Agatine (Terres book II)

Chapter Eight

Armand wiped the bead of sweat forming on his brow and ran the whetstone down the length of his sword. The metal gleamed in the light and he held it up to see his reflection. Jonah clapped his sturdy hand on his shoulder and Armand jumped. Jonah towered over him, dark eyes shining with approval. He fished around in one of his pockets.

"Relax, you don't have to be so jumpy all the time," he said as he held out a small pouch. Armand reached out, took it, and gave it a shake. The ingots rattled together inside, a nice, heavy weight on his palm.

"Thanks," he said as he sheathed his weapon and stood up. He still wasn't quite used to the clothes he had to wear here. Instead of loose tunics and baggy pants, everything was structured linen, still white and pristine but stiff and hard to fight in. He'd spent half his last haul of ingots on them, but at least no one stared anymore. 

"Have you seen the last batch of refuge in from the caravan?" Jonah asked. Armand shrugged his shoulders and looked out the door like he might see one come traipsing by at any moment. Jonah jerked his head as if he meant for just Armand to hear. "They had marked ones with him," he said, voice lowered a few octaves.

"So?" Armand responded, one eyebrow raised momentarily. Then his heart sank into his stomach and he understood. He'd forgotten for a moment that they weren't in the caravan, where marked ones were stared at, certainly, but not treated as an anomaly. More something to avoid than fear.

"I know you grew up in the caravan, so you might not know this. Marked ones are two things here, trade-dodgers or brothel women. The trade-dodgers are good for nothing and the brothel women would stab you as soon as they would fuck you. Stay away from them."

"What do you mean, brothel women?" Armand asked. He'd seen the men in the guard sneak off with women at night. Women who dressed in elaborately decorated costumes that covered just enough to be proper. Everyone acted as if they hadn't seen and not a word of it was spoken in the morning.

"It's not the same here," Jonah explained, dark eyes flashing danger. "They're a dangerous group of women, Armand. They'll pretend to be your friend and the moment they have a big enough piece of your soul, they'll crush it. Or end you. Whatever comes easier." His lip curled into a sneer. "That's what marked ones do, brothel whore or not."

"Don't scare him, Jonah," Darius said. His voice floated into their conversation from the other end of the room.

"Just be careful," Jonah said. "Stay away from marked ones. If anyone sees you with one they'll assume you're up to no good. You're a good kid, I'd hate to let you go."

Armand tried to cool the burn that rose on his neck and creeped up onto his face. To keep the anger out of his eyes. Trade-dodgers was just a name they gave to men who shifted around from job to job as people would take them, killing indiscriminately if it got them money and begging when it didn't. He didn't understand how it was different from sellswording, apart from the begging and the esteem of their clientele.

He supposed in a different world, where he and Griffon shared a father and not a mother, he would have been one of them. Not that he could ever let Jonah know that. Instead he just nodded and gave a halfhearted "yeah" before he walked outside, too quickly for Jonah to possibly say anything else.

Outside the streets were deserted, roasting in the sun as it beat down overhead. He knew if he looked he'd find women in the shops and beggars in the shade of the alleyway, but no one would dare be caught out for long at this time of day. Sizzling lines of heat rose from the sandstone bricks that formed the main causeway, and Armand was glad for the hard leather boots he'd traded his sandals in for, even if they made his toes sweat and left blisters on his feet the first few days he wore them.

He ducked through an entryway into a shop that sold small snacks and an assortment of cold beverages that dampened the parched throat. He didn't know how they managed to keep everything cool even with the roasting temperatures, and he didn't care to ask, either. A young girl with dark skin and hair tied up in a bun smiled at him behind the counter. He brought one of the ingots out of his bag and put it into her hand.

"Spice," he said. She gave him a shy smile while her coworker fetched the beverage, one she hid behind her hand like she wanted to talk to him but not really. He returned her smile and waited for them to thrust the drink at him. Armand didn't say anything to her. He wasn't here to talk, anyway, he'd had enough of that already. 

He could hear them giggling behind him as he walked outside and he rolled his eyes a bit and grabbed a bench underneath one of the awnings. A cool breeze wicked the sweat off his skin and he watched as people entered and exited shops, their bags swinging on their arms. A group of boys ran through the streets, kicking a rock forward with their feet. He breathed in the city air as he sipped his drink and his eyes darted from place to place in the crowd. 

The spice numbed his tongue while the liquid cooled his parched throat. He wondered how Griffon would like this place without really meaning to and his chest tightened a bit. He wondered if the crowds would bother him, if the smell of old wood and piss would make his eyes water until he got used to it. If he would have continued to tell him to stop wandering off. 

Or if they even would have really known each other anymore, considering what Griffon was. How they would have treated him. If he even had a place here. Armand's face set into stone and he stared down at his hands. He would have given anything to have that set of skulldice back, or that dagger. Or even a scrap of cloth from his cloak.

Armand placed the drink down on the ground and wiped his eyes. He shook his head and tried to focus back on the crowd. A man pulled a screaming toddler through the crowd, trying desperately to shush it until eventually he picked it up by the arm and carried it instead. Armand tried to look somewhere, anywhere else. The space between his eyes burned and he pinched it in his fingers.

He looked up again and the man was gone, and so was the toddler, but his eyes caught something else. A set of red wings in the group of people crossing the square. Armand swore under his breath, picked up his drink, and stared into it, eyes shielded with his hand. The last thing he wanted was recognition, or questions. For Rannok to shatter the peace he had tried so hard to build. He let out a deep breath, removed his hand, and glanced upwards.

Rannok's eyes locked on his for a moment. Recognition bloomed on his face, his eyebrows arching over his eyes, his mouth open as if to say something. He took a few steps in Armand's direction. Armand picked up his drink and stared at the railing, wondering if he should jump it. 

But as soon as he started, Rannok stopped. Their eyes locked again and a sort of understanding flashed in Rannok's. He nodded, turned, and started walking off in the opposite direction. Armand heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Armand took his cup of spice, drained the rest of it, and placed it on the railing. One of the girls could get it later, when he didn't have to look into their eyes or talk to them or pretend to be interested in their advances. He had half a mind to follow Rannok, duck after him down a dark alleyway and make sure once and for all that he would be quiet. But it wasn't worth the risk. 

All the peace. All of Armand's carefully cultivated appearance would be shattered the second Rannok opened his mouth. He wondered if he knew. If he grasped what it would do. How much it would ruin him. How much power Rannok held if he were to just open that stupid mouth of his.