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

the dirt on her, noticed
the mud stains on her legwraps, and called her out for the farmer she was.
    “I am parikua ,” she muttered.
    “I thinked you might be from the pits or the nethertowns. We
do not often see white-furs here. I know all the scearib around, and I
don’t know you.” He sensed her dejection and paced the counter, pretending to
organize the contents of a shelf, though his fumbling seemed to have the
opposite effect. The term they used for albinos was not always mentioned in a
derogatory way, but why would he point it out unless it made a difference?
    “I’m from Tanley,” Lizneth the scearib replied. She’d
found something she wanted to buy. She approached the counter with it, being
careful not to stumble over anything on her way there.
    “Ah, very nice hood and cloak, this one,” Blitznag said, his
remaining ear perked. “What is your trade?”
    The cloth was midnight blue, and it reminded Lizneth of the color
of the rime caves in darkness. She loved the color, but she hated to think
of those caves. It reminded her of Deequol and the other siblings she’d lost,
and Papa had told her never to think of them. Deequol had always been her
anchor; the brother she’d been able to confide in whenever anything went wrong.
    “Dark shades look good on you,” he’d told her once, when she
had used one of Mama’s darkmoss aprons to keep her fur clean as she scrubbed
the bowls before supper.
    She had never forgotten that compliment. She doubted she would
ever be able to forget Deequol, either.
    Lizneth searched her pocket and came up with a handful of
mulligraws. “This is all I brought with me,” she said, blushing. “Is it
enough?”
    “Beans,” Blitznag said. “Beans?” The word came out as a
squeak the second time. His eyes had become spheres of glassy red-ringed onyx.
“You bring here to insult! You want bargain of fine linen for simple worthless
beans!”
    Lizneth wondered how her offer could be worthy of such great
offense. “I didn’t… I’m only here for the day, I didn’t think to bring—”
    “I tell you what,” Blitznag said, and in the space between
that moment and the next, Lizneth thought he might have relaxed. “Out. Out of
my shop, and I don’t find someone to take you away for stealing.”
    “I’m not stealing. I haven’t stolen anything,” she said.
Tears welled, and she felt them escaping the corners of her eyes despite her
best efforts. She flung the cloak onto the table and dashed out, knocking over
a stand of wicker baskets along the way. With a last stung effort she called
back to him, “I wouldn’t steal this junk if I found it in the tunnels!”
    “Mah.” Blitznag scowled, waving her away.
    The bridge was still teeming with activity. Lizneth threw
herself toward the crowd, drying her eyes on the fur of her forearm.
    “Blitznag get the best of another one?” asked the next-door
neighbor, as she sulked past him. His shop was open to the street, with rows of
neat shelves and a clean backdrop facing the milling crowds.
    Lizneth looked sideways at him and frowned, but there was
warmth and sympathy in his face, and she felt obliged to stop. He was an older
buck, soft-eyed and wiry, with thin rutted incisors and drooping whiskers that
were so long they would’ve brushed his shoulders if they’d still had their
youthful springiness.
    “What do you mean he got the best of me?” Lizneth asked.
    “It happens all the time. I see folks like you come out of
that shop with that same look on their faces. The Blitznag you met in there is
actually the son of Blitznag. It was his papa’s place first. He
inherited it when his old kehaieh died. I’d be surprised if he’s sold a
thing since, the way he seems to treat his customers. He’s been running the
place for a couple years now. He’s come up on the wrong side of some choice
characters in that time. Not everyone’s as passive as you are—hence the scars.”
He wagged a finger at his head. “But mostly I