Every ministry has its secrets, but only Carnelian Hall stitched its own into costumes and taught them how to sing. Lime green silks and a horde of dancing heels carried this cornerstone of the temple's cultural life, housing renowned performers, artisans, curators, and musicians. Tonight, the hall swelled with a singular purpose: the Setikosi—the temple's own troupe of dedicated and rather infamous entertainers—had gathered on the ground floor in preparation for the much-awaited banquet.
No such ordinary feast would call for this much sincere preparation.
This was a tribute to the late Du Ku'am of the South, Tunq, whose passing had marked the end of a storied reign. This very temple had its own Du Ku'am by the name of Hytteo Gurkiim. History tied these two sullen fates, having followed each other to countless battlefields in times long gone. Yet the present was different now; at three hundred and eighty summers, Gurkiim was a frail echo of the titan he had once been.
Whispers circulated among the elders about the might he had wielded in his prime, of how he—at the Architect's bidding—had commanded mountains to shift and oceans to part. Now, he could scarcely stand on his own two feet. A stone fountain left too long without water. Like all earthy creatures, he was burdened with the gift of mortality, an immutable truth that clung to him, despite all his former glory.
Though Gurkiim's body had long betrayed him, his pride held steadfast. When other Du Ku'ams offered to accompany him on a southern pilgrimage to honor the departed, he had outright refused. Such a journey, he insisted, was unnecessary. Instead, he commanded that the tribute to the late Du Ku'am be held within the sacred walls of the temple. None could conquer death, not even he nor Tunq. The Setikosi, ever attuned to the sorrows of their ailing patron, vowed to heal the grief with their artistry. To the melancholic Gurkiim, they were more than mere entertainers; they were alchemists of emotion, capable of transforming despair into something that could be endured, even if only for a fleeting moment.
That kind of alchemy was rare to him. So much so that he favored the company of Setikosi above his own ministers.
A squawk broke the stillness from high above, drawing all eyes to a torchlit perch high above the hall. There, bathed in flickering golden light, stood Pitch, the Setikosi's notorious one-eyed parrot, glaring down at the room with all the haughty impatience of royalty awaiting tribute. With a swoop, he found his grumbling master, claws digging into the fabric as if to stake his claim. Pitch cocked his head, his expression as disdainful as ever, and let out another squawk.
Horsey tilted his head slightly, as though acknowledging an unspoken bond between man and bird. A steward he was of many thankless tasks and the caretaker of a mildly telepathic, imperially bored parrot.
"Pitch, how kind of you to welcome us," Swinebroth said, his voice gentle. He reached into his pocket and produced a small handful of seeds. "I plucked these from the gravesite. Will this do?"
Pitch cocked his head, one black bead of an eye narrowing in judgement, before hopping onto his shoulder to peck at the offering.
Horsey gave the parrot a cursory glance before handing Swinebroth the worn shovel. "You know what to do. I have another thing I need, that new set of teeth I bought from…," he paused, furrowing his brow in thought as he struggled to recall, before snapping his fingers. "That man in Jade Hall—the Her-Ku'am jar Mas'dad."
"I remember," Swinebroth chirped back, already moving to comply.
"The golden set," Horsey clarified. "I will be wearing those tonight."
"Is there anything else?"
Stretching, Horsey observed the room. The scene was as unpromising as ever. Tasks lay where they had been abandoned: half-finished, quarter-hearted, and wholly Ticklebones' fault. That fool would not so much as twitch a knuckle if the world burned around him—indolence distilled to a certain art. Horsey had long since resigned himself to the reality that trusting Ticklebones with anything of importance was like courting disaster. Better he handle things himself than risk a catastrophe—not especially tonight.
Little Harlot chose that moment to saunter by, his twin swords drawn, their tips scraping against the tiled floor with a grating screech. He walked as though he danced, his reputation as a performer preceding him. "Think your best can outshine me, Horsey?"
"Before you talk to me, go look at your attendance this month," Horsey snapped. "And stop ruining the tiles unless you want your rations docked."
Little Harlot smirked but said nothing more, barefoot in his oversized pants as he left the older man in peace. You could hardly see his feet from the clownishly long cut of his pants, yet it was redeemed by the practiced curve of his stride. Tonight, his dark, curly hair was swept high into a sleek ponytail, cascading down his back before looping neatly at the end—a deliberate flourish to his lean and muscular frame, adding to his personal beauty. An ornamental armor. His gaze flicked to Swinebroth, who lingered near Horsey like a shadow. Their gazes locked. The dull-looking boy left no sooner after, the shovel in hand.
He always seemed to be someone's extra pair of hands, eager to make himself useful wherever he could. Like a second pair of hands nobody remembered summoning. A spare limb in a living body of chaos.
What else could he do? He was too young for a life like this, Little Harlot thought.
Little Harlot had heard the story—Horsey had spilled it once, perhaps without meaning to—of the boy found wandering among gravestones, ribs like ladder rungs, fingers blackened from soil. No family. No past. Not even a proper name.
Nothing to cling to but the peculiar stink of fate, which led to his being discovered by chance, or mercy.
"A perfectly strange boy with perfectly strange beginnings," Horsey had said, almost to himself, as though that explained everything. Little Harlot resolved to keep his distance, speaking to the boy only when necessary.