◊ ◊ ◊
Captain Tulliss Rorid waited until Kale disappeared down the stairs.
"Priole, you could stand to learn a bit about 'guided compliance'. You and I are going to investigate…. But I'm too close to my pension to be scrappin' it up this late in the day. You'll be in charge of that if it comes up."
"Sure," said Priole. The youth's face lit up at the prospect of a brawl. Though strong and well-trained, he'd seldom been in a real dust up. His face bore no scars.
"From the look of him, he shouldn't be too hard to deal with." Rorid stretched, twisting his back left and right.
"But if he has to be dealt with, I'm happy to do it." Guardsman Kletter Priole had no need for stretches. Tall and well-muscled, Priole represented the prototypical guardsman, whose youthful vigor kept him ready for action at any moment. If only he had more respect for the chain of command.
"Listen," Rorid said, "orders are that if he attacks, we can arrest him. That's only if he attacks. We aren't the only ones who watch the horizon. We have enough problems with the Steel Jacks. Who knows? He could be one of theirs. We bewitch him and send him north, then we're clean of anything that happens to the bastard."
It had been years since Rorid had last bewitched someone. The idea of robbing another's free will sat poorly with him. Truthfully, he was a bit rusty when it came to conjury, but those were his orders, and Captain Tulliss Rorid always followed orders. Most importantly, he wanted Priole to witness him carrying out orders he didn't agree with — one of many lessons this kid needed to learn.
One eager for combat, the other for diplomacy with a bit of bewitchment, Rorid and Priole left the guard tower and mounted their wargoats. Off they went to meet the man of so much interest to their superiors.
◊ ◊ ◊
"Chained up to this old, dead tree… I'm chained up to this old, dead tree… Ain't nobody comin' gonna rescue me… I'm chained up to this old, dead tree," Chuggie sang. He kept the beat with kicks to the tree trunk. "It's because o' some bastard bee… that I'm pris'ner of this goddamn tree… Revenge'll be mine if it's the last sight I see… Let's get revenge on that bastard bee!" he barked. He would have continued, but east of his position a couple specks had come out of the city. The specks, certainly men, were moving his way.
He felt sure they were coming to investigate him. A mile or two away, approaching steadily – he guessed he had less than half an hour before they rode out the entire distance, climbed the rocky hill, and started in on him.
Trees and scrub dotted the landscape between. Here a creek, there a ridge. Stepped fields, all harvested by this time of year, formed concentric crescents about Stagwater. And the road zigzagged through it all, bellying under Chuggie and off into the dry, old forest at his back. That road appeared unused, unwanted, neglected. Chuggie felt sympathy for it. He knew exactly how it felt.
Mag Mell was a big world. The Mag was all one continent that looked like a hand gripping a ball. God's hand, some said. Chuggie preferred the rolling waves of the Mell, and not only because he liked water. There are not so many people to meet at sea.
He sat against the tree, watching the men approach. He scratched his chin, although it did not itch. These men would have questions for him. Wherever he went, they always asked the same questions. Who are you? Where are you coming from? Where are you going? What is your business? What are you carrying?
"Who am I?" Chuggie mused. "I'm walkin' drought that'll drink the river dry by mornin' an' everything else by tomorrow night! But, also, my name's Chuggie, and I'm what you might call a travelin' man."
"Where do I come from? Well, that's a tricky question. I guess I was created along with the world, grown like wheat in the primordial mud beside my brother and sisters. Most recently, I come from a cave far, far to the north. Been layin' real low for the last few decades, or however long it was. Why've I been layin' low? Because I fit in like a crow among kittens. Folks tend to give me a hard time wherever I go."
"Where am I going? Glad you asked me that, friend. I'm headin' south and east, as far as can be got before winter. I've had enough of bein' cold, y'see."
"My business there? Well, I thought I'd buy me a boat. See, that's all I really want. Jus' buy me a boat and sail it on the sea."
"Carrying? I got this whole bag of fine merchandise here. Let me jus' spread this out, and you can take a look. Let me know when you see somethin' you gotta have. You boys are helping me get untangled from this tree, so I'm gonna cut you all kinds o' deals. Special prices on my best gear."
He conversed with himself in this way until the men were within earshot. Then he got to his feet, brushed himself off, and gave a few more tugs on the chain.
◊ ◊ ◊
The two guardsmen leaned forward on their goats as they neared the hilltop. Heavy straps harnessed the animals' heads, pulling their chins down toward their chests and preventing the long goat horns from stabbing a rider in the face. They also tilted the head forward in a pose Rorid found to be quite noble.
The ride from town had been thankfully quiet. Rorid found Priole difficult to tolerate one on one. The young man expressed his unwillingness to learn at every opportunity. He got on Rorid's nerves and gave the impression Rorid's feeling was mutual.
"Let me do the talking," Rorid said in a low voice. "I'll let you do the punching if punching needs done."
"Fine, sir." Priole smirked and squeezed his hands into fists.
"Stay to my left and a couple steps back."
"I know, sir."
"If he swings at me, you mind how I dodge. Can't both be getting knocked over by a single blow."
"Yes, sir, I know."
Rorid took note of Priole's defiant, patronizing tone. The rookie needed an attitude adjustment.
Close to the top of the hill they dismounted. A short ways off, the stranger staggered and waved at them. He looked either drunk or crazy, probably both. Rorid walked in front brandishing nothing but the gloves he'd taken off. In his right palm he hid the compass he planned to use to bewitch the stranger. Priole, just behind and to the left, rested a hand on the hilt of his hooksword.
"Hello, sirs," called the drunk. "Come to help me out of my predicament, have you?"
"What is your name, stranger?" Rorid stopped several feet away from the slurring outlander.
"Well, I'm Norchug Mot Losiat. They just call me Chuggie, though."
Rorid lifted the hand with the compass to his mouth, pretended to cough into it, and repeated, "Norchug Mot Losiat." The compass buzzed in his hand. This would be easier than he thought, but it didn't seem entirely right.
"Aw, jus' call me Chuggie."
"Where are you headed, Mr. Mot Losiat?" Rorid looked at the anchor and the chain.
"Headed southeast. Tryin' to get as far that way as I can before the cold winter."
"So, Stagwater isn't your destination?" Rorid pointed a thumb toward the city.
"Jus' passin' through. Thought maybe I'd get me a pair o' new boots in your fine town there," Chuggie said.
"Where are you coming from?" Rorid took a step forward.
"I came down from the northwest. Gettin' too damn cold up there. Figured it was time for a change o' climate. An' here we are. So whaddya say you boys —."
"What's in that bag there?" Rorid stepped closer. Was this guy really up to something, or just a sad luck drunk?
Priole circled out to the side, ready to fight at the drop of a hat.
"You know, I'm glad you asked me that. Let me just spread this stuff out." Chuggie went about emptying the bag, smoothing it on the ground, and arranging the junk on top of it. "We got some fine merchandise here, boys! You see something you like, you say so. I'll give you a good price on everything you see. Young fella, you scamper up this tree an' get that chain loose, you can have your pick o' the lot."
"Crazy drunk," Priole said to his captain.
"Eh?" Chuggie turned. "Come on now, hey? You guys look like you have an eye for quality. You ever seen —."
/> "Listen!" Rorid interrupted. "We don't want any of this shit. Pack it up. Start walking north. Give Stagwater a wide berth when you resume east. Then, when you're sure she's well behind you, go wherever you want."
"Why don't I just go straight through town an' out the other side? Maybe leave a little commerce in my wake?"
"Because we have all the drunken vagrants we need." Rorid pointed a frustrated finger at Chuggie.
"Hmm. How 'bout if I pay you fellas off, eh? Take another look at the inventory." Chuggie flourished his arm over his merchandise.
"We won't be bribed with garbage. If you approach our city, it'll be in chains." Rorid eyeballed the spread out junk, looking for weapons. He didn't see anything dangerous. It was all just sad.
"Right… so why don't I just go south here? Seems quickest, right?" Chuggie wiggled his fingers in a walking gesture toward the south.
Rorid pretended to cough into the compass hand again. "North… It's north for you."
Chuggie cocked his head and squinted his eyes at Rorid.
"To the south you've got cliffs and swamps and no way across the river. A man would have to be very sober to pass through that way. People who go down there end up breaking their legs or snapping their spines. Likely end up dying a lingering death in the muck." Rorid looked at the southern terrain as he spoke. His eye passed over the rolling hills separated by tamarack swamps, and he envied the simplicity of the forest. Life would be a whole lot easier living in a cabin in the woods.
Chuggie's eyes followed Rorid's gaze, until a crow landed in a tree and the old drunk got distracted.
"North, on the other hand, is flat. There's the old trade road up there." Rorid squatted in front of Chuggie and drew a crude map in the dirt. "Stagwater is here, the trade road is up here, the river goes like this, and the old bridge is here. A man can cross it fine, as long as he's traveling like you without a team of goats or a wagon." He snapped his fingers at the drunk to regain his attention.
"If you keep going north, you can't miss the old road. There's game up there. Plenty of wild potatoes, turnips, berries. The north route gets you across the river by mid-morning tomorrow. The south route, you'd be lucky to see the river by tomorrow night, and you still wouldn't have a place to cross."
"Why not let me just pass through town in peace, here?" Chuggie asked.
Rorid stood and gave his back a twisting stretch. "Honestly? Because you've been acting strange on this hill all day. We've seen you. You seem like you're up to something."
"That's right, I'm up to getting this fuggin' chain unstuck from this fuggin' tree."
"We're being damn kind telling you about the bridge to the north. We could have sent you south to fall off a cliff or drown in the swamps. This is as friendly as we're willing to be." He pointed to the forest. "Your other choice is to go back the way you came."
Chuggie thought it over for a moment. "Sure, you gotta do what you think is best. Me, I can't go back the way I came. Gotta keep headin' south and east. Guess I'll take that road north o' here and get on that bridge. If I can ever get my chain down from that tree there."
The drunk yanked on the chain good and hard. Overhead a branch cracked. Some twigs fell from the tree and landed on him.
"Well, think about leaving it behind. Come morning, it won't be our smiling faces riding out to collect you. It'll be Steel Jacks, and they aren't as friendly as us." Rorid let his words sink in for a moment. Feeling a twinge of guilt, Rorid pulled a flask from his boot. He tossed it to the drunk, then led the younger guardsman back to their goats.
"Good riddance," Priole said.
Rorid paused before mounting up and glanced back over his shoulder. In all likelihood, he had just sent the stranger to die. The right and wrong of it tugged at his conscience. In the end, orders were orders. Liking them or not made no difference.
◊ ◊ ◊
Chuggie sat under the tree thinking about the exchange. He wasn't welcome anywhere. Shouldn't be, he supposed, given what he was.
He stretched out on his back beneath the anchor and found that he couldn't keep his eyes open. The last thing he wanted was to fall asleep. If he did, he might sleep away the whole night, exhausted as he was from constant walking. He was apt to be woken in the morning by Steel Jacks, which could mean a number of things. None good. The big metal bastards always took a particular interest in Chuggie.
Somewhere at the back of his mind, he felt compelled to walk north. To keep walking north. North was the only direction for Chuggie. If he could get his eyes open and get to his feet, he'd go so far north the only direction left would be south.
He dozed.
As the breeze picked up, the limbs of the tree moved above him. The chain slowly worked its way out of the branches until —.
THWAP!
The anchor bashed into Chuggie's stomach like a kick from a mule. He balled up, moaning. Some minutes later he pieced together what had happened, wound the chain around his torso, and got ready to leave.
The anchor blow, on top of his brief meeting with Stagwater's guardsmen, had him feeling surly and sour. He thought again about skirting the city to the north. He certainly still wanted to, but he couldn't remember why. He'd had that logy feeling one got from a bewitching, but the blow from the anchor cleared it right out of his head. Such silliness.
He'd leave all right, but not to the north. The guardsman hadn't thought he could pass to the south, even though the terrain looked identical in both directions. And to hell with a bridge. He could swim just fine. South he'd go, if for no other reason than spite.
Still, he knew they were watching him. If authorities saw him going south, problems could arise. Chuggie sat back down under the tree to smoke and brood until nightfall. Darkness would be along soon enough.
Chapter 2
Kale pushed through the door of the Stagwater Children's Home. The old library had been converted years ago to handle the ever-growing number of orphans in Stagwater. Kale made straight for the office of Headmaster Banden. Thankfully, the halls were silent and the lights dim. Sleeping orphans were far more tolerable. Children didn't do all that horrible sniveling when they were asleep.
Without knocking, Kale barged into Banden's office.
Banden sprung to his feet and greeted his guest. "Ah, Mr. Kale! So good to see you."
"I'm sure," Kale said. "You have another 'package' for me?"
"Yes, yes," Banden replied. "Let's walk. The other children have been put to bed, but this one is undoubtedly up and moving around."
"He's a troublemaker?" Kale asked.
"A bit of one," Banden said.
The headmaster and Kale walked down the hall, and descended the stairs to the basement bedchamber. Walking behind Banden, Kale imagined slipping his hands around the man's neck and shaking him until he was a lump on the floor. He hated being led anywhere.
Kale looked through the one-way glass. Beds ran along the walls, leaving an aisle down the center. Moonlight shone down from small windows near the ceiling. As Banden had warned, all the children were in bed but one.
"There he is," Banden said, pointing.
The little boy stared up at the glass as if he could see the men on the other side. One small hand touched his mask.
The undersized runt would work perfectly.
"Why is he out of bed?" Kale narrowed his eyes as he looked at the orphan. A child with no respect for authority deserved to be punished.
"He's defiant. The sooner you take him the better."
"Looks like you could use some improvement in your disciplinary methods." Kale scowled. "He's trying to take his mask off."
"He won't get it off this time." Banden met Kale's gaze briefly.
"Is he a true orphan? Or are his parents locked up?"
"That kid is a Carnie. Authorities arrested his mother when the carnival first arrived. She was one of the first to get locked up. Nobody knows who his father is."
"How old is he?"
"Must be around seven."
"Not so far as I can tell." Banden shook his head. "She's long gone anyway, if she was one of the first."
Kale stroked his chin as he studied the little boy. "At least we've found a use for the little…orphan." He didn't consider children to be real people. Tiny monsters, perhaps, but not people. Those without discipline needed fixing or discarding.
"We're all grateful for that, for the tortugy, I mean. Those orphans should be thankful that they can do their part." Banden pulled an imaginary mask over his face.
"Capturing suffering in a bottle is tricky business. Using it for conjury is even trickier," Kale said, nodding. "Children's suffering is by far the most potent. They should be proud that they can contribute."
Of course, the wretched creatures didn't care about higher service. Just one more flaw in their miserable characters.
"For the good of Stagwater," Banden agreed.
"Credit where it's due. You're a genius at creating those torturgy masks," Kale admitted. "Permanently shifting the bone structure…"
"Many find their appearance so repulsive they will wear the mask for the rest of their lives," Banden grinned, the pride showing on his face. The headmaster slid open a slot in the door and shouted, "Olin Stone! Get yourself in bed, and you stay there! If I see you up again, everyone gets punished." He slammed the slot closed.
The boy leapt into a bed shared with two other children.
"When do you want to take him?" Banden asked. "I'll be glad to be rid of that one."
"Soon. I still have to make preparations." Kale peered into the bedchamber at the child huddled on the bed.
Those stinking brats deserved everything they got. If he had his way, all children of Stagwater would be wearing torturgy masks, not just the orphans.
Soon.
◊ ◊ ◊
Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater Page 2
