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It was a slightly convoluted and confusing catalog of names and faces that Iyoas kept track of in the back of his mind: those who knew of his magical nature and those who did not. It was often calculated and occasionally accidental, though always terrible if he got things mixed up and made a disgracefully public error of crossing his records incorrectly. There was a system, a method to his often exhausting madness however, and the very foundation of that method was simple: survival.
The half-blooded bookbinder hardly had a family, what with his sister not straying far from the grounds of Thul’Amat (and certainly never to get in touch with him when she did) and both his parents no longer living. He had extended relatives, sure, but which of those traditionalist imbali had not disowned him outright upon the day he was discovered to have a field? He could count on one hand. His few friends were just that: few, and while he took none of them for granted, there was always the risk they would one day up and decide he was a greater danger to their social status than a benefit. It could happen, given the turbulent political times these days.
Because of this, Iyoas was forced to live his life in constant motion, a dance in which he neither knew the tempo nor the number of instruments playing at one time. He had to learn to choreograph his own steps in life in such a way that kept his business afloat, his reputation somewhat solid, his relationship with the mona as secret as possible, and his pockets full. There were those outside the high walls of the Turtle who most likely didn’t know him from another arata, and who didn’t care. There were those inside the once-mandated island of exile who had no idea he wasn’t just another imbala, and who most certainly would have cared had they known he was oshoor. This delicate balance was only compounded by who knew who and who didn’t in opposite places, which required a careful system on the part of the tall printmaker to keep everyone in their places, even if one ran the risk of knowing another.
Some days, it was exhausting. It was perhaps why Iyoas spent more time printing and as little time as possible elsewhere. However, that also meant life, in general, was lonely … and only exciting when some piece of cast iron equipment broke and interrupted his normal routine.
It was with those thoughts aligning themselves in his mind once again, establishing Lidya and her daughter and possibly her husband’s own print shop along the delicate silken lines of his intricate relationship patterns he’d built his very existence around.
Lagoon blue eyes blinked for a moment, finally registering her response to his question while momentarily lost in the depths of his mental computations, eliciting a slow but genuine laugh, “Ea. Depending on the season, and the eager candidate running, it may not take much to become over-burdened with work this close to Poster Day. Not that I’m saying that’s a bad thing, of course, regardless of how often they are even more empty of truth than any good writing here in the Liar’s Market—”
The woeful trumpet of a defeated moa came from near by, and Yura was seen strutting triumphantly back toward his stall with the beast. It would be a few moments before he was resettled and back to setting up his own shop of questionable honesties.
“—Domea for your patience. It appears you will soon be rewarded.” Iyoas added to Lidya while she finished arranging her stall, though he made no immediate move to catch the other man’s attention until he appeared a little less distracted.
The tall bookbinder only bowed a couple of times without flourish, acquiescing to her need to attract customers as well as excusing himself to cross the narrow space between Lidya’s stall and Yara’s. He’d be back, of course, hopefully not dragging the short, portly form of his client by an ear. He’d prefer it be peaceably. Such things were better for business, most of the time.
“Ayah. I see you’ve returned safely from such a dangerous and daring adventure, handsome and industrious Jaffa Yara.” Iyoas began with a sly, lopsided smile, not offering to extend a kiss in greeting to the sweaty, grumpy looking imbala, knowing full well no one accepted such things from the lips of oshoori.
Yara grumbled, waving a pudgy hand as if he was swatting a swarm of flies between the two of them, “Don’t gloat in my misfortunes, Iyoas Tar'iku Esef Roh. It’s unseemly this early in the morning to mock such a profitable and well-established man as myself, especially considering you have goods for me to pay for. Don’t be a scorpion in my bedsheets today of all days.” The man’s gold eyes flashed toward the half-Mug’s satchel greedily, even as he returned to setting up his shop.
His moa squawked lazily, panting in the shade where it was firmly tied up.
“At least you’re admitting that you owe me coin, Jaffa. The run through the market was good for you this morning, I see. Domea.” Returned the printmaker with a laugh, reaching into the bag in question to remove the same book he’d offered to Lidya to see, “Here it is. Ready for you to display nicely and charge a fat moa’s repair fee for when you upsell it to some unsuspecting arata.”
Jaffa Yara chuckled at that, not bristled by the truth in Iyoas’ comment so much as still annoyed that his equally fat, horrible bird was truly a menace. He wiped his hands on the silk of his sash before snatching the book out of his printmaker’s hands, quickly thumbing through pages before checking endpapers and peering into the handbound spine to check its craftsmanship. He made a show of doubting the oshoor’s work, as always, hmming and hawing over things, running fingers over the faint impressions of handset type into the thin paper, flipping through sections to make sure that all the pages had been properly trimmed. Finally, he sniffed the book, both hands bringing the thing up to his sweaty, round face, much to the horror of the taller man, though Iyoas managed to keep a straight face.
Finally, the merchant shrugged, “It still stinks like oshoor. You can’t find a way to get rid of that, can you, pe’a?” He set the book down behind his little counter nonetheless and made as if he was going to dig for coins to pay Iyoas, “You’ll be discounting me for that. There’s plenty of other printmakers who don’t carry your cursed stench. No wonder my dear moa finds this market such a horrible place to be.”
Smirking, the taller man quietly endured Yara’s offensive habit of negotiating, one he was confident the portly man only reserved for himself. He wasn’t the only client who played on his heritage in order to appeal for a discount. Obviously, they kept coming to him because he was good at what he did; they could have gone elsewhere to another flooding imbala, but they didn’t. It was a begrudging complement, but not one without its pitfalls.
“Do you remember how much you owe me or do I need to spell it out for you using my fingers?” The tall half-blood finally replied, one long-fingered hand reaching up to wipe sweat from the back of his freckled neck in obvious annoyance, shifting his shoulders, “Bhe, I tell you what, Jaffa Yara. I’ll give you that discount you’re always begging me for, but only if you agree to do a favor for me, adame.”
Yara wrinkled his face, but his yellow eyes were curious. The less he had to pay for his book, the more he could make in a profit when he sold it. Iyoas and himself played well at disliking each other, as was necessary in the public view of the Liar’s Market, but the gruff merchant did appreciate his craftsmanship, “Ea? I’m listening.”
The printmaker tilted his head in the direction of Lidya’s stall across the way, beads and baubles in his scarf-bound dreadlocked strawberry blond hair catching in the morning sun, “Since we’re in the Liar’s Market on this fine day, it’d be honoring to me if you’d speak of my work to another vendor. Kindly, now. I’ve yet to hear any complaint from your well-fed lips save your incessant whining over your sensitive nostrils.”
Jaffa Yara glanced across the way, huffing. His golden eyes fell on the babe first with a smirk, before studying her mother who was just finishing up preparations. He looked doubtful, as if there was somehow more to Iyoas’ request. A slim blond brow arched, brushing the colorful embroidery of the merchant’s fine turban, “That’s it?”
“Ea.”
”Bheee. Epa'ma if I doubt you, but I’m willing to play along for another twenty percent off your final payment for that book.” The large man grinned then, almost wicked despite the gap between his two front teeth.
Ioyas refrained from saying out loud the words that hovered at the end of his parched tongue, simply choosing to shrug and guide the man in the direction of Lidya’s shop with a wave of his hand. He’d still be making a bit of coin on the deal, though Yara didn’t need to know that.
“Domea,” Jaffa Yara repeated the phrase a few more times, bobbing his head as he glanced around the shop, trying desperately to figure out what Iyoas would need him for. He eyed the babe and the woman, noting her wares and her sign. He’d seen her before, almost every day of course, here at the market, and yet hadn’t really felt the need to consider too deeply her own form of employment. The lie merchant eyed her name one more time, however, as if he recognized it, and a small smirk tugged its way onto his dark lips,
“I’m under the assumption that my adame Iyoas Tar'iku Esef Roh requires a witness.” Yara didn’t flinch when he used the word friend, making it hard to tell whether or not the man was truthful about the word. There were some things he would never honestly admit to in public. He had been thoughtful enough to snatch up the book he had asked Iyoas to bind for him, holding it out one more time toward Lidya, this time giving the woman permission to investigate beyond the cover, “Given that the poor cursed wretch could never be trusted to tell the truth, I understand your discomfort. While I can never personally vouch for his honesty and keep a clear, perfect conscience, I can, instead, truly say his craftsmanship is well above the average here on the Turtle … your husband’s work included in that comparison. Though, my only objection is I’m sure you’re husband’s work smells better.”
Ah, there, that was why he knew the name.
The man offered something of an agreeable smile, though the gap between his front teeth could be seen as distracting should one get caught up looking at it.
Iyoas stood and said nothing to refute the man’s accusations on his person, having long ago accepted such an opinion as the norm. If arati didn’t trust imbali to be capable of honesty, how much less was his trustworthiness as an oshoor. Nonexistent, apparently. He mostly kept his expression somewhat deadpan, sweat beginning to pool in the small curve of his back.
“What use have you for publishing, Lidya Keziah? Or are you asking for a friend?” Yara’s smirk widened, as if the idea of the woman finding a bookbinder behind her husband’s back was a tasty piece of gossip he had been starving for all morning.
((Hahahaha! Me, too.))
It was a small struggle for the tall printmaker to keep a straight face, watching the much shorter woman all-but politely berate Yara with her tone more than just her words. The corners of his mouth twitched a little, hands reaching up to adjust his headscarf in order to find something to keep him busy. He waited until his unexpected defense from the lips of Lidya had finished, careful not to gloat as he stood next to the now thoroughly annoyed merchant who still owed him a handful of coins. Dirty fingers reached into a pocket to pull out a card, which he offered to the shorter woman with both hands and a customarily polite bob of his head,
“Domea, domea, Lidya Keziah. You may send your friend to my shop on Ribbon Street, which is a bit of a climb off of the Way of the Book.”
He smiled then, cautiously, not looking at Jaffa Yara for fear the man would see the contempt hidden behind his cheerful expression. It was always a struggle to be taken seriously, or at least not to be taken advantage of. He truly would rather have been known for his work instead of his birthright, but that seemed impossible.
Once she took the card, he shifted and glanced at Yara, “And, domea for at least speaking highly of my craftsmanship, though I see even to do for me such a little kindness makes what little ohante you have groan in agony. Let’s settle your debt before the day grows too hot and you run out of stamina for kindness.”
Jaffa choked a laugh and rolled his golden eyes, bowing at Lidya despite the obvious dislike in his expression, sour like a moa just crapped on his pointy-toed embroidered shoe, “Ule’elana, Lidya Keziah. I’d suggest you wash your hands before you handle your daughter if you spend too much time around oshoori.” The merchant sniffed then, thumbing his nose before tucking his purchase under his arm and digging a small purse of coins from somewhere within the confines of his sash.
He simply handed it to Iyoas without making a show of counting the coins, as if he had already been confident of how little he would be paying for his book. With that, he toddled back to his stall, pausing only to spit loudly into the sand as if he felt he’d swallowed too much dirty air.
The tall printmaker considered apologizing, but there wasn’t much to say. He blinked, feeling awkward, and made a few faces at Wubay once the grumpy round man had run away like a bander with his tail between his legs.
“I appreciate your kindness.” The half-blood added with obvious self-depreciation, “You certainly don’t have to recommend me to your friend, but it was generous of you to put Jaffa Yara in a most uncomfortable position. He often doesn’t get what he deserves.”
Iyoas offered a genuine smile, understanding that unlike some of his customers, Lidya at least had knowledge of printmaking and bookbinding. She’d married into a rival printshop, and thus her opinions had a weight to them that actually made them respectable. Or, if nothing else, educated and much more valid than the opinions of folks who only knew what they liked and not the time or skill involved in the process.
“Domea, Lidya Keziah. My only request is that everyone takes their time, not only so that she can weigh her decision carefully, but so that Poster Day can come and be gone.” He laughed, admitting he still had much left to do by the tone of his voice. At least he had help, if he could call it that. Unexpected assistance was better than none.
The Market would be getting busy soon, and Iyoas was aware that other people were still waiting on his deliveries. He was also aware that it wasn’t the best for business to have an oshoor spending inordinate amounts of time under the shade of your canopy.
“I should let you attract some customers. Standing around your stall isn’t doing you any favors. There are still some merchants waiting my arrival, anyway. I’m thankful our paths crossed,” he offered a little wave to Wubay, “and I hope things sell well for you both on this sweltering day.”
He bowed a few times out of courtesy before making his exit, aware that the longer he stood around, the less likely folks would want to give the woman their business.
“Ule’elana!” The tall half-Mug added over his shoulder before making sure he was quickly out of sight.