Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater

by Brent Michael Kelley

  "Have I caught you at a bad time?" Fitch flashed a wide grin and bowed.

  "Yes!" Kale snapped. "What do you want?"

  "I'm meeting with Haste in a little bit. I want to know what to tell him about our little five-horned problem." Fitch leaned to peak into the next room.

  Kale leaned to block Fitch's view. "I haven't gotten a report yet. When I do, Haste will be the first to know. Not you."

  "Maybe you should join our meeting. I know you like to keep informed." Fitch's sly smile dared Kale to decline.

  "I have things to do." Kale grabbed Fitch's elbow and tried to lead him to the door.

  "Who's here? Who's that in the next room?" Fitch resisted Kale's urging and tried to see over his shoulder.

  "Not your concern." Kale blocked Fitch's view again.

  "I'm your friend," Fitch said. "Your problems are mine."

  "Yeah, we're regular old chums." Kale shuddered. "Didn't you say you had to be going?"

  Fitch glanced one last time into Kale's house, then walked toward the door. He turned. "I know you're up to something."

  "Nope, not a thing." Kale turned Fitch around and gave him a little push.

  Fitch shook him off. "That's not why I came. The Steel Jacks cancelled the watch at the towers and gates tonight. They are manning the posts themselves. The wall around Stagwater doesn't have a single human guardsman on duty. Haste wants to meet right away."

  "Why do you enjoy wasting other people's time so much?" Kale's nostrils flared like a horse's.

  "Peace, brother, peace," Fitch smirked and rubbed the charm around his neck. He stepped through the door and made his way down the walk. "See you in thirty minutes," he called over his shoulder.

  Kale slammed the door. That was the first and last time Fitch would ever enter his home. And what were the Steel Jacks up to? Would his men be allowed back into the city? If not, he supposed that wouldn't be so bad. If wild beasts devoured them in the night, that'd save him some money. No, he decided, he wanted to hear their report. This horned traveler situation needed to be resolved.

  He walked into the next room and stood in front of the boy.

  "Have you ever had angel's milk, young man?"

  Olin bit his lip in deep thought. "I don't know what that is, sir. Maybe I had it and didn't know it."

  "If you've ever had angel's milk, you would know it." Kale gave a wolf-like grin, and Olin's face lit up at the prospect of a new treat.

  Kale picked up the small silver bell on the end table and gave it a frantic ring.

  Before the last peals of the bell faded away, a young woman hurried into the room wiping her hands on her apron. With a timid smile, her eyes darted back and forth between Kale and the boy. Bruni Tallstaff, his whelp of a house girl, was in charge of tending the boy. Doing a piss poor job of it, too.

  "Olin's never had angel's milk, Bruni. I think it's time." Kale raised his eyebrows at her and wondered why she hadn't already trotted off to the kitchen. But she just stared at the boy, looking like she was about to start weeping.

  "Give him anything he wants," Kale said with an angry glare. He'd had just about enough of Bruni's constant sniveling. If she didn't watch her step, she could take the boy's place. He led her into the kitchen, growing angrier with each step.

  "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't want to sound…" she trailed off. "You can't do this to children."

  And there it was, the weak-willed female stance on the issue. No wonder only men could lead. "You're a woman, so I'll make this simple." Kale said with a voice that dripped contempt. "Sacrifices must be made."

  Bruni's lip trembled as she opened her mouth to reply.

  "Should I take you? Maybe one of your sisters?" Kale twisted his face into a threatening smile. "I don't want to have this conversation again. This is not your concern."

  Kale donned his black overcoat and stretched his neck as Bruni wiped tears away.

  "I've got a meeting," Kale said. "Give him whatever he wants." Kale stormed out of the house, making sure to slam the door.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  South of Stagwater, a strip of tamarack swamp stretched inland from the river. A low, wooden plankway built from heavy timbers, crossed the wetland. By lantern-light, Chuggie saw hoof marks imprinted in the wood, most likely from oxen towing loaded wagons. A thick cover of tamarack branches stretched over the plankway blocking the sky.

  Chuggie and his companions tripped along over the uneven boards. With no side rails they were in constant danger of falling into the swamp. Entering Stagwater would be a problem. One he could hopefully solve with a bribe. But there was always the chance that the guards wouldn't admit him at all.

  Chuggie followed the boys up to the heavy, barred gate. A painfully loud clacking cut through the air as hidden gears ratcheted the gate open. Chuggie snapped his head up to look at the watchtower. Two glowing eyes looked back — the eyes of a Steel Jack. Chuggie looked up at the glowing eyes and sighed. Just his luck.

  "Welcome." The Steel Jack's voice thundered in a low-pitched vibration.

  Chuggie bit back a surly reply. Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt looked over their shoulders at him. Stinkface raised up his eyebrow as if he too thought this was mighty strange. Chuggie shrugged. He snapped their reins and all three of them passed through the gate. It ratcheted shut behind them.

  Chuggie cast a backward glance at the tower. The Steel Jack watched, unmoving. Its eyes grew bright, then faded to black. Maybe it was a fool's wish to think he could dodge the metal-skinned aliens while in town. He felt better after they'd walked some distance from the tower.

  He looked up and down the street lined with shabby shops and skinny houses. His guides took him off the main drag and down a dim alley. What, didn't they want to be seen with ol' Chuggie? He clapped them on their backs. "So, where we headed, fellas?"

  "Carnietown," Dan said.

  "And what's Carnietown?" asked Chuggie.

  "It's where the Carnies live," Dan said with a matter of fact tone of voice.

  Chuggie put some tension on Dan's leash. "Boy, I haven't decapitated you yet. That doesn't mean I won't."

  "Yeah, yeah." Dan gave a dismissive wave. "The Carnies are the worthless dregs of Stagwater. Carnietown is their slum. It's the only place you could find a room." He tugged on his leash to pull Chuggie along at a faster pace. They rounded the side of a butcher's shop and emerged on the cobblestone street.

  Chuggie growled as he let Dan hurry him along, but he was actually quite satisfied. He felt right at home on skid row. Slum people were his people. They minded their own business, but helped if you needed it. Ghetto cocktails were cheap, and you could always find a good trash fire to drink them around. The slummier the better, as far as Chuggie was concerned.

  "That's Carnietown up ahead," said Jaron. "Up where there are hardly any lights."

  "Thanks, Mutt," said Chuggie. He could already smell the trash fires and hear the distant shouts of his fellow drunkards. It almost felt like a homecoming.

  "There are a couple of shitty whorehouses in Carnietown." Jaron caught his reflection in a shop window and started straightening his ponytail. "They'll give you a room. It won't cost that much."

  "Take me to one with a bar." Chuggie didn't care about the whores, but he cared about getting a drink.

  "I'm sure they all have a bar." Dan said.

  They stopped at the end of a garbage-stinking alley. Captor and captives were quite ready to be rid of each other. All around, little huts made of scrap metal and salvaged lumber squeezed together like hobos in winter. Here and there shops, taverns, and churches jutted out of the detritus.

  "There it is." Dan pointed just up the block. "Can we go now?"

  "You kept your end of the bargain, I'll keep mine." Chuggie dug in his satchel. He handed them each a stack of money. He had no idea how much.

  "Jaron the Mutt? Stinkface Dan? Been a pleasure. A real pleasure. I know you tried to kill me twice, and I beat your asses for it both times. I know. In spite o' that, I feel l
ike we really had some good times. It brings to mind a story about this fishin' boat I used to own. Y'see, me and these three other —."

  "Can we have our daggers back?" Jaron asked.

  Chuggie immediately thought of stabbing them both in the chest with their own blades. Were he to do so, he'd have to remember to say something like, "Here's your daggers back, you bastards." He'd have to come up with something better than that, but it was a good start. As he considered different ways of saying the line, he drew the daggers, one from his belt and the other from his boot.

  Instead of committing double murder, Chuggie threw the daggers down the dark alley to his right. Dan and Jaron grimaced hearing the clang of their fancy weapons hitting the stones. He dropped the rope at their feet, turned toward the tavern, and left his new chums behind.

  Chuggie looked up at the sign in front of the establishment. It was a marvel to behold. Elegant letters spelled 'The Gulping Goat' across the top. Beneath that, a feminine liquor bottle — complete with a face, arms, and legs — poured booze from her bottle-shaped breasts. A goat in a fine suit-coat caught the liquor in his smiling mouth. In one hoof, the goat held a mug of ale. In the other, a wad of cash. The goat's erect penis had a face that smiled up at the liquor lady. If the sign was any indicator, he was going to enjoy The Gulping Goat.

  Chuggie pushed through the door prepared to spend plenty of Shola's money on drinks and a room. The wiry, middle-aged bartender looked up at Chuggie and snarled like he wanted to fight. Scattered around the room, all dressed up in their finest rags, the few customers in the place looked like they wanted to go die somewhere. The woman dancing on the platform would pass out if she were any drunker. A few other women wandered about, trying to be friendly to the miserable patrons. One of the ladies had a black eye.

  "What kind of entertainment are you looking for tonight?" asked the bartender. He ran his fingers over his slicked-back hair. He applied the dab of grease, collected from his hair, to his stringy handlebar mustache.

  "Just a drink for me," Chuggie said.

  "What?" the bartender scoffed. "Well? What do you want to drink?"

  "Uh," Chuggie wrinkled his nose. "Pour me a pitcher of your best."

  The bartender shook his head as he stomped off. Chuggie took a seat on a barstool. He immediately hopped back off as something sharp poked him in the ass. He ran a hand over the seat and discovered a sharp metal spring poking up through the top of the stool. It was the color of rust, and nearly invisible to the naked eye. He ran his hand over the next stool before he sat again. Other barstools and chairs were held together by tape. Some had mismatched legs.

  One of the gloomy patrons, a doughy man in a dirty poncho, stared at Chuggie. The guy could barely keep his eyes open, and Chuggie wondered how long he'd be able to stay atop his stool.

  A few moments later the bartender returned with an undersized pitcher filled half with beer and half with foam.

  "You own this place?" Chuggie asked.

  "Yes. Five bucks for the beer," said the bartender.

  "Who painted your sign out front?"

  "I did. Five bucks." The bartender stuck a hand out.

  Chuggie fished in his satchel for some money. He felt some cash, pulled it out, and handed a bill with a '5' on it to the angry barman. All the cash featured magnificent stags standing in water. The five buck note had five stags. Ten stags for the ten buck note. Chuggie wondered how many bucks he had left. Maybe it was time to count.

  "Hey, barkeep!" he called. "Got a washroom in this dungeon?"

  The barman waved toward the back of the place then turned away.

  Chuggie walked and drank, gulping the pitcher dry before he got halfway across the room. He slammed the empty pitcher onto a table slightly harder than intended and made his way to the commode.

  Once inside, he closed the door and sat against it. Someone, it appeared, had flung mud at the far wall. Apparently, the mud in Stagwater stunk like shit. He needed to conclude his business in this room quickly.

  He started counting cash and discovered far more paper bucks than he thought. So long as he had the satchel, he didn't have to worry about going broke anytime soon. Unless, of course, he lost the satchel.

  Chuggie folded money and stuffed it in his boots. He filled his pockets. He tucked some under his skull-cap. Everywhere he could think of, he hid money.

  After checking to make sure he hadn't dropped any, Chuggie rose and left the room. He sucked greedily at the clean-by-comparison air of the bar. He looked to his left at the sad bar scene. To his right, a board propped the rear door open. The dark alley outside invited him to enjoy its tranquility.

  "Hey!" The angry little bartender shouted at Chuggie as Chuggie pondered the exit. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, the universal gesture for money.

  "You want a tip, you greedy weasel?" Chuggie called out. "I'll pay you in one respect… I'll let you live." He walked out the back door.

  The alley's quiet darkness offered a scene at least thirty-eight times better than the one inside. The establishment didn't deserve such a wonderful sign as hung over its door. A crafty fellow wouldn't have much trouble at all getting his hands on that masterpiece.

  He wedged himself against the wall in the shadow of a trash bin, and got out his pipe for a smoke. Before he struck his match, however, he heard rapid footsteps approaching. Chuggie sat quiet and still in the shadows. The footsteps stopped nearby.

  "Are you sure about this?" asked a voice he recognized.

  Chuggie, without making a sound, leaned out from behind the trashcan.

  Jaron the Mutt stood right there, plain as day, in the alley.

  "Yes, dammit!" said Stinkface Dan. "Bastard threw our blades down the fucking alley after parading us through town like goddamned dogs. Penalty for that is death in my book. And remember, we are supposed to kill him."

  Light from inside the bar glinted off the edges of Dan and Jaron's daggers.

  "Aren't there going to be witnesses in there?" Jaron said. "Or are we just supposed to kill everyone inside?"

  "I don't see the authorities doing an investigation, but if you're worried put your scarf over your face," Dan pulled his scarf up over his mouth as he spoke.

  They hurried into the bar.

  Chuggie waited and listened. Nothing happened. A moment later, they darted back out into the alley.

  "How could we miss him?" Jaron looked right and left.

  "Shit!" Dan kicked the trash bin next to Chuggie. "He beat us. The drunken bastard beat us."

  "What do we do now?" asked Jaron.

  "Go home and get some sleep." Dan gave the trash bin another kick. "Fuck it all, we've got to report to Kale in the morning. We better have something good to tell him."

  "Can't say we got our asses kicked," Jaron agreed.

  "We were bewitched!" Dan raised his hands to the sky. "He used some kind of conjury to see our ambush. He was ready waiting for us. Then he bewitched us!"

  They left the way they came, and Chuggie had the alley to himself once more. He got up and walked in the opposite direction.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  As Kale had predicted, Haste's little meeting had been a waste of time. Haste could cry about the Steel Jacks all day and night, but nothing would ever change. Kale knew the answer was to take control — just take it.

  Kale poured himself a glass of whiskey. He admired the amber light shimmering through the most expensive liquor in Stagwater. When he entered the sitting room to enjoy his drink, he was assaulted by the sight of the little shit orphan boy sleeping on his fine leather couch. The child had either spilled a drink or pissed himself, and Kale didn't see an empty glass anywhere.

  He already felt like stomping a kitten, having lost his entire evening in Haste's office. And having Fitch present at the meeting hadn't done anything to improve his mood. Haste loved group discussions, but he never followed Kale's sound advice. If he did, the fat bastard always claimed the idea was his own.

  I had the very same
notion, Haste would say. Hearing you say it reinforces its validity.

  Kale swirled the liquor around in his glass and glared at the brat on his couch.

  He was through having his best ideas stolen. Once he took his rightful place, he'd put an end to that bullshit. Would he keep Haste on staff as some sort of consultant or put him in charge of collecting goat shit? Would he execute Fitch for bogus treason charges? For that matter, would he execute them both for conspiracy? Or would he simply dissolve the Magisterial Council and lock them up?

  A warm tingle of pleasure spread through Kale. He knew exactly what he'd do. He'd bewitch them and send them on a northbound hike. He laughed into his drink.

  The orphan on his couch stirred in his sleep. The boy was the key to Kale's success. Kale would put up with as much urine on his couch as he had to. He fought the urge to grab the boy right then and there, drag him out to the woods, and get on with his plan.

  "Haste only leads to mistakes. It's all going to work out soon enough," he said to himself. "A little death, a little paperwork, and Chief Magistrate Kale will hold the reins."

  Chapter 9

  Chuggie wandered up one alley and down another. Carnietown was not as cheerful as its name suggested. The litter-strewn streets formed a maze through the shanties cobbled together out of bits of metal and scraps of wood. He was relieved to see most of the people out tonight were at least as intoxicated as he was. He followed a boisterous group of men to The Fifty Moons Inn.

  Chuggie stepped over a laughing vagrant and peered in the window. Inside, tattered-looking patrons crowded around the bar. They toasted each other, cheered and clapped. Onstage, a heavy-set gal sang in front of an old-timer with an accordion and a guy banging a bucket like it was a drum.

  On the sign over the entrance, glowing white spheres strung together spelled "The Fifty Moons Inn." The sign painter obviously intended the spheres to represent moons. Chuggie resisted the urge to count them. It'd take a mighty talented artist to use all fifty moons. Some sort of magic must have lit up those painted moons. However it was done, he liked it.