Fluid - 6

The first stop is just a dozen houses away, a two-story place like Zosime’s house. A middle-aged man’s hazel gaze locks on me through the open window, and his face hardens until he spots Phile. Barrel chested, I couldn’t have encircled his biceps with both hands unless I cheated, and his arms show plenty of battle scars. Carefully setting aside a thick spindle he was varnishing, he ignores us while he carefully settles it and the brush on his workbench. The delicate gestures from such a muscle-bound man are an interesting contrast. I catch a mix of sharp, precise notes in his song seasoned with bitter regrets. More than a few images within involve Phile, and I pull back from the details.

“Is she your mother’s guest, Phile?”

“Basileios, this is Gail, Gail, this grumpy one is Basileios,” called Phile and headed towards the window.

Blowing back salted black hair, Basileios slid his bulky form around the workbench to the window. Taking a swig from a waterskin, he returned it to a hook by the window before we got close. Inside the front room were various partly finished works, from a counter similar to the one in the Adventurers’ Guild to polished cherry wood chairs in differing states of assembly.

“Back at last, bet Petrov will be glad,” Basileios says with a bitter laugh.

“I was never interested in that idiot, and he’s walking out with another.”

Basileios shook his head sadly. “Careful, Phile; what some men can’t have they lust after more. Petrov is the type to cause trouble for uncooperative women.”

As his melody matches his expression, I quash down Resonance to avoid prying.

“He’ll learn not to or I’ll bend him two so he can satisfy those desires himself,” asserts Phile before waving inside at the projects. “Took over your father’s shop, I see. I got told last night but had to see it for myself. That wasn’t what you were lusting over.”

“Father’s hands don’t work so well anymore. It’s not the money that reagent gathering paid, but things aren’t trying to bite my face off each day,” says Basileios, leaning against the windowsill.

With his reserved demeanour, I offer only a polite smile and nod at the closest unfinished chair. “Do you have much work lined up presently?”

“We’ll get by,” bristled Basileios.

The chair’s unfinished song has the same care as the Guild Master’s desk. I could create more furniture, but I take a cue from Imhotep’s concern about appearances. “It looks like you made the Guild Master’s desk and chairs. I want to order a few things if that is the case.”

Straightening, Basileios gave a broad smile. “I made them. I’ve got a few other pieces of work I’ve promised to deliver.”

“What do you need furniture for?” asks Phile, so quickly I wonder if I insulted her mother.

“I meant no offence. Your mother has sufficient furniture for her, but I don’t want to put wear and tear on her possessions. Certainly we’ll need more storage space with the three of us there; hardly fair to expect her to provide it when I’ve caused the need.”

Phile snorts. “Bringing furniture into her home unasked—this I have to see.”

At her valid point I change tack slightly. “I’ll ask Zosime to come with me to discuss the details with you, Basileios. Please keep a spot for us in your queue of work.”

The silver I set on the window ledge disappears with unexpected speed, and I have to resist the temptation to figure out his classes. “That will hold Zosime a spot, and I’ll count it as a deposit on the wood if you order in a timely fashion.”

It’s only once we’re out of earshot that I venture for a question. “Did you adventure together?”

“No, he tried to convince me to join his team a few times. Warned me that being under Chrysanthe’s thumb wouldn’t end well,” replies Phile, but I don’t catch any regrets from her.

“You only worked work with her team?” I ask.

A spark of concern rises with her, but her tone remains calm.

“Pretty much, but the ones I want to recruit had reputations for delivering results.”

“You don’t have to have teamed with someone to see their results. I was just curious how you got started as an adventurer. Your village situation is far different from my own.”

A rush of curiosity swamps the concerns, and I restrain my sigh of relief. Then I caught sparks of interest in her gaze when she gives me a crooked smile. “You tell me your tales, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“That’s not fair. You wouldn’t believe mine.”

“Tall tales of adventuring aren’t anything new. Tonight you can share some,” laughs Phile and moves ahead before I can object.

Tales of the Domain? How do I make those seem normal when I don’t know what normal is?

Phile leads the way through the village, a few times ducking between houses to greet locals. Most houses are the same two-story construction, brightly painted bricks around a wooden interior. Some, however, are a single level of two or three rooms, built more of mud brick instead of the carved stone used by others.

Of the other adventurers, she enquires about the three still active who are out on jobs, either individually or, in one case, an existing team. But the ones in town, like Basileios, have no desire to get back into adventuring. Having settled down into crafts, the most they do are patrols or standing watch as part of the village militia.

When we finally round a corner and get to the harbour front, I stop to take in the view. Two docks extend into the cove, but only one of them now reaches the deep waters. But with the river’s flow clogged by growing piles of silt, it won’t remain that way long. A wooden bridge spans the outlet that splits the beach’s arc.

Along the cove’s beach, they’ve got wooden racks spaced out, and a few with nets still draped in place have women and children busy with the mending. Near where we’ve approached, an overturned boat sits high on the dry sands—more a rowboat than something I’d trust to take me far out to sea. Besides its weight and height on the beach, a rope to a defensive sea wall is there to keep it in place. Despite age-twisted fingers, a white-haired man is busy removing a section of its hull; the cracks in planks sing of an impact rather than decay. Dressed in sturdy grey cloth pants and a shirt that shows a better weave than most I’ve seen, every motion is sharp and efficient. He’s barefoot on the sands, with leather sandals hanging off a chest-high post nearby.

The defensive slope of the sea wall draws my attention to the buildings that run along the beachfront. Their songs are sturdy double-layered stones rather than bricks over wood. The beachside windows are more angled arrow slits than for capturing the morning sun. In line with the dock, an almost windowless warehouse sits with defensive positions on its roof for archers, though they’re all unoccupied.

Phile doesn’t give a moment of admiration to the town’s scenery or the cove’s waters. Instead, she heads straight for the old man.

“Whose boat are you working on now, propappoús? Did it keep you too busy even to come and say hello last night?”

As the man looks up from his work, I catch the hint of oval pupils and pay more attention.

Propappoús means great-grandfather. With his eyes and the angularity of his features speaking of an elven parent, Zosime’s remark about elves leaving pregnant women behind becomes far more personal. The tone of his dusky skin speaks of an Andúnë father. Sharply observant cocoa-hued eyes and high cheekbones catch my attention from his lined and wrinkled appearance.

Setting his tools down, he strides up the beach to lift her and spins her effortlessly before setting her back on her feet. Though he spots me standing a distance away, his focus stays on Phile.

“Little Phile, come to see me at last! And completely scarless—you had one near your ear last I saw. Crowds and I do not mix well. I knew you’d see me soon enough.”

“You should have come. No one said anything mean-spirited, so you wouldn’t have had to shout them down,” offers Phile.

“You’re here now, and how was I to know that a chastisement wouldn’t be required?”

Phile waves me over, and the man turns away to sweep up a water skin. When I reach them, the man holds out a battered wooden cup and unseals the waterskin single-handed despite the pain I hear in his fingers.

“My apologies, but water is all I can presently offer.”

Holding the cup for him to make it easier to pour, I offer a smile at the good-natured cheer he projects. “The immediate offer of hospitality is generosity enough. I’m Gail.”

“And I am Androkles. How can an old man get the beauties to stay around if he isn’t hospitable?” asks Androkles with a charming smile. The water’s song is clean enough, yet when I ‌quickly drink, he seemed more amused. Though I hold my curiosity at bay, I return his smile.

“Flirt,” huffs Phile. “You didn’t offer me water.”

Androkles doesn’t look away from me, but his smile broadens at Phile’s complaint. “You're old enough to get your own. What brings you both by this morning?”

“Merely coincidence. I was showing Gail the village and seeing if adventurers I knew were still about,” explains Phile, claiming the waterskin, she doesn’t bother with a cup.

Androkles frowns at her explanation. “Not a lot left are still adventuring that you’d know from your time here. Most of those have settled into crafts or scattered to the winds.”

“Wasn’t looking for everyone, but you’re right. I could only leave messages with the families of Cleofas, Kyros, and Thales.”

His expression twists at the names Phile provides. “Stay away from all of them. Cleofas’ temper has gotten worse. Kyros is in a swamp delving team that keeps losing members, and Thales is still Thales.”

“Have you been listening to all the adventurer’s gossip, propappoús?” asks Phile.

“Not much else to do besides fixing the odd boat,” retorts Androkles sharply, apparently offended by Phile’s wording. Phile catches his irritation, and a sheepish look mollifies his tone. “You might be best off finding decent youngsters and training them properly. What skills do you pair need to round out your team?”

Phile waves the waterskin my way. “Gail has the magical side covered, so we need combat classes. I’d prefer those with access to Fighter or Ranger.”

“We also should take a Priest with us,” I say and catch Phile’s surprise. “Throwing combat spells and healing someone simultaneously could get difficult.”

Scratching at his shoulder, Androkles’ expression is momentarily distant. “Should never have just one person able to tend wounds. Most youngsters that might be interested attend the guild’s lessons after dinner. You should see them practise, judge for yourself. I know Novice Myrto wants Priestess Irene to allow her to join a team. A visiting Priest of Lerina—Ipy—has a hut near the west gate. He earns coin healing adventurers in need, though most villagers go to Irene.”

Something about my expression gave me away, I’m sure, from the way Androkles focuses on me. “How long has Ipy been here?”

“A few years. He’s Egyptian, but a big fellow, so I’d say he has some Norse blood in his heritage. Not sure if he plans to adventure more, he worked with a disbanded team further north and came here afterwards. He moves well, certainly battle-trained, might even have a Ranger Class given how he walks and the hawk that hangs around him,” replies Androkles.

Mother having a Priest arrive so quickly wouldn’t have been impossible, but since he was here first, clearly it’s only a coincidence.

“And you took offence at saying you listen to the gossip?” laughs Phile.

“I gather information, which is not the same thing,” objects Androkles, his expression hardening as he frowns. “Show some respect for your old teacher.”

Phile’s teasing laughter prompts him to reclaim his water skin and half-heartedly shoo her away.

“Androkles, if I could turn the harbour’s silt into bags of fertile soil for the fields or create a dock, which would be more useful?”

“A dock of dirt wouldn’t last long,” notes Androkles.

“There is a lot of silt. I’d compress it into stone.”

“What exactly would you be looking to charge for this magic?”

“I’d have to discuss it with Zosime. Would household provisions—dried fish or other staples—provided regularly for a time be acceptable to folks? Since I’ll be in the village for a while, I want to contribute and not abuse her offer of hospitality. I also don’t want to overburden anyone in the village with the cost.”

Androkles rubs a knuckle against his bare chin and pulls his hand back with a suppressed wince. The sharp notes are unpleasant even with Resonance restricted. “If you want to keep the burden light, then a shorter dock on each side of the river would be better. Otherwise, the ones on this side will complain they get no benefit, and some will refuse to contribute.”

“Your advice will guide me, Androkles. I got yelled at this morning for taking action too quickly. Might I help your hands to balance the scales between us?”

“I heard rumours a while earlier that someone changed the palisade to stone,” probed Androkles.

Sighing, I let my shoulders slump, and he almost laughed at my exaggerated motions. “That I did, and Imhotep’s face was doing a thundercloud impersonation. I was awake and bored last night, so I didn’t consider any work timeline.”

Imitating Imhotep, I tap my fingers together impatiently before my chest, but my attempt at frowning feels silly.

At my antics, Androkles’ smile returns. “Rumours always travel faster than arrows, and the truth takes time to catch up. Best to send the truth to scout in advance, so rumours don’t find as much fertile soil.”

“What’s the best way to get the truth out in advance?”

“The village doesn’t have a crier, so that’s a challenge,” Androkles mutters. “Best not to be too flashy with magic while letting people know. Some would take it less kindly than others. Market days are on Sávvato; most will be there during the day. Hire a big-voiced lad and ensure he can share the news without mistakes. He might even get a Class offered from it.”

The suggestion makes sense even if I don’t know why someone would want any sort of Class offered by calling out my plans. “Sávvato is your sixth day of the week, isn’t it? And you still haven’t said if I can repay you by helping your hands.”

“Yes, we use a seven-day week, not the elven ten-day one. Before I agree, what did you have in mind to do?” asks Androkles.

“I’ve got the Life Affinity, amongst others. A little magic to reduce the swelling in your joints would ease the pain.”

He doesn’t seem to catch the lie in the truth, and I make a note to thank mother and Erwarth for all their lessons.

Androkles’ eyebrows lift. “Seems an excessive repayment for a bit of advice.”

“It was valuable to me.”

Before he can try to counter my statement, I beckon for his hand.

“She helped an injury of mine,” Phile interjects, cutting off any objections, and I catch a sparkle in her eyes as she goes on. “She is reasonable in what she charges.”

Starting the same song I had used on the old farmer, I let it silently build until Androkles held out his hand. With a wink, as I press it through that contact, his swollen knuckles shrink and his fingers straighten. Even suppressing my Resonance, skin contact lets it pinpoint other issues inside his body, and I add extra tunes as I go. Most of his internal damage is easy to fix, and I wrap up the songs before the notes’ energy can tighten his skin or restore his hair colour.

He draws in a deep breath and eyes me with surprise. “I thought you were just fixing my fingers.”

“Sorry, I also fixed a few other things. I’m afraid overdoing healing is a failing of mine,” I admit. “I was trying to be discrete.”

“Rest of what?” asks Phile.

“His lungs were going funny, and some organs were hardening or damaged,” I answer with a sigh and give Phile a sad look. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with him for a while unless he does something silly. Though he won’t have fun when he takes his next piss.”

“Why?” Androkles asks warily, still not having let go of my hand.

“There were lumps in your kidney that I powdered, but they’ll need to pass the usual way,” I explain with a straight face. “Drink slightly more water today, but don’t overdo it. Anyway, once all the powder is gone, you’ll feel better. Your body wasn’t happy with how many kidney stones you’d accumulated.”

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?” grumbles Androkles good-naturedly, even though I catch only confusion at my explanation.

He doesn’t stop me from slipping my hand free, so I give him another smile. “The amount you’ve drunk in just over three hundred years damaged your brain and liver, but they’re better now. There wasn’t anything else seriously wrong with you besides the scar tissue in your lungs; not sure what you inhaled to do that damage.”

My answer makes him start upright. “Perhaps I should ask what else you discovered; if that’s what you count as seriously wrong with me.”

“If you had, I might have answered, but none of that will bother you now. Again, thank you for the information and advice; I hope this balances things between us,” I say, ensuring my smile doesn’t change.

“Do you count that as balanced? Now I owe you,” protests Androkles.

“You don’t owe me. I told you the information was valuable.”

“What if I was lying to you?”

Shaking my head, I adopt my father’s serious expression so quickly that the change has him blinking. “Oh, Androkles, let’s not turn it into a competition about who could fool who; I can get very competitive.”

He sends us on our way and, after a quick discussion, we decide to contact Ipy first; Phile heads towards the closest bridge. Walking alongside, I pretend to be oblivious to the looks I get, though I make an exemption for a child’s shy smile. Blowing him a kiss causes his smile to bloom brighter, but I didn’t expect his giggling laughter to ease the tight look his mother sent me. I nod politely to her when her anger reduces and gain the slightest of ones in return. It’s enough of an improvement.

“How much effort will it take to construct a dock?” asks Phile when we’re crossing the bridge. The wooden structure is barely wide enough for us to walk beside each other, and expanding it to match the stone one further upstream is tempting. Though asking why they didn’t build both for wagons is tempting, I’ll save that question until later.

“The two Androkles suggested will take a little more effort than the wall, but it will be far quicker. How many generations has Androkles been your family’s propappoús for?”

“Why do you ask? It didn’t seem like his diluted blood offended you,” observes Phile sharply.

Her tone, edged with surprise and defensiveness, causes me to stop on the bridge. “Androkles is who he is, why would his parentage offend me?”

“Then you aren’t like other elves I’ve met,” laughs Phile, and the sound’s brittleness fades.

When I spin to face her, Phile just watches me curiously.

“I can say with a hundred per cent certainty you’ve never met an Elf like me.”

Phile snorts but smiles sweetly. “You sound so sure—I’ve met a couple of pretty crazy elves.”

“So mean.”

My quick direction change has set loose a sway that continues in the bridge's structure, and I hold up my hand to catch her attention. “Can I fix this bridge, please?”

“Only after you talk to Imhotep,” Phile declares.

“I don’t like this bridge.”

“Too high for you?” teases Phile, nodding at the waters barely a half-body length beneath the bridge.

“Hilarious you are, but it’s a bridge, not shiny stairs. It seems I’d best correct your assumption. Heights don’t stress me, and I’ve flown unbothered kilometres above the ground. What I don’t like is standing on shiny stone stairs.”

“Yet I’ve been told flight spells are easier than teleporting,” argues Phile, and I can see she missed my point.

“My reaction might have seemed excessive. Let me try again. Any Spell to enable flight would lift me above the stairs, right?”

“Yes, and?” asks Phile. From her expression, she clearly doesn’t understand my point.

Here, and not still among the stupid shiny stone of the guildhall, keeping my tone calm is simple.

“Think of it this way: when you go spilling down a set of stairs, sometimes you’re out of contact with the steps. Flight spells immediately lift you slightly, which, to a panicked mind, might seem like the start of a fall. Given that such spells are under mental control, does it seem a good idea to have set up the situation you’re panicking about?”

“Oh,” murmurs Phile in understanding at last.

“Silly I’ll admit to, but not stupid.”

“Sorry. I hadn’t thought of it that way,” admits Phile softly, looking quite abashed.

“What, you’d thought me stupid?”

My teasing tone breaks her recriminations, and fluttering my eyelashes has her snorting in amusement.

“Silly indeed, right?” I ask. “I should have been clearer before, since I wouldn’t expect a non-Wizard to know how flight spells work.”

With another snort, she moves off again, and I let the silence settle between us. It’s odd. Normally I’d want to talk or sing since we’re not out clearing a canyon. Yet walking in silence with her doesn’t bother me. It's so different to everyone from home.

Along the way, Phile introduces me to more villagers. It’s just as well I’m not in a rush because, with so many wanting to chat, it’s nearly lunchtime before we reach Ipy’s hut. Not that there is a sign, but it’s fairly obviously his since it is the only hut sitting next to mother’s shrine. The candle and fractured chains embossed in the doorway’s keystone mark made its identity clear. The two buildings are a skip and hop from the Gate, and I wonder if he got a surprise this morning.

He looks to have spent more funds building the shrine than the hut. The shrine is a square structure of solid stones and red ceramic roof, allowing enough space for a few dozen to gather. Whereas his hut’s construction is mud brick, wrapped around a wood frame for extra support, and a split shingle roof. Though there is plenty of space around them for a larger building, it seems a work in progress.

“I need to fix his house, maybe extend the shrine, if that won’t offend him.”

Phile catches my muttered words and glances my way. “Wanting to help yet another person you don’t know?”

“What can I say? I might not know him yet, but I’ve got a soft spot for Lerina’s followers.”

Flexing my focus, I hear the music before we spot him and take in the garden he’s tending.

Without looking around to confirm anyone is there, he flows to his feet and turns. Then I catch the music of the companion link between him and a hawk on the roof.

His solidness holds the common theme of many of my mother’s priests, along with Monk, Ranger, and Wizard. While his Class songs are stronger than mine, it’s not by much, as he only has a few levels of advantage over me. Yet, unlike Phile, he’s got enough Willpower that he should be able to handle my Charisma and not even blink.

Naturally dusky-skinned with a bladed nose, he’s got specks of the Domain’s glow in his otherwise black gaze, making them seem like stars. Their music tells me he’s Eivor’s son. Aunty Am had shared her Ki with his mother, who knows how many times; it's not a surprise the energy carried through to him. He’s still straightening when I think he’s already done, and by the time he stops, I’m looking steeply upwards. Fully upright, he’s two and a half metres tall with shoulders broad enough to block a doorway. He’s a big boy!

His simple earth-toned cloth shirt, worn leather pants, and boots don’t stand out from what the better-clothed locals wear. Looking between my expensive leathers and the garb that he wears has me wondering what I was thinking when I packed. I can see how silly it was, except everything in my wardrobe was as good or better. I should have created some sturdy clothing like I’d see dwarven craftsman wear on every visit to Auntie Am.

Pushing that thought chain aside, I skip forward to offer my hand. “Good morning. I take it you’re Ipy. I’m Gail, and this lovely lady is my fellow teammate, Phile.”

He gives Phile a nod in greeting before clasping my wrist, and a dimple appears on his broad chin when he smiles politely. “What can I help you both with, Gail? I’m surprised to see a Taurë Elf here, given how far we are from your forest.”

“I’m an exception to a lot of rules. We were told you were an adventurer and wondered if you’d be interested in joining a team.”

“I’d have to hear more and think about it. Further adventuring wasn’t why I came here—though plans can change,” admits Ipy.

“Spreading Lerina’s word?”

“Good works in her name,” corrects Ipy calmly. “I prefer to help people and let them make their own choices rather than bend someone’s ear. I find working with people more relatable than lecturing them.”

“I’ll admit I’m not a follower of Lerina, though I like all of her people I’ve met,” I admit readily, to test the waters.

“Have you had to deal with many?” asks Ipy, and it’s crystal clear he doesn’t know who I am. Mother is playing this fair and making me work to achieve my goal.

“Scores upon scores. I was visiting Amdirlain’s Cadre in Eyrarháls before I came here, though I’ve know some teams composed of her faithful.”

Thousands count as some, right?

“Not all those in the cadre follow Lerina, but I’ll allow that many do,” Ipy says, and his scepticism eases.

“Do you have time to talk to us now, or do you need to sort out your garden? And can I help?”

I wave between the garden and the house, wondering why a Wizard of his level dwells in such a simple hut. Is he looking to be relatable or simply less threatening? Even though his eyes take in my motion, I hear no change in his song when his gaze hits the hut’s wall.

Instead, a genuine smile lights up Ipy’s face. “It’s alright, I can manage the herb garden, it just needs a bit of weeding. Would you like to come inside and talk? I’ve not much on hand, but I can make some tea.”

Nodding, I return the smile. “Will you let me provide some lunch for hearing us out?”

“Food for listening a bit seems like a fair deal to me.” agrees Ipy.