. (sharaf) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-09-10 02:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | adward sharaf, petra fortis |
wicked (petra)
Sunlight was the enemy of festival-goers.
Qas Burus was busy on any day of the year except this one. The day after Mahragan no one in their right minds was out and about. Loud music, violent drinking, and more than one arrest. In all truth he should have been working yesterday. That was a problem the teeth handled more often than not. The violent drinking and the subduing of persons. He hadn't felt like working in any case. So there he was, half-splayed onto the floor, face pressed against a damp pillow. It took Sharaf more than a moment to realize that he'd been drooling into the down-and-cotton business which supported his head. A longer moment to realize it was well after ten, if the position of the sun could be believed. He was not looking too closely. Right in front of his eyes was a folded paper, with ink bleeding into the pillow. His face ached. Hardly looking at the big picture. It was his body that ached, and rightly so, given how hard that fellow had punched.
Winning was an exercise in luck.
That paper. Something was off about that paper. Oh, holy hell. He'd completely forgotten to do what Famar had told him to do. And that wasn't the worst of it. It must have been almost a full day since she'd first reported the problem in the first place. He was going to catch more than his share of hell when he finally got there. Thankfully, he was still dressed in last night's clothing. Less stunning when he realized how much like travel and alcohol it probably smelled, but that wasn't something he was going to worry about just yet. Sharaf lurched out of bed despite the hammering, shifting pain in his head. The discarded peacot was lifted and pulled over his arms. Double-breasted as it was, the coat took a great deal of time to button up. Halfway through the ridiculous enterprise and he gave up. It was enough to secure his belt. This Sharaf did with all possible speed, banging the tonfa against his legs multiple times before he settled it just right.
The gloves slipped into place behind that wide leather strap as he descended the stairs. Despite the lack of furniture somehow his sister had managed to find a place to deposit a Mahragan gift. It was a fine bowl of clay and glaze, in which sat the clearest water he'd seen in some time. There was a smell rolling from the water, but not an unpleasant one. Jasmine and myrrh, unless he missed his guess. There were flower petals floating on the surface of the water. So far as Sharaf could tell, they were ornamental. At the bottom of the bowl sat coins. Coppers and a pair of silvers, well-wishes that were left for the owner of the bowl. Her note was direct and to the point, as were the notes of most women, but they managed to say so much without being there to harangue you for not being there yourself. Sharaf was glad of it, this morning, even if ila was his most tolerable relative.
The note, then.
I hope your Mahragan is filled with joy. And because it is a time of sharing, I hope that joy is infectious. Father and I enjoyed the wine. Thank you.
Father and I. Which meant Sal had probably refused to drink the stuff. ot, too, unless Sharaf missed his guess. That didn't matter. The wine was only meant for ob in any case. That his father had given some to ila was irritating. They had different relationships with her, Sharaf knew. Didn't matter. His bare hands dipped into the water, splashed a bit of it on his face. Some behind the ears, and the back of his neck. Earthen and woolly from the myrrh; ethereal from the jasmine. He smelled as though he'd rinsed none of his bath powder from his body. It was better than smelling as sweat and exertion. A fist collected as many of the coins as it could, deposited those in one of his coat's pockets, and then it was off to see about a mystery. Passing through the market on the way to her apartment. He could stop and get himself something to eat while he was there, as long as somebody was still cooking on this most auspicious of days.
His gloves were settled before he turned the corner. The collar of his coat popped up, and he tried not to look as though he'd been savagely beaten before, during or after becoming intoxicated. For the most part, he felt it was going very well.
One of the things you learned to do when you were trying to get a sense of a place was listen without listening. Not just for sounds, but also for people. In most cases they had nothing interesting to say. But in some cases, you would hear them talking about something fascinating. Sometimes - although this was even more rare - you would hear them talking about something relevant to whatever it was that you were doing. At the very least you could overhear entertaining stories about what you'd missed. Festival was popular enough, he supposed, that most everyone had their own family of experiences that most wouldn't understand. That was part of the reason he wasn't listening too closely. The other part, of course, was the near-constant headache that was driving itself into his very soul. It was going to go away soon or he was going to climb to the dragon's head only so he could leap down from it.
"What can I do for you, dear heart?" the old maid asked.
Her stand was simple but diverse. A few food items, a few medicinal items, and a few flagons of whatever alcohol she had left. Sharaf tapped a plum, and then tapped one of her glass trays. Something must have been in his eyes. She smiled, that old biddy, and she pulled the knife from her belt. With deft work the plum was cut in two. On top of this her powder was sprinkled. A cure-all for headaches, and he needed to eat something before his body decided it was time to vomit gloriously. One or two rough nights would teach you everything you needed to know about sobriety if you gave it enough time. While he watched her work, he was listening for those sounds, and finding out rather a lot. Not much of it was useful, but since he did not know who he was looking for or why, he was going to try and remember as much of it as he could.
"Did you hear about..."
"--burned the whole place to the ground, he did!"
"--couldn't believe that she would sleep with him so soon after--"
"--a widower is difficult, no matter--"
"Fruit," the old biddy said.
"Mmm," was his reply.
"Two coppers," and the halves danced out of his reach when he didn't produce the coin. "You pay up front, young man. Gambling all your money away doesn't entitle you to free cures. I'm sure one of these people has a headache as bad as yours."
"I doubt any of them were savaged by soldiers last night," Sharaf responded with his most charming grin.
"Some, most of those willing, and all of the womenfolk more thoroughly than you," the old biddy shot back. "Unless you've gone sly on us, Sharaf."
"Two coppers," and he dropped them together on the wooden surface of her stand. "You wretched old cow."
"You have a wonderful day," and the motherly tone was back.
How long had it been since he'd spoken with Petra? At least a year. There was talk of having dinner one time or another, but he'd taken a job instead, and enjoyed every second of the engagement. When he'd come back he never bothered to darken her doorstep. Probably she was still going to be angry about that. Probably she was going to be angry about a lot of things. Not much of a yeller, that one, but it was best not to take any chances. For all the acrimony at the worst of times they'd managed to be civil to each other. Perhaps this stolen item was going to turn up in Urt Ivis and he'd have an excuse to stay there for a few months. Being back in Qas Burus was always the same as having nails driven into his skull. He couldn't tell that pain apart from the hangover, but perhaps that would become clearer as the day went on.
One hard knock, then another. This was how he came to be standing outside of her apartment, eating half a plum, with a face equally bruised and cut.
At least he was smiling.