24th of Yaris, 2718
The LIAR'S MARKET
Early AFTERNOON
"Mma'ralio, Adam." The similarities between the Mugrobi word for friend and the man's name weren't lost on the printmaker and he smiled, bowing in casual introduction before he actually giggled—the deep sound one of soft humor, "Yaka. Of course the press never lies—at least if it's run by arata, er, galdori."
Ioyas chuckled at the Anaxi's observation of Jaffa Yobe, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the stall and the chaos the moa had left in its wake all throughout the Liar's Market, "That man isn't my friend. Just a client."
The girl kept staring and the printmaker hissed some words in Mugrobi at her, startling her to blink and finally look away. She still was clearly not embarrassed by her actions so much as suddenly made aware that she'd been so obvious, unable to help but roll her eyes with a grin at the journalist's riposte at her rudeness.
Watching the other man sprinkle a few cautionary spices onto his fruit and chewing his cheek to keep from warning him of the heat level they might bring to his insides instead of just his outsides, the tall Mugrobi chose instead to watch with disguised curiosity the results while they walked, "Well, you can tell your home kingdom the truth then—it's hot here." He spoke between a few spicy bites of fruit, pausing to chew, flashing a grin, "The culture of the Turtle and among the imbali as a people is much different than the rest of Thul'Ka, so if you're really here for that, you'll be in for a surprise."
Ioyas led them from the Liars Market, making efforts to stick to the shaded side of the street as he walked toward the Way of the Book. A large plaquard, quite obvious in its symbolism, marked the main thoroughfare that was full of papermakers, bookbinders, writers, calligraphers, printers, and other artists involved in book-craft. A pair of young women wearing bright yellow sashes and carrying long polearms with curved blades passed by them, Saffron Runners on duty, keeping the streets of the Turtle safe.
One of them waved, recognizing Ioyas, and the tall oshoor waggled fingers back after shoving his spoon into what was left of his quickly melting frozen treat with a dull crunch. He couldn't help but chuckle at Adam's question, however, amber eyes shifting back to study the Anaxi's pale features with the arching of an eyebrow while sweat ran down the side of his face,
"Those are some serious questions, adame, and some are better discussed in the cool of the evening over spiced, honeyed wine and grilled meats. What do I think of Thul'ka—" He snorted, turning them down a side street that wasn't much more narrow than the one they'd been on but it was given shade by the buildings next to it. Above them, awnings stretched between a few of the homes and laundry on shared lines dried in the baking sun,
"—I've lived here my whole life, here on the Turtle to be specific, and I was raised traditionalist imbali. I'd like to see Anaxas flooding stay out of our politics, by Hulali's waters. We don't need any of your backwards gating of perfectly capable passives here." He grumbled almost by instinct, the first knee-jerk reaction to such a series of questions immediately turning to his family, of which he was the only galdor, the stained oshoor, the cursed of the cursed. And yet he defended their rights with the kind of passion he wished to see returned in his own favor.
He stopped at the door to his shop. Above their heads hung a modest sign that read:
Between the Houses of the Moons Press
Est. 2621 DT
Ioyas gripped his now-empty cup in his teeth and fumbled for his keys, speaking around the already soft paper, "It is the Mugrobi belief that passive children are born without souls, and therefore are just as incapable of understanding truth as we are communicating with the mona. We are without ohante, or honor, hence places like the Liar's Market. That said, I have no room to talk about such things—"
He swept the journalist toward the open door, inviting him to pass through the beaded curtain that served as a deterrent to flies and other insects while still allowing for the breeze. Propping the door open behind him, the foyer was a small greeting space for customers with a little stove for cool nights, a bench, and a counter separating the entryway from the printroom proper. Stairs disappeared upward on one side, and from the ceiling hung several long cords which Ioyas had strung up to hang prints to dry from.
Once he entered his shop, he sighed, relaxing, and as he did so, his dampened field seemed to expand from his person like the breath he exhaled. Did he reveal himself as dishonest because he'd attempted to pass himself off as a passive? Or did he make his choice to hide his true nature for his own protection? He supposed he'd have to answer those questions eventually, but for now, he was direct and very much to the point.
"—as I'm not truly imbali. I'm oshoor. This is where it gets complicated, and I'm sure I'm about to turn your Anaxi mind in circles considering we allow imbali to marry and reproduce here in our Kingdom, but, anyway, I'm the galdor son of two passives. Write that up as an article for fun and see what kind of horrified letters your poor paper receives."
The tall printmaker laughed again, the heat of his spiced fruit lingering on his tongue and the smoldering of his own opinions burning in his lungs, aware that he revealed just how full of obvious assumptions about Adam's homeland he was. He raised the counter to allow them both to step into the workshop proper while he tossed his paper cup and reached for a towel to dry his face on, handing one to his guest first.