We enter one of the larger, sturdier tents set up as a makeshift watering hole and order food. I stare at the food, but I mostly drink. Not water.
How did this happen?
The fifth time I ask myself that, I think I say it out loud because Maezii takes my. . .sixth?. . .drink away and pushes it toward Lathhan. He gives it a distasteful glance and shoves it at Hatthar. Lath’a only drinks water.
“It happened,” my so-called husband purrs in my ear, the caress of his warm breath making my mead-soaked body shudder, “because our deeds always return on us tenfold. You owe me twenty years, and I find I quite like the Aeddannari concept of usury.”
“Interest.”
“All I hear, Ky’a, is that I’m yours by law andyou can’t be rid of me.” He bites down on my earlobe. “You started this war. You fought it well. But I will always win.”
I push away from the table. Rath stands immediately and I snarl at him. “I’m going out for a smoke and you are not invited.”
He stares down at me. “I go where you go. This fair is not safe. Full of rough and uncivilized looking people.”
“I’ll go with her,” Maezii says, rising. “We’ve been in worse places.”
I shove my hand at Hatthar, palm up. “I know you have smoking herbs. Give.”
Hatthar scowls. “It’s the good shit.”
“Invoice myhusband.”
“But he’s a kept male now.”
“Give it to her,” Rath says.
Hatthar sighs and digs out his pouch, tossing it to me. “Females are expensive.”
“It’s just a little smoke, you skinflint. No wonder no female’s blooded you.” I stomp towards the back of the tent, Maezii on my heels.
“Ten minutes, Ky’a,” Rath calls after me, an edge in his voice as Hatthar says, “I think her temper’s gotten worse with age. Typical female.”
“It’s like he thinks I’m still twenty-five,” I complain when we’re outside, firing up the rolled joints.
It’s a kind of alley, but we’re not the only people smoking. A Human male slips out the back tent, almost bumping into me, and whistles, walking away. I keep an eye on him for a desultory minute as he meets two more males several tents away, cloaked and huddled in quiet conversation.
“Just two or three puffs for you, Mae’a, this is an Uthilsen backwoods blend.”
She takes one, eyes it, and grins. “Yeah? When do I ever just take two or three puffs?”
“You won’t be able to walk.”
“That’s what Hatthar’s for.” She exhales a cloud of fragrant air, casting her gaze up at the sky. “Or the Icarian. Bet I can get him to fly me.”
“I’m not taking that bet.” On my eighth puff it starts to hit, relaxing me. An Orc male meanders by, slowing to give us a look and I growl. “Move along.”
A Human pokes her head out of the back tent. “We can smell the smoke. There’s outdoor seating a row of tents that way.”
We nod and leave the tent alley, turning the corner she indicated. Sun is beginning to set, the air beginning to cool. There’s rough wood and reclaimed metal benches, and ground seating covered with old tarp tucked into a round bit of cleared forest. We find a bit of unoccupied tarp and plop down, backs against a tree trunk. After the third request to share or sell our smokes, we decide to go a bit deeper in the forest before we have to defend our “no” with fists.
“Does Hattie have a regular supply of this stuff?” Maezii asks.
Hattie. I snort. “Dare you to call him that to his face. It’s probably Fiuthen’s. I think he’s in City trade now. Can you imagine? Trade. He was wearing a wool vest with gold buttons.”
“The world is blowing up. Orcs wearing shirts and pants. Even shoes.”
I agree. “It’s not traditional. My Da never worea shirt a day in his life. He was a good, modest male. Except for that whole marrying a Human girl blip. Did you know I was a seven month baby?”
