Chapter 15 - Jestwig

Jestwig rises before us like some mechanical beast, all gears and pipes and smoke. It's nothing like the pristine, magical streets of Egozia with its clean lines and enchanted lamps. This place is raw, industrial—honest in its ugliness.

"We'll stop here," Sihx says, pointing toward the town's entrance where two massive steel cogs form an archway. "Need to clean up before Jeolara."

I sniff at my sleeve and recoil. Between the sewers, the river, and days of travel, I smell like something that crawled out of a swamp and died. My clothes are stiff with dried river water and other substances I'd rather not identify.

"Clean up how?" I ask, eyeing the town suspiciously. "We've got no money, no clothes."

Sihx reaches into his boot and pulls out a small leather pouch that jingles with coins. "Always keep emergency funds where no one thinks to look."

The streets of Jestwig clank and hiss around us. Steam vents erupt from random pipes, filling the air with hot mist that smells of oil and coal. People bustle past, most wearing leather aprons stained with grease, goggles pushed up on their foreheads, and tools hanging from thick belts. Their language is as rough as their appearance.

"Blasted coupling won't seal worth a damn," shouts a woman to her companion as they pass us. "Told that copper-brained fool we needed brass, not iron!"

A group of workers sits outside what looks like a café, drinking from metal mugs that emit their own plumes of steam. One man takes a long swig and belches a cloud that smells of coffee and machine oil.

"What is that?" I ask, wrinkling my nose.

"Steampunker's juice," Sihx replies. "Coffee mixed with a special oil they claim enhances mental acuity. More likely just gives them heartburn."

We pass a workshop where sparks fly from grinding wheels, the screech of metal on metal making me wince. No one pays us much attention—two dirty strangers are hardly noteworthy in a town where everyone seems covered in some layer of grime.

"You said you need to meet people in Jeolara," I prompt, tired of following blindly. "Who?"

"Old associates," Sihx says vaguely. "People who might help us understand your... condition."

I scowl at his non-answer. "And why would they help me?"

"Because they're interested in anything that might give them an edge against mages."

That catches my attention. "They fight mages?"

"In their way." Sihx points to a building ahead. "There. We can get cleaned up and fed."

My stomach growls at the mention of food. For days, I've been surviving on Sihx's rations—dried strips of meat so tough they threaten to break teeth, and some kind of compressed biscuit that tastes like sawdust mixed with salt.

"Your food is disgusting," I tell him bluntly.

"But efficient," he counters. "Three hundred calories per strip, two hundred per biscuit. Complete proteins, essential fats, minimal weight to carry."

"Tastes like something scraped off the bottom of a boot."

"Taste is irrelevant when survival is the goal." True.

"Spoken like someone who's never enjoyed a meal in his life."

A hint of amusement crosses his face. "Perhaps in Jeolara, we can find something that satisfies both nutrition and your delicate palate."

We stop before a three-story building with steam billowing from multiple chimneys. A large sign creaks in the wind, displaying the establishment's name in brass letters surrounded by painted gears and pistons: "The Piston and Pint: Where Steam Meets Spirits."

Sihx pushes open the door, releasing a wave of warmth, the smell of food, and the sound of raucous laughter.

"After you," he says. "Time to rejoin civilization."

I step into The Piston and Pint, and my senses are immediately overwhelmed. The aroma hits me first—hot metal, machine oil, cooking grease, and something like burnt coffee. The cacophony follows—dozens of conversations melding into an indecipherable wall of sound, punctuated by mechanical clicks, hisses, and the occasional metallic clang.

The patrons are a strange lot. A woman at the bar flexes brass-plated fingers that whir and click as she picks up her drink with impossible precision. Nearby, a man demonstrates some sort of spring-loaded leg brace to his companions, hopping from one foot to another with unnatural height. Another fellow sports goggles with multiple lenses that flip and rotate, presumably enhancing his vision in ways I can't fathom.

None of it makes sense to me. In my tribe, we relied on our bodies and the power of our tattoos. These people augment themselves with machinery instead of magic, but the principle seems oddly similar—external power grafted onto human limitation.

Sihx moves toward the front desk with purposeful strides. I follow, conscious of the mud caked on my boots, leaving tracks across the wooden floor. A woman with copper-coloured hair pulled back in a severe bun looks up from a ledger. Her nose wrinkles visibly as our smell reaches her.

"One room," Sihx says flatly.

The receptionist's eyes water slightly as she takes a step back. "Saints above, did you two swim through the sewers?"

"The room," Sihx repeats, not acknowledging her question.

She glances between us, a smirk forming on her lips. "Just one room for the both of you? Well, we don't judge here in Jestwig. Whatever keeps you warm at night—"

I fix her with a cold stare, saying nothing. Her joke dies in the air between us.

Sihx leans forward slightly. "A room. Now. Third floor if available."

Something in his tone makes the woman straighten. The smirk vanishes, replaced by a professional mask. "Of course, sir."

She turns to a contraption beside her desk—a brass box with numerous levers and dials. Her fingers dance across it, pulling one lever, turning two dials, and pressing a small button. The machine chugs and wheezes, gears turning visibly behind a glass panel. A small drawer pops open at the bottom, and she retrieves a key attached to a heavy brass tag.

"Room 312," she says, holding it out to Sihx. "Third floor, as requested. Bathing facilities are at the end of each hallway. I strongly suggest you make use of them before touching anything in the room."

Sihx takes the key without comment, dropping several coins on the counter.

I follow Sihx up the creaking wooden stairs, my eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. The stairwell is narrow—a good defensive position, but also a death trap if cornered. I count the doors on each landing, noting which ones appear occupied based on the sounds behind them and the boots left outside.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Three exits on the ground floor," I mutter, more to myself than Sihx. "Main entrance, kitchen door visible behind the bar, and that small corridor leading east—probably staff quarters with a back exit."

Sihx nods without looking back. "Four. You missed the cellar trapdoor behind the reception desk."

Of course, he spotted it. I clench my jaw, irritated at missing something so obvious.

We reach the third floor, and I immediately identify the window at the end of the hallway. It overlooks a sloped roof—not ideal, but a possible escape route if necessary. The hallway itself is narrow, with rooms on either side. The floorboards creak under our weight, announcing our presence to anyone listening.

"Noisy floors," I observe. "Hard to move silently."

"Intentional," Sihx replies. "Common security measure in Jeolaran territories. Paranoid lot."

He stops at room 312, key in hand. Before inserting it, he runs his fingers along the doorframe, checking for traps or signs of tampering. Finding none, he unlocks the door and pushes it open just enough to glance inside. His eyes sweep the room in one fluid motion, taking in every detail in seconds.

"Clear," he says, pushing the door fully open. "I'll shower first. Be quick with your inspection."

Without waiting for my response, he crosses to a tiny rucksack he's been hiding in his robe, extracts fresh clothes and a small leather case, and then exits the room, heading toward the bathing facilities at the end of the hall. I wonder to myself how those survived being dirty, but I stop my thoughts.

I step into our room, taking my time to examine it properly. It's small but functional. Two narrow beds sit against opposite walls, a small table between them. A single window overlooks the street below—large enough to climb through if needed, but also a potential entry point for anyone hunting us.

I check under both beds—clear. The wardrobe is empty except for two spare blankets on the top shelf. I run my fingers along the edges of the floorboards, finding one loose one near my bed. Could be useful for hiding small items.

The walls are thin—I can hear muffled conversations from adjacent rooms. Bad for privacy, good for advanced warning if someone approaches. I test the window latch; it's stiff but functional. The glass is single-paned, easy to break in an emergency.

Satisfied with my assessment, I head for the bathing room. The hallway remains empty except for a middle-aged woman exiting a room farther down, who wrinkles her nose as I pass.

I position myself against the wall beside the bathing room door, listening for any sounds inside besides Sihx. Nothing suspicious. Still, I keep one hand near my waist, where my knife would normally be. The snake tattoo on my arm pulses faintly, as if sensing my caution.

I reach for the handle of the bathing room door, hesitating just a moment before turning it. Even something as simple as bathing feels like a tactical decision now. How far I've fallen from the Academy's comforts, back to survival mode. But at least in this mode, I understand the rules.

I push open the door to the bathing room, and a wave of nostalgia hits me. The setup is identical to those I've used countless times during missions with Maya's mercenary company throughout the Kingdom of Envy.

Steam rises from copper pipes that line the walls, humming with pressure. A large, riveted metal bathtub dominates the centre of the room, its surface showing patches of wear where the metal has been polished by countless bodies. Sihx has already finished and left, leaving behind only a lingering scent of soap and a few droplets of water on the floor.

I turn the brass valve, and it protests with a screech before releasing a burst of steam. Hot water gushes from the spout, filling the tub with a roar that echoes off the tiled walls. The pipes overhead shudder and clank, pressure gauges with brass faces and red needles fluctuating wildly as the system adjusts to the demand.

Gas lamps flicker on the walls, casting dancing shadows across the room. Their light reflects off the mirror—a simple piece of glass set into a large brass cog that serves as its frame. The whole setup feels like the inside of some great machine, all function with minimal consideration for comfort.

I strip off my filthy clothes, wrinkling my nose at the stench. Days of sweat, river water, and sewer filth have turned them stiff and foul. I drop them in a heap on the floor, making a mental note to either wash or burn them later.

The water is almost too hot as I lower myself into the tub, but the heat feels good against my aching muscles. I sink down until the water reaches my chin, watching as the clear surface immediately begins to cloud with the dirt from my skin.

Disgusting.

Reaching for the bar of industrial soap left on a small metal shelf beside the tub. It smells of nothing but lye and chemicals, harsh but effective.

As I scrub away layers of grime, I find myself thinking that a shower would have been more efficient—at least then I wouldn't be sitting in my own filth. But I've bathed in far worse conditions: icy streams in winter, brackish shallow ponds filled with insects, even once in a puddle of rainwater collected in a tarp while hiding from pursuers.

The water darkens around me as days of travel wash away. I can see the outline of my tattoo beneath the surface, lying on my chest. The snake seeming to ripple with the movement of the water. It's been quiet since we left Egozia, dormant in a way that both relieves and concerns me. I don't fully understand what awakened it at the Academy—nor if I fully slumbered it.

I dunk my head under the water, running my fingers through my hair to dislodge the worst of the dirt. When I surface, I catch my reflection in the cog-framed mirror—a huge stranger stares back at me, hollow-eyed and wary. I barely recognize myself anymore.

The pipes groan overhead, a gauge releasing a small jet of steam as pressure builds somewhere in the system. The familiar sounds ground me, remind me of nights spent in similar rooms across Jeolaran territories, preparing for the next day's mission with Maya and the others.

Those were simpler times. Dangerous, yes, but with clear objectives and trusted companions. Now I'm following a man I barely know, chasing answers about a heritage I never asked for, hunted by forces I don't fully understand.

I finish washing and stand, water cascading off my body back into the murky tub. I pull the drain plug, watching the filthy water swirl away, carrying with it the physical evidence of our journey, if not the weight of it.

I towel off quickly, the rough fabric scratching against my skin. The water draining away reminds me of another time—my first bath with the mercenaries after they found me.

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*****

I was six, covered in dirt and blood that wasn't mine, wild-eyed and feral after watching my tribe slaughtered. Maya's company had found me hiding in the underbrush three days later, still clutching a knife and refusing to speak.

"The kid needs a wash," Dex had said, his massive frame blocking the doorway of the inn room they'd rented. "He smells worse than Karro after a week-long bender."

"So wash him," Maya replied, not looking up from the map spread across the table.

I remember how Dex's face had contorted, caught between amusement and horror. "Me? I don't know the first thing about children."

"None of us do," Maya said. "But he can't stay like that. The innkeeper's already suspicious."

I'd backed myself into a corner, knife still in hand, watching them warily. I wasn't going anywhere near water with strangers. Water was for the weak. Warriors of my tribe bathed in the blood of their enemies.

The snake tattoo— still fresh and young, was weakly pulsing and coiling, thirsting for some blood to be spilt.

"Come on, kid," Dex had approached, hands outstretched. "Just a quick dip."

I'd slashed at him with my small knife, drawing a thin line of blood across his palm. He'd cursed, jumping back.

"Little savage nearly took my thumb off!"

Vira, the company's scout, had laughed from her perch by the window. "Maybe we should just knock him out, clean him while he's unconscious."

"Are you insane?" Lian, their medic, had interjected. "He's traumatized enough without waking up naked and wet."

"Well, I'm not getting cut again," Dex grumbled, wrapping a cloth around his bleeding hand.

They'd argued back and forth, their voices growing louder as I pressed myself further into the corner. I didn't understand most of their words then, but their tone was clear enough. They wanted to change me, wash away the last traces of my tribe. I wouldn't let them.

Maya had finally stood, silencing the others with a raised hand. She'd approached me slowly, crouching down to my level.

"You're one of us now," she'd said, her voice firm but not unkind. "And we have rules. First rule: we stay clean when we can, because dirt gets you sick, and sick gets you dead."

I'd spat at her feet. I'm one of my tribe—not them.

She hadn't flinched. "Second rule: We follow orders. I'm giving you an order to bathe."

I'd shaken my head violently, clutching my knife tighter.

"Third rule," she'd continued as if I hadn't responded, "we protect our own. Right now, you smell so bad you're drawing attention to all of us. That puts us in danger." I'm not a part of you.

I remember how her eyes had hardened then, all patience gone. "Last chance. Put down the knife and get in the tub, or I'll take it from you."

I'd lunged at her instead, a feral growl escaping my throat. She'd moved so fast I barely saw it—one moment I was charging, the next my knife was gone and I was dangling from her grip, feet kicking uselessly in the air.

"Enough!" she'd barked, carrying me toward the wooden tub in the centre of the room as I thrashed and screamed. "Lian, get his clothes. Dex, hold him down if needed."

I'd fought like a wild animal, scratching and biting as they stripped me and forced me into the water. I remember screaming that they were erasing my tribe, washing away the last connection to my people.

"Keep him still," Maya had ordered as I splashed water everywhere, soaking all of them in my desperate attempt to escape.

"Saints preserve us," Vira had muttered, trying to scrub my arm while avoiding my teeth. "He's stronger than he looks."

"We're mercenaries," Dex had complained, struggling to hold my legs. "Not nursemaids."

Maya had stood back, watching the chaos with her arms crossed. A small smile had crept across her face as water and soap suds flew across the room, her hardened mercenaries thoroughly defeated by one small, filthy child.

"Well," she'd said, "looks like we're in for a ride."

******