So we were heading south. Broke again.
We're camped too far from any sea for comfort.
He's stretched out by the fire, pretending not to listen. I'm on my back, staring at the stars, chewing on a blade of dry grass and missing the smell of salt.
"You know what Seebulba does when it wants to feel alive?" I say.
A pause.
"No," he replies flatly. "But I suspect I am about to suffer through it."
Squid Festival.
Once a year. Whole city in white linen. Just a wrap round your hips, or slung over one shoulder if you're feeling dramatic. Thin stuff. Breathes nice. Clings nicer once the ink hits.
You wake before dawn because the boats come in heavy. Baskets stacked high with fresh squid, still shiny, still twitchy if the sea was kind. Fishwives shouting, boys running errands, someone already drunk.
You grab one.
That's it. That's the ritual.
You grab a squid and you walk into the street and you smack the first person you see.
Whap.
No politics. No permission. Just tradition.
If it squirts ink, you cheer. If it doesn't, you aim better next time.
He makes a low noise in his throat. "You assault one another with dead sea creatures."
"Fresh sea creatures," I correct. "Show some respect."
He exhales smoke through his nostrils.
By midmorning the whole city's streaked black. White linen turned spotted and smeared. Ink running down backs, across stomachs, dripping off chins. You can't tell noble from dockhand anymore. Everyone's stained the same.
That's the point.
I tell him about the year I nailed a magistrate square in the face while he was scolding a baker about weights and measures. Mouth open mid-sentence. Ink right in. He looked like he'd swallowed night itself.
The baker grinned.
He shifts, unimpressed. "Barbaric."
"Deep-rooted tradition," I say. "Seebulba is a pillar of civilization this side of the Inner Sea."
He snorts. "Your pillar smells of fish."
Exactly.
You learn things during Squid Festival. Who laughs when hit. Who throws back twice as hard. Who pretends outrage but secretly waits for someone to tag them. Even the priests get it. Especially the priests. Gods love humility.
And by afternoon the canals run grey and the whole city smells like brine and sun-baked stone and sweat. Musicians drag drums into the squares. Wine gets passed. Someone always slips. Someone always falls into a fountain. Someone always claims they were ambushed by a child half their size.
You can't be precious in Seebulba. Not for long.
I roll onto my side and prop my head on my hand.
"It's good for us," I say. "Reminds everyone they're just meat in linen."
He opens one eye.
"You miss it."
I shrug.
Maybe.
I miss the noise. The heat of bodies in narrow streets. The way ink dries on your skin and you find it later in places you forgot existed. The way, for one stupid, messy day, no one is above being smacked with something slippery.
He closes his eye again.
"If you ever attempt to involve me in this ritual—"
"You're too big," I cut in. "You'd need a whale."
Silence.
Then a low rumble that might be a laugh, might be a warning.
I grin into the dark.
Pillar of civilization.
We just express it differently.