Heretical Fishing

Book 2: Chapter 54: Dichotomy

My skin prickled with nervous sweat as Maria and I jogged across the sand, traveling as fast as we could without revealing that we were cultivators. Brigadier Borks loped beside us, his eyes and ears alert. As the fields surrounding us turned to stone-craft buildings and cobbled streets, something about the village seemed... odd. The sun was just breaching the horizon, casting an orange glow across all we saw. The town was usually bustling by this point, farmers off to tend their fields and craftsfolk going about their business. That’s what it was, I realized—we hadn’t seen a single person.

We passed Steven and Ruby’s shop; it was open, yet neither of them were inside. I shared a glance with Maria, and we picked up the pace. As we approached the flat outside Tropica, where the caravan usually set up their wares, distant voices came rolling over the fields of cane and wheat. When we emerged from between two crops, we found what looked to be the entirety of Tropica—commoners and nobles both. They were split down the middle, the farmers and crafters packed in tight while the north siders gave each other space.

If that isn’t a physical representation of the wealth inequality of the village, I don’t know what is.

Worry lined the faces and colored the voices of the south siders as they looked toward the front of the crowd for answers. The nobles, however...

“Unacceptable!” a man boomed, his prodigious jowls glowing a deep crimson. I’d never seen him before, which made sense—his pale skin looked like he’d not seen the sun for decades. “You go back to Gormona and get my shipment of cured meats this second, young man!”

I glanced toward the front of the crowd, spotting the ‘young man’ he was addressing. Marcus—who looked to be a few years older than the pale noble—stood atop a cart small enough to be drawn by a single horse, his fingers laced before him.

“I apologize profusely, sir. As the king has decreed, it is impossible to leave the capital with resources at this time.”

“Why?” a sun-tanned farmer who had just arrived yelled.

“What’s in the cart, then?” a noble bellowed.

A sea of murmurs rose to agree, slowly growing louder as Marcus tried to explain himself. I stood on my tiptoes, peered into the cart, and let out a sigh; whatever he had brought, the small sacks didn’t contain metal for more oyster cages.

“Please, dear friends,” Marcus yelled over the crowd. “Only select items have been allowed to leave the capital’s walls, which is what I have with me.”

“Is it food?” a mother holding a babe to her chest asked.

Her husband raised his head over the surrounding villagers.

“Surely it’s food! Though they’re partially spoiled by the time they get here, we rely on the produce sent from other villages to feed our children! We can’t live off bread and sugar!”

“W-well...” Marcus’s face tightened around his eyes, betraying the smile he was giving. “It is food, yes...”

The crowd’s murmur dimmed, but I winced, guessing that whatever he was going to say next would likely set them off again.

“But,” he continued. “I was forbidden from disseminating food from village to village. To quote the king, ‘all settlements are advised to subsist on their local crops until further notice.’”

As expected, the dissenting voices grew louder.

“What do you have, then?” the farmer with his wife asked, stepping forward. “What food did you bring?”

“Only produce from the capital...” he answered, his eyes darting furtively as he held up two hands that had no hope of quelling the villagers’ anger.

“What produce?” the man bellowed, striding forward.

“C-coffee beans and passiona berrie-”

The end of Marcus’s sentence was cut off by the crowd’s answering roar. Their complaints were overwhelming to my enhanced hearing, and I saw Maria cover her ears from the corner of my eye. Only a few statements made it through the cacophony without losing all meaning.

“Unbelievable!”

“You can only sell crops of the nobles?”

“Do the nobles have no shame?”

More than a few heads swiveled toward the north siders, their suntanned faces hard and filled with misplaced hatred.

The susurration was unrelenting, and I took a half-step forward, ready to intercept should a farmer launch one of their balled fists. Just as I thought a full-blown riot would erupt, someone jumped up onto the cart beside Marcus.

“Now, Tropica!” he boomed, his eyebrows furrowing at us all. “Is that any way to welcome a merchant that has treated us so well all these years?”

I didn’t recognize the man, and judging by the confused looks on those surrounding me, neither did they. I blinked at him as hints of recognition tugged at me.

“Hang on a damned second...” I said, my face scrunching as my brain tried to reconcile the voice with the body. “Is that…?”

“Holy frack,” Maria hissed. “That’s George!”

He was... slim. Well, slimmer, but it was a drastic change from the last time I’d seen him. He still had a rather girthy belly, but it was definitely smaller. The most notable change was in his face and neck, which was why he wasn’t immediately recognizable.

“I saw him like a month ago.” Maria whispered. “He looks like he’s lost twenty kilos...”

Similar whispers rose around us, all unbelieving of his transformation. George stood and watched the crowd, content with letting the murmurs run their course. Besides the glaring physical change, something else seemed dissimilar. I rubbed my chin, trying to work it out.

“Why does he seem so... different?” Maria asked.

“You see it too?”

“Yeah...” She crossed her arms. “What is it, though?”

My eyebrows shot to my hairline as I realized.

“His posture!”

Maria’s hair hung down as she cocked her head to the side.

“His what?”

“Look at the way he’s carrying himself—I’m pretty sure the bloke has debilitating social anxiety. Even when he’s just talking to me, he breaks out in a sweat...”

Maria’s eyes narrowed as she inspected him.

“Look at him now, though,” I continued.

George was staring out at everyone. He swallowed, showing a hint of nervousness, but his hands were firm, his gaze unwavering. Beneath his stalwart front, the crowd slowly quieted.

“Forgive me, Marcus,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “I only just arrived, but I think I have caught the gist of it. These orders are directly from the king, correct?”

“Correct,” Marcus replied, regaining some of his composure.

“Then, I must ask you to forgive us—all of us,” he said, casting a meaningful look over the crowd. “You didn’t bring your usual retinue. Is that also because of the king’s decree?”

Seeing the layup George gave him, Marcus nodded magnanimously.

“That is also correct, friend George. Large wagons are not permitted to leave the gates, and those that do leave with smaller carts must travel alone.” He shook his head in unfeigned dismay. “It is dangerous for me to travel without guards, but I care for my customers so much—how could I abandon them altogether?”

George patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you for your care, Marcus.” He turned back to the crowd. “I understand that this is unwelcome news, citizens of Tropica, but please don’t take out your anger on Marcus—he is merely the messenger.”

“You’re only saying that because you can afford passiona berries, lardass!” someone yelled from within the crowd, throwing their voice so it couldn’t be located.

Snickers rose from some of the south siders, and I scrunched my nose—people could be so cruel, especially when mob mentality took root. George opened his mouth to respond, but faltered. His eyes grew distant and perspiration sprouted from his forehead as the insult rocked him. Just when I thought his social anxiety would get the better of him, he firmed his jaw. Wiping beads of sweat with the back of one hand, he gave a small nod.

“As I said, I understand your anger. Insulting others, however, won’t fix the situation.”

Maria and I shared an approving glance.

“He took that well,” she said.

“Right?” I answered, keeping my voice low.

A noble stepped forward from the crowd, staring up at Marcus. Though his skin was pale, it looked as though he got at least some sun. Most notable of his features was the distinct lack of a gut, despite being older in years.

“I understand why my family’s crops have been allowed to leave the gates, but may I ask why restrictions have been enacted?”

He had taken particular pride in calling the passiona berries and coffee ‘his family’s crops’. I raised both brows, then narrowed my eyes at him.

“I must apologize, Lord Osnan,” Marcus replied, bowing at the waist. “I do not have an answer for you at this time.”

Lord Osnan’s eyes twitched in annoyance, but then he nodded and took a step back, not saying more.

“Worry not, citizens of Tropica,” George said, raising his hands to the side. “As with the reduction in taxes, I will serve you in this. I’ll send a personal entreaty back to the king. Would you deliver that for me, Marcus?”

“But of course! How could I not, given the plight of my friends in Tropica?”

“Terrible news, wouldn’t you say?” a familiar voice asked from my left. I spun, knowing that there was no way he was actually here.

But there he was; Leroy stood beside me, in open sight of any number of people that could recognize him. He had a tuft of yellow hair stuck to his upper lip. I looked closely at the fake mustache, peered down at Borks—who was smiling up at me with his tongue lolling—then raised an eyebrow as I looked back at Leroy.

“Love the mustache, mate.”

He fought down a smile and gestured up with his eyes. I glanced at his oversized hat, not understanding what he wanted me to see, but then I took note of his hairline. An extremely familiar shade of brown hair poked down beneath the hat, still attached to a thin layer of dark, definitely non-human skin. It was a convincing toupee; anyone without a cultivator’s eyes would miss it.

“Your hair is such a lovely color,” Maria said from beside me, fighting off a smirk. “I can’t place it, but I feel like it reminds me of someone I know...”

In response, chittering laughter came from the hat, inaudible to anyone without enhanced hearing. His ‘hair’ moved as each chitter caused Corporal Claws’s insulating fat to jiggle.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I said. “What was your name, mate?”

“Larry,” he replied, extending an arm.

“Larry!” I let out a laugh, unable to contain it as we shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you, mate. I’m Fischer.”

As Maria and ‘Larry’ introduced themselves, my eyes scanned over the crowd. When I spotted the man I was looking for, he was already leaving, so I strode after him, weaving through the crowd. Borks followed, deftly trailing behind me. As I stepped in front of the man my eyes were pinned to, Borks sat beside me, and I rested a hand on his cute little head.

The noble’s face was smothered by annoyance, and I beamed a smile in response.

“G’day, mate,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m Fischer.”

Lord Osnan glanced down at it, then back up to me.

“I’m busy,” he replied, his face pinched as he tried to step past me.

I moved with him, remaining in his way.

“Aren’t we all? I know I have plenty to do, but I thought I’d take a moment to come say hello.”

He raised an eyebrow, his jaw firming as he leaned forward into my personal space.

“Do you know who I am, peasant?”

His voice was low, the threat in it clear.

Borks let out a low growl in response to his, and I patted his head reassuringly.

“Nope! That’s why I started with introductions.” I rubbed my chin, my face mere centimeters from his. “Do they not have‌ manners where you’re from?”

“Where I’m from, peasant,” he hissed, emphasizing the last word, “I could have you flogged for your insolence, and not a single person would bat an eye.”

He leaned back and lifted a hand, staring down at his rings as if pondering striking me with them.

“Well, I’m glad I’m not where you’re from, then!” I grinned. “Sounds like a right shithole.”

The subsequent look of indignation that crossed his face was a soothing balm to my growing irritation at the noble’s self-importance.

“You’re calling the capital, the royal seat of power, a shithole?” he demanded, his eyebrows trying to leave his face.

I raised a hand to my chest.

“My good sir, I would never! I said it sounded like a shithole, but that’s only from the way you described it.” I held up a finger. “However—and this is the important bit, so pay attention—that’s only based on the way you described it. But you seem to be a right prick, so if it was described by someone that didn’t think they were more important than the rising sun, I’d probably say it sounded love—”

I cut off as he swung from the hip, his backhand soaring toward my head.