chapter ii. moscas
Moscas finds himself in a very loud room. There’s a bowl in front of him, which he’s looking at. It’s empty, and there’s a wooden spoon inside of it. Further ahead on the tabletop is another bowl, this one full with some sort of vegetable-y broth. And beyond that is Bel, dozing off.
Moscas sits for a while, watching Bel’s head bob up and down. He sneaks a spoonful of what he guesses is Bel’s soup, but it’s cold and he’s full already, besides. Finally, he makes the executive decision to get up and…do something, he supposes. Make a nuisance of himself. Or whatever. He’s
bored.
He picks up his bowl and starts to wander, rattling the spoon around the inside because he likes how it sounds. The room he’s in has a big fireplace, and all sorts of tables spaced throughout. There’s everything from little, two-seater tables, like the one he and Bel were at, to a huge, irregularly shaped slice of tree, around which currently seats about fifteen people. Most people are seated, except for two people in black aprons who are walking around. And himself, he supposes! Wait, what was he doing up again?
Right, rattly spoon. He’s trying to figure out where to put it, actually. Bel always says he should return his plates once he’s done with them. But he can’t see any sinks or buckets or any conveniently placed stacks of dirty dishes, so he’s at a loss, here.
He supposes he could ask someone. He scans the room until he sees a woman sitting alone, writing in a journal. There’s a steaming mug in front of her and no plates, which means she probably put them away somewhere already. Perfect.
Moscas walks over. The lady looks up and gives him a smile, eyebrows raised.
“Uh, hi,” Moscas says. “Sorry to bother you. I was wondering where we should put our dishes?” He rattles his bowl again, for emphasis.
The lady flips a page and starts writing again. Moscas wilts a bit. He’s about to give up and try another table when the woman pushes her journal in front of him.
Just leave them at your table! ^_^
“Oh! Okay, thanks. You know, I have a notebook like yours too. It’s ‘cause I forget things so easily. Is that also why you have a notebook? Actually, I should write this down so I don’t keep coming over and asking.” Moscas squats down, putting his bowl and spoon on the floor. He’s pulled out his notebook and has it open on his knees, pen poised, when the lady’s journal slides in front of his vision.
You can have a seat while you write if you want.
“Oh, thank you.” Moscas stands up, pulls out the empty chair, and plunks himself down. He jots down some quick notes—
keep plates at table—and puts his notebook away. When he looks up, the woman’s journal is facing him again. Curious, he reads.
I write in my journal because I have problems speaking. Usually my friend translates for me, but they’re taking a nap right now. Glad to meet another journaler!
“Wow, no way! My friend’s sleeping right now too. We’ve got a lot in common!” Moscas peeks over at Bel—he’s transitioned to burying his head in his arm, face-down on the table. Yep, still asleep. “I wonder what else we’ve got in common. My name’s Moscas. I sell medicines and potions with my friend Bel over there. He makes them, but no one can beat my na-tu-ral cha-ris-ma.” Moscas gives the woman his trademark grin, and she laughs silently into her hand. Works every time.
She begins writing again, and Moscas waits patiently, trying hard not to sneak glances of her page as she writes, because that would be rude, probably. But she writes fast, so he doesn’t have to wait long before she’s turning the journal over to him again.
My name is Freya. I’m a magus doing my thesis at the Keep. My research is on aurora whale social behaviors, so I’ve been in the Arkene for the past winter. Finally coming down south for the spring!
Wait, the Keep? That rings a bell, and that doesn’t happen often. Moscas digs out his notebook, skimming through his notes. Then—”No way, we’re headed for the Keep right now! To sell stuff. And you’re a…magus? Does that mean you do magic?”
The woman takes her journal back, but a few words in, she stops writing, pen hovering over the paper. Her gaze gets distant for a bit, which Moscas totally understands. Happens to him all the time, too. Then, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a…fish bowl?
Wow, there are a LOT of youse!
Moscas nearly tips out of his chair as a voice suddenly speaks into his ear. He swivels his head around, searching for the perpetrator, but there’s no one looking at him except the magus in front of him. She smiles, and taps one finger against the glass of the bowl.
Down here! the voice says, and Moscas gasps and leans over.
“Whoa, talking fish!”
Speak for yourself! You’re talking like people!
“Well, yeah, ‘cause I
am a person. You’re a fish!”
Eh, I’m three fish, really. And you’re—well, I can’t even count how many you are!
“Just one! ‘One’ is the first number of the numbers, by the way.”
Oh, you’re funny. I guess that’s a nice way to think about it. There’s a pause.
So, Freya’s sayin’ to introduce myself. I’m Jer. I love to talk, and Freya doesn’t, so we make a great team.
“Hi Jer! I’m Moscas.” And so a conversation happens. Moscas is pretty sure, at least. Because Moscas laughs, and—
A finger taps against the top of his notebook. Moscas looks up, blinking.
“Hey,” the owner of the finger says, “we’re closing up for the night.” She wears a cheery, patchwork apron with dancing animals on it, which seems at odds with the murderous look she’s directing his way. But what does Moscas know.
“Oh, sorry!” Moscas reaches over, gives Bel’s shoulder a shake. “Bel, we gotta go.” Bel doesn’t stir, his face pillowed into his elbow.
The woman sighs. “How much did he have to drink?” She begins gathering up the dishes on their table.
“Uh…” Moscas tries to catch a glance at Bel’s bowl before it’s whisked away. The soup inside sloshes against the bowl’s rim, nearly spilling onto the woman’s fingers. “Not much, I think?”
“Right,” the woman says, “that’s what they all say. Give me a minute.”
Stacking the bowls that were once on Moscas and Bel’s table onto a mountainous tower of dishes laid across her other arm, she marches across the room and disappears behind a door.
“Bel,” Moscas tries again, “I think you can’t sleep here. I think this lady is going to actually kill us if you sleep here. In a minute, she said.”
“I’m not,” a voice says behind him, and he jumps with a squeak. The woman is back, apron gone. She’s left in a black button-down and slacks, and she peers down at Bel. “Do you have a room here?”
Moscas waits for Bel to respond. After a few beats, the woman turns to look at Moscas expectantly, and he straightens to attention, grabbing his notebook. It takes several jittery seconds for him to remember what division of the notebook he needs to flip to, and then several more to find his latest notes. Right, he met some fish tonight—talking fish! And before that there was—
“Don’t worry about it.” Moscas looks up to see the woman dangling a key between her fingers. “Found it in his pocket. Room 14?”
Moscas nods mutely, and watches as the woman first shrugs on Bel’s pack and then scoops up Bel proper from his seat. He’s taller than her, but it seems she has this down to an art: hand under the knees, another over the shoulder, Bel’s head pillowed in her clavicle.
“That’s very impressive,” Moscas says, in absence of anything else to say.
“Oh, you should see some of the drunk bastards I’ve carried to bed.” The woman jerks her head toward the side of the tavern, and Moscas trots after her as she leads him into a hallway lined with doors. “I’m Zuhra,” she says. “What’s your name, kid?”
“I’m Moscas! And that’s Bel.”
“And Bel is your…brother? Father?”
“Nah, he’s my busy-ness partner.”
The woman—Zuhra—snorts. “Okay. What’s your business?”
“We sell medicines! Do you want to buy a potion, by the way? You seem pretty strong but you never know.”
“I’m alright.” Zuhra pauses a step to shift her grip on Bel before ascending the stairs. The steps creak under their combined weight. “So. Does your business partner often sleep through dinner like this?”
“I don’t know,” Moscas says truthfully.
“Huh. How long have you two been traveling together?”
“Ah,” Moscas says, scratching his nose. “I’m not sure about that either.” He almost bumps his nose when Zuhra stops walking and turns to face him, Bel’s legs swinging beside her.
There's a pause that Moscas doesn't understand. He smiles uncertainly at the woman, who looks back at him, expression unreadable. Finally, she speaks, words slow and stiff. “I’m wondering, uh, Moscas. How did you and Bel. Meet?”
“Well.” Moscas’s hand goes towards his notebook—he’s proud of himself for remembering it. He begins to flip through the opening pages. Surely, something about their first meeting would be there. “I-if you give me a second, I’m sure I can find it. But I think Bel could tell it better.”
“I’m sure he could, but he seems a little sleepy right now.” There’s a dull
thump as Zuhra leans her side against the wall. “That’s a very nice journal you have there. Do you write in it often?”
“Yeah! It’s to help me remember things since I forget so often.” It’s strange—there’s only notes about herbal cures here. Marking his place with his finger, Moscas quickly flips to the back of the notebook and scribbles a reminder for future-him to reorganize his notes.
IMPORTANT STUFF FIRST, he writes, underlining it twice.
“Moscas, do you—”
“I would appreciate,” Bel says, voice soft against the sudden silence, “if you did not interrogate my charge.”
“Mr. Bel,” Zuhra says tightly. “Good morning. Common courtesy usually dictates speaking up
before one is carried up the stairs.”
“Apologies. You two seemed to be having such a nice conversation, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“And yet you did.”
“And yet I did. Would you be so kind as to let me down?” Zuhra opens her arms—Bel stumbles only a little as he finds his footing. “Thank you. Ah, I see you’ve brought us right to our room, that was very thoughtful of you. Moscas, could you let his nice lady have a look at your notebook? And, Miss…”
“Zuhra.”
“Miss Zuhra. Would you give Moscas the key to our room so he can retire for the night? It’s been a long day, and I seem to have lost track of where I put my copy.”
Wordlessly, Zuhra produces a long, metal key, tilting it toward Moscas. Moscas walks up, notebook open to a drawing of a fern he was particularly proud of.
“Thank you, Moscas,” Bel says, and pinches the cover shut.
