The activity within Center City had been even more viscous. Gregor and Onion were tempted to forcefully push their way through the thrall of the market, but they did not want to stand out to any casual observers turned eyes of the Lady Archne. Instead they allowed themselves to be pulled by the current of the throngs into the confusing maze that is Center City.
At its inception, the built up Center City was meant to remain as a no-man's land between the 13 districts. It was to be a place of light, occasional commerce, perhaps, but the Heilthian architects had designs that it could eventually become the site of a second High University, if the scholars would but approve. What they did not expect, however, is that the Eirdren would make use of the flat and accessible sandstone and brick laid land. Over the recent generations, Eirdred had become a prosperous place of commerce and her population could no longer be contained in the 13 districts. People, buildings and businesses spilled over the great gates surrounding Center City and like weeds sprung up in chaotic fashion. Aside from the wide cart-road connecting River Road to the South Short Highway, roads of Center City sprouted at easiest convenience of the buildings.
Onion adjusted her cowl, another strange fashion invention of the continent that was proving to be a boon to her now that she needed to hide her strange dark skin from the relatively pale populace of Eirdred. If she had gone unnoticed then it could only be attributed to the strength of the Spider. She felt as a fly, not its predator, in the web of this strange world.
Sun slowly trickled down the messy, multi-story buildings. The light fog of morning began to dissipate, replacing the chilling mist with a thickening blanket of humidity. Stalls and shops opened and prepared for a long day of streaming customers. Haggling and morning greetings cast in various accents and tongues were an ambient music to the scene.
It was all Onion could do to avoid responding to the beckons of the Nüish fishmongers even though their guttural accents marked them as northerners. Nonetheless, it was a pleasure to Onion's ears in such a way that all familiar things are pleasant to those who have been away from home for far too long.
This place could never be home, and it would never be. Home, decidedly, could only ever be described as The City that Sprung Up, Deezhul. Yet in the past three years she had spent in Sandor's capitol, Veradell, Onion had found some place in her heart for the southern province. It was as close to Deezhul as was possible on the continent and sweet little reminders of home were always comforting, even if they never quenched her longing. However, for all of their province's cultural similarities, the City of Eirdred held little in common with Veradell.
Like Eirdred, the capitol of Sandor was the commercial center of the province, but in the wide, sandy streets of Veradell, children flocked far from their mothers' attention, with dogs, monkies, ferrets, and whatever other hapless creature they managed to co-opt for the day in tow. Here in Eirdred, candy stalls were severely lacking and the streets were remarkably devoid of mirthful youth. Aside from an occasional gull, animals were rare to be seen.
Today, moreso than ever, the ambiance of the city was entirely strange to Onion's eyes and ears. With rural and urban lords and ladies gathered for the festivities in the Archne District, their entourages of servants, soldiers and spies had to be fed, housed and entertained. The merchants of Center City rose to the occasion.
Competing street flutists and the walking dancers that accompanied them vied for the attentions and coins of passersby, sometimes quite aggressively. Gregor preemptively pushed aside one young dancer whose hands were a little too close to Onion's pockets than he cared for. The boy grunted as he hit the ground, but he soon got up, unfazed, and looked around for a new, less guarded client.
The two moved onward, west, towards River Road, and as they did the crowds thickened around the entrance of the Archne District. The gates of the district were massive, built of oak, stone and steel. Iron chains with links the size of Onion's head held back doors of equal size, keeping the district open to all. Rusted over from generations of disuse and exposure to the elements, the chains lay dormant.
Closer in, the mood of the crowd had changed from the merriment of the market to outrage and discontent. Jeers and curses replaced the beckons of merchants.
"That's not true at all," Gregor heard a passerby argue with his companion. "Are you blind? It's there staring us all down. Those blood thirsty savages mean to start a war again, only this time Sandor won't be the only province to shed blood!"
"Don't be blind. If it were a fight those islanders wanted, don't you think the Scholar-Empress would have had the city flooded with Enforcers by now? Think about it, don't swallow this drivel. A fishmonger's whore of a daughter got herself caught with the lord but she didn't realize his lady wife wouldn't take that too kindly." his friend rebuked in response.
"Well I guess that's just one for the crows to argue on now anyway, but when those brown devils come on our shores and try to do more than just sell us 3 day old fish, I won't be hearing your apology. Likely you'll be just as dead as I."
Before Onion had a chance to notice the source of their argument on her own, Gregor spotted what hung at the eye of the storm. He pulled Onion away, trying to shield her eyes from the view of her own skull, bodiless and mangled, dangling by the ends of her short deep brown hair.
Too late though, Onion felt her stomach go weak as she contemplated her own mortality once again. The face of death is not glorious, even if the last moments it experienced were. Thoughts trailed further away from that place to that of Rejnev. He likely had no better a facial expression at the moment.
Gregor tugged at Onion's arm forcefully humming a tune he had known since childhood, under his breath, yet directed at Onion.
"On flooded rocks beneath the fish,
Was to serve as watery grave,
The farmer's prize gently purrs
A three quarters mile away.
Though for her labor, he tossed to die,
The smallest of her fold
Now sits the cat,
Returned again
To plan his strike untold."
No comments:
Post a Comment