1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of Deception: Book #4, Chronicles of Marsdenfel

Year 253 of the Bynding - Salles - Harvestime, part II

I trod through the cavern to a series of tunnels that ultimately release us into a dirt alley. I hop out first and make sure Aldrik doesn’t lose his footing in the brightness of the outdoors. The cowl hides his face, but the tilt to his head suggests that he’s squinting.

“Okay?” I ask quietly.

He gives a soft snort.

I shrug and start out towards the dirt street, dragging my feet just enough to get them covered in muck. After we reach the street, I spread my arms wide, indicating the alms bag Aldrik holds. I add a drach accent to my seafarthen and start the show. “Love for the Community?”

My summons has people checking for pickpockets or glancing toward Wight’s Den, the largest provisor of charity in this part of town.

I scurry up to one uncomfortable-looking man who has enough money for decent shoes. I intentionally widen my eyes too much. “Oh, would you donate to the Community, sir, encouraging our celestial equivalence? There is no higher joy than sharing all of yourself with everyone else.”

And despite what some protest, the Community means that exactly how it sounds.

The man shakes his head and excuses himself, bothering to be polite. I resume my loud request for alms, getting as little response as anticipated.

The Community is more popular on another continent altogether, so the local commune collects most of its donations from tourists. It’s little-known enough here that most people are avoiding us, and those who are glancing us over are recognizing the too-perfect costume and melodrama of a professional con woman.

We scramble through the streets of dockside. I embarrass person after person until we reach a market that divides dockside from gateside.

One of the guards steps in our way, even when I try to dodge.

I stare up at him with the wide-eyed innocence and an eager smile. “You wish to donate to the Community, sir?”

He sneers at us. “What’s wrong with your friend?”

I lift my chin as if offended and trade the seafarthen for mountaineer, keeping the drach accent. “Everyone’s equal in the Community, sir. Alder will be treated with the same respect as any other spoke on the celestial wheel.”

The guard studies me. “Your commune’s a few days to the south.”

Ah, someone who knows something of the Community. “We’re transfers from Nordak. Gathering what resources we can for the Community on our way.” I eagerly grab Aldrik’s arm and ask him, “Is there any greater joy than sharing?”

Aldrik hesitates, probably discomfited by my quick lies, then writes “No” on the back of my hand with a forefinger.

“Why the hood?” the guard presses. “For the celestial equality, you should both be wearing one.”

That could be assumed, from the Community’s tenets, but it’s not what the sect actually means by them.

I draw myself straight with indignation. “Excuse me? Dresses look horrid with Alder’s figure. And that cowl looks horrid on me. The Community loves my hair!”

A smirk tugs the guard’s lips, suggesting he set that up on purpose to test that I actually knew what I was talking about. He glances down and pauses. “He has shoes.”

I sniff. “Of course. He’s mute.” A counter-argument that would be used by any acolyte of the sect.

The guard smirks and steps aside, letting us through.