Rage and Rebellion (Histories of Havenhearth)

2.1 Yarazhenya

As Callira walked towards the town from the chancellor's residence, her mind returned to the conversation she had had. Did she believe the chancellor? Was her quickness to shutdown the conversation about caravan because she didn't believe anything was happening? Or because she knew it was? Callira wasn't sure. She would have to ask again.

She did not look forward to speaking with the candle merchant again, who was perhaps drunk by now. And when she was drunk, she varied between rowdy and belligerent or nostalgic and melancholic. An occasional visit to the Birds of Paradise Public House, fine, but to spend days and nights there, and so frequently. Perhaps it was not her fault, there were very few reputable locations in Chevelles for socialising and conducting business. Was Birds reputable? Probably not, and the candle merchant did keep questionable company, which is perhaps why her caravan had been attacked: some unsavoury dealings brought on herself. 'May the spirits guide her,' Evarrlie muttered, and it was if the candle merchant had heard, for that was who she bumped into just after passing through the gates. the edge of the market, devoid compared to normal, due to the afternoon heat. Oh the spirits worked in mysterious ways.

Evarrlie gave Yarazhenya some snippets of their conversation as they wandered back to the Centre of Chevelles, mainly about the detective mysteries.
"Did you ask her about my caravan?"
"I tried, but it was clear she didn't want to talk about it."
"So she denied even the possibility of something?"
"Now that you mention it, I'm not sure she outright denied it, but she just made a joke about where I was hearing the rumours from, and that was it."
"You must enquire again."Yarazhenya was cross with the nonchalance the sacking of her caravan had been treated by the authorities. They had done nothing. It was one of the reasons she was sick of being in Cassion, but her business prevented her from leaving.
"It was not a subject she was willing to discuss."
"Of course not! The existence of the Golden Defenders questions her leadership."
"I will try again. in fact, I may return tomorrow as I prepare my trip to Charroux."
"Thank you. I have another issue to ask you about. There was a Tainish family, spiritualists. I saw them today. Parents and three kids. Do you know anything about them?"
"Ah the Wheatstones. Nothing good."
The Wheatstones were travelling spiritualist missionaries, and inadequately prepared for their mission, apparently. They struggled financially, relying on other spiritualists, both foreign and native. When Yarazhenya heard this, she thought that seemed to defeat the point of there being there in mission in the first place, but she did not well understand the ways of spiritualists and did not ask further.
"They will perform today for the lantern festival and will hopefully move on to Charroux tomorrow. And will you watch?"
"I have some business to attend to later today."
Evarrlie knew what that meant, and gave her a disapproving look. "With your niece coming soon, you may want to reconsider where you spend your time,"
"Birds is my work: I do most of my business there. Directly and indirectly."
"Well, maybe you refrain for awhile, at least until your nephew has settled. I'm certain you wouldn't want her to become a regular patron."
"Of course survivor. I have much to learn."
***
Yarazhenya was packing up her market stall with an employee when the family assumed the stage at the top of the steps for their performance. The girl introduced them, addressing everyone politely and in perfect Cassioni. But the woman, Yarazhenya guessed was the mother, took over right away, her voice already shrill and nasal and high-pitched when she spoke, but now she raised her voice and shouted at the crowd, which made it even worse. Not only that, but she also was saying things that either made no sense, or made grammatical sense but she mispronounced a word, rendering the utterance so unwittingly funny that the crowd's laughter drowned her out entirely. Sweaty instead of mighty, which made for an interesting interpretation of her spirit, rotten instead of forget, and bottom instead of food. She was talking about  the sweaty donkey who could make one eat the bottom water in boxes, or something. She had no idea. It was in such contrast to her own daughter, who sounded like a native speaker. Just like the young girl she had seen earlier, who spoke Petroviese with such fluency and accuracy, that she seemed to indeed be foreign, and not an Cassioni farmer from the outskirts of the village.

Yarazhenya wanted to push through the crowd, interrupt, apologise and explain what was happening, what their intentions were, what they meant to say, (what were there intentions? What did they mean to say?) she was embarrassed, and angry at them, at spiritualists in general.
The Wheatstone woman finished by screaming at them all "the spirit will kill and die". She maybe meant to say that the spirit had died for you, so that you can live, but Yarazhenya was not going to wait until she had finished: not only could she not handle to suffer through spiritualist rubbish, but she could not risk being associated with this. She had just issued a death threat! Even though it was inadvertent, but still. What good was she doing for her cause? Surely she knew this was more damaging than anything else. But spiritualists didn't always see that. And because the spiritualists were foreign, the locals would not recognize their spiritualism as cause of the problem: it was their foreignness that defined them, and not only them, but others too. Her included. Her cause too. This was insanity, and what's more some of the expressions on the faces of onlookers had started to turn. Smiles and laughter to confusion and to anger. She was angry too. Yarazhenya hurried to her house before things worsened, pausing a moment to wonder of she should detour into her sanctuary, the Birds of Paradise, but deciding otherwise. A letter was waiting for her: her neice had landed safely in Cassion, received the letter she had sent him for upon his arrival, and he was already on his way towards Chevelles, via a party hosted by Legate Eupheme. Yarazhenya herself had attended one shortly after her arrival and reflected fondly on the event as she drifted off to sleep under a building rainstorm.