Chapter 21 #2
We crossed the south bridge, slowing our steps so Jameson did not fall behind.
Over the bridge, a merchant shouted from a doorway, hawking dried fish and dates.
The briny smell momentarily overwhelmed the spices before fading.
Pedestrians hurried past, lamenting about last night’s sandstorm as they dipped in and out of shops, their heads covered against the lingering sand.
Jameson’s eyes widened with awe as he took in a centaur arguing with a small, bipedal furry creature over the price of a cart.
The boy froze when a wraith passed us. Tyrin nudged him forward, and we followed the enticing aromas of food to a restaurant selling martabak.
The pan-fried bread stuffed with minced meat, eggs, onions, and spices smelled far more intriguing than my dwindling supply of salted meat, so I purchased several.
The vender placed them in a bag and handed them to me, and Jameson watched the transaction with drool trailing down his chin.
“Can I have one now?” he asked.
The restaurant was cramped and offered little seating, all of which was taken.
“You will get sand in it when we leave this tent,” I said.
His eyes were pleading. “I don’t care.”
I handed him one of the small paper packages. He uncovered his mouth and had half of the martabak eaten before we stepped outside.
The inn was precisely where the warden said it would be, distinguished by an emerald door carved with the Peace Council’s interlocking circles. Magic prickled my skin as we crossed the threshold into neutral territory enchantments.
A welcome blast of air conditioning chilled my skin, providing relief from the sweltering heat as we entered an inviting reception area with plush divan furniture and rugs arranged with an abundance of pillows.
Carved embellishments framed colorful mosaic-style stained glass windows and adorned whitewashed mud-brick walls.
The innkeeper materialized behind the front desk, his human form draped in a traditional Yemeni headscarf and robe. Something ancient lurked behind his eyes, older than the building itself. His exposed face and hands flickered translucent for a heartbeat before solidifying again.
He studied our bedraggled group, nostrils flaring. His gaze landed on Jameson, and his lip curled. “The boy is disgusting. You must visit the hammam down the hall, so he doesn’t defile my rooms with such filth.”
Jameson’s cheeks flushed crimson.
“Of course.” I approached the desk. “We require three rooms and access to your hammam.” A bath would be a welcome treat for us all.
The innkeeper’s translucent fingers drummed the counter. “The rooms are five silver each. The hammam, another one per person.”
I counted out the coins, adding extra. “The boy needs clothes. Shoes as well.”
The innkeeper called over his shoulder in Arabic, summoning a teenage boy who appeared through a beaded curtain. He circled Jameson, eyeing him critically before nodding at his father and disappearing back through the doorway.
“My son will fetch appropriate garments from the market. They will be waiting in his room when you finish bathing.” His gaze lingered on my bare torso. “Perhaps he should purchase something for you as well?”
“That is unnecessary, but thank you.” Though I owned shoes and clothing other than trousers, I had yet to see the need for them. The less I had to magic away before shifting, the better.
With a huff, he produced three brass keys stamped with room numbers. “Leave your belongings here. I will have them delivered.”
I hesitated, my hand moving instinctively toward Silentium, which rested in its sheath on my back. The thought of leaving my blade unattended sent tension crawling up my spine. Jameson’s eyes kept flickering to the bag of food in my hands.
The innkeeper flickered translucent again. “I will keep the food warm, and everything will be perfectly safe under the neutral territory enchantments. Or do you doubt the Peace Council’s protection?”
“No disrespect intended,” Tyrin said, shrugging off his pack.
I followed suit, still bristling at the necessity of separating from my sword. Our belongings vanished, and we headed down the hall.
Jameson leaned closer, asking, “What was that guy?”
“Likely a jinn,” Tyrin replied.
“A genie?”
The gargoyle nodded. “Yes. I believe so.”
Steam billowed from two arched doorways, and the scent of eucalyptus and mint welcomed us into the men’s baths. Marble floors reflected the soft glow of enchanted lamps, and the three-foot-tall male who bustled toward us, wearing only a red and white checkered wrap secured around his hips.
His eyes widened as he took us in, lips curling in disgust at the sight. Clapping his hands together, he said, “Off, off! Everything off and into the pools!”
Jameson’s eyes went wide as saucers. “What is that?”
“A brownie,” Tyrin whispered, already stripping off his tunic. “They can get vindictive if you keep them from completing their tasks. It is best to do as he says.”
The brownie pointed at Jameson. “You! In the hot pool first. You need the most work.”
Leaving the boy in the capable hands of the brownie, I shed my shemagh and trousers and sank into the nearest pool with a groan as the heated water unknotted my tense muscles.
Tyrin claimed the pool beside mine while Jameson gingerly lowered himself into the one the brownie indicated, still wearing his gloves.
“Those, too,” the brownie commanded.
Jameson clutched his hands to his chest. “I can’t. I could electrocute you.”
“Pah! I’ve scrubbed down elemental mages before. A little spark won’t hurt me.” He yanked the gloves free before the boy could protest further.
Steam swirled around us as the brownie attacked Jameson with a scrub brush, turning the water of his pool gray with accumulated filth. The boy flinched when the brownie lathered up his back, but he did not complain.
“None of these wounds are deep, but I will treat them once we get you clean.” Concern warmed the brownie’s tone and softened the lines of his face as he switched to a cloth and gentled his strokes.
“T-thank you,” Jameson stammered through gritted teeth.
Tyrin watched the boy curiously. “Brisbane is quite far from Ukraine.”
Jameson shrugged, then winced at the pull on his wounds. “Yeah.”
“How did you end up in Pripyat?” I pressed.
His jaw tightened. “Not by choice, that’s for sure. I was taken.”
The brownie dumped a bucket of clean water over his head, rinsing the soap away.
“By whom?” I asked.
He gave me another shrug. “Dunno. They just locked me in that cage and kept forcing me to zap the machine.”
My gaze locked with Tyrin’s. Whoever required the use of this boy as a living battery would not react kindly to our absconding with their asset.
One problem at a time.