“It’s me, you know,” Gavrilla said.
“What?”
“They won’t touch you because of me. No violence around the Queen’s Brides. Most of the time, anyway.”
Arturo looked back at the sneering Bravadori, and shuddered. He suddenly wanted Gavrilla to stick around as long as possible. So far, the Bravadori had not lived up to his expectations, and he did not fancy facing a group of them alone.
“So, um, don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asked, hesitantly. “I mean, I haven’t met many Brides before, and the ones I did meet were nothing like you, so I’m no expert-”
“Ha! Let me guess - wrinkled prunes old enough to be your grandmother, and the closest action their tits have ever seen has been their habits brushing up against them when they slip into their bedclothes at night?”
Arturo reddened, and made a noise in the affirmative.
Gavrilla smiled, turkey falling out of her open mouth. “Oh, we have plenty of them, but plenty of us too. The young ones. Suppose there might be more of us in the city, what with all the dangers of city life driving us towards the church.”
“So, you’re a real Bride then?” Arturo asked, slightly surprised. “I mean, you’re dressed like one, but the way you talk and act, I thought maybe you were pretending. I guess I’d expected a Bride to be a bit more…” He struggled to end the sentence without causing offence.
“Timid? Righteous? Pure? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not that different from everyone else. Opened my legs to get out of hard times, just like the other Muelle girls, but that’s a resource that falls in value pretty quick. The Brides, the Queen, they’ve given me something nobody else has been able to give me.”
Arturo, face crimson, looked everywhere except at Gavrilla as she continued her story. Around them, the tight barrio streets opened up onto the Queen’s Plaza, which was currently emptying of traders as well.
“What’s that?” he asked her. “What did they give you?”
“A promise. Said they’d look after me if I kept my soul and body pure. So, I’ve stuck to that, since I took my vows, and they seem to have kept their end of the bargain as well. I’ve had food on the table every day since then, I’m never alone, and these robes-” she indicated her grey habit, “-nobody who fears the Queen would dare bother me, or face her wrath.”
They perched against an abandoned stall frame to finish their food. As Gavrilla continued, Arturo glanced up at the cathedral that stood at the head of the plaza, the setting sun illuminating its spires at the same time as they cast deep shadows out towards them, across the flat sandstone of the plaza floor.
“So, I’ll keep my promise as long as the Queen keeps hers. She looks after me, and I’m hers.”
“You’ve met her?” Arturo asked, eyes moving back to his companion.
“Drink your own piss, no,” Gavrilla spat out the last bite of food in a laugh. “Nobody I’ve met ever has. Honestly, I don’t think she exists anymore, but that don’t matter. What matters is her promise and the threat of her punishment keeps wandering hands and eyes away from me. I can honour that, without having to meet the woman herself.”
Arturo, trying not to imagine the look on his mother’s face at the thought of a Bride who didn’t believe in the Queen, looked out across the emptying plaza. Like the trading barrio, the plaza stalls were empty now, but these stalls were not being refilled with night vendors. Instead, the Bravadori were coming out to play. Small packs of men and women were ambling out of different side streets, each group picking empty stretches of plaza floor and beginning swordplay contests. Some of them glanced in his direction, stiffening at the sight of him, probably considering a challenge. The bile rose in Arturo’s throat at the thought of having to prove himself, but thankfully the Bravadori glanced at Gavrilla, happily munching away beside him, and then went back to their own business.
Arturo noticed the white bands tied around the arms of the nearest Bravadori pack.
“Who’re they?” he asked Gavrilla, not recognising the stable.
She looked at him in surprise. “You don’t know the Prickly Storks? They’re one of the largest stables in the city.”
“I only arrived today, remember?” he said, continuing to marvel at the sight of distant sword fighting Knacks sparring with each other. “I’ve heard of the Mice and Paws before - most people out in the Wilds have - but the rest never really get a mention. The Storks, then. Anyone else I need to know?”
Gavrilla scanned the plaza. “Okay, the Mice are grey, Paws are yellow, and the Prickly Storks are white. You know all that already. The Storks are important because they control the harbour, Barrio Muelle, where I’m from. The group that passed us in the street earlier, the green bands, they’re Loyal Crickets. They control the trading district.”
Arturo squinted, noticing smaller groups of fighters - mostly pairs - with different coloured bands from the ones Gavrilla had just mentioned.
“Those four are the largest. There are smaller stables affiliated with them, or otherwise smart enough or insignificant enough to avoid the attention of the other stables. The only other stable with any kind of control of land is the Honey Badger Family. They own Wild Town, which technically is also Paws territory. But, you know…” Gavrilla shrugged, looking at Arturo.
He narrowed his eyes, uncertain at what Gavrilla was getting at.
She became uncharacteristically awkward, as if she was not sure what to say next. “You’ve got a bit of Wild in you, don’t you?” she asked, looking at Arturo’s honey skin and black hair.
He lowered his eyes. “Yeah, my mother’s mother. My grandfather was one of the first Muridae to come from the Grasslands, from across the sea. He took a Wildwoman for his wife.” It was not an unusual thing to happen, especially nowadays when so many of the Wildfolk had acclimatised to Muridae life after two generations of occupation. However, even in his family’s remote estate, Arturo had experienced some discrimination because of his roots. Gavrilla, with her pale skin and auburn hair, clearly came from purer Muridae stock.
The Bride spotted Arturo’s embarrassment, and laughed. “Alfrond’s hairy cock, nobody here cares about that, now. How much you have in your pocket is much more important than who fucked who one hundred years ago. Nobody cares, except for people who live in Wild Town, and people like the Honey Badgers - they do their best to stay native. You’ll know them when you see them, trust me.”
Arturo scanned the plaza, looking for any Honey Badgers among the assembled Bravadori.
“No, they won’t be here,” Gavrilla said. “They stick to Wild Town. And the Paws let them have it, because… Well, fuck, nobody in their right mind is interested in that shit hole.”
“So, don’t join the Honey Badger Family then,” Arturo joked.
“You wouldn’t have a chance, anyway. Wouldn’t be able to stand your half-cast blood. But, there are smaller stables that’d probably take you in, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Arturo gripped the hilt of his rapier, currently sheathed at his belt. “It’s what I’ve wanted since I was a child.”
In his mind, Arturo was looking at the small group of brave men his father had hired during the hot Spring of his youth, when the chupacabra had been roaming close to their estate. Seeing them in action, seeing the respect those Bravadori had gotten from the ranchers that worked for his father - Arturo had known then that he would not rest until he had joined their ranks. His older brother had laughed when he had told him, then went back to learning how to run the estate. His father had hardly blinked when he found out, not seeming to care one way or another.
It had not been until a few years later, when Arturo gained his Knack for swordplay, that his father had started to take him seriously. To his father’s eyes, to the eyes of all the unKnacked who watched him, Arturo could move lightning fast, besting all the ranch hands that challenged him in single combat. He was not faster than them, not really, but because of how his Knack worked - allowing him to read and predict his
opponents’ movements - Arturo’s blade was always able to be in the right place at the right time.
“Well, there’s a few stables you could walk into. The purple ones over there are the Purple Maggots. Not their chosen name, but that’s all anyone calls them now, and they’ll answer to it well enough. If you spot any blues, they’re the Broken Mirrors. Used to hold land close to the north gate, but the Crickets forced them out a few years ago. They’re smaller than they used to be, but they’re still around. The Masked Rabbits also have a good reputation. Just stay away from the Phantom Squirrels. That’s them over there.”
Gavrilla indicated a small group of men and women that were climbing one of the spires of the cathedrals. Other groups of Bravadori were beginning to shout at them, and more than one sword on the ground was drawn in anger.
“Why not join the Squirrels?” Arturo asked.
Gavrilla indicated the small mob forming, now attracting one or two city constables, with their shrill whistles. The three climbers jeered at the people below, even though they had nowhere else to go.
“Because they’re pants-wetting idiots, that’s why. Always pulling stunts like this. Watch long enough, and I guarantee some bones or heads are going to be broken before the end.”
Sure enough, from one of the windows high in the cathedral’s tower, someone poured a bucket of water down onto the climbers. It hit one of the Squirrels directly in the face - her scream told Arturo the water had probably been boiling hot - and she fell into the mob below. The Bravadori on the ground erupted into a cheer, and crowded around the fallen Squirrel.
The two remaining climbers continued to move upwards.
Arturo stood up, his hand clutching the hilt of his blade, eyes fixed on the mob forming around the fallen Squirrel.
Gavrilla jumped up beside him in alarm. “What’re you doing?”
He nodded towards the angry mob. “She’s hurt. We’ve got to make sure she’s being looked after.”
Gavrilla looked at him as if he was mad. “No, you don’t. No, you don’t! She’s a Squirrel. She’s an idiot that tried to climb the Queen’s Cathedral. If she didn’t die when she hit the ground, I can’t imagine she’s breathing now.”
Arturo looked back at the angry Bravadori, then, frustrated, turned to Gavrilla. “But… we’re Bravadori. We’re the cold steel that shines in the darkness, the protectors of the Muridae from the Wild, the Queen’s Blades. We help people.”
The look Gavrilla gave Arturo reminded him of his mother, when he said something that clearly did not reflect her view of the world. He felt as if he was a child again, and was being treated as if he had said something incredibly stupid.
“You know,” Gavrilla said, “it has been a very long time since I’ve met anyone like you.”
Arturo was confused. “But, that’s our code, the Bravadori code. We protect the innocent. There must be hundreds like me, if you spend any time with us.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to reconsider, her face uncharacteristically serious, almost sad.
Whistling from the constables broke out in the mob, and the yellow-jacketed lawmen paraded out of the plaza, carrying the broken body of the Squirrel. To Arturo’s surprise, he could no longer see the two that had been climbing the cathedral.
“Just, just don’t join the Squirrels, okay?” Gavrilla said. “The other Bravador stables have tried to wipe them out a few times, but they keep coming back, somehow.” She finished off her turkey, and then thought for a moment. “What about one of the small ones, like the Rabbits? They could do with some new blood to gather strength again. Might knock some sense into you, too.”
Arturo nodded as she spoke, but his eyes kept dancing between two bands of fighters at opposite ends of the plaza, the Lion’s Paws and the Whispering Mice. These were the stables that were Arturo’s most certain route to becoming a hero, the quickest road to fame.
“Do… do the Mice normally accept new Bravadori?”
Gavrilla regarded him coolly. “Are you stupid? They’re at the top of the heap, you’ve got to earn the right to approach them. Work your way up, take a few years. With any luck, you’ll realise this is a colossal waste of your time and head back home to mummy and daddy.”
Arturo’s face reddened yet again, and he rose in anger.
Gavrilla was right, of course. He should start small. He had planned to start small. But now, after such an intimate encounter with the Mice and the Paws, almost upon entering the city walls…
What would Roaming Iguana do? What would El Elephante do?
“The Mice run the palace district, am I right?” he asked the Bride, still not looking at her. He was too embarrassed from her earlier comment to lock eyes again.
“You know they do. Why? What’re you planning?”
Arturo looked at Gavrilla one last time, flicking her the grin that had made the ranchers’ daughters swoon. “Just going to pay my respects, nothing more. I’ll find you once I’m done.”
With that, Arturo made his way from the plaza into Barrio Palacio, towards his destiny.
She entered the building, and Yizel’s mood darkened as the light dimmed. She knew exactly where she was, remembered every floorboard of the Whispering Mice’s nest, the stable headquarters, the building that had once been her home.
This was the last place in the Wilds or anywhere else in the world she wanted to be. Still, she had been summoned, and a missive from Sinister Crow was something you did not ignore lightly.
I know exactly what it’ll be, Yizel thought. It’ll be about the Paw that died earlier. Creeping Scorpion already refused to pay me because of it, but they want to take things even further.
Didn’t think it’d be Sinister Crow that wanted to deal with me, though. I wonder… I wonder if she even knows it’s me. Did they just tell her some Shaven killed a Paw while under hire, or did they tell her my name?
Might be a big shock to her if she isn’t expecting me. Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
The looks that Yizel received upon entering the inner den of the Whispering Mice ran a wide gamut, but none of them were pleasant. Some spotted the bald head of a Shaven and laughed, turning away from her. Some got close enough to smell her, or to get a look at her face, which in the dim light may well have promised to be attractive. However, a closer look would have shown them her dead eyes, and the face of a woman weathered well beyond her thirty years due to neglect and lack of grooming. Many, however, recognised her for who she used to be. Not straight away, of course, because the life of a Bravador was very far behind Yizel now. But their eyes narrowed upon sighting her, and she could tell their minds were hard at work. All they had to do was replace the dead expression on her face with a wide smile, light a fire in her eyes and picture a raven mane tumbling to her shoulders, and they would have recalled the image of their old fighting companion. As far as Yizel remembered, the faded leathers she currently wore had also been her garb as a Bravador, so stitching them up and making them new could also help to complete the picture. Those who recognised her looked at her in shock, as well they should have. Yizel had no right stepping foot in the Mice’s nest.
Except, she had been summoned.
Creeping Scorpion was waiting outside Sinister Crow’s quarters. He had a worried expression behind his mask, and spat at the sight of Yizel.
“Look at the fucking mess you got me into. Would gut you right now, if I didn’t need to shove you into the pile of shit you’ve heaped onto me.”
Yizel ignored him, as she was used to doing when insults were hurled in her direction.
It made sense that Creeping Scorpion was going to be punished for the Paw’s death, as well as Yizel. Shaven were expected to be fuck ups, Bravadori were not. Creeping Scorpion’s mistake was hiring the fuck up in the first place.
Yizel and Creeping Scorpion were ushered through Sinister Crow’s door. Yizel felt her chest tighten at the thought of seeing the woman who used to be her closest friend. The woman who had ruined her life.
The room was dark, and heavily scented with burning candles, which gave the air a solid, lazy feel. Sinister Crow was there, sitting at her bureau, hunched over a multitude of paperwork. The leader of the Mice wore her mask, as all Bravadori were expected to do except in the most intimate of circumstances. Sinister Crow’s mask was a variation on the popular head-covering bandana, but hers was tapered below her nose, to give the impression of a crow’s beak. What stood out the most, however, were the long, dark feathers that strewed out behind it, giving the effect of long hair descending to almost halfway down her back. These were not crow feathers, but dyed peacock feathers. Knowing this did not make the woman’s presence any less intimating.
A whimper to Yizel’s left drew her attention to the four-poster bed at the other side of the room. In it sat a young man, at least half of Sinister Crow’s forty-odd years. He was entirely naked, blind-folded, and was sitting upright, his open legs exposing his flaccid cock. The boy was clearly aware of the company, and was not happy with it.
Sinister Crow ignored him.
Without looking at Yizel and Creeping Scorpion, Sinister Crow addressed them. “You killed a Paw.”
“She did it, the dull-bladed Shaven. Should’ve known better, hiring scum like that.”
“Yes, you should have.” At Creeping Scorpion’s mention of Yizel, Sinister Crow had risen her head, given Yizel a brief glance, and moved all her attention onto the increasingly-panicked Bravador. “You brought shame onto the stable, Creeping Scorpion.”
“How was I to know she’d gut him like that? Most Shaven had sword Knacks at one point. Thought we might need all the help we could get. And I was right, wasn’t I? Even with an extra fighter, even with a dead Paw, we still got our arses handed to us.”
Yizel’s eyes narrowed. If Sinister Crow was anything like the woman Yizel once knew, Scorpion had just made a very big mistake.
The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset Page 50
