The tourist
The Over
Etrika is just staring at this person standing before her.
Her first guess is that they must be about her age, but something in their features makes them look unimaginably old… They surely aren’t, though. It’s more like they look… worn out. Tired beyond their years. They have the same healthy brown skin tone as her, and still…
Emil, for their part, stays in their pose a little longer than comfortable, a nervous tremble in their bottom lip. The girl simply has closed her books without returning the greeting. Momentarily, they forget that they’re in an unfamiliar territory, when Etrika finally does.
My name is… Etrika?
Her tone barely masks the note of uncertainty. She wouldn’t usually give her personal name to a stranger like this one, but they don’t seem dangerous, just… perhaps a little confused about courtesy. And if her name gets them to their point faster, all the better.
Emil’s lip curls slightly, before continuing in broken Ireul.
Thanks. Sorry bothering. I need… guide.
A beat. Etrika glances to the books she’s still got in her lap, but she lets the thought pass, stretching her hands, sighing. They really are just a stranger, she thinks. But…
Though Etrika has never left the comfort of Presquile, she’s still met plenty of outlanders in her time. She’s seen vespen wearing the colors of the trader islands on their banners, xalaim of varied shapes in the flow of Epitroën silks, foreign research fellows with the little emblems of their homes on their lapels… In contrast, nothing about this uuman rings a bell to Etrika.
It goes further than that. everything about them is a collage. Their leather boots look worn, but are well cared for. The pants, too, look patched up: and the poncho is nothing but patches. Their hair, mostly in crude side-braids with the rest in a ponytail, is tied up with handmade wooden accessories: roughly-worked, maybe, but elaborately designed.
Behind a forelock of hair, Etrika notices what looks like a makeshift eyepatch: just some dark fabric, held together with a knot and a shoelace. She clears her throat, raising a finger, a concern clear on her face and in her voice.
Are… Are you hurt? Do you need a hospital?
That word is unfamiliar, but Emil still takes a half-step back, frightened slightly by the gesture. After a moment, they recall that other word – ‘hurt’ – and shake their head..
No! No. It is old. ...Old hurt. All is fine today.
A tense moment equalizes. Etrika nods, her mouth pressed into a line. Emil, getting nowhere with this, repeats themself, quieter and slower, hoping that Etrika can understand them this second time.
I need guide. You know place?
Frowning beside herself, Etrika again glances back down to her books. She wants to help; but her work…
You seem upset by question, they continue, apologetically. I am tricked? You know not place?
No. I mean, yes. Etrika stammers. I–uh.
Her brain short-circuits. What’s the harm, really? They don’t seem like a jerk, but they sure seem... clingy. Could just go along with it, she signs internally. Sooner they find whatever they need, sooner they’ll leave me alone to study.
Okay. What do you need to find? she asks, resignedly, tossing her stuff into her bag and clasping it closed as she stands.
Ah, thank you! Thank you! stammers Emil. I seek… I… seek… Ah. Hold.
Keeping the poncho shut with one hand, Emil feverishly searches an inside pocket with the other. Despite this attempt at secrecy, Etrika can’t help but notice what seems to be a large stain on the sleeve of a baggy white shirt (at least, that’s what appears to be under the poncho). Seems long dried, but the burgundy stain leaves little to the imagination as to what caused it. Could they be an alcoholic…? Etrika’s hands tense up again.
A short handful of seconds later, Emil finds what they were digging around for: a silvery box. Etrika’s eyes widen unconsciously.
What the… Where did this maverick get a translation slab…? Did… did they steal it?
Ignorant of the student’s reaction, Emil takes the replika in hand, holds it near their face, and clicks the top button. They speak easygoing, fluid syllables that Etrika assumes must be their native language. A language she knows she doesn’t recognize.
A flat, androgynous voice issues forth from the device:
[Δ>Θ]{ TAILOR. }
Emil releases the button, making a little tink sound all-too-familiar to Etrika. They look satisfied, then glance back to her.
‘Tailor’! It is that! I seek tailor.
Not only does Etrika not know why she, of all locals, looks like an expert in fashion, but she also has no idea why Emil needs to use a professional-grade translation slab to ask them such a banal question. Both things feel equally quite unlike reality.
Although… maybe they’re a transfer student? They’re wearing a lab-slab, which they seem to know how to use. They sure don’t look like like a Cascadian, or from anywhere Etrika can name. They asked a student when any other person here could’ve answered them.
…No, that doesn’t follow, she concludes. The professors announce that sort of thing, and Trisha’s clique would have been insufferable about it for days, daydreaming about that mysterious foreigner. Ugh.
Well, if not a student, then… who the hell is this?
Et-uuuri. Etri-kaaa. If you would, they say, tilting their head. You fine?
Argh. She’s lost in her thoughts again.
Huh? Yes. Sorry. If you’re looking for a tailor, there’s one, three blocks that-away. In the middle of Soquis Avenue, she specifies, pointing. Can’t miss it, got those bright lights.
Avehn-yuu? So-ka-wis? Where is this? they ask, hesitantly.
Over there, she insists with a gesture. Go through the park, along the path. There’s a street sign at the end.
Ah…
To Etrika’s dismay, Emil frowns nervously, muttering in their native language.
If you would, show me?
They sit down (on the bench that Etrika just stood from), retrieving a scroll from within their poncho, wrapped in a square leather case that has seen better days. Etrika is closing her eyes and attempting to summon her patience, expecting a map, but when she glances down at it, those eyes go wide yet again.
On a piece of vellum over a meter square, Emil casually presents an incredibly detailed map covering much of the city of Cascade, including two villages south of Lake Smar,
At first it looks, for all the world, like a historical artifact; dated knowledge of Presquile. But that can’t be: there are eight dark-blue ink lines connecting Younger and Older, all in the same pen; and that eighth one was only opened for traffic four months ago.
Emil’s hands retreat to the safety of the poncho, as Etrika takes the map gingerly, with a sense of religious responsibility.
If you would, show me on map, where the tailor lives?
The question misses Etrika entirely. Her head is spinning. Searching for something to ground her, her eyes try to find the narrative here. There’s a beginning. Cascade is much more detailed than the villages, for one thing. Ah—there, the village of Fèrechan, at the far end of the sprawling drawing. That must be where Emil’s ship landed… only, there’s no airport in Fèrechan — at least, none that Etrika knows about.
They couldn’t have just materialized there out of thin air. Everyone knows that’s impossible. Were they smuggled in? Why produce a hand-drawn map, clearly at great expense for both ink and time, when this path would’ve taken them through dozens of opportunities to find other, already-made maps, whether replika or paper…?
Her admiration for the work is matched only by the sheer level of confusion her face betrays. Emil has presented her with a masterwork of cartography, something that would be at home in any museum or collection, and is asking her, gently, kindly, where on this map the tailor a couple of streets over is. Suffice to say, this person is far beyond a stranger at this point; rather, they feel like some sort of strangest.
She sits back on the bench, the map falling onto her lap.
Etrika? Emil intones, quietly concerned. It is problem? The map wrong?
No, no, gods, no, she responds immediately. It’s just…
She blinks rapidly, as though waking from a dream, realizing that a baffled smile has crept across her face. Her annoyance has totally disappeared, replaced by a profound, unfamiliar sense of pure intrigue.
Forget your report for a moment. You have to at least try to find out more about this person.
If I may ask… where are you from?
To her surprise, Emil has fallen silent, and is gazing darkly away from her.
Etrika decides, for now, not to push the subject.
And this one?
She points to another sign, this one reading “Confectionery”.
No.
And not even this one…? she says, indicating a wooden sign displaying art of a freshly baked loaf of bread, reading, “Bakery”.
No.
To no small surprise, Etrika still has some surprise left in her. Poor Emil is completely illiterate in Ireul.
As a written language with a featural alphabet, its ease of reading has made it the dominant language of cultural exchange across most of the known world. Sure, not everyone may speak or write it frequently or fluently, but Etrika hasn’t ever seen nor heard of anyone her age so clueless when it came to any part of the syllabary.
You read this one as “b”. “B” as in “bakery”. And…
Ah… really wish could explain in way already known, Etrika.
Etrika stops in the middle of the sidewalk, and so does Emil. She looks a little upset, feels a little bizarre.
I’m sorry, I guess I should— This advice is kinda important. Can I say something?
Already are.
Emil’s face portrays nothing, perhaps ironically.
Fair point, she admits, blushing slightly. You gave me your first name before. Im–Immediately. And I… gave you mine, back. That’s… quite a precious name. Can you not use that name… in public, like this?
Yes. To speak truth, you not first to say this. But I do not get why, Emil replies, itching their head. I seek… why? And what say instead?
Well it’s. Uhm.
She mutters to herself, realizing she’ll have to now think of a suitable analogy in the time it will take to cross Soquis Avenue, and that someone had probably already tried to explain this to Emil and failed, through no fault of either party.
As she marches on, Emil struggles to keep pace, their attention quartered by the crowd. This isn’t the first crowded street they’ve crossed, nor the first time they’ve crossed this road (apparently called Soquis Avenue) specifically. Regardless, the size of the mass of people remains daunting.
With their good eye they can still see the equivalent of about two decently-sized hordes just in their field of vision. To think that there are so many streets like this in this city, as crowded as this one at times like these, makes them feel overwhelmed, weak, pulled in so many directions at once… diluted.
Etrika half-turns behind her in the middle of the road, her charge having vanished from her peripheral vision. She quickly hurries to their side, autopiloting to keep them comfortable in their agoraphobia. There were people giving them odd stares, but she learned long ago to not let that bother her (too much).
Oh! she exclaims, reaching the other side, making Emil jump with her alarm. With names in Presquile, my first name is for the closest people I know. You use it with your family. Around here, you should use surnames, their… other names. Those are for… most people. Like my friends. You understand?
Etrika’s instinct proves correct: even this tourist knows this universal social distinction. Thinking for a moment, Emil brings their left hand to their chin, before pointing at their guide.
First name, for family. Not me.
Mm-hmm? she affirms with a nod.
Other name, most people. I most people to you, they continue, sweeping their arm to indicate the crowd passing them both by.
Exactly! You got it!
Emil flashes the briefest of smiles. Etrika, sensing that they’re a little more at ease, keeps a steady pace through the street, though noting that Emil still seems to be viewing the world with a particular apprehension.
Oh, she says. Right. Your question; my other name.
Yes, Emil mumbles impassively.
It’s Ahlrik. And add ‘-Svan’ at the end, please.
All... rikk. Thanks.
They sound the name out, and she spells it, realizing shortly thereafter that she might as well have not.
How about you? Do you have another name? she diverts.
Again, a question close to the heart leaves Emil silent.
Emil it is, then, she thinks.
The storefronts continue to pass by. Etrika thinks back to the confectionery. For a moment, she considers getting Rieli some kind of treat on her way. But she shakes the notion off. Best to wait until Emil’s business is settled, to help this stranger get some better clothes. She’s doing a good deed and satisfying her curiosity, not trying to prolong the strange looks she keeps getting.
So, you really can’t say where you’re from? I only ask because it might assist you, because someone else in this city has got to be a fellow countryman. Er… another person here has gotta be from your home. They could speak your language, help you with…
She trails off as Emil noticeably slows down, looking away again. She thinks they’ll stay quiet, but to her own surprise, they open their mouth, though their answer remains vague, charged with difficult memories.
I came from very far away, they say simply. I don’t think there are others from my home.
Oh. Apologies.
It’s okay.
Etrika isn’t the best at reading people, but even she can understand their tone. Not all is fine today.
Maybe they’re a political refugee, she considers. Perhaps from the Polar Empires, with their people scattered to the six winds. There’s no shortage for massacres there.
Her thirst to understand Emil’s origins suddenly dries up. For the next few minutes, the uncomfortable silence between them leaves space to the music of the city: the choirs of indistinct crowds, the metallic beats of terrestrial transports, the drones of the airships and of the river. Sometimes accompanied by phonographs and street performers, driving their wedge into the people’s attention.
Ah! There’s the tailor.
The tour comes to a halt as Emil stops right in front of the glass shop doors. As Etrika joins the outlander, she rests her hands on her hips with a look of satisfaction.
Well, we’ve arrived, Emil.
Emil just plainly stares at the exterior of the shop. The colors are warm and inviting and fascinate the traveler, but they don’t dare go inside. An illuminium sign hanging overhead is stenciled with a smiling vespen, their webbed wings waving as a uuman would in greeting. [Come in! We are OPEN.]
Their paralysis is becoming embarrassing. Etrika feels her backpack on her shoulders, a momentary reminder.
Emil? I hope you find what you need from here. I have to go.
Etrika lays a gentle, reassuring pat on their shoulder. A circumstancial smile on her face, she turns to calmly walk away— but her hand is suddenly yanked backwards.
Stay, if you would!
Her head swivels to look at Emil again, alarmed at the yelp. They look horrified. Their posture, their eyes, their trembling grasp on Etrika’s shirt sleeve. All signs point to them collapsing as soon as they’ll lose sight of her.
Etrika feels awful. There’s got to be a way out she can find, before she reaches some point of no return.
What’s wrong? You’ve got that translator and that map, so you should be fine from here. If you need money, or something, I’m sorry, I don’t have any.
It is not money. It is. It is…
Their hand gently let go of Etrika and begin anxiously fidgeting with the corners of the poncho. Their eye stares impassionedly at her, as though they need to be heard now above all other times.
I came from very far, they repeat, their voice breaking. I know nothing about here. I have…
They hesitate, catch their breath, then complete the sentence:
I have a mission. A mission with importance.
Etrika’s political refugee theory is starting to hold more and more water. Despite herself, still curious, she simply nods and waits for them to continue. Emil understands; give more to receive more. The clouds threateningly boom overhead.
I… I must travel. Travel, and learn much. Cross the bridge between knowledges, they articulate, touching fingers together. I research.
What are you looking for, exactly?
A painful tension has settled between them, in their voices. Emil looks to the ground and presents their request one last time, speaking ever so carefully, trying their very best not to butcher the language of the one they’re addressing.
Will you help me, if you would? I cannot do this alone.
Etrika freezes solid.
She would never know exactly what it was that cracked inside her at that moment, or why. Was it the single eye that seemed guilt-ridden for daring to look at her? Was it a voice haunted by too many a farewell? More? Less? Who knows.
Only in retrospect, much later, would she recognize the importance of what she felt, and what she did next. It would bring her both pride and regret, until the key moment arrived.
What she feels just then is a bitter cocktail of guilt and responsibility that drowns her utter heart. She just can’t abandon Emil. She thinks to the divine maxims instilled in her, to the importance of linking arms with your kin and kindred. She thinks to the horror of being so lost and confused in a place like this, without the sense expected of someone, with no way to swim against the current.
She reflects on herself, alone on a bench, ten minutes ago; and imagines Emil, alone as well, on another.
Okay.
Emil’s head rises slightly.
It’s fine. I wouldn’t be able to get anything else done today, anyway. Let’s go.
She opens the door, the warmth from within reaching out, caressing their faces as a chime rings. Etrika waves them inside. They nod gratefully, stammering what Etrika guesses to be thanks in their native language.
Osvatii, Ahlrik.
She smiles.
It’s ‘please’, by the way. You keep saying ‘if you would’. I know what you meant: ‘please’ is the word you’re looking for.
Emil nods. The clarification is appreciated. Etrika ducks inside, glancing up one more time. Some light is poking through the clouds once more.
Today, Emil enters a store that’s still standing for the first time. They’ll always remember the name: Finciseau. Largely because Etrika will have explained its etymology later.
To the left of the entrance, immaculate pieces of all kinds of fabric are spread out, arranged into tight rows on huge metal rolls. Brilliant velvets, unfamiliar to Emil, make them wonder if the tailor is some kind of magician, capable of incorporating gemstones into his materials.
To their right proudly stand countless rows of clothing. Capes, gloves, shirts… All very simple, but of unquestionable quality. Emil inspects a pair of brown pants, quickly comparing the pair to their own, which they never saw new, wondering if they ever had such a vibrant color. They shift their gaze to the other hangers, still holding the pair in their hands.
It’s the abundance of it all that truly fascinates them. A shop where one can order tailor- made clothes, and there are still ready-made items in large quantities.
Some time ago, through the windows of another shop, Emil watched as a merchant took a large vase from a shelf, arranging cut flowers to be placed inside, and before it’s even presented to the customer, another merchant appeared from gods-know-where to replace it with an identical kind on the shelf. As if they held some infinite supply of vases; if a collective whim prompted them to do so, in a single day, a crowd of a hundred people could come in, order the same vase, and leave with smiles on their faces.
Ah, good day! the tailor calls out from behind the counter to his new clients. How may I help you?
Etrika replies with a wave of her hand, and a slightly embarrassed smile.
Hello. Um, we’re just looking; my… my friend here just needs to rebuild their wardrobe. New in town, and all.
Pricking up his ears and pinnae, the vespin tailor readjusts his tiny glasses on his thin nose to get a better look at Etrika and Emil. Without speaking a word, Emil’s already grabbed three pairs of brown leather gloves, a snow white shirt, and a spool of spare shoelaces, all in addition to the pants.
Oh, I see! Very well. Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.
Thanks again!
Thanks, Emil adds flatly, focused on their shopping.
The tailor returns to his work; a cacophony of clattering sounds, temporarily interrupted by the entrance of those customers, resumes. Emil jumps at the sound.
What is? they ask nervously, leaning their head to get a better look at the space beyond the counter.
It’s nothing, just… It’s just their workstation. Nothing to worry about.
Emil’s shoulders slump, relaxing. Etrika, examining the things they place on the counter, raises an eyebrow.
Hey, you’re not gonna keep that, are you?
She pinches their poncho at a corner to indicate it, but Emil immediately retreats from her with a small shout, pulling it firmly and comfortingly towards themself.
Oh! Damn, I… I’m sorry, Etrika stammers. I didn’t mean to…
Emil takes a moment to calm their nerves.
I don’t want… leave… ah.
They grab their translator, utter several syllables tinged with regret, and learn two new words of Ireul in front of their guide.
[Δ>Θ]{ ABANDON. SENTIMENTAL. }
Oh. I understand, Etrika mumbles, embarassed.
I cannot abandon it.
No, I understand.
Etrika crosses her arms, searching for a solution.
If you want to blend in, you’ll have to find a way to make your clothing a little more discreet. Maybe by covering it up? You’d have to wash it, first, but I’d be surprised if this store doesn’t have a rapid cleaning press.
Emil blinks, confused.
Be-lehnd?
Etrika sighs, then extends a hand.
This isn’t working well. Will you allow me?
Emil stares at the hand in front of them blankly, as if it had fifteen fingers.
Your translator. The device on your neck. Can you hand it over?
They frown, lifting the device almost reluctantly. She guesses that they probably have nothing beyond what they can carry and wear, and that they care deeply about this.
I won’t break it, promise. Thank you.
The frayed leather strap attached to the object still around Emil’s neck, Etrika presses a thumb against one end. And looks them in the eyes.
Well? What’re you waiting for?
Wait why? they reply, half confused, half annoyed.
Etrika is about to raise her voice, frustrated at the need to remind them of everything, when a lightning bolt of understanding strikes her. No. How…? If that’s the case… I’ll have to ask them later. It’s a miracle they made it this far under the circumstances.
Just… put a finger on the other end, please.
Slowly, almost suspiciously, they obey. Their pupils contract when they notice that the device is no longer illuminating with one light, but two. They turn green when Etrika speaks aloud:
Blend. Integrate.
[Θ>Δ]{ BLEND. INTEGRATE. }
Emil jolts in surprise, open-mouthed.
I was right! They don’t know how to use the translator itself, only the dictionary function! But then, how did they get their hands on it…? And…
Etrika’s mind continues to fill with questions. She’d like to keep them in reserve somewhere in her mind, but she’s starting to run out of space in there. So she removes her finger from the replika, and as Emil fearfully regains a grip on it, she asks them:
No one explained you how to use this thing? Where did you find it?
Emil responds awkwardly, regularly questioning the device to formulate several keywords.
I found it. Not stolen, found. Promise. I learned the language with a very intelligent and very patient friend, and with texts to reference. We didn’t know anyone who spoke the language. Learning was long and difficult; I still don’t have all good words.
By the end of their explanation, their emotions have settled.
You did this how?
It’s quite simple. If you hold it on your own, it just gives you answers in Ireul. If you hold it with someone else, it answers in the listener’s language. What they know of it, anyway. Here, I’ll demonstrate again.
She extends her hand again. Emil places the slab in it without grimacing this time, even though their trust remains relative.
Hello! she says softly.
[Θ>Δ]{ HELLO. }
And now your turn, she continues, removing her thumb from the device for a moment.
Hello?
[Δ>Θ]{ HELLO. }
See? Or rather, hear? she adds with a smile.
Emil gives her an even bigger one.
I… thank you very much. This will help me always. Thank you, they said, clasping their hands together.
When Etrika sees that expression, she tells herself she made the right choice in staying with them a little longer. It’s not often in her life that she’s seen such gratitude in another’s eyes.
It’s only natural, really, she concluded, blushing. We’ve all gotta collaborate when we can.
Emil translates ‘collaborate’ before returning to the search for other items, now much better off emotionally.
Tell me, how you knew two sides must be touched?
Oh, it’s nothing special. One of the professors at my university uses one. A translator, I mean. He’s the one who takes care of conferences and receiving foreign researchers. Even though there’s often one or two people who can act as interpreters for those languages, a replika like this is still pretty useful.
Emil, scanning a row of long socks, looks back toward Etrika.
Re-pli-ka? I heard the word many times. This is what, exactly? says Emil, holding out the translator.
Etrika repeats the word. To her surprise, the device’s lights go red, and a generic message is spoken.
[Θ][!]{ ERROR. NO EQUIVALENT OBJECT. }
Ah! I know this. It is when my language does not have word searched, exclaims Emil, apparently familiar with the issue.
That’s… remarkable, murmured Etrika.
She refrains from saying ‘absurd’. An island that doesn’t have any concept of what a replika is? She finds that hard to accept, even using all her imagination.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter, she continues. It’s easy to explain. You know about magic, at the very least… right?
Magic? they reply, sticking their arm into a sock to check the size. Yes, I know…
They pause, a smile vanishing from their lips.
I knew people who did it. Few, and the magic was small, but I still knew. Here, there is much more, they finish, turning back towards the storefront, where passersby parade as blurry spots, through the warm light of the street lamps.
Etrika’s theory on Emil’s origins becomes clearer. No doubt a very isolated island, where mages find it difficult to share their knowledge. No wonder the idea of a replika is unknown to them. It must feel strange to be thrown into Cascade’s paradigm, all of a sudden.
Well, you know that objects can do magic, right?
Yes! Like my tool?
Exactly. Well, all handmade magical objects are called relikae. The ones that are mass-produced – well, in large quantities – are replikae. They’re really the same thing, just magical objects, but they’re distinguished by how unique they are. You see?
Another short pause. Emil looks around.
So the lights in front are replikae? they point.
Yes.
And my tool, too, because it is not alone. Not unique.
Yeah.
But if it exists alone, it is relikae? Relika?
Correct!
They may come from a very isolated island, but they’re curious, and learn quickly. Etrika seems reassured knowing that with some grammar lessons, they’ll undoubtedly find their bearings fairly quickly, at least linguistically.
Meanwhile, Emil seems to have found what they need. They’re about to put the rest of their purchases on the counter, when they suddenly stop.
I must know if they fit good, they say, scanning the store, aimless. Is there a place for trying?
An interjection from the tailor, happening to pass by with a stack of fabrics in his arms.
Fitting rooms are at the back, on the left, there, he replies to Emil, pointing in that direction with a pinna. If you need anything adjusted, please don’t hesitate to ask!
Etrika carries the array of clothes out of courtesy, and the both of them walk back, between the rolls of fabric that reach up to the ceiling. Emil takes the opportunity to run their fingers along a handful of them. The texture is simple… indescribable. A softness, like–
Ow!
Etrika gently taps them on the back of their hand.
I did what wrong?
Don’t run your dir– I mean, don’t touch a bunch of new rolls like that!
Why?
I…
They seem both embarrassed and offended. She struggles to articulate.
It’s just not something you do, okay?!
They protest in their native language, but don’t dwell on the matter. Further down, the pair of them find a pair of large lacquered wooden fitting rooms, with heavy curtains. Returning the future purchases to Emil, she guides them to the one on the left, continuing the conversation through the thick green fabric, leaning casually against a wall.
And, your eyepatch?
Amidst the sounds of fabric, punctuated by small, labored breaths, Emil replies:
My eyepatch? It must change also?
Definitely. With it, you look like…
Like a casualty of war.
…Well, it’d be weird if all your clothes were new except for that.
Ah. It is true.
Etrika loses herself in her thoughts while waiting for them to finish, nervously flexing her fingers. She’s in a clothing store. What do you do when you’re in a clothing store, waiting on a friend? You browse.
Alright, I’m gonna take a look around, but I’ll stay in the store, she says, anticipating the concern if she leaves. Let me know when you’re done, okay?
M-hm, they agree, audibly focused.
She steps away, her gaze drawn towards the rolls of fabric Emil touched. That is some beautiful velvet, after all. She can hardly blame them for getting that close to it.
She attempts to piece together everything she’d gleaned about Emil into a coherent picture.
They arrived in Lake Smar by air; there’s no doubt on that. Teleportation is the stuff of fairy tales, despite what a younger Etrika may have claimed loudly in primary school.
She thinks back to that map. The outline of Presquile, save for Cascade, is missing from it, and they don’t seem like the type to make that omission. They were either bedridden the whole journey, or they traveled in a hold or brig. In any case, it’s more than likely that they reached Presquile in a clandestine fashion.
Someone must have dropped them off at Fèrechan. Why weren’t they given a map? This makes them all the more suspicious, and therefore a risk for a potential smuggler. It’s credible to believe that they were deported. But… why in the middle of Presquile? And if they were that much a nuisance to some authority, why not just… throw them into the schism? And, with all their stuff? Did they steal the translator from whoever was moving them?
A scenario, the first really sensible one, is taking shape around the few clues that Etrika’s got. They were transported to an unknown destination, alive but against their will. Their captors stopped in Fèrechan. They took that opportunity to escape, and seize a vitally-necessary tool to blend in with the population. And now they’re trying to keep a low profile, figure out where they are, and alert a competent authority. That all makes sense, more or less.
…The trouble is, such a sequence of event would imply that Emil is lying. That they did steal the translator, and that their story about learning Ireul is completely fabricated.
She doesn’t want to believe that Emil’s lying. As much as possible.
Some minutes pass. Etrika returns to the fitting room, worried, but thinks she can broach the subject, if she gives them the time they need. And if they need to testify to an authority, it’s her civic duty to help them.
For the moment, let’s just do small talk.
Emil? Hey, if you want my opinion on the clothes, don’t hesitate to ask. I can also get the tailor if you need him…
It takes her a moment to realize that there is no more noise in the fitting room.
…Emil?
She presses her ear to the door. Weak, ragged breathing, filled with distress.
Emil, can I come in–
No. Please, do not.
In their voice, she recognizes a bitter, salty feeling, quickly suppressed. Once again, not all is fine today.
I understand. I won’t, she replied softly after a moment of heavy silence. You can put your old clothes back on. It’ll be okay.
They don’t respond verbally, but she hears the rustling of fabric again. It makes her wonder if Emil has only been injured on their face. She tries not to think about what they may have seen in the mirror.
Eventually, Emil finally leaves the changing room, their new wardrobe barely fitting in their arms. Etrika offers to carry half of it, and they nod, avoiding her gaze, their mouth remaining tight and straight.
Once they return to the counter and Etrika has neatly arranged Emil’s purchases, the vespen tailor calls out to them.
With you in just a moment!
He finishes what looks like a cape with intricate red patterns on a white background, using a loom so complex that Emil struggles to comprehend where it starts and stops. It is an immense machine, easily three times as big as the tailor, assembled with many rods and gears in every direction. Emil has no idea how the tailor manages to weave such a magnificent floral design onto the fabric rolled into it, but they suppose that the long roll of paper dotted with holes attached to the mechanism probably serves some purpose to that end.
Soon, the tailor completes the cape, and removes it from his work-device with obvious satisfaction. After carefully folding it in fours and placing it on a table alongside other garments, most of which are labeled with customer names and numbers, he returns to the younger pair, resting his leathery winged arms comfortably on the dark wood.
You find everything okay?
Emil nods with what little energy they have left.
Perfect! replies the tailor with professional enthusiasm. Let’s see…
As he taps his claws on a device somewhere between a cash register and a typewriter, Etrika turns to her companion, pointing successively at the poncho, Emil’s eyepatch, and then the tailor. They grit their teeth, anxious, but eventually accept her offer to explain their desire on their behalf.
Pardon me.
Hm?
Would it be possible to make them an eyepatch? One that could match the outfit?
The numbered wheels on the cash-machine already show a total of 8,000 vars. Etrika really hopes that Emil’s pockets aren’t as empty as their appearance might suggest.
Of course. Lace and leather exterior, velvet interior?
They hesitate, more out of a lack of comprehension than thought, but finally nod before staring at the floor again.
And the poncho? Etrika goes on. Would it be possible to cover it? I mean, with the original as a lining underneath?
The tailor, taken aback by the request, glances at the garment. It’s… dirty. It’s just a bunch of pieces that barely match. Poorly sewn together. If something isn’t done, it’ll unravel on its own in the coming months – and if something is done, it’d be in the coming days. He professionally suppresses a grimace, wondering how long such rags have been worn.
Forgive me for saying, he replies diplomatically. But I doubt the operation would be worth it. Washing it in the press would cause irreversible damage. Each segment would need to be individually removed, cleaned, and then reattached. Add that to the recoating, and the bill will be an order of magnitude higher than for a new product, just for labor.
Emil says nothing. Etrika insists.
They really want it.
Are you sure? he asks Emil, bashfully. I’m pretty sure we have several ponchos in stock. It costs nothing to check, and yours is in a pitiful state.
It is not PI-TEE-FUL! they abruptly shout, their voice trembling.
Etrika and the tailor’s muscles all tense up like a rubber band pulled taut. Emil has not looked up, but Etrika is afraid they will. They did not need to understand the word to guess its connotation. From the way they just spat it out, the way they clenched their fists, and the small tear that fell to the floor, Etrika understands their grief has sharpened into terrible anger.
Seconds dressed like minutes pass, before the tailor stammers an apology.
I… I am sorry.
Emil’s fingers unfold. Etrika doesn’t pray that often; but in this moment, she’s infinitely grateful to the gods for hiding the stranger’s fists from the tailor. Who knows what would have been said or would have unfolded, had any of the two felt actively threatened.
How much it costs?
Excuse me?
How much it costs? For like you said, and the best speed.
Their tone is still curt, but they have looked up and are staring intently at the vespen, who is desperately trying to distract himself by calculating with his claws. Etrika is relieved to see only indignation in their eyes, and nothing more.
Uhm. Add 1,000 vars for the eyepatch. Then 4,000 more for labor to disassemble that poncho, the same for its reassembly, and–
Stop, says Emil, rummaging in a pocket with one hand before pulling out a small purse with no coins jingling inside. I still understand your numbers bad. Just tell me when it is enough.
Neither Etrika nor the tailor are mentally ready for Emil to take out, delicately pinched between two fingers, a small, bright red crystalline oval, almost a centimeter long, with perfect bevels and an unquestionable clarity.
Emil places the ruby on the counter.
Their hand goes back to the purse.
Out comes another ruby, onto the counter.
Their hand goes back to the purse.
Out comes a pristine beryl, onto the counter.
Then–
Th-that’s more than enough! the tailor exclaims, stopping Emil’s hand. My sincerest thanks! And… And again, my apologies for my… insensitive comments.
Hastily placing the gems into a pocket of his jacket, the tailor quickly assembles Emil’s purchases into a pair of bags bearing the store’s logo, before retrieving an order book from beneath the counter and scribbling down the stranger’s requests. As he writes with a trembling hand – In fear of his customer? Out of joy at a lucrative paycheck? Etrika cannot tell – Emil interrupts him.
Ah, too. I need the eyepatch now. And a poncho of spare. I cannot – do not want to go without.
No problem, good sir! Consider it on us.
Not ‘sir’. Not ‘madame’, either, Emil replies, crossing their arms.
Ah! I-I beg your pardon.
Emil will not grant him that; the tailor will simply have to make do with not frustrating his customer further. As soon as the bill is drawn up and stamped, he runs to the back of the shop to retrieve what’s been asked for.
Etrika hasn’t spoken or moved since Emil took that first ruby out of his… His? Out of their pocket. She only comes out of this trance when they take the paper in their hands, sigh as they look at it, then show it to Etrika.
That say what?
She looks at the bill, deliberately avoiding the large field marked ‘total’.
It’s… to keep track of what you’ve purchased. A bill. You gotta sign it.
Emil, their face now neutral again, hands off the translator. Etrika takes an awkwardly long time to guess what they want, before saying:
Bill?
[Θ][!]{ ERROR. NO EQUIVALENT OBJECT. }
For the love of all the gods. What have I gotten myself into.
Twenty minutes later, the cold wind tries to blow through Emil’s new clothes, but they hold their new poncho – a modest blue with sunflower-yellow embroidery – tight against themself.
Under their hair, the leather of their new eye patch glints underneath the streetlights. It’s been matched to the leather of their boots, which were polished by the tailor’s assistant after Emil surrendered them from the fitting room. And we of course took the liberty of attaching gaiters, which will certainly go wonderfully with the finished product.
The tailor assured Emil, amid a thousand other platitudes, that their clothes would be ready tomorrow at about the same hour. In the meanwhile, they seem unsure what to do, even though passersby have (almost) stopped staring at them.
Etrika, for her part, timidly asks Emil:
Can… you manage on your own, now? May I leave?
Yes! I am grateful for you helped, they reply sincerely.
Okay. Can I offer a piece of advice?
Yes.
I don’t care where you procured those gems, she says, meaning every word of it. But you should exchange them for cash as soon as possible. That… wasn’t very discreet.
I do not have the magic, they reply, embarrassed.
Etrika blinks a few times before finally understanding the problem at hand.
Ah, pardon. Exchange, not change. Give one thing, get another.
Oh! I tried. I saw many people use money, and they said I must find a je-wee-lur. But when I found, they refused helping. I do not understand why, they explain with a hint of exasperation, thinking back on the episode.
She thinks for a moment, before asking Emil:
Tell me, do you have many different kinds, of these gems?
Yes! Some red, some blue, some green, and more. You want I show you?
No! No, Etrika refused, waving her hand, not wanting him to bring such a treasure out into the open on a busy avenue. Don’t need to see them. Forget about it. Keep them close at hand.
As Emil nods nonverbally, Etrika’s imagination considers a scene. Emil in old rags, walking into a jeweler’s as if it were a mill without speaking a word, dumping a pile of precious stones on a glass counter in front of an employee certainly not paid enough to handle such a situation. If their purse contained only rubies, they could have…
Okay. I’m sorry, but I really need to know for sure. You didn’t steal the gems, either, did you?
No! Like my trans-lay-tor. Found them. Over long time. They are mine.
A wave of relief washes over Etrika as her train of thought begins chugging again. Were their purse only rubies, they could’ve explained that they came from the same family jewel, but a motley collection of stones must’ve given off a suspiciously bad impression. Especially with their attire. Perhaps it was Etrika’s presence as a visibly-wealthy figure that made the transaction with the tailor possible, when she thinks about it.
...She has an idea. Several, actually. But first, she needs to clear up a few things.
Would you mind if we found somewhere quieter? To talk?
Yes, please. The people are many; that gives me discomfort, they reply, shifting their gaze constantly.
The student and the stranger return to the park, struggling to stare into a strong headwind. Etrika takes Emil to a relatively secluded bench between two tall oak trees, probably twice as old as the sum of both their ages. She distills all the wisdom of her 22 years alive into her next words, hoping Emil will be receptive.
Alright, she continues as she sits down. I understand you don’t want to elaborate about what happened to you. I can tell it was... difficult. But I want to help you in such a way you can get used to the city without me. And to do that, I need to know if you’ve spoken to me totally truthfully. Okay?
I understand. I promise, I did not lie, they say, glancing away before making a concerted effort to look her in the eyes.
Good start.
Okay.
First off, ensure Emil’s situation matches the theory.
You didn’t travel here alone, I imagine. Did someone or someones bring you here?
They take a moment to think. They’re not gonna tell me everything, that’s for sure. But the essentials will do, Etrika thinks.
Yes, they reply in a pained tone. Someones.
You didn’t kill anyone? To get here?
N-No!
Another point in their favor.
Despite that, you still have reason to think someone wants you dead? That you’re in danger?
Once the word ‘danger’ has been translated, Emil shivers slightly, nodding their head anxiously. Etrika swallows. Her fears are affirmed.
And… You’re in danger because of things you know? About where you come from?
That’s another nod.
And these things you know, you want to share with someone you can trust? she asks, earning another frightened nod. I get if you’re not ready to speak openly with me. No worries.
A pause in her thoughts.
...I told you I knew someone else with a lab-slab. A professor, at my school, she said, gesturing towards the University on the hill. You said you wanted to do some research, and I think he can help you. Is that okay with you?
Now it’s their turn to think. They twiddle their thumbs for a few seconds.
I… I would, yes, if you please. You have helped me a lot, so I trust you for meeting this person.
Etrika replies with a slight smile.
Thank you, I’m… I’m moved—I mean (she corrects herself, abandoning an expression Emil might not get), I’m very happy that you trust me that much, at least. Where can I meet with you tomorrow? To introduce you to the professor?
They think for a moment, running their newly-gloved fingers along the varnished wood of the bench.
Here? they say, turning back towards her. It a quiet place and it fine.
Perfect. What time?
Hmm. I do not know. Everyone here has… has watches, they continue after a brief use of the translator. But I do not. Never have.
Oh. If that’s all it is, come on; I’ll show you, she replies, standing up, with a perplexed Emil following her.
The wind picks up again. Save for a family of three sylvites already leaving, they must be the only ones still in the park. The skies around Presquile are now as dark as the acrid smoke from burning coal, but a few gray patches still allow them to parse the outlines of buildings.
Arriving in the middle of the park, Etrika lifts her head and points to a square tower over the University campus, equipped with a massive clock. Emil, keeping a hand clasped on their poncho, puts the other over their eyes to ward off the wind blowing their hair about.
Students have been coming to this park between classes for generations; they built the clock specifically facing this side so it could be easily seen from almost anywhere in the city, she explains, raising her voice over the cold gusts.
I have seen clocks before, Emil replies. But I do not know these very well. I read them how?
Oh. The cash register counter, earlier. Good call. Etrika takes her own watch – far from new, by now, but still ticking – from a pocket, pointing to the hands.
All the hands turn that way, she mimed with her fingertip. The bigger they are, the faster they go. The time I’ll meet you is when that hand is on the zero, on the right; and that one’s on the three, here, and the little dark dot is all the way on that side.
They ask her to repeat a second time, to be sure they’ve heard correctly, but as they’ve demonstrated thus far, they’re quick to understand. That covered, she closes the brass cover over the dial.
I’m sorry, but I really gotta run. Shall I walk you back?
Uh?
Oh. Emil really wasn’t expecting that question. Is it rude to take someone back to where they live?
I mean, where are you staying?
I do not know where. I think I will look now; the cold is installing.
Etrika stares at them incredulously.
You sleep outside? Since you arrived on Presquile?
It is necessary. The people of the houses for travelers said all was full. But it is good; I am... (another use of the translator) used to this.
She immediately realizes that they’ve been lied to. Paying for a night at an inn with gems probably ruffled the innkeepers’ feathers…
Good gods, you can’t sleep outside like that, she exclaims.
Yes. I said, I am used to this.
Etrika’s thoughts race. If their captors know they’re carrying all these stones with them, well, that’s the logical trailhead to find them. Maybe they’re combing the streets right now. If they sleep under the stars, it’s only a matter of time before they track them down in a dark alley and—
Ahlrik-Svan. You are losing your thoughts again? Emil asks worriedly.
Huh? she startles. I’m thinking. Give me… some time.
She puts a hand to her head, her eyes flitting, searching the void. This poor sap must’ve paid everything with rare minerals, even food. This has to be addressed as soon as possible. And…
The tailor. The Tailor SAW me. With them. In my university gown. If he’s questioned, these people’ll find me too.
She thinks of her parents. Of Rodrik. Of Kenna. Of Rieli. No, no, no, no no no nonono—
Ahlrik-Svan!
As she hyperventilates, Emil sets a hand on her shoulder. She only begins to feel it as they continue to speak to her.
Breathe slowly, with... gentleness. I protect while you’re calming.
She feels the warmth of the gesture through their gloved hand, and through their words, spoken in broken Ireul. Months. It’s been months of (relative) tranquility since her last panic attack.
I knew a woman with the name Valef. When someone was trembling, she said, “Imagine your body like an hourglass, and it empties slowly at the feet. When it is empty, the fear is gone with the sand.” Try it.
It’s absurd. Everything seems absurd to her. But she gives it a shot anyway, because they seem to know what is clouding her vision and twisting in her stomach. The sand.
Picturing herself filled with grains of sand initially feels suffocating. But then it begins to empty. Her head clears, centimeter by centimeter. Everything inside her falls away, vanishing into her toes, then into her shoes, then into the ground. The ground is vast enough, and welcomes all the sand that spills from her, all that weight and mental clutter. The ground does not blame her, nor judge her, for this.
When she opens her eyes, Emil is looking at her. Their features remain neutral, but their voice is filled with deep sympathies.
It is almost over. Your feelings are better?
It takes her another thirty seconds to banish what remains of the sand in her mind, and let the winds carry it away.
I do feel better.
They nod. She stammers.
Thank you.
They take half a step back, giving her more space but continuing to glance around her, like a sentry. Her thoughts are clear once again.
She’s made her judgment: they’re not a bad person. She can believe that, and she sincerely, wholeheartedly wants to help them.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I can’t leave them alone on the street like this.
She thinks back to Kenna. The idea of telling someone, especially her twin brother, about Emil’s troubles makes her frown, but she has to ask him for advice. He’ll know… well, he usually knows what to do.
You don’t have to sleep outside. Come to my place, at least for the night.
Emil doesn’t know how to properly thank Etrika enough for the offer. They clasp their hands together and half-shout a thank you in their native language, before returning to Ireul.
Thank you much, Ahlrik-Svan!
It’s nothing! she assures them, embarrassed even without an audience to witness Emil’s overwhelming gratitude. You are… it’s just mutual aid. It’s normal.
As they leave the park again, the University clock strikes 16:00. The young outlander and the young Cascadian pick up their pace as the winds intensify, throwing the long hanging branches of the willow trees into their way. Many city dwellers have already gone home.
When Emil looks to the darkened sky and the almost-deserted streets, when they feel the caress of blustering winds cooling their skin, when they face the elements head-on on their way to a shelter… they almost feel at home again.
The Over