The Charlatan

21. The Ivory Gate

"Take care of yourself. May the Spirits grant you a favorable fate. Grant all of us a favorable fate."

Air stood in the doorframe of Heron's apartment. Sunlight streamed in and illuminated Heron's messy fringe as he spoke. He gave Air a crooked smile. Air ran his fingers through his own messy curls and returned a tired grin.

"Thank you for your ears, your patience," Air said. "And a much-needed loosening up," he added with a wink. Heron's eyes twinkled mischievously. He chuckled fondly and said his farewells. Air waved before descending the metal staircase that lead from Heron's flat to the bustling streets below.

Indeed, his body had been aching for a while. His tense muscles were in dire need of softening; Air couldn't remember the last time he had felt so stiff. All because of a practical joke, he ruminated as he stepped onto the street. What had been done had been done. There was no changing reality, and reality did not have to down Air's spirit. He had a responsibility to fix his mistake, yes, but he was also human and required a certain amount of fun, elation, pleasure. One could not drag theirself around with such negativity for so long or their heart would surely give out. Air took a breath and felt his energy slowly return as the sunlight warmed the back of his neck. He smiled, and kept his grin as he walked by the shops on the main street.

It was some time before Air found a clue regarding Clara's whereabouts. He had been casually questioning the innkeepers he passed by about a small Veltie with short hair who may have passed through their establishments, but every patron turned him out with a sad shake of their head. It was only after he had stopped into a bar to relieve himself in the latrine that he finally saw something. It was a piece of parchment, pasted neatly between announcements and event calendars on the bar's notice board. It depicted Clara's face in bright black ink, with WANTED stamped above her fringe. Air briefly wondered how he hadn't seen more of them in his time abroad, but he supposed that Clara had known where to go so as not to encounter such problems. Despite her temper and foul-mouthing habits, she had some smarts. Either that, or it was supernatural luck. Air stealthily ripped the parchment from the notice board and tucked it into his shirt. He gave the barkeeper a friendly grin and made a beeline for the local constabulary.

Immediately upon entering the office of the city's constabulary, Air was presented with an interesting tableau. Honey was waving her hands at three high-ranking officers, cursing at them in a booming voice. Both profanity and what Air guessed were real curses invoking the names of Spirits or Immortals or whatever magicks Seers relied on were being thrown by Honey's mouth. The way she spoke made it clear that she was a Seer, her intonation notably marking her, although her aggressive manner was certainly uncharacteristic of them. Next to Honey stood a much elder fellow, a far more characteristically-looking and -acting Seer, wearing billowing robes and silently watching the scene with measured patience. He did not seem particularly bothered by Honey's behaviour, which struck Air as odd, but Air quickly dismissed it as proof that these folk were strange by nature.

"You have greater concerns than a local miscreant! Ghosts wander just west, not a league away; their unrest will flush your iron walls and chainmail suits if you do not cleanse them," Honey continued to fire at the officers, who held firm, if slightly perturbed. Air approached the wildly flailing Seer and put a firm hand on her shoulder. She tensed, kicked his shin, and shot him a glare. Air, grinding his teeth through his pain, spoke up before she had any time to voice her qualms.

"The young lady, the Veltie, you have imprisoned at your jailhouse is the Charlatan," he stated. "Is that not cause for celebration?" Honey furrowed her eyebrows at him, which he ignored, and one of the officers felt bold enough to step forward.