Revolutions

8 - Paxilche

Catching myself washing the same spot on the table while deep in anxious thought, I stop and look out the window closest to the north of the room. Through the large opened gates of the palace rushes a flood of white and red tunics as the group leave the grounds. They are nobles and leaders, adorned in gold and silver bracelets and necklaces embedded with jade and onyx, precious gems and minerals mined from our own mountains. Our generals wear obsidian and have multiple piercings and geometric tattoos to signify their status and victory in battle. They all exit the courtyard and walk away from the gray stone building that houses the inner workings of our government while the guards around the perimeter remain as still as statues, their focus fixed forward and not reacting to the presence of the councilmen. The sentry have simple cloth tunics and only a single piercing or two, with the only elaborate part of their outfits being the bronze helmets worn by those ordered to protect the councilmen.

Gradual footsteps and light-hearted conversation of the gathering townspeople flare up as the rarely seen officials emerge through the main gate of the compound. The villagers pause their routines to catch a glimpse of the atypical spectacle while lining on either side of the road. Eventually, they begin clustering just in front of the large opening of the inn, and despite my best efforts to bob and weave my head, I can hardly make out what takes place outside through the sea of tan and unadorned leather outfits. I grab a nearby bench and trust it to support my weight as I drag it toward the front of the inn and place a foot on the seat, ready to hoist myself up.

"Does this mean you've finished cleaning for the day?" I hear a throaty voice say behind me. "Since you've got enough time to dirty up a bench and skirt your duties, after all."

I sigh and, with slumped shoulders, lower myself back to the ground, turning to see Taqaiu's round face frowning at me, hands firmly fixed on his bulging hips. He is squat and stout, standing no higher than to my chin if he rose to his toes. Though his scalp has become depleted of hair, I imagine it all became transplanted to his bushy eyebrows, furry knuckles, and back as he has aged.

"Just trying to see what the commotion is about, Taqaiu," I respond in a way that sounds like attempting a concession. "The nobles have exited the palace grounds, for once, and it appears there will be some sort of important gathering. They must have finally come to an important decision. Perhaps this will indicate what our business will look like over the next few days." Taqaiu rolls his eyes, and his mouth releases a quick humph as he shakes his head, his double chin fluttering about.

"We'll find out soon enough, Paxilche," he says. "For now, we clean up and make this place presentable for whomever walks through that entrance. I don't pay you to stand around and gawk."

"You don't really pay me much of anything, to be fair," I retort. I smirk a little in an effort to show that I'm (sort of) joking, but Taqaiu doesn't find much humor in my remark — although, Taqaiu generally doesn't find much humor in anything.

"Get off my bench and get back to cleaning," he barks. He returns to the wooden service platform and resumes polishing the metallic carafes resting upon them, filled with various wines and spirits from our Qiapu region. The vineyards are a relatively recent addition to our lands, since the Qiapu people have always been forgers and mineworkers. However, the Timuaq knew how diligent we are and saw the land's potential, so we were introduced to the capabilities of winemaking. Despite not having origins with our people's history, the Qiapu have maintained the practice even after the Timuaq defeat. I suppose the idea of being able to produce our own intoxicating libations persevered, and the Qiapu are certainly proud at being the best at yet another craft.

Sporadic cheers and shouts pierce the growing noise and commotion outside. Unable to resist, I set the rag down on the nearest table, walk to the inn's entryway, and, using my hands to pry an opening between two villagers, peek to see the display for myself. Parading down the street and approaching the flock of nobles standing just outside the palace is the Tempered, Limaqumtlia, decorated in lavish chains of gold and platinum, and both ears lined with multiple piercings. He's tall and burly in stature, proudly and regally gliding down the road as if levitating above the ground. Flanked to either side of him by a duo of guards, he holds his chin up while his head barely bobs up and down from his footsteps. I try to will his attention to me and connect eyes as he inspects the surroundings, but he breezes past me while nodding to the other residents on either side of the pathway. With his neck purposely outstretched as he does so, he unintentionally displays the scars of burnt skin around his collarbone. What I know of him is that this posture isn't out of arrogance, but confidence. The flames chose him to be our leader, and he has led our people out of the darkest period to be where we are now, rebuilding the continent amidst such tumultuous times.