The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

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Pride and Splendor appeared empty when Able walked in to the jingle of the bell above. He turned to close the door behind him.

"There you are!" Lark's outburst startled Able and turned to laughter as Able turned to see him poking his head around from the back room.

"I didn't forget." Able held his hands up. "I had a much more interesting morning than I had anticipated."

"Oh? Wait one sec—" Lark disappeared into the back and came out a half a second later with a basket on his arm. "You can tell me on the way!"

Lark wasn't a woman today, judging by the breeches, but by the airy tunic, he probably wasn't a man either. As if that made any sense. As they walked to the grocers, Able recounted his encounter with Forest Mason that morning and asked Lark if he could help.

"I'd leave Forest alone," Lark said immediately. "You want someone who is in the know, and he clearly isn't."

"I realize that, but what if he could get me to someone who is?"

"Let me think."

"...you know someone?"

"At this point, I'm pretty sure I've already convinced anyone I could to talk to you. But venturing into friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend territory, I should be able to think of someone."

"What about..." Able pulled out his notebook and flipped through it. "Credible Westfield and Kindness Darkcloud?"

"Oh?" Lark cocked his head. "What about them?"

"They're the elders that supported resisting Larbant rule in Fairbanks. So, I thought, maybe?"

"Well, I don't know. And I don't know how they'd take to us asking, either, but we can still try."

"Shopping first," Able assured, and Lark grinned in response.

They'd not gone another block before Lark asked, "Hey, are you all right?"

Able winced. When he had stepped out of the wharf offices the salt air had swamped him with a wave of sadness that he'd yet to shake off. And somehow, Lark could tell.

"Sure." He shrugged it off, then, "But I was wondering—you remember how we use the term 'pale eyes' back in Larbantry?"

"You mean like yours?" Oh, right.

"Yes, well..." Able straightened his jacket. "I was wondering how they might call that color here."

"Hm!" Lark's eyes lit up—and the whole brain behind it as well. "Now that is an interesting question! Lemme think..." Thinking was usually an inward activity, but Lark turned his attention outward, casting his gaze all about as if the colors might shout their names to him. "I think, I think," he said as he turned back to Able, "that, depending on the person, they might say hazel, light brown, or maybe green? I think."

"I see." One candidate had "brown" eyes, the other "gray." So potentially neither were eliminated.

"What brought that up?" Lark frowned in concern.

Able sighed, probably only illustrating his dampened spirits to Lark, so he might as well tell him, "I was looking through records of the unidentified dead that have washed up on these shores. I noticed some differences in the way they describe people here than in Larbantry."

"Why were..." and he fell silent.

Able was content to not explain further, but he still had one more question. "Could I see your arm?"

"My...? Okay." Lark held up his arm and curious eyebrows.

Lark's open sleeves only went about halfway down his arms, and Able rolled up his own sleeve and held his arm alongside Lark's. Lark's skin was lighter than his own, but not significantly enough that he'd think to say so when describing him to someone else.