Eye of the Ocean Book 3 Ji'jin Station

Eye of the Ocean – Book 3: Ji’Jin Station
and a woman was holding a child up to light a second stick off the first. On each
side of the door was an alter, about waist level to a Zimmer.
He wasn't overlooking much of a space, just an open round where several
corridors met, plain mud colored building tile, nothing fancy. Or one try: a small
fountain in the center, but no water and from the dirt, there hadn't been for a
long time, probably as long as this area had been predominantly Zimmer. The
only color was in the shop doors, shiny lacquer with each one different. The
Speakerhouse was between a greengrocer and a tiny Scribe shop with an ancient
sign tacked above the sky green door. Contracts and trade agreements written
and witnessed. A Zimmer sat on the stone stoop of the Scribe shop, legs tucked
up, a pastry balanced on his knees. His back reflected in the glossy paint, white
skin floating, the black tunic eaten by the rich green of the door.
The narrow corridors that radiated outwards were much darker than the
commons; the only light came from the odd glow globe tagging people around
and a few more in doorways. This area of the Station kept to DownPort time. He
had been hoping to use the pre-morning dark for a private moment with Peecit's
parents on their way to the Speakerhouse but he didn't think so now, not with
this crowd. In his jacket pocket was the note Peecit had given him. It was the last
of the three versions that he'd seen and there had probably been more that
hadn't made it that far.
He pushed one of his playing stones forward. “Match that.”
The man chose three of the rings thrown previously, stopping after each
selection as though thinking long and hard. And dropped them carelessly from his
broad hand. A Tillerwa male, the Family color lines on his hands were green and
yellow, an off-Station group, he'd said. His fringe of hair was dyed to match.
Pleasant fellow of few words but he had clung like a vine all night.
You can do better than that, Bolda thought but kept up his end of the game of
two drunks playing rings and stones. And let his sleeve drag through the pieces
as he reached for one on the far side of the board. “Oh, damn,” he said, then
knocked the other man's beer over. The rings were wood, several floated onto his
lap, followed by a crest of greenish foam.
The Tillerwa stood, jostling the table. “Default,” he hissed in High formal,
forgetting to slur the word. Then added a few more in Trade basic as the cold
beer soaked in, the words still not slurred and definitely not formal.
“Oh hell.” Bolda rustled into a pocket for loose change. “Here, then. Don't get
riled. I'll buy you another.”
“Game costs!” he snarled then seemed to recall himself and downgraded his
bluster by degrees. “Points to me, I win. No fault, accident.”
Bolda tossed several coins onto the table, enough for the beer and the game
both. He'd had enough. Dawn was soon, or what passed for it here, and the
Laurel Hickey www.2morrow.bc.ca