The Immortal of Degoskirke

by Michael Green

  “Idle Greeks!” The goblin spluttered. “Waits forever-evers for no plan! The shiney speaks! It says to make new goblin inn for the great calling and gambling of many other such goblins! The shineys put down will return many times over!”

  The goblins let loose a raucous huzzah. A group of them, once calmly resting atop a hefty beetle, found themselves swatted by the brute as they cheered riotously.

  “Look at this!” A small, tinny voice echoed over the crowd.

  Andy hopped off the cart and approached the stage. Now he could see a mouse balancing on the brutox’s head. The mouse was speaking into the amplifying contraption, which worked fairly well.

  “Look! The goblin plan is as substantive as their courtesy, which is to say, it simply doesn’t exist!”

  The tall goblin guffawed rudely.

  “The builders of Clemson Downs have come into prime information regarding future migration into the city. We believe, very strongly, that a new inn would be the best option for our excess funds!”

  “It’s the samey as my plan!”

  The goblins in the audience booed and hissed, pulling on hair and ears—not always their own—in protest, resulting in several airborne goblins.

  “It isn’t! Our plan is substantive, built on evidence, whereas your plan is a bold-faced cash grab, based on nothing but idiotic exuberance!”

  The woman laughed. “Indeed, the mice are known to increase property value, through their improvements and tinkering. Think now, would that not also cause landowners to raise their rents on your many fine institutions? The mice are famous spendthrifts, whereas the goblins spend money they don’t have. It is clear that the taverns, repairmen, vigiles, and all renters would benefit far more from a goblin presence than a builder’s.”

  Is she just up there arguing for the sake of it?

  The audience broke out in a chorus of grumbling.

  A moment later, Andy saw green and white strips of cloth raised to the sky. The brutox-mounted mouse shook his head. His brutox did likewise, and as he moved, Andy saw hundreds of silver coins glittering, embedded in his carapace. Andy wondered if the coins belonged to the mouse.

  The mice on the board communed for a moment, before one called out, “The goblin tavern shall be constructed! May the God that doesn’t exist have mercy on your souls!”

  “No editorializing!” A voice yelled.

  “The cost is four Sici, split!” the mouse concluded.

  The brutox bearing the mouse peeled four coins from one of its many plates and handed two each to the goblin and the woman. The mice near the hanging banners made changes to a large book chained under the sign reading: “Clemson Downs.” From where he stood, Andy could read the name of the book: “Local Laws of Clemson Downs.” Underneath the title were the words: “Tampering is punishable by popular demand.”

  Andy returned to the cart.

  “Another law added to the books. It looks like the goblins have realized that they need to employ better speakers to make their points for them. The Greek Idealists are ironically cynical and a good pick,” Ziesqe mused as the crowd became excited for a new debate concerning the border painting strategy.

  “Can anyone get up there and speak?” Andy asked.

  “Certainly, but if the crowd finds against your stance, and you cannot afford the cost—”

  “What do they do to you?” Andy asked.

  Ziesqe laughed. “You think they have a set punishment?”

  Andy blinked.

  “Wait—that’s worse!”

  Ziesqe nodded. “It doesn’t happen often. At least it didn’t when I was here. You will find small arguments—more practice than anything else—on the side of the road. These are often young people, sharpening their teeth on each other for sparse audiences. That’s how all the great speakers got their start.”

  “But what about the groups? There are banners standing for the Braids and the Red Baggers.”

  “New groups, built on new ideologies, may spring up and find their tenets nailed to a board—or sewn into civic being—as the Braids see it. They call this form of popular governance the Archatian system. A complete amateur can speak, and win, and win again. People will want that wisdom ratified, so they can live it. An amateur would need a faction name, not to mention a small army of quick-witted followers to keep others at bay, particularly when out for dinner or visiting the Warrens, where the Archatians train and organize.”

  “So, the arguing never stops?”

  “Occasionally it does. If I see a concord, I’ll point it out.”

  They rolled further into town, passing another melee between border painters, and then another rambunctious stage.

  “Take the reins,” Ziesqe commanded, when they were halfway down a silent street.

  Andy did so, and Ziesqe fiddled with his eyes.

  A moment later, Ziesqe looked up and around. His glance rested here and there, and he seemed to be reading. “We’ll have to head towards the Warrens and the Panforum. You’ll need to drive. If anyone asks about me, just tell them I’m drunk. Under no circumstance can anyone in crimson robes look into my eyes. They will give me away, just as yours would.”

  “But why take the lenses out?” Andy asked.

  “There are signs my people have left. They will lead us to a friendly house. Now, let’s get moving.”

  Andy flicked the reins and they drove further into town. Ziesqe feigned drunkenness, muttering to himself and swaying from side to side, his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings and signs all the while.

  Andy learned to keep to the right of the road as they approached the center of town. The traffic grew denser the further they went, until they were finally caught in a jam at a crossroads. Two men, owners of a pair of entangled carts, argued in the middle of the street. Casks of beer off one cart had rolled into the street, blocking traffic, while fallen sacks of milled grain from the other lay split open, spraying puffs of white into the air as people and carts scrambled over them. Many were cheering as the two men argued, even though it wasn’t a proper debate on the stages.

  A pair of guards in gleaming plate armor broke up the argument and angrily unclogged traffic, stopping just shy of flogging the men to get their carts off to the side of the road. As the traffic cleared, Ziesqe tugged on Andy’s sleeve. “Pull over up there. I think we’ve found something.”

  Andy only saw a tall building. Five floors high, it loomed over its neighbors—a bakery and fine cobbler—in more than height; it was ornately decorated, with gilded foliate swirls adorning the facade. Guardstox stood watchful at the gate.

  “What is it?” Andy asked, moving the cart to the side of the road, despite a few complaining pedestrians.

  “It’s a counting house,” Ziesqe answered, carefully settling his robes. “A merchant, or possibly a group of them, own this establishment. There is a certain marking under the first-floor windows. To you, it would appear as two, four-spoked wheels, overlapping each other.”

  Andy stared, trying to spot the symbol, but saw nothing.

  “My ychorons didn’t do a very good job of dressing us.” Ziesqe paused. “If you haven’t already learned, in this city, they are all ychorites, not ychorons. Do not forget that, or you betray yourself.” Ziesqe read the confusion on Andy’s face. “The only difference is that ychorites are free, and ychorons serve. There are some speculations about physiological changes—but never mind that. You need to watch our cart while I make some trades.” Ziesqe shuddered. “Merchanting again. It’s been many decades, and I still despise it…but I can’t look like a fool.”

  Ziesqe reached into the cart, lifting out a pile of cured leather sheets. He sighed heavily before carrying his burden into the cobbler.

  Andy sat in the cart and watched the pace of the city. People rushed by with carts and baskets. Others rolled barrels that sloshed with their contents. His jaw dropped when he saw two extravagantly dressed women riding side-saddle on another pair of monitor lizards. Even the locals bent their necks t
o watch, but Andy realized that the monitors alone did not warrant the attention.

  Those women have teal skin.

  Andy watched as they rounded the corner.

  “I’ll talk to a maiden someday,” a young man said longingly.

  Andy spied a few circles of aggressive young bravos. They idled about, many polishing the luster on a single silver coin sewn onto their jacket or vest. These budding debaters eyed one another hungrily, though none dared to risk their coins.

  A group of brutox marching in circular formation appeared. Something was obscured in the center of their circle. Soon they approached the bakery and parted. Inside, Andy saw a lithe, lightly-plated brutox, of the beetle type, that looked like a female, particularly in the delicate and flowing silk robes. Her robes featured long bars of green and yellow, crisscrossed with white stars. He realized that she was a brutox queen.

  Insults and heckling filled the air. “Queens! We don’t stand by royalty here! If you think so little of yourselves, go back and serve the ryle!” “This behavior is a stain on our city! You insects are true to your name!”

  The queen’s guards only reacted when someone went towards the bakery door.

  “What? So, we aren’t equal? I can’t go into the shop while she’s in there?” An ychorite yelled at the guards, who simply held him back.

  The queen, finished with her business, emerged with a piece of paper, which she hid away in her robes. The group encircled her, and they moved down the street, occasionally colliding with a protester.

  As the crowds dispersed, Andy noticed movement above a building. He saw a floating rock tied to a roof across the street. It was familiar, and when he saw the propeller on one side, he realized what it was.

  It’s a cyclostone, part of a mouse city!

  He had the sudden urge to abandon the cart, climb up the building, and hunt for the mice.

  I wonder if the mice up there know me. Are they from Sentinel’s Watch? I should at least talk to them; they might know where I can find Titus and Taptalles.

  Ziesqe was nowhere in sight.

  Maybe I’ll walk over, just for a moment.

  With one leg out of the cart, Andy paused as he caught sight of a goblin picking the pocket of a human. The human had stared too long at a display of shoes in the cobbler’s window. Andy sat back down.

  Not willing to give up, he waved at an idle ychorite. “Pardon me.”

  “Pardon you indeed, bare-chested fellow. Dost thou seek to match words?”

  Andy raised a brow. “No, I don’t think I can afford it.”

  The ychorite and his friends, a pair of young humans, laughed unkindly. Their other companion, a mute mantis, stared, placid and still.

  “Of course! You can’t afford the inevitable loss of trying to cross words with the rising star, Mascutio!”

  Andy glowered, trying to get a word in, while the ychorite continued praising himself.

  “Hey—listen—damn it, shut up!” Andy blustered.

  The ychorite finally silenced, though he looked confused.

  “I just need to know about the cyclostone over there,” Andy said, pointing.

  “A bit crude. That isn’t how it’s done here. You listen politely, and then I listen politely, and then I take it easy on you—though after that little outburst, I might not,” Mascutio said, slightly flapped.

  Andy rolled his eyes.

  One of Mascutio’s human companions spoke up. “I think he’s talking about the mouse rock.”

  “Ah,” Mascutio replied. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  Andy regretted opening his mouth.

  “A few mouse rocks have started appearing over the city. I wonder how the officials levied their tariffs if they just flew over the walls,” Mascutio mused.

  The humans laughed. “A good trick, shame they can’t haul much cargo on those things. You could make a killing,” one said.

  “That’s not what I’m asking. What I want to know is where they come from,” Andy said, struggling to keep his voice calm.

  “What do I look like, a bloody-bagged stone diviner?” Mascutio said.

  “Look, would you please go to the building the cyclo—mouse rock, is tied to, and ask around for me? I’d do it myself, but I have to keep an eye on the cart.”

  “Ah ha! Here lies a foundation for a bit of a scrap, don’t you say, boys?” Mascutio was suddenly excited. “We argue. If you win, we discover this information for you. If I win—you must—buy us all a drink at the Nook.”

  “The what?”

  “The Nooked et Alcoven. It was the only mouse tavern I could think of. I’ve always wanted a sip of that blue beer they’re famous for,” Mascutio replied.

  “Fine,” Andy said, though he had no money.

  “All right!” Mascutio did a little hop and stretch, as if for a race.

  “Debate!” One of his companions called out.

  Dozens of idlers and busy pedestrians stopped and rushed over to watch. Andy gulped at the sudden attention.

  “Very good! Go on then; I’ll give you the advantage—only fair. State an opinion,” Mascutio projected his voice and put his hands on his hips.

  Andy drew a blank, and his face flushed.

  Finally inspired, Andy insisted, “You first.”

  Mascutio scoffed. “The dearest fair-weather friend is less than the most anonymous moral man.”

  Andy’s face twisted in puzzlement. “What? How can you know if an anonymous man has morals?”

  The audience laughed at him, but Andy didn’t know why.

  Mascutio turned toward the crowd, grinning foolishly, before rounding on Andy. “Twice the lesser of two halves is just shy of half whole.”

  “What?”

  The audience laughed again. Many were shaking their heads and grumbling about sportsmanship.

  “Take it easy on the boy, he’s not from ‘round here,” a voice called out.

  Mascutio raised a hand and called for silence, before his final argument. “Half a breech is just short.”

  Andy gawked at the absurd statement, and the audience clapped for Mascutio’s performance. It seemed conclusive; Andy had been thoroughly thrashed by the foppish ychorite, though he had no idea why.

  A few coppers flew to Mascutio. His companions gladly picked them up.

  “You need some practice,” he said to Andy, grabbing him by the wrist. “But at least you didn’t cry. We’ll have that drink at the Nook, oh—tomorrow, at evenbell.” He reached into the cart and inspected a loom component before taking it. “I don’t know what this is, but I expect you want it back, so be there.”

  Mascutio and his friends recounted the finer points of the triumph as they left. “You’ll have a second Sici any day now!” “That was glorious!” His friends fawned, though the mantis was still silent.

  And I’ve learned nothing about the mice…

  “Well done,” a stern voice said.

  Andy turned to see Ropt watching him, his arms folded carelessly across his chest.

  “You saw that?”

  “I did. At least you didn’t cry.”

  “I didn’t even get a chance to argue! What the hell was that?” Andy blustered. “Half a breech is just short?”

  Ziesqe laughed so hard, he started coughing. He settled himself and climbed into the cart before speaking, “It’s a quip. It’s customary for the younger generations to tarry with quips or follies before a proper argument. More experienced debaters don’t bother. If they say, ‘half a breech is just short,’ and you’re quick, you say, ‘I put on my just short, doubled twice, in the morning, like the rest of you,’ or, ‘just short is still all naked.’”

  Andy climbed up beside Ziesqe and shook his head. “I still don’t get it.”

  “A single short is one quarter a pair of breeches, or pants, as you call them. A doubled short is called a pair of shorts. Doubled again and you have a pair of breeches. It’s a foolish joke, but the point is fluidity, grace, and effortless reply. There was no proper debate
because you failed the preliminaries.”

  Andy leaned back in the cart and sighed.

  “While you were losing our stock, I learned a fair bit. The ryle here are cloistered, afraid of change, and will not work with me, at least not easily. We must create an opening. For the moment, they are our opposition.” Ziesqe pondered as the cart continued down the wide street. “I can make something of this.”

  They rode to a vast and circular open-air market. Ziesqe had called it the Panforum. Ziesqe asked a few questions of passersby, and eventually they halted outside the clothier corner. A few dozen shops all competed for attention on the lane. Ziesqe hopped out of the cart and approached a woman wearing a toga. She bore several dozen coins, Sici, arrayed in bracelets on her arms. Ziesqe spoke with her assistant and purchased a piece of paper. A few clerks at the shops spotted his transaction, and Andy watched as they spread the word. Almost immediately, several shopkeepers emerged, approached their cart, and examined their wares.

  Ziesqe ordered Andy to drive the cart to a small stage at the end of the lane. Once there, Andy carried the stock up to the stage, one piece at a time, and Ziesqe auctioned it off.

  “I’ll take care of auctioning for a ten-percentage, sir,” a lithe goblin, wearing a checked jacket and pants, interrupted.

  “And you’ll miss bids, accidentally selling my stock too cheap to friends of yours in the audience. Walk away, or I’ll have my boy drown you in the fountain,” Ziesqe said calmly, unrolling a bolt of fine silk.

  The goblin blanched and almost ran.

  Andy soon grew tired of carrying everything first to the stage, and then out to the buyers, though he quickly became familiar with the currency. Silver pieces were called ludma, and were distinct from the debating Sici, by being far smaller. The occasional gold piece was called a seculon. He even saw iron bars presented as currency, though Ziesqe scowled at them, and Andy didn’t learn their name.