nyankat

  Chapter Content Notes: Violence, blood, alcohol, nguage.

  He tried to catch his breath, left eye burning with the blood that had sprayed on it mere moments ago, mixing with the dark brown-red markings on either side of his face. He wondered if his overwhelming anxiety and the violent rush of adrenaline would kill him before the other guard did—She was still reeling, her colleague doubled over on the floor as a crimson pool creeped out from underneath the limp body.

  He couldn't let himself think, let himself pn. Marama lunged again, the gdius he'd snatched from the guard and shoved into her neck was still gripped--as tightly as he could manage--between both hands. He screamed at the top of his lungs, letting out all the rage that had been building up inside him these past few years, in hopes that this moment would be the end of it all and he could be free.

  But the next thing he knew, all the air had left his lungs, and his face nded uselessly on the slick of blood at his feet, spreading it everywhere, soaking the white sleeping gown he was still in when they dragged him out. Metal cnged against the stone floor as he wrapped his arms around himself. A heavy, reinforced boot flew at his stomach, sending him flying an easily meter away, leaving him with an uncontrolble coughing fit, unable to move.

  A few heavy steps ter, he felt a huge hand tighten its grip around the short tuft of hair on the top of his head, and pulled half his body clear off the floor. A furious hiss burned at his ear, "You're real fucking lucky they wanna keep you alive and pretty, you lil' yodh shit." The other guard straightened and dragged Marama all the way across the room, as he cwed uselessly at the armored hand still gripping his hair, fearing she was going to rip his head clean off at this rate. "I swear I don't know what the fuck they see in you that they put up with this much shit."

  His cheek nded heavily on the stone floor, and the heavy wooden door of the cramped cell, scratched and marked and worn by decades—centuries?—of prisoners smmed shut behind him. He could hear the aleph guard cursing and throwing and smming things on the other side in a fit of rage. All the better that it not be directed at him, of course: that might cost the guard her life, for daring to actually touch someone like Marama.

  He didn't move for a long time. He can't remember for how long, really. It wasn't the first time he'd been dragged into that cell, but he decided at that moment that it would be the st. No matter what, he would never give them the opportunity to punish him again like this.

  "Land ho, Cap!"

  The call from the crow's nest pulled him out of his own head and back to where he was right now. To the present. To the open seas he was free to sail, midday sun bearing down on his skin. To the sea wind in which his long, dark hair, now organized into a thick braid, could swing softly.

  He strode up to the bow, jogging up the steps to the foredeck as the occasional idling crew member got out of the way. He stepped right up to the railing and extended his portable telescope. It was smaller than what the lookout had but it should be enough.

  It was a small dot, still, but he could still catch it whenever the ship went over the crest of a wave: Amber, the isnd where they would find Shadowbrook and, hopefully, the metalworker they needed right now.

  Marama turned to stern looking straight at Gan, holding the ship's wheel steady.

  "Steady as she goes! We'll be there soon!" he shouted, as his navigator gave a simple nod. They were coming in southward, so Shadowbrook should be visible enough from this side of the small isnd once they got closer. In the meantime, he had preparations to make. He made his way back to his Captain's quarters.

  He could feel the relief and excitement among his crew that they were finally coming ashore. It had been several weeks at sea, now, and everyone was ready to rex at a tavern, get some "real" food, have the ground stop moving constantly underneath them. Marama heard their excited conversations around him. It was a bit contagious, though he still had a lot going on in his mind.

  Gan smiled as he approached her on the quarterdeck. A smile that faded into a hint of concern after a moment. “You alright, Mara?”

  She could read him like a book—it would be deeply uncomfortable if it was anyone else.

  He put on his best, sad, I-don’t-wanna-talk-about-it smile in response, “Yeah, just… hoping for the best.” He looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the oncoming isnd, “and I got distracted thinking about things I’d rather not think about. But I’m alright. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Gan nodded and pced her hand on his shoulder. She could ground him just like that, even now. He touched the hardened back of her hand briefly, with an I’m-ok-really smile and continued on through the stern deck door.

  It had been Marama’s decision to nip their nascent retionship in the bud, mere months after they first met. Taking on his role as Captain meant he couldn’t allow himself that vulnerability, that weakness that others might find; exploit in order to bring his mission to a sudden stop. In the end, his vow to Gan, and his own desire for revenge, relegated them to shipmates. Fellow officers. If they were to sacrifice anything for each other, it would be on those grounds.

  Or so he told himself. No matter how much time passed, he could never stop viewing Gan as if it still were those early, messy days of passion and exploration. Of falling in love for the first time in his life and—he decided back then, and still believes now—the st time.

  Sometimes he would sh out, or something. He would spend his time among those working the pleasure districts. Cementing his reputation as a stereotypical yodh carrier—promiscuous and free spirited, impossible to pin down. Some part of him hoped it would help Gan move on in ways he himself may very well never be able to. And, in that way, he could keep her safe.

  Gan was fine, of course, she had always been far more adaptable, and her feelings had never even run that deep. A tryst between two kindred traumatized souls, as a momentary balm in a time of heightened need.

  When Marama came back to reality, he noticed he’d been standing in front of the door to his quarters for who knows how long. He really needed to stop bnking out like this today. By the time his door closed again and he was rummaging through his drawers, he’d completely forgotten about wherever his head had just gone.

  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for, buried as it was in the absolute mess he’d made of his desk. He held the medallion in his hands, but quickly put it away before he could find himself somewhere else again. It would help smooth the upcoming conversation, and at best might even do most of the talking for him. That would be for the best for all involved.

  There was a knock on the door.

  He leaned back on his rickety chair, the one he literally stole from Captain Sterling for ughs. He wondered how she was doing these days. Was she even still alive?

  Another knock. What was even going on today? His attention span was shot to hell.

  “Ah! Yes, enter.”

  Gan peeked her head in, and Marama immediately felt some kind of way right in her stomach.

  “We’re here, Mara. Getting ready to disembark.”

  Seven hells, how long was he out?

  “Already?”

  “What do you mean?” Gan looked at her, confused, as the door opened further.

  “Nothing, I’m just distracted today.” He stood up and swapped coats, to the nicer one he’d id out on his bed earlier in the day, after he’d put on his face and thought about the impression he might want to give.

  “That looks good on you, Mara.”

  He tried to hide the briefest moment where he felt time freeze around him. “Oh I know.” He tugged at the pels, emanating confidence, with a satisfying snap. All the better to sell the illusion.

  Gan rolled her eyes dramatically, with the friendly pyfulness that Marama knew was of friends who are just friends now and only friends definitely in a friendly way, “Ok well, we’re doing that whole thing now. Are you ready?”

  Marama stuck his tongue out, “Yes. Let’s go.”

  Shadowbrook was a smallish town scarred by a disproportionate amount of damage. It was clear, as they walked through the city streets, how many of the buildings were clearly made with materials of different ages—ad-hoc anastyloses, applied liberally, in order to mostly preserve a small town that had simply not been given enough peace to grow any further. Stunted by routine destruction.

  Esmeralda chimed in, with zir comfortably thick Masaku accent, as ze, Marama, and Gan—the agreed-upon nding party—all looked around the pce like a bunch of clueless tourists, "It makes you wonder what makes this pce so important that they'd bother to rebuild it so many times." The ship's doctor didn't usually join them on their little expeditions ashore unless they had a reason to believe there would be violence, and Marama had assured zir that this wasn't the case this time. No, ze was there to grease the wheels of diplomacy, and in response to zir objections he assured zir things would stay peaceful. Ze had learned to trust the Captain's judgment on these things, and so went right along with it without further question.

  "Or what about it means it'll get so fucked up so many times." Marama looked up at one building towards the center of town, a tower still half-rebuilt. "That one looks pretty recent."

  "Cannon fire?" Gan followed Marama's gaze.

  "Probs." He frowned, “that’s probably by the pza, though.”

  At Marama's insistence, they stopped at one of the market stalls in the town center, and he engaged in a lively haggle with the vendor in rapid, fluent Isle Pidgin. The group walked away with a couple of bottles of a familiar rummy drunk, their purses barely lighter for it.

  "I think she liked you. Having a Nazari speak to her like that was probably fun enough to be worth the highway robbery you got away with, Captain," Esmeralda grinned at him as he admired his spoils.

  Isle Pidgin was mostly used between Masaku traders and merchants these days, whose differing dialects would often lead to misunderstandings otherwise. The occasional Outer Isle Nazari trader would pick it up in order to get on the same pying field, but their disdain for having to do so was usually worn right on their sleeves. Marama showed no such disdain, and this would seem quite novel.

  "Well, I've had a good teacher. And I find there's no better lubricant than meeting people where they're at." he grinned and wiggled the bottles in his hands. "Plus, these are the most direct form of talking I'll be able to do from here on out."

  Esmeralda watched the milky liquid swirl in the clear bottles, cinnamon and cloves and all sorts of other delicious things mixed in with its sweetness. They'd spent a while during the trip talking to each other about how they could handle their conversation with Nerissa Wolfe, master metalsmith, and former Imperial Smith for Emperor Nadir, tyrant of the Nazari Empire. They would all have something in common: ultimately wanting few things more than seeing the Emperor herself dashed upon the rocks off the great cliffs of the southern Nazari shores.

  The challenge was going to be whether they could all trust each other enough to accept all their necks being put on the line, together. Three of them, and an entire ship's worth of sailors, were already on board. Now to convince another. And hopefully even others beyond that.

  The smithy didn't take them too long to get to from the markets, especially since they already knew where it was. They couldn’t risk calling unnecessary attention to themselves by asking strangers for its location, definitely not with Marama and Gan in tow.

  It was a simple building. One story, gabled roof, and much like the rest of the city, built on yers of different materials from the ruins of previous attacks. An open area with only roof coverage and its supportive columns stood to one side, with a shut down forge, a nearby anvil, and various tools and surfaces spread around the rest of the area and the walls. As busy at it seemed, it was clearly still well-organized, with pieces in various states of completion in something resembling a logical order. Pieces that were clearly valuable but were still just left out in pin sight, with no supervision, which felt notable.

  What was missing from the scene was the smith.

  Marama and Esmeralda looked at each other, and the Captain gestured with his head towards the door of the house proper. The doctor would need to lead the way from here. He handed zir both bottles and did zir the favor of knocking, then stepped back. He stood by Gan, making sure his bejeweled blouse and coat were tidily arranged, the aleph towered next to him as she usually did, in her much humbler robes. Towered behind Esmeralda, who wore zir usual, casual, and most importantly, distinctly Masaku dress. It was a careful blocking of the scene, pnned days before, based on whatever loose information they'd managed together about this contact whose abjadtype they didn't even know.

  The door swung open suddenly, fully, and a Masaku yodh, a carrier like Marama, based on the understated color of his spots, stood in the doorway in casual work clothes and a leather apron with small tools stuffed in its pockets. He gripped a rge blunderbuss in his hands, and seemed to be readying himself to use it when the scene the stage was set for pyed out before him: his eyes first going to the enormous Nazari aleph crossing her arms, then to the distinguished-looking Nazari yodh next to her. Both foreign. Both a threat for different reasons.

  Finally, more disarming than if they'd physically torn that blunderbuss from his hands, a smiling Masaku with deep red hair, holding up a pair of bottles of kokito and speaking in their common tongue as if they were practically neighbors, "Nerissa, yeah? Got a minute? My name is Esmeralda, and we all just disembarked from the trading ship I serve on. We're here as friends. But we do need some privacy to talk further."

  You couldn't have scripted this more predictably: suspicious eyes back to the accompanying Nazari pair, a long pause where he clearly thought about that kokito, and finally the blunderbuss pointed down at the floor. Marama's understanding of people genuinely scared Esmeralda sometimes, and ze was just gd he was on zir side.

  He stepped out of the way and responded, dialect slightly different than Esmeralda’s, but close enough for zir to parse it all, "Yeah. Get in. But the big one stays put."

  Esmeralda looked back at the Captain, not really needing to say anything to stay in sync, then turned back to the smith, "I don't think that would be safe for her, or give the best impression for you if people were to see her just standing there.”

  Nerissa frowned at that, but had nothing he could respond with.

  Esmeralda raised zir hands, still holding the bottles. “Don't worry, we're all unarmed."

  Not that it would matter. Both Marama and Gan could hold their own in a situation like this without so much as a knife. Not that ze would tell Nerissa that.

  With a grunt, the smith assented, "Whatever. Just get in. And you better have a reason for bringing these..." he looked at the bronze-skinned pair and reconsidered his words, "...for bringing this nonsense into my home."

  And so they all walked in after he got out of the way, "I'll grab some mugs for the kokito."

  Esmeralda caught Marama trying to hold back a smirk. He had to keep pretending he didn't understand, for now, but he was probably tremendously amused about pying the helpless, clueless foreigner that has no idea what anyone is saying.

  Ze took the chance to look around as they were all led into the main living room area: various items painted with the Masaku fg, featuring the subtle difference in shade color from the "Imperial Approved" variety—something mostly those "in the know" would recognize as a nationalist signifier. Various instruments, horned masks, and other artworks, along with what was clearly Narissa's own decorative metalwork and even weapons and armor.

  A busy scene, but he clearly took great pride in surrounding himself with these items—these symbols of who he and his people really were and what they stood for. No such decoration had been visible from the outside.

  "Tell my guests they can sit wherever."

  Narissa came back shortly after a brief trip into the kitchen, holding the two bottles in one hand, and carrying four small, finely-crafted silver cups with his other hand's fingers, setting it all down on a low floor table in the center of the room, surrounded by plump purple cushions. More subtle nationalist symbolism.

  The three found their pces. Esmeralda knelt, like, Narissa, while the other two knew they were better off pying their expected roles and sitting on their asses like the ignorant colonizers they clearly were. Their host seemed satisfied with expectations being met. They needed to have an economy in unexpected moves.

  He poured out the white, speckled liquid into each of the cups as he led the conversation, "So why the fuck are you here and why do you have a pair of soupes in tow?"

  Soupes—a weird word that, at this point, no one knew the origin of. Likely just a shortening from the full name of the Nazari Supreme Empire. Casually used among the Masaku themselves when referring to the Nazari, even in neutral ways, but easily charged with venom and disdain in the right context, and when aimed at the right ears. The Nazari, of course, would often have a m knee-jerk reaction to it, seeing it as a slur—a fighting word, even. It was a convenient way for Masaku to demonstrate the fragility of their colonizers and oppressors with the smallest bit of resistance.

  But it was also useful as a test. And so neither Gan nor Marama so much as reacted to it being spoken out loud in their presence. They each took their cups and sipped from them quietly, and made general approving sounds and short remarks in Nazari to each other.

  Nerissa looked between them before continuing. He seemed satisfied. Likely more satisfied yet that Esmeralda didn't jump to their defense.

  Esmeralda took zir first sip of the drink. The rum was as sharp as you could expect, yet smoothed out by the milk of koko fruit mixed into it and copious amounts of honey to sweeten the deal, a fvor further enriched by the blend of spices unique to every family—even a single isnd or settlement could have a hundred subtle differences in their recipes, all recognizable as the same general thing.

  It was the taste of home, regardless of where ze drank it.

  Esmeralda put the cup down. They could proceed.

  "My Captain here," ze gestured towards Marama, "is sympathetic to us, and would like some help with building the retionships we need in order to do that. We learned that you would be an ideal person to start that conversation with."

  Their eyes met.

  Nerissa’s narrowed.

  “My sib, this kokito is good but it’s not that good, and I recognize the exact fvor of where you got it from. You better have come here with more than that.”

  Ze grinned at that and made a point of looking over to Marama and nodding, keeping up the act. The Captain responded by nodding back, and reached into his coat, pulling out a jeweled medallion that he then pced on the table.

  Nerissa’s jaw fell sck and his eyes widened in recognition. He immediately reached for it, but found his hand firmly rooted in pce by Gan’s, before he could retract it. She smiled at him, sweetly, with her cute little underdeveloped tusks.

  Esmeralda continued, “You know what it is, then.”

  “Yes, but how—“

  “—that’s not a thing we can talk about right now. Sorry. I’m sure it makes sense why.”

  “And it’s genuine?”

  “Of course. And I’m sure someone with your skills and history will be able to tell.”

  “You’re damn right I can!”

  “And someone with your skills will also be able to do some very useful things with it with a bit of extra guidance on what subtle details to watch out for.”

  There was a pause in the back and forth, “…yes.”

  Esmeralda nodded to Gan, who lifted her hand and sat back in her cushion. The metal smith pulled back and greedily held her medallion in both hands, examined it closely, turning it.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, this thing is real.”

  “Yes, that’s the idea, and we can confirm that it’s valid.”

  Nerissa frowned and looked up, looked at each of the two foreigners, looked back at Esmeralda, “what does this mean? What do you want from me, really?”

  Esmeralda took the liberty of pouring zirself another cup and swirled it around, watching the vortex of brown specks as ze responded, “like I said, we need connections. We brought this here to build trust with you, and also so we can work together on something much bigger.” Ze let that sink in for effect, “And so, we are going to trust you to hold onto that, to prepare what you need, but to not do anything rash with it. Nothing big yet.”

  Ze took a sip, spices tickling zir nose and numbing zir ever so slightly, blended such the alcohol, “When the time is right, we’ll put everything into motion. We’ll make use of what you and your friends have built with us, together, and we’ll go further than the minor changes you—we’ve been struggling more than a century over.” Ze set the cup down.

  That got a bit of a rise out of Nerissa, “Minor? You call what we have all been fighting and dying for minor?” He smmed a fist on the table, goblets almost tipping over and as their contents spshed the surface, “Have you seen the buildings in this town? I know you fucking noticed.”

  Esmeralda’s expression darkened as ze picked up zir cup again, wiping the sides, and lowered zir voice. Ze responded slowly, “we will be going so much further than our people have ever dreamed of. By the time it’s all over, you’ll wonder how you could’ve been willing to sacrifice so much and spill so much blood for the prospect of mere scraps.”

  Silence filled the room. Nerissa was in some kind of shock. Esmeralda timed things for it stay that way for a bit, to let it all sink in.

  “The medallion is yours as a token of our good intentions. It is yours now. You are free to study it as you will, even take it apart if you really need.” Ze smiled, genuinely, heartfelt, “what we ask is that you work with us, and be patient as we get all the other pieces in pce before we all make our respective moves together. Can you do that?”

  Nerissa frowned, clutching the bejeweled, glittering golden piece against his breasts. And then he nodded.

  Marama rose first, smiled, and bowed deeply. Gan and Esmeralda followed.

  Ze pced zir palms together and bowed zir had, “Thank you for your hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out.” Ze straightened, “Please seek out the people we will need introductions to and talk to them. We pn on being at port for at least a week. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  Ze shared a gentle, empathetic smile with him as he just stared, “Please, consider it. My Captain here has helped me embrace the dream of a much better world, and I hope he can do the same for you.”

  Nerissa simply nodded, still kneeling, watching as they all walked out his front door.

  The trio was well clear of the house when Esmeralda let out the biggest sigh of zir life, switching back to zir musical Naziri, mainly for Gan’s sake—she was definitely slower at picking up nguages. Ze dropped all pretension at the cool composure from earlier, “Holy shit that was scary never make me do anything like that again how did that even work this is insane.”

  They had rehearsed the entire scene weeks in advance, covered different scenarios, gotten Esmeralda to learn to act like something other than the awkward nerd ze usually was. Ze had compined constantly and repeatedly and even cried about it so much, but the Captain insisted this was the only way to make it all work.

  “Can’t promise that, friend. Unfortunately,” Marama ughed, spping Esmeralda’s back pyfully, “we’ll be doing a bit more of this while we’re in this part of the seas, as I’m sure you can guess. At least until we bold enough trust that I can start doing the talking myself.”

  Esmeralda rolled zir eyes, “what would you do without me, Cap?”

  He smiled fondly back at zir, then squeezed zir upper arm gently and did that thing again where he gets suddenly really earnest, “Same as with anyone else on the crew—I’d be lost. Thanks for doing that. I know it was a lot. And you did great.”

  Fucking hell, he was better at disarming people than the most expert fencer. Ze smiled down at him, “…thanks, Cap.”

  And then ze remembered something on zir mind, “Oh right. You didn’t want to tell me before, but do I get to know what the hell we just handed over to one of the main cell leaders of the fucking Masaku resistance?”

  Marama smirked back at zir, “That, my friend, was a bona fide Imperial Bureaucratic Envoy medallion.” He expined further, driving the point home, “A legitimate one will get you a free pass right into any Imperial fort on the Isles, no questions asked. And they’ll treat you like royalty about it too, probably. At least if you kinda look the part.”

  Marama and Gan kept walking.

  Esmeralda did not.

  Esmeralda yelled.

  “We just gave him fucking what?”

  Marama put his palms up and shrugged as he kept walking, Gan ughed.

  “And Gan—you fucking knew?”

  And Gan shrugged too. Guilty as charged.

  Esmeralda cursed under zir breath, and let out a frustrated groan as he jogged to catch up with the other two.