The Bloodbaths | Page 5

clean as a baby when
she's filthy from a day's printing?"
Gavri wagged a finger at him. "A lady is never 'filthy.'"
"My mistake."

"Take her to the bathhouse, then. We'll be refitting it soon enough."
Gavri plucked a bastianae blossom from the sample box for Stada's
estate and affixed it to his lapel. "A good day's work, ser. We rise at
dawn tomorrow?"
Crixus let the tiny girl shoo him out of the back room they'd rented as a
temporary office. "Dawn, yes. I'll see you here--"
She closed the door on him.
Laborers, dockworkers, and craftsmen peppered the tables of the inn's
main room, drinking and tossing bets on the tables in games of chance:
Pathii, Seaboard, and King's Dice, at a glance. Crixus ambled between
the tables, studying the men and women as he passed them and the
piles of coins massed before the winners. Many of them would be
working for him on the construction of the small aqueducts for the
incoming estates. If the sales closed as he hoped, he would be dealing
with the contractors personally. They would paint a rosy picture of the
sturdiness and reliability of their laborers, but a few nights' drinking in
the inn would provide more insight than those interviews.
On his way out, Crixus passed a shrine to Kaolis, goddess of idyll and
reflection. He thought it an ironic choice for a tavern but made the
requisite two fingered tap to the forehead as a matter of habit.
The printing shop and home of the family Dramonicai was located on
the next hill, nestled between a bakery and a jeweler. If there was one
thing Restia needed no more of, it was hills. Sixteen hills of varying
elevations surrounded the town. Aqueduct construction benefited from
the slopes, but the additional labor to tunnel through their sides could
run costs higher than budgeted. Fortunes would be made in Restia, all
because of a road.
Crixus appreciated trudging about the town. He had to pass through
neighborhoods which a sightseer would never visit, and as a hopeful
future resident, he was awarded a glimpse of the true face of Restia.
Growing up in Greater Rond, he was used to urban sprawl, service on
every corner for every need, the reek of waste cast out of second story

windows. The coziness of Restia reminded him of his outsider status.
Taking a local wife would not necessarily change that.
The mother with her sons, lounging outside of the three story apartment
building; the farmer wheeling the remains of his stock from the day's
market; the message boys, faces tight with purpose and exertion; the
gossiping merchants at the snack bar, sipping wine and nibbling on nuts;
the dour sanitation workers, sweeping animal refuse into the sewer
grates--they were all strangers to him and would remain so even after
he built a house for himself and Kharrina.
He envisioned a modest house for them despite his extensive
knowledge of building techniques. Yet there would still be an atrium,
and of course it would have a fountain. And running water for the
house as well, even if he had to absorb the extra cost. As a water
artesan, it was a point of pride, and a good selling tool. In fact, a
modest house with running water impressed rich clients more than a
grand mansion, because it was a luxury they did not expect to see.
Kharrina loved plants, so their home would be lush, verdant, full of
light and water.
The fading light of dusk spelled the end of the day for most of Restia's
workers. They clogged the streets, buying loaves of bread for dinner,
stopping for a drink with friends, or, most notably to Crixus, pausing to
bet on dice games in booths adorned with roses. He resisted the urge to
stop and investigate. Later, he promised himself, when I don't have a
lovely woman to see. The bettors' faces bore the many stages of
excitement, triumph, and disappointment that livened up a good game
of chance, and he tore away his gaze with effort.
A unique combination of smells presaged his arrival at Kharrina's block:
the musky scent of printer's ink combined with the lingering smell of
baked bread. In the morning the bakery won out, a victory for all
concerned. By the evening, a day's worth of ink elbowed the bread
aside. Perhaps a houseful of flowers would restore some of Kharrina's
poor abused sense of smell.
The Dramonicai Printing Company faced the street. The front rooms

were open to view and to sunlight though protected from rain by an
overreaching blue awning on the second story. Alman Dramonicai
pulled oilskin tarps over a case of paper samples. The influx of new
business concerns meant more