Night at the Museum - A Bubba the Monster Hunter Novella

by John G. Hartness

  “Make sure three-quarters go to your brother first. We’ll split the rest.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want a bigger cut?”

  Manwe sniffed and leaned forward. “No. Spears and shields for the people, pleasures second.”

  “You know he wants to meet you,” Toba said. “Kosey tells his men and women about ‘The Panther.’ He’s building a legend.”

  “Then it is better that we don’t meet at all. The less he knows, the safer I am, and the less I know, the safer the cause.”

  “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.”

  The two sat in silence. The wind roared as it swept over the savannah. A herd of blue wildebeests emerged from the grove below and ambled off slowly in the direction of a nearby pond. The smaller ones charged ahead of the adults while the older ones, their heads hung low under the weight of their large black horns, sauntered behind.

  “I should go,” said Toba. He held up a hand to Manwe, the fingers spread apart.

  Manwe took hold, his fingers laced with his lover’s.

  *****

  Toba never returned with their payment.

  Manwe left his tree three days later, taking the dirt highway north instead of slinking his way through the wilds of the plain. The sun was high in the noon sky when he made it to Tolivius’ iron gates, its stone frame carved in the reliefs of great elephants. He hid his sneer as he passed by the guards posted in the long tunnel to the city’s proper, drawing his beet-red cloak around his shoulders to conceal the knife tucked in the twisted band of his loincloth.

  The streets were stained with the ruin of the “civilized.” The poor huddled in the mouths of alleys, their bowls and cups held out for any alms a passerby might give them. A few were lepers, their skin spotted and crusted with lesions, who lay crumpled against the corners of buildings as they struggled to beg through the pain. A few were even children, orphans left to wander alleys where they were hunted by those larger and more lecherous.

  In Tolivius’ temple district was a brothel run by the priestesses of Hertathia, the Gypian goddess of the night and lovers. A small set of stone steps behind the main temple led down to the establishment, a place frequented by many of the thieving world’s fences when they had the coin to spare.

  He knocked four times on the olive-wood door.

  A viewing slot slid open, and a pair of dark blue eyes lined in black gazed out at him. “What is the goddess’ secret?”

  “The goddess has no secrets,” Manwe answered.

  The slot shut and the door cracked open. A buxom woman with white skin and blonde hair, an exotic creature in a city of olive hues and wine brown skins, welcomed him inside. Transparent pieces of blue silk covered her breasts and groin, supported by thin chains of brass around her neck and hips.

  “Welcome, Panther,” she greeted, bowing her head slightly. “I did not imagine you would be visiting today. Come for the pleasures?”

  The first chamber of the brothel lay before Manwe. Oil lamps lit the walls in warmth, fluttering red and blue banners draped the ceiling’s edge. In one of the room’s corners stood a statue of Hertathia herself, her voluptuous body bared to the flickering light as she held the moon up in her hands. Around her hung tapestries depicting every sort of position with every sort of partner, showing man and woman, man and man, woman and woman, and even the beasts of the far-off west in the midst of copulation.

  “No, Magera,” he said, refocusing on his task. “Is Sophicus here?”

  “He’s in the back.” Magera adjusted the shift over her bosom. “Should I let him know you’ve come to call?”

  “Has he paid you yet?”

  “No. In fact, he increased his promissory notes for a later date. I had no choice but to let him in.”

  “No choice?”

  “He brought his guards into this house of peace and serenity,” she revealed. “To watch the door of his chamber in case his wife shows up again, of course. It is quite serendipitous you came today, now that I think about it. The goddess works her ways, no?”

  Manwe nodded, treading farther into the carnal den. The second room was the public area, where an orgy of men, women, and boys commenced in a fervent tangle of twisted bodies, lost among the heat of the hot stones set in the center of the floor. Past the moans and through a third door was a short split hall that went off to the left and the right. Every few yards lay the door of a private chamber, a cozy bedroom well-off patrons could rent for the evening.

  In the left wing, near the end of the passage, stood two tall Gypians dressed in patched tunics. Manwe strode toward them, his hands hidden under the folds of his red cloak.

  The man to the right of the door moved to block the way. “Where are you going, kitty cat?”

  Manwe looked up at him, placid against the guard’s scowl. “I’m here to see Sophicus, Braeus.”

  “Nobody sees the boss right now,” said the second guard, a gap-toothed fellow he knew as Tarsis. “He’s busy.”

  “Not busy enough.” Manwe stepped to the side.

  Braeus thrust his arm out to bar the way. “Who do you think you—”

  Manwe drove his knee into the guard’s crotch, putting him on hands and knees. Tarsis lunged at Manwe, who shot his legs out behind him and sprawled, his full weight on the man’s head and shoulders. Scooting back up to his feet, he held the Gypian’s head in one hand and drove a palm into his large nose. Blood squirted as the second guard fell backward. Braeus, still clutching his groin, rose off his knees to be met with a hard cross to the jaw.

  Leaving the two roughs on the floor, Manwe grabbed the handle of the chamber door and pushed it open.

  Inside two women writhed on a pallet of linen and cotton, their oiled bodies gleaming in the light of the few lamps set on a tiny shelf. Sandwiched between them lay a man in the throes of ecstasy. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his hands groped and probed the two priestesses, their joined cries of pleasure growing.

  Manwe cleared his throat.

  “By Adias, can’t you see—” Sophicus the Pretty sat up in bed, his mouth opening in protest when he saw who stood in the doorway. The two girls stopped as well, but did little to cover themselves from the gaze of the room’s intruder.

  “You two should go,” Manwe said to them. Both complied without a word.

  “I paid my donation for those girls, Panther,” Sophicus said.

  Manwe shut the door behind him. “No, you extended your credit. Too many times, if the lady of the house is to be believed.”

  “Braeus,” he shouted. “Tarsis?”

  “They’re taking a break.” Manwe stepped over the footboard of the bed and sat down on it, perched like a cat. “I thought the city’s top fence and its best thief could chat in private.”

  “You’re middling at best, these days. Revolutionaries don’t make money,” Sophicus retorted. “What do you want?”

  “Where’s Toba?”

  Sophicus’ anger faded, and he pulled a blanket across his lap to cover his genitals. “You should live here and not on those damned plains. You would’ve heard by now.”

  “Heard what?”

  The Gypian’s full lips bent a frown. “You stole too big, Panther. You should have taken the Gem of Acitus and nothing more.”

  Manwe furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “The man you stole the gem from. You raped his daughter.”

  “What?” Manwe shot to his feet. “What treachery is this?”

  “That is the word of a Gypian woman, Panther. Her voice holds more weight than some thief’s,” Sophicus answered, his hand up to stop his advance. “Please. It’s just what I heard.”

  Manwe searched the wall above Sophicus, at a loss for words against such a horrid accusation. “What happened?” he asked after a few moments, aware that something far worse might have already occurred.

  Sophicus crossed his legs under his blanket, his elbows on his knees. “Apparently Toba went to take the gem to the buyer and hasn’t been seen sin
ce. Some think the buyer’s guards took him as a way to punish you. One dead Juutan is usually enough to sate us Gypians, in these cases. Count yourself lucky. I doubt anyone’s coming after you now.”

  “Who was the buyer?”

  Sophicus waved a finger at him. “A deal is between the fence and his buyer, and only between them. There are rules that not even I would break.”

  “But you know all the buyers, just as you know all the fences. You put the word out for them when they are looking for men like me.” The dim light of the room caught the edge of Manwe’s knife when he drew it out. “And it is just you and I in here.”

  “There are witnesses.” Sophicus gulped behind his cocksure grin. “You’d be hunted.”

  “Did you know that you don’t die immediately when your throat is cut? You spend the last few moments gasping for air…” Manwe crawled forward on hands and feet. “And all you hear is the blood bubbling in the wound.”

  “You’ve made your point,” Sophicus said in a hurried manner, putting up a hand again to stop him. “It was the merchant, Leomachus.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Ivory Row.”

  Manwe slinked off the bed. “Remember to pay your debts to Magera, Sophicus. Next time I won’t be so charitable.”

  *****

  The manor of Leomachus was not the grandest manor in the merchant quarter, not that it mattered next to the fact that it sat in the middle of Ivory Row, where only the wealthiest lived in an area of the city known as Merchant’s March. Situated near the northern wall, the square building made up for its lack of elegance and sophisticated design with the many guards patrolling its grounds, a better display of wealth than any gaudy construction or décor could ever convey. More than twenty men walked the perimeter behind the tall iron fence, their spears and shields covered in tar to dampen the reflection of the full moon.

  In the southwestern corner of the estate grew a large marula, one of the few trees the Gypians had left when they settled the city. Manwe stood on one of the uppermost branches, tying the long bandages of undyed linen around his wrists. Within them he tucked the tools of his trade, a long iron file worn with use and a few lock picks, delicate lengths of hardened copper bent into all manner of shapes. Hidden behind the wall of thick green leaves and golden fruit, he waited as a pair of guards marched by, lost in conversation.

  “Why are we here again?” the first one asked as he adjusted the crest of his helm. “We don’t need to be out here, not with all the treasure inside.”

  “Will you just shut up and march?” said the second man. “We have a few hours and then we can go home.”

  “But what about all these extra hands? We’ll have to split more of the pouch with them.”

  “Money’s money. I’d rather have three coins in my pocket than none.”

  The pair turned the corner of a thick hedgerow separating the middle of the garden. Manwe dropped from the branch and ran for the wall. His fingers found purchase on a window sill, and after pulling himself up, he drew his knife. He stuck the blade in the gap between two panels of wooden lattice and unlatched the bar.

  He slipped into a dark kitchen. The only source of light lay at the other end of the room, where a red clay oven lay open its mouth of embers.

  The lone door popped open, forcing Manwe to hide under a preparation table. A dark-skinned servant stepped inside, humming a pleasant tune. He stopped before the oven and raked the coals. After a moment more, he left.

  Manwe broke cover and approached the portal. Pushing it open a crack, he spied through the gap an empty hallway. He entered the hall and headed left.

  The silence of the night, the oily lines of smoke of the torches, the lack of guards inside Leomachus’ halls—none of it was right. There should have been sentries on patrol like the two guards outside had said there would be, but none appeared or stood watch outside the many rooms of the manor. Manwe came to a junction where the hall intersected another, a shorter passage that ended at an open vault.

  A stand made of white marble rose in the center of the small chamber, and upon it rested a familiar red satin pillow. Nestled in the middle, the Gem of Acitus shone in the light of the many oil lamps set on the single shelf built into the room’s walls, its green facets mocking and cruel.

  “This is clearly a trap,” Manwe said aloud. Men surged into the hall behind him, their spears at the ready. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they blocked the way, leaving no avenue of escape.

  “Not a trap,” said a strong, confident voice. A short man stepped into the doorway of the gem’s room, draped in a length of light blue cloth. Streaks of silver peppered his beard, and a dark mane framed a wide head and thick cheekbones. “For what wise man tries to capture a wild beast?”

  “And yet the beast has not been slain. The hunter has reasons for not releasing his arrow,” Manwe said, finishing the old Juutan axiom. “You must be Leomachus.”

  “And you are a grand thief, sir.” The merchant bowed with a flourish. “It pleases me to no end to meet you.”

  “You knew I was coming?”

  “Of course,” Leomachus said with a grin, his teeth too large for his mouth. “With the rumors of your rape of Gonius’ daughter and the disappearance of your fence, I knew it was only time before you came to my door.”

  “I didn’t rape that girl,” Manwe said.

  Leomachus entered the hall. “Oh, I know, but the promise of marriage to my third son is enough to keep the lie on her tongue. After all, such a stain on her reputation…” He came to stand before Manwe, his hands held out at his sides. “Would you like some wine?”

  “For a man so close to death, you’re a fine host,” said Manwe, tensed to attack.

  The guards in the hall shuffled, but Leomachus signaled them to stop. “I try.” The merchant waved for him to come along, and after a brief pause, Manwe followed.

  He and his host let the guards lead them to Leomachus’ grand sitting room in the middle of his manor, a common feature in most merchants’ homes. Fat pillows made of colored silk lay on the floor around a square table, and set on its polished face was a silver carafe and two goblets.

  “Please, sit.” Leomachus picked up the carafe. “It is actually quite cool in here tonight.”

  Manwe watched the wine flow, red and fragrant, as the merchant filled both goblets. “Where’s Toba?”

  Leomachus slid one of the goblets across the table to him as he sat. “I lost him.”

  Manwe felt his eye twitch. “You lost him?”

  “Please, don’t start,” said Leomachus, taking his first sip and swallowing. “If you hadn’t been caught by the girl, we wouldn’t be here now. Your shoddy work made this happen.”

  “I couldn’t predict that she would even be there. I’m a thief, not a bone-reader,” he said, gripping his knees. “And you have your gem.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I just saw it in that room.”

  “A fake.” Leomachus swirled the wine in his cup. “A good fake, as long it keeps those thinking I have the real one occupied. That girl who caught you was to be married off to the son of another merchant with the gem as her dowry. I know that merchant, and that old fool would’ve put it in a vault and leered at it until the day he died. I have better plans.”

  “And yet you’ve thrown the bauble out.”

  Leomachus snorted his disappointment. “Apparently Toba’s pockets were deeper than my men could dig through.”

  Disgusted by the Gypian’s flippancy, Manwe focused. “Why all this for a gem?”

  “It is more than just a gem, and you know that. The Gem of Acitus sat in the crown of my people’s greatest emperor. It is a part of our history, and for years it has passed through the hands of the merchants, treated as nothing more than a trinket to be traded and ogled. It could be used better.”

  “And you are the one who’d use it,” Manwe surmised.

  “You are smarter than most of your race, Panther.”

  “My ra
ce has nothing to do with my intelligence. So if not gold or honor, what more can the gem give you?”

  “Power.” His host refreshed his drink. “Imagine how grateful Gypus’ king would be if one of his citizens, a lowly merchant from this backwater city, returned one of history’s most prized treasures out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “He’d make you a lord, and not just in name.”

  Leomachus snapped his fingers. “Exactly. And this has brought me to felicity. You want your friend and the gold promised to you, and I can remedy those nasty rumors. All you need is to find that gem again.”

  “Toba has the gem on him. Is he alive?” Manwe repeated, stressing for a real answer.

  His host, and now his employer once again, looked over the rim of his goblet. “Whether he is alive is not the question you should worry about. What you should worry over is where he is.”

  *****

  To the native tribes that inhabited the savannah, it was called “The Mouth of the Mother.”

  A gaping void in the ground, many believed it led to a place between the living world and the land of the dead, where the gods welcomed the souls of good people before they were sent to their ancestors in a blessed realm. Those who led lives of vice and evil, however, were left tortured in its darkness, torn apart so their essence could be planted back into the soil, where they hopefully grew into something more worthwhile.

  Yet to the Gypians this hole was not a sacred place, but just another pit to throw criminals, whether they were dead or not.

  They gave it a simpler name: The Maw.

  Manwe stood at its edge. Dawn had not come yet, but even in the time between the last twinkle of the stars and the warming of the horizon, the hole seemed blacker than death, a portal to an abode where only the hellish reigned. He had hammered an iron stake into the earth a few feet away and tied to its head a thick rope, long enough to take him to the bottom. He knew the legends spoke of endless tunnels, of the beasts that had fallen in and became more savage without the sunlight, and tales of weird magicks shamans had brought back from the shadows.