422 - Figging Welcome

The Puckered Fig was now often the locus of political argument. Good for business.  I’d relaxed my ‘no politics rule’, at least outside on the patio, since people arguing tended to drink a great deal more… and my bouncers did know how to spot the drunk who’d decided that fists would more rapidly make his political point, and haul him off.

The orator hired to speak from the step was being shouted at by a number of amateur orators, who'd been dragged into debate rather than oration.  A Kallen orator, of course. A Kin Kazien orator, wearing those colours, waited his turn. A Kallijas/Aan orator had just finished.  Who would have thought, the Aan pup running for Imperator?  I wondered if he still remembered how to tip?

How in Hayel the Yeolis managed this kind of chaos I don’t know but it certainly brought in custom. I stopped a couple of kids from bringing their argument inside. “You… SERs… have a right to your opinion.  Outside this door the exalteds may yell and scream and shout to the sky the incredibly exalted’s opinion!”  I pointed at the letters now painted on the brick at the threshold. “No political opinion inside this line.  It leads to fights and broken furniture and wasted drinks.  Even this lowly one has been hurled into that horse-trough right there, for breaking this one’s own rule.  What may this one serve the exalteds, to lubricate their honoured debate?”

“I’ll have a white of some kind… our table…” he waved.  “…and I’ll have the Zak Dark Malt,” his friend said.

“Certainly, sers.”  I went back to the wine safe.  “Kris!  Your break is over!  Get your cute but lazy ass out there!”  I handed the tray off to the young man now.  He was doing well and his mother and siblings were prospering.

“Sure, boss.”

I’d not liked what official orators were saying on the speaking step so I’d set up another speaker’s box for others to get up and out-shout that son of a bitch dog if they didn’t like what he spouted.  Then they could come back and lubricate their throats with a libation at my Fig.

Kaj nodded and smiled at me as I came back inside. There were a stack of various Pages publications on the shelf by his seat.  The Pages itself and the dozen or so other Arkan publications, the new ones being printed by the Brahvnikian Press in Zak and Enchian. I pick up the copy I’d set down.  Business was good enough that I had enough waiters so I didn’t have to run and run.

I didn’t immediately notice my new customer.  As blond as an Arkan, with braids aitzas long.  Hundreds of tiny braids all over his head, caught back in an ornamental knot at the back of his head.  He had an odd, narrow mustache that fell down either side of his mouth, braided like his hair with a couple of gold beads on each end.  Do they clack together when he sneezes?  He's wearing the most exotic bright white silks I’d ever seen, worth gold chains if I’m any judge of such things. A couple of worn leather scabbards sit strangely over that silk. His blades crossed over his back.  A good mercenary, then.  He has a tattoo of an eye under his right eye, and some kind of shining flower tattooed just under the men’s-knob in his throat.

The woman he’s seating has silver hair but is young.  Pretty thing I think. I get up and head over, Riji fading when he sees me move to deal with the nose-bleed high, self-made, exalteds.

Gold-bead moustache holds her chair for her and she settles slowly.  Her gown is made of green and gold silks fit for an Imperatrix.  She’s… perhaps… I have to look away.  I’m still old-school enough not to stare at a breeding woman.  Both of them are burnt dark as okas by sun and wind.  She has something that looks like finger covers – like claws -- of wood, with gemstones and brightly painted, over all ten fingers.

As he turns toward me there’s something eerily familiar about him and I slow down.  Something about the way he tilts his head toward me, shifts his feet… something.  It’s not polite to stare but I can’t take my eyes off his thin, hard face. It’s a face I should know… past the strange hair and moustache.  He is exactly my own height and looks me straight in the eye.  What? But…But…I thought… he left… he ran away… he… he’s dead…

“Hello, Father.” He says, standing straight and tall.  Ienas? But… but… the last time…That last fight. I'd hurled him out of the Fig onto the street and he’d screamed at me that he would rather die than become a shennen stupid winebar owner and I’d screamed back at him that he might as well go die then, because if he didn’t obey me he better not come home...

Even as I’m standing flat-feet staring, realizing… slowly… that this tough man… this prosperous mercenary with haunted eyes and a… my eyes snag on the Arkan wedding ring on his finger, filled with… my eyes fall to the woman with her finger-coats up over her mouth… on her finger… a wife?  A breeding wife?... this man…is my long banished, run away son, Ienas… named for me… There’s a shriek from behind the beer taps and Tila, skirts hiked up in her hands so she can run, came tearing across the Fig, her hair coming loose from her kerchief.

“Oh my boy!  Oh, Ienas Ienas Ienas!”  My Tila… my quiet Tila… who wept when the young fool left, who watched as I smashed every wine glass I had in my rage, then…  She flings herself upon this young man with old eyes, in public.  “My son, my son! My boy!”  She's weeping in public, clutching both of his cheeks pulling his be-rowed and decorated head down to kiss his forehead and cheeks… she’s been hanging around too many Yeolis… and aNiah… or Dyers…

In front of my customers… my regulars… my staff… in front of the Ten… and, and, and… oh, fik it!  Who in Hayel cares? Dorn and a half dozen of his waiters have crowded in from the Gourmand and I don't give a flyin' fik anyway.

“My… boy?” is finally what falls out of my mouth.  “Iennie?… My… little Iennie? Ienas?”

He had his arms folded around his mother, looking over her head at me, blinking as if he expected something entirely different, then rolled his eyes at me in a way that struck me right to the heart.  He was my Iennie.  “Daaaaaaad…”

The woman giggles as her… man… her tough as nails husband… whines at me like a second thresholder!

Fik it!  I fling my own arms around this tall stranger who was... who is...my long lost son.  What is all this water standing in my eyes?  “Ienas.  Not Iennie anymore. Ienas. A grown man’s name!  Oh my professional god!  Oh Ten!  I… we… thought you were dead!”

He's muscular hard under my arms.  I fold Tila and him into my admittedly squishy… somewhat overweight chest.  “I... wouldn't rather be dead than a wineshop owner, Dad,” says he. And then it's a wild babble as if we weren’t properly reserved Arkans but some crazy barbarians who show their silly emotions out for everyone to see.

“Da… Mama… this is my wife, Helfig, she came with me here and we’re going to—“ “—I see, I see you don’t need to—“ “Husband, of course you see it’s as obvious—“ “Welcome home, son… You… are you… will you stay?”

He pulled back away from me and I could finally see the fear in his eyes, that I never understood before.  So much anger… like the Lakans say… “So much blood under the bridge.”  “Dad…if… if you want me.”

“Ienas…” I didn’t know what to say.  I had disowned him… thrown him out… I… couldn’t…  Tila reached up and put her hand over my mouth.

“Of course we want you home, son.  You’ll be looking for a home of your own, surely with your bride… Helfijk.” I start to smile as she tries very hard to pronounce the woman's name without spouting an obscenity.  “I’m ready to be a proper Grandma and the Fig needs a few babies on the floor behind the wine-counter to learn the business!  Ienas, husband.  You know that’s what you want if you have a single sane or sensible thought in your head.”

What was I to do?  My son breaks a smile as his mother speaks so rudely to me… in public yet!  The water spills out of my eyes and I say “Welcome home, son.” And “Yes, my dear.”