A TAste of melor
Below, you will find the first four chapters of A Taste of Melor. This book is in its second draft. Remember, anything here is subject to change in the future.
Chapter 1
Lin jostled in the saddle of her horse, a fresh breeze tugging at her linens. The breeze was a relief, though, out in the desert and its heat. Wan trailed a few paces behind her, riding upon a massive brown horse that dwarfed Lin’s little white mare.
She pulled the mask down to her chin and twisted back to look at Wan. “Should be another mile or so.”
Wan pulled his own mask down, revealing a ruggedly handsome face that was stoic as stone. “With luck, we’ll arrive before noon.”
By noon, travel would become near impossible in this part of the desert. The heat would grow unbearable, and they would be forced to seek shade and nap for several hours. Were they to try and continue, they and the horses would be sweating off more water than they could drink, and that was only if they managed to carry that much. As it was, they were running precariously low. Several weeks of travel would do that to you, prepared or not.
The horses continued sludging through the sand, and Lin absentmindedly steered with slight pinches of the knees, while her hands tugged at the knot of rope she always carried with her. She tugged at the knot, trying to find a thread to pull loose, but as was always the case, the knot was impossible to undo.
Another gust of wind sprayed sand in their eyes, slowing them, but before long, they found the road they sought. It was in surprisingly good condition, though sand had obscured parts at various intervals, and in other sections, the road was left with no sand to surround it, as if the road were a bridge over an ocean of sand.
In the distance, they caught the first sight of Sadar, the capital of Sutherland. Home, Lin thought. Although just because I was born here, that doesn’t make it my home.
Still, she felt on odd stirring as she looked at the place of her birth. She hadn’t been here in twenty years – her father had sent her and her mother away when she was little.
The city was a beacon of light and solace in the endless sea of sands. It was built upon the coast, where the Catan River emptied into the Red Sea. But Lin and Wan had approached from the west and had not encountered the river. Still, Sadar would be the biggest city Lin had ever seen, and even if people said it wasn’t what it used to be, she was still eager to judge for herself.
She tugged off the gloves upon her hand, then touched the knot again. This time a shiver ran down her back, and despite the heat, her flesh prickled as if she were frigid. She closed her eyes and watched as a swirl of colors filled her mind. The colors distorted and shifted in nonsensical patterns, until at last they settled into the shape of a memory.
It was of her father’s face. He was perhaps in his thirties, in the memory, with dark hair and tan skin. He had prominent cheekbones. People said Lin had gotten her father’s cheeks and eyes. From her mother, she had gotten the nose, the hair, and a stubborn desire for control.
In the memory, her father was saying goodbye to her. She had only been a year old. She shouldn’t be able to remember this, but with the new magic ability she’d payed a witch for, she could catch glimpses of memories tied to objects of high sentimental value.
Her father handed her the rope, tied in an impossible knot, then kissed her on the forehead and said goodbye. He looked up at someone out of view and gave him a nod. Her father bore a sad expression on his face, one of grief, and goodbye, and longing.
The scene froze, then slowly the colors blurred together as they faded to darkness.
Lin opened her eyes, readjusting to the present. As she looked upon the city, it occurred to her that she was on the very same road as the memory had taken place on. She hurriedly tugged her gloves back on – they were a freshly bought pair, with no memories attached to them to distract her – and stowed the knotted rope back in her saddlebags.
“Where too first?” Wan asked, his horse clip-clopping past her.
“They say he worked at the Demir Distillery, before everything happened. Why not start there? Do you remember that?”
“Before my time,” Wan said, idly. “Before the darkness, when I was someone else.”
“We’ll figure out your old name,” Lin said. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
“I’m still not certain that knowing who I was is a good idea,” Wan said. He shifted in his saddle, knuckles tightening nervously on his staff. “Knowing who I was means confronting thoughts that are better left avoided. It is my purpose to protect you. Nothing more.”
“Couldn’t you protect me better if you understood yourself better? You must know your capabilities to choose the correct course of action, no?”
Wan paused. “This is logical. I cannot argue with that.” Still, he seemed reluctant. “I will learn who I was… before.”
They continued further into the city and begun to see the first signs of life. It began with the street urchins, set up in small clusters of tents along the road. They stunk of old sweat and musty, unwashed clothes. Lin was glad for her mask. The urchins shot distrustful looks toward Lin and Wan, as they passed high above on their horses. The tents were set up with little care for the roadway, so several times they had to weave in between what began to feel like a maze.
At last, they reached the city proper. More beggars occupied the street corners, empty jars held aloft as they leaned against the buildings, many of which were wood or stone, though some few were stucco. All were stained, and sand had piled up against any wall that faced the southern wind. Children crowded the street, some playing kickball, while others were trying to sell puppies or bracelets, and still other children were carrying pots of water back from the nearest well.
Lin was glad she’d never had to do such as a child. She was lucky, very lucky, to have been raised by a mother with no want for money. Others had said her father was a bad man. Hell, Adem had even written a book disparaging him and calling him the Tenth Isshin.
Yet Lin refused to believe what others said.
The man in that memory – her father – wouldn’t do all those things. Her father had sent them away just when the Sadar had gotten dangerous. Her father had given them plenty of money to survive and had sent Wan along to protect them. Her father couldn’t be the demon others made him out to be.
Because if he was a monster, then what would that make me?
Up ahead, they came to the Demir Distillery, which was luckily on the western end of town. The place was in disrepair, weeds growing through the countless cracks in the cobblestone. Sand was piled everywhere. A massive hole left the roof of the main warehouse in complete disrepair, while vines had grown all up one side.
The gate was chained shut, so Wan found a discrete spot to tie the horses up, then the two of them took turns climbing the fence. They approached the main building.
“How will you know what to look for?” Wan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Lin said. She held up the rope again. “That witch didn’t do much explaining. Mostly said to follow my intuition.” The knot remained tight, but one end of the rope that stuck out seemed to perk up a little. It pointed straight ahead.
“How are you doing that?” Wan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Lin said. She tried pointing the rope a different direction, but the pointer end continued to aim toward the distillery building. It was like a compass, leading her to something. But what?
She could almost imagine a trail in the air – invisible yet not – and followed it to the front door of the distillery. It was locked, but Wan made quick work of it, driving the end of his staff into the lock and breaking it. He kicked the door open and swept inside, scanning the room for potential threats, one hand baring his staff before him, the other resting on the dagger at his belt.
Lin followed shortly behind. She had only a dagger, and she wasn’t much use with it, but she could still watch Wan’s back, alert him to any surprises he might miss.
But the distillery was empty. Dust motes floated through the rays of light that peaked in through the occasional broken window. Debris and rubble littered the ground. Four massive pot stills dominated the center of the room. They were huge, and Lin reasoned that if one fell in, she wouldn’t easily be able to climb out.
Wan took to searching the perimeter, while Lin looked down at her knotted rope, noting the direction it pointed now. Past the pot stills and toward the back of the building, which seemed to have several doorways leading to what Lin presumed to be offices and other smaller workspaces.
She found her way to the final door on the end and thumbed away some dust to read the nameplate on the door. “MGR. SERKAN.” Interesting.
She paused and flipped open her satchel, digging out the old book in. The hardcover was going loose from use, and many of the pages’ corners were folded or scuffed. She slid her hand over the soft red leather of the cover, then her eyes found their way to the title, “The Tenth Isshin: A Cautionary Biography of Salas Adir.” It was written by her uncle, Adem Mariya.
Supposedly, it was a retelling of her father’s descent into madness and evil. Supposedly, her uncle had written it shortly after executing her father. Supposedly, he had interviewed countless friends of her father, even going so far as to incorporate bits of her father’s journal into. Supposedly.
Lin wasn’t sure. In all her memories, her father had been a kind man. Loving. Warm. There was no way he was the monster that Adem had described him as. Adem himself could be rather controlling and was prone to fits of anger. Who was he to cast judgement on her father? Who was he to expressly forbid her from coming on this journey with Wan?
Lin shook her head and returned her attention to the book. She flipped it to a page in one of the early chapters. Sure enough, her father had worked under a man named Serkan. For a time. The book alleged that Sal had gotten the man hallowed for stealing Melor.
Now it’s time to see for myself.
Lin returned the book to her satchel, then called for Wan. When he reached her side, Lin opened the door to Serkan’s office and the two entered. It wasn’t particularly big, nor fancy, but to its credit, the office wasn’t nearly as dilapidated as the rest of the distillery. They searched through the desk and surrounding cabinets, but eventually Lin was forced to use the knotted rope again, and this time it pointed them beneath the desk.
Lin got to her hands and knees, trying not to think about all the dust on the floor, nor the curious beetle that wanted to inspect her face as she searched for whatever was beneath the desk. I am wearing gloves, she reasoned. So she stuck her hand further in, feeling for something, hoping the knotted rope wasn’t leading her to a rat or a trap meant for one. That would be an unpleasant way to begin this adventure. She continued feeling, searching…
There! Her fingers closed around something small. Cylinder shaped. A vial?
Yes, as she sat up, she inspected the small glass vial, perhaps big enough to hold a shot’s worth of liquid. It was missing any sort of plug on the end.
“Light?” she asked.
Wordlessly, Wan produced a candle from his pack, then got to work lighting it. Shortly, he had the candle set into a lantern in the wall, which reflected and amplified the light. Lin used it to inspect the vial for anything interesting.
She found nothing of note, not on the outside, anyways. Yet if she closed her eyes… yes, the vial seemed to thrum with energy. The vial remembered something… something important had happened here.
“Keep watch,” Lin said. “I’m going to see what I can learn from this.”
“How long?” Wan asked.
“I’m not sure… these powers are still new to me… I don’t truly understand them.”
Wan nodded. “Very well.” He unclasped his dark cloak, which was soft, breathable linen, and folded it into a small cushion for Lin to sit on.
“Thank you,” Lin said.
Wan nodded and went to the door. “Best be quick about it. Something about this place is unsettling.”
“I agree,” Lin said. She got herself into a comfortable position, the vial laying on the ground before her. She removed her gloves and set them next to the vial. With a deep breath she picked it up.
Immediately, screams echoed in her mind – bloodcurdling shouts and yelps of anguish and pain. Lin dropped the vial in surprise, taking a shaky breath. Luckily, the vial had fallen onto her cushion. Thank the Maker for that.
She took a deep breath and steadied herself, then picked up the vial again. The screams began anew, so loud as to deafen her, but Lin resolved herself and closed her eyes.
She listened to screams, and slowly began to make out voices. Three of them. Arguing about something… Though her eyes were closed, colors began swirling… Breathe in, breathe out. The colors kept swirling, the voices talking in her ear, yet she could make out no words. Strangely, she felt a breeze upon her skin, though she was indoors, then she noticed the heat of the sun beating her brow. How?
The colors swirled faster, brighter then darker, disorienting her as the talking in her ear grew louder and faster, growing until it was a merely a loud buzz, vibrating so fast it felt as if it was shaking her. And just when Lin grew worried the buzzing was going to tear her apart, she felt a strange falling sensation and found herself in a memory.
Chapter 2
“Perhaps most fascinating of all,” Salas Adir continued, “is the Melorant plant that grows natively in the desert plains outside of Sadar. It’s a succulent, closely related to the agave plants you see further north. However, there are strange properties to the soils here in Sadar, which cause a small drop of the rare substance known as Melor to grow in the pina of the plant.
“I’m sure Melor is the reason you all are here,” Sal continued, looking at the tour group before him. They had just finished seeing the fields and watching a farmer demonstrate how they cut open the agave plants, and now the tour had reached its final stage. He would lead the group inside, show them how the distillery worked, then give them their sample of Melor.
“Just get on with it,” said one of the tourists, interrupting Sal’s rehearsed spiel. This fellow had been quick with the snide comments and ‘witty’ jokes during the entire tour. The first few had been acceptable, if not slightly cringey, but now the man was clearly trying to provoke a reaction from Sal. The woman he was with, his date, had clearly been forcing her laughter for past few quips, was this man so obtuse as to not notice that?
“Of course, sir,” Sal said, falling into his customary tour guide role. Only another half hour of this bullshit, then everything gets better. I can make it through that, can’t I? “With permission from the owner, Omar Demir, we have been granted a batch of low-potency Melor for you all to sample. If you’d like to follow me to the Tasting Hall, we’ll get those samples passed out.
The sample was a fake, naturally, though the tourists would never know. How would they distinguish real from fake? None of them had ever had real Melor. Few people alive had, so rare and controlled was the substance. Therefore, a simple mixture of whiskey and honey created a believable fake.
Sal led the tourists down the path, a carefully maintained cobblestone trail within the sandy courtyards of the distillery. Cacti, jade plants, and other plants lined the path, placed at regular intervals. He spared a moment to appreciate the beauty of the distillery, something he often neglected to do. This place was an oasis of sorts, in the overly crowded city of Sadar. Here, there was space. There was room to breathe, room to think, room to move. The city often felt so claustrophobic, all the people and houses crammed together.
Sal had to admit that his boss, Omar Demir, was something of a genius. The distillery, which had been passed several generations of the Demir family, was already amazing. It had technology and science twenty years ahead of its few competitors, and if production weren’t artificially restrained, they could easily make five times as much as they did now.
That wasn’t the genius, though. No, the beauty of it was taking something unexciting, like a factory, and rebranding it as a distillery, then hiring a few landscapers and turning it into a tourist destination. Sadar had long been known as the trading capital of the world. The only thing it was better known for was Melor. So, if one was conducting some trades in Sadar, why not attend a brief tour at the famed Demir Distillery, where one could even get a small sample of the infamous Melor? Wealthy merchants were all too happy to throw their money at Demir, in exchange for a good story to tell when they returned home.
They reached the Tasting Hall, a spacious room with lofty ceilings and several tall tables positioned around the room. The tourists clustered into their small groups around tables, while Sal made his way to the front and nodded to his friend and colleague Kadir, who stood behind the bar, portioning out the fake samples.
Together they distributed the samples. Sal tried his best to ignore the rude tourist, who had compared their speed of passing out drinks to the speed of a desert tortoise. Sal was sure to put his fingers all over the rim of that man’s vial. Not that Sal’s hands were particularly dirty, but you had to get back at them in the little ways.
Sal returned to the front, for the toast he was required to give. He took a deep breath and mustered the requisite energy to fake his enthusiasm. “And here’s to good luck,” Sal said, raising his vial, then downing the fake Melor. The whiskey in the concoction burned, while the honey soothed, and it was followed by a hint of cinnamon as he exhaled.
“With that,” Sal continued, “we conclude our tour. Thank you, folks, so much for coming. It’s been an honor to share with you a taste of Me—”
“This thing was such a waste of time,” the rude tourist interrupted. He acted like he was whispering it the woman with him, yet he said it so loud that the entire room couldn’t help but hear it. A few of the more reserved tourists politely looked away. One older couple gave Sal a look of sympathy. Several snickered in amusement.
Sal paused, unable to conceal the look of disgust that crossed his face as he looked at the rude tourist. The man must’ve been a merchant, for he was wearing ostentatious red robes, that sort that no one in their right mind would wear, unless they had some perverse desire to prove to everyone how much of a flamboy—
“What are you looking at?” the tourist sneered.
Don’t let him get to you, it’s how he wins. Don’t let him win. Besides, he had responsibilities and obligations. His family depended on him; he couldn’t risk his job over an asshole tourist on a random Jeppasday. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought.” Sal said, shaking his head. “Anyway, we’re all finished up. Please consider checking out the gift shop on your way out, and if you’re feeling lucky, perhaps try a few hands at the Demir Gambling Halls, only a few blocks east of here. Thank you all.”
The rude tourist seemed disappointed that Sal didn’t engage with him. He prattled on and on to his date about how he knew so much about Melor, about how he had studied under the friend of an apprentice distiller once. Sal pressed his lips together tightly, so his face wouldn’t betray his amusement. The irony… this phony merchant who thought he was an expert, was standing mere feet from someone who was a true expert.
“Say,” one of the more friendly tourists said, stopping by Sal, “that was great tour. Thank you.” He passed a few silver coins to Sal, as was customary. Sal depended primarily on tips for his income. The Distillery only paid him a small wage.
“I’m happy to help,” Sal said, a rote smile plastered on his face.
“I was curious about how different growing conditions affect the Melor content in the pina,” the tourist continued. Sal blinked in surprise. Wow. An actual question, backed by signs of intelligent thought. Unfortunately, that was proving to be something of a rarity to him, these days. He studied the tourist more closely. He was an old fellow, with skin much too pale to be Suthri. He must’ve been Catalunen, Valencian, or something of the like.
“Some of the research is classified,” Sal began, “but I can share one thing you may find interesting. Location seems have the greatest effect on the concentration of Melor within a plant. The further you get from the city, the lower the concentration.”
“Interesting,” the merchant said, nodding, “makes you wonder, then, what’s at the heart of this city, that would cause magical luck to only grow here. How strange.” The merchant seemed contented, though, and he and his wife ambled off toward the gift shop.
A few of the tourists offered tips to Sal, but as was often the case, the vast majority did not. Sal tried not to hold it against them. Tipping was customary in many other cultures, and few of them would implicitly understand the business model Demir had built. Naturally, expressly asking for tips was not allowed. Demir insisted that reputation came before all else. He wanted all to remember his distillery and speak of it fondly, not to have their memory marred by a tour guide who guilt-tripped them into tipping.
It was a shame, though. Sal was the best tour guide: the most knowledgeable and practiced. Yet he often earned far less than the other, newer guides. Most of them were pretty young woman that Demir had hired. What they lacked in thought, they made up for in appearance. Suthri women were known around the world for their ability to charm and beguile a many.
At last, the final few tourists filtered out, and Sal was free to drop his tour-guide mask and be himself for a moment. At least the work day was nearing its end. Once the tourist finished in the gift shop, he and Kadir could begin their closing duties.
Kadir strolled over, absentmindedly wiping a bottle. “That guy put down no less than five whiskey colas in the hour. Impressive, in a concerning sort of way.”
“The flamboyantly dressed merchant?” Sal asked.
“Yeah the one with the big vein in his forehead,” Kadir agreed. “Actually, I think the vein got smaller the more he drank.”
“He did seem rather high-strung,” Sal mused. “Then again, I’d need copious amounts of alcohol to live with myself, were I him.”
Kadir smirked, then nodded toward the bar. “Come here.”
“What’s this?” Sal asked, taking a seat at the bar as Kadir went ‘round to the other side. He went to the back display wall, where many of the Demir Distillery’s special productions were on display. Kadir reached for the top shelf and got out a bottle of Demir Ten Year Select Small Batch.
Sal whistled. That was a costly bottle indeed. Only a hundred or so were produced each year for the small batch, and they were highly sought after bottles in foreign lands. Sal had heard of some bottles selling for upwards of a hundred gold coins. He couldn’t ever imagine such money, seeing as he was paid about three silver coins a week in wages. That was above average for Suthri standards.
“You’re not going to pour that, are you?” Sal asked, abhorrent, as Kadir took the topper off the bottle. It squeaked as it came out, and Kadir offered it to Sal to smell. Sal, of course, could not turn down such a chance. Even to smell a bottle of Demir Ten Year Select Small Batch was a privelage.
“Why of course I am,” Kadir said, pouring the whiskey into a jigger. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah,” Sal protested, “but won’t it show up on the inventory?”
“Normally, yes,” Kadir said, pouring a second glass for himself. “But earlier, a regular bought us each a pour. So drink up, Mr. Adir. How old are you now?”
“Thirty,” Sal said, picking up the glass and inspecting the whiskey. He swirled the amber colored liquid around the glass, then took a deep sniff of it. Spicy, woody, and the faintest hint of cherry.
“Here’s to thirty,” Kadir said, and the two of them clinked their glasses, then each took a sip. It was hot and burned his mouth, but he swished it around until the flavors came forward. Such deep woodiness to the body, and as he swallowed, the flavor or rye swelled to life, spicy and hot. With an exhale, the flavor began to fade, only a note of cherry to remain.
It was good. Damn good. Sal was quick to another sip.
“So,” Kadir asked, “Any birthday plans?”
“No, I prefer to keep it simple. I think Amira is going to cook something nice. We’ll probably take Aylin for a walk after, then relax into the evening.”
“You’re a good man, Sal,” Kadir said. He tossed back what remained of his glass. “Better than me, anyway. When I turn thirty, I’m spending all that I’ve got on courtesans and angel dust.”
“That’s easy to say when you’re twenty-two,” Sal said, looking at the lanky young man before him. Kadir would grow into a fine man, in his time. But he was still young, with plenty of mistakes to make. Sal remembered such a time, before he’d shouldered the responsibilities of a family. “Things change when others depend on you.”
“You can’t sneak away for a night to have some fun? We could hit the gambling halls or find a bar.”
Sal smiled and finished his whiskey. “Would that I could. But I promised Amira I’d be home on time tonight. I guess whatever she’s cooking only tastes it’s best right when it’s ready.” Sal shrugged. “I don’t know, but she insisted.”
A door opened, drawing their attention. It was one of the back doors that led to the offices. Their manager, Serkan came strolling in.
He was a boxy, thick man with a short mustache and beard, though he was balding. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he still had a way of catching everyone’s attention when he entered the room. Unlike the regular distillery employees, who wore black working clothes, Serkan was clad in a traditional robe, with lots of gold and black patterns. It would’ve been impractical for labor, but Serkan spent much of his day watching other’s work, so perhaps it was perfect for him.
Sal did not like the energy with which Serkan entered. He stormed in, eyes to the ground while he muttered beneath his breath. He looked up, glaring at the two of them. “Bad news, Salas.”
“Good to see you too, Serk.”
“You’ll have to stay late today,” Serkan said.
“Why? The last tour just finished. Closing won’t take long.” Amira will be pissed if I’m late. I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Friends of Omar. Important friends.” Omar, in this instance, could only refer to Omar Demir, the man who paid them all.
Kadir winced. “Sorry, friend. Don’t see a way out of this one.”
Serkan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “They get real samples on this tour. This is serious. Don’t fuck it up.” He stepped back and pasted a smile on his face. “Good, glad you can stay Sal. Here’s a key to the vault. You’ll need to hold this or the Spirit Guardians will eviscerate you.” He handed Sal a literal key. It was huge and made of copper.
Then he handed Sal a sheaf of paper. “This is the clearance for a vial from Shelf 2B. Just leave this where you take the vial from. When you’re finished, leave the key in my office. And make sure to give these people the tour of a lifetime, hear?”
“But…” Sal began. How to phrase this delicately? “Serkan, we talked about this. I need to be home on time tonight. Amira will have my head if not. Isn’t there anyone else to run the tour?”
“No,” Serkan said. “Omar ordered me to make sure this goes well, and that means it’s my job to put my best guide on this tour. I don’t trust any of those girls not to fuck up a fact or year. And vault access? Those ditzy girls would try to steal something and get killed by the Spirit Guardians. But not you, Sal. We all know you’d never steal.”
“Cheers to that,” Kadir said, grinning.
This is what I like to call ‘suffering from my success.’
Sal groaned, mentally preparing for the Amira’s onslaught, once he got home. Until then, he had a tour to give. “When do they arrive?”
“Within the hour,” Serkan said. He gave Sal an empty pat on the shoulder, then hurried off.
Kadir gave Sal a sympathetic look. “Courtesans and angel dust, mate. Courtesans and angel dust.”
***
The tour went smoothly, as far as these sorts of things go. The tourists weren’t talkative at all, which was both a blessing and a curse. It was nice, to be able to get through each of these talking points without feeling rushed, but he did find himself wanting a few more nods of understanding… some reassurance that he wasn’t disappointing.
It was an odd group of tourists, not at all what he’d expected when he heard, ‘friends of Omar.’ There were four total. The younger two looked to be twins, both with pale skin and clean-shaven heads, despite one of them developing into the build of a woman, accentuated by the Roselandi-style cut of their close-fitted clothes. The other two ‘tourists’ were clearly bodyguards. Both were tall, muscled men in their forties. They certainly had weapons hidden beneath the robes they wore, and their eyes were always scanning the surroundings, checking for threats.
Before long, they reached the end of the tour, standing in front of the distillery as Sal gave his final monologue about Melor, before finally inviting them into the Tasting Hall while he went to retrieve the Melor.
He walked quick and with nervous energy as he made his way down the stairs into the distillery’s basement, where the vault waited. In his ten years working as a tour guide, Sal had only seen this happen one other time, when he was still new. A more experienced guide had done that tour. The fact of the matter was, Omar Demir had very little real Melor to spare for tourists.
Though the Demir family had long been in charge of the Sultan’s Melor production, there was no mistake that the Sultan owned all Melor in Sadar, and a very small portion was reallocated and sold back to Demir for him to keep. That meant this sample would be coming from his personal supply.
At the far end of the basement, Sal reached the first security checkpoint. This was a regular door, unlocked by a key that all employees had. This door was more of a formality than anything else. It opened into a long hallway, with no doors or windows except the vault door at the end. Statues lined the hall on either side, placed at regular intervals. Most of the statues depicted old Janissary Heroes, immortalized in stone and returned to service via the contract of a Mystic. In truth, they were the ultimate guards: undying and unfaltering.
Sal felt to his pocket to ensure he had the key Serkan had given him. Satisfied he would not be eviscerated by spirit flames, Sal continued down the hall. As Sal neared the end, he felt the air grow cold, and he shivered. The air shimmered before him and an ethereal blue spirit faded into existence.
He was a Janissary, still dressed in the traditional armor and carrying a large axe in one hand as if it weighed nothing. Sal supposed it probably did weigh nothing, being intangible until the spirit willed it otherwise. The spirit raised a hand before him. “Who goes there?”
“Salas Adir. On the business of Omar Demir. I’m here to retrieve one vial from Shelf 2B.”
The spirit gave Sal a scrupulous inspection, then finally nodded. “I sense no lie. Proceed.” The spirit shimmered and faded back into nothingness. Slowly, the hallway returned to its normal temperature, and Sal continued forward to the vault, which mysteriously swung open, as if it had heard the spirit give his permission.
Inside, Sal found rows upon rows of Melor. The beautiful golden liquid was contained in small vials, roughly the same size as a standard shot. He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. The amount of wealth here… it was roughly equivalent to a small kingdom.
Perhaps the most shocking fact was that this was a drop in the bucket of what the Sultan owned. He sent Janissaries to collect a portion of the vault’s supply, about once a month. Where it went to, no one knew, save a select group of Janissaries and the Sultan himself.
Sal would be lying to say the idea of theft never came to mind. After all, a single vial would be enough luck to win big at the gambling halls, or to make the perfect business deal. There was no one in the world who wouldn’t desire unnatural luck. No one except Salas, that was.
After all, wasn’t he already the luckiest man alive? His beautiful wife Amira would have a perfect birthday dinner prepared for him when he returned home. His daughter Aylin, who radiated joy, would look at him with such love in her little brown eyes. Sal had a good enough job, good enough friends. A good enough life. What more could he ask?
So he picked up the vial from Shelf 2B and paid no mind to the horde of wealth all around him. He excited the vault with no further issue and hurried back to the tourists. The sooner this tasting was complete, the sooner he could be home to Amira.
Back in the hall, the tourists gave him their undivided attention as he began the usual presentation, portioning the vial out into four small doses for each of the tourists, as his instructions had asked.
“And here’s to good luck,” Sal said, raising his own empty glass as the other four took their sips.
The Roselandi twins eyed each other but said little else. The two bodyguards exchanged quick nods, then the who group left. Sal found himself slightly sad at the lack of a tip, but atleast they had left quickly and he could get back to Amira. Whatever the four tourists were up too, it seemed suspicious, but Sal was not paid enough to ask questions.
Sal held the empty vial in his hands. Not even a drop of Melor remained. He sighed and set the vial by the bar near the sinks, so it could be washed and reused tomorrow. Then, with as much haste as he could muster, he hurried about his closing duties, which included sweeping and tidying the room, turning off all the spirit lights, and locking up several of the outside doors.
By the time he left, the sun was already touching the horizon. Amira had wanted him to return shortly after five. He was probably two hours past that. Oh well. Can’t help it now. He locked the outer gate that led up to the distillery, then turned and took to streets of Sadar.
They were packed, even as night drew near. Sadar, the trading capital of the world, came to life at night, when the heat of the day finally subsided. Young adults were everywhere, small clusters traversing from bar to bar, while merchants atop camels or horses pulled small wagons with their good, clogging the street amidst the other foot traffic.
Up ahead, Sal saw a Spirit-Trolley, a large deck of wood, atop wheels, pulled by a team of ethereal spirit horses. The crowd new to clear out of the way of the Spirit Trolley, for its path was immutable, and to stay in its way meant to be trampled underfoot. Those deaths were infrequent, but never failed to rile up the Naturalists, who protested the use of Spirit Contracts. Sal hurried to catch up to the trolley, and heaved himself up onto the deck. It had been a long day, and he did not feel like walking the entire mile. The Spirit Trolley’s path would bring him within a few blocks of his home.
The Spirit Trolley, like many things in the Southport neighborhood, were paid for by Omar Demir. The most powerful merchants of Sadar, like Demir, tended to own a neighborhood or two, and they were free to run it how they pleased. That meant private guard forces, hospitals, and trade taxes. All of it was left up to the merchant who owned that neighborhood. The Sultan truly ruled with the lightest of touches, only seeking control of two things: Melor and hallowmen.
Finally, the Spirit Trolley turned left, and Sal hopped off. They were in Cemre District now, one of the smaller districts on the edge of Demir’s property. It was one of the poorest in Demir’s Neighborhood, but still far above the poverty of those who lived in between neighborhoods, in the slums.
Sal hurried down the street to his house, which looked the same as any other. Small, one story, with three rooms. Rather luxurious, compared to upbringing. They had a main room for entertaining, a small kitchen, and a bedroom in the back. They shared an outhouse at the end of the street with a few other families. All in all, Sal thought they had done quite well for themselves, especially since Amira had stopped working to care for Aylin.
“Surprise!”
Sal started, shocked, as he found a swath of people inside his home. Ah, a surprise party. In hindsight, Amira’s insistence upon his timeliness now made much more sense. Sal composed himself and plastered a smile on his face as he stepped inside, greeting everyone.
Amira had invited several of the neighbors, a few of Sal’s friends from work, and her brother Adem, along with his partner Kirien, both of whom served as Janissaries under the sultan’s general. They were family to Sal, yet he had to admit he’d never felt particularly close to either.
Sal made his way around the room, quickly greeting everyone and apologizing for his tardiness. The aroma of fresh curries drew his attention, and he spared a glance to the kitchen. They had lots of cooked rice – the good, sticky kind – and several thick curries to pick from. An orange, a red, and yellow, all varying levels of spiciness. Sal would be sure to find his way there, shortly, but first he’d need to face Amira’s wrath.
He was exaggerating, of course, but no doubt she’d have some select words for Sal. Best to rip off the bandage.
She stood near the front door, speaking with one of the neighbors. Amira was tall and poised, almost as tall as Sal. She had a thin figure, though her plain blue robe dress obscured it. She was a lovely woman, always poised and in control. He admired that about her. She was stability.
Amira held their daughter Aylin, who had just turned six months old. She was the first and only child, for now, and she was the light of his life. Sal smiled and gave Amira a quick kiss on the cheek, and she passed Aylin to him. He gave her a soft hug and felt such warmth fill his heart as she smiled and waved her tiny little fist in the air.
The neighbor excused themself, and Sal looked up to Amira, who was not smiling.
“Hey honey,” she said, at first in a normal tone of voice. Then she changed to a cutting whisper as she said, “where have you been?”
Salas gave her a smile. “Good to see you too. I got held up at work.” Sal shook his head and sighed. “I tried to get out of it, but it was for a special tour that Demir personally requested.”
“Demir wanted a tour of the distillery he’s owned all his life?” Amira asked, her question somehow morphing into an accusation.
“He requested that I give the tour to special guests of his,” Sal clarified. “Regardless, I’m sorry I was late. I apologize.”
Amira took short breath, in and out, then nodded. “Okay. It’s okay. Happy birthday, my love.” Amira leaned in and gave him a kiss. “I made the red curry extra spicy, for you. Be warned.”
Sal smiled. “I’ll be looking forward to that.”
“And there’s a flatbread in the oven, too.”
“Love you,” Sal said. “Suppose I’ll go entertain. I’ll hold Aylin while you eat?”
Amira gave him a look of relief. “Bless you. Thanks.” She hurried off. No doubt she was eager for a break from Aylin. Sal loved his daughter deeply, but sometimes infants could be trying.
Adem found his way over a moment later. He was Amira’s brother, yet the two looked nothing alike. Adem was bald and gruff, with severe features. Though he could be brutish at times, Adem was a high-ranking detective within a specialized branch of the Janissaries. He enveloped Sal in an exaggerated hug, then stepped back and offered Sal a cold bottle of beer. “Happy birthday, buddy. Boss keep you late again?”
Sal accepted the bottle and clinked it with Adem. “Something like that.” He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“It actually worked out pretty well,” Adem said. He always spoke so loudly, it was inevitable that those near them were drawn into the conversation. “I was late getting here, too. I beat you by five minutes or so. You see, we ended up doing a bust on a Melor lab today, and it took a little longer than expected.”
By now, Adem had captivated most of the room with his booming voice and excessive gesticulations.
“Really?” someone asked. “What happened?”
Adem nodded, preparing to launch into his story. “Biggest one I’ve seen in a while. Some guy must’ve found a few wild Melorant plants outside of the plantations. An anonymous tip led us to his lab. It was in the basement of his house. The place was disgusting, trash everywhere, black mold growing in the walls. Ask Kirien, he was there. We had to wear masks to breathe, didn’t we?”
Across the room, Kirien nodded. “It was revolting. Spores of that mold floating in the air, a faint dust atop near every surface.” Kirien scowled. “Melorfungus. Foul stuff. Still, it does make it easier to find them.”
“Anyway,” Adem said, “the Melorhead fought like hell. Took fifteen of us to catch the one. Three guys got injured.” Adem tutted. “Hate to go on raids without a Mystic to back us up, but there were none free, and we had to act fast.”
“You’re so brave,” said one neighbor, a shorter woman that Sal didn’t know particularly well.
“Just doing my job,” Adem said, waving away the praise as if he weren’t basking in it.
“How much do you think they made?” Sal asked.
“What? Money or Melor?”
Sal shrugged. “Either. Both.”
“They were brewing a pretty low-grade batch,” Kirien answered. “Lots of impurities from their rigged distillation kit. It’s a miracle the whole place didn’t explode, as much pressure and heat as they were working with.” Kirien sighed and rubbed his eyes. “But, we know they sold at least two vials, for some twenty thousand gold coins each.”
Sal sighed in surprise. That was a number so big as to be impossible to imagine.
“But remember,” Adem said, putting his hands out to draw everyone’s attention, “criminals always pay. The Janissaries always catch up.”
The crowd laughed with pleasure and broke apart back into smaller conversations. Adem reveled in entertaining the crowd, it was something Sal did understand too well. He often didn’t like all the eyes on him. The tours weren’t so bad, because it wasn’t him. He just put on his ‘tour guide’ mask and played the part. That’s not how Adem worked, though. He never wore a mask, always forthcoming with his blunt personality.
“Tell you what, Sal,” Adem said, turning to him. “You ever want to come along and see a Melor raid for yourself, be my guest. Might be a fu thing to talk about on the tours. Or, I don’t know, just a little excitement.”
Sal hesitated. It sounded awfully dangerous, being near Melorheads. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
The conversation carried on and Adem engaged with the crowd again, telling them a story about the time he and Kirien and gone on an expedition to some border towns in the north to take on a cartel operation. While Adem showboated, Sal excused himself and found his way to the back room in the house, where he put Aylin down for a nap. He sat on the floor of the room, sighed deeply and prepared himself to go back out and put on his stupid mask. He breathed again. But for a moment, he would merely be himself, alone with his daughter.
Chapter 3
Lin tilted her head back and breathed deeply as the memories faded. She opened her eyes, and for a brief moment, she could see this office as it would have looked to her father, during the memory. She could imagine the office, all clean and tidy, and not coated in debris and dust like it was now.
She looked down at her slender fingers, at the nails that had been bitten down to nubs. She’d hoped that wearing gloves would help with the habit. Guess not. She took another breath, trying to ignore the mustiness to the air, while she pulled her gloves back on. She climbed to her feet but had to wait a moment as she got lightheaded. When that subsided, she poked her head into the hallway.
“Wan? You close?”
It was dim but she thought she could make out it his form at the end of hallway. He uncovered a lantern and allowed light to fill the room, and she relaxed when she saw it was him. He had been right, this place was unsettling. Especially so for Lin, because she kept seeing flashes of the place as her father had once seen it. She hoped that these side effects would wear off soon. She imagined they could get rather distracting,
“Did it work?” Wan asked.
Lin nodded. “Well enough.”
“What did you learn?”
Lin chewed on that for a moment. “Not enough. It was just a glimpse of the beginning. I don’t think he had even gotten sick yet. It was his thirtieth birthday.”
“Before my time,” Wan whispered. He glanced around again. “Where to next?”
Lin dug into her satchel and got out the knotted rope. This time, the rope slowly curled upward, pointing at the ceiling. Lin met Wan’s eyes. “Is there a second floor?”
“There’s no guarantee it’s stable,” Wan said, dry, “but yes, there is one.”
“Lead the way, oh valiant protector.”
Wan retrieved his cloak from the floor inside the office, then made for a staircase in the back. He was sure to point out the broken steps and offered a hand to help Lin past each of the tricky spots. She could’ve done it without him, but she liked that he always helped her.
The second floor had fared worse than the first, with several large holes in the floor. Wan tested the floor in various spots, and Lin was sure to step only in the same places as him as they made their way down the hall, following the direction the rope pointed.
Before long, they reached a small supply closet, which was surprisingly intact.
“What could he have touched in here?” Lin asked.
She saw brooms, mops, unused rags, chemicals, but nothing of particular excitement. Lin held up the rope, searching for direction, however, a noise gave her pause.
It sounded like it had come from below. A long, screeching sound, like something heavy being dragged against the floor. Her and Wan both froze as the sound droned on for a few long seconds. It came to a stop, and in the stark silence that followed, Lin felt a chill forming on her skin.
“What was that?” she mouthed to Wan.
He shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Quiet.
Lin nodded in understanding. Wan’s hand found its way to the dagger at his belt, while the other clutched the staff tighter. He stepped out of the room, quiet as a breeze of wind, and shut the door to the supply closet. Lin locked it as he left.
The two had an understanding – a trust. Wan would address whatever the noise was, Lin would continue her search.
Lin hurried to fetch a candle from her pack, operating by touch alone since the room was pitch black. It took another moment to find the match and get it struck, but eventually the supply closet was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. She held up the knotted rope again, willing it to show her what item to examine next.
This time, it pointed to a wooden wet floor sign, that rested against the wall. A wet floor sign?
But the rope hadn’t failed her yet, so she moved the sign over to the middle of the room, and took a seat herself, folding her legs under her. She left the candle burning, away from anything flammable, then removed her gloves, preparing for the memories to envelop her once again.
As she touched the sign, and closed her eyes, the colors came first. Then whispers, and noises, and… a high-pitched scream that sounded distinct from the other hallucinations. Had that been real?
Lin tried to shake away the memories, to come back to. What if Wan is in trouble?
But her eyes wouldn’t open, and the colors only blurred faster, the whispers growing into a buzzing sound that filled her ears. Fool girl, how would you help anyways? Reluctantly, she resigned herself to the memory, trusting that Wan could take care of himself.
Chapter 4
“What’s going on?” Sal asked, squinting his eyes against the blinding light of the day. He was lying down upon something, and he was moving. When did I get here? He searched back for his most recent memory, but things were murky. Okay, start further back. His birthday had been a week ago, then he’d gone back to work, each shift successively more banal than the last.
It had culminated in a particularly rough day. No tours scheduled this morning, so he and the other tourism staff had sat and twiddled their thumbs, complaining to each other how bored they were. Never fun. Morale was already low, and Serkan had come through to announce that they wouldn’t be getting seasonal bonuses this year, due to ‘budgeting issues.’
Kadir had found the natural remedy for such news: the second Serkan left, he had poured a cheap shot for each of the tour guides working. Normally, Sal wouldn’t have condoned such day drinking, but in the face of bad news and in the spirit of comradery, he had participated.
All had been well, at first. A group had finally come in for a tour, and he’d eagerly sprung to action. In fact, he’d been on a roll. With the subtle heat from the alcohol burning in his belly, he’d delivered his lines with more energy and gusto than he could normally manage. Such conviction and energy! If he could’ve given everyone a tour like that, he knew he wouldn’t have needed for money.
Alas, such things always have a way of coming to an end, and now it was coming back to him. Ah yes, just as he’d been about to deliver the final lines of the tour. He’d held up the vial to the ceiling, toasting to the promise of luck, when the lights had suddenly gone bright, and Sal had gone dizzy and passed out.
“It seems that you fainted,” said someone near to Sal. “Right onto a wet floor sign, oddly enough.”
Ah, right. Sal looked around, now understanding he laid upon a litter, being pulled by a Spirit Trolley, amidst a busy street. A doctor trotted alongside him, his walking stick crunching in the sand with every step. He was tall man, with wrinkled skin and a relaxed smile on his face. “Now, it’s no cause for alarm. As you get older, these things can become more common.”
“I’m only thirty,” Sal said, numbly. He shook his head. “Wait, are you taking me to a shrine?”
“I am,” the doctor said. “It’s standard procedure. Your manager, Serkan, insisted.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Sal said. “The last thing I need is to procure more debt.”
“Your company already paid for your inspection, and it’s nonrefundable,” the doctor said softly. “Best to relax and enjoy your afternoon off. Besides, what’s the worst that could come from this?”
Sal resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Even if the company had ‘paid’ for this procedure, it’d be coming out of his pay for the next few weeks. Great. He would hear no end to that once Amira found out. Sal sighed and laid back in the litter, accepting his fate. There was little to be done now. The quicker this was over, the quicker he could get back to the distillery, maybe squeeze in another tour or two before the day ended – anything to salvage what was proving to be an awful day.
***
“Well,” the doctor said, crossing off the last item of his checklist. “You appear to be in great shape. All of your reflexes are acceptable. Proprioception is only slightly below average. You could stand to gain a few pounds, but over all, you’re doing good.”
“Then why’d I faint?” Sal asked.
The doctor shrugged. “Hard to say for certain. Do you smoke?”
“No,” Sal replied.
“Drink?”
“Maybe one or two drinks a week, usually.”
The doctor tutted thoughtfully. “We must consult a spirit to be certain.”
“That seems… extravagant, doesn’t it?”
“We would be fools to ignore the wisdom of our ancestors. They have certain understandings and insights that elude the living. Now please, if you’ll follow me?”
He led the pair of them out of the small cramped visiting room into the main hallway of the shrine. shrines like this one were built all throughout the city, and served as places of refuge or healing, for those who needed them. Some were sponsored by the Sultan, other’s my notable merchants, and a few managed to run off of charity alone.
This one, like the others, was a simple enough building of stucco and wood, built long and low to the ground. The above ground portion felt like any other building, though with lots of little rooms to house patients. The below-ground section, of course, was what made a shrine a shrine.
Sal followed the doctor down the brick stairs, until they reached the basement. Here, a pool of water that was perhaps a foot deep obscured the entire floor. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the thousands of blue-burning spirit candles that hung from the ceiling. The room was large and circular, perhaps a hundred feet across. The walls were slick with moisture that gleamed in the light, revealing moss and tree roots that climbed the walls. Shrines were one of several sacred places in Sadar, where the veil between this world and the next had been worn thin.
“As you will,” the doctor said, gesturing toward the center.
Sal knew what to do from here. He tugged off his shoes and rolled up his pant legs, then proceeded into the water. It was cool to the touch, and he shivered, watching as the water rippled and reacted to his presence, the reflections of the light blurring and waving.
He walked slowly into the middle. He had never been the most religious of people. He’d always figured if he lived as a good person, and did what he thought was right, then things would work out in the end. He had spoken with his father’s spirit, once, shortly after he had passed. Little had come of it, sadly. The old man had been set in his ways while alive, and it seemed death did not change all things.
When he reached the middle, Sal took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tilted his head upward. “Oh spirits,” he intoned. “Nourish me with your guidance and wisdom. Enlighten me if you would.”
He opened his eyes and watched as several of the blue candle lights flickered as if a wind had blown through, yet Sal felt nothing. He waited, then heard a voice speaking from behind him.
Hello, Salas Adir, son of Timaeus Adir.
Sal stiffened as the spirit made itself unknown. There was always something slightly unnerving about speaking with spirits. They tended to never quite make sense, to never quite remember what it was like to be alive.
You have not spoken with a spirit in a time. Why do you avoid us?
“To whom do I speak?” Sal asked, trying to keep his voice from quivering.
The spirit of Rantaka Arion speaks today.
From the side of the shrine, the tall doctor gasped. “Rantaka was a famed physician in the fourth century! He’s one of my heroes. What an honor it is for him to join us today.”
“I’m honored,” Sal said dryly.
You did not answer our question. The spirit’s voice reminded Sal of wind whistling. He didn’t bother to try and turn to see the spirit. If it didn’t wish to be seen, he wouldn’t see it.
“Life has gotten busy,” Sal said. “In my arrogance, I’ve forgotten to come to you for advice.” From a young age, most Suthri were taught how to talk to the undead, taught how to tell the spirits what they wanted to hear. Spirits may have been ethereal, but they were still susceptible to flattery. Despite their gift for prophecy, spirits could not read minds, or even detect lies.
You will visit more? You will honor your ancestors?
“Of course,” Sal said. “I have realized my mistake.”
Then I will divine the state of your health.
The candle lights flickered again, and somehow grew brighter, the blueness of the light leaking away until the candles burned a brilliant white. The flames leaned inward, growing larger as they searched for some source of fuel. Shivers ran down Sal’s back, and his stomach clenched with unease.
Finally, the candleflames relaxed, settling back into their soft blue light, burning quietly. All was still.
I have looked and I have seen.
“What have you see, O Great One?” the doctor called from the corner.
A sickness of the lungs. A subtle sickness. A cancer.
Sal scrunched his eyebrows in confusion.
“How severe does the Great One estimate this to be?” the doctor continued. Sal was glad, for he could not find the words he searched for.
Severe. The spirit’s voice sounded less like wind and more like sand scraping against stone.
“How long?” The doctor continued.
Perhaps a year. If you’re lucky…
“Does the Great One have recommendations for treatment?” the doctor continued.
There is only the slimmest chance of survival. Only in one future of a thousand possible does he live past a year.
Sal swallowed, with some difficulty. Is this what people meant when they said they had a lump in their throat? Spirits, he thought he might throw up. His stomach twisted and churned, and he felt cold sweats breaking out on his neck. “I’m going to die?” Sal asked.
***
Sal wondered down the streets of Sadar in a dreamlike state. He felt… detached from the goings on. Yes, he was walking down the street, but his mind was still trying to make sense of the news. He’d left pretty quickly after the spirit had said it’s bit. The doctor had pestered him with a need for tests and studies, but Sal had finally snapped and told him to bugger off. Luckily, the doctor did not deny a dying man.
I’m dying, he thought with marvel and concern. It didn’t feel real, yet. It felt more like a joke, like this were the punchline in some sort of play or drama.
Even though I’ve done everything right. He’d done just what the Spirits had always preached for people to do. To live simply, to love, to work, to maintain a family. He’d done it all, even suffering the less-than-ideal-job of being a tour guide, all to provide for his family. To give Aylin a chance at life.
I’ve done everything right, yet I’ve been given a year to live.
A year to live, and Sal was walking back to work. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. But maybe if he went back to work, he could pretend this wasn’t real. Just for one more day. One more day of being normal. One more day until I start dying.
However, when Sal arrived, he was quickly pointed to Serkan’s office. Inside, Serkan looked him up and down from behind his desk, and his lips curled. “Spirits, Sal, you look like shit. What did the doctor say?”
“He thinks I was dehydrated,” Sal said. “Guess now that I’m getting old, I’ll have to keep an eye on that.”
Serkan eyed him, clearly unconvinced. “I paid that doctor to get you a Spirit Reading too. Did he do it?”
Sal nodded. “The spirits just confirmed his diagnosis.”
Serkan grunted. “Good. Well. We’ll cover half the bill; the rest comes from your paycheck. We also will have to dock another thirty copper coins as refunds. The tourists from earlier refused to drink their Melor after you passed out. Threatened to make a big huff about our product being bad luck. We had to break out an emergency sample of the real stuff. Demir will be furious when he hears about it.”
Serkan sighed. “No doubt they raided the Gambling Halls afterwards. I sent a runner to warn the boss down there. Hopefully they got enough plants in place, didn’t suffer too much in losses.” Serkan shook his head again. “It’s a bad look, Sal. This won’t happen again, right?”
“Right,” Sal said. “I guess I’ll get back to work again.”
“No,” Serkan said. “Take the rest of the day off. Recover. Tomorrow, I want you here, feeling great.”
“Are you sure?” Sal asked. “I feel better now. I could—”
“Go,” Serkan interrupted. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
***
So much for one more normal day, Sal thought, strolling out of the Demir Distillery and into the busy streets of Sadar. He tuned out the children selling puppies and the street vendors hawking their candy apples and crochet bags. He ignored the Spirit Trolley that nearly trampled him and paid equally little regard for the constables patrolling the streets.
“What do I do now?” he asked aloud, speaking to no one in particular. It was only a little past noon – the day was young. He didn’t want to go home yet, as going home meant facing Amira. He didn’t want to tell her. Not yet. That conversation would be draining, to put it lightly.
Countless thoughts swam around his mind, and he tried his very best to ignore them, to focus on the heat of the day or the murmur of the crowd, yet nothing seemed to draw him from the agony of this thoughts. I’ve only a year to live. What will Amira and Aylin do without me to provide for them? Will Aylin even remember my face? Will she know how much I loved her?
Sal picked up his pace. He’d never been athletic, never enjoyed exercising, but right now? He started running. He brushed past a slow-moving thicket of people, drawing several irate glances and muttered comments, but he paid them little heed. What did he care? I’ve already been doomed.
He kept running, and his lungs burned with the exertion. Was that how much it had always hurt? Or had the cancer made it worse?
Sal drew to a stop, panting as he leaned against the wall of a random building. When he caught his breath, he looked up and found he was outside of an unfamiliar bar, in a neighborhood he did not often frequent. Judging by the color of the street signs, he was in a Kazmira area. Their guild wasn’t quite as powerful as Demir’s, though they owned many of the ports and extracted lots of wealth as the city’s masters of shipping and logistics.
The bar looked the same as any other, from the outside. It had a generic name: Tom’s Bar. As he made his way inside, he found a small, cozy room with low light. A poor, raggedy-looking man sat on a stool in the corner, absentmindedly plucking his lute. Sal strolled past several unoccupied table as he approached the bar. Only one other person was here drinking, a woman who sat at the far end of the bar. Sal took his own seat on the opposite end, content to mind his own business and sip on whiskey while he contemplated his death.
The sticky bar top pulled at his arms, and the seat groaned as he shifted his weight. The bartender soon came over, a wiry older man. Sal ordered Demir Ten Year on the rocks and studied the bar while the bartender fetched it. The bottles displayed on the shelf were all polished and arranged to perfection. It was a nice display.
The bartender returned and Sal sipped on the sweet whiskey. Normally, he wouldn’t drink something so lavish as Demir Ten Year, but he supposed today wasn’t such a normal day. He swirled the ice around in his glass and spared a glance to the other woman at the bar. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She was also strikingly gorgeous – a fact that a married man could carefully observe, so long as he kept that observation to himself – with long, black hair that cascaded past her shoulders and framed a slender face with strong cheekbones. She wore a gold necklace and ring, the only jewelry necessary to highlight her simple black dress. Her drink of choice? A martini.
Sal sighed. These were mere idly observations. Sal had no interest in her. Instead, he supposed it was in his best interest to begin his reconciliation with death. He finished the first glass of whiskey rather quickly, and the bartender gave him a frank look as he poured the next round. “Something the matter?”
Sal laughed to himself and nodded. “You could say that. I guess I’m just having the worst luck.”
“Tell me about it,” said the woman at the other end of the bar. She met Sal’s gaze, then looked at the chair beside him, an unspoken question in her eyes.
I’d really rather suffer alone, at the moment. But maybe too many years as a polite, doormat of a tour guide had trained the politeness into him. Or maybe she was so beautiful that Sal found it hard to imagine saying no to her. Definitely the first one, he told himself. Sal gave her a nod and stood up to pull the chair out for her.
As the woman approached, she took her time with it. She drew out every step, even the act of setting her drink on the bar with such deliberation and intention. Sal was baffled at how one could turn something so mundane into such a performance.
Once she was settled, she looked him up and down, then held her glass over to him for a toast. “What’s the occasion?” she asked. Her eyes were a brown so deep as to be black, in this lowlight.
Sal clinked her glass and took a sip of his whiskey. The once-uncomfortable burn in his throat grew softer, more pleasing by the sip. He set the glass down and twisted the wedding ring on his finger, while he decided what stupid white lie he would tell her. No need to burden her with his doom…
But then he thought better of it. I’ll be dead soon, so what does it matter? And I’ll never her see her again anyway. “I found out today that I have less than a year to live.”
Her eyes widened. “Damn. That is a good reason to drink.” She took another sip of her martini and Sal matched her with his own. “What was it?” she continued. “Medical thing? Crime? Are they hallowing you?”
Sal shook his head. “Medical thing. Some asshole spirit from four hundred years ago says I have lung cancer.” Sal took another sip. “I guess that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say. I just found out a few hours ago. Suppose I’m still, coming round to accept it.”
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty and a week,” Sal said grimly. “My daughter isn’t even a year old. Will she remember me?”
The woman looked up as she thought. “Maybe you could get a statue or a painting done in your likeness. Then she’ll have something to remember you by.”
“If I had the money,” Sal said. “Spirits. Sorry. I hate to complain.”
“Everyone needs to complain once in a while. It’s not healthy to keep all that bottled up inside.” She shrugged. “Maybe you could take some donations.”
Sal’s lips curled in disgust. Suthri’s, as a people, were famously prideful. To take charity, to beg, was only for the lowest of the low. That she had suggested it at all could be perceived as an insult. Sal decided to give her the benefit of doubt.
“I’m not so pathetic as to beg for money. I’ve made it this far; I couldn’t dishonor my family’s name like that.”
She nodded. “I wouldn’t either, were I you. Is there any chance of beating the disease?”
“I have a one in a thousand shot of living past the year.”
“You’d have to be damn lucky,” she said, nodding. “So what will you do?”
Sal raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked. “You’ve got a year left to live. Have you done everything you want to in life?”
“Heavy questions from a stranger,” Sal said, amused. “But yes. I suppose so. All I’ve ever wanted was to be a good person and to have a family I can take care of and love. I have a beautiful wife and daughter. What more could I want?”
The woman snorted. “I didn’t realize I was talking to Wren-reincarnate over here. Okay Mr. Perfect, you know what I think?” She grinned and leaned in conspiratorially. “I think you should go on some crazy bender and go out in a blaze of glory. That’s how I’d do it.”
Sal chuckled. “Funny. I can’t abandon my family, though, fun as your bender sounds. If anything, I should be saving extra money for them to have when I’m gone.” Sal said took another deep sip of his whiskey. Spirits, how would he ever set aside extra money for them, what with Serkan constantly finding ways to dock his pay? And how long would his health last to do the tours, anyways?
The woman snickered. “You’re not serious, are you? You can drop the nobleman act around me, I’m used to assholes. We’re never gonna see each other again, so what’s it matter?” She took another sip. “You said you’re thirty. Most people live to sixty, these days. You’ve had half your life taken away, and you don’t feel spiteful or angry or sad or anything?”
“Of course I do,” Sal said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “It’s bullshit. Doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it though. I have responsibilities… obligations. You’re what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You’re young. You don’t have people depending on you. Maybe if you were older, you would understand better.”
The woman frowned. “Right,” she said, voice laced with sarcasm. “That makes total sense, because for some reason, though we’ve only just met, you’ve already concluded that I lack the human trait of empathy, and therefore, since I’m not in the exact same situation as you, there’s no way I could possibly relate to your suffering.” She glared at him.
“You asked me to be frank,” Sal said, holding his hands up defensively.
“Frank, not condescending.” She pursed her lips. “Once year to live you’re going to keep slaving away for others… I’ll be curious to hear how that plays out.” She stood suddenly, depositing a handful of coins grabbed at random from her purse. The coins clattered to the bar, more than enough to pay for her drink, Sal’s drink, and about fifteen more.
“Keep the change,” she called to the bartender, then strolled out. She hadn’t bothered to finish her drink, nor did she bother to look back as she left.
Sal sat stunned. One hell of an exit. He and the bartender exchanged a look. The bartender swiftly swiped all the coins off the counter, then topped off Sal’s whiskey. “You’re settled up, then,” he said. “Sorry to hear about the bad news.”
Sal bowed his head in thanks.
***
He left the bar a time later, still unsure what to think of the strange woman he’d met. He hadn’t even gotten a name from her. Doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. The sun was getting low when he arrived home, and upon opening the door, he was greeted with the mouthwatering aroma of grilled chicken and roasted beans.
“Hello, honey,” Sal called, shutting the door and hanging his cloak near the door. He tried to make his voice sound normal. He couldn’t tell Amira the news yet – one he did, everything would change. She’d look at him differently. She wouldn’t see a husband; she would see only a dying liability. I just need one more night of normal.
“How was work, dear?” Amira called from the kitchen. Thus was their routine, and Sal knew the steps of the dance well enough, even if felt disingenuous not to tell Amira of the news.
It was a shame that he must lie to preserve the normalcy. But he would tell her tomorrow. What could it hurt to have to one last night as himself rather than as a dying man. “I don’t know… pretty typical day, I guess. Serkan was in a particularly bad mood.”
“Oh, that’s no good,” she said, embracing him as he stepped into the kitchen. He breathed deeply of her faint scent of cloves, burying himself in her warmth and the softness of her hair. He gave her a quick kiss then stepped back and smiled at her. Smiling didn’t come as easy as usual.
“It’s in the past now,” Sal said. He nodded toward the pot of stew simmering on the stove. “Dinner smells delicious.”
“Thanks,” Amira replied. She undid her apron and hung it on the door. “It’s nearly ready.”
And the two carried on with their small talk, Sal carefully avoiding the thing that loomed overhead like a buzzard following a lost vagrant in the desert. Waiting, patient, for him to slip up. But Sal was no slouch – no, he’d been at the top of his class through all his schooling, and he should’ve been the Master Distiller for Demir, but he’d gotten over that regret a while ago. Suffice to say, Sal was smart, and he knew how to say one thing and mean another.
They relaxed into the evening. They took Aylin for a short walk in her stroller, then put her down for bed. They made love for a time, and though Amira played along, he could tell she wasn’t as interested as he was. In fact, she had to ask him to slow down, twice. It was different for her, of course. For her, it was merely another night. For Sal? It was the last night before she was him as a dying man. As dead weight.
She fell asleep shortly after they finished, but Sal did not. He lied awake, still hot, still panting, still alive. His mind raced, desperately trying to remind himself he wasn’t dead yet. Eventually, he extricated himself from Amira’s arms, excusing himself to the privy. Instead, he went out the back door, onto his porch.
He had a small backyard – mostly for storage – enclosed by sandstone walls. A row of cactuses grew along the back fence, but otherwise, there was little of note. Spirits Lamps from the adjacent streets emitted a soft blue-white glow. The moon overhead was full, and Sal felt like it was watching him. There were some old Suthri myths that claimed the moon had a spirit, one that walked the world and watched over people. He wondered if she was watching tonight.
He wondered if she had been the one behind his cancer. Or was it the Creator? The Maker of all things? Who would create a world where someone would had done everything right in life would still get cursed with a terminal disease? Where was the justice in that?
Suthri’s worshipped their ancestors, and the wisdom they possessed. What would his ancestors say? Did he accept his fate and die when his time came? Was there even another option?
Sal slid down against the wall of his house until he was on his butt, his legs sprawled out before him as he reclined against the wall. The sandstone of the house was cool against his bare skin. Strange, how cool the night was after the heat of the day.
Am I content with my life?
He had a family. He had a job. Not a lot of money, but enough. His daughter wouldn’t remember his face, though.
That thought distraught him the most, he found. Between the money he owed Serkan, his current cost of living, and his old debts for school, he’d never be able to set aside enough for a painting, nevermind a statue.
Why me? I did everything I was supposed to.
The moon didn’t answer of course. The wind rustled, a gentle breeze, but that was all.
I have to get enough for a painting, at the least. Ideally, I would set aside more for Amira and Aylin, to help them surivive when I’m gone. A decent painting would cost ten silver coins. Ideally, he’d leave a gold coin behind for Amira, which could be enough to live off of for a couple years, if she was frugal. If you added in his debts, that brought the bottom like to one gold coin and thirty-four silver.
Sal made about half a silver coin a day but spent most of that on living expenses. He’d never be able to save up enough, especially if his health would soon decline.
It was impossible, if he kept doing things as he was.
There were… other options, of course. Things he’d never dared to consider before.
A single vial of Melor was worth upward of fifty gold coins. Even a low potency dose might sell for ten or twenty, according to Adem. This was all assuming you could find a buyer, of course. Sal worked in a Melor Distillery. If he could find a way to steal a single vial, just the once, it would be more than enough to provide for his family.
The Sultan won’t miss sorely for one little vial. And nobody would expect me because it’s something I would never do.
It was crazy, of course. He wouldn’t actually do it, that’s not who Sal was. But it was fun to fantasize, to imagine how he might outsmart Demir’s genius security. There were flaws, openings, little things Sal had noticed during his many years working there.
Craziness… sighing, Sal picked himself up from the ground and returned to bed, finally able to sleep.