by Adam Browne
Chuckling throughout Ivan’s tirade, Rufus reached up and adjusted the taller wolf’s brooch and cloak as if nought but a cub were hiding under that imposing Howler getup.
“Ivan, if I’ve taught you anything, I hope it’s that there’s more to life than constantly eluding death,” Rufus said, his warm, crackly voice effortlessly overcoming the rain and hubbub. “Live as the dayfly that dared,” he instructed, “not the nymph who lurked in the pond forever.”
The snowy Ivan brushed away Rufus’s ruddy paws. “And what of the carefree grasshopper who fiddled all summer long whilst the prudent ants stored grain for winter. What became of him?”
Rufus beamed, “The ants took pity on him and invited him inside their nest, whereupon he regaled them all winter long.”
“That’s not the version I’m familiar with.”
Slapping Ivan on the shoulder with his rather damp, limp-looking file, Rufus tutted, “That’s because beneath that hot Bloodfang exterior you’re still a cold-hearted Eisbrand. Come on, a cup of tea’ll warm you through.”
“Tea?”
“Yes. I dunno about you, but I’m gasping.”
Rufus marched purposefully towards the grand station foyer, file in paw.
Ivan stayed put. “What about your hearing with the Elders?” he pointed out, barely turning his masked face as Rufus passed him by. “They’re convening at half-seven.”
“Oh they can wait five minutes to reject my proposals for another year,” Rufus sighed, flapping his folder about. “Which they will.”
Ivan caught up with his partner. “They will if you’re late.” he said, walking beside him.
“They will have decided long before I arrive.”
“Still, it can’t hurt your chances for next time if you’re punctual this time.”
Rufus took a golden pocket watch from inside his cloak, “I’ll be punctual; I’ll be precisely five minutes late.”
“Just to irritate them?” Ivan scoffed.
“Humble them. There’s a difference.”
“You’ll be the one humbled by the time Amael gets through with you. Embarrassing him in front of Den Father Vito... again.”
Rufus shrugged. “Anyway,” he said anew, slapping Ivan on the shoulder with his papers, “I can’t very well put forth our proposals on an empty stomach. The very idea!”
“Food as well? I hope you’re paying.”
“Stinginess; another Eisbrand trait I thought I’d beaten out of you by now.”
“Wait,” Ivan realised, “did you say ‘our’ proposals?”
“Professor Heath and I,” Rufus clarified, giving him a sideways look and smile. “Not you, Blade-dancer.”
“Good! I don’t want my name attached to your mad schemes.”
“You’ve a mighty high opinion of yourself this morning, haven’t you?” Rufus rebuked, slapping Ivan with his file yet again, on the head this time, betwixt his white ears.
“Will you stop hitting me with that thing?”
“When you stop being a bore.”
The pair breezed through the splendid marbled station, past ticket gates and train hogs, before stepping out onto the broad street beyond with the impunity and freedom afforded Howlers. The rain had died down, but the great industrial machine that was Lupa forever chugged along indifferent to all weathers. Pedestrians of every race, though little beasts in the main, walked to work or to the shops, whilst colourful motor cars big and small ambled along the road on their tremulous wheels belching imperious ash in their wake.
Standing atop of the splaying stairway spilling from the station, Rufus announced, “Since we’re about breakfast we’ll go to that new place I’ve been meaning to show you.”
Starting down the stairs, Ivan snorted, “New place?”
Rufus followed, “Yes, you know, that licensed café I was telling you about the other day. Remember?”
“No.”
“Must’ve been Uther,” Rufus tutted. “Charming little joint; popped up right on HQ’s doorstep. Run by a rabbit and his son. Remarkable chap, the son; grills the finest waffles this side of Lupa.”
Ivan huffed, “I don’t much care for waffles.”
“Nor I, actually,” Rufus mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing. Come on.”
At the bottom of the sprawling stairs, Ivan peeled away from Rufus, keys jangling in paw, and found his monobike parked by the road – and a fine machine it was too, its large, singular wheel housed seamlessly under a chunky, polished black chassis marked on the flank with a small white spider motif.
Brushing globules of rainwater from the seat, Ivan threw an armoured leg over his marvellous bike, inserted the keys, and started it up with a kick of the pedal. Amidst a loud bang and several ear-thumping pops, imperium ash exploded forth from the exhaust in grey, yet slightly glittery clouds. The inside rim of the bike’s lone, broad wheel nestled between Ivan’s legs lit up in a bright ring of white as the imperium-laced gyroscope came to life. The bike rose up a little and righted itself, like a metallic beetle awakening from hibernation.
Easing himself into the thigh-hugging seat, Ivan looked behind for Rufus – the red wolf stood aloof, arms folded.
“Come on then,” Ivan said, patting the back of the seat; a big monobike like his could accommodate two.
“You’re driving are you?” Rufus hummed.
“It’s my bike,” Ivan contended.
“Yes, but I know the way. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with her.”
With a grunt, Ivan shuffled backwards and Rufus all too eagerly plonked himself in front. The bike slumped appreciably under their combined weight.
Rufus passed his file over his shoulder to Ivan. “Keep it dry will you?”
Grumbling, Ivan tucked the soggy papers inside his cloak and hugged Rufus around the waist, though not before contemptuously brushing aside his grey-tipped red tail.
Rufus grasped the steering bars, kicked away the stand with his gaitered boot, and twisted the accelerator. The black chassis trembled violently, its singular wheel burning rubber for an instant, before gripping the wet cobbles. With a snap of plasma, monobike and wolfen riders were thrust out onto the road.
The whole ensemble, beasts and bike, reared dangerously backwards, before the gyroscope compensated and righted everything.
“Careful!” Ivan shouted over the thundering engine and wind.
“Hahahaha!”
The amused Rufus should have stayed on the main road to get to what he had earlier called ‘HQ’, that black pile of towers and walkways looming over the whole district, red and white wolf skull banners drooping in the drizzle. Good to his word, however, he forwent home and leant hard to the left, swaying monobike and riders into an adjoining street.
Houses, shops and beasts cowering beneath umbrellas whizzed by on either side as Rufus and Ivan careened down Lupa’s snaking backstreets, black mantles fluttering about their powerful wolfen bodies. With each twist the road ahead grew narrower, the walls closing in on either side like a ghastly booby trap. The skilful Rufus had little difficulty navigating even right-angle turns, for a monobike could swivel on a penny if going slow enough – most advantageous in a city like Lupa. But slow wasn’t Rufus’s style, who instead leant at crazy angles, applying shocking g-forces to Ivan and his precious mono.
All this, yet the bike’s solitary wheel had no mechanical steering whatever. The steering bars were just a conduit between machine and rider. No normal beast could control a mono, only a Howler, or an equivalent imperium-wielder trained to bend the mineral to his or her will. None but they could make the imperium gyroscope within twist and lean appropriately, and so balance and guide the machine to any useful purpose.
Doing so with aplomb, Rufus slowed to a controlled halt in an unremarkable street.
“Here we are,” he announced, kicking out the stand and shutting the quivering mono down. The white ring running around the wheel faded and the whole machine settled to sleep. “She feels a littl
e out of tune; you might want to tweak her gyro.”
Ivan couldn’t leap off quickly enough to check the bodywork for scratches. “More likely you’re the one out of tune.”
“Nonsense,” Rufus woofed. “These bikes were invented by my ancestor; if anyone’s going to ride them properly it’s a Valerio.” He held out a paw, “File?”
Not even looking up from his bike, Ivan held the crinkled papers aloft with an annoyed snort.
Leaving Ivan with his baby, Rufus marched straight down the cobbled street and into a dodgy-looking passage with all the pluck of beast who knew nobody with any sense would mess with him.
Satisfied his bike was in one piece, Ivan hurried after Rufus whilst maintaining all dignity, fastidiously avoiding the polluted puddles of water that his partner traipsed carelessly through, thus keeping his pristine white gaiters just so.
Ivan looked this way and that, checking the shadows; Rufus strolled along without a care, as if mocking Ivan’s paranoia.
“What’s so remarkable about him then?” Ivan asked, catching up to his partner as they traversed the brickwork labyrinth of Lupa.
“Who?”
“The cook.”
“Well, it’s not his waffles,” Rufus admitted, suddenly veering off to the left and pushing open a door, causing a bell to ring. “Try not to stare.”
“Stare?” Ivan scoffed in disbelief, “At a rabbit?”
Rufus laughed and disappeared inside, whilst Ivan stepped back to take in the establishment’s façade, with its crooked bay window and brand-new sign stencilled in fresh red and white paint.
THE WARREN.
Chapter 2
Ivan entered The Warren under the ring of the customer bell and the curious gaze of some questionable patrons. The pokey eatery was dark, the gnarled, yet shiny tables illuminated by overhead imperium lamps burning a warm white. There came a rare flicker of colour from said lamps, red, blue, even green, as imperium gas in various states of decay worked its way through Lupa’s ancient piping. The café’s creamy walls were cracked and the wooden beams overhead worryingly, or to an estate agent ‘charmingly’, crooked.
“Looks a dive,” Ivan pronounced.
“Oh shush,” Rufus tutted, pulling back his rain-flecked hood and removing his helmet.
A white rabbit in a black apron emerged from the dingy corners – what passed for the waiter in this dump, Ivan could only assume. At least the fellow made an effort, with a frilly shirt and red bow-tie.
“Good morning, Rufus,” the rabbit chirped, giving the still masked and hooded Ivan a nervous glance.
Rufus adopted a chipper smile. “Casimir,” he said. “How’re you this fine Lupan morning?”
“Fine indeed!” the rabbit laughed gruffly. He glanced at the ornate clock on the wall and dared, “This is early for you. Don’t tell me you’re actually working for a living?”
“I have been known,” Rufus joked back. “I’m on my way to an important meeting at HQ, actually.” He gave Ivan a glance, then said, “Thought we’d have a bite to eat first, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“By all means. Usual table?”
“Please.”
Casimir led the Howlers over to the bay window and quickly wiped down a table. As they walked, Rufus searched the café for someone.
“Bruno round back?”
Casimir shook his head, his long white ears flapping. “He’s in bed, I’m afraid.”
“Bed? He’s up with the bees, usually.”
“He’s got a bad chest,” Casimir murmured, tapping his own. “Yesterday’s smog ‘en all.”
Rufus winced from disappointment. “Oh dear, what a pity,” he seethed. “I was going to introduce Ivan here to Bruno’s famous three-season waffles, wasn’t I Ivan?”
No reply from Ivan.
Casimir waved a paw, “I can whip ‘em up for you.”
“Sorry, Casimir, but it’s just not the same,” Rufus sighed, fussing with his cloak. He slapped Ivan on the chest with his file. “Looks like we’ll just have to come back another time, Ivan. I know you were so looking forward to it.”
This time Ivan rolled his eyes, at least.
Faced with a loss of earnings, Casimir changed tune, “Hang on, hang on, how about I go tell Bruno you’re here? It’s been a few hours, he might be feeling better-”
“Could you?” Rufus said, all too fast.
“No promises, though.”
“Whatever’s best for Bruno, Casimir. We can come back tomorrow.”
Nodding, the rabbit hurried up the creaky stairs, bob-tail flashing, whilst the wolves took their seats.
Rufus set his helmet on the tabletop, the red fang decoration beneath each eye slowly fading as the imperium left a Howler’s influence, or corona. Ivan followed suit, revealing that handsome white-furred face; well Rufus thought it handsome. Wolves were usually two or three colours, Rufus himself was grey on his chest and muzzle and red elsewhere, but Ivan was a uniform white; rare even for the notoriously beautiful Eisbrands.
Like most Eisbrands, Ivan’s family, the Donskoys, had originated on the Great Steppes, that vast northern tundra where summer was unbearably hot and winter fatally cold. Even before the Ashfall it had been a hard country. Ivan himself had been raised in Lupa and orphaned during the war. Upon contracting the rot he had gone to the Eisbrand Pack with only his respected Donskoy name, determined to complete their rigorous Howlership and earn his keep. After induction and graduation, he had been anointed Ivan ‘Eisbrand’ Donskoy, adopting the name and traditions of the pack, and beginning his career, roaming the streets, maintaining order, and quickly earning a reputation as an exceptional Howler.
Ivan had shown his gratitude to his Eisbrand benefactors by switching allegiance to the Bloodfangs for reasons wolves still guessed at; adventure, pay, companionship, to this day even Rufus wasn’t quite sure, but was glad to have him.
Still admiring Ivan, Rufus chucked his crumpled file on the table and delved into the neck of his black cloak, reaching for the inside breast pocket. Taking out a small silver case he flipped it open. Inside were a dozen colourful sticks arranged in a neat rainbow, from red to green to indigo, like so many crayons.
Rufus offered them to Ivan, “Ember?”
The white wolf glowered disapprovingly back, those icy blue eyes unmoved by the warm glow of the nearby imperium lamp.
“Oh yes,” Rufus tutted, withdrawing the embers, “you’ve quit smouldering.” He took the red ember, broke the end off and popped it between his lips. It immediately began to glow of its own accord, releasing heady vapours – strawberry.
Whiffing the noxious cocktail of ash, flavourings and even painkillers, Ivan said, “So should you.”
“It’s a noble effort on your part,” Rufus said, red clouds erupting from his mouth, “but I’m past help.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“D’you know I was aching on the train just now. You complain I don’t ride. Well there it is, monos wear me out. You’re right, I am out of tune... and out of time.”
“You’ve got decades yet.”
Rufus hiked his eyebrows, licked a finger and began to leaf through his crumpled folder. “My dear Ivan, I should be on twice the venom I am to maintain my vague usefulness,” he said, the glowing ember wobbling between his lips. “I was all right before they cut our ration again.”
“This shortage will pass. They’ll find a new white-imperium mine, they always do. You should quit Lupa for a bit. Take the air on the Graumeer, or down Everdor. You’re due heaps of leave.”
Rufus smiled from ear to ruddy, grey-flecked ear.
“What?” Ivan grunted, shuffling.
“I’m touched, that’s all,” Rufus chirped back. “First assassins and now health advice. It’s almost like you want me sticking around.”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“Yes! When you snuff it they’ll lump me with another partner, some wet-eared cub who actually turns up for work. I’ll lose my i
ndependence. Think of that before you smoulder yourself into an early grave, Valerio.”
Rufus broke into hoarse laughter, clouds of red breath steaming from every viable orifice. Some burly customers of many races sitting at the next table, road workers judging by their attire, quickly paid their bill and left in a hurry without finishing their breakfast, whilst a massive muscular hog walked in, spied the unsmiling Ivan, and performed a none-too-subtle about-face.
“You’re bad for business, Donskoy,” Rufus tutted, as the hog trotted past the bay window in search of somewhere that didn’t harbour Howlers. “Start smiling, or you’ll bankrupt Casimir’s fine establishment before you even sink your fangs into one of his son’s waffles.”
Ivan adjusted his cloak and leant forward, “Yes. Only he’s not his ‘son’, is he?”
Rufus played dumb, “Hmm?”
“Bruno, is it?” Ivan pressed, the name sticking to his tongue out of jealously, Rufus felt certain. “He’s no rabbit; he’s a wolf, and a handsome one I don’t doubt.”
Grinning, Rufus took a draught of vapour and blew it over his head.
“Afflicted too?” Ivan growled.
Before Rufus could admit to anything, if he even had the intention, Casimir ambled down the stairwell with a noticeable limp, Ivan observed.
“Bruno’ll be right with you,” the white rabbit informed the wolves. “The rain has cleared the air for him. This drizzle has its upside, I suppose.”
“Marvellous, you’re a star, Casimir,” Rufus declared.
Casimir wasn’t so enthused. “My son is,” he grunted soberly. He stared at Rufus, particularly the smouldering ember between his fingers, before saying, “Now, what can I get you two gentlebeasts to drink?”
Rufus winked, “Hummel tea, please.”
The rabbit turned to Ivan, “And yourself, sir?”
“The same, citizen.”
Nodding, Casimir took his leave and disappeared into the kitchen to see about the tea.
There was a quiet moment. Rufus studied his file, no doubt mentally rehearsing his pitch to the Bloodfang Elders, whilst Ivan studied Rufus, sitting there, unassumingly puffing on his ember.
