The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  Sinister Crow got out of her chair and wandered over to the man in her bed.

  Distantly, Yizel appreciated the prize the stable master had claimed. The boy is pretty. Bravadori should have pretty things.

  Sinister Crow gave the boy’s cock a slap with the back of her hand, causing the youth to give a cry of surprise and pain. Ignoring her captive further, she turned back to Creeping Scorpion, who by now had grown silent, eyes wide.

  “You brought shame to us, Creeping Scorpion, more so than our loss in the park. When a warrior like the Raccoon enters the fray, we will lose. But we could have kept our honour.” Sinister Crow’s eyes darted briefly to Yizel, but then returned to the Bravador. “Perhaps you should lose your honour to make it up to the Whispering Mice?”

  With a cry of despair, Creeping Scorpion fell to his knees, clutching at his face, as if the motion would make a difference if Sinister Crow truly wanted him unmasked.

  Pathetic. Pathetic idiot, Yizel thought, watching him grovel on the floor. She can’t take your mask just because you’re a fuck up. Only those who commit the worst crimes against other Bravadori become Shaven. She looked at Sinister Crow again, and then froze - the leader of the Whispering Mice was staring right at her, eyes unmoving.

  She knows. Of course she does. She remembers me. How could she not.

  The puckered scar of the decade-old wound at Yizel’s gut had no reason to ache, but it did.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Sinister Crow said. Yizel knew the leader was not talking to her.

  “Yes, yes. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’ll not happen again,” Creeping Scorpion grovelled as he was ushered out of the room. Sinister Crow’s eyes remained on Yizel the entire time.

  Dielena.

  Yizel said nothing, kept her face still.

  After a few moments of silence, Sinister Crow walked over to the bed and started to undress. She let one hand run up the captive’s leg, and Yizel was surprised to see the young man smile at her touch. He moaned softly. He had been waiting for her the whole time. This bondage was part of his pleasure.

  “You can go too,” Sinister Crow said, without turning around, her trousers falling to the ground. “I don’t want to see you here again, or hear of you ever working for the Mice.”

  Yizel should have just left.

  “I was promised coin. I fought for the Mice. Was told I’d get paid.”

  Sinister Crow, naked from the waist down, paused. She walked over to her bureau, took out a small purse, counted out some coin and threw it on the ground in front of Yizel.

  Hungrily, Yizel hunched down and picked the precious metal up. By the time she had finished, Sinister Crow was back over at her bed, naked now except for the black mask and its feathers running down her back. She had her back turned to Yizel, waiting for her to leave.

  Yizel said nothing, and walked silently out of the room.

  As she made her way back out of the headquarters, through the hallways and common room that lay between her and the exit, the eyes of the rest of the Mice burned on her. They would have been talking about her, the ones who had recognised her earlier. By now they all knew who she was.

  Shaven. Honourless. Murderer.

  When the exit came into sight, Yizel almost ran to it. She stepped out into the air of the city, gasping.

  Shaking, she leaned against a pillar that held up the facade of the Mice’s nest, ran a hand over her stubbly scalp, and caught her breath.

  Need to shave it again, she thought, as her fingers encountered stubble where a few days ago her head had been smooth. Get rid of it before someone else decides to. It had been a while since Yizel had been shaved by force, pinned by unfriendly hands, and had her scalp scraped clean by malicious blades. She had learnt that lesson well the first time it had happened - a Shaven would be bald by choice, or through the actions of others.

  A commotion close to the entrance caught Yizel’s attention. She withdrew into the shade cast by the pillar and the roof overhead, keeping her eyes on the action, her left hand subconsciously moving to check her sword was still at her belt.

  In the street in front of her, five Whispering Mice were spreading out, encircling a lone Bravador in the middle of the thoroughfare.

  Yizel noticed two things about this Bravador straight away. First, he had no stable, no coloured band on his arm. Second, she recognised the young man as the face she had spotted in the bushes earlier today, in the park. This was the Bravador who had been spying on them.

  One of the Mice shouted at the newcomer. Yizel recognised the loud man as Preening Owl, the Mouse who the Paws had ridiculed in the park.

  “I don’t care how you feel, you little pissant.”

  The newcomer’s eyes were moving nervously. He clearly felt out of place here.

  “No, no, you don’t understand. I just wanted to say, I didn’t think it was right. I heard what they did, and it’s not right.”

  Preening Owl looked to his companions, eyes white with rage.

  “I mean, we’re men of honour, aren’t we? That’s no way for any Bravador to act, to make fun of each other.” The young man was doing his best not to stammer as he spoke.

  Idiot. You need to get away from Preening Owl. After what happened to him today, that man is looking for someone to pick a fight with. You just painted a target on your back.

  “Made fun of? Who’s been made fun of?” Preening Owl gesticulated wildly, his face turning red. Even his companions seemed to be nervous, watching him like Yizel would watch a wild animal approaching a campfire, not sure if shooing it away would make it run, or just jump for her throat.

  “No, no,” the newcomer said, backing away, not aware of the group of Mice who had slowly circled him as he had been speaking. “I- I’ve made a mistake. Just wanted to pay my respects. Show that not all Bravadori behave like they do. Some of us still have our honour.”

  “Some of us?” Preening Owl looked to his companions again. “Hear that, lads? Some of us. This pup thinks he’s one of us.” Then Preening Owl began to laugh, and the other Mice joined in.

  At this moment, the newcomer realised he had been cut off, and stopped moving backwards.

  “No, I’m not a Mouse. Obviously. Of course I didn’t mean that.”

  This boy is too well spoken. Mouse’s arse, he’s not a real Bravador, is he? Someone new to the city, come to test his blade. Tried to climb to the top of the heap before testing himself on the dregs at the bottom.

  “Oh, I know you’re no Mouse. Don’t even need a band to see that. But, I’m not sure you’re much of a Bravador either.”

  Preening Owl’s words clearly struck a chord with the young man. A shiver ran up him, and his hand went to his blade. Fortunately, the boy was not completely stupid - he didn’t draw his rapier.

  “Not a Bravador? I have the Knack. I walk the streets with a blade. I’m ready to defend Espadapan against attack. I wear a mask.”

  “Ah yes, what a lovely mask,” Preening Owl laughed.

  Yizel had to agree with the Mouse’s ridicule. There was nothing special about the boy’s simple black domino, although she did notice some specks of red on it, like teardrops. Simple. A bit too simple, to impress men like these.

  “I suppose there’s a story to go along with those tears?” Preening Owl asked.

  “Each teardrop is a man I’ve killed,” the boy said, proudly, his chest puffed up in defiance against Preening Owl’s japes.

  Preening Owl gave a theatrical gasp of amazement, smiling, looking to the others. “Big man, to have killed two other swordfighters. A whole two.”

  Yizel noticed the boy stiffen at the phrase ‘swordfighters,’ but he said nothing.

  “And I suppose,” Preening Owl said, “You have a name to go along with that mask?”

  “Hungry Wolf,” the newcomer said, looking at the eyes of the nearby Bravadori, clearly seeking their reactions.

  Bet this is the first time he’s used that name since coming up with it. Alfrond’s balls, this boy is
wet.

  “My name is Hungry Wolf,” the young Bravador repeated.

  “Hungry Wolf?” Preening Owl began to laugh. It began as a chuckle, slightly forced, but then he grew louder, more exaggerated, looking to the others, encouraging them to join in. And of course, they did.

  Pricks. Any of those names could be laughed at. Preening Owl. Galloping Turtle. Hungry Wolf. Just doing what they can to kick someone hard, to make them feel the way they do right now, after getting fucked by the Paws.

  Preening Owl looked back at the lone Bravador and shook his head. “Hungry Wolf? Oh, no no no. Not your name, I’m afraid. Doesn’t quite fit. You don’t look the Hungry Wolf type. But we’ll help you out, won’t we? What do you think lads?”

  Preening Owl, miming thinking with much exaggeration, looked around at the small crowd who had gathered to watch. Then, his eyes opened, and he raised his finger into the air. “I’ve got it! Not Hungry Wolf - you look more like a Starving Pup.”

  There was a nervous chuckle from the onlookers.

  “Starving Pup,” Preening Owl began to chant, encouraging the other Mice to join in. The other spectators - mostly Bravadori, but also some brave citizens who had crept close - echoed the refrain.

  Preening Owl motioned for the young man to leave, and he did so, his Bravador name bouncing on his heels.

  He’ll never escape that one, Yizel thought. Starving Pup will haunt him as long as he’s in the city, which won’t be for long if he has any lick of sense.

  Sensing the crowd about to dissipate, Yizel skulked off along the walls, before Preening Owl and his goons took the opportunity to turn on her too.

  The coin that Sinister Crow had given her was still clutched in Yizel’s hand. Through the worn leather glove, she could feel it was nowhere near what she had been promised, but Yizel knew better than to contemplate asking for more. She made her way out of the palace district and headed towards the wharf, where the rooms were cheaper.

  The question was, would she spend the coin on a decent room for tonight - the first she would have had in months - or a rope to hang from for a week? The city’s rope rooms were horrific affairs, literally rooms strung with thick hemp ropes that Espadapan’s poorer citizens could lean on while they slept, like carcases on display outside of butcher shops. The lines were cut in the morning when the city’s dregs were forced back out onto the streets. Because the rope rooms were cramped, they were warm, and less likely to be frequented by thieves, as those who opted to use them tended to not be worth the time.

  Bed for a night, or rope for a week?

  Walking past a nameless tavern, the clinking of tankards caught Yizel’s ears like a summons, reminding her of the dull oblivion that awaited at their bottom.

  Or, I could just fuck the room. Sleeping rough isn’t so bad if you can’t remember it.

  A passerby spat at her feet as she stood there in contemplation. Scowling, purse in hand, Yizel walked into the tavern.

  Hours later, staggering through the haze she had spent her wages on, Yizel could almost remember a time when the people of the city respected her.

  They’re all laughing at me, Crazy Raccoon thought. Not brave enough to do it to my face, to the face of the Raccoon, but those pants-wetters are laughing at me behind my back.

  Like most of the Lion’s Paws, Crazy Raccoon had withdrawn to their estate in Barrio Bravadori after their victory. There, Galloping Turtle had organised wine, food and beautiful women and men to celebrate with. Crazy Raccoon took the drink, but had not the stomach nor the temperament to enjoy the other luxuries. Instead, he sat in his normal seat before one of the many fireplaces that littered the ground floor of the large house, the house that homed many of the more respected Paws, including Crazy Raccoon himself, and Galloping Turtle. Crazy Raccoon reclined with a sour expression on his face, watching his brother and sister Bravadori get drunk, gorge themselves, or undress any pretty little things they could get their hands on.

  Crazy Raccoon should have been enjoying these things too. The Queen knows he’d earned it. But he could not let go of his rage after the events in the park.

  Where the fuck was my lick? It was me who won the combat, my presence that made the Mice back down, made them surrender the boy to us. So, why’d so many others get recognised, and not me?

  A trio of men were giggling together at a dimly lit side table. Crazy Raccoon turned to them and growled. They were not paying attention to him - only two were Bravadori, and they were busy undressing the other - but they soon caught his eye, and moved away.

  Fuckers.

  From where Crazy Raccoon sat, he could keep his eye on the comings and goings on the landing above. The exposed landing was where the heavily guarded door to Galloping Turtle’s room was. The door had been busy all night, with Galloping Turtle summoning Bravadori to speak to, probably praising or advising them on their performance against the Mice. Crazy Raccoon liked to think he was just keeping an eye on who Galloping Turtle was dealing with, who was rising through the ranks of the stable. But, secretly, he was waiting for his own name to be called.

  Restless Hawk would have never treated him like this. She was the stable master who had discovered Crazy Raccoon, had used his name and reputation to build the Lion’s Paws up to becoming the most important Bravador stable in Espadapan. When she had been found dead in a snickleway several years ago, Crazy Raccoon had always known it was the beginning of the end for the Paws. Galloping Turtle’s fuckery today proved that the end was nigh.

  Battered Bear exited Galloping Turtle’s room with a smile on her face and a young prostitute on her arm. She made her way to one of the rooms further down the landing.

  Looks like Bear is rising in the world. She didn’t have a room on the estate this morning. Wonder who’s going to have to make their board elsewhere?

  A white panic threatened to rise inside him at this thought, but Crazy Raccoon pushed it down quickly.

  Galloping Turtle would never get rid of me. Why would you get rid of someone who can win you a fight just by turning up? Probably some poor half-masked fool who slept in instead of joining when things got rough.

  His eyes continued to linger on Galloping Turtle’s room. Nobody else was being called inside.

  Crazy Raccoon shook his head. I should be summoned. Crazy Raccoon doesn’t go seeking out audiences, he gets requested to attend them. Galloping Turtle will want to speak to me soon. I’ll wait till he asks for me. Bet he’s already realised what a Wilds-dry stupid oversight he’s made.

  He drained the rest of his glass, and pulled a face. Bad bottle. Whole lot’s gone sour.

  He threw the glass into the fireplace, and rose as it shattered. The sour expression remaining, he smoothed out his cloak and marched up the stairs.

  There was a small amount of protest when Crazy Raccoon forced his way inside Galloping Turtle’s quarters, but the Bravadori on guard knew better than to stop the Raccoon when he wanted something.

  Inside, Galloping Turtle was looking out of his balcony window, onto the courtyard of the estate, where the Paws were continuing to celebrate. He turned to look at Crazy Raccoon when he entered, and smiled.

  “Welcome, old friend. Won’t you join me?” Galloping Turtle gestured to a seat at his desk, and began to pour some wine for his guest. Crazy Raccoon noticed another bottle open at the windowsill, different to the one Galloping Turtle was now pouring from.

  Probably giving me the same jackassery he’s been feeding us downstairs, keeping the good stuff for himself.

  Crazy Raccoon, face red, marched across the room and swiped at the glass. It flew against the wall, shattering and staining the orange plaster red.

  Galloping Turtle paused only for a moment, looking at the dripping wine stain, not at his stable mate.

  “What did you want to speak about?” Galloping Turtle asked.

  “Where was my fucking lick?”

  Galloping Turtle’s forehead creased. “Excuse me?”

  “You let Battered Bear lick the M
ouse. Colossal Newt got a lick for bravery. Same with Hidden Vulture. Where was my fucking lick?”

  Any smile was now gone from Galloping Turtle’s face. “Crazy Raccoon, I thought it had been obvious. We did not have a lot of time before the constables found us. I couldn’t let every Bravador in the stable have their turn - only a select few who had done us proud got to help humiliate the Mouse.”

  “Select few? How the fuck was I not in the select few? I won us the day. I’m the most feared Bravador in Espadapan, the best swordsman - they knew they’d lost as soon as I’d arrived.”

  At Crazy Raccoon’s last line, a smirk briefly flitted across Galloping Turtle’s face. Crazy Raccoon caught his stable leader glancing at one of the guards who stood at the door behind him. Crazy Raccoon turned to catch the guard bringing his hand to his face, hiding a smile.

  “What’s fucking funny? What’s so fucking funny?” In his rage, Crazy Raccoon kicked the nearby chair, and brought his hand to his sword hilt. A movement like that was unheard of in any Bravador house, and the sight of Crazy Raccoon reaching for his sword had been known to make men soil themselves.

  Galloping Turtle and the two guards did not seem in the least bit concerned. In fact, Galloping Turtle picked up the wine bottle he had left on the windowsill, sat on his own seat, put his feet up on his desk, and poured himself a drink.

  “I’ve been led to believe,” Galloping Turtle continued, eyes focussed more on filling his glass than the angry Bravador in front of him, “that you entered the fight with your sword drawn.”

  “Of course my sword was out,” Crazy Raccoon countered. “What kind of idiot enters a fight without his weapon out?”

  Galloping Turtle locked eyeballs with Crazy Raccoon, gaze steady. “We have spoken about this before. You are never to draw your sword.”

  Crazy Raccoon felt like shaking the older man. “And I’ll tell you the same thing I said last time - what kind of stupid rule is that? What’s the point? Why don’t I just stay here and drink myself to sleep instead?”

  Galloping Turtle continued to stare at Crazy Raccoon. “If you wish to remain in this stable, you must never draw your sword.”