The gum farmer's name was Elmund Herzin. He lived in the village among fellow farmers outside the western wall. Having been a farmer herself, Meya had been leery for them to venture beyond the wall only to arrive at an empty house, and thus they decided to ascertain his whereabouts first.
Just as well, too. A copper coin to a member of the roadside gambling ring revealed Elmund had entered the west gate with his son and passed by nary a quarter hour earlier. He was headed for The Tunnels, promising to return with gold to spare in an hour.
The alarming news sent them hurtling after Elmund's trail at full speed. Well, the highest speed possible on a one-lane bazaar street crammed with tourists, locals and wagons.
The Tunnels was their other destination, the underground—figuratively and literally—market recommended by Tyriel Wert, where Greeneye 'goods', among other illegal merchandise, were traded. What part of his poor boy was Elmund meaning to trade this time? It couldn't have been another eye, as he could have just revisited Tyriel for that.
That wasn't reassuring.
As Meya fidgeted with Coris's brooch, the pad of her pointer finger brushed past the ring of scar tissue on its regenerated twin. The idea hit her like a battering ram to the belly.
Greeneyes can regrow body parts. Which means...
Meya had nothing left in her stomach to expel by this point, but her brain was having trouble comprehending that, spinning freely inside her skull as it was.
Oh no. Oh please. Please no.
Meya fell against the headrest, burrowing her head into the supple cushions. Taking deep breaths, she closed her eye and pressed the lid down tight, trying to squeeze out the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows.
The carriage slowed to a halt. Meya swallowed her nausea, sat up and peered outside. Jerald had parked at the lip of a seedy arcade between an apothecary and an alehouse.
Another two coppers down the gambler's pocket had coaxed out directions to the elusive flea market, which took Jerald three patient repetitions to commit to mind and paper. Its entrance was concealed in the maze of side alleys that ran alongside the main marketplace.
The alleys were too narrow for horses, let alone a wagon. A fleeting survey of the populace—wicker bins spilling rotten produce, rabid overgrown rats chasing mangy cats, vagrants huddled against filth-stained walls, drunkards flexing their vocal cords, addicts guzzling down laudanum-laced gum drink—resulted in a heated spit-spraying match between Jerald and Gretella versus the youngsters.
Much to their chagrin, Frenix and Amara were forced to remain behind under Gretella's watch, while Jerald led the older girls onwards.
They ventured forth in single file, Meya leading the way, followed by Arinel, Heloise, Fione and Agnes. Jerald brought up the rear, a hand on the scabbard of his sword, another on its hilt, glaring menacingly at the alley's stirring inhabitants.
Rats slunk in and out of sight atop mounds of decomposing garbage. Mangy hounds barked their displeasure but dared not draw near for fear of the wooden stick Meya wielded. Some cats were hungry enough to approach, though. With a desperate swipe, Meya sent them scampering back to the wayside. There they lingered, hissing curses as she threaded her way around scraps of rotting cabbage, gnawed-dry chicken bones, and blobs of their combined droppings.
It was overwhelming even for a peasant, but as much as Meya longed to check on her noble companions, she didn't think it wise to lose sight of such a treacherous path, especially with her field of vision halved like this.
"Take a left at the next crossroads." Arinel whispered into her ear. Meya nodded, her eye lingering warily on the drunkard to the left. The eye sockets of his mask hovered at the level of her bosom, and he licked his lips.
Meya clutched the ruby brooch in her cloak pocket and hurried forward to take the turn, making a mental note to ask Zier if he'd teach her how to swing a sword, once they were safe in Jaise Castle.
The remnants of life, however wretched, faded as they advanced deeper into the maze. After a quarter-hour, Meya arrived at what Arinel promised was the penultimate step: counting manhole covers.
"Four...five...six...seven. Here we are."
Gathering up her skirt and cloak so the hems wouldn't sweep the litter on the pavement, Meya crouched beside a circular metal plate embossed with the chough, Jaise's symbol animal. The plate was caked with grime and dusted with grit. It was hinged on one side, a strip of curved metal welded onto the other.
Meya spun the tip of her rod up against the hole, trying to weasel it in, to no avail. Jerald strode to the nearby wall and returned with the hook-topped stick leaning against it.
Meya scrambled to her feet and made way, shuddering at the thought of descending underground again so soon, as she watched the knight slot the hook into the slit.
"Can you fit a whole market in there? What's a manhole, anyway? " She asked the party at large. As Jerald braced himself to pop the lid, Agnes tugged Meya's sleeve for her to retreat.
"Manholes open to underground tunnels where the pipes run and plumbers work. We'd find them in large towns like Meriton or spa towns like this." She explained over the grinding creak of the hinge as Jerald heaved up the plate. It was about as thick as Meya's middle finger is long. "This section's probably been disused for some time."
Jerald rested the lid with the softest thud he could manage. The girls crowded around the gaping hole it left behind. The late afternoon sun sliced a slanting path down the brick-laid wall, revealing a metal ladder leading into solid darkness.
Meya glanced around the ring. Even with her mask on, she spied Heloise's discomfort from her restlessly churning lips. Jerald's cloak rustled as he rose to his feet. With a bow, he reached for the ladder and lowered himself first.
Steeling herself with a deep breath, Meya planted her hand on the ladder to signal she would be second. The dull clangs of Jerald's boots hitting the rungs grew fainter with every yard he descended, topped off with a flump of feet on stone. There was a pause they hoped was Jerald surveying his new surroundings, then his voice echoed back up to the surface,
"All is well. Please come down, I'll receive you."
The girls heaved a sigh of relief as one. Meya tightened her grip on the rusting metal, reached for the other railing, then dipped her first foot towards the top rung, which fell about an arm's length below the lip of the hole. She descended nimbly, her arms strengthened from a decade working the plow and thrashing bushels of wheat. The gray-black darkness dispersed into orange-brown light as she neared the bottom of the pit. She looked over her shoulder and saw Jerald's outstretched hands waiting for her.
"There we go." Jerald grunted as he eased Meya to the stone floor. As he turned away to await the next arrival, Meya turned towards the light.
They were standing in a circular alcove beside a narrow stone-paved passageway. Rusty copper pipes ran the length of the vaulted ceiling towards nowhere, their journey illuminated by pole-mounted lamps flickering along the meandering path, stalls and stands hosted by masked merchants crammed in between.
Sacks of salt, sugar and spice lined the walls alongside barrels of wine, and bundles of untaxed Tyldornian silk, satin and leather. Raw jewels and metal ores twinkled and gleamed on threadbare carpets, illegally mined in Latakia. Unregistered prostitutes mingled with browsing clients on the lane, distinguishable by their yellow cloaks. If not for the luxurious and illegal nature of the goods, Meya would've mistaken it for a weekend bazaar, albeit subterranean.
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At last, Heloise made her way down to Jerald's supporting arms and touched her feet to solid ground. As she glanced around, taking her bearings, Jerald peered out the alcove for a quick survey, then withdrew and turned to Meya and Arinel.
"I propose we stay close together. Keep an eye out for stalls trading Greeneye parts. I'll do the asking."
They stepped onto the thoroughfare in pairs—Jerald with Meya, Arinel with Agnes, and Fione with Heloise, taking note of crossroads where the avenue branched away to similarly vibrant corridors.
Fione spotted a stall toting unearthed Greeneye bones and eyes on a side-lane. The masked merchant was carrying a heated haggling session with a masked woman, who held her baby in one arm and held its leg up with the other. A Lattis bangle shimmered over the babe's ankle.
Jerald approached them both with a silver coin, but none of them recalled seeing Elmund. Their search resumed, then stopped two crossroads later.
They were a few steps away from the intersection. A queue of around a dozen masked men and women hugged the wall, leading towards the lip of the sidelane to the right, where a masked man had set up his table. An off-white cloth sign swung from its metal arm nailed into the stone, bearing a large, vivid red teardrop.
The woman at the table had finished whatever business she had with the doorman, and she proceeded into the lane. The next man in line edged up to the table.
Meya rushed in to see better, prompting Jerald to pick up his stride. The table had nothing upon it but the doorman's hands, a flickering candle, and an upended needle stood on a stone.
The man knew what to do. He reached towards the needle, his pointer finger outstretched. He pricked it with a swift flick, then hovered his bleeding finger over the candleflame.
A drop of blood plummeted from the oozing pool. The fire rose up to swallow it, then flashed acid green.
The doorman nodded, and the Greeneye man advanced into the lane. Meya strained her neck to keep him in sight. What she saw in the avenue froze her blood in her veins.
Dozens of chairs and tables lined the wall, more than half occupied by men, women and even children as small as Mistral. Gum tubes trailed from one of their arms they had laid on the tables, one end swinging in thin air above a tin jar at the floor, dripping red liquid.
Over at the opposite wall, three large vats like the ones back in Hadrian Castle's scullery sat billowing steam. Masked men stood on benches around them, stirring with enormous paddles what appeared to be crimson soup.
Elmund Herzin wasn't selling his son's other eye. Nor his regenerating limbs.
He was selling his blood.
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"Meya! It's him! To the left!"
Arinel's frantic hiss jolted Meya from her trance. She combed the area with her eyes and found him at the opposite lip of the alley.
Across from the gatekeeper with his candle and needle, another masked man sat behind a table laden with a ledger, an abacus and a coin tray. Blood sellers carrying tin jars meandered up to him from the simmering blood vats.
The latest seller, a young brunette who eerily resembled Jezia both in hairstyle and height, staggered up and slammed three blood-crusted jars onto the tabletop. Next in line was a man wearing a mask with HERZIN emblazoned across the forehead in weathered white paint. He ambled up to take the girl's spot, clutching the handles of two tin jars in one hand, and in the other, the sleeve of his son's black veil.
Meya tugged Jerald's arm, then threaded her way to the nearest stand selling ivory carvings, deer antlers and other animal items. Jerald knelt down and pretended to browse the wares, providing cover for Meya to act the bored daughter while she spied on their target.
Elmund Herzin was of middling height and build, yet the boy's head barely reached his waist. His yellowish hand hung limply from his sleeve, attached to a bony wrist that would've fitted his father's grasp with room to jostle in.
The lass with the ponytail tottered tipsily away, her earnings clutched in one fist, her bandaged arm in another. Elmund dragged his son along as he hurried forward, thrusting the jars onto the wobbly table with a clatter. The gatekeeper scribbled a number in his ledger, tossed the jars into the half-filled barrel behind him, then pinched up two coins from among the several rows of white-silver in his tray.
"That'd be two silvers for yeh." He slapped the pay into Elmund's waiting palm, catching a glimpse of Elmund's son as he did. He gestured a distracted finger as he bent down and ready his quill with a dip in the inkwell,
"Yeh might wanna give it a coupla months next time. Boy's pale as a Northerner."
The advice was drowned in the jangle of coins as Elmund busied himself with the drawstring of his money pouch. His two silvers secured, he marched off without even the barest nod to the gatekeeper. His son stumbled after him, the soles of his straw slippers barely lifting off the pavement as his legs lagged leaden behind the rest of his body.
"Dad—" The boy gasped as they passed by Meya. Elmund didn't slow nor turn around. "—Dad, I need a rest."
Meya slipped behind them in time to catch Elmund's reply,
"And I need to see a man about a dog. So move them legs."
Either out of protest or fatigue, the boy abandoned his feeble attempt at walking. Elmund's hand freed his son's slipping sleeve, only to snatch at his collar instead. He was on the verge of soldiering on, his son's windpipe be damned, when the boy panted,
"Three bronzes." He mustered his strength and looked up at his father, "You promised."
Elmund's knuckles paled as he tightened his grip on his son's collar. He seemed to be debating whether to part with some change and be rid of his son instantly, or to be miserly and endure pestering all the way to the gambling ring. In the end, impatience won. Elmund yanked open his pouch, rummaged for the bronzes and brasses scuttling at the bottom, then tossed them to his son as if they were coated with pus.
"Now shoo!" He hissed as he hitched up his sagging belt, barking over his shoulder as he hurried off, "And have dinner ready when I'm back!"
The boy stared after his father's receding back, then fell heavily against a stretch of tunnel wall, where no vendor had claimed as backrest while they peddled their illegal goods.
Meya hung back until he had slid down to the cold stones, head on his knees, before drawing near. The boy looked up, alerted by the shade of their shadows sweeping over his huddled form. He surveyed the cloaked figures, then pressed his back against the wall and his unsteady feet on the ground, ready to vacate at once.
"This your spot, miss?" He croaked, swaying from blood loss and shivering from the cold. Meya's heart writhed as she crouched down one leg at a time, as if she were approaching a cowering bunny.
"No. I'm looking for Elmund Herzin's son."
The boy seized up in fear.
"Dad owes you something, too?" He raised his trembling hand and pointed in Elmund's direction, "He's got two silvers on him. But not for long. You'd better hurry."
"No, no, no. I happen to have summat of yours." Meya raised her hands hastily, then waggled her fingers at the congregation behind her. Heloise rooted in her pocket then dug out a silk casket. She knelt down, tipped open the box and turned it towards the boy.
The boy drew in a sharp breath as his glowing eye stared back at him. He glanced at Meya, down at his eye, and back up again, his pale lips parted in disbelief.
"You settled the debt?" He flattened himself against the wall, as if hoping to become part of the stone, "I don't have gold. I don't have blood. I don't have nothing to pay you."
"You need only to come serve our lady." Meya forced her voice through the bitter lump of swallowed tears and fury in her throat, "You'll have your eye back, and plenty of meat to put some flesh under that skin, and some blood under those cheeks."
The boy considered it, then shook his head. An unwise move, as it sent him cradling his head in nausea right after.
"I can't." He whimpered, his voice muffled by his knees as he curled in on himself, "Dad says I gotta cook and go to work. And come give blood here."
But you don't need to!
Meya longed to retort. She couldn't understand the boy. Meya was never one to bow and meekly accept unfairness. She would've been long gone to make a life of her own if it were her.
But should the boy's reply have come at any surprise, though? The boy had routinely sacrificed his blood to satisfy his heartless father. Even went so far as pawning off his eye. He was far gone. Meya had no idea how to coax him back to his senses.
Jerald laid a firm hand on Meya's shoulder. He knelt down before the shivering poor thing, asking tenderly,
"What's your name, my lad?"
The boy started, then looked up. His lips glistened with drying tears.
"Atmund." He croaked.
Jerald gave a few deep nods, then unfurled a melancholic smile.
"It's a good name. Pity your father uses it so sparingly."
Atmund sniffed, then slid a hand behind his mask to rub at his eye. Jerald picked his other eye up from the casket,
"Atmund, I'm Sir Bayne, a knight. I serve Lady Crosset. Our Lady would deal with your permit—and your father, if need be. My only question for you is," Atmund looked up, his hand still stuck behind his mask. Jerald's kind smile widened,
"Would you like to come with us, and never have to sell one drop of your blood again? See the whole of Latakia with your own two eyes? Travel the road to Aynor with two strong legs?"
Atmund seemed stunned, his lips churned with hesitance.
"Should you stay, your father would continue letting your blood for two silvers every fortnight. Until the day you collapse. Or die."
Atmund shuddered. Jerald leaned closer, gazing straight into those empty eye sockets probably obscuring a wide, fearful eye.
"You know it wouldn't get any better. You know you're nearing your limit. You must admit defeat, Atmund. Tis the only way you can move on to new beginnings."
"What about Dad?" Atmund asked, pale hands clenching to trembling fists on his wobbly knees. Jerald steadied them with his large hand.
"You owe him nothing, my lad. Whatever I imagine he may say to the contrary." The knight shook his head, his eyes never once wavering from Atmund, "No father should feel entitled to be repaid for siring a child. Nevertheless, you have paid much more than any son would have, to a father who has given nothing but his name and his seed."
Atmund's lips trembled as he gritted his teeth against a second onslaught of bitter tears. Jerald squeezed his hand. He was no longer smiling, and his face was downcast.
"You are worthy of a father's love, Atmund. And you will find it elsewhere."
Hot tears bubbled up in Meya's eyes. Of course, Jerald would understand Atmund. He himself had been rejected by two blood fathers, abandoned to be raised by the church.
Meya studied him as he warmed the sobbing Atmund's hand within his. She couldn't help wondering if Jerald had found a father of his own.