They were foreign and unexpected, but it was perfectly on-brand for nomads like them. The street-vendor even had that little hole in the temple of his skull plugged by a silver coin, answering how he could’ve conceivably gotten here. A lone Fog-sailor, for whatever reason. Perhaps he’d been jumping between cities since the war, maybe waiting until one of the bigger caravans came around to give him safe passage out of here. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d encountered something of the sort.
When she reached the end of the promenade a little while later, Zefaris was relieved to see that Bherad & Sons was open. As she approached the storefront, she also noticed two other things. First, there was no bread line in front of the nearby bakery. Second, a group of grizzled, scarred-looking men kept filing in and out of the mill that presided over the river’s passage out of the city, hefting sacks of what was likely grain. A few of them had a peg-leg or hook hand, one had a fully articulated wooden leg. Each of them carried some manner of weapon or another, and each had a good number of scars, quite a few fresh. Most notably though, some of them had knee and elbow pads made of mottled-brown chitin. Perhaps these farm-hands worked for a farmer that didn’t fold to the pressure of locust-man banditry.
They were singing - in loose concert - some work song or another, apparently deriving great amusement from it considering the tone of their voices. What few words she managed to pick out suggested that it was a mocking tune stating that their fathers were war criminals and that nobody had the balls to arrest them.
The workers’ singing and the general noise of the street became a muffled hum when she entered the store and the door shut behind her. It was pretty much identical to the last time she’d been here - Bherad hadn’t even bothered to replace the missing straw hat that she’d bought. Zefaris looked around the store, considering whether she might buy something more now that money wasn’t nearly as much of a concern.
She also wondered whether she might need to call for him to come out, but just as he had done the first time around, the old man emerged from the door at the back of the store. It was like not a minute had passed for him since she’d last seen him. The same immaculately-fitted suit, the same cold blue eyes that scanned his surroundings, the same unnatural grace with which he moved across the floor to take up his place behind the counter. He regarded her with a somewhat surprising familiarity as he crossed the store, like he’d been expecting her. His face, wrinkled and etched by deep crow’s feet, warmed up from ice-cold to frigid at the sight of her.
“Ah, it’s you,” he grumbled. There was some enthusiasm buried under there, under that arctic sheet of ice the Tailor wore for a social mask. “Y’here to pick up an order?”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The question was almost rhetorical, it had the same tone as a teacher asking his students something he was certain they would know.
Zefaris responded in kind, flatly stating, “Two sets of Fog-tailored chest wrappings and panties, tailored to one Zelsys. I am here to pick up the order on her behalf.”
“Yes, yes… I believe it’s nearly finished, I just need to add the finishing touches. Give me a few minutes, I’ll finish it, box it up, and bring it out. Y’better have th’rest of the payment on hand in gelt!” the old man responded all too readily and turned right around to return to the back room, his pride in his work shining through without fail.
And so, for a few minutes, she browsed. Still the same old generic mass-produced wares, with the exception of a few sets of trousers that she hadn’t noticed before. Sturdy-looking fabric in dark colours that wouldn’t show stains easily, plus what looked to be a relatively form-fitting cut with generous allowances for movement, labeled on the price tag as simply “Work Trousers”. They didn’t even cost that much…
The creak of a door. The subtle sound of footsteps on lacquered wood. The Tailor’s return demanded her attention, at least if she didn’t want to deal with his attitude. So she turned to come back up to the counter, and there was met by a rather small wooden box, similar in dimensions to Zel’s tablet and about thrice as thick. Bherad had this curious look about him as he observed her counting out the coins to pay for it, having to pay in silvers and coppers since she didn’t have any sovereigns on hand. It was this smug self-satisfaction combined with curiosity.
Taking the coins from her, Bherad began counting them out again one by one, until he suddenly stopped. He briefly furrowed his brow and pulled in a startlingly whistling breath through his nose, then brazenly asked, “D’you happ’n to have killed any locust-men recently?”
“...Yes, I have,” she replied, puzzled. “Why?”
Had the stench of dead bugman really stuck to someone that strongly, or was that purely the result of how many dead bugs were involved? By the dead gods, would it be a matter of weeks or even months before people stopped asking if she had killed a bugman recently?
“Ah, in that case…” Bherad trailed off, counting out a third of the total sum onto a separate pile on Zef’s side of the counter. “You take that back. I get my cotton n’ hemp from our own farmers, but those locust scumsuckers target ‘em most of’en right after grain farms. In recent days they’ve just stopped all of a sudden, so this is only fair.”
Zef took the small pile of silvers back without complaint, turning on a heel and walking out the door. She felt the Tailor’s old eyes upon her back as she went, burning a hole through her. Just before she stepped out the door he remarked, “Maybe come back and spend it on a properly tailored dress.”
Perhaps she would.