Free The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) by J.C. Staudt Page A

chitter. Lizneth’s Ikzhethii wasn’t the best,
but she knew the words meant ‘trade crossing’ in the Aion-speech.
    The dam yanked her shroud tight around her snout and slipped
past, continuing on her way.
    Artisans haggled with their customers as Lizneth meandered
along the bridge, trying not to let the crowd sweep her off too fast. She
wanted to revel in the moment; take it all in. Her daydreams would be richer
when she returned to Tanley if she had tangible memories with which to treat
herself.
    The color and excitement of things happening—deals being
made, meetings in the street, stories unfolding—was so much more than she was
used to. Tanley was like a black-and-white photograph, tame and ordinary by comparison.
It was a peasant’s town, full of serfs under the vassalage of Sniverlik, who
were too frightened of him to do anything about it. No one ever said ill of
Sniverlik, and no one failed to do what he required of them, unless they wished
to risk his ire. The ikzhehn here seemed so much freer—able to do as
they pleased. Lizneth envied them, and a very profound part of her longed to be
one of them if it gained her the same privilege.
    “Step inside, nestling,” said a vehement shopkeep, a buck who
looked young enough to be presumptuous in calling her a child. He emerged from
the shadows and swept a hand across his bulbous abdomen in display of the
entrance. His crown was bandaged in a wide cheesecloth wrapping. She could see
the end of a bald patch coming through underneath, where an elongated scar had stopped
the fur from growing back, and the round of his skull on the left side, where
his ear should’ve been.
    “Blitznag’s Bazaar, welcome to you,” he said in a heavy
Ikzhethii accent. “Baubles, bounties, bits, and beauties to behold!”
    In spite of herself, Lizneth lost sight of the far end of the
bridge and wandered inside. The interior was musty and dark, but somehow much
larger than it had appeared from the street. The shop was beyond cluttered; she’d
never seen so many things packed into such a small space, except maybe her
brothers and sisters. It was loaded so full of oddments that she had to be careful
not to knock anything over as she began to peruse the shelves.
    Following her inside, the buck strode through the flotsam of
his shop in the kind of perfunctory manner that showed he’d done so a hundred
times before.
    Lizneth sniffed the air and found dozens of unfamiliar haick traces, but they were faint, left by ikzhehn long departed. She was
alone with the shopkeep. As she browsed ever deeper between the congested
shelves and teetering stacks of sundries, the urgent noise of the crowds
outside diminished to a dull hum.
    “Anything particular you have eye for?” the shopkeep asked in
his broken dialect, twitching eager whiskers as he watched her from the
counter.
    “Just browsing,” Lizneth said. Many trinkets caught her
attention, but she never let her eye rest on one for too long, lest she catch
an unwanted dose of salesmanship from her observer. There were things both
decorative and mundane along the aisles, both handmade and manufactured, from
times ancient and recent. Cloth and clothing, plastic and glass, tin and steel
and rusted iron; dolls, baskets, thatched figurines and other crafts; gold and
silver jewelry, encrusted with gemstones; mountains of dusty furniture; rows of
vases, cups, kettles, jugs, pitchers, and bowls; and pillars of old books, most
of which, having been printed in the tongues of the calaihn , were of
little use to any ikzhehn aside from the occasional linguist or
historian who could read them. There was also a display case filled with items
of a more delicate or dangerous variety, on which the shopkeep was leaning.
    “You are from other part of town, yes?”
    Lizneth felt herself blushing, delighted to think he’d
mistaken her for a city-dweller. “Why do you say that?”
    “You scent like parikua ,” he said.
    Lizneth’s heart sank. He’d smelled