Chapter Eleven

The station at ALD IOM - the only station in the city - was a bustling mess of trainyards, clattering rails, wheezing steam locomotives, and packed platforms. It was a place still figuring out how train stations ought to work, and was throwing everything against a wall until something stuck. So, a fine restaurant with wide glass widows looked out on huge smoggy piles of coal carts and metal carriages filled to the brim with wooden crates. Cut-price wine was served alongside an array of foreign delicacies provided by chefs imported at great expense from their homes. There was a consistent rumour that the restaurant had accidentally hired one or two canteen servers who barely knew how to cook, but at the end of the day, no-one had the ability to really comment on inaccuracies. Why, yes, it was traditional to serve a massive slab of soft, faintly tasteless white cheese at the end of a meal, when you were already swollen with food. And of course you should accept a cold meat pie studded with aspic, it was traditional in the golden republic of Fidelizh, and if you dared complain you would suffer the combined curses of all its citizens.

If the restaurant served anyone other than tired travellers and off-duty workers, there still would've been some complaints. The meat pie was really quite awful. But Carza didn't notice - she was too nervous to eat. Her tweed suit was on, her suitcases were already making her arms ache, her pistol was cunningly concealed under her jacket, and she'd even gone to the expense of braiding her hair to stop it from blowing in her face as the rushing wind that accompanied the trains roared over and around her without ceasing for longer than a second. She was surrounded by a sea of people - a combination of well-heeled professionals who read their newspapers with bored detachment from the chaos around them, burly workers who bellowed to one another across the wide platforms as if this was their territory, and all these passengers were mere obstacles. And then there were the terrified newcomers like herself, struggling to keep their bags close and their wits about them as humanity swarmed in every direction, and the trains shrieked like something out of a nightmare.

Steam, alternating blasts of heat and cold as hot engines mingled with the brisk morning air, stamping feet, the ever-present smell of burning and sweat... if Carza was alone, she had no doubt that she'd simply have given up after a point and found a room to hide in. Hated crowds, hated busy crowds, hated having to go against said crowds in any capacity. Melqua was, naturally, here - and she strode through the crowd with blasé diffidence. She looked a little nervous, admittedly, but... well, she was better at both masking it, and acting in spite of it. And that was what mattered, really. Carza felt like a child again, following Melqua as she forced her way through crowds of people in such a way that passage was cleared, while no-one seemed to become particularly annoyed. Fear had ceased to run through her by this point - all that remained was blustering adrenaline and a desire to sit down, no matter where, and no matter where that seat might take her. If the distant mountain pass was quieter than this, then she'd be delighted to reach it, regardless of the dangers. She sagged slightly against a pillar, and peered over the many heads and hats which topped off the seething mass of humanity. Where, where... there. Hull, piled with his own bags, struggling to navigate through the station, and mostly achieving it by stumbling forward while apologising constantly, flashing awkward smiles at anyone who shot him an irritated glance.

Ah. The bewildered and out-of-touch academic act.

She'd used that one before. Turned out to be pretty good for making secretaries take pity on her at convenient moments.

Melqua caught sight of him, and murmured:

"That's Hull?"

"Yes, that's him."

"...he looks a bit clueless."

Academically, maybe. Socially, eh was significantly better than her. But she simply hummed in response - an acknowledgement, neither agreement or disagreement. The world was moving around her. Here, she thought, she could feel the tide of modernity that Mr Tskhyz had spoken about. The feeling that the Court was a nice, static place of isolated scholarship, and this was... this was madness. This was change. This was a mound of engines roaring and crowds swirling, half of them foreign. There was something she couldn't quite... name, but it was there. Faces turned sallow by heat or swollen by cold, clothes in odd cuts or colours, hair that tumbled in strange styles... she wondered how many of them made more money than she'd see in a lifetime. How many were here to arrange lucrative deals that would further turn her beloved Court into a receptacle for books and an ever-expanding treasury. To flood the Court of Salt with more money, and to make the rich tapestry of local traditions seem like... the silliest things to have ever been invented. One or two of them glanced at her tattoo, and she felt self-conscious - ashamed of participating in a rite so utterly ancient that it defied comprehension, vested with meaning so weighty she couldn't grasp the full scope of it... and a few people looking askance at an unfamiliar sight was enough to make her want to shove a bandana on, lower her head, and dress like they did, act like they did, abandon everything that she once loved because it was now a subject for mockery.

She wasn't sure if that said something utterly cowardly about her.

Maybe it did, and she was too cowardly to admit it.

Reality crashed down around her as Hull approached. People were behind him. Oh. Oh dear. The hires. The people he'd hired for this, with money. Interested in adventure, willing to tolerate the risk. Four of them, all dressed practically in the same basic combination of a hardy button-up shirt, sturdy canvas trousers with crude braces looped around their shoulders, and tough boots tipped with metal. Three men and a woman. They gave her looks as they approached, but otherwise said nothing. Carried little between them - not a single suitcase, actually. They seemed to prefer hauling around calfskin sacks, loaded with whatever clothes and possessions they might want to bring. Used to travelling light. And some of them looked... most of them looked foreign. Incredibly foreign. She smiled and dipped her head in cautious politeness, and of the four, two dipped their heads curtly in return, while the others grunted to one another and set their sacks down at their feet, stretching aching shoulders. Melqua glanced over them apprehensively, and Hull grinned with his usual blustery good-natured charm. The kind which waded through life like a drunk person through mud - cheerful, laughing, and all the while getting filthier and filthier.

Where had that comparison come from?

"Ah, hello! Sorry about meeting here instead of at the Court, needed to take care of some final preparations. Everything ready?"

She nodded silently, and forced herself to speak a second later.

"Yes. Yes, just about... about everything. Which train is ours?"

She felt a terrible terror at the idea of missing her train, or worse, getting on the wrong one. It was one thing to be going the wrong way, it was another to realise it, and still be stuck doing it until the wrong way was damn well done with her. Hull gestured vaguely to the side, and she pressed harder.

"No, be specific."

He pointed more specifically. Alright then. A shimmering black mass of metal and steam, glass windows gleaming in the morning light. She kept patting her pockets in regular patterns - left trouser, right trouser, inside jacket right, inside jacket left, outside jacket right, outside jacket left, back pockets, breast pocket... just to make sure she had everything she needed. Her ticket. A letter of identification from the Court of Ivory, and multiple sources within it. Even had her academic records, painstakingly typed out by Melqua so that she ventured forth with something better than the dog-eared files most students had on them, that were marred with innumerable notes scribbled in margins and spilled drops of tea. Melqua surveyed the six of them - Carza, Hull, and four hires - and immediately took charge. She was such a meek person usually, but... she had reservoirs of toughness that had emerged from raising a child to adulthood, and clawing her way to the highest position a secretary could attain. Sometimes Carza wondered if she'd toughened herself by going over the failures which had made her a secretary instead of a scholar, and used those failures as learning experiences to become the best damn secretary around.

Well, in Carza's eyes, she was the best damn secretary around. And an excellent aunt.

"Alright, so you're all assembled. You four, go and find your seats - and take these bags with you. You two, keep what you must, everything else can be stowed away. Come on, chop-chop!"

The snap of her hands clapping in quick succession spurred everyone into motion. The four shuffled to grab the bags from the platform, hoisting them easily in a way that made Carza wonder why Hull had been struggling along with his own bags in the first place - these four were good at carrying bags, surely they could've... anyway. The three were left alone, and Melqua was putting on a brave face. First, she strode up to Hull, and poked him in the chest. Carza's eyes widened.

"Now, Mr vo Trochi, I understand that you're going on an expedition with my niece. And I hope you understand that if anything happens to her, I will hold you personally responsible."

He nodded immediately. Carza wanted to die, and she didn't care how quick or slow it was.

"Yes, ma'am."

"What did you study?"

"Horn-Era Studies, ma'am."

Melqua looked him up and down.

"Can you speak Tralkic?"

"Yes, now I can."

"Do you exercise?"

Carza craved non-existence.

"...I walk?"

Melqua sniffed.

"Now, Hull, you're going to learn how to repair a gas mask filter, how to purcahse proper anti-mutation medication, and how to start a fire. If you do not, then I will be very angry with you, and you will have embarked on an expedition with no practical skills whatsoever."

The tracks looked very appealing roundabout now.

"So. You. Take. Care. Of. Her. Am I clear?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll do my best."

"No, you'll do it, or I will be very, very disappointed."

She patted his cheek.

"And you don't want me to be disappointed, do you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good."

She turned on her heel, and placed both hands on Carza's shoulders.

"And as for you... don't talk to strange men, keep that pistol loaded and nearby at all times, only drink flowing water, never touch anything stagnant, and keep your money in packets dispersed through your luggage, that way a single robbery won't make you penniless."

She smiled.

"And be safe. The Court will still be here when you get back."

Carza tried to crack a tiny smile in return.

"Thanks, auntie."

"Shush. Now, I packed some food for you, because I've heard awful stories about the meals they serve on these trains..."

"Melqua..."

"No, you're getting to Krodaw properly provisioned. Now, here you go - it's a few slices of fruitcake. And here's a bag of monkey nuts, I know you like those."

"Melqua."

"And here is one of those nice new tea caddies that preserves it against cold and damp, be careful to keep it intact. And here are some extra cigarillos, I know you get antsy when you don't have an ample supply..."

"Auntie."

Melqua smiled widely as she pressed more brown paper packages tied up with string into Carza's unresisting hands.

"Oh, you'll be wonderful. And if you have a chance, write. Even little things - just to confirm you reached Krodaw, or you're back on your way home. Alright? And when you get back, we're celebrating all the birthdays you've missed - it's going to be madness, pure and simple."

Carza groaned.

"Yes. I understand. Now please stop giving me food."

A derisive sniff. Hull was slowly dying behind Melqua, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he did so. Carza hesitated, feeling some of the genuine warmth radiating from Melqua, coming to appreciate it... before the woman leant forward and pecked her once on each cheek. Which undid her completely. She hadn't done that since Carza was ten. Any complaints were cut off by a final, bone-crushing hug... and Melqua's eyes were shining when she drew back, and tilted Carza's chin up from its habitual position of slightly-facing-down.

"You'll be wonderful. Now go before I start crying and embarass you anymore."

Carza smiled very slightly.

"Thanks. See you in a few years."

"Yes, and don't forget to write!"

"I won't. I promise."

"Hull, make her write!"

"I'll... try my best?"

"No, just succeed."

And with that... Melqua was gone. Her aunt was gone. The closest thing to a mother after her actual mother had died... and the closest thing to a big sister she'd ever had, full stop. Vanished into the crowd, out of the station. Didn't want to stay and cry, respected Carza enough for that - and Carza had told her to leave instead of waiting in the bustling crowd for a vague chance at waving her off. This was better. Hull grinned good-naturedly when she turned to face him.

"Do you have two aunts?"

"...no, why?"

"Just... she's the person that made all those fruitcakes you keep having available?"

Carza scowled.

"And?"

"Nothing! Nothing. Just... alright. Let's get moving."

And get moving they did. Off into the wild yonder.

* * *

Funny how grand chapters in one's life were, usually, not very well-punctuated. Rites had punctuated so much of her life that she... well, she imagined at least a few garlands. Just one or two. Maybe some oil? Sacred oils to anoint her tattoo and open her third eye in wonderment at the world beyond? Maybe? Would've been appreciated, at least. But... instead, she simply walked through a narrow door at the top of a rickety few stairs, helped up by Hull's outstretch, paw-like hand, and guided into the interior of a tightly-packed carriage. Long-haul train, which meant they had individual compartments... and that was enough to make her feel a little more content. The idea of being crammed in with dozens and dozens of people, all of them strangers, maybe even sleeping in close proximity to those strangers... it was enough for her to want to drag out the bottle of brandy that she knew Melqua had stashed in one of her suitcases. But instead, she was bustled next to Hull and a wall, which suited her just fine. She was alright with small places. It was large places filled with unknowns, or small places filled with tightly-packed unknowns that made her want to crawl out of her own skin and run, raw and red, into the night to pursue a career in kidnapping firstborns.

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Not sure why she'd do that. But there weren't many options for the skinless and unemployed.

Ought to be a charity for the poor souls.

She felt over the fine iron clippers in her pocket. For mutations. Just in case. Skin tags were some of the first signs - little stretched portions of flesh where contamination could linger and expand. Ugly. Unsightly. And easy enough to remove with some clippers and a bandage to staunch any bleeding. Anything more severe... and she was looking at surgery. And anything inhaled, and she was looking at permanent, life-changing damage... nervousness boiled in her gut. Was she ready for this? Was she remotely ready for any of this? She slid into the compartment and checked her pockets one more time - tickets, clippers, pistol, wallet, letters of identification, golden needle in special case, pen, pencils, notebooks, pince-nez... everything she needed that couldn't be easily replaced. And that included the pens and pencils, she had special ones that she liked. Not giving them up if at all possible. Oh, and... yes, little box of small white tablets. Just to cope with the journey - little painkillers for headaches. Secretaries devoured them like Carza devoured monkey nuts, and now... now she was about to join their ranks if that damn whistle went.

Which it would.

It was a whistle, what was it meant to do, hang around like an eerie brass tumour? A fancy decoration for the train, just to make it feel good about itself?

The compartment filled.

Hull beside her. A table in front of the two of them. And across... the four hires.

Carza didn't smile. Not because she disliked them, she was honestly just trying to do something other than breathe rapidly and stare at random things for extended periods. Being cold and disaffected was easier to mime than being effortlessly graceful, sociable, and comfortable with interacting with burly strangers in a crowded train compartment. She was neither of those things. She honestly wanted to go back home, but... no, all of this was necessary, mandatory, demanded of her. She had expectations - and a letter hidden in the inner depths of her waistcoat that was addressed for the governor of Krodaw. A brush with greatness... well, with importance, and not just that, but importance which extended beyond the walls of her own familiarity. Which was... something. Hard to say what. She looked over her new hires. Her... employees. Oh. She had employees. Her father had four secretaries - and she had four individuals willing to lift bags for her. She doubted her father's secretaries would lift anything if they found a good enough excuse. Not that she blamed them. A small breeze of satisfaction ran through her soul - one life goal had been achieved, then.

Four. Three men, one woman.

The man in front of her was... well, he was something. Tall and burly, with sandy brown hair that was combed back firmly and pinned under a flat cap. He had flat blue eyes which seemed to have seen everything at some point, and his skin was caught between two warring forces. Like all weather-beaten flesh, it wanted to coil inwards like a constricting snake around the solidity of his skeleton, to cling tight and never let go, to make itself as efficient as possible to endure the stresses of its owners lifestyle. And the other impulse was to relax, to inflate with youthful vigour and muscular growth, to bloom with life and heat and existence. One part of him wanted to be old, toughened leather - and the other part wanted to be the soft and supple calfskin which the four used to make their sacks. Ruggedly handsome, she had to admit, with a gentle sprinkling of stubble along his lower face. The kind that seemed designed to cast his jawbone into artistic shadows. He tipped his hat as he sat, and murmured something along the lines of 'morning, ma'am'.

The other two men stuck close to one another in the middle. Seemed like neither moved without the other following in some way. Describing them separately felt wrong - they were bound together, sure as if one had come out of the womb biting the ankle of the other. They were tall-short. They were thin-broad. They were slow-fast. They were dull-cunning. They were one mind and one body shared between two individuals, with the overall mind being fast and quick, and the overall body being sturdy and reliable. But when apart... there was a short and squat man whose black locks spilled around his head and who had a pair of letters branded under each eye, and one on his nose. Not letters she recognised - foreign language, different alphabet. Cuneiform style - the sort that evolved from wedge-shaped letters pressed into soft mud. Common across some of the riverine republics... but beyond that, no clue. The larger one was bald, tall, thin, and his clothes were stained with mud. He had settled down to sleep the moment he entered, and his enormous hands rested palm-down on the table, and each snore sent a whistle through slightly uneven teeth. She thought it'd be a case of the short, smart one, and the tall, dumb one, but... well, reality rarely corresponded to such neat dichotomies.

She'd seen.

The final member of the group was the only woman, and she sat furthest from Carza. She was... interesting, and uneven. Close-set dark eyes, black hair that fanned out behind her stiffly like the scruff of an animal, and a distinct hunch in her back from lifting and hauling weights for some time. She had the natural, uneven musculature of someone who was active for a lving... but in a very, very narrow field. So, she had a hunch, her back twisted with wire-taut muscles whenever she shifted... but her arms were thin, her hands were large and callused. She looked like she hauled carts for a living, and had developed the right muscles for the job... but nothing else. Her features, though, were... actually rather finely-sculpted, not thuggish or thick. A slender nose tapered to a delicate point, her jawline was similarly sharp and refined, and when she turned her head to the side to glance out of the window, Carza saw rather a striking profile. Her blue eyes glinted in the light, and a pale blue button-up shirt extended high up her neck, buttoned all the way to the top. Almost priestly, she thought - priestly meaning the priests from the outside world. ALD IOM had... more elaborate fashions for its own priesthoods. And it had many.

The four sat in a line, and the two scholars faced them like they were about to be interviewed. Hull wasn't small, but he seemed less... full than the people opposite. Carza felt distinctly spindly by comparison.

The train roared.

And they were off. A slow clatter, increasing, faster, faster, faster, the rails clicking by, the structure of the train groaning as something impossible happening, and something so utterly vast was compelled to move because of a delicately contained explosion. Carza clutched her one remaining suitcase so tightly her knuckles turned white, the blood fleeing from the force - blood was meant for functional limbs, it seemed to say. Not digits undergoing rigor mortis well before their time. The small man noticed, but didn't comment. The woman simply flared her nostrils for a second - a single step of a snort, isolated and made strange without company. Where had he found these people?

The wheels moved.

And her city, her lovely, lovely city... it was gone in seconds. In seconds she was covering distances she'd never have dreamt of crossing away from the city, into the rolling hills, up and up and up, heaving out of the valley with tremendous bursts of energy. A horse or a pair of sturdy boots could send someone tumbling into the valley of ALD IOM, but only a thermodynamic miracle of black stones and churning engines could send them back out again. She felt like the city wanted her to stay, like the bones of her mother were calling out. Everything she'd ever been was there. She was born here, she intended to die here. And leaving... leaving felt like the most profound disconnection. A second or two, and she'd be unable to pick out the little places which were significant to her. The feelings of immersion in the buildings and streets would be gone. And a piece of her was being left with them. A piece which sat in quiet libraries and drank tea while studying something indescribably important to a handful of people, and nobody else in the whole wide world. The golden void of the Court of Ivory was wonderful... but it couldn't be seen from high up. And if she couldn't see it, and if her mind could only capture the feeling while in those halls, then... then that part of her was still there, reading and drinking and smoking.

She hoped it'd keep Melqua company, at least.

* * *

Solid half hour passed. Still labouring out of the valley. No way of seeing the city from here, and she didn't mind that fact. Didn't want to see how small her old world was. And there wasn't exactly much else to do. Quietly, she placed the wrapped fruitcake slices on the wooden table, and slid it across with deliberate care. Even so, a single sultana fell out of the packet, and rolled strangely, disturbed by the great engine's vibrations and the sharp incline they were struggling up. The hires stared at it. Carza cracked a tiny, very hesitant smile.

"I have fruitcake."

The handsome man grunted.

"Uh. Yes. Thank you."

He reached out cautiously to pluck a single slice out, chewing it slowly and carefully. The others examined the thing with faint suspicion. What? Couldn't someone give her employees some cake? What more did they want from her? They couldn't have her cigarillos. They were hers, and she knew she'd be pretty damn dependent on them by the end. The handsome one finally spoke again, his voice low and rumbling in a way she found somewhat enjoyable for reasons hard to articulate.

"I'm... Anthan. From Apo. Nice to meet you."

Apo? Oh... right, yes, that was... quite some distance off. It had epithets in any older sources she read, but the newer ones were painfully plain. Apo the Great. Apo the Venerable. Apo the Just. Apo the Terrible. And then... Apo. Just Apo. She wondered if that reflected changing scholarly standards, or some genuine decline. Hard to ask, sadly. And... well, she imagined the answer would be ludicrously awkward, and reflect some kind of deep wound in the Apolian consciousness. Which she really didn't want to drag out at the beginning of her conversations with her hires. That just felt like social suicide.

And she'd done that more than a few times in the distant past.

The others were silent... and Hull, the wonderful person that he was, broke the quiet.

"And these fine individuals are... well, the large gentleman is called Egg, and his companion is Cam. And the lady at the end is Lirana. This is my colleague, Carza vo Anka, she'll be joining us on this particular excursion."

He turned, smiling broadly.

"Met these lads down at the pubs along the trainyard, they were in-between contracts and were interested in some fresh air and exploration."

Carza coughed very quietly, struggling to speak with so much attention flicking to her whenever she opened her mouth. Cold - calculating - efficient - professional. Stick by those points, and she'd be alright. Probably. Hopefully. Founder, she hoped...

"And... are you all from Apo?"

Egg was still sleeping, but his scarred friend, Cam, spoke in a hoarse, slightly slow voice. Considering everything he said before he said it. Wise, but not quite what she expected. Wasn't the general pattern a quick-talking small one and a slow-talking big one? Making up for each other's deficiencies and all that? That was what all the fiction she read seemed to suggest, and she had no reasons to really doubt it.

"Just him. We're Fidelizh."

Lirana sniffed.

"Mahar Jovan."

Oh! A segue!

"Oh? Mahar Jovan, that's the place which makes those wonderful cigarillos, isn't it? 'Because two kings can't be wrong?'"

Lirana stared at her, eyes glinting.

"That's Krodaw tobacco. We just stamp it, really."

"...do you l-"

"I don't smoke."

Carza sagged back into her seat, feeling beaten. Wait, no, that was one poor interaction, she could work around that just fine! The fruitcake was sitting sadly in the middle of the table, and she took a slice for herself, just to show them that it was acceptable, that nothing was poisoned, that they were permitted by their employer to help themselves. She chewed... oh, she was already missing Melqua. Her cakes really were excellent. Her demonstrative chewing quickly became genuine enjoyment, and a light mist of golden nostalgia seemed to descend over her vision. Nostalgia for someone she'd seen less than an hour ago.

Hull interjected, taking a slice for himself and broadly gesturing for the others to take whatever they pleased.

"So... what brought you to ALD IOM? Bit out of the way, isn't it?"

Shrugs. Anthan, the handsome one, flashed a quick smile and spoke in a lazy drawl, his voice filling the compartment easily.

"Well, I suppose I got myself a fixing to leave old Apo, is all. Not too easy round there these days, specially not after the war. Too many people, not enough for them to do... either I shipped out to one of the colonies and waited around making no money until I mutated enough to get a cushy cell in a sanitorium, or I travelled to another city on a train. So... I did. Turned out that working on trains was an easy way to hitch rides, so... just kept on doing it. Liked ALD IOM, though. Nice corner of the world. Good soil, too, not many contaminants."

Lirana grunted appreciatively.

"He's got a point there. Worse places to settle, your neck of the woods. What's it... the biggest single deposit of foundation stone in the world?"

Carza blinked. Translation error, probably.

"...foundation stone?"

The others looked at her like she was an idiot. Cam chewed one of his fingernails, and explained through the other corner of his mouth.

"Y'know... foundation stone? That chalky stuff in soil, stops contaminants coming up?"

She felt like an idiot, and she could see Hull looking guilty for letting her take the heat of their combined idiocy. He slapped his forehead exaggeratedly, trying his best to be charming and at-ease. Not quite working, but... well, he was taking attention onto himself, and for that alone Carza adored him.

"Oh! Right, yes, sorry, we call it something else. Root-dust, we call it."

The hires glanced at one another. Hull shrugged.

"No idea why we call it that, foundation stone makes more sense."

Carza spoke quietly, cheeks burning a little from seeming like an imbecile.

"It's because we used to think they were the remains of dead trees. We didn't mine down to the bedrock for a while, and we didn't make the connection between the dust and the rock for some time."

Cam shrugged.

"Eh. Fair enough."

Wonderful start. Wonderful. She despised all of existence.

Argh.

Seemed like an idiot. She was a scholar, she was their superior, and their first impression of her was someone who placed fruitcake on a table and then made a basic error and argh and urgh. The instinct to crawl out of her own skin and hide in a castle cellar while asking riddles was very, very strong indeed. So strong as to be nearly irresistible. Took some effort to hide this behind a few more munches of suddenly-tasteless fruitcake. Always the chance to jump out of the window and hide in a bush, right?

Right.

As long as the option for violent, gruesome suicide was available, she had some amount of control over a situation and any conversations within.

Huzzah.

Anthan spoke around a mouthful of cake.

"This is really good, you guys. You should try it."

Lirana stared at it suspiciously.

"What is it, exactly? You said 'fruit bread'. What is fruit bread?"

"No... fruit cake."

She hesitated. Ah-ha! A chance for superiority!

"Our word for cake is very similar to bread, sorry for the confusion."

There, she was a gracious individual who understood the mistakes of others and didn't hesitate to correct them while letting their egos remain intact. Ha! Lirana grunted.

"Hm. In Mahar Jovan, everything has fish in it."

...what?

"Even... cake?"

"Fishcakes. Very common. Bread is for delivering fish. Cake is a collection of shredded fish. We don't use sugar, so..."

She looked at the fruitcake like it had personally offended her.

"I hate fish."

Carza tried to smile at the slightly older woman - must be in her mid-twenties.

"Well, there's... no fish in this. Just fruits."

"Thanks. But I'm fine."

She popped a... oh. Oh. She had coca leaves. She had a huge pouch of coca leaves that she was stuffing into her mouth and chewing with slow, deliberate relish. Carza's fists clenched under the table. Did she know? Was she aware? How could she know that Carza loved coca leaves, and had needed to wean herself off them over the course of years, mostly by smoking? She loved the way that each bite released more of that wonderful juice, that numbing substance which made her body go limp and her brain fizz, that made her charge with energy like she'd just licked a theurgic battery... she wanted a smoke, no, she wanted some of those leaves. She was someone who thought too much, who worried too much, her fondest dream was a world where she would no longer worry, and her thoughts would occur in the most relaxed possible environment. She wanted a world where she could sleep. And... and coca leaves were one possible version of that. A gap seemed to open in her stomach. She wanted some.

She desperately wanted some.

She struggled to tear her eyes away, to focus on Cam and Egg - Cam was munching at some cake, and nudging his large friend, who slowly and ponderously picked up some to chew for himself, tombstone-like teeth crunching at the nuts and fruit. The large man was... well, large, but there was something in him she hadn't noticed before. He was clever. She could see it, in his eyes. A kind of intelligence that was she saw around the Court every so often, the kind of intelligence which yearned for more. No bestial cunning, something more refined than that. If she had met this man wearing a robe, she wouldn't have hesitated before considering him a fellow scholar. Well, a student - he'd need a tattoo to be a real scholar. Egg picked up a slice, chewed it, and as he mulled the taste, he asked a single question in a carefully considered voice, even more so than the others around him. His syntax was odd, his vocabulary a... little archaic. And his burning eyes were locked onto her, which helped take away the image of Lirana chewing and chewing at her coca leaves, at those things which had made childhood a much more bearable experience...

"Tell me, is it true that the Court of Slate visits terrible fates upon those who trespass into its inner sanctums?"

Carza blinked.

...uh.

"...no, not... really. Depends on what fates you're-"

"Cannibalism is the whisper on the wind, cannibalism is what many of my fellow workers think."

His voice was faintly melodic, now she heard more of it. Had a talent for singing, that was for sure. A musically-voiced foreigner who spoke like an old man - a very old man, really, some of his inflections were downright antique.

"No, no, I doubt... cannibalism. That's... a bit of a taboo out here. The Court of Slate just enjoys being secretive, I think they're... not really that rich, honestly, nor that powerful. Most of the wealth is with Salt, most of the power is with them too these days."

Egg hummed thoughtfully.

"Interesting. And I've heard of the ceremonial languages of your Courts, but no-one has yet managed to teach me."

Carza paled.

"I... can't teach you the sacred language of Ivory. I'd be exiled for that."

Hull shrugged.

"Sorry, mate. If we could, we would. But, well, getting banished when you're a scholar is a mite bit unpleasant, given the tattoos. Turns out, quite hard to have a normal life with this thing staring at people, reminding them that you got kicked out, right?"

Another hum, making the surface of the table rumble even more than it already was.

"In-ter-esting. Incidentally, an excellent fruitcake. My compliments to the chef."

He quietly took off his hat - a slightly battered bowler - and tipped it with almost comical delicacy. Lirana snorted at the sight, but kept chewing, her lips increasing taking on the hue of dried horsehide as the juice stained her lips and fouled her breath and made her body spark with sensations nothing else would elicit and would make her brain sink into something simultaneously agitated and peaceful like riding a sparking inevitable wave and sleeping because there was nothing else to do but roll with the changes and the world suddenly resolved into absolute certainties for a coca-addled brain had no mind for ambiguity and...

She looked away, and took a small breath, just trying to get her senses back in order. She was nervous, stressed, leaving her home. She was better than this, she didn't need to chew coca. It was a bad habit, and most scholars avoided it because of the long-term effects of consumption. The Court was such a slow place that it took a special kind of desperate to take strong stimulants - oh, yes, please, rush in your efficient completion of all this work with no deadline, please, ease up on the pressure which doesn't exist, and seek release from the most perfect place on the surface of the planet.

In her heart of hearts, she still believed that.

Cake was consumed. She lit up a cigarillo, and hesitantly offered a few around. All offers were declined - cigarillos weren't overly popular outside ALD IOM, apparently. Fidelizh tended to just make their own cheroots - big, transparent leaves of anonymous herbs wrapped up in damp brown paper. Rolling their own was more common than getting a factory to do it for them. Self-reliance, maybe. Or a sign that their dependence on said anonymous herbs had spiralled to the point that no company could ever cater for the refined tastes of the populace. Everyone had a different composition, and rarely was there any kind of logic behind it. Egg expressed a liking for 'some green, grey, and a hint of light blue', while Cam apparently did his by weight, having a very particular range where the leaves apparently produced the right kind of smoke for him. Both evidently had a very satisfactory time with it with their disparate methods. And Carza felt instincts twitching. Was this a consequence of simply having the right herbs nearby at the right time, or was there a symbolic element to it? Maybe it was the equivalent of talking about the weather in ALD IOM - a kind of socially approved form of pointless small-talk. In the Court of Ivory, they might comment on the greyness of the clouds, and in Fidelizh, the construction of one's cheroot. The lack of logic meant that nothing could be learned from such encounters, making it ideal for small talk. She wondered if there was some fieldwork in that - comparative approaches to small talk between cities.

On second thought, that'd be nightmarish. Not nightmarish to do, just nightmarish to fund and... well, to do espionage around. She'd basically be asking for an all-expenses paid tour of all the cities of the civilised world, mostly to swan around doing nothing of value while scribbling about small talk - so, she just had to have conversations with people for an extended period. On second thought, every part of that idea was nightmarish. She'd hate talking to so many people, and getting funding would likely mean getting embroiled in more scholarly espionage which would be worse because, as everyone knew, spies lived in cities. Presumably they fed on concrete and mortar, like some sort of improbable grub. Now, outside of cities, spies died off fairly quickly, which was just how she liked it. Well, she didn't like them dying, just... not being in her mind anymore. She was looking forward to the steppe, really, she was. The quiet. The productivity. All that good stuff. And no espionage. As virtuous as it all was, she still didn't particularly want to do any of it.

Anyway.

Cheroots. To her relief, Cam mentioned idly that the smoke was so awful that it'd be downright rude to smoke a cheroot indoors. Egg nodded in solemn agreement. Anthan smoked cigarettes, which removed him from deliberations of smoking and its benefits. She cracked her match and lit up her cigarillo, and... yes, it relaxed her. It relaxed her a lot. She wheezed greedily on the brown length of refined tobacco, watching the black line of completion slowly inch closer and closer, consuming the foil-embossed head of a pair of kings she didn't know from a city that Lirana was unwilling to talk about. Mahar Jovan... the city of two kings, a diarchy, very unusual in this day and age. Constitutional monarchy, apparently, but beyond that Carza was fairly clueless, and Lirana was busy chewing on coca leaves and sending herself into a mild coma. Anthan seemed busy with nothing besides staring out of the window sleepily. Her hires had apparently been awake for some time now, and wanted to catch up on some sleep before they reached Krodaw. The train wheezed like an old man as it stumbled its way up the hill, and she could imagine the heat rising in the engine as workmen struggled to keep it going, to raise the power necessary to propel this titanic hunk of metal onwards, onwards, upwards, upwards, against all natural laws and natural rationale. And Egg and Cam sat back in their seats, and spoke at length of Fidelizh. They spoke of the Golden Parliament, and of their religion. Carza occupied herself by drilling them on the topic. Easier than looking at Lirana's leaves.

She flicked open her notebook, and began to talk slowly, keeping her language simple. Her hires had a good command of ALD IOM's common speech - they'd been isolated for so long that the common speech was still largely just called 'city-speak', the outside world was still mixed on calling it Civean or Iomic. Or Aldic. Aldic Iomic. No, that sounded... anyway.

Anyway.

They had a good command of the language, but that was no reason not to do her best to be an accommodating employer. That being said, before she began her interrogations, Hull turned to her and politely said something in antique Tralkic.

"I have recently fornicated with the mothers of everyone here."

Carza blinked.

The others didn't react. Hull turned slightly, and spoke mildly to Anthan, like he was addressing an old friend.

"I am a dangerous criminal and one day I will eat your eyes."

Anthan grunted.

"Speak normal, mate."

Hull grinned, and his eyes flicked back to Carza.

"We can still have conversations if we need to. I made sure none of these four spoke a word of Tralkic."

...that made sense. In all the great expanse of the world, only one Court in one city spoke that language - and maybe a relative of it was spoken in the steppes, but that was all. Beyond that... unknown. Ideal code, really. Oh, she felt like a spy now, and the glamorous kind who ate a great deal of food and wore superb suits. She smiled shyly, and nodded. Good. But... well, she didn't want to annoy her new hires.

And so she turned back to Cam and Egg, and immersed herself in something she understood, she liked... and she'd be doing for the next few years at least. Maybe the rest of her life, if at all possible.

Anthropology.

"So, tell me about Fidelizh..."