Chapter Text
“Good to see another Londoner,” the man said as he sat beside Sallowe’s firepit.
“Aye,” Sallowe replied, eyeing the man’s cleanly creased pants as he stirred his pot. “Not many of us willing to come out here. Not many allowed to step foot in an Empyrean camp, neither.”
“Yes, well, I’m a bit of an exception. Sort of a modern Marco Polo. They’ve allowed me in to write a historical account of my travels.” The man puffed out his chest. “I’m known as the Temerarious Gallivanter.”
“Mm.” A ridiculous title to go with the futility of using pomade in the middle of the Hybrean wilds. “Thomas Sallowe. Never much cared for titles meself.”
“Oh.” The man shifted on the piece of half-rotted bronzewood he’d perched on. “Er- I suppose it is quite a mouthful- you could call me Nigel, given we’re fellow countrymen and all.” He bit his lip as soon as he said it, peering at the very un-English concoction in the pot.
“Nigel, then.” Sallowe took a little pity on the poor thing and extended a calloused hand, which Nigel gratefully shook.
“You’re the cook?”
“One of ‘em. I only handle the northern camp, ‘round ten men. Batbayar doesn't like to see me working too hard.”
“Ah.” Nigel’s brown nose crinkled. “Perhaps he thinks you feeble because of your origins. I’ve certainly run into that problem here. They simply won't allow me to participate in anything.”
Sallowe looked down at his wizened, tremorous fingers, then at Nigel’s well-manicured ones.
“Could be,” he grunted noncommittally.
A horn sounded in the distance.
“Oh!” Nigel sprung from his seat. “They’re going to leave without me. I must be off!”
He turned to leave without a farewell.
Sallowe stirred the stock, puzzled. Why in the Eagle’s name had Baagii brought a fool like him to Hybras?
Sallowe’s second run-in with the Londoner was equally as vexing.
“Good- good afternoon,” Nigel panted, setting down a basket of departed Guests. “Not sure why they wanted me to bring these to you, but here they are.”
“Ah,” Sallowe nodded. “You’ve not eaten Guest before, then.”
“The- what?” he sputtered.
“Calm yer chattering and watch close.”
Sallowe flattened one of the leechlike creatures on his new stone slab. They’d made a lot of progress building his cooking station by now; what had been little more than a divot filled with wood and coals a week ago was looking more and more like a proper kitchen, with a clay oven and a long bronzewood table for serving food.
He chopped off the head and slit the Guest in half, then carefully separated the organs. They went in the compost heap, and the main body he dunked in a bowl of lukewarm water.
“Got to clean the meat properly, get all the khaldvar out.”
“Hard-ver?”
“It’s a poison, in a way. Turns things into other things. But the flesh-” He pulled the Guest out of the water. Its shiny black sheen had dulled to a glistening violant. “Look around. Y’know what’s missing in the sky?”
“Civility?”
“Meat.” Sallowe dropped the clean Guest into a basket lined with linen and reached for the next one. “Can't do good work without meat. The fungus ‘round us is nutritious, but it lacks something a body needs.”
“I don't believe that. If it were true, the Hindus and Jainists would have all starved.”
“You Hindu?”
“No. My mother wasn't particularly religious, and my father was only an occasional Christian.”
“Best eat yer meat, then.”
Nigel pulled a hand through his coarse, curly hair, tugging it out of place.
“But- I don't think that can be called meat,” he protested. “Or even food.”
“Give it an hour or two and some spices,” Sallowe replied.
“It's not bad,” Nigel remarked, though he only ate one cautious bite at a time.
The Guests were served stewed, in a broth made from devil’s tooth nectar and salt-lichen. The flavors were well balanced, savory and fishy, with just enough spice to get the heart pumping. What had been tough and rubbery in life was coaxed into a soft, fibery crab-like meat.
“It is good,” Khünbish admitted, slurping down her spoonful. “You’ve improved much, Enkhsaruul. Eating by the fire like this... it almost takes me back to my childhood, despite it being sky-food.”
“What did she just call you?” Nigel blinked between the two of them.
“One of me other names,” Sallowe said. “We’re only yammerin’ on in English for yer sake.”
“It means ‘temerarious’ in Khaganian,” Khünbish snorted as she stood. She ate in her tent most nights, content to avoid the rest of the camp entirely. There had always been a vague sorrow about her that Sallowe felt drawn to. Despite her attempts to isolate herself, he felt they were kindred spirits in some way.
Nigel’s own eyes followed her as she slunk away.
“Did you see that? I made her laugh.” He sighed dreamily, in the sort of heartsick way one might find in some pernicious periodical.
“I’d caution you to leave that one be. She’s gone through heartache, that much I know.”
“Which is why it's the perfect time for me to enter stage right. You know, the thing about women…” Nigel leaned in conspiratorially, stirring his soup. Despite the sweat on his brow, he still smelled faintly of magnolia. “It's all well and good to pursue a mild-mannered waif your own age, if you prefer a bland supper. But what you really need is a woman who’s older than you, heartier, with a vigorous disposition that will make your head spin.” Sallowe thought privately that they would have to start digging to find a woman older than him.
“Oh, aye,” he nodded, as though he had any interest in women or romance.
“Truthfully, the bigger, the better. Tall, strong, or fat. You need a lady who can roll you flat until you’re thinner than rice paper.” Nigel’s eyelashes fluttered. “She’d have me on the floor in a heartbeat.”
“She thinks you’re a dandy,” Sallowe said. “We’re establishing an Empyrean outpost, and you packed a tailcoat.”
“If I don't look my best, how am I to find a wife? If I come home unmarried, Mother is going to pair me up with some lovely Perdurian lily,” he lamented. “That will be the end of my gallivanting, I’ll tell you that for free.”
“No luck, then?”
“Not here. Not yet.” Nigel looked Sallowe over, frowning. “I don't understand it. I thought I would be more accepted, but they’ve all made up their mind to ostracize me. Yet you’re the picture of the quintessential Englishman, and they love you.”
Sallowe looked down at himself. He had pale skin and sandy hair, but he wore a drab grey deel over his trousers. His hands smelled like garlic and tallow, and he took his tea with milk and salt. He filled each belly that visited his kitchen without question.
“Learned the language,” he said cautiously. “That helped.”
“I suppose we’ll have a busy night ahead of us,” Nigel huffed. “Alright, then. Teach me.”