Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
The interior of Balsingra is unlike the other town we passed through.
The streets are cobbled instead of dirt, with large, rutted trenches down the sides for people to toss their trash and chamber pot discards into.
There’s a sweeper that comes through and shoves everything into the trenches with a broom, but it still leaves behind a horrid smell.
The buildings here are tightly packed along the streets and they’re tall, looming over us, and I feel like a mouse being corralled through a maze.
It’s a little unnerving.
Also unnerving is just how quiet it is for a busy city.
Balsingra is easily ten times as large as the town that Gental had claimed, and yet all is quiet.
The people we do pass on the streets either have their mouths covered with a scarf or they wear wreaths of garlic around their necks.
No one stops to chat, and everyone keeps their distance.
There are a few shops scattered along the streets, but most are boarded up, their doors locked tight.
Then, of course, there’s the plague district.
The crowds grow sparser the deeper we set into the city’s winding streets, and it soon becomes evident why.
There’s a large, hastily constructed gate just outside what looks like a town square with a water pump in the center of it, topped by a large statue of a woman pouring a jug.
There’s a symbol painted over the statue’s face, and the same symbol is painted on the cloth draped over the gate.
A guard stands there, his face swaddled, and he holds a hand up as we approach the street.
He shakes his head at us. “No one comes this way. Plague.”
“We’re just passing through,” I say. “Heading for the temple district.”
The guard points down the street we’re on. “Keep heading that way and cover your mouths. You never know what kind of bad air has been left behind.”
I nod and thank him, obediently using some of the fabric of my hood to cover my face. As we walk past the district, I see each door in the neighborhood is painted with the symbol, and there are cloth-covered human-sized lumps lining the street. A knot forms in my throat.
“Before you ask, yes.” Kalos says as we continue past, the streets eerily quiet.
“What do you mean?” I turn to him, curious.
His face remains shrouded in his hood. “Yes, that’s my symbol. And no, this wasn’t me. It was the other Aspect. You’d know if it was me.”
Because I’d feel feverish and I’d sneeze. Every time he’s started to lose control, I’ve felt sick as a result. “What Aspect do you think it was that left here and came after us?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Frustrating. “But it is plague? Truly?”
“Usually it’s not,” Kalos says in a sour voice. “Usually it’s just bad meat, or someone with a sore they won’t stop picking at. This time it truly is plague, though, due to my Aspect’s interfering.”
“They mistake sores for plague?” I’m shocked.
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, little martyr, but the peasants aren’t exactly scrambling over each other to educate themselves.”
I don’t take offense at his tone. It just makes me sad, instead. “Doesn’t it bother you that they blame you for everything when it’s not even your fault? Maybe you could educate them on medicine, and your reputation would improve.”
The god gives me a flat, green-eyed stare as if I’ve said the most ignorant thing possible. “Do you think I care?”
“I do.”
He turns to look at me, faint surprise on his jaded features.
“I care what others think of you,” I continue. “You’re a good person with a bad job, not a bad person. So yes, I do care what people think of you. I want them to think the best.”
Like I do.
I can’t say the words aloud, but I think them. Hard.
He blinks at me, unmoved. “Do you truly wish to visit a temple?”
A change of subject? Unsurprising. “It might be useful to check out the city. Get the lay of things. Figure out what our options are.”
The truth is, I don’t know what to do now that we’re here.
I’d thought of Balsingra as some sort of safe haven.
That we’d be able to blend in, get a decent room at some quiet inn, and just hide out for a while.
Obviously, that was too much to ask for.
I should have known that plague would be everywhere, left in his wake.
I should have known that I wouldn’t feel safe or settled, because being here doesn’t solve anything.
We walk past one temple with grand steps and a statue of someone I don’t recognize.
I glance at Kalos, but he doesn’t bat an eye at the sight of it. Not one of his enemies, then.
“You have any ideas?” I ask him, fingering the straps of the supply pack, now back in its spot upon my back.
He glances over, pausing in his tracks. Dingle’s leash is still wrapped around his hand, and the goat bleats a protest. “Ideas about what?”
“What we do now.” I glance around, but even the temples feel empty.
They also feel wildly conspicuous, like if we walk inside one, someone’s going to point a finger, shriek “Aha!” and pounce upon us. Temples might be something we need to avoid in the future.
“You’re the one in charge,” he says, tone bored. “You lead and I shall follow.”
I turn and look at the empty streets, wondering if it’s my imagination or if it feels as if someone is following us. Probably just paranoia, considering we’ve guiltily crept out of two cities now. “This feels like a bad idea, that’s all.”
“This was the only idea we had,” Kalos points out.
“I know, but it still feels like a bad one.” I cross my arms over my chest, hugging my cloak tight. “I didn’t think about the plague. I didn’t realize he’d spread sickness all over everyone in his wake. Do you think we’ve been doing that, too? In more places than just the festival?”
Kalos shrugs, and I’m reminded that he doesn’t care. It’s my job to make him care. Actually, no, my job is to keep Apathy alive. No one said anything about caring, though that feels wrong somehow.
I’m also suspecting that we’ve been pollinating plague dust wherever we go, like shitty pixies.
We’re a problem. I don’t want to go around making innocent people sick, so we need to figure out the supply issue and find one place and stay there.
“I didn’t think about sickness,” I admit to him.
“The more we wander about the countryside, the more we could harm people.”
“Who cares?”
“Me, Mr. Apathy.” I nudge him with my arm. “And I’m the one that makes plans, remember?”
He sighs heavily.
I glance around at the deserted streets. “Okay, new plan. We’ll find a tavern or someplace where we can spread out the map and pick someplace new to go. Someplace preferably remote and deserted.”
“We could get a room somewhere,” Kalos comments. “In fact, we should get a room. You can bathe me.”
Bathe him? When I look over at my companion to see if I’ve heard him correctly, he doesn’t meet my gaze. He just continues to study the streets around us as if they’re fascinating. “You want a bath?”
“I do.”
“Right now?”
He shrugs. “Unless you want to go see my temple first.”
Oh. Strangely enough, I do. I wonder if it’ll match the swamp temple or if it’s different in every city.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea to find out. It also wouldn’t be a bad idea to see if all his statues have his face on them or not.
If they do, we need a plan…and a face scarf.
And maybe an eyepatch. “Let’s go look at your temple, yes. Then I guess we can find an inn.”
“And bathe,” he agrees, sounding almost cheerful.
I don’t trust it.
I gesture at our surroundings. “You want to point out which temple is yours, then?”
“Oh, it’ll be the smallest one, for certain.” He flashes a hint of a grin that steals my breath. “No one likes to pray to me. They only include me out of fear that I’ll retaliate if they don’t.”
“And would you?”
He shrugs. “If I felt like it.”
Good lord. “You’re something else.”
“If you know you won’t like the answer, don’t ask the question.”
“Fair enough. Lead on.”
We walk through the temple district, and as we do, Kalos points out each one to me under his breath.
A large open-air temple with tended garlands and fruit trees is for Magra, goddess of plenty.
An ornate building with mirrors and silks surrounding the door is for Belara, Lady of Beauty.
There’s an austere temple with a lit brazier at the front that’s for his brother, Rhagos, Lord of the Dead.
And there’s an inviting-looking temple with pillows upon the stairs and a kindly-looking statue of Gental.
I imagine that his stairs are supposed to be full of people just hanging out in the area, but it’s deserted right now.
Sure enough, at the far end of the temple district, there’s a narrow building with dark walls and an open archway that leads inside.
We step in, and the braziers here are lit and flickering, but the salt bowl near the door (I assume so people can toss a handful over their shoulder to ward off evil) is near empty.
There are no statues of Kalos. There’s a painting on the ceiling of a vulture with its wings spread, as if looming over us.
The walls themselves are decorated with bones.
Lots and lots of bones. The pillars framing the room look as if they’re made entirely of bone, and a mural on the back wall is made of skulls and vertebrae.
It’s not the worst thing I’ve seen, but it’s pretty damn ugly. I lean over towards Kalos. “What’s with the bone decor? You’re the god of disease.”
“I’m sorry. Would you have preferred a pillar of scabs? Bowls of vomit?”
“Ew.” Despite myself, I chuckle. “That’s disgusting.”
“That’s the nature of disease, aye.”
Pillar of scabs, indeed. I smile to myself and catch him smiling back. There’s a floppy lock of hair over his brow that’s tempting my fingers to touch it, but I don’t dare. Not unless he gives me some sort of sign that he’s interested.
But Kalos turns away, and I’m crushed yet again. Ugh. Why do I set myself up for this? He’s a god and I’m an idiot human who keeps hoping for crumbs of affection.
I’d be better off hoping for the pillar of scabs. It’s probably more likely.