Chapter Two #2
The Selat man sneered as he read the sign: “Leave the Kingdom at the door.”
“Please,” the Xana man said in a hurry, his hands held up in a plea, “he—”
“And what does the sign mean?” Shadach left the question open to anyone who would answer.
The Selat man piped up, happy to prove he was on the right side. The innocent side. “It means all the politics, all the shit of the Kingdom, you leave it outside. Or, in this case, no calling a Selat ‘soulless’.”
The insult for Selats came from the streak of white some of them had in their hair.
Lack of colour meant lack of soul … or something like that.
The insult was hundreds of years old, originating from when the Selats had come to this land and taken it in blood from the Halcin.
Who had taken it in blood from the Xana.
Who had taken it in blood from the P’arin.
Who had taken it in blood from someone that no one remembered.
“I know, I’m sorry.” The Xana man’s tone was equal parts pleading and whining. “I shouldn’t … I shouldn’t have. But he’s been cheating at cards! Stealing my money.”
“I am not!” The Selat man shouted back.
A brand new Shadow writhed and wriggled itself from the Selat man’s shoulders, its colour a soft white, its wafer-thin body making an almost-imperceptible screeching noise. This Shadow was born of a blatant lie.
Shadach could have outed the man, of course.
But that would have meant outing himself.
The God only knew what the world would do if it discovered Shadach could see Shadows being made.
Perhaps they would celebrate him. Perhaps they would kill him.
Shadach was not eager to find out which.
So he threw a seemingly friendly arm around the Selat man’s shoulders and said, “There now, he apologised. Why don’t you buy a couple rounds, maybe even throw in some food? Show there’s no hard feelings.”
The Selat man blanched. That was going to cost more than he’d stolen. The Selat man started to protest, but when Shadach tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, he relented with a strained smile.
Within minutes, the chatter was flowing again, as were the drinks and laughter.
Shadach busied himself once more behind the bar, the sign he’d made a few years ago hanging above his head.
Shadach was not fool enough to think he could change the Kingdom.
There was too much history, too much hate, and far too many Shadows for that.
But Shadach didn’t want to have to deal with the treachery, the suspicion, the backstabbing in his own tavern.
He wanted one place of peace. One place where the realities of the Kingdom did not exist.
Or, at least, where everyone agreed to pretend they didn’t.
Glancing up from cleaning a glass, Shadach saw the Selat man and the Xana man at a table, laughing, drinking, telling dirty jokes from the looks on their faces. As if they’d been best friends since childhood.
A pretty moment laid on top of an endless darkness.
For the Shadows told the truth, contradicting the veneer of peace as they leeched off body after body after body. Shadach set to cleaning another glass, and another, and another as the Shadows screeched their mocking laughter.
~*~
Shadach sat, setting his feet on a rickety table in the corner of the Knitting Widow.
The customers were gone, the Knitting Widow cleaned and ready to host the slums all over again tonight.
There was quiet. Calm. The Shadows had, for the most part, gone elsewhere.
Shadach was not very interesting in here all by himself.
Soon, he would go into his tiny living quarters upstairs and sleep, but first there were the books to balance.
Pulling a small notebook from his pocket, Shadach ran through how much they’d made last night versus how much they would need to spend to replenish food, drink, and broken glasses.
While still having some coin for a charitable donation.
One of the reasons the people of the slums didn’t mind sharing what they had with the Knitting Widow, was they knew the Knitting Widow didn’t mind sharing what it had with the slums.
“You look a bit shit.”
Shadach paused mid-pen stroke. He knew that voice. He’d been hearing it since childhood. The fact that it was deeper now didn’t change the underlying brutality blunted with sweetness.
“Still looking better than you,” Shadach said with a sarcastic smile.
Aristen laughed, the sound warm like the sunrise as he closed the Knitting Widow’s front door behind him. A streak of Selat white cut through Aristen’s golden hair, though it was barely noticeable through the Shadows swarming him. The Shadows always followed Aristen.
Drama tended to follow the General of the Emperor’s army.
“Have you closed up for the day?” Aristen eyed the rows of clean glasses sitting out to dry.
“For you, we’re always open.” Shadach motioned to the bar.
Aristen grabbed a clean glass and went to the bar with cat-like grace, his chain-mail armour clinking as he moved. A star emblem on his shoulder and the gold hilt of his sword spoke to his high rank.
“You know,” Aristen worked away behind the bar, making the Knitting Widow’s signature Shared Hope cocktail.
He knew all the steps except for what was in the syrup, and that was a secret Shadach would never share, “you could make a fortune selling this in the city centre. You are wasting your talent down here, dwelling in all this filth.”
“The pompous nobles in the centre don’t need another cocktail tavern.” Shadach looked back to his notebook, writing down how many glasses had broken last night. Fifteen.
“No, they don’t.” Aristen took a long, luxurious drink of his finished cocktail. With a contented sigh, he said, “They need the best cocktail tavern in the Kingdom. Which is yours. And they need to praise me for finding you and bringing you to them.”
Shadach shook his head with a half-smile. They’d had this argument a thousand times. Neither one was bored of it yet. Aristen rounded the bar, moving to join Shadach at his table.
“Not so fast.” Shadach held out his hand. “That’s one silver piece.”
“Silver? Come now, I know this cost five obsidian pieces. And a pretty barmaid didn’t even make it for me.”
“Obsidian and a barmaid are for the filth-dwellers.”
“That kind of discrimination is illegal, you know.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” Shadach sat back, smiled, then pointed at the sign above his bar.
“Ah yes.” Aristen rolled his eyes, hiding a smile as he tossed a silver coin into Shadach’s palm. “Your little kingdom within the Kingdom.”
With that, Aristen sat and enjoyed the rest of his drink in companionable silence. After Aristen set down his empty glass, Shadach said, “How’s the ass-kissing going?”
Aristen slouched deeper into his chair. “If my father tells me to smile with more gusto at one more well-connected courtesan, I am going to throw myself off a cliff.”
“Or you could just tell him to piss off. Could be easier.”
“You do remember my father, don’t you?”
“It’ll be like ripping off a very dirty, very maniacal bandage. You’ll feel like you’re going to die, but you won’t, and then it’s off.”
Aristen flicked a stray crumb off the table. “That will be the day.”
“That day could be today.”
Aristen began to roll his eyes, but refrained. This was also an argument they’d had a thousand times. Aristen glanced at the bar, the look on his face reminding Shadach of when they had been seventeen, trying to devise how to get alcohol before they were legally allowed.
“I’ll make you another.” Shadach stood and headed to the bar.
Aristen flashed a princely smile. “You’re such a sweetheart.” Aristen threw another silver coin onto the table. He paused then added three bronze ones. Just because he could. Aristen was nothing if not well-paid for his ass-kissing.
“The altar’s back, is it?” Aristen nodded to a small, wooden table in the corner as Shadach made him a Forgotten Peace cocktail. A newer cocktail that was set to compete with the sales of Shared Hope.
“What do you mean ‘back’? It never left.” Shadach mixed a serving of cream liquor into the glass.
“Last time I was here, it was gone.” Aristen kicked his feet onto the table, leaning back in the chair. “I thought you’d finally given up on all that religious nonsense.”
“Just out for repairs. The God’s statue of his Lust form was cracked.” Shadach measured in the syrup with no tools. He knew it from feel. “The Night form had had one too many beers spilled on it. And the Dream form’s head had broken off. So I finally took it in to get repaired.”
“Shadach,” Aristen sighed, “no one worships the Dream form. It’s not even officially recognised by the priesthood.”
“The P’arin people worship it.”
“Yes. All three of them.” Aristen drank his cocktail in contented bliss.
When they were children, it had worried Aristen to be honest with Shadach.
Their society, after all, was built on collective lies.
Pretty stories about the God and his fairness.
About how everyone had brought their various religious persuasions to the land, and the God had absorbed them all into himself, becoming one deity with many forms. Like the God, the Kingdom of Shadows was an amalgamation of all its people, equally loved and respected.
Or so the pretty little story went.