Brafa could not boast of anything approaching Feriol’s in distant Dtlag. One alchemist’s had a shelf of Items at the back, behind the rack of insect-repellents. Rakt and Aitonala were enthused by the small pots of armour-paint, given that a mail-shirt and padded undercoat were a distinct burden in the Dravish climate, but price was an issue. The owner explained apologetically that there was a steep surcharge for foreigners at the behest of the Igwé Society. A Skull Box did not seem useful (“skulls, again” grumbled Aitonala) and while Chrys was attracted to a Snake Tiara it too proved beyond her pocket. In the end she bought an Everlasting Coconut, while Aitonala picked up some Traceless Toenail Varnish and Rakt invested in a short, hooded cape that kept the wearer cool. It might, he said, keep him alive in his armour long enough to be of some use.
As they walked back through the crowded lanes of the mercantile quarter, Chrys noticed an establishment whose sign was lettered in Dzai as well as the curly Dravish syllabary. She veered over to read ‘Ancestral Voices’ and caught a distinct feeling of a strong etheric presence. The door was no more than a white curtain, which she brushed aside. A young woman looked up from cleaning a small wooden tablet with a smile that faltered as she took in Chrys bright yellow complexion and outland clothes.
“Er, can I assist you?” she asked. The junior impersonal-polite pronoun, Chrys noted approvingly.
“I am just looking, thank you. I am a practitioner of the etheric arts, with an interest in unembodied life.”
“I see. We largely deal in ancestor tablets, bone-stands, ghost-strings, spirit-jars and similar. We do have a small selection of Items for dealing with ghosts, over here beside the Placatory Incenses. This spray will make ghosts visible, and these needles will pin them to a material object. These feathers are effective in driving ghosts away, or at least those that dislike being tickled.”
Chrys inquired about a veil, and was told it gave perception of ghosts, stray souls and other similar manifestations. The price was steep but she thought it worth buying. A lump of green wax which made the incorporeal audible when moulded around the ear was much cheaper and she added that too. It would come in handy for conversing with Hassani, who must be lonely in her jar without Grimwer to talk to, or rather at. Chrys suspected Hassani was one reason Grymer had left.
She was about to pay when she noticed two folders lettered in Dzai on a back shelf. They contained spells, and she added several she thought useful and could afford to her purchases. The girl put everything in a small cloth bag, checked her bank draft with a verifying seal and held the door curtain for her with a pleasingly satisfied air.
Rakt and Aitonala were waiting outside, eating a mix of nuts and fried insects from paper cones and watching the passing crowd. Those of higher status were brilliant in feather hoods, capes and sometimes full-length cloaks, while ordinary folk wore kilts and simple tunics. Swirls and stripes of ochre, white and pale green body-paint stood out on black skin. Aitonala had used the time to make enquiries about sister orders to her guild, and proposed to visit the nearest next. They accompanied her there and then went to look for dried food, light rope, several bolts of black cloth and some other items they had identified as possibly useful. In the end they had to hire a market porter to carry it all back to their lodgings.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
There they were met by a radiant Bajur, who had found a chapel of the Gracious God. It was, it was true, somewhat shabby and attended by a small and elderly congregation, but it was the first contact with those of his faith since his mother’s death. He had been welcomed with open arms and promised induction and advancement at the earliest opportunity. He would, he told them, spend the next days in vigil and instruction. He was so obviously overjoyed that there was nothing to do but congratulate him and wish him all the best with his devotions. Bajur did not come for dinner but spent the evening in meditation, spear across his knees.
As it happened, it took Deyilan and Cardnial three days to find and buy a suitable boat. They did get a very good price for the feathers. Chrys bought more spells and explored the town. She decided that she rather liked Dravishi, or at least Brafa. A simple linen tunic coped with the damp heat, the food was interesting and the atmosphere congenial. The Dravish in general were not suspicious, as in Lagash, or as formal as the Saka, nor as grasping as the Merllan. While they did not aspire to the backslapping bonhomie of the Rai, the Dravish were cheerful and willing to be amiable to strangers.
The one custom she found strange was the Dravish devotion to secret societies. Every house had a fetish-niche, displaying allegiance to one or more of innumerable sects and cults. From casual conversations she learned that these were tied together into a maze of affiliations, enmities and alliances, mostly under the umbrella of the great and powerful Igwé Society. Ancestral ties played some obscure part in this, as evidenced in the profusion of bones, skulls, memorial tablets and shrines. While her newly-acquired language offered some clues, it was an area she felt best to avoid as much as possible. The Igwé had a fearsome reputation. So she chatted with the locals, sampled food and drink and admired the bare chests above the kilts.
When she went to look at their choice in watercraft, Chrys was dubious. She had expected it to be smaller than Ekkia’s piratical cutter, but this looked to her eye more like an overgrown dinghy. The only shelter was a cubby forward, the deck was a few planks over the bilge and the boom was likely to hit Rakt in the head with every swing. Deyilan and Cardnial assured her that it was more than adequate, that the lockers would hold all their gear and that sleeping on an open deck was perfectly comfortable really. Perfectly comfortable my bum thought Chrys. Speaking (or thinking) of which, this voyage would lack privacy. Bajur could put a bag over his head, she decided.
Bajur returned from his vigil still radiant. His spear was now inlaid with silver, his armour bright, his shield bore the emblem of his god and his person an inexpertly embroidered surcoat. Their quest, he informed them, was now blessed by the Gracious God, and could not fail to succeed. His mood lowered somewhat when he saw the boat.