#illazio

The smell of road dust and horse-shit arrived like a slap as Delver shouldered his way out of the scrivery, the roll of paper already half-way into his pack as he navigated the narrow stairs to the street. Hands occupied, he held the dark, slender ink vial gingerly between his teeth, silently praying that he was not overtaken by a sudden compulsion to bite down. He’d heard enough horror-stories about Illazio ink to know that if he so much as spilled a drop on his skin, his children’s children would be born with the stain. Yes, he recalled a particular scribe in Milenus whose pet cat---

A sharp whistle snapped Delver’s attention upwards. He grunted, skittering back, narrowly avoiding a passing wagon as it juddered drunkenly down the street. Grumbling, he moved a little further aside, extracted the vial from his lips and wrapping it in what was left of his spare shirt. Well, technically the shirt he was wearing was his spare shirt. Divider, he needed an alarming amount of supplies. With exchange rates being what they were, it was going to be a miserable few days.

Tucking the swaddled vial into the center of the pack, cushioned from any potential knocks and blows, Delver eventually nodded, swung it onto his back, and straightened with a soft groan. As the denizens of the street bustled to and fro, he pulled in a deep breath, held it, and let it out.

Then, he grinned.

Illazio ink.

Just getting his hands on it made the trip so far north worth it. Sure, it had added a good two-turns to his planned course, but what was twenty days when you practically lived your life on the road? Besides, it’s not like he had anything better to do. Or anywhere to be. Or anyone waiting for him.

Slowly, his smile wavered. As if to mask its demise, Delver ran a hand down his face, his rough beard scraping against the underside of this glove. He could use a drink. A proper shave, too. Divider, when was the last time he paid someone to take a razor to his face? Probably not since setting foot in the Empire. You could never be too careful, these days. Sure, some folks would say a barber’s a barber no matter where you went, but in Delver’s mind, it was still best to avoid paying strangers from opposing lands to hold a blade to your throat. Shit, Delver had friends who would refuse on the grounds of it being just a little too tempting.

At the thought of such friends, Delver sighed and squinted at the sky. A deep pool of indigo was beginning to edge across from the west, pushing the dusty day out towards the desert. It was probably time to go. He should hurry. That damn woman hated drinking alone.

Stepping into the crowd, Delver let himself to be swept up by the current flowing deeper into the heart of the city.

“You spent how much on ink!?”

Grinning, Delver raised his hands in mock surrender. “Come on, Cresha! Don’t be mad. How was I meant to come to Illazio and not buy it? In my field, that’s practically a crime.”

“You know what else is a crime? Me murdering you.” Like lightning, her hand snapped out, swatting his shoulder. “Fucking seriously--- ink, Delver? What about a new shirt, huh? Or some boots without holes in them?”

Rubbing his arm defensively, Delver fixed his companion with an exasperated look. “First of all, let’s stop pretending this is just any ink. It’s Illazio ink.” He was quicker this time, ducking out of range. “Second of all - ouch! Haven’t we talked enough about the hitting? I’m not some shit-bag mercenary you can throw punches at whenever you like.”

“Then stop deserving it.” Groaning, Cresha slumped, her hand curling around her mug of ale. Slowly, she drew it towards her chest, the heavy wood grating a low staccato over the chipped surface of the table. If misery had a sound, Delver figured that would be it.

“You bring out the worst in me,” she muttered after a moment, gaze lost in her mug. “You really do.”

“... Was that to me or the drink?”

“Fuck off.” Cresha slouched across, skimming the foam off her ale in a long, beleaguered slurp. “I hope you starve to death.”

Delver laughed softly, resting an elbow on the back of his chair. “Divider knows I like to push my luck in that regard.” He sniffed the air, twisting to look about the crowded room. “Speaking of, did you order supper while you were waiting?”

Cresha’s eyes were hard as stone as they leered over the rim of her mug. “Sure did. You’re looking at it.”

Just like that, she had walked right into his trap. “Really? An ale, Cresha? What about soup? Or a pair of roasted---FUCK!”

This time, she got him under the table.

“Ale does me just fine,” she said with a shrug as Delver hissed and cradled his shin. “You’re the one that’s skin and bones around here, not me.” Taking a long gulp for emphasis, she gasped contently, setting it down with a hearty thump. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal, anyway?”

“What are you, my mother?”

“No, I’m your physick, smart-ass. Stop giving me lip for doing my job.” She regarded him for a moment, before puffing a dark curl from her face. “Or did you drag me all the way to the Khathi Empire so I could watch you die somewhere scenic?”

Turning, she waved theatrically towards the window, where the outskirts of the Redesan desert loomed far in the distance. Delver rolled his eyes, shifting to prop his head sullenly on his palm. He no longer cared about the stickiness of the table or his throbbing leg. Mainly because she had a point, and he’d rather skin his own tongue than admit it. “I thought healers were meant to be compassionate,” he muttered. “Soft-spoken. Kind.”

Cresha quirked a thin brow. “Then I think you need to decide what it is you actually want. Besides, you knew what you were signing up for. I’m pretty upfront.”

She had him there.

Eventually, after some time spent digging through his near-empty purse, Delver managed to stir enough pity in Cresha’s iron heart to earn him a bowl of stew and a heel of stale bread - the bread’s staleness being a stipulation on her part. A confused wench left and soon returned with a bowl smelling vaguely like meat and potato and some kind of grain. Boot-leather taste and consistency aside, Delver soon found himself shoveling the steaming liquid down his throat with predatory efficiency, barely pausing for breath yet alone polite conversation. Then, he discovered if he soaked the rock-hard bread long enough, it became halfway edible. That revelation alone was like dawn over the northern wastes; a bright and blissful triumph in a cold, dark place.

By the time he finally surfaced for air, most of the bowl was picked fastidiously clean, and Cresha was watching him with an expression caught somewhere between fascination and horror. “Divider’s Own...” she breathed, before a sudden laugh bubbled out of her, taking them both by surprise. “Fuck me, it’s like watching a street dog go at a steak.”

“It was good stew,” Delver lied, using a piece of leftover bread to polish the already shining bowl. He actually wasn’t sure when he last had a hot meal. It was mostly dried rations, out on the road. Cooking only worked if you could hunt. Cresha rarely had the patience, and unless a rabbit hopped into his lap and died, Delver was pretty much out of luck. Sure, he’d boiled a mushroom or a root vegetable here and there, but that came with its own risks in foreign places. Or rewards, depending on the side-effects.

Frankly, his ongoing survival was something of a miracle.

“Found a job for you, by the way.”

Delver glanced up, jaw working hard on the piece of bread. “Hmumpf?”

Thankfully, they had learned over the past year to translate each other’s groans and grunts. “Yeah. Rich lady this time. Wants you to take a look at some family heirloom.” Cresha shrugged, hefting her ale. She seemed poised to drink until a new thought beat her to it. “Told her you weren’t an evaluator, but she said something about a section in a strange language. Figured that was more your thing, so I said you’d take it.”

Giving up, Delver swallowed with a grimace, the bread scraping all the way down to his stomach. With a watery-eyed cough, he gave a short nod. “Yeah. Great. Sounds good.” He cleared his throat. “Good price?”

“Apparently the Illazi cipher quoted six crests.” When Delver wrinkled his nose, Cresha’s lips curled into a cat-like grin. “Yeah, my thoughts exactly. So I talked her up to a sicet. You’re welcome.” Delver’s brows shot straight upwards and Cresha raised her mug in mock salute. “Not bad, huh? But I reckon you could swing a bit more if you clean yourself up tonight. She seemed the lonely sort, if you take my meaning.”

His surprise quickly devolved into a exasperated groan. “I think I whore myself out enough as it is, thank-you-very-much. Besides, I'd rather not set that precedent. You’ve met some of my clients.”

Cresha gave a theatrical shudder and took another swig of ale, as though the image had a sour taste that she could wash away. “S’pose I shouldn’t be condoning that shit. Makes my life a whole lot harder if you go and pick something up.”

“Can we not talk about this?”

“The lotions for that sort of thing smell terrible.”

“I just finished eating.”

“And the blisters? They’ll soak right thorough your smallclothes. Ain’t a weaver alive who could get those stains out.”

“If I pay one of the wenches, do you think she’ll come over and kill me?”

“And there you go again, wasting coin! Just talk with one for five minutes. She’d probably do it for free.” Smirking, Cresha finally chose mercy, draining the rest of her ale and letting the topic die. “Anyway,” she continued as she slid the empty mug to the table’s edge, “told the good Lady Balsari you’d be over by noon tomorrow. Should give you enough time to scrape off a few layers of grime.”

“I’m not that dirty.” Glancing down, Delver plucked gingerly at his shirt, then leaned in to sniff it. He quickly changed the subject. “So, ah, do you think you could get me for a room for tonight? And probably a bath. I’ll pay you ba---”

---“Already done.” At Delver’s shocked stare, Cresha cocked a brow. “What? I knew you were coming into paying work. Unlike some people, I spend coin wisely.”

“Sure,” Delver muttered sullenly. “My coin.”

“Hey, my payment, my coin. Doesn’t matter how broke you are, good help doesn’t come cheap.” Sighing, Cresha leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms to either side. Her leather coat creaked with the movement - he still had no idea how she kept that on without suffering heat-sickness. Maybe it was all the hot-air she expelled while tormenting him. A faint smile quirked up the corner of Delver’s lips as one of the wenches stacked their dishes onto a wooden tray. Sure, Cres was expensive, but she was worth the cost. Especially if she kept getting him jobs.

Maybe only if she kept getting him jobs.

Suddenly, his empty purse felt heavy in an entirely new way. When was her next payment...?

“You done staring, lech?” Cresha demanded suddenly. Her tone was impatient, but there was something amused in the dark glimmer of her eyes.

“That depends. Are you done stretching?” Grinning wickedly, Delver quickly tucked his legs under his chair, barely saving himself from another shin-splintering kick. “Okay, okay - peace! I was just... I was just thinking, that’s all.”

His tone shifted as he spoke, something somber creeping past the mischievous facade. Cresha, never one to let anything slip by without thorough interrogation, regarded him for a moment. When he didn’t immediately elaborate, her face tightened slightly. He knew that look well; she was gathering all the pieces of a scowl, just in case she needed them in a hurry.

“Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What were you thinking about?”

“I wasn’t trying to...” Sighing, Delver just shook his head. “I was just thinking about how long I can keep this up for. That’s all.”

“This?”

“You know. All of it. The traveling, the here-and-there work, you.” Overcome by a wave of self-consciousness, Delver shrugged awkwardly. He reached up and ran a hand over his mouth, as if to somehow hide behind it. “You’re from here, aren’t you? Bylea, I mean.”

Cresha snorted. “So what if I am? You’re from Calvaron. Doesn’t mean you feel the need to put down roots every time you set foot through the gate.”

Well, there was no arguing that. Just the thought of Calvaron - even Signea as a whole - left a bitter taste in Delver’s mouth. Unlike Cres, he didn’t have anything to wash it away with. “So you aren’t planning to head home for a while?”

“Nah.” She waved a hand, as though to disperse the question in the dusty air. “Never was. When you stop paying, I’ll probably just head east. Do some work in cooler weather for a change. Do you have any idea how fucking hot this coat gets out here?”

A grin slowly spread across Delver’s face, and he laughed, feeling a little lighter somehow. Maybe it was because, at least for a while more, they’d still be heading in the same direction. It was nice, not being alone on the road. Even if he had to pay good coin for the company.

Or maybe it was because her idea of home wasn’t too far from his own. They’d learned a lot about each other, over the past year, but where they were from wasn’t much of a topic for conversation. He had a feeling they both preferred it that way.

“Well...” Groaning, Delver used the table to push himself up, his muscles protesting their burden. It’d take a few days of rest for the road-aches to fully go away. Just in time for him to gather them all back again on the trip to the Crossroads. “Guess I’d better get scrubbing, huh?”

“Mmhm. Guess you’d better.” Smirking, Cresha flagged one of the wenches, ignoring the way Delver rolled his eyes to the ceiling. As he headed towards the stairs, Cresha’s voice drifted after him. “Hey, don’t go passing out in the tub!”

“Oh for fuck’s--- that was one time!”