Aether's Heart 3

Written by Chaser

80 Days B.N.D

Paimon took a fistful of leaves from her pocket and scattered them onto the table. “That’ll be twenty gold pieces,” she said.

The apothecary bent over the shop counter, adjusting his eyepiece. He daintily picked up each leaf, examining the reddish-orange glow from the veins. He huffed, sending his balding hair shooting up.

“Well, a deal is a deal,” he said. “I’ll also take some root of riander while you’re here.”

Paimon loosened another pouch from her belt and dumped its contents onto the table. “I nearly lost an arm getting these,” she said. “Bravery might not up the price, but demand sure does.” She beamed, turning the roots over for inspection.

The apothecary checked them for a second before sighing. “It’s all top-quality. I’ll go get your payment, then.” He walked around the wood counter and disappeared into the back room.

“Thanks for supporting small business!” Paimon called after him. Chuckling a bit, she leaned on the counter. The apothecary’s shop was a dense, cluttered room, with sloppily labeled items decking the walls. The windows were shuttered to protect the concoctions from the morning sun, and the cheap indoor lanterns conferred a mucous glow onto the wood. Paimon enjoyed the molded-over atmosphere, the faint smell of potions forming a slow, eternal haze.

“You seem kinda down,” she said to the apothecary when he returned.

“Yes, well, ingredients are expensive,” he lamented, and Paimon scratched the back of her head, grinning guiltily.

"But it’s not just that,” the apothecary continued, gesturing to a gallon jar of greenish liquid. “There’s been a bout of bluecough round lately. I’m burning every resource just to try and keep up.”

“Hm.” Paimon folded her arms and pretended not to hear.

“But oh, well. I suppose even alchemy must obey nature’s will.” The apothecary took out a handkerchief and dabbed a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked exhausted, as though his body had been pushed without regulation.

Paimon swiped her necessities off of the table and stashed them in her belt. Many of the coins were left on the table, to which she made a dismissive gesture.
“To be clear, that’s just a loyalty discount,” she said as the apothecary gathered the money.
The apothecary chuckled. “But of course. And thank you.”
“That’s not it!” Paimon said, brandishing her words and money sack. “Just remember the generosity of Paimon Fel, okay? Have a nice day, then.” She strode out of the apothecary shop determined not to regret a thing.
Outside, the sun was searing up from the east, dying blue shadows across the backs of buildings. Syna was not a place that woke lightly, and people were already beginning to head off to work, a rising tide of laborers and artisans. Paimon skipped lightly past them, not bothering to read their expressions. The faces in a town weren’t so much important as the atmosphere. Their lives blended into the bubbles that Paimon skated across in life. She was the dealer of catharsis; for most, that was all they needed.
The morning bazaar was teeming with wares. Tinkers scuttled to their stations, carefully placing down items of mechanical and magical interest. Paimon could see their gears turning, magic circles revolving around one another, apertures squinting at the throng of customers lining up in anticipation.
The farmers, having the easiest merchandise to move, were already set up in their stalls and extolling the health benefits of fresh rutabagas. The people of Syna loved to chat up how revitalizing they were. Paimon had read something of the “placebo effect” in the past; she had also seen something of the icebox from which a farmer pulled the “fresh” produce. It didn’t matter to her, as long as the rutabagas were a happymaker among the people.
She and her fellow vendor were among those “happymakers,” though of a different ilk. Paimon stepped into her usual alley and was immediately confronted by a grey-bearded man in a cowl.
“Before you lies ruin,” the hooded man said, wielding a glowing crystal ball. “Unimaginable sorrow, if you do not turn from your current path. This fate may be avoided with an offering of sustenance.”
Paimon sighed. “I’m not buying you lunch, Mogul. Though I do have enough to get something good for myself.”
A smile perked up from behind the beard, dislodging it slightly. “Oh, is that so?”
Paimon nodded, licking her fingers as she counted off options. “Mm, maybe a link of sausages, or sweetmeats? Though the pies smelled really good this morning.”
“You’re a horrible, horrible person, and fate is going to wallop you for it.” Mogul shook his head, readjusting the beard. Beneath the fake bristles was the clean chin of a twenty-something-year-old swindler, who’d taken up residence in this alley as a fortune-teller. He wasn’t Paimon’s friend so much as an acquainted contact, one she trusted to share the going-ons of Syna.
“So, I was right about the bluecough, wasn’t I?” Mogul asked, his eyes keen with wisdom.
Paimon shrugged. “Yeah, and I made good bank. Thank you for the tip.”

“It helps me too.” Mogul shuffled in his long robe back to his table, placing his crystal ball on the pedestal. “I’ve told quite a few people that their ailments will pass. Hopefully with your supplies, they will.”
“Are you ever going to make a real prediction?”
“If I could, I’d make a fortune.” Mogul giggled for a second before resuming his wizardly air. “But all I can do is try to guide them towards the future they want.”
Paimon smirked. “You’re a little young to be dealing advice.”
“You’re a little young to be dealing sunweed. Don’t criticize my method.”
Paimon reached into her cloak and pulled out a red sling. “I’m gonna pitch that crystal ball over the moon, you know that?”
Mogul put his hands up, the beard conveying a mystic sense of calm. “Look, the only fortune I give is one of success. I advise people towards it, but I must say it’s difficult for them to reach that future with you hawking your snake oils further down the alley.”
“It’s the same lie, essentially.” Paimon said, flicking her hand towards him. “You’re just mad because I get paid more.
“I just want what’s best for their lives,” Mogul said calmly.
“And I want them to enjoy those lives,” Paimon replied.
“But I provide answers,” Mogul stressed.
“And sometimes the answer is smoking sunweed, Mogul. People need to unwind too.” Paimon smiled and leaned her back to the wall, watching the bazaar fill up. “Mind telling my fortune, though?” she asked without looking.
“The heavy toll exacts a trial of forgiveness.”
“Pssh. You saying I need forgiveness?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Paimon shook her head in mock awe, looked down, and froze. There was a stone lying in front of her, the same color as the dirt. In fact, it was the dirt, formed of it in a perfect sphere. There was a rune printed onto it, glowing faintly in the daytime shade. And it was so familiar, this ghost of her past. The rune sphere had haunted her for eleven years. It would form out of a river stream, out of a cooking fire, or an oak log, and always with the rune facing her, the crossed slashes looking so much like an eye.
She set her shoe next to it and tapped it. The attribute of the earth remained solid in the sphere. Gently so Mogul wouldn’t notice, she nudged it away, out of sight and out of heart. Even if just for a moment, the sphere would disappear from her life. Disappear it did, just around the corner.
Paimon bit her tongue. If she looked around that corner, there was no telling whether it would still be there, it being a ghost.
“Getting cold feet?” She turned to see Mogul watching intently. “Scared of getting arrested for your wares, maybe. You should become an honest liar, like me,” he said, grinning cheekily.
Mogul’s words were often a salve, but this one did nothing to ease her. She wished she had something to calm her nerves. There was some sunweed in her bag, but no way to smoke it. She needed a-
Bong. Bong, Bong. Bong, Bong.
Paimon nearly jumped at the bell ringing through the alleyways and streets. The tolling seemed to resonate down to her bones, and she grit her teeth. It seemed a little early for the church to be sounding its steeple, though. Then it struck her. “Heavy toll. Toll, like a bell. Very funny.”
“Did you say something?” Mogul asked.
Between the sphere and Mogul’s nonchalance, Paimon was eager to get moving. “Maybe I’ll check out that trial of forgiveness, then. Or get a pie. Anything to get away from you.” She stuck out her tongue moodily.
Mogul leaned his beard on his hand. “Don’t go too far, now.”
But Paimon intended too, moving brusquely through the crowd. The bustling city rose up high above her, laundry hanging from lines across the windows of tall, rickety houses. Old-fashioned shingling had shrugged off the weather near the Draconis River for years. Even with the city’s growth, it never lost its intimacy.
Above the buildings in the distance was the church steeple, where hung a large bronze bell. The bell was rung each day to signal the hour, and as Paimon watched, it began to rotate in a mighty sweep.
Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong.
Paimon stopped short. It couldn’t possibly have been an hour since she’d heard the sound from the alleyway. But if the bells were tolling the hour just now, what had it been before?
She reached the steps, intent on running up them and getting answers. But her progress was halted early by a hand on her cloak. Paimon looked down and saw an old man in rags, his eyes weary and desperate.
The veins were popping out on his neck, and his face was flushed from the lack of air to his lungs. Paimon had seen the symptoms of bluecough before, and this old man was no better or worse than the thousand victims in the city of Syna.
Paimon grinned and shook his hand. “Hi! Are you here to see a doctor?”
The old man shook his head. He opened his mouth, and nothing but a dry wheeze escaped. Paimon estimated that the bluecough had just recently taken his voice. His hands grasped at her cloak, and she fought them away.
“I don’t have a cure, old man,” she said. During the time in which she’d spoken, her smile had dried thin as paint. “You need to get to a doctor.”
The old man spread his hands about himself, as if to sadly say, I would if I could. His mouth still hung half-open, moans lifting from his throat as if from a grave.
He wasn’t trying to grab her anymore, but his presence was unbearable. Paimon’s hand dipped into her herb pouch, coming up with ten hard, black seeds. She presented them forward. “These will ease the pain. That’s all they can do, though.”
The old man didn’t listen, and scarfed down the seeds. He leaned back on the steps, the rasp lifting from his breath. His eyes registered nothingness in the calmest manner.
Paimon watched him drift off, and when he was asleep, ran up the steps and banged on the church door. She turned back to the man and hesitated for a moment, then, at the sound of approaching footsteps, leapt from the stairs and back into the crowded street. All the while, she was trying to figure out what she was feeling.
It was a stupid mood, she decided. This whole day had put her into a stupid mood. She needed some relaxation time. She needed a vacation, somewhere ridiculously sunny. An idyllic mirage far from this trading town.

She nearly tripped on the ghost as she stepped over it. The rune sphere was made of clay this time, popped out of a brick building next to her. Paimon placed it in her sling, and, whirling twice for good luck, launched it over the horizon.