Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  “This is unacceptable!” Lakif barked.

  “Then I would have to consult with the manager…”

  “Take the initiative, man!” Lakif encouraged the quaking clerk. “There is no need to involve…”

  “I have to confer with the manager!” the clerk warbled.

  Before Lakif could object, the meek-mannered clerk chimed a bell. The Acaanan inwardly huffed. Their first plan, directed toward hoodwinking the clerk, had failed. Now they would have to deal with another personality altogether. The more bureaucracy involved, the slimmer their chances of success.

  Lakif vowed that she would dispatch the manager swiftly. She would drill the paper-pusher with her sternest look. Hopefully, all resistance would melt under the weight of her evil eye.

  The Acaanan’s confidence sank through the floor the moment the manager appeared. The woman loomed larger than life in a doorway above, filling the entire threshold. She was, to the Acaanan’s eye, the burliest woman she had ever seen. Although not particularly tall, her shoulders were so broad as to nearly lodge in the door-jamb. Her face was as tough as a leather breastplate, and her curly chestnut hair uncannily resembled a helmet. A prominent Adam’s apple and a moustache belied her sex. In fact, Lakif would have sworn the virago was a male if not for those breasts that protruded out like cones. She imagined her brassiere was so sturdy that it could double as a trap for imps. Lakif immediately knew this was a no-nonsense taskmaster who ran her business by complete protocol. The manager steamrolled down the stairs; she was clearly incensed at the disturbance.

  “What’s the problem here?” She scowled, her voice vacant of any trace of femininity. Lakif would have to polish her sternest glare to cow this disciplinarian.

  As the clerk recanted their peculiar request, the battle-axe’s face hardened into a hatchet. Lakif was taken aback by her demeanor. The shrew was as filled with gall by their request as was with testosterone by nature. With each word from the clerk, she only hardened further.

  “Clients are not allowed in the stables!” She waved a calloused hand, deflecting the query into the trash bin.

  “Of course, there are exceptions,” Lakif began. She mustered the full force of her evil eye, flashing it on the termagant.

  “Arachna policy forbids clients in the stables for legal reasons. The lawyers would have a field day!” the tank explained in a brusque tone. Unfortunately, the dyke stood irresolute before her most penetrating look.

  “We can sign a waiver…” Lakif faltered before the shrew.

  “No, the rules are quite firm on that account,” the manager stated sternly, hammering the point home. “Your employer will have to accept whatever horses we arrange.”

  The martinet had settled the issue, leaving no room for discussion. Lakif knew they had no hope of persuading this hard-boiled spinster. In desperation, she looked to Torkoth for aid. He, too, was well aware of the trouble and was scratching the back of his head. This was his sign to Bael that they were floundering. The Kulthean, who was waiting outside, was their final trump card.

  “Rebekah!” A resonant voice boomed out from the entry hall. Bael had adopted Lakif’s favorite pseudonym.

  “A grave situation is brewing,” Lakif mumbled, looking around nervously for a place to hide.

  With wide strides, Bael marched into the foyer yard. Although Lakif had been expecting the Kulthean, she found herself stunned at the grand entrance.

  Bael’s freshly shaven chin was as sharp as a blade; his black hair was crimped and gelled into a sheen. A dark cape was clasped around his collar by a silver chain and billowed in his trail. With a leather-gloved hand, he brandished a thin cane topped with a polished mother-of-pearl knob. Formal black boots rose nearly knee-high, accentuating his already imposing stature. Donned in such rich livery, Bael was the very portrait of a Kulthean. The garb had been Bael’s own, apparently reserved for special occasions. Only the cane had been purchased for the charade. It was a last-minute addition by the Kulthean, who thought it would offer a visual cue of authority. Each individual item, by any standard, was of royal quality. Together, they combined to synthesize a triumphant image. Contrary to the popular expression, Lakif felt that this time, it was the man who made the garb. Bael’s own charisma brought out the article’s features in a way no other man could.

  The Kulthean’s entrance riveted the attention of all.

  “How fares our course, Rebekah?” Bael barked with an authoritative tone.

  “Unfortunately, we are deadlocked.” Lakif gulped.

  “Come now?” Bael’s voice reverberated throughout the courtyard.

  “Sadly, we have to take whatever horses are offered,” Lakif hesitantly explained.

  “Hobson’s choice! Have I become the Count of Alma by taking what is offered? This will not do! Who is in charge here?” Although their dialogue had been carefully scripted, Lakif found herself convinced that the Kulthean was indeed an indignant noble.

  “He is,” Lakif said, pointing an accusing finger at the clerk, who immediately pointed to the manager.

  “How are you called?” Bael pointed his cane at the woman’s robust chest. Lakif was mute, stunned by the Kulthean’s dynamic presence.

  “Torren, sir, the manager of this Arachna.” The manager’s tone had noticeably softened. Even her name was telling. Lakif knew it was related to the word tower. Fittingly, it was a staunchly man’s name.

  “Well, Torren, didn’t my underling explain the situation clearly?”

  “Crystal clear.” A quiver warbled the shrew’s reply. Lakif inwardly smirked, sensing that her former bravado was melting away before the heat of the Kulthean’s presence.

  “Then I hope we can settle this matter.” Bael waved the shiny cane around as if it were a rapier. He then pointed the majestic rod toward the clerk’s chest. The lackey paled at being singled out. “I want you to fetch the beasts personally.”

  “Me?” the clerk shrieked.

  “Of course! My two underlings will accompany you. Promptly!” Bael issued the command with papal-like majesty. The directive forced the clerk into complete attention.

  “I appreciate your sympathetic ear.” Bael returned his attention to the manager. Suddenly, his dictatorial demeanor vanished, replaced with a heart-rending smile. Lakif was spellbound by the change. “It is indeed comforting to see the power of compassion levied, and you, my lady, are its very purveyor.”

  “However we may be of service.” The woman nearly whimpered. Before the combined force of Bael’s praise and his sterling silver image, the shrew had buckled.

  “What are you waiting for?” Lakif was rudely poked with the cane, forcing her back to matters at hand. Bael had resumed his orders and was upbraiding her for her dalliance.

  The fretting clerk hastened down the hall, and the Acaanan and Half-man followed in train. Lakif’s focus darted into every portal they passed, sizing up security.

  All manner of crazy ideas had been thrown out on the table the previous evening. Through the cloud of blathering, a plan had gradually materialized. Simply put, they would fabricate a need to be in the stables and inspect the horses. Then, the Acaanan and Half-man would simply ride the steeds out before they could be hitched to the carriage. It was comically simple. The only other leading contender was to actually hire out a carriage and somewhere en route hijack the horses. On the surface, this had seemed like the better of the two options. They wouldn’t have to concern themselves with a potentially hairy situation within the Arachna, or with any resistance they would encounter there.

  But the major drawback was how they would dispatch with the driver. According to Bael, these fellows were generally leery sorts and always armed. While they had surprise and numbers on their side, the underpinning fear was that someone, particularly the driver, would be injured in the ensuing melee. Any harm done to the coachman would up the stakes on the heist. Horse thievery could easily escalate to assault with intent to kill. Lakif assumed that this was a graver offense, but considering t
he district’s quirky judicial system, it could be considered less severe than horse theft. It was thus collectively felt that the heist should be accomplished outright with as much surprise as possible.

  The main obstacle was to gain entry into the stables in the first place. They imagined these places were off-limits. Thus was born the hoax just scripted. No one would have any trouble believing the Kulthean was not an actual Count and the two Inhumans his groveling servants. That said, Lakif still harbored misgivings about their chosen plan. She was well aware that plans always appear more feasible on paper than in actual play. But even during their deliberations, Lakif called into question the efficacy of the ruse, branding it a long shot at best. Who would allow an Acaanan to snoop around the steeds? Despite her reservations, she reluctantly agreed to the scheme.

  The main obstacle was of a completely different scope. None of them knew how to ride a horse. This was a hurdle they couldn’t avoid and would have to face in stride.

  The two Inhumans accompanied the skittish clerk to an adjacent courtyard. The unmistakable signature of manure tainted the stalls. The ground was roughly pitched cobblestone sprinkled with hay. A row of stout wooden gates flanked both sides of the livery. One nearby was wide open. Within, a youth was securing a saddle on a horse. Although Lakif could clearly see the stable hand, the horse was but a vague form. Its sable mane comfortably camouflaged it in the stall’s gloom.

  The clerk hustled over to the neighboring gate. He fidgeted with the latch, pushing with all his might. He then paused, scratched his head, and began pulling at the bar instead. It slid effortlessly open. The clerk wasn’t even familiar with how the stable doors opened! The Acaanan surmised that these manual duties strayed far from his normal daily bookkeeping.

  As the clerk disappeared inside the stall, Lakif shuffled nervously and scanned for other employees.

  “A moment of courage,” Torkoth whispered under his breath. The Half-man’s sang-froid dampened the Acaanan’s fears only slightly.

  A minute later the clerk emerged from the stable, leading a horse by the reins. Lakif receded in awe as the beast stamped out. It was much larger than she had imagined. As it lobbed forth, Lakif felt that indeed she was marveling at some mythical creature.

  “This one is freshly washed. She is saddled, but can be fixed for the carriage readily.” The clerk patted the mare’s alabaster flank. He then called to a stable hand to bring out a second steed.

  “How is she called?” The Half-man questioned.

  “Her name is Crown.”

  “Most excellent.” Lakif nodded her stamp of approval. She fought against a sinking feeling in her stomach. Crown was truly a mammoth mare. Faced with the beast, Lakif knew any horsemanship she could manage would not be up to snuff. She wanted to reach out and stroke the silky mane but feared that the mare would rile at the gesture. A memory flashed through her mind—that of a dream woman filling a leaky vessel in Dantillion’s Wares. An upstart horse had splattered her husband’s head all over the stable.

  Rather than touch the steed, she slowly held out her open palm so that it could see it was empty. Crown lowered her head, and Lakif thought she was actually bowing before her, as if ready to receive an actual crown. But the beast’s snout veered toward the Acaanan as if following some olfactory trail. It came to pause at her chest, where it began snorting. Just under the spot, her Stone was stashed in an inner pocket.

  “You must have an apple in there,” the clerk announced. “Crown has a nose for such fruit.”

  Moments later, a stable hand led forth another horse. This one was bay colored. Seeing the second requisite steed, Lakif began to feel that their plan was so full of chutzpah that it just may succeed.

  This particular horse was noticeably smaller than Crown and therefore, from the Acaanan’s point of view, all the less intimidating. Lakif found herself stroking its dense mane.

  “He will do splendidly,” Lakif assured the clerk.

  “Care you not to learn his name as well?” the fellow asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Lakif placed her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself up. The steed accommodated her weight easily. Swaying unsteadily in the saddle, she looked over to the Half-man, waiting for the fateful mark.

  Lakif realized that the clerk was speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear a word, for her heart was tattooing against a stomach which squirmed like a bag of worms. Of course, she had no interest in the horse’s colorful name. As far as she was concerned, any horse that could ride out on its own power fit the bill.

  “What of that horse there?” Torkoth pointed to the first stable and its occupants.

  “He is reserved for another trip.”

  “She seems perfect, don’t you think?” Torkoth asked the Acaanan.

  “I would say so. Bring her out.” Lakif’s voice was scratchy. Her mouth had dried up with nervousness.

  At the clerk’s hesitation, Lakif added. “My liege would appreciate it.”

  As hoped, the mere mention of the master Kulthean was enough to jar the clerk into action.

  “I suppose under the circumstances…” With a whistle, he motioned to the stable hand. A moment later the youth emerged, leading the horse by the bridle. Its maroon mane was peppered with black spots. Fortuitously, it too was fully saddled.

  “We’ll take her,” Torkoth added.

  “Which?” The clerk looked puzzled.

  “All of them,” he replied. Torkoth reached for Crown’s reins, and the mare retreated nervously. The skittish horse seemed to sense that something was amiss. Lakif shot her earth-bound companion a pregnant glance to relay her readiness, all the while struggling to stifle a plunging feeling in the pit of her belly

  “The carriage fits only two,” the clerk corrected them.

  On cue, Torkoth abruptly spun around and vaulted up into Crowns’ saddle. No sooner had he grabbed the reigns than the mare reared up on haunches with a screeching whinny. Torkoth’s artful move had utterly spooked the creature, and she reacted by flailing her hooves wildly. The violent force of the reaction was nearly enough to topple the Half-man to the flagging.

  Lakif’s own mare sidled with agitation. It was perhaps even more skittish than the Acaanan. Instinctively, Lakif gripped the reigns tighter, fearing that Crown’s agitation would ignite her own steed into a similar revolt.

  “What are you doing?” The clerk reached up to snare Crown’s reigns, but the mare was well beyond control. A hoof hammered out. It struck the fretting fellow in the shoulder. Although a glancing blow, it sent him spinning to the ground.

  Torkoth’s heels pounded into Crown’s flanks, and she vaulted forward. In passing, he slapped the third steed on the flank. It jumped into line with its upstart neighbor. Crown’s rebellious spirit was contagious. As Crown and her rider raced past, Lakif’s own horse erupted to life and lunged forward as well. The Acaanan nearly rolled over backward as the beast exploded forth.

  In a breath, the steeds bolted across the yard and into the connecting hall. As they careened down the lane, Lakif’s brief life flashed before her eyes. Her steed, caught in Crown’s spell, was completely refractory to control. Even a skilled rider would have been hard-pressed to curb the froward animal. Lakif, who had never once even seen a saddle, let alone ride in one, could do naught but hold on for dear life.

  Seconds later, they were barreling through the main yard. Cries rose up but were lost in the heavy staccato of hoofbeats that ricocheted around the yard. The Acaanan’s only clue to the consternation came from these shouts, for all she could glean was a blur of frenzied activity. Astonished patrons mouthed squeals as they dashed for cover, lest they be trampled into bloody muck under the bolting colts. Other cries of alarm came from wide-eyed, incredulous employees. Only one specific image was stamped firmly in Lakif’s mind—the steamed countenance of the manager shaking a mallet-sized fist. But in an instant she was gone, left far behind. Lakif didn’t glimpse their liege. Hopefully, Bael had found a reason to step out of the Arachna be
fore the heist.

  As they burst through the entry gate, Lakif dared throw a glimpse toward the Half-man. His mare was racing alongside her own horse’s flank, a virtual white ray through the darkened hall. A second later, his horse bounded from the gloom of the entry hall into the morning light. A flash of light lanced across Torkoth’s eyes as they collided sharply with the day. His mouth was wide, as if frozen in the midst of a shout. Lakif was stunned at his look of resolve. It was the mask of a seasoned rider, faithful and true to the saddle. He was leaning forward, holding his sword out at arm’s length before his gaping mouth.

  A gust of wind blasted the riders at their sudden entrance into the avenue. The wind sent the Half-man’s crimson hair flailing around like dancing flames.

  A thin crowd populated the avenue at this early hour. As they burst onto the fare, the crowd scattered like pigeons. No sooner had they alighted on the street than Crown veered to the right. Lakif couldn’t discern if this was simply the mare’s whim or due to the coaxing of its intrepid master.

  As the steed wheeled away, Lakif groped for the reigns but couldn’t capture them. Her steed’s heaving flanks sent the cords into a constant dance, forever leaping from her grasping fingers. Fortunately, her horse changed directions as well, as if magnetically compelled to follow its raging sister. Completely at the mercy of its wild temperament, Lakif’s only goal was to hug tightly lest she be thrown off. At this speed, a fall would splinter her skeleton.

  A heartbeat later, the Acaanan leaned to the side, narrowly averting decapitation as the horse charged under a post.

  Torkoth was waving his sword before him as if shooing away imps from a strung-up criminal. Although the avenue was witness to some amount of traffic, there was little danger of them trampling any pedestrian. The crowd parted in magical confusion before them. Most cleaved to the sidelines for safety. Those caught directly in the middle of the avenue, and thus directly in the path of the rampaging stallions, literally dove for cover.

  Lakif had never suspected the phlegmatic populace of Grimpkin capable of such lightning-speed reactions. Based on their flight, Lakif would have imagined that the pedestrians were seeing a dragon roaring down the gallery rather than a pair of mounted riders.