Chapter 14
Early-morning customers are the worst customers.
Matiyu hates having this shift. No one is sitting down to eat; they’re only buying a fresh catch so they can prepare their own lunches later. No one is coming for good service; they only want to haggle over the best price possible.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “You already paid for the second tier, so that one is too big.”
Matiyu has held more jobs than the ordinary civilian in San-Er. Crescent Society bookkeeper. Palace of Union surveillance worker. And, within the span of a few months, after groveling around the cities and speaking to anyone who might be hiring: fish scooper at seafood restaurant.
“They’re practically the same,” the man says. “I just want the red one. It’s lucky.”
“The red one has a significantly larger body,” Matiyu insists, tapping the glass so that the fish swims toward them, wobbling its large gut. “It’ll tip the weight into the next tier.”
“I come every morning!” the customer continues arguing. “Bringing you all this business, and you’re trying to give me cheap goods?”
Matiyu is very close to sticking his head into the tank.
“I don’t own the restaurant,” he says. “If there was anything I could do for you, I would. Truly. But…” Rather than stand there arguing further, Matiyu scoops one of the smaller fishes and puts it in the bag. “Next!”
The man is forced to leave the line, grumbling under his breath about wanting to speak to a supervisor.
Twin Scales is a chain across Er with multiple locations near the water, so the loss of one customer isn’t high among a supervisor’s priorities.
Business has been booming anyway. While San-Er starts to run scarce on other commodities, fish remains constant.
The carrots and the cabbages falter depending on which wagons are still being pushed down from the provinces, but nothing impedes the boats setting off from Er’s docks.
“You have too much patience.”
Matiyu’s head whips up, his net splashing.
“Yilas!” he bellows. He’s thrilled. His sister showing up gives him the excuse to take a break from morning scooping. Somehow, the line has stretched into the next alley. “Can I get you anything? Hey, take over.”
He passes the net to the kid on cleaning duty. Kid’s going to do a terrible job, but maybe then these customers will appreciate Matiyu’s deft hand more.
“I don’t think she reaches the top of the tank,” Yilas says while he steers them toward the tables.
It’s too early for lunch service, so there aren’t any patrons around.
His sister grimaces as she sits, wiping off the moisture that has collected on her shoulders.
Matiyu doesn’t notice the rainfall in San-Er anymore because his skin is so shriveled from swishing around the tank all day.
“She’ll be fine,” he replies. “Tea?”
“Sure.”
Matiyu hurries into the back. He finds a teapot.
Places it under the hot water dispenser.
It takes a second for the water to flow from the pipes, and then it almost burns Matiyu with a sudden gush.
No matter. He’s tough. When he returns to the table, he chooses the seat next to Yilas rather than the opposite side.
He pours two helpings of tea for them both, then laces his numb fingers together.
“So what’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on,” Yilas replies. “I’m poking my head in. Checking on your well-being.”
“Our father didn’t put you up to this?”
“Our father is actually more worried about me and my former association with Her Majesty, the wearer of the divine crown.”
Matiyu leans on the table. When it groans in warning, he immediately retracts his weight. The white tablecloth is on its last legs too. Three large holes, fraying through the edge and eating into the flower pattern.
“Aren’t you still friends with Calla?”
“Beyond the point,” Yilas says breezily. “How are you? No… unusual interactions with customers?”
The man demanding the bigger fish has left the line, so Matiyu can’t imagine he’s going to be a problem anymore, at least not today.
For lunch and dinner service, the restaurant caters to clientele from the financial district—the families and the bankers wanting a meal after a long day managing the wealthy’s accounts.
It’s not the same riffraff he got used to with the Crescent Societies.
“Plenty of people yelling at me about their fish,” Matiyu says.
Yilas taps her fingers on the table. Her eyes drop to her lap.
“I wondered if you might consider leaving with me and going to the provinces.”
“What?” Matiyu exclaims. Yilas would hate the provinces. She doesn’t even like washing the vegetables at the diner she runs. “Is this Chami’s idea?”
“I haven’t asked Chami yet. I thought it might do her some good, actually. Get away from the rain.”
Matiyu blinks. “There’s rain across the provinces.”
“It’s better in some places. And besides—the wall is open now. We could come back if it doesn’t work out.”
There has not been a moment where Matiyu considered leaving the twin cities.
Some mornings he walks along San’s wall to clear his head, and since the coup, he has seen plenty of rural dwellers coming in, moving with a quickness that—funnily enough—reminds him of the larger fish he handles.
Out from the tank, in through the wall, what’s the difference?
They will be sure-footed at first. The larger fish never fight him because they think they’re being moved somewhere better.
Then they gasp. They realize they are far from water, going farther still.
Entering San-Er is the same. The rural dwellers show up and realize they were not built to breathe here.
They will try in earnest. They have spent a very long time believing the capital will possess what they need, that there is no lacking.
A few quick thefts, a few stolen bowls of rice—these will temporarily stave off some hunger.
Then they realize they cannot stay in the alleys; they realize that every apartment in these buildings has already been stuffed full to the brim.
Soon, they discover that the only options left are the temples.
Newcomers duck underneath an awning, rest on the steps until they are welcomed in.
The Crescent Societies offer a meal; the cleric asks for loyalty.
Ordinary civilians in San-Er keep expecting the Crescents to realize they have made a mistake keeping the wall open, but they do not understand the Crescents as Matiyu did, and they do not see what Matiyu sees every morning at the wall.
“I don’t care for the provinces,” Matiyu answers honestly. “We won’t find better conditions than what we already have. The bare minimum in San-Er is a privilege out there.”
“Yes, but, Matiyu—” His sister leans in. Lowers her voice, though they are the only people seated at the tables. “Have you seen the news? They’re fucking multiplying in the capital overnight.”
He did see the news. He saw it in the shop windows while walking to his shift. Heretics. Civilians who are making use of this uncertain time by claiming they were original members of the pantheon, old gods who descended from the heavens to live an earthly life… until now.
“I have to get back to scooping fish,” Matiyu says, “but you can stay if you’d like.”
“I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“I am safe,” Matiyu assures her. The Crescent Societies have painted their crescent moons over most of San, marking their presence. It isn’t as common in Er, in the financial district. “This will pass. The capital will settle. It always does.”
Glass smashes across the restaurant. Matiyu and Yilas both jolt, whipping around.
The sound came from the shopfront, from the main fish tank.
Water pours frenetically onto the street, and the kid on scooping duty scambles to block the large hole that’s been blown into the tank.
There’s no use. The fish are slithering through.
Matiyu rises from the table, baffled, only to see the man he’d been arguing with hurry up the shop steps, diving to snag the red fish and clutch its slimy scales against his chest.
“Hey!” Matiyu bellows. “What’s your problem?”
The man looks up. His eyes flash. And when Matiyu takes a step toward him, some invisible force pummels him in the chest, sending him flying across the tables and chairs.
“Matiyu!” Yilas screeches.
Matiyu strikes the wall with a crunch. His vision is spinning. Slowly, he registers his sister patting his face, his shoulder. A deep, nauseating pain spreads from his elbow. It doesn’t feel like any of his bones are where they’re supposed to be.
“Matiyu?” Yilas demands. Her face focuses in front of him. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Matiyu wheezes. “Take me to the hospital.”