Chapter 23 Tobias #2
“Not yet.” Raphael sat in front of a mirror applying white paint around his eyes and mouth—to represent a spirit, apparently, though Tobias didn’t see the likeness. “We need to wait for the proper hour—once the celebration and drunkenness are at their peak.”
“They sound plenty drunk already.” Leila cocked Her head toward their still quaking door.
“This attempt is very precarious. You haven’t left this room, you haven’t seen . . .” Raphael stopped himself, maintaining composure. “There are soldiers everywhere. Festivities or none, we need to be very, very careful. Timing is of the utmost importance.”
“Donya! You cheating bitch!” the drunk man howled, and Raphael tipped his head back and groaned.
Without a word, Enzo swung open the door and disappeared into the hallway.
A loud slam echoed off the wall, followed by a series of crashes and muffled cries.
The corridor fell silent, and Enzo stepped back inside their chamber, locking the door behind him.
“He is quiet now,” he said.
“Will we have enough time?” Leila dared a glance out the window, tugging Her cloak tight across Her chest. “The festival only lasts through the night. We need to make haste.”
“All we need is enough time to find a phallion,” Raphael said.
Tobias wrinkled his nose. “Phallion?”
“It’s a caravan of festival goers. A celebration on horseback, so to speak.” Raphael paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. “They travel all night through Trogolia, collecting revelers along the way. If we find one headed north, we can easily blend in among their numbers.”
“What are the odds one of these phallions passes through this city?” Tobias asked.
Raphael snorted. “You underestimate the dedication of these people. We’ll find a phallion. The question is whether it can bring us closer to Kovahr.”
Porcelain shattered somewhere in the hallway. Leila and the others glanced among one another.
“They’re breaking the plates,” Hylas said.
“It’s nearly time,” Raphael agreed.
Breaking plates? Tobias rubbed his temples. “This holiday makes no sense.”
People cheered from beyond the inn, and a wave of music—lutes, harps, and panduras—turned the upheaval into something melodic and joyful.
The real celebration had begun.
“All right.” Raphael slung his cloak over his shoulders and threw his hood overhead. “Are we ready?”
Hylas nodded enthusiastically. He wore the same face paint as Raphael, his fingertips still white from applying it.
Enzo’s fur trimmed mantle was already fastened, and he settled his mask—a boar head the same brick red color as Tobias’s goat, while Leila’s mask was a yellow crescent moon.
With a deep breath, Tobias clasped his cloak at his neck and pulled his mask overhead.
The reeds itched his chin and tickled his nose, and though his vision was slightly obscured, he could still make out his comrades, and that was enough for him.
“Memorize these faces,” Raphael said. “There will be many masks in the crowd—duplicates, even. We can’t lose track of one another.”
Tobias nodded, ignoring the dread turning in his stomach. The group gathered their supplies and satchels, and without further delay, they left their chamber.
Wine and stomach contents painted the corridor walls, and shattered porcelain littered the floor.
People meandered through the space on unsteady legs, paint dripping from their sweaty faces and masks askew on their heads.
Raphael led the way, weaving past a group of women singing off-key, two quarreling men throwing sloppy punches, and another woman slouched against the wall, drool dribbling from her lips.
Tobias stepped over a man sprawled across the floor—Donya’s husband, he assumed—then shouldered past other merrymakers, increasingly annoyed with each poke and jab.
The exit was in sight, and he held his breath, bracing himself for whatever was to come.
They poured from the inn, staggering across the road before gaining their bearings.
Far too many Trogolians roamed the streets, their faces painted or masked, chalices and torches in hand.
Blazing bonfires and structure fires lit the town orange, casting ominous shadows across the shopfronts and passersby.
Tobias had known to expect chaos, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the sheer number of people running, swaying, dancing through the night, and especially the crested helmets strewn throughout.
His stomach clenched. There truly were soldiers everywhere, either in Thessian garb or grey Trogolian plates. A soldier turned his way, and though Tobias was masked, his face burned beneath the piercing gaze.
A passerby shoved a chalice into Tobias’s hands, sending him teetering backward.
The merrymaker was gone before he could react, and when he eyed the path ahead, the soldier was gone as well.
Tobias looked to Leila, but all he could make out were Her amber eyes peering through Her crescent moon mask.
Raphael and Hylas took the lead through the crowd with Enzo following close behind. Wrapping Leila’s hand in his, Tobias tossed the chalice aside and joined the others.
They wove through throngs of people, mesmerized by the surrounding mayhem.
Bards stood atop a stage made of barrels and wooden planks, plucking lutes, slapping at drums, and singing high above the noise.
Between the torches and fires, the air was thick with heat, and sweat dripped between Tobias’s shoulder blades.
Two people fucked vigorously in an alleyway without discretion, and a horde of men dashed from a shop carrying armfuls of goods.
Looters. Raphael had mentioned those, but Tobias hadn’t taken it seriously.
Smoke rose into the skyline, perhaps from more meaningless acts of destruction, and three men and a woman juggled knives as passersby tossed coin at their feet.
Soldiers cut the path in front of them, and Tobias tightened his grip on Leila’s hand. They jostled celebrators, removing their masks and spouting orders Tobias couldn’t hear, and his roused nerves vibrated beneath his flesh.
Flames burst in front of Tobias. Fire breathers wearing scant rags swaggered through the street, their breasts exposed save for strategically placed ribbons.
The soldiers were distracted by the display, and Tobias used it to his advantage, hurrying in the opposite direction with the rest of his companions.
We can’t lose track of one another. Raphael’s words echoed in Tobias’s mind, a lifeline he clung to. The celebration around him was unruly and aggravating, but he had navigated far worse conditions. A little drunken tomfoolery was certainly manageable.
“Mother Moon!”
Leila tore free from Tobias’s grasp. Three men barely of age circled Her, taking turns spinning Her in dizzying circles. She teetered across the road, nearly falling before one of the men scooped Her up.
“Dance with me, Mother Moon!” he slurred, dipping Her low to the ground. He lurched Her upright, sending Her mask askew, then passed Her to one of his friends.
Tobias barreled into their circle, snatching Leila’s hand wordlessly and pulling Her away.
“Come on, we only want to dance—”
Tobias punched the man in the nose, toppling him to the ground. Leila gave his palm a squeeze as they hurried back to the group, where Raphael was waiting, his lips pursed.
“We need to remain inconspicuous—”
“There are naked people in the streets and shops being looted,” Tobias said. “I think we’re blending in just fine.”
Enzo let out a laugh muffled by his mask, then stopped short. Hylas grabbed the front of his mantle and pointed ahead. “Look!”
The crowd parted as horse-drawn carriages passed through the town’s center.
The costumed travelers carried painted banners depicting a language Tobias couldn’t comprehend.
Didn’t Trogolians speak the common tongue?
Perhaps it was a dialect from centuries past. The carriages were decorated with orange and gold ribbons tied into bows resembling floral bouquets, and the horses themselves were adorned with headpieces shaped into skulls or horns, their manes and tails laced with ribbons.
This was a phallion. It had to be.
The group ran toward the caravan, and Raphael flagged down one of the carriages.
“Travelers!” He held onto the side of the cart, matching its pace. “Travelers, may your pleasures and merriment be divine. Where are you headed?”
A man with a thick mustache puffed at a pipe, looking down at Raphael but otherwise ignoring his question. His passenger, a woman with rolling blonde locks, giggled before tapping the tip of Raphael’s nose.
“Silly boy,” she cooed. “Spirits can’t speak.”
“We aim to celebrate in Derbston, or even farther north,” Hylas added. “Is that where your phallion intends to ride?”
The woman’s laughter rose, and she wagged her finger as she tutted her tongue. “Naughty spirit. No speaking allowed.”
Tobias growled. He turned to another member of the phallion, one on foot—a tall woman with cropped brown hair draped in garlands. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you headed north?”
The woman eyed him up and down with a hungry gaze. She unwrapped one of the garlands from her crown and draped it over his shoulders. “For a god such as yourself, I will place my head wherever you please.”
Leila groaned at his side and dragged him farther down the line. “Where are you headed?” She shouted, abandoning all pretense. Many ignored Her while a few spewed nonsense about Mother Moon, but She continued. “Where are you going? Answer Me!”
“To Shyre.” Hylas staggered to Tobias’s side. “They’re headed to Shyre.”
“Dammit,” Raphael spat.
Tobias glanced between them. “Is Shyre in the north?”
“The east,” Raphael said.