Crooked Empires: Blood and Crystal

Blood and Crystal: Part 1

It was usually hot in the Silken Coast, but today it was absolutely sweltering, and it didn't help that there wasn't a single cloud to be seen. The wind was attempting to take the edge off, but its efforts were wasted. The clawing heat in the breeze was too hot to cool, and any shade offered by blankets – hung on lines above the road – was made unreliable in the turbulence.

Song hated the heat, but her business was here and that was all there was to it. Her need to eat and drink didn't afford her much time to wallow in her basement bedchamber. Even that demanded rent. Her cloak wasn't helping matters either, though it was only made of thin black cloth; she needed to keep the hood up for the time being. It made her look particularly foreboding, even despite a gaggle of the old and infirm pressed tightly around her.

They were all gathered in a walled alcove at the edge of the bazaar for the day's sermon; there was a different mad preacher there every day of the month, each trying to get a different ideology off the ground. Today, the crowd was particularly large, but that also made it close and even more uncomfortable.

Song had preferred the climate in the mainland of The Vitulan Empire, but at the time she had thought the whites insensitive and rather bigoted towards her. So she had opted to come to Numin where the skins were darker and the imperial traditions less ingrained. It was a touch disappointing to find that, for the most part, she wasn't spurned because of her colour, but because she hailed from a distant and rival demesne. She was as out of place here as she had been in any of the other western nations. It was strange to realise that she had been just as bigoted as the imperials, but at least she was trying to do better. Damn, she wished that she could go back to Oster.

'Donations! Donations for the prophet! Save your very souls for one low, low price.' The zealot on the stage had finished his droll preaching for the time being, and retrieved a wicker basket on the end of a long wooden shaft. 'One silver bit is all it takes to absolve yourself of sin. That's a mighty good deal if you ask me, and if you can't make it to tomorrow's sermon down by the docks, another silver bit is all that is required to extend your heavenly cover.'

The preacher was white, but had taken to the local traditions with gusto for the purposes of fleecing the locals of their hard earned coins. He had a long, black and grey beard, sand dusted robes, and a flat topped burgundy hat complete with tassel. Not many people dressed that way now the empire had control, but his attire endeared him to his ancient and vulnerable demographic. Walking to the front of the stage, he thrust the basket into the crowd where it was promptly showered in glittering silvers.

'Don't thank me,' the preacher espoused, sweeping the basket amongst his gullible patrons. 'Thank yourselves, this investment will pay dividends on the other side. Pockets free of coins allow one to ascend to the heavens.'

The basket swished in front of Song's face and held there a moment while the preacher eyed her pointedly. Her face was still obscured by the shadow of the hood, but she tilted her head back just enough to keep the preacher interested. Let him see the tan on the cheek, the scar through her painted lip. It had better work because she'd spent her last few coins on the outfit.

'Whereas,' he continued, 'pockets laden with selfish riches weigh one down, dragging you deep into the molten pits of hell. Rivers of gold and silver don't sound quite so appealing when you're burning and drowning in them all at once now, do they?'

Feeling the opportune moment creeping upon her, Song pulled back the hood on her cloak. She tried her best to look defiant, yet naïve. Easy, because that was something often assumed of young women like her. Wrongly of course. There was a marked change in the preacher's expression as he took in exactly what he was looking at: her black hair, the charcoal rims around her eyes. She couldn't make herself much more of a lazy caricature if she tried, short of putting eating sticks through her bob. Both of them knew that someone as rare in these parts as she would draw quite the crowd. She hid it better than he did.

'What do we have here?' The preacher pulled back the wicker basket from the audience, robbing salvation from those still rabid to fill it with coins. 'An outsider! She refuses to pay for salvation.'

He wore his most theatrically quizzical face and asked, 'why do you do this to yourself?'

'I don't know,' she replied as sheepishly as she could. She had been patrolling the bazaar all day for just such a preacher, and this man had been the first who had so wholeheartedly taken the bait. 'I don't believe?'

'A non-believer!' the preacher repeated for the crowd's benefit. 'What if I could convince you? Would you then give your coin willingly for salvation?'

The preacher decided that Song's silence qualified as consent.

'Perfect! Make way everyone, let the girl up onto the stage.' The zealot parted them with a dramatic hand gesture, then moved to the back of the stage to prepare. He collected the coins from the basket and stowed them in a pouch under his robes, then retrieved a deck of well used cards. By the time he returned, Song had clambered up and was facing the audience.

'Speak your name, girl!' The preacher boomed.

'Song Ji.' She announced, now doing her best impression of a hare caught in the glow of a carriage lamp.

'Song! What an interesting name.'

Ji was her given name, but she had gotten tired of correcting people long ago. As a result, Song had become her name, whether she liked it or not. Fortunately, she enjoyed the western ring to it and had come to think of herself as more of a Song than a Ji anyway. There was no love lost between her and the one who had named her.

'Am I to assume you are from Marjore, or the Amaris Isles?' the preacher continued.

Song had to stop herself from scoffing. People from the Amaris Isles looked nothing like Marjorans, though the empire folk seemed to disagree. It was amusing; imperials all looked very much alike themselves, more so than easterners. All the way from Grod to Scold, and maybe even beyond that, you could come across a dozen people that were more or less identical.

'I'm from Marjore.' She attempted to make the western tongue sound more out of place in her mouth than it was.

'Ah, a Marjoran!' The preacher announced as if all the puzzle pieces were slotting obediently together. 'Then allow me to welcome you to this land.'

He held out a calloused palm and she reluctantly placed her hand in it. He grasped firmly, pulling her closer and wrapping his other arm around her in a tight embrace. He might have intended it to be threatening, but her other hand was mere inches from a concealed blade for the duration. One wrong move would see him crumpling to the creaky stage boards, clutching his guts.

As he released her, his hand slipped around her. If she hadn't known what he was up to, she might have assumed him groping her and set to work with the blade. As she had seen his type countless times before, she let him continue with his little parlour game.

'What's this?' The preacher backed away, producing a small wooden stick from his own sleeve as if he had pulled it from amidst the folds of Song's robes. Had he actually searched, he would have found things far more damming than a little twig, but it served his purposes. 'A Marjoran wand!'

He held up the lacquered stick for the audience to see, producing a satisfying gasp.

Song looked over the crowd, seeing them all transfixed in the preacher's display. He was putting on a good show for them, and once he had converted her to his cause, they would be all the more ready to part with their worldly wealth. She let her gaze drift further away, past the flapping carpets to the square.

The bazaar was a mess of coloured canvass topped stalls and shouting traders. It was busy out there today. Imperial trade ships had recently docked and a large caravan was soon to arrive from Nok, so the stalls had been filled in preparation. Both the boldest and the blandest of foods were spilling from every surface, and everyone was out obtaining the best ingredients to suit their tastes. Once Song left the walled alcove, she wouldn't have much trouble getting away. The preacher was far too wrapped up in his own fictions to wonder why she was so willing to play along with his little game.

In front of the crowd, and under the preacher's own nose, she was about to take every coin he had.