the Gray Space at his current level of inebriation. It was a short distance and Ravishan had been moving through the Gray Space all of his life. He could probably cross through this wall in his sleep. And he would have a great time without John when he got there.
The thought of the companionship Ravishan might find nagged at John more than he wanted to admit. And despite himself he couldn’t help but fear that something might have gone wrong during Ravishan’s passage through the Gray Space.
For a moment, he resented Ravishan for not having the consideration to realize how all these thoughts would disturb him. But there was no point. It wasn’t as if Ravishan had cunningly manipulated him. Ravishan was just angry and frustrated. He had good reason to be. But things would only get worse if John didn’t go find him and escort him back to the innocuous sur
roundings of the fair.