Romeria
The square is still lively when Elisaf, Jarek, and I weave through. The dueling mimes are gone, replaced by a man painted bronze imitating a statue, and a woman drawing a bow over her fiddle, playing a spirited tune. Some merchants have sold out of their wares and are closing their wagons, but many remain, perched on their platforms, trying to persuade passersby to part with their coin.
I glance back the way we came, but the wagon is long gone. Ocher, a kindly older gentleman, steered it toward the quiet back streets rather than deal with the hassle of this crowd. “Do you think they’ll have any issues getting through the gate?” Gesine borrowed a gown from one of the priestesses, but Zorya refused to part with her leathers.
“Guards generally don’t give issue to those traveling from the sanctum,” Elisaf assures me. “They fear their standing with the fates will diminish, and they will land in Azo’dem. Besides, I’m certain Gesine could convince just about anyone to do her bidding.”
“And if not, Zorya will kill them all,” Jarek adds.
“Comforting.”
“That’s what I’m here for. To comfort you.” His gaze roams a nearby tavern on the east side of the square. The last dribs of sun shine a spotlight on several women loitering on the second-floor balcony, scantily clad and strutting before the crowd.
“They’re selling their blood?” Among other things, I’m sure. And they have caught his interest.
“Their keeper is selling their blood,” Jarek corrects.
“I prefer the former.” At least then they are in control.
“And yet what you prefer bears no weight on anything in Islor. Funny how that works.”
“You’re in a delightful mood.” I dismiss him, my attention shifting to the food wagons ahead. A single doughy pretzel hangs off a hook at one. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since before we reached camp. Now the shadows are long, the sun almost spent.
As if reading my mind—or maybe hearing my stomach—Elisaf produces a coin. “Quick, before he feeds it to the birds.”
I grin as I snatch it from his grip and trot over to exchange money for my meal. The vendor begins closing shop immediately, only too happy to be done for the day.
Elisaf smiles as I stroll back. “Well? How does it taste?”
“Like it’s been hanging on a hook all day. I hope I don’t break a tooth,” I say through my chews. “Where’d Jarek go?”
Elisaf waves toward a tavern.
“He couldn’t resist, could he?” The women are all attractive, curvy figures dolled up in dresses with revealing necklines.
“Don’t worry. He won’t take long.”
A memory hits, of Jarek and that tributary in the wagon in Freywich. “Can’t last, huh? I’ll have to bug him about that.”
“And I am sure he will find it amusing.”
I hesitate. “Don’t you need to … you know, too?” I nod toward the women.
“I would not leave you, not for a second.” Elisaf checks the clock tower and then points to a nearby bench by the water fountain where two mermaids entwined in each other’s bodies play the showpiece. “Come, we may as well sit. We still have an hour before we meet Zander.”
From the comfort of our seats, I work on my stale pretzel while Elisaf scrutinizes anyone who comes within twenty feet. But they’re all families and couples, and no one is paying us any attention.
“Bellcross seems like a nice place to live.”
He watches a toddler who crouches low to the ground, coaxing a nearby pigeon over with a piece of bread. His mother lingers not far behind, allowing him this experiment. “It is one of the most civilized cities in Islor. Much of that is on account of its governance. Lord Rengard is considered a noble man and an ally to the mortals.”
“It’s why his tributary wouldn’t take the vial from Tyree.”
“Yes. Because he treats his servants with dignity.”
“Zander treats his well too.” I think often he’s kinder to the mortals than he is to the nobility.
Two young children tear across the cobblestone, chasing a flock of birds. A woman in a simple gray dress chases after them, scolding, while a prim and finely dressed woman trails behind, her face pinched with an odd mixture of irritation and amusement.