by O. J. Lowe
Down below him, dozens of people thronged about like ants, all intent on enjoying the resort area of Carcaradis Island, street performers, vendors, dancers and hawkers all out in force. Here on the twentieth floor of the Oceanside, he felt like he’d made it.
“Not bad,” he found himself saying aloud. “Not bad at all. I could get used to this. I really could.” He put his can down, pulled his bag over and dug out some fresh clothes. Thanks to compression technology, carrying a week’s worth of spare clothes in an average sized travel bag was no problem. Some callers travelled with less but he’d always felt he had a certain image to maintain.
It even kept them somewhat neat and devoid of creases by packing them as normal in a special bag and then removing the air from that bag to compress it down to a quarter of the normal size. Nick never liked to spend ages working out what to wear; he chose the dark blue suit he hoped would be cool in the cloying heat and a purple shirt, laying them out on the bed before stripping his travel gear off. Time to go figure out how to work the shower.
It hadn’t been that hard, as much as he had a terrible record with domestic technology that was unfamiliar to him. And upon coming out of there, he felt somewhat human again. Refreshed and relaxed, he tied a towel around his waist and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. Looking at the old burns and scars on his body always killed his mood. There was one across his side that especially put him off, a great four-inch slash that had long since healed but the feeling about it had never faded. The one on his cheek he’d grown more accustomed to. Not that he liked the idea of being marked but he’d just grown used to looking in the mirror every day and seeing it. Perils of a dangerous world that would hit you back if you took a swing at it. He considered it a reminder to be more careful in future.
It didn’t take long for him to shave and dress after that, the trill of a message incoming on his summoner accompanying the conclusion of his actions. He picked it up, glanced at it.
We’re at Willies. Don’t keep me waiting x
He smirked. Typical, come halfway around the word and you find yourself in a Willie’s. Of course, there would be a Willie’s here. Not that the food was bad, far from it, but you could get it anywhere. Might as well call it Kingdom Constant Universal and have done with it. Still, he was hungry; he hadn’t eaten on the Wave Crest. And that might go down nicely. His brow furrowed as he read the other part of the message.
We.
We’re at Willies? Who was we? That was the question he found himself pondering as he hung his summoner around his neck, pocketed a few credit chips from his earlier winnings and locked the door behind him. Enough to get him by for the evening, the rest locked away in the room’s lockbox.
That little mystery aside, so far everything looked so good. He had no complaints about the room, the view was good and the bed looked inviting. And the tournament was starting soon. What wasn’t to feel good about?
Willie’s Restaurant had been founded twenty years ago by a man from Canterage called Willie O’Rourke, a chef who’d famously been an argumentative type. He’d been simultaneously blessed with both culinary talent and a short fuse; his food had been exceptional but his capacity to take exception to those who didn’t approve was legendary. After being fired from his previous five employers for offering customers out who hadn’t finished their main courses, he’d decided to open his own place along with a business partner who’d later become his wife. It had been a tricky time but they’d eventually made a success out of the enterprise.
Not least as they’d hit on the idea of cashing in on Willie’s notoriety with a sign in the window saying “Don’t like the grub? Willie’ll fight you if you don’t.” It had become a hit and the scuffles had become less and less frequent as time went by. And over the years more and more of them had opened across the five kingdoms, the franchise had well and truly gone into overdrive. All of them supposedly boasted chefs trained by Willie in quality food preparation and the lethal arts of brutally beating an unsuspecting customer. Whether it was true or not, it did make for a good story.
Whatever it was, it had been a successful gimmick. Even now as Nick walked into the restaurant, the very same sign existed in the window. For a moment, he pondered the logistics. If he didn’t like it, would Willie O’Rourke, probably reaching this cusp of his maturity right now, really fly out here to fight him? It had been a while since he’d punched a proper celebrity.
It did give him a smile as he nodded at the head waiter, adjusted the flowers in the cusp of his arm he’d bought off a guy outside who’d been selling Vazaran dusk roses. They looked in full bloom, dark reds and blues billowing out of the wrapping as he glanced around the place, looking for her.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m meeting someone here. Arventino table?”
The waiter, a middle aged Vazaran with a spreading belly inside his pristine tuxedo took one look at him and broke into a big smile. “Ah yes,” he said, glancing at the bunch of roses in his hand. “I’ll show you right over, sir. She said she was expecting you. Girlfriend?”
“Fiancé,” Nick said.
“Deepest congratulations, sir. Have you set about a date yet?”
“Not yet. It’s still a recent thing.” He always felt uncomfortable discussing his private life with strangers. Primarily because it wasn’t any of their business. Secondarily because you never knew who was listening in on it. There were always those who might do you harm. Granted, this big smiling fellow looked harmless enough. But you never could tell. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Spending so much time on the road alone, you got used to no questions being asked. It made keeping company again a little, if not difficult, then at least troublesome. Paranoia: he’d always thought a little of it was healthy. “Oh, I see her.”
Pete tugged at his collar uneasily. “I still don’t see why I had to wear a tie. I mean, I didn’t even know I had one in my pack.” They’d gotten a booth towards the back of the room, he had his back to the wall and he hadn’t seen any sign of someone who looked brave enough to be putting up with his sister for a long time yet.
Sharon glared at him. He still didn’t know where she’d had the time to put her hair up like that. By the time he’d checked into his room, it’d been all he’d been able to do to get showered and dressed. She looked like she’d spent all day prepping for this rather than barely an hour. “Hey, this is a special occasion and you are going to create a good impression! It’s only a tie; it’s not going to bite you.”
“I feel like you should have Burykian subtitles. It’s a great language for yelling at people in,” he said sarcastically.
To his immediate surprise, Sharon said something he didn’t understand. “Huh?”
“Burykian,” she said. “What, you didn’t know I speak it? Heh, did one of those subliminal courses. It uploads it directly into your brain while you sleep. What I said was, I know you don’t want to wear a tie. But I know you also don’t want to upset your sister and I know you don’t want me to make your life a living agony.” She placed a manicured hand on his. “Please. Just do this one thing for me.”
“You really had one of those subliminal course things?” Pete asked. “I heard they were dangerous. You ever hear that story about that guy who had one; he got the wrong one…”
“Everyone’s heard that one,” a new voice said. Pete looked up; saw a dark-haired man staring down at the two of them, a grin on his face. He had exceptionally bright green humorous eyes, a scar on one cheek and a voice that suggested he didn’t take life too seriously. He looked a lot more comfortable being here than Pete did. “Sorry to interrupt, I’m looking for my beautiful fiancé, any chance either of you have seen her.”
Sharon stood up, smiling. Pete rolled his eyes. Oh divines… He tried to avoid looking as the two of them embraced, their lips meeting.
“Think I might have some ideas about where you might find her,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
“Same,” he said.
Of course, Pete recog
nised him. He’d fought against him once, a few years ago now but he still remembered it. Whether the feeling would be mutual, he didn’t know. He personally found it easier to remember his defeats rather than the fights he’d won.
“And who’s this then?” Roper’s eyes fell on Pete.
Guess that answers that question then, Pete thought dryly. Looks like he doesn’t remember me. What a surprise.
“This is my little brother, Peter,” Sharon said. “He’s competing as well.”
“Nice to meet you, Peter,” Roper said, offering him a hand. Pete stood up and shook it reluctantly. He already had a feeling as to how the rest of the night was going to turn out and he was already looking towards the slow decline to boredom. “Nick Roper… Hey, did you… Have we met before?”
Huh?
“Ulurama,” Pete said. He hated saying that word, it felt funny in his mouth. “We fought there in a tournament there a few years ago, I think. You beat me.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Sharon said, showing him her dazzling smile. He ignored it. He’d seen that expression more times than he cared to remember. Nick looked apologetic enough at that.
“Sorry,” he said. “But all’s fair. You can’t hold grudges against people who beat you. The kingdoms’d be a much worse place if that was the case. Didn’t you use a deer or something? Had that smell to it.”
“Basil?”
“Yeah that’s the one. Best smelling spirit I’ve ever faced; I’ll tell you that.”
Maybe he wasn’t that bad. He’d have to wait and see.
“I’m surprised you remember me,” Pete said. “Not as surprised as I am to see you’re marrying my sister but hey, it’s one of those nights, right?”
A waiter came around; Nick smiled at him and took an offered menu, handing it to Sharon, before giving one to Pete and finally taking one for himself. “Not yet. It might be one of those nights by the time we’re done. Drinks, anyone? My treat. I won twenty thousand credits at Ruin earlier on the way over here.”
“Never could play that,” Pete said.
“Maybe Nick could teach you,” Sharon offered, glancing between the two of them. “You know if you want.”
“Maybe.” Pete’s expression didn’t change. “I’d sooner he taught me some sweet battle moves for my spirits.”
Nick apparently found that funny judging by the burst of laughter that broke from him. Sharon looked less amused but soon joined in.
“Maybe I will,” Nick said. “After the tournament. Not during. Don’t want to give you an unfair advantage should we face, do I? Or against your sister.”
“Well I’d be fine with it,” Pete laughed. “But whatever you say. Besides we might not even end up facing each other.”
“You never know,” Nick said. “Anyway, enough talk. You like Vazaran honey beer, Pete?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s good stuff.”
The waiter had reappeared. “Three honey beers,” Nick said. “We’ll order when they come, thanks.”
With a bow, the waiter retreated and vanished. “Now,” Sharon said, perusing the menu thoughtfully. “What to order?”
Chapter Eleven. Locked Up.
“Of course, there needs to be a jail on Carcaradis Island. This is going to be a prosperous place. And where there’s prosperity, there’ll always be what people see as an opportunity. Where they think there’s opportunity, they need to see a deterrent as well. A deterrent in the form of the harshest possible punishment.”
Edict from Reims official to architect designing Carcaradis Resort
The fifteenth day of Summerdawn.
Maxwell Brudel took in his surroundings, the holding cells in the station erected on Carcaradis Island and found himself unimpressed. It was not the best place he’d ever found himself after being arrested. What a mess. He shook his head morosely and let his body rest back against the wall. They hadn’t even given him a bed here. If he wanted to sleep, he was curling up on the floor like an animal. He was hungry but he didn’t want to beg for food. This place was a part of Vazara as much as it didn’t feel like it, a kingdom with a reputation for its cruel policing system (He should know, he used to work for one of their branches before deciding his future lay on the other side of the law) and he knew even that might not get him anything to alleviate the stab in his stomach. Sadism was rife and they didn’t like thieves.
He could tell that from the way they’d dragged him through the streets of the resort to get him here, people had been looking, some laughing, some mocking. Worse, some were even ignoring him. How was he going to get out of this one? Things looked bad. They’d taken everything from him, even the clothes on his back and thrown him in here. He had nothing. Even his dignity was a fast fading thing of the past. He wondered how long before he threw it away completely and begged. Sooner or later it’d happen. Yet he knew they were never as bad as they seemed.
Sure, it might appear as if he were in trouble but something would show up sooner or later. A chance would appear and he’d need to take it. If he missed it, he’d probably rot in some cell for the best part of the next ten years. That didn’t appeal. At best, he’d miss out on ten years of his dwindling youth, at worst he’d come out a cripple. He didn’t consider coming out dead the worst situation. Although that was a possibility, he’d long since decided that once you were dead you were out of it and there was no point bemoaning the fact. And he’d long since worked out that there were worse things than death.
He’d wanted something to take his mind off the boredom. Outside he could hear sounds from the outside of the island swirling around to taunt him and part of him knew that the guards had left the window in the corridor outside his cell open to torment him. So much going on so close and yet so far away from him. If he could get to it, he’d be out. He’d be running around naked on the island but he’d be out and that’d be an improvement on his current situation. That was the problem though, wasn’t it? Getting out.
He could have picked the lock to the cell if he’d had something to do it with. Nothing. First thing he’d done upon being left alone had been to give it a kick, just in case. The lock had left a dull thump of pain in the flat of his foot and even though he’d suspected already he wouldn’t be that lucky, it still left a hollow twist in his guts. An unsatisfying pain. When you suffer pain for the sake of pain, there’s nothing more disconcerting. Max rubbed at it without relief, they’d taken his shoes long since.
He was alone in the cell, the sole known criminal on Carcaradis Island and although he didn’t want to be here, he wasn’t going to let them think that they’d gotten to him. Not yet anyway. Back when he’d tried making it in law enforcement, they’d used to gamble how long before those in the cells broke, gambling the meagre credits they were paid on the misery of those they’d captured.
One, two, three…
Sometimes counting out to himself helped make things clearer. Keep his mind free of distractions, he could work out a solution. He had his ways, they’d worked for him a long time. Sure, in his profession you got caught sometimes. The best laid plans always were a victim of a cruel twist of fate. That the guy he’d tried to pickpocket had been someone like that… Unisco. What were the chances? He couldn’t have seen that coming. He’d just been unlucky. Really unlucky. Any other time, he might not have been caught. That kid might not have yelled out. He would have been enjoying his ill-gotten gains right now.
Of course, he couldn’t prove that.
… Four, five, six, seven…
He should have been more careful with picking his mark. That wasn’t a best laid plan that had failed. It was a moment of outstandingly bad judgement. Really bad judgement. Now he thought back, he could see things he hadn’t before. Stuff he’d seen at the time that he’d either ignored or not registered. He’d been blinded by all those easy credits. Now he had nothing.
… Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve…
Not entirely true. He was still alive. Always a chance here and there if you keep drawing breat
h. Keep on remembering that. He leaned back on the cold stone and folded his arms behind his head. His back itched. Max didn’t want to think about what sort of microscopic wildlife might be crawling about this place.
Rookie mistake. Really bad mistake to make.
… Thirteen, fourteen…
The door opened.
He quickly ascertained from the guards who’d walked in to check he hadn’t killed himself, that a magistrate had arrived to speak with him. They’d looked disappointed at that, probably because he hadn’t yet broken and begged. Or maybe that he hadn’t killed himself yet. Either way would probably have suited him. The magistrate news though, that could be good for him. It might not be. Either way it was quick. By his estimate, six hours. Was there really one residing out on this backwater island? More for that matter, was there a good one? Or maybe it was coincidence.
“Maxwell Brudel. The invisible man?”
He jumped at that voice as he heard it. Wow, was that a guy? No woman was built like that. Well, almost none. You got some like that. Weird. He was a big guy, long-ish hair… Was that actually purple? He’d never seen anyone with purple hair before. And that voice. It was feminine. Really high and creepy. Almost a whistle echoing through the cell. It rose the hair up on the back of his neck, made his skin crawl. He almost sat up and backed into a corner, such was the revulsion that flowed through him.
“You my representative now?” he asked. “You don’t look like a magistrate.”
Those teeth were little and sharp and pointed. He gave Max a grin and leaned against the bars of the cell. The way he was staring at him really didn’t settle him stomach. His hands were huge, his fingers fat and fleshy. He did have a briefcase, Max noted briefly. That alone would probably be enough to convince some of the guards he was a magistrate. Working here in an out of the way prison wasn’t somewhere that demanded great intelligence as a condition of employment. Lucky for him.
