He hurried down the ship-long corridor toward the stern. He wasn’t going that far. The common room, which included the cold larder and kitchen, was at midship, basically a widening of this same passageway. He reached the swinging door and shoved into the larger space. His nose was immediately assaulted with the smell of sweaty bodies and musky cheeses—though it was not clear which was which.
Ahead of him, the commons was broken into two halves. To the right were the shelves and cupboards of the ship’s larder, fronted by a long bar where a servitor in sky-blue livery stood alongside a sullen-eyed scribe who tallied each passenger’s allotted fare. Of course, for an extra silver eyrie or two, indulgences could be bought: dried fruits, cold sweet-curdles, salted meats. There was even a small oven of draft-iron heated with coals to warm bread or cheese, but that cost an extra ha’eyrie. Rhaif, with his purse nearly empty after booking a cabin fit for an imri trader, could not waste his last coins on such meager luxuries.
Even with his head covered in the leather helm and silk drape of his byor-ga habiliment, he kept his face down as he entered. As he crossed toward the larder bench, he surreptitiously searched the room.
To his left, the other half of the commons was a mirror to the first. Only the bar on that side protected shelves that held dusty bottles strapped in place, along with a row of casks and barrels along the floor. The crone of an alewife stood there, doling out drabs of spiced spirits, tankards of heartier beers, and flagons of fruity wines. She even offered an assortment of pipe leaf, which could only be partaken in the commons, where every flame was guarded over by a wary watchman. No one resented such beady-eyed attentiveness. All knew the danger floating above their heads.
As Rhaif crossed the room, he attended to the other passengers here, a dozen or so, mostly bowlegged Guld’guhlians, but also a few leather-faced, lanky Aglerolarpoks. The latter had patches cut out of their upper sleeves, baring the seared brands of their various ranches. Faces swung his way. Of the hundred or so riding this gasbag to the far west, his party was one of only a handful of Klasheans—at least, as best as Rhaif had been able to discern so far.
Eyes narrowed upon him as he crossed the room, varying from wariness to outright hostility. Over the past two days, Rhaif had usually sent Pratik to collect their meals. It was a necessity to maintain their cover. The Chaaen—posing as a member of the imri caste and fluent in Klashean—could engage in conversation if any of his people should attempt to speak to him. Rhaif, on the other hand, only knew a few words of their lilting tongue. Though, in the end, it proved a needless precaution. None of the other Klasheans on board ever approached Pratik.
The reason behind that segregation was obvious. Tensions and hostili ties were running high aboard the wyndship. Everyone had witnessed the fiery destruction of the Klashean ship at the docks of Eyr Rigg. Suspicions abounded. Most had come to believe there must be a justifiable reason for such an attack. Why else risk riling the empire of the Southern Klashe? Furthermore, as the Pony traveled the breadth of the sea, fears grew, stirred by speculations of retaliation, of war breaking out. All that anxiety needed a focus, which ended up being directed at the Klasheans on board, with their foreign tongue and reclusive natures.
Pratik had even reported one passenger spitting at him, which was an affront no imri would normally tolerate. Still, Pratik bore it silently, not wanting to draw undue attention. This sour attitude of their fellow passengers was surely noted by the other Klasheans, too. To avoid raising further suspicions, the foreigners mostly kept to their cabins and mingled as little as possible.
Unfortunately, Rhaif saw now that this sudden unexplained stop in Azantiia had stoked tensions to a feverish degree. Distrust shone from all the faces that followed his path across the commons. Eyes glinted with anger, as if he were to blame for everything, even their own fears.
Rhaif had come here to circumspectly inquire if anyone knew the reason for the Pony’s sudden need to land at Azantiia’s port. In just the few steps it took to reach the bench before the ship’s larder, he read the room and recognized not only the futility of such an endeavor, but also the likelihood of his arse being thrown from the sailraft deck at the stern of the ship if he should draw too much attention his way.
He weighed if it might be better to simply disembark in Azantiia. Maybe his group should take their chances hiding under the noses of those who hunted them versus taking the risk of traveling the rest of their passage to Aglerolarpok.
“What’ll ya have?” the servitor asked as Rhaif reached the man’s station at the kitchen larder.
Rhaif set his basket atop the bar and slid his slip over. “Just the usual fare,” he said, speaking stiffly to pretend that Hálendiian was not his native tongue. “Thank you most kindly,” he added with extra politeness.
Such civility only earned him a scowl as the man took the basket and turned to his shelves to collect their foodstuffs. The servitor moved with a slowness that clearly took effort, an unspoken affront. The man’s hand shifted from a fresh-cut slab of yellow cheese to one that had crusted over, its rind mildewed to a dark green. He dropped the old chunk into the basket. The loaf of bread that followed had patches of frothy black mold.
Rhaif pretended not to notice. Now’s not the time to raise any objections. He heard grumbles rising behind him from the other tables near the bar. A few louder voices sniped purposely at him.
… fecking Klashers …
… oughta burn ’em all, I say …
… cast the lot straight off the ship …
The old scribe behind the bench—whose face was forever fixed in a knot of tired disgust—took Rhaif’s slip and marked off what was collected. From the open patch in his sleeve, he was an Aglerolarpok. Only his brand was crossed out by another scar, indicating he had been banished from his ranch. The skies were likely the only refuge afforded him.
“Anything else?” the man asked leadenly, a rote inquiry he must’ve asked countless times. “Warm your cheese, mayhap?”
Rhaif shook his head. Even if he had the coin for it, he sensed it was better to get out of here without waiting for that stone-hard cheese to melt.
A muffled lilting voice rose behind him. “Please do,” she said. “I will be happy to pay.”
He turned to find another figure outfitted in an embroidered byor-ga standing at his shoulder. She shifted next to him, a bit too closely, clearly seeking companionship amidst the storm behind them.
He inwardly cringed. “B … Ben midi,” he stuttered out, greeting her in Klashean, while trying his best to mimic her lilt.
He wanted to refuse her largesse, but he was not fluent enough to do so. And he certainly dared not be exposed here. He could only imagine the reaction of the already twitchy group in the commons if it was revealed he was in disguise. He pictured a long fall from the stern deck to the forests of Cloudreach below. The Pony had nearly crossed the breadth of those greenwoods. Such a plummet would certainly mark a dramatic return to the homelands of his mother, an unexpected visit he’d prefer not to make.
Next to him, the Klashean woman placed an eyrie on the table. Her gloved fingers pushed the silver coin toward the scribe and waved away any attempt to return the ha’eyrie she was owed back. “For your troubles and kind service,” she intoned.