by Kevin Hearne
“The new recruit? Jean-Claude Ungumption? He only ran fast that one time because his foot was on fire—”
“Not the new guy. My friend.”
Cobbleshod gave Faucon a look of grave doubt. “You have friends?”
Faucon exhaled a weary sigh and pointed up. “Just one.”
A crooked brown-toothed grin split the drub’s face as he scratched idly at his greasy whiskers. “Ah, I got it now. Your friend. Your good friend with the claws ’n’ wings ’n’ such. Marquant Dique will be pleased. And so will we, when we get paid, eh?” He looked like he was considering smacking Faucon on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way, and Faucon’s glare suggested that if he did, he would regret it. So Cobbleshod scratched his crotch instead, the witnessing of which Faucon considered only a slight improvement over an insufferable assault on his personal space.
“Yes, well, we must finish this first. Did you secure the ingredients I requested?”
Cobbleshod nodded eagerly. “Aye, the boys just put ’em in your tent. Although I don’t understand why you’d need ladybugs. Never thought of them as a gourmet item.”
“Never mind that. How is our guest?”
“Your…friend? She’s awake and hungry.”
“Perfect. Then let us begin, Bernaud. Silently move your men into position and wait for my signal. And please ask our guest to join me here.”
The drub backed away silently with the gait of a practiced thief, and Faucon’s lip curled at his departure. Working with these drubs was a necessary evil if he wanted to destroy his prey—and he did want to destroy it. He also desperately wanted to bathe and wash the stink of these dastards off him before rejoining respectable halfling society. He looked down at his hands and worried that his rich umber skin had taken on some unsightly ashiness. He was malnourished and in need of a paraffin bath and a seaweed wrap and a good multivitamin with a shot of wheatgrass. His own feet, while in much better shape than Cobbleshod’s, still required a pedicure and a good bit of shaving with a sharpened rasp. That was the making of a true halfling: a sincerely dignified set of toes. No one could deny he deserved some rest and relaxation. And maybe some of those little cranberries covered in yogurt. His personal supply had run out weeks ago.
And then, once he took Marquant Dique’s dirty money and had spent a sufficient sum on some much-needed self-care, perhaps he’d spend the rest of his earnings on taking down the drubs themselves—starting with their leader. He didn’t know how Marquant Dique of the Bigly-Wicke Diques had become the leader of the Dastardly Rogues, but he did know that his methods had been underhanded and that the Skyr had been worse off ever since it happened. Faucon the hunter would hunt them all, hunt even his own kind, until there was no further lawbreaking in the halfling lands. There would be justice and peace and even a uniform building code. Only then would the blood stop flowing.
“Give me building codes or give me blood,” he breathed, toying with the idea of making it his motto. Despite the false dichotomy it presented, he thought it worked because of course people would prefer to adhere to building codes rather than suffer grievous personal injury. His primary concern was justice, and it began with proper laws, which could only be made in buildings with solid foundations and the appropriate number of fire exits.
Clearly, blowing up the gnomes one by one wasn’t working—for anyone. The murderous little busybodies could only be taken down through diligent research, paperwork, and proper zoning laws. Just thinking about it made Faucon drool a little and crave cranberries. First the drubs, then the gnomes. It was the only way regular law-abiding folk could find peace. And Faucon dearly ached for peace. And time to properly grieve the loss of his love, whose passing was still fresh in his mind.
Movement to his left caught his eye. That disgusting Cobbleshod was leading his corps of rogues down to the tree line, the halflings’ fine leather portmanteaus—the only agreeable thing about them, really—bulging with explosive ordnance; a few archers carried full quivers at the ready.
A whisper of movement behind him caused Faucon to pull his sword and spin, and he had to stifle a cry of terror and remind himself that his dangerous guest was not interested in his flesh. At least, not at present. He bobbed his head at her, and she returned the gesture and then sat in the wet grass next to him on the hillside, folding up her wings.
“I hope the campsite is to your satisfaction?” Faucon said. They had bivouacked on the other side of the hill to prevent their quarry from sensing their approach, and he was sensitive about the fact that the area was furnished with the sharp-edged and pokier sorts of rocks, not at all elegant for four-legged creatures whose sitting position left their rectums covered in sand.
It will suffice, the answer came. The voice in his head carried an undeniable tone of regal puissance; it was the cultured voice of a queen. What do you require?
“The hunt will begin soon. Our prey is in the house you see below. I would like you to follow from above when they try to escape, secure the gnomeric construct when possible, and bring it to our camp.”
Describe this construct.
“It will appear to be a golden person. A sort of smallish yellow biped.”
And the creatures guarding this construct? Might they also be goldenne?
“No. They are more…” He grimaced as he said the word. “Fuzzy. You will have no trouble distinguishing the target from the guardians.”
Excellent. And once I bring this construct to you, then there will be breakfast?
“Yes. We will all have breakfast then.”
With the ingredients you promised? Her tone edged toward wistful desperation, and Faucon marveled at her desires. She could devour him and all the drubs too, and they could do nothing but scream as she tossed them about like puppets and feasted upon their livers. But she had demanded a very specific reward and needed his help to make it happen; such was life without opposable thumbs. Thus they had an arrangement.
“Yes, it will be as I promised.”
Let it begin, then. I am hungry and would be satiated.
Faucon turned his gaze downhill and saw that Bernaud’s rogues were already in place along the tree line. He had to wait an excruciatingly long time for the remainder of his force to spread themselves between the thatched hut of his enemy and the city of Koloka below. When they were finally ready, he raised a hand above his head and twirled it, signaling Bernaud to begin. The halfling copied the gesture, and the rogues all whooped, pulling firebombs from their satchels and hurling concentrated death at the hut.
Faucon twirled his mustache and grinned. His quarry would not evade him—not this time. He abhorred murder, but, oh, how he loved legally permissible violence.
MAINTENANCE INSTRUCTIONS FOR AUTOMAATTI, MODEL PIINI:
1. Do not attempt to repair unless you are a Certified Gnomeric Gearhand.
2. Do not under any circumstances remove the Automaatti Crystalline Power Unit.
3. Avoid submersion in water and/or tar pits. Automaatti are not designed for aquatic use.
4. If you have questions, ask.
—ETCHED ON PIINI AUTOMAATTI’S LOWER BACK, along with a butterfly and some barbed-wire swirls
Arms spread wide, Agape Fallopia stood her ground.
Sure, said ground was a little shaky. Wooden boards under cloven hooves weren’t the best footing for any sort of fight. And ovitaurs like Agape weren’t well suited to fighting, considering they had a human head and torso and a sheep’s woolly legs but also a sheep’s flat, expressive ears, which tended to flap overexcitedly during confrontations. After all, the only things sheep ever really got in fights with were rocks, streams, and holes in the ground, and they were mostly known for losing such fights. Agape had trained in self-defense but didn’t want to actually hurt her parents. Fortunately, steps one through four suggested trying to find some way to deescalate or run away, five through nine were most
ly a descent into aggressive bleating, and only at step ten was it suggested that maybe trying to kick something would be a good idea as a last resort.
But just now Agape was feeling more human than sheepish. She wasn’t going to back down this time.
This particular ovitaur family argument had been brewing for many moons, and Agape had been mentally practicing the very many ways it could go. She had envisioned reasonable talks around an unlit campfire or the hearth of a pleasant dwarvelish inn that smelled of lavender, while she sipped at a cool glass of wheatgrass juice. She’d hoped for passionate but fact-based discourse.
She never dreamed she’d end up using her body as a shield as her parents approached, her mother waving a frying pan in a menacing sort of way, her father holding a pair of pliers.
“Move, laaambykins,” her father barked.
“No!” Agape barked right back.
“You’re young,” her mother said with fake sympathy, waggling the frying pan. “You haaave so much life ahead of you.”
“Is that a threat, Maamaa?”
“No. Yes. Kind of. Just baaack off, please?”
Her father gave it a try. “Don’t do what we did. Let us free you from this insane servitude. It’ll only take a moment. Won’t hurt a bit.” Her dad made a feint, but Agape pivoted to intercept him. “Come on, laaambykins. It’s for your own good. Piini’s just…well, he needs to be put out of his misery.”
Agape glanced at the tarnished metal man standing behind her, the crystal still glowing faintly in his forehead. He didn’t look miserable. He looked inert. If only he would wake up, show any signs of life other than shambling around where he was told to go. If only he would rise up and defend himself, they wouldn’t be in this predicament at all.
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“Piini Automaatti, take the frying paaan away from my mother, Fedora Fallopia,” Agape said in the loud, clear voice her parents had schooled her into using when speaking to the family golem. It hadn’t worked for her yet, but it was worth a try.
The metal man behind her squealed in protest as his body lumbered forward with little grace to snatch the frying pan from Agape’s mother, who baaed in protest. Although he had once been gold, so the story went, Piini was now layered in years of grime and something like rust. His joints squeaked, his feet creaked, and he’d recently become little more than a piece of junk. Agape remembered playing with him when she was small and her father had ordered him to babysit. She’d loved Piini then. Even though he couldn’t talk, he could play endless games of cards, tic-tac-doe, and hide-and-get-lost. She’d tried Red Rover once and lost, badly, but he’d still been her favorite and only playmate. These days, he could only respond to the simplest of commands, and only if they were spoken very loud and with utter clarity. Until this day, however, he’d never responded to Agape’s command.
Her parents were agape, and so was Agape.
“There. See? Piini is fine. He’s just older. Different. You caaan’t kill him,” she said, secretly pleased by the command in her voice.
But her parents weren’t done.
“He’s a machine, laaambykins. It’s not killing. It’s…”
Her father seemed to struggle with the right word as her mother picked up one of the many brooms rattling around their current hideout, a cottage they’d rented from a witch at a very reasonable rate, thanks to its recent haunting by a somewhat stubborn poltergeist.
“It’s a mercy, shutting him down. It can’t be fun, being traaapped in that raaattly, gummed-up old body,” her mother finished.
“Then we find someone to fix him. We find a Certified Gnomeric Gearhand, like it says on his baaack. Someone has to know what he was made for and why Great-Great-Great-Great-Graaandmother Alkmene was taaasked with guarding him. He’s important. That’s what you always told me. Aaand I believed you.”
Agape’s faather shook his head but did not put down the pliers. “No one knows what he does. It’s all just rumors, legends. We’ve been to every corner of the globe, hiding thaaat fool machine, protecting him from who-knows-whaaat, and no one has ever known anything about him—and the gnomes won’t even talk to us, much less tell us where to find a gearhand! But we’re done. Done scurrying and camouflaging our caaamps and going without fires when it’s cold outside to avoid drawing attention. Your mother and I—we’re putting our hooves down. We’re shutting it down and taking you to Dizzyworld to ride rides and eat churros and guzzle slushy ice.”
“He’s not aaan it!” Agape bleated. “You caaan’t just dehumanize Piini because he’s suddenly inconvenient for you. We’re supposed to guard him, and I will continue to guard him, even if that means I’m guarding him from you. Piini.” She spoke loud and clear. “Please give me the frying paaan.”
The metal man gently put the pan in her hand, and she marveled at how heavy it really was. Would her own mother have brained her just to pluck the jewel from Piini’s forehead and kill that spark of life, no matter how dim, that kept him marching after the Fallopia family, step after step, across the world? Agape had seen everything Pell had to offer, as she’d been taught it wasn’t safe to stay in one place for more than three days. The High Mountain Home of the windsong dwarves, the underground caverns of the outcast dwarves, the labyrinthine cities of the humans, the emerald valleys, the bounteous fields, the stiff and quivering glories of the elvish Morningwood. The gnomes scattered and shuttered their hatches as soon as the ovitaurs drew near, but she’d walked among all the other peoples of the Skyr. Of course, she hadn’t given them her real name or attempted to become friends with anyone, as her parents promised her that friends would one day turn on her, whether for profit or mutton. So she’d been lonely, perhaps, but there was always Piini, who would never leave her. Who would see the whole world with her again and again.
She figured one friend was all she needed to live a pretty charmed life.
It was odd, realizing that all this time her parents had felt trapped.
“Sweetie, you wouldn’t hurt us,” her mother said, holding the broom menacingly.
“And you shouldn’t hurt me. So let’s put down our weapons and taaalk.”
Agape watched her parents meet each other’s eyes and nod. Her own eyes narrowed. Her mother’s broom fell to a more sweepish and less smackish angle. But her father kept angling, hoof by hoof, toward Piini, the pliers gripped in his dark-brown fist.
“Sure, honey. Come on over to the hearth, and we’ll sit around whatever foul potion’s bubbling in the cauldron and taaalk.”
Grim but determined, Agape took a step toward the hearth. She wasn’t surprised when her father lunged toward Piini, eyes mad and pliers outstretched, but she was ready. With one quick rap of the frying pan, she smacked his hand and knocked the pliers away.
“Ow!” her dad cried, rubbing his hand.
“I’m not a child. Lying to me won’t work anymore.” She held out the frying pan, blocking her father from his fallen pliers. “Piini Automaatii, put your haaands over your gem and don’t let anyone remove it.”
The metal man put crabbed hands that couldn’t go completely flat anymore over the gem in his forehead, his dim eyes unblinking.
But Agape’s father’s eyes went over crafty. “Piini Automaatti,” he said in his most commanding voice, “remove the gem.”
Piini’s hands didn’t move.
“Piini Automaatti, by the blood of Alkmene Fallopia, I hereby order you to remove the gem in your forehead,” he said, even louder and more clearly, with the sort of precise pronunciation that makes other people wince.
Still the metal man’s hands didn’t budge.
Agape’s father deflated a little, looking far more middle-aged. “Honey, ewe want to try?”
Her mother shrugged and rubbed her temples. “He never did listen to me. You’re the one with the Fallopia blood. I guess it’s finally haaappen
ed.”
“What haaappened?” Agape asked.
Her parents stepped forward, arms out, but this time they didn’t go for Piini with their landlord’s kitchen gadgets. They engulfed her in a warm hug that she couldn’t help nuzzling into. They hadn’t hugged her as much lately, as she’d grown her first adult wool and also bosoms.
“You have become the Vartija,” her father said gently. “The burden of guarding Piini Automaatti is now yours. He’s attuned to your voice. We have completed our taaask.”
Agape’s mother and father stepped back, and her father pulled a much-worn sheaf of papers from his camouflage jacket. With great dignity, he held the packet out to Agape, who took it, feeling as if a golden light surrounded and suffused her, formally acknowledging her place as the anointed guardian of Piini Automaatti and the last in a long line of ovitaurs who had fulfilled their tasks.
“Does this mean…?” Agape started but was too overcome with emotion to continue.
“That we’re free!” her father shouted, capering around the room like a new lamb.
“That we can settle down! And have a fire every night! And buy a sturdy duplex in a quiet suburb with an attentive HOA! And wear a color besides camouflage!” her mother added, wiping away a single tear and joining her husband in a proper frolicking.
Agape could only stand there, stunned, frying pan in hand. She gently returned it and the pliers to the stone mantel, where they’d been hanging before her parents had turned somewhat murderous. She turned to look at Piini, but he remained entirely unchanged, his hands firmly over his gem and his face utterly expressionless. Why did she remember him smiling when she was younger? He didn’t even seem to have a mouth now. But he was hers in the way that anyone agreeing to a life of servitude is actually the owner of their destiny.
“So you guys are just…?”
“Leaving. We haaave this little place picked out in the outskirts of Grakkel. Made a down payment years ago and haaave been counting down the days. I can’t wait to not haaave a job!” her father crowed. “And a yaaard! I’ll need to buy a ruler and make sure the graaass is exactly three inches taaall!”
