Chapter Twenty-Six The Bee’s Gold
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE BEE’S GOLD
T HEIR JACKPOT HAD truly been damaged by Desil’s forfeit from the river match, presenting a sum infinitely worse than Master Dothilos’s projections: a meagre twelve white valirs made their way into their pockets.
“And given how I just attempted suicide in front of every single spectator, we must have chased away every single bull we had left,” said Lythlet glumly at the dining table of the Homely Home. “No one in their right minds would consider us worthwhile investment vehicles anymore.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Shunvi, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.
“Some interesting rumors began pouring out of the arena after your match,” said Ilden, a coy smile curling his lips.
“Rumors that perhaps it was a semi-scripted fight today, meant to heighten the usual dramatics to get the spectators talking more, so that your last matches draw the biggest crowd possible.”
“Why upon the Sunsmith would such rumors spread?”
Ilden grinned and drew a playful rendition of the oath-swearing sign at her, fingers opening and shutting.
“Because the Poet and the Ruffian have got your backs. It was Shunvi’s idea.
The moment the match ended, he realized that despite your victory, bulls’ confidence in you would be shakier than ever, and, well, you only have three matches left to reap a jackpot from, so it’s all rather bad timing to have the sums plummet now. So we put our best assets together—”
“—that being my love for a good plot twist—” said Shunvi, winking.
“—and my big mouth—to perform a little damage control,” said Ilden, chomping on a breadstick Shunvi had baked in the Home’s oven as if it were his reward.
“Shunvi spun a couple of conspiracy theories on the spot into my ear, then I gibbered away like a maniac to anyone who’d listen about how it was all clearly a set-up.
Does the arena take us for fools?” he uttered in faux outrage.
“Pah, as if the Golden Thorn would let herself get eaten for no bloody reason! And Desil’s cloak-brooch had clearly been tampered with beforehand just so he could make that ridiculously dashing reveal in front of the whole arena.
And did you hear that hideously out-of-character script he screamed at the match-master?
Damn you and your cockheaded oath, bwah! Such shoddy acting, oof!”
Desil groaned in embarrassment, slinking down in his seat like he wanted to hide. “Must you always mock me so?”
“You’re a top bloke, mate. Which means it’s my duty to take the piss out of you whenever I can.”
“You’re both wonderful,” said Lythlet, truly grateful. “Thank you so much.”
Shunvi smiled. “It won’t completely bring bullish sentiment back in your favor, but those who want to believe will believe—especially if you perform well in the next few matches.” He dropped his voice and leaned into her ear. “Are you feeling better?”
She nodded subtly. “Somewhat.” Her future remained deeply uncertain, volatile with the threat of the Eza imminent—but at the very least, she had a moment to breathe and consider what path to take.
They all helped Naya set the table and apportion the food to the many plates waiting, and just as Lythlet was about to finally take her seat, she noticed something.
She jabbed her finger toward the set of hive-lanterns on the middle of the table. “Your hives are starting to rot.”
“Damn it,” Naya cursed under her breath. “I’ve completely forgotten about those—we used to have a fellow staying here who did it for us, but he now works in Shunvi’s teahouse.”
“That’s all right. I picked up a few techniques while working at a hive-workshop, so I could do it for you if you have the tools,” Lythlet offered. She reached for a lantern, wanting to get a better idea of how bad the rot was.
She popped the lid of one open, reached inside, and grasped the stem of the hive.
The lightning-bees hovered near her hand tentatively.
“Don’t worry, bumbles,” she sang off-key to them, thoroughly unaware of how odd she was being.
“My name is Lythlet Tairel, and I am a friend, not a foe.” When one eventually landed on her hand in a show of trust, the rest swiftly followed.
“Oh, don’t worry about it now,” said Naya, waving her off with a smile. “Eat up first.”
But Lythlet had frozen. White rot was flaking off the bottom of the hive, a faint amount that wasn’t urgent to address just yet. But the smell, this gentle, nutty smell that had always vaguely made her think of hazelnuts—
The memory of her father’s sleeping form came to her then, interrupting her. He’d carried a scent she hadn’t been able to place, one so utterly familiar it had bothered her, like a jigsaw she was one piece away from solving.
Not this smell—it had been different.
Then her eyes widened as horror seized her, the identity of that scent becoming clear at last.
Rot. It’s golden rot. Her mind raced, piecing together the clues.
That’s why the master-builder of the riverside flats offers such good terms, saying they’ll pay any debt the unregistered hold after two years—the unregistered will turn ash-white from the inside and die before they can collect on it .
Her stomach churned in disgust as she recalled Shunvi and Ilden mentioning the construction was backed by unnamed politicians.
“Naya,” she said, darkening, “all the unregistereds who’ve been working at the flats. Have they come back smelling different?”
Naya’s brown cheeks took on a deep blush. “Goodness, do you mean they reek? We try to keep as clean as we can here, and fortunately the river makes it easy to bathe oneself, but—”
“No, no, the fragrance is pleasant, not foul.”
Naya tilted her head, tapping her pointed chin. “Well, yes, everyone working at the flats has been coming back smelling rather nice. I’ve gotten so used to it, I didn’t think of it when you asked. Why?”
“And have they all come down with the ekelenzi flu?”
“Unfortunately, yes, most of them. Whenever we’re on the brink of winter, the flu hits us like a brick, and this year’s even worse than usual.”
Anxiety ignited, and she rose to her feet. “I must go and see my father,” she said. “And I think it best if you all come with me.”
· · ·
T HE H OME FOR Temporarily Embarrassed Highborns was still asleep on that cool gray noon, barely a soul stirring awake at Lythlet’s entrance—they must’ve crawled out of Inejio to watch the midnight fireworks, and, judging from how deeply many were dozing on the settees and cots laid out in the halls, still needed much more sleep.
Lythlet gingerly picked her way up to the attic, trying not to disturb anyone.
Father was awake, thankfully. The man sat alone on the edge of the mattress, half-dazed as though only woken from sleep seconds ago, weariness carved deep into his bronzed skin. He grew flustered at the sight of the five of them entering the room.
“Happy Harvest, Uncle,” Desil greeted with a smile, bowing with a palm over his heart. The other three followed, echoing the appropriate albeit casual Harvest greeting for their generation to say to their elders.
“Desil? Is that you?” Father said, wide-eyed. He fumbled with his hands for a second, rising from the mattress. “I’ll go get Mother. She’s out feeding the birds in the garden—”
“No, I want to talk to you,” Lythlet said, urging him back down. She did not want Mother to hear this yet. “I came yesterday while you were asleep, and when I tucked you in, I noticed a scent lingering on you, a scent I detect even now.”
He flushed, embarrassed. “I—”
“It is not a matter of cleanliness,” she interrupted. “I believe it comes from your clothes. Do you wear this to the building site?”
“Yes. I haven’t much else to wear. But—”
“Please pardon me, but I must confirm my suspicions.” A furious blush arose in her cheeks as she leaned in.
She sniffed at his shoulder, once, twice, and then an extra-long thrice.
He stared up at her in bewilderment, and she shuffled backward immediately, bumping into Shunvi, who caught her gently.
“What are you doing?” Father asked, looking uncomfortable. He turned to cough into his sleeve.
But Lythlet regarded him grimly, stomach twisting. Her suspicions had been confirmed—she did know that smell—and she had spotted golden-white flecks of dust on his shoulder. “Father, you are in the process of being killed.”
What little levity occupying the room dissolved as everyone fell into a tense silence.
Father lowered his arm. “What?”
All eyes were on her as she spoke, pointing at the dust on his clothes. “You are familiar with hive-rot?”
“Of course, there’s not a soul who isn’t. But this isn’t it, I can tell as much.”
“No, indeed, it isn’t. But this is hive-rot that has been left to linger.
Few ever see it, for most tend to their hives and purge the rot long before it comes to that.
If not disposed of carefully, the rot continues to fester, turning a shade of yellow.
Its scent shifts, too, until the mind struggles to place it. ”
Father remained silent, a look of confusion on his face.
Lythlet continued, “It’s now called golden rot by those in the hive-keeping trade, but once upon a time, it was called the bee’s gold for its many uses.
A paste with medicinal properties, a fine fermented powder some claimed induced a divine state of consciousness—and for a few decades, it was common practice to mix it with quicklime and ash from the fire-mountains of the South Sea to produce a type of mortar strong enough to set the foundations for a grand house. ”
It took a few seconds, but his eyes widened at her last words, realization flooding in at last.