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Better prospects? For an oshoor on the Turtle? There were few, though Iyoas had no clue of the woman’s skills or talents, short of her flair for creating an intimidating costume, apparently. Wherever she’d come from, it wasn’t here, but all of it would have to go if he was to have customers walk into his shop and still retain business. The tall half-blood groaned instead of answering right away, briefly resting his dirty face in his dirtier hands as he leaned on the countertop, mumbling between his fingers as the weight of Lidya’s request settled onto his shoulders,
“Ea, ea, there’s always something to do here in the shop. Especially in Roalis,” Iyoas looked up from his hands, carefully wrestling the accusation from out of his voice to speak without malice to the lie vendor who had previously been kind to him in the Market, especially in front of her child, “You know this as well as I do, given what your husband also does for a living.”
His tone was almost dismissive, forced to swallow a mouthful of hot coals in anger at the assumption that he was in the business of feeding and housing the rejected arati children of imbali unions instead of printing somewhat practical works of art on paper as was his godsbedamned passion. It was a pair of sandals he’d never asked to try on, but one that everyone seemed to believe fit him just fine. He’d attempted for almost two decades to blend into the traditionalist imbali culture of the Turtle and yet still keep a sense of self, unwilling to accept the truth that it wasn’t possible at all. If the printmaker could ever feel comfortable enough speaking his mind freely, he would have admitted that there was an obvious need for his kind to stick together. Even his father had recognized that, and gone to great lengths to find others of his kind. The secretive, loose network of oshoori was difficult to keep a hold of, but it existed behind closed doors and in quiet shadows. He was a part of it, for better or for worse.
Iyoas stood up from his counter, hands moving to straighten his apron as if he needed something fidgety to do, obviously uncomfortable at being put on the spot while already in the fiery crucible of poster season. His expression softened, however, when he looked back to Shai’zara, knowing just how well he could relate to the general summation of her experiences thus far, regardless of how markedly different they appeared on the surface. He'd been fortunate to have at least one family member that cared, however brief that support had been. Not every oshoor had been given the same gift.
The last thing he wanted to do was come across as rejecting another oshoor. There was enough rejection doled out without a second thought by arati and imbali alike.
“Epa’ma, I simply don’t have time to teach you how to print. Time is too short and it’s too dangerous.” He paused with a sigh, careful to continue with a more genuine smile than before, “However, I can show you how to package the finished posters, and I’m going to guess you know how to clean.” The bookbinder shoved his hands into the pockets of his apron, realizing that standing still was allowing tiredness to crawl under his creamed coffee skin, “I have room here, to stay. This is mapico and Tendaji doesn’t take up much space--”
Something crashed to the floor upstairs, causing Iyoas to wince. A dish or a handful of cups, ruined. At least his apprentice was making himself flooding useful.
“--Lidya Keziah speaks the truth when she that no one else on the Turtle will be so kind.” To us or you.
There was anger here too, at Lidya. Something buried in words, things that meant more than what was said. He was tired, and this...She...was not particularly wanted here. The woman's jaw twitched. She wasn't particularly wanted anywhere.
His eyes met hers finally, and the printers face softened, something worked in that mind of his. Even his very field seemed to change, warmer and more welcoming, in a resigned kind of way. He addressed her directly, and Shai'zara listened carefully, allowing his offer and words to swim through her mind. A loud crash made her wince for him. Obviously something was now broken, perhaps by her very presence. Glancing back at Lidya and her daughter, the painted oshoor nodded.
"She has already shown me kindness enough, to which I am grateful. Indeed, I did not expect as such, the Turtle is much...more reserved...than places I have been." Reaching up to pull her shawl down and rest it on her shoulders, Shai'zara bowed slightly to the man.
"Iyoas Tar'iku Esef Roh, I am honoured. I am Shai'zara Maleke. I can cook, and I can clean, and I can write." Blue eyes turned to Lidya, remembering her words. The spells would remain sealed.
"I only ask for a spot to rest my head, and a small meal." The thought of food made her stomach growl defiantly, as though to proove her point. Shai'zara ignored it.
Iyoas had insulted Lidya. He saw the struggle with displeasure on the imbala woman’s face, brief as it was. To add injury to insult, he’d made the other oshoor feel unwelcome. It was obvious when she looked at him, and he may have finally felt a hint of shame. For all that his people claimed to have valued the truth so much as to make a commodity out of its opposite, no one really wanted to hear it, preferring instead to purchase the latter. Himself included. He was, indeed, the only one he could think of who’d take an oshoor in for work, and it wasn't because it was poster season and he was desperate for the hands. It was because of who he was. Sure, there were other oshoori on the Turtle. He knew a few of their names and faces and businesses, but no one advertised. No one put a sign on their door and let every traditionalist on the isolated little island know that they were in fact arati in imbali clothing. It just didn't happen. It just wasn't done. Maybe it should be.
He was far from desperate, living on a traditionalist imbala legacy that spanned over four generations, both in terms of finances as well as reputation. He could always say no to work if he didn't have the time. He wasn't going to starve.
Shai’zara’s assumptions were, at least, partially true in those respects. If he had anything easily, it was because everything he had was left to him, not because he had to make it himself.
He preferred paper and ink and machines. They didn't care. They didn't ask questions. They left him the flood alone when he needed to be alone. He didn't have to carefully craft a story or a put on mask or make up an elaborate lie to be accepted in their presence. He didn't have to hide his field. That was what the other oshoor couldn’t see, not yet: everything under the surface. The reeds on the bank on the other side of the river Turga were not always greener.
“Ea.” The tall printmaker answered firmly, his tone waxing apologetic as he continued, feeling compelled to do more than just bob his head politely. This forced him to step out from behind the imaginary safety of his counter in order to bow with a more customary formality that he wasn’t used to, “Though I see no need to make official any kind of arrangement. Stay as you wish, Shai'zara Maleke, though I’ll guarantee now you’re most likely a far better cook than Tendaji and myself put together.”
Iyoas smiled then, cautiously but warmly nonetheless. Maybe more chagrined than anything else.
“Epa’ma, Lidya Keziah. This is a busy time of year, and I am tired. Domea for thinking of me first, and domea for your kindness. I’m sure you will be blessed for choosing the less traveled path in terms of choices in this matter.” It was the best apology he could muster without revealing more than he was comfortable with, without revealing that this sort of thing was becoming a common occurence outside his doorstep. First Tendaji, and now Shai’zara. He really didn’t want this to continue. At least, not at the current rate of speed.
As if on queue, the young man all-but-tumbled his way down the stairs and back into the workshop, tray balanced precariously with a steaming metal teapot, surprisingly unbroken glasses, honey, cream, and a covered bowl of something to snack on. The short Mugrobi bit his lip instead of offering even the shyest of smiles, quickly making his way to the seating area to begin arranging things. While he looked slightly less terrified than before, it was obvious he had no idea how to entirely act around a crowd.
“Can I convince you and your jue'na to stay for tea?”
"Many thanks to you." She said respectfully, before moving further into the shop and allowing herself to glance around with more comfort than before. There were posters, papers, books....so many things in the shop, and it not only looked busy, it sounded busy. As Lidya and Iyoas spoke, or rather, he apologized, Shai'zara chanced a sneaking glance beyond the man, trying to see the frightened voice from earlier.
Turning back to the conversation, she almost laughed at his offer, catching herself with a bemused smirk.
The League had loved their tea and scone breaks, it was the proper thing that proper people did.
Iyoas was both relieved and frustrated at the same time once he realized he had managed to smooth over any rough edges he may have created. It was necessary, he knew, and while fitting into all the norms imposed on him in the Turtle were not always comfortable, the tall printmaker had come to understand that giving into certain things was just part of getting by. The problem with politeness and social expectations during poster season was that it took up precious time. It also meant that he had to sit down and attempt to sit still without falling asleep. Maybe he would need something stronger than tea later. He smiled anyway, stretching a long-fingered hand in the direction of Tendaji and the small, comfortable-looking corner of his workshop, which was an occasional space for naps instead of conversation when no one else was around, “Domea. Make yourselves comfortable, pe’a.”
He was still in his apron and there was ink on his hands. His face for that matter. This was unfortunately just the way things were for him and he usually thought little of it. He followed behind the women and babe, waiting for them to settle into places they preferred before reluctantly sitting with them.
At last, his apprentice smiled, especially at Wubay more than any of the adults. He was happy to make faces at the little girl while he set out the cups and picked up the teapot. He was a shy thing, saying very little, and more nervous than clumsy. It would be obvious to Lidya that the youth was, fortunately or not, also an oshoor. His field was much like his adolescence: awkward and untamed. Unlike the tall printmaker, he was perhaps more ashamed of his person, but it was most likely because he had been told to be so and actually listened, whereas Iyoas had stopped listening a long time ago. Tendaji poured the women their tea first without a word, passing the cups with a bob of his shaved head. He poured the half-Mugrobi a cup next, though he looked at him first to make sure it was what the man wanted. Finally, his cup was last, little bits of tea leaves floating to the top,
“Pe’a, pe’a, enjoy it while it’s fresh.” The boy could speak, and he nodded in the direction of the stuffed dates and other sweet goodies he chose to bring down with the tea as if to make up for whatever he broke upstairs in the house.
The tall printmaker eyed his tea warily, cross-legged on his floor cushion, one knee already bouncing. It would be impossible for him to be entirely still, restless when not next to a press and working. He would have to make small talk instead. He had a lot of questions for Shai’zara, but he knew that all of them would make Lidya uncomfortable. There would just have to be more time made later. For now, he’d just have to settle with surface things, over tea, and smile about it as if this was exactly what he wanted for his afternoon.
Drown all the gods, today was surely awash in the Turga. At least he wasn't behind in his orders. His work was small and specific, and he kept it that way not only because he could charge more but also because, unlike most print shops, he found it difficult to find assistance as an oshoor. Sure, he could hire seasonal apprentices for times like poster season, but no one wanted to stay once they realized who he really was. It was exhausting, almost impossible, for him to hide his field for long periods of time and still be expected to endure the physical labor of printing, and so there was nothing he could hide when accepting help into his shop. Only a few were willing to accept that, and since his father was no longer around to smooth things over as an actual imbala, Iyoas had learned to downsize and still make a decent living. Besides, he could offer what no imbala could: magic. Illegalities had their price points, and all of them were lucrative despite the risks.
“So, uh, has the ever-pleasant Yara’s moa been behaving since the other morning in the market?”
((Maybe this will give a bit more of a conversation entry point.))
“That moa was mad long before I ever did business with Yara.”
Iyoas quipped quickly with a lopsided smile and a laugh, as if to cover the sting of Jaffa’s superstitions when it came to oshoori, conscious of the majority in the room with Lidya. His gaze strayed to Tendaji, who had fished a handful of wooden animals from somewhere inside his apron--toys a youth of fifteen shouldn't have, but relics of a family willing to leave him on someone else’s doorstep--and was entertaining Wubay with them, ignorant that he most likely added to the social discomfort of the babe’s juela by his presence.
Did Lidya worry they were contagious? Did she fear that being among oshoori would have some kind of magical influence on her own daughter? Such ideas were surely perpetuated among traditionalist imbali who all hoped the children they chose to have, illegally, would always be imbali. He often wondered if his father blamed himself, despite at least one of his two children being an imbala instead of an oshoor.
“If any smell should drive the bird into a frenzy, Yara’s own pretentiousness oozing from his pores is far more foul in my humble opinion. It’s unfortunate the man has a wide circle of customers that often require my services,” The half-Mugrobi did his best to remain ambiguous, not particularly wanting to mention that some of his services were magical in nature and that some of his contacts through the disagreeable moa’s owner were, in fact, arati who paid well for things that were far more dangerous than lies. He didn't feel comfortable revealing the depths of his business secrets to Lidya, who may or may not have understood, although he was admittedly curious about her knowledge of what went on under the surface of things on the Turtle, especially along the Way of the Book. She thought enough about things to bring Shai’zara to his shop, to him specifically, after all, “Though I’m sure everyone has their share of difficult customers they can tell stories about.”
He looked to the oshoor woman finally, in an attempt to include her in their Turtle banter despite how obvious it was that she did not belong. He spoke as if he was telling a joke to the whole room even if it was mostly directed to Lidya who spent her days in the Market, “The Liar’s Market is full of strange things, in case you haven’t noticed. Escaping moas are perhaps the least of anyone’s problems some days.”
Blinking at Iyoas' comment, she glanced at Lidya for a moment, before breaking into a quick smile.
"I have not been privy to any such oddities yet, however I suspect it would. Every city has its...quirks." Pausing to sip her tea, the blue eyed girl placed the cup down and turned it so the handle faced just so.
"I would imagine a bird of that stature could cause a great deal of havok amongst the stalls and shoppers. I have seen moa races before, and they can run faster than anything else I have seen." She exclaimed, motioning with her hand off into the distance to emphasise their speed.
Iyoas had not yet made the time to teach his apprentice magic; the boy had shown up on his doorstep one night in Yaris, alone and silent. He may have also been beaten or possibly escaped harm on the streets; the printmaker was unsure because Tendaji had never chosen to offer very firm details. They’d reached an understanding since that night that included room and board and printing work, and Iyoas was very confident that the boy was more than just a functional passive, that he was another oshoor, much to his social discomfort. He’d had imbali apprentices before, usually for the poster season and no longer; it was hard to keep a traditionalist in his shop either as a customer or as an assistant once they realized him for what he was. Almost as hard as keeping one in his bed, in all honesty. Not that such a thing was an appropriate topic of conversation at the moment.
The young man had proven himself useful and willing to learn. He was quiet, afraid, and cautious, but when he laughed and smiled, he was an enjoyable youth to have around, even if Iyoas was admittedly not used to having company for any length of time. Tendaji may also have had creative potential if he could be persuaded to practice. He could be clumsy, it was true, which was not entirely safe around heavy, dangerous printmaking equipment, but he was getting better as he became more comfortable around the shop and around the half-Mugrobi who was now his teacher and mentor.
The tall bookbinder was still frustrated that he had no choice in the matter, not really. He didn’t like feeling trapped in a decision, but he was now resolved to keep the boy on for as long as he wanted, even if that meant passing on his family business to the young man one day. It wasn’t like he was ever going to have an heir of his own.
“A date? Domea.”
Tendaji startled once Lidya took notice of him, offering the imbala woman a shy, chagrined sort of smile as if he was embarrassed to be caught with toys. His field was hardly as intrusive as the other two oshoori, barely a spark really. He realized she wasn’t chiding him, gold eyes meeting hers once he caught on to her suggestion. She was giving him permission, at least, and so the young man reached for a treat on the table to offer to Wubay with a bigger smile.
“The Turtle is the quirk of Thul’Ka, if nothing else, though I suppose I condemn myself as part of it by saying so.” Iyoas replied to Shai’zara with a laugh, though his blue eyes shifted past her to glance at Tendaji. The boy surely had been abandoned by his family, “However, I look forward to the moa races this year; there’s some really decent jockeys to root for from our little walled-in island.”
He also hoped to make some money this year on those flooding jockeys, instead of betting and losing it. But that was besides the point.
She felt for him.
Sipping her tea, she glanced back at Iyoas with a quick smile.
"A man after my own heart, however I believe the Muluku Islands riders will come out ahead this season. Perhaps, we will see. Sometimes the ones you least expect come out on top." Placing her tea on the table, the blue eyed oshoor looked at Lidya with another quick smile. She had the strong feeling that the keep wanted to leave. The kindess had been done, and now she wanted to escape with her little one from this room. From them. Perhaps more specifically, from her.
Shai'zara sat in awkward silence. What was she supposed to do? Comment on the lovely weather they'd been having? The thought almost made her laugh out loud. Pressing her lips together, she looked between Iyoas and Lidya, finally lifting her cup again to take another sip.