“Work? Whatever for?”
Wakahn didn’t expect pushback when he gave his mom the permission slip. She doted on her only son and had been the first one he told he wanted to be a warden. They drank tea in her gallery. It was an eclectic, colorful room closed off to guests when they hosted one of the many events on their social calendar. Wakahn never saw it stay the same for more than two days. Paintings and statuettes and half-finished art pieces shifted around or were sent away to be sold or discarded all the time.
An Degatawa became a canvas herself by day’s end of her work. Paint or dried clay smeared her dark smock and her fair skin. Her hair was pulled into a hideous ponytail that would surely cause a buzz among socialites if anyone but Wakahn or his father saw it.
“It’s like a practicum, mother,” Wakahn explained gently. “I’ll be able to do real jobs learning from a real warden.”
An considered the page. It did not help that Cyril had chosen some shoddy, yellowing material to scribble down the agreement upon. The penmanship lacked any professional quality and the top of the contract addressed “To those it may concern.” Wakahn would have to refer him to a good scribe. Every proper man needed a proper scribe.
“Why don’t we discuss this with your father?” she insisted. An returned the paper to her son and stood. A nearby maid rushed to gather the woman’s cup on a shiny platter. “That’s fine, darling, I’m done with it.”
“Yes, Lady Degatawa,” the maid said. Wakahn wordlessly handed off his porcelain teacup to the servant.
He spoke to his mother instead. “Father is too busy for such trivialities, mother.”
“Your father is always busy,” she told him. “He is never too busy for family.”
The Degatawa estate was palatial. The second biggest single manor in Lyrique. Second only to the Hadessian estate. It’d been built in the northern valley some distance from the docks, lording over an expansive garden. A black fence repelled those unwelcome. No less than twelve men guarded it at any given time.
It was built with four stories and was vast in width. The manor’s first floor was dedicated almost entirely to entertaining. The walls held expensive sconces and Lady Degatawa’s art. Multiple dining rooms, an indoor fountain, a spacious pavilion with pews for performing musicians. One could visit many times and find new secrets with each return. One corner of the house hosted a man-operated lift that took riders straight to the observatory on the fourth floor.
Nakamo Degatawa’s office was on the same floor. Darker than most of the rest of the house and carpeted completely. The study had its own hearth that never stopped pumping smoke out of the estate. A bookshelf held expensive and illuminated manuscripts from the world over. Some as old as the Age of Dragons. His desk bore a carved angel sculpture, like the adornments off the bow of a ship.
Wakahn always had the impression of the winged girl trying to escape her wooden prison. Nakamo corrected him. He explained it was a guide. Towards what, Wakahn had never really understood.
That night, Nakamo had erected a second table in the center of the room, something simple and large. He’d pushed the couches to the edges of his office and studied the geography alone. Not even a servant was allowed inside.
An didn’t hesitate to push through the doors inside. Nakamo didn’t look up and scribbled a path on the map.
“Love of my life,” An regarded her husband.
“Light of my life,” Nakamo said. He still wasn’t looking up, but An wasn’t insulted. It still sent her heart all aflutter to hear the man speak to her like that. It only made Wakahn nauseous.
Wakahn was constantly being told that he was the spitting image of his father. As a younger boy, Wakahn always thought people were just being nice. As he aged into his features, he realized how right they had been. Nakamo had the same bold nose as his son. The same hair, the same eyes. Nakamo didn’t wear as much jewelry as the boy, but wore nicer clothes. Even with no guests to entertain, Nakamo maintained every detail of his meticulous appearance.
“Our son has something to ask of us,” An said. Nakamo didn’t respond and didn’t look up. He continued tracing lines on the map.
Wakahn approached. “My master at Gwyllion Abbey has suggested that I accompany him on a job. Though he has asked for your permission, given the associated risks.”
“I thought we were paying for a safe environment in which to learn,” Nakamo said.
“My master often speaks of the dangers of a warden’s work. To adequately prepare is to face those dangers.” Nakamo stayed silent for longer this time. So, Wakahn kept speaking. “He will accompany us for the entirety of the job. My fellow apprentices as well.”
“Like that Hadessian girl? Barnett told me his daughter was working alongside you.” There was a scolding tone to those words. Wakahn surmised his father was unhappy about hearing that from someone else. And not from his son.
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“The tall one? That’s quite the connection to make,” An said.
“The loud one,” Nakamo corrected her.
An was visibly disappointed. “Ah. Well. I guess this warden business is becoming quite the trend. What will it be next, I wonder?”
Wakahn refrained from lashing out against those words. His chosen trade was not a trend. It was serious. His parents let him pursue it. They paid for his tuition. They also assumed he would never actually follow through on the work. That was the frustrating part. Wakahn’s parents knew how to say the right lines and do the right things. They concealed their obvious feelings. And in the deep chambers of their heart, they would never accept their only child working as a warden. Not really. The game was to see how long they would entertain his fantasy. Long enough for him to truly escape into a life of his own.
“If I could just have you sign this,” Wakahn presented the paper. Still, his father did not look up from the map. He was no longer drawing on it, just studying the lines he’d drawn himself. “I know you’re busy.”
“I will not sign my son’s life away to a stranger,” Nakamo said. “Invite your master to the Summer’s End Ball. Those apprentices too.”
“You can’t be serious,” Wakahn said.
“If they’ve faced so many ‘dangers’ then I’m sure they can endure one social engagement. Or else you will have to adhere to more grounded means of apprenticeship.”
Wakahn retreated from the study. An left as well. Nakamo did not watch them go. His eyes stayed, mesmerized, to the map. It illustrated the lands west of Lyrique. The untamed territories. Rife with gwyll and monsters too smart to invade a fortified city. He had drawn roads into the land. Paths from which the seeds of Lyrique’s fruit might be cast.
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Piper lived in a boarding house right next to the water. Visiting sailors stunk up the place something fierce. A smell that the owner had warned her about when she first rented the room. Piper insisted it wouldn’t be a problem. If it made the place that much cheaper then that was all the better.
Her “uncle” had offered a place for her to stay. A room in his house with six screaming kids. Piper’s father had generous friends, but she refused. Somehow, the false pretense of family was scarier than the total absence of one. It would just give the man more opportunities for him to talk her out of working too. Out of training to be a warden. Piper would never give up her ambition for his words, but they did make her feel a little guilty.
This room suited her fine. Private. Snug. A little wardrobe where she could stash her money. Free coffee in the mornings. Not that she drank it herself, but it was another nostalgic scent. When she closed her eyes to sleep and muffled her ears to silence the neighboring rooms, it could feel like Piper was alone with the smells she loved. Like the aroma could carry her through time.
She only ever woke up one day later. One day further from her parents. From when they were stolen from her. Piper shook her head and burrowed deeper into all of the pillows and blankets she had bought for herself. That was wrong. Very wrong. Piper had to think about it differently. Not one day further. One day closer. Every day, one day closer to vengeance. To justice. Those thoughts brought her peace. Brought her to sleep.
Brought her one day closer.
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Cyril couldn’t stay in the guild hall any longer. The place was too quiet and it never used to be. All of his memories of Lyrique and of the abbey were populated by people. Loud people, strange people. All kinds. All absent. Cyril needed people. He needed noise, at least. He definitely needed a drink.
The night tables suited all of these needs perfectly.
The big crowds had tapered off with the night, but a few of the taverns stayed open. Huddled packs of sailors and dock workers were unwilling to relinquish their free time to sleep. Candles inside the bars invited guests inside. Cyril made a quick survey for wardens from Migtrolio Marine. He spotted none and ducked inside a bar of dark, red wood. Small statues of pigs peeked out from inside the windows.
The pig bar was a square establishment, with old and mismatched tables scattered around a smaller square at the center, an island behind which barkeeps could serve drinks. A raised platform in the corner seemed to be for entertainment. The bar had none when Cyril walked in. He thought the place was deserted and might’ve left if he hadn’t heard some noises coming from deeper inside.
A kitchen was separated from the rest of the bar by a low wall. It reminded Cyril of Gwyllion Abbey’s kitchen. How one could peer into it from where they sat waiting for food.
Two women were working. Really one was working and the other seemed to be keeping watch. The observer was older and she squeezed a pipe in between her gums. She commented on the younger girl’s knife handling. Mostly criticizing the cook’s work as she swam a big knife through a small carcass. A rabbit or something, Cyril guessed.
“Hungry or thirsty?” the old woman asked. She had turned her attention to Cyril when he started watching the young woman work. The butcher stared back. A touch of blood was on her chin, almost as red as her lips.
“Thirsty,” Cyril said. “If I’m not interrupting.”
The old woman peeled a red-stained apron over her head and moved to the bar. Cyril forced himself to stop watching the woman work.
“If the smell bothers you, you can sit outside,” the old lady said.
“Smelled worse,” Cyril said. He dropped himself onto one of the stools at the bar. The old woman ducked under the bar to pop the other end. She didn’t ask what Cyril wanted before she started assembling a small potion of alcohol. “What are you making?” he asked.
“You’re not a picky type, are you?” the old lady asked. A puff of smoke crawled out of her lips when she spoke.
Cyril lied and told her he wasn’t. The drink was fruity and the sweetness did very little to disguise the bite of the liquor. The old lady poured them strong. The bar used glass for their drinks, not wood or tin. He wondered why such a shabby place splurged on expensive drinkware. Specialized sorcerers created and distributed glass across the world. Even in Loucester, only the most upscale places used it.
The old lady returned to the kitchen while Cyril sipped it. He watched their work. How the old lady warned the young woman not to slice her fingers, how she guided her elbows through the difficult cuts. She was reluctant to praise her, but Cyril could sense pride. Perhaps teaching his own trade just made him more sentimental. It was no substitute for the abbey’s glory days, but he watched the pair of them all the same.
Only when the last of the animal’s bones had been collected into a separate pot had all the meat been properly butchered. The young woman started cleaning and Cyril finally felt the invitation of sleep crawl into him. He paid for his drink and left. Perhaps he could convince Bu to hire another chef for the guild kitchen.