Walking along the street toward the stoneshroom fields where she spent most of her mornings, Peer tried to deny the sense of contentment that threatened. She'd been feeling it for a while, as it sought to put down roots in a place that she had never believed she could call home. There was so much she missed-her friends, her small canal-side home in Mino Mont Canton, and Gorham most of all-that it felt wrong to be happy here. She had been banished from the world she knew, escaping execution only because the Marcellans knew it would be dangerous should she become a martyr. In Skulk she could fade away. She was a prisoner who was growing to like her prison, an exiled victim of an insidious dictatorship who was forgetting the fire and rage that had fueled her past. Often she would strive to reignite that fire, but it never felt the same. Just let it come, Penler would say to her, referring to the gentle contentment and not the righteous passion she had once felt. She hated him and loved him for that, the infuriating old man. He was trying to save her, and she was determined to convince herself that she did not want to be saved.
This is not my home, she thought again as she walked through the narrow streets, but this morning Skulk Canton felt just fine.
She passed through a small square and saw familiar figures setting up stalls for breakfast. She bought a lemon pancake and had her mug filled with rich five-bean, and she dallied for a while, enjoying the sights and smells of cooking, the sound of bartering, and the good-natured air of the place.
"You'll be late!" a big man called as he stirred soup in a huge pot.
"The 'shrooms will wait, Maff," she said. "What's cooking?"
He motioned her over, and Peer smiled as she negotiated her way through a throng of hungry people. Maff always enjoyed revealing the recipes to his top-secret brews.
"Tell no one," he whispered as she drew close, his breath smelling of beer and pipe smoke, his big hand closing around her long, tied hair. "I had a consignment of dart root delivered yesterday. I'm mixing it with rockzard legs, some sweet potatoes from Course, and my own special ingredient." He tapped the side of her nose and glanced around, as if they were discussing a coup against the Marcellans themselves.
Peer raised an eyebrow, waiting for the great revelation.
"Electric-eel hearts," he whispered into her ear. "Fresh. Still charged." She felt his bead-bedecked beard tickling her neck and pulled away, laughing softly. When she looked at him, Maff was nodding seriously, pearls of sweat standing out on his suntanned skin. He touched her nose again. "Tell no one."
"Your secret's safe with me, Maff."
"So…?" he asked, lifting a deep spoon of the soup toward a bowl.
Peer held up both hands. "I'd like to wake up in the morning."
Maff shrugged and continued stirring the soup, and even as she bade him farewell, he called over a short, ratlike man. He whispered in the man's ear, nodded down at the soup, and his secret was told again.
In her early days here, Peer would have wondered what crimes Maff had committed to deserve banishment. Such thoughts rarely crossed her mind anymore. She left the square and weaved her way through narrow streets, the buildings overhead seeming to lean in and almost touch. The sun shone, though she still thought it would likely rain that afternoon, and Skulk Canton was buzzing with life.
She passed a group of men and women lounging on the front steps of a large building. They wore knives and swords on show, and all bore identical scars on their left cheeks-the unmistakable arc of a rathawk's wing. They observed her with lazy eyes and full purple lips, displaying the signs of subtle slash addiction, and one of them called to her softly. Laughter followed. She ignored the call and walked on, maintaining the same pace. She didn't want them to think she was running because of them, but slowing could have been seen as a reaction to the voice. They were part of the Rage gang-slash dealers and sex vendors-and she had no wish to be involved with them in any way.
She soon reached the first of the stoneshroom fields. There were already dozens of people at work, scrambling across the spread of ruined buildings in their search for the prized fungi. Much of the wild plant growth had been cleared from the rubble, making the stoneshrooms easier to spot and giving them space in which to grow, and the ruins were stark and depressing in the morning sun. Some areas still bore the dark evidence of fire, even after so long, and to Peer the ruin seemed recent, not a hundred years old. She breathed in deeply, closed her eyes, smiled as she tried to drive down the dark thoughts that always haunted her, then went to work.
She knew most of the stoneshroom gatherers, and they were a friendly group to work with. They were all out for themselves-picking the 'shrooms was only the first part of the process, the next being their cleaning, preparation, and sale-but often, if a good spread was found, word would filter quietly to the several other harvesters in the vicinity. They were a prized plant because of their heavy meatiness, and they were one of the few foodstuffs harvested within Skulk Canton. If ever we claim independence, Penler had once quipped, we'll all turn into stoneshrooms.
Peer worked hard, delving down into the spaces between collapsed walls, shifting small blocks aside where she could, and spending long moments of stillness sniffing for the fungi. Some hunters sang, and the song was taken up by others, but Peer remained silent today. She was looking forward to seeing Penler for lunch, and she hoped to have several 'shrooms prepared for him by then.
As noon approached, storm clouds drifted in over the city to the north. Peer derived some small satisfaction from knowing that it rained on the rest of Echo City before it rained on Skulk Canton. She made the most of the final touch of sunlight, then set off for the city walls.
Penler was sitting on a wooden bench looking out over the Markoshi Desert. Peer saw something symbolic in that. The bench must have been placed atop the wall by Watchers long ago, because the Marcellans and their Hanharan religion looked only inward, and Penler knew her Watcher history.
"Penler," Peer said as she approached. The old man glanced up and smiled, wiping his lips. He nursed a bottle of Crescent wine in his lap, a good ruby red, and she smiled at his flagrant display of resourcefulness. Close though they had become, he had never told her how he still procured such produce from outside.
"Peer, my dear," he said, shuffling along the bench. "Been keeping it warm for you."
The first drops of rain spattered the stone paving around them as she sat down. Penler was wearing a heavy coat with a wide hood, and she pulled up her own hood. The sound of rain striking it made her feel isolated, even though she sat there with her friend.
"I brought some stoneshrooms," she said, taking the folded cloth from her pocket. "Not the best of the crop today, but I arrived at the fields late."
Penler nodded and ran his fingers across the proffered fungi. He moved his hand back and forth, then paused above one of the smaller, darker slices. He leaned in and sniffed, then grunted in satisfaction. He could always hone in on the best of everything.
"I have some fresh bread," he said as he chewed, "and the wine is good."
"They'll execute me for drinking it," Peer said, laughing and taking a swig from his bottle. He was right; it was excellent.
"Even the Marcellans themselves won't be drinking better wine today," Penler said, and beneath the humor lay the familiar seriousness. He'd been sent here many years before when he published a book exploring the Dragarians' beliefs. The prosecuting Hanharan priests had claimed it was not the publication that marked him as a heretic but his sympathy for the Dragarians and their dead prophet-murdered by the Marcellans' own Scarlet Blades, after all-that shone through his writing. Proud, stubborn, Penler had confirmed or denied nothing, and his future was set.
"Fuck the Marcellans," she said, "and get that bread out."