Episode 58
Tamaeus
Droma laid out his cloth on the hard red earth of the street and leaned back against the mud brick wall. He was wedged comfortably in an odd corner that gave space for his shell but was prominent without obstructing the street. It was already getting warm, the sun’s hard line—broken by the shade-cloths—creeping down the wall of the building opposite.
The street was narrow, busy with servants making their way out to the large boulevard that cut through the neighbourhood, sometimes accompanied by their employer or owner. Everyone was in white, their status marked by increasing segments of intricately striped colour. Children playing, small shops and food stalls spilling out from the ground floor.
It had occurred to him that the things that made Akaša strange were like clues to his former life. But they were slight, glancing ones, flickering on the edge of his vision and vanishing with each passing day. He loved sitting at the stepwell and public bath, and on the steps of the river watching the crocodiles and fishing boats—but was that because he missed water, or simply because Akaša was hot? Maybe he’d always lived here, and just forgotten along with everything else.
A copper bounced onto his cloth. He bowed his head, picked it up. He’d learned quickly it was bad luck to look at the almsgiver. The moon bull on the coin was unusually fresh. Akaša had a number of great temples dedicated to the moon bull, the crocodile, the roc, the lion. The bull seemed the most familiar. There were no crocodiles where he came from, he didn’t think. No temple bronzes, or towering wooden doors. No date palms.
His stomach grumbled. He was grateful for the temple food. He couldn’t imagine having to find food as well as everything else. He’d tried to find work at the docks, but didn’t speak enough Akašan. Though people often seemed to wave him away, before he even said very much. They waved strangely here. He had to learn the language. He’d made progress, just not as much as he would’ve liked.
“Hello, friend,” someone said kindly. Droma looked up.
The young rabbit was dressed in a plain white robe and sandals, clean and handsome, his ears loosely tied back, a small pendant around his neck his only adornment.
“I’m Tamaeus,” he said, kneeling down on the street beside Droma. “But please just call me Tam.”
Droma looked at him. He was speaking perfect Laudanese.
Tam held his gaze. “How are you?”
Droma looked down. “Alright, thank you.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Droma,” he said. It still didn’t sound quite right.
“Really good to meet you, Droma. Not meaning to bother you, but I’ve seen you around, and noticed you don’t seem to have a home at the moment. Is that right?”
“I’m trying to get some money.” Droma felt his face flushing.
“That’s good. Where are you from, Droma? Castrom?”
“No, I’m from… I’m from the north.”
“Okay. You don’t have a place to stay here though?”
“No. Not really.” He kept staring at the ground.
“Would you like one?”
Droma looked up.