Chapter 17 - More numbers?

I follow Sihx's lead into Jeolara proper, immediately adjusting my pace to match the locals—slow, measured steps, shoulders slightly hunched. My hand instinctively drops to where my coin pouch sits, shifting it deeper into my inner pocket. Not that I have any.

"Eyes forward, hands close, back straight," Sihx murmurs without looking at me. "Don't make eye contact, but watch everything." I know this already.

The streets of Jeolara unfold before us like a living, breathing organism. Unlike Egozia's pristine order, this place thrives in its calculated chaos. Steam vents hiss from below, releasing clouds that smell of oil and chemicals. The buildings lean inward, creating narrow passages where sunlight barely penetrates. Brass pipes and copper wiring run exposed along facades, connecting everything in a tangled web of industry.

And the people—they move like predators and prey simultaneously. Everyone watching, everyone wary.

A woman bumps into my shoulder, muttering an apology. I feel the subtle pressure against my side pocket and shift my weight, turning my hip away from her probing fingers. She melts back into the crowd without missing a beat.

"Not bad," Sihx comments, his eyes never leaving the path ahead. "But you telegraphed the counter."

He weaves through the crowd with remarkable precision, somehow anticipating each attempted brush pass or bump. Where I move with abrupt adjustments—jerking away from an approaching hand or shifting my stance to block access—Sihx flows like water, his movements so natural that the pickpockets probably don't even realise they've been avoided.

"They're testing us," I observe, watching a group of youths deliberately slow their pace ahead, creating a bottleneck. "Seeing if we're worth the effort."

Everyone in Jeolara wants something from someone else. It's the kingdom's nature.

We turn down a side street where massive gears rotate slowly in shop windows, powering intricate clockwork displays designed to draw the eye—and distract from the hands reaching for your valuables. A man in a well-worn coat drifts too close to my right side. I shift my weight, planting my foot and pivoting my shoulder to block him.

"Pardon, sir," he mutters, eyes darting away as he retreats.

The crowd thickens as we approach what appears to be a market square. Steam-powered stalls vent clouds of vapour, obscuring visibility. The perfect hunting ground for thieves. Sihx accelerates slightly, moving with purpose through gaps I can barely see forming.

I follow, but a surge of people separates us. A group of factory workers in oil-stained coveralls floods between us, and suddenly, Sihx is gone. My pulse quickens. I scan the crowd, searching for his tall frame and black hair.

Nothing.

I push forward, keeping my movements measured despite my rising concern. In the press of bodies, everyone looks suspicious—everyone's eyes seem to track my movements, assess my worth, calculate the risk of attempting to separate me from my possessions.

A child darts past, hand brushing my leg. I feel nothing, but check my boot knife that Sihx gave me anyway. Still there. These people are good.

The crowd shifts again, and I catch a glimpse of Sihx's back disappearing down an alley to the left. I follow, pushing past a woman whose eyes narrow at my haste.

The alley opens onto a slightly wider street lined with shops displaying intricate mechanical devices behind reinforced glass. Security here is tighter—armed guards stand at intervals, their weapons prominently displayed. The wealthy shop here, or those who aspire to wealth.

I spot Sihx waiting at a corner, his posture relaxed but alert. He nods once when he sees me.

"You navigate well enough," he says when I reach him. "For someone used to being feared rather than targeted."

"With Maya's company, only fools tried to rob us," I admit. "And fools are easy to spot."

"Here, everyone's a potential thief. Remember that."

We continue through increasingly affluent streets until finally, Sihx stops before a towering establishment that stands in stark contrast to the grime around it. Polished brass fixtures gleam in the afternoon light. Steam-powered elevators with glass walls rise up the exterior, showcasing well-dressed patrons.

A gilded sign hangs above the entrance, proclaiming in flowing script: "The Covetous Crown."

I study the opulent establishment before us, feeling distinctly out of place. The Covetous Crown stands like a gleaming monument to wealth amid Jeolara's industrial grime—exactly the kind of place where I'd expect to find targets, not refuge.

Before I can comment, Sihx strides toward the entrance with the same confident purpose he's shown since our escape. I hurry to match his pace, my boots suddenly feeling too heavy and worn against the polished marble steps.

A doorman stands at attention, his pristine black suit and white gloves looking absurdly clean in this city of soot and steam. His posture is rigid, his expression carefully neutral as we approach. His eyes flick over my travel-worn appearance with barely concealed disdain.

"Sir," he addresses Sihx, deliberately ignoring me, "I'm afraid The Covetous Crown maintains certain standards that—"

"We have business inside," Sihx cuts him off, his voice low and commanding.

The doorman's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes hardens. "May I inquire as to the nature of your business, sir?"

"I have affairs with residents of this establishment," Sihx replies evenly.

I shift my weight, scanning our surroundings. Two guards stand at discreet positions near the entrance, their hands resting on what appear to be steam-powered pistols. Not openly threatening, but ready.

The doorman raises an eyebrow. "And with whom might you have these affairs? I'll need names before allowing entry."

"Is that really necessary?" Sihx asks, his tone suggesting he already knows the answer.

"I'm afraid it is, sir. The Crown's patrons value their privacy and security above all else." The doorman's inflexion, his posture, even the way he enunciates each word—he could have stepped straight out of an Egozian noble's mansion. His rigid adherence to protocol feels completely at odds with Jeolara's opportunistic nature.

Sihx remains silent for a moment, and I can almost feel him weighing his options. Finally, he says a single word: "Aite."

The name hangs in the air between them. The doorman's eyes widen slightly—the first genuine reaction I've seen from him.

"One moment, please." He turns to a brass device mounted on the wall beside the door—an intricate combination of gears, tubes, and what appears to be a small essence crystal glowing faintly at its centre.

I've seen such devices only twice before, during high-security missions with Maya's company. Communication devices that combine mechanical engineering with magical essence—prohibitively expensive and typically reserved for nobility or the obscenely wealthy.

The doorman speaks quietly into a small brass funnel, his words too low for us to hear. A series of clicks and whirs emanate from the device as gears shift and the crystal pulses. He listens to something through a thin tube pressed to his ear, occasionally nodding.

Minutes pass. I remain still, but my awareness heightens. The guards have subtly shifted positions, angling themselves to better observe us. Passersby give us a wide berth, sensing something unusual in our interaction with the doorman.

Finally, the doorman returns the listening tube to its cradle and faces us again, his expression now carefully deferential.

"You may proceed, gentlemen. Eighth floor." He steps aside and gestures toward the glass elevator at the side of the building.

Sihx doesn't acknowledge him further, simply walking toward the elevator with the same measured confidence. I follow, feeling the doorman's eyes on my back.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The elevator itself is a marvel of engineering—a brass cage with glass walls, suspended by thick cables and powered by some combination of steam and essence I can't begin to understand. As we step inside, I notice the floor is transparent as well, offering a dizzying view of the mechanism below.

Sihx pulls a brass lever, and the doors slide shut with a soft hiss. The elevator shudders once, then begins its ascent.

The elevator rises smoothly, carrying us above the tangle of Jeolara's streets. I step closer to the glass, watching the city unfold beneath us. From this height, the patterns of movement become clearer—like watching a colony of insects, each with their own purpose but forming a collective rhythm.

Third floor. Fourth floor.

The crowds below shift and swirl. A woman in a blue coat pauses to examine goods at a stall while a man drifts casually behind her. His hand moves with practised precision, extracting something from her bag. She continues on, oblivious to the theft.

"Sloppy," I mutter.

Sihx glances at me. "What is?"

"That mark down there. If she'd kept her bag against her front instead of her side, he'd have had to work harder."

Two children weave through the crowd, seemingly playful. But their movements are too coordinated. One bumps into a well-dressed merchant, creating a distraction while the other slips a hand into his coat.

"I would've caught the first child's wrist," I say, almost to myself. "Twist until he drops, then use his momentum to throw him into his partner. Quick. Efficient."

My fingers flex unconsciously, muscle memory from years with Maya's company. We'd dealt with pickpockets in every territory—sometimes violently, when the situation called for it.

"And then?" Sihx asks, his voice neutral.

"Crack their heads together. Not hard enough to kill, just enough to make them reconsider their choice of target." I pause, watching another theft play out below. "Or I would have, before."

"Before what?"

I don't answer. Before I understood what it meant to be hunted. Before I knew what it felt like to be truly alone.

Sixth floor. Seventh floor.

As we near our destination, movement at street level catches my eye. A flash of red hair—the girl from the gate. She stands at the entrance to The Covetous Crown, her face tilted upward, watching our ascent. Even from this distance, I can see the disappointment in her posture as she realises where we're headed.

"We've picked up a shadow," I say, nodding toward her.

Sihx barely glances down. "I noticed her following us three streets back."

"She was at the gate. Tried to listen in when we spoke to the guards."

"Information broker," Sihx says. "They're common here. Sell what they learn to whoever pays."

The girl backs away from the entrance, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Whatever she hoped to overhear is now beyond her reach. She melts back into the crowd, her red hair disappearing among the sea of muted colours.

"Should we be concerned?" I ask.

"Not about her specifically. But it confirms we're being noticed." Sihx adjusts his stance as the elevator slows. "Which means we need to move quickly."

The elevator comes to a gentle stop, a soft bell chiming to announce our arrival. The brass doors slide open with a mechanical hiss, revealing a corridor that seems to belong to another world entirely.

A corridor lined with polished mahogany and brass fixtures that gleam under the warm light of essence-powered chandeliers. The contrast between this opulence and the industrial grime outside is jarring—like stepping from a battlefield into a royal court.

Sihx moves forward without hesitation, and I follow, my boots sinking into thick carpet that muffles our footsteps. At the end of the corridor stands a set of double doors, each bearing an intricate engraving of a crown surrounded by reaching hands.

Two attendants in crisp uniforms step forward to open the doors as we approach. Neither questions our presence nor asks for identification. The doorman's approval seems to have granted us passage without further scrutiny.

The doors swing open, revealing a banquet hall that defies everything I've come to expect from Jeolara. The ceiling soars three stories high, supported by columns of polished marble veined with gold. Massive chandeliers hang suspended, each crystal refracting light in hypnotic patterns across the room. The walls are adorned with paintings in gilded frames—landscapes of territories I've never seen, portraits of stern-faced individuals whose eyes seem to follow our movement.

"Breathe," Sihx murmurs, noticing my momentary hesitation.

I hadn't realised I was holding my breath.

The hall stretches before us, filled with dozens of tables arranged in concentric circles around a central platform where musicians play instruments I've never seen before. Their music fills the air—not the raucous tavern tunes I'm accustomed to, but something delicate and precise, each note placed with deliberate care.

The diners themselves are as ornate as their surroundings. Women in elaborate gowns adorned with gears and clockwork accessories that tick and whir with their movements. Men in tailored suits with essence-infused cufflinks that glow with subtle power. Their conversations create a constant hum beneath the music, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or clink of crystal.

Servants glide between tables bearing trays laden with food that looks more like art than sustenance—towers of delicacies arranged in impossible formations, dishes that steam or glow or change colour as they're served.

"This is what they spend their coin on while people starve three streets over," I mutter, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

Sihx doesn't respond, his eyes scanning the room with methodical precision. We move deeper into the hall, and I become acutely aware of the attention we're drawing. Conversations falter as we pass. Eyes flick toward us, then away, then back again with poorly concealed interest.

My worn clothes and Sihx's simple robe stand in stark contrast to the extravagance around us. Yet rather than embarrassment, I sense something else in the glances we receive—a strange mixture of disdain and... envy?

A woman in a dress adorned with ticking clockwork butterflies watches us pass, her expression pinched with disapproval. But beneath it lies something else—a flash of longing as she adjusts her high collar that must be digging uncomfortably into her neck.

A man pauses mid-conversation to observe us, his eyes lingering on my relaxed stride. He shifts in his seat, tugging at his tight waistcoat, the movement causing his mechanical boutonniere to sputter and release a puff of steam.

They're prisoners of their own finery, I realise. Each elaborate outfit, each display of wealth—it's armour they've constructed against each other. And here we walk, unburdened by their rules, moving freely through their carefully constructed hierarchy.

"They envy our freedom," I say quietly.

Sihx nods once. "In Jeolara, appearance is currency. And currency is control."

We continue through the hall, navigating between tables. Sihx moves with purpose now, his pace quickening slightly. His eyes fix on a point across the room, and I follow his gaze to a table set slightly apart from the others.

Two figures sit there, partially obscured by an ornate ice sculpture that catches and refracts the light, creating a privacy screen of prismatic colours.

Sihx changes course, heading directly toward them. I match his stride, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on my back.

The table draws closer. The ice sculpture reveals itself as an intricate rendering of a mountain range, with tiny mechanical eagles circling its peaks. Beyond it, I catch glimpses of the occupants—two people engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation.

Sihx stops at the edge of the table, and I halt beside him, standing slightly to his left, positioned to watch both the table and the room behind us.

The conversation at the table stops abruptly.

As the ice sculpture's prismatic light plays across their faces, I get my first clear look at Sihx's associates. The man nearest us rises immediately, his face brightening with recognition. He stands about six-foot-five, with a muscular build evident even beneath his close-fitting robe. His grey hair falls in medium-length waves around his face, the warm grey tone contrasting with his slightly tanned skin.

"Sihx," he says, his voice gentle yet resonant. "We were beginning to worry." There's genuine relief in his tone, not the performative concern I've heard from nobles and merchants who care only about their investments.

The woman remains seated, her ice-blue eyes narrowing as she studies us. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a high ponytail that emphasizes her sharp features. She's attractive in a severe way, her athletic build apparent in the way she holds herself—poised like a predator even while seated. Her tactical outfit stands out among the ornate fashions surrounding us, practical yet flattering.

"A month, Sihx," she says, her voice carrying a playful edge that doesn't quite mask her irritation. "A month with nothing but that cryptic message about 'exploring the surroundings.' We've been sitting in this gaudy monument to excess for three weeks."

Sihx takes the empty chair between them, gesturing for me to sit as well. I remain standing, preferring to keep my back to the wall and my eyes on the room.

"Circumstances required discretion," Sihx replies, his tone unchanged. He signals a server who approaches with surprising speed, pouring water into crystal glasses without being asked. "The walls in Egozia have ears—and eyes."

"And yet you bring a stranger to our table," the woman says, her gaze shifting to me. Her assessment is quick but thorough—the look of someone cataloguing weaknesses and strengths.

"Elefn," Sihx says, a hint of warning in his voice.

The grey-haired man leans forward, his expression open and curious. "What my colleague means to say is that we're surprised. You rarely travel with companions."

I study him as he speaks. His posture suggests combat training, but there's something different about him—a gentleness that seems at odds with his physical strength. His eyes hold compassion rather than calculation.

"I was searching for suitable candidates," Sihx explains, taking a sip of water. "Found several with potential. Two died crossing the northern ridge. One lost his nerve at the first sign of Academy enforcers."

"And this one survived," Elefn says, nodding toward me. Her tone suggests she's not entirely impressed by this accomplishment.

"I was preparing to leave Egozia," Sihx continues, ignoring her comment. "Then I sensed something... familiar. An aura I hadn't encountered in five years."

The atmosphere at the table shifts subtly. The grey-haired man's expression grows solemn, while Elefn sits straighter, her attention now fully focused on Sihx.

"Five years," the man repeats softly. "You mean—"

"Yes, Aite. The last time I was present for the purge of the Scaled Ones."

I feel my muscles tense at the mention of my people, but I keep my expression neutral. These people know about the massacre—were they involved? Witnesses? Or something else entirely?

Aite's gaze shifts to me, his eyes widening slightly as understanding dawns. "You found a survivor?"

"Not just any survivor," Sihx says. "One with active markings."

Elefn's hand moves instinctively to a weapon I can't see, though she makes no aggressive move. "Active? That's impossible. The employer ensured—"

"The employer failed," Sihx cuts her off. "As they often do when faced with something beyond their understanding."

Aite rises from his chair again, moving around the table toward me. I tense, ready to defend myself, but his approach lacks any threat. He stops at a respectful distance, studying me with what appears to be genuine wonder.

"My," he says, his voice warm with something that sounds almost like compassion, "you brought back an interesting man."

Elefn leans back in her chair, her initial wariness giving way to a grudging curiosity. "A goliath," she adds, her eyes tracking my height and build with newfound interest.