Luminous

51 - Milking Blood

The gum farmer's name was Elmund Herzin. He lived in the village among fellow farmers outside the western wall. Having been a farmer herself, Meya had been leery for them to venture beyond the wall only to arrive at an empty house, and thus they decided to ascertain his whereabouts first.

Just as well, too. A copper coin to a member of the roadside gambling ring revealed Elmund had entered the west gate with his son and passed by nary a quarter hour earlier. He was headed for The Tunnels, promising to return with gold to spare in an hour.

The alarming news sent them hurtling after Elmund's trail at full speed. Well, the highest speed possible on a one-lane bazaar street crammed with tourists, locals and wagons.

The Tunnels was their other destination, the underground—figuratively and literally—market recommended by Tyriel Wert, where Greeneye 'goods', among other illegal merchandise, were traded. What part of his poor boy was Elmund meaning to trade this time? It couldn't have been another eye, as he could have just revisited Tyriel for that.

That wasn't reassuring.

As Meya fidgeted with Coris's brooch, the pad of her pointer finger brushed past the ring of scar tissue on its regenerated twin. The idea hit her like a battering ram to the belly.

Greeneyes can regrow body parts. Which means...

Meya had nothing left in her stomach to expel by this point, but her brain was having trouble comprehending that, spinning freely inside her skull as it was.

Oh no. Oh please. Please no.

Meya fell against the headrest, burrowing her head into the supple cushions. Taking deep breaths, she closed her eye and pressed the lid down tight, trying to squeeze out the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows.

The carriage slowed to a halt. Meya swallowed her nausea, sat up and peered outside. Jerald had parked at the lip of a seedy arcade between an apothecary and an alehouse.

Another two coppers down the gambler's pocket had coaxed out directions to the elusive flea market, which took Jerald three patient repetitions to commit to mind and paper. Its entrance was concealed in the maze of side alleys that ran alongside the main marketplace.

The alleys were too narrow for horses, let alone a wagon. A fleeting survey of the populace—wicker bins spilling rotten produce, rabid overgrown rats chasing mangy cats, vagrants huddled against filth-stained walls, drunkards flexing their vocal cords, addicts guzzling down laudanum-laced gum drink—resulted in a heated spit-spraying match between Jerald and Gretella versus the youngsters.

Much to their chagrin, Frenix and Amara were forced to remain behind under Gretella's watch, while Jerald led the older girls onwards.

They ventured forth in single file, Meya leading the way, followed by Arinel, Heloise, Fione and Agnes. Jerald brought up the rear, a hand on the scabbard of his sword, another on its hilt, glaring menacingly at the alley's stirring inhabitants.

Rats slunk in and out of sight atop mounds of decomposing garbage. Mangy hounds barked their displeasure but dared not draw near for fear of the wooden stick Meya wielded. Some cats were hungry enough to approach, though. With a desperate swipe, Meya sent them scampering back to the wayside. There they lingered, hissing curses as she threaded her way around scraps of rotting cabbage, gnawed-dry chicken bones, and blobs of their combined droppings.

It was overwhelming even for a peasant, but as much as Meya longed to check on her noble companions, she didn't think it wise to lose sight of such a treacherous path, especially with her field of vision halved like this.