by Robert Bevan
She ran down the path with the effort of a casual jogger and the speed of an Olympic sprinter. It felt amazing. Useful or not, she was determined to try out a lot more spells in the future, just to see how cool they felt.
After about half an hour, when the ground started to dry up and cypress trees mingled once again with oaks and elms, Katherine remembered that the owl she had tucked under her arm was still covered in shit that likely contained a lot of fenberry juice. She stopped running and looked at her swollen hand.
“Shit.”
Carefully, she took the owl out from under her arm. She gasped. The fat little bastard looked like a feathered basketball.
“Oh my god, you poor thing!”
With its added girth, its little legs no longer had the reach to scratch at her. It didn’t even try. It must feel like shit.
The path she traveled on was no longer raised out of the swamp, but there was still plenty of water around. She dunked the owl and scraped as much shit from its feathers as she could manage.
When it was as clean as she could get it, she pulled it up out of the water. “How’s that? Do you feel better now?”
The owl blinked.
“Don’t you worry. I’m going to take care of you, okay? The first thing we need to do is get you dried off. And since I’m in kind of a hurry, we can kill two birds with one stone. No offense.”
Katherine held the owl in front of her with both hands and resumed running. She ran until she reached the main road, hung a right, and kept on running.
Eventually, she started to catch up with a horse-drawn wagon. Perfect. She hadn’t even considered hitchhiking. Not knowing how much more time this spell had left in it, she ran as unnaturally fast as her legs could take her.
When she was just behind the wagon, she shouted, “Excuse me!”
The driver turned around. His eyes went as wide as the owl’s. “Gods have mercy!” He turned back around and whipped the reins. “Yah!” The horses started speeding up.
“Hey, motherfucker!” said Katherine. “Stop those goddamn horses right now!” She considered how she must appear, having slept in a swamp. Her hair was a filthy mess. Her face was covered in mosquito bites. One of her hands was twice as big as the other. She smelled like swamp water and shit. And it couldn’t have helped that she was running inhumanly fast while holding a deformed owl in front of her.
She tried a different approach. “Please!”
The man looked back at her, then at the horses, then back at her again. Whether pity got the better of him, or whether he reasoned that his horses wouldn’t be able to outpace whatever the hell she was, Katherine didn’t care. He reined them to a stop.
When the wagon had come to a stop. The man folded his hands and bowed down to Katherine. “Spare me, merciful swamp hag!”
“Fuck you!”
“I am but a humble potato farmer. I have a family!”
“I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m not a fucking swamp hag. I’m just a woman who’s had a really shitty night and needs a ride into town.”
The man bit his lower lip, apparently weighing the option to just get the horses moving again.
“I can pay you,” said Katherine.
The man frowned. “What’s wrong with your owl?”
“He’s had a shitty day, too. Can we please have a ride.”
“Well, I suppose if you intended to kill me, you could have done so by now. Climb on up.”
Chapter 11
If there were two things the quad in front of the Great Library of Cardinia didn’t lack for, they were delicious snack foods and entertainment. Food carts lined the perimeter selling pickled eggs, various meats, and so many different varieties of beer. While a lot of the merchants had their kids standing in front of their carts holding signs to advertise their wares, some of them had hired performers to play an instrument or juggle. None of their half-assed measures held a candle, however, to Captain Pyre’s Dire N’ Fire.
They must have been paying a small fortune to run this operation. It occupied at least eight times the space of any other plot. A roasting dire boar rotated on a spit about two stories high. Atop each support holding up the spit was a wooden platform. Signs hanging from the platforms identified the dwarves standing on them as Ditto and Wimbly. They were dressed in brightly colored robes and pointy hats, flinging insults and spells at one another in a fascinatingly dangerous-looking vaudeville act.
Though they were caricatures of wizards, Julian suspected Ditto and Wimbly were actually bards. The spells they cast at each other came from wands rather than from within them, and their vocal and acrobatic talents were more remarkable than their magic. Any real wizard would see the phony Fireballs and Lightning Bolts for what they really were, impressively rendered manifestations of the harmless 0-Level Prestidigitation spell.
But the real star of the show was the man behind the counter, Captain Pyre himself. He was almost certainly neither a military figure nor the owner of the establishment. He was a first class carnival barker though. Full braided beard. Big ass helmet with what looked like mammoth tusks on either side. Eye patch. Skin riddled with tattoos of mysterious symbols. The works. Even the fire behind him doubled as a backdrop, giving the effect of a blazing battlefield. He berated and insulted his customers as he served them the only thing he offered, boar meat on a stick, and the customers loved him for it.
After twenty minutes in line, it was finally Julian’s turn.
“And what have we here?” Captain Pyre shouted as Julian stepped forward. “Did ye roll around in pixie shit on yer way here?” Julian guessed the joke had something to do with his colorful, yet admittedly filthy, serape. The crowd of customers laughed politely but expectantly, like they were waiting for a bigger punchline.
The captain shrugged and spoke in a normal tone to Julian. “What’ll ye have, lad?”
“Two please,” said Julian.
“Yer wee elven mother had two.” Captain Pyre paused dramatically as the crowd hushed in anticipation. “Two of me fists up her arse!” He brought his forearms together and punched upward suggestively.
That’s what the crowd had been waiting for. They roared with laughter and slapped each other on the backs. Julian forced a smile, but he was reminded of Cooper, and that reminded him of Tim. How did they get in this big mess? He hoped his friends were all okay.
“That’ll be a silver piece, lad.”
Julian placed a gold piece on the counter. “Keep the change.”
“Much obliged, sir.” Captain Pyre handed him two sticks of dire boar meat chunks slathered in some kind of brown sauce.
Stacy and Ravenus were in the middle of the quad, right where Julian had left them. Ravenus was idly scratching at the ground while Stacy was lying on her back, tossing a dagger and staying perfectly still as it pierced the ground extremely close to her.
“That’s really impressive,” said Julian. “But I feel I should warn you. In this game, you always have a five percent chance of failure no matter how good at something you are.”
Stacy sat up. “Is your curiosity sated?”
“Yes.”
“Was it everything you’d hoped for?”
“He said he fisted my mom.”
“Nice. I hope he washed his hands before returning to work.”
Julian waved one of the skewered dire boar meat sticks at Stacy. “I got an extra one.”
Stacy hopped to her feet and accepted Julian’s offer. “As long as we can eat and walk.”
The meat was tender and smoky. The sauce reminded Julian of Heinz 57 with some habanero peppers thrown in for a bit of spice.
“You win,” said Stacy through a mouthful of meat. “This was worth the detour.”
Ravenus flapped down to land on Julian’s shoulder.
Julian could sense his familiar’s curiosity. “It’s really good. Wanna try it?”
“No thank you, sir!” said Ravenus. “They’ve gone and burned all the flavor out.”
“That’s c
alled cooking.”
“I prefer my meat raw and properly aged.”
“I know that,” said Julian. “You just seemed curious, so I thought I’d offer.”
“I was curious, sir. Not by your barbaric food-ruining rituals, but by something you said earlier.”
“What’s that?”
“What does it mean to ‘fist one’s mum’?”
Stacy started to choke on a piece of meat. She held her hand to her throat, concentrated, then swallowed. “Wow. This must be what having a kid feels like. So how about it, Julian? Is it time to sit Ravenus down and have the ol’ ‘fisting your mum’ talk?”
“Is something amiss, sir?” asked Ravenus. “You seem somehow... uncomfortable.”
Julian raised his wrist to his shoulder for Ravenus to step on to. “I’ll explain it when you’re older. Go find a dead cat or something. Let us finish our lunch.” He launched Ravenus into the air.
Stacy smiled at Julian as Ravenus flapped upward. “They grow up so fast.”
As good as the meat was, neither Julian nor Stacy was able to finish the entire stick. In addition to creative marketing, unconventional yet effective customer service, and quality food, generous portions were apparently a part of Captain Pyre’s business model. Tim might learn a lot from him if they ever made it home before he went too much further off the rails.
Shallow Grave was about as pleasant as the name suggested. It was the part of town that one was advised to avoid unless they had specific business there, and usually even then as well. The recent influx of residents, who had tried to sack the city only a few days earlier, did little to improve the neighborhood’s reputation. The place was crawling with orcs who had been training since birth for the day when they could mercilessly slaughter the people of this city. Every movement felt like a threat. Every glance felt like a dare to make the first move. Julian stayed close to Stacy. He’d never felt whiter or elfier in his life.
“Will you calm down?” said Stacy. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. These people were all just saved by Jesus.”
“In my experience, those are the ones you most want to look out for.”
“This is different. You know what I mean. I don’t know much about Meb’Garshur, but from what I’ve gathered, it’s possible that some of these people might never have seen an elf or a human before. We’re exotic. So just chill out and – Does that wolf look familiar to you?”
Julian followed Stacy’s gaze. A block ahead of them, a grey wolf was crossing the street. A small pouch dangled from its mouth by the drawstring. It looked enough like Katherine’s Animal Companion, but Julian wasn’t confident that he’d be able to pick Butterbean out of a lineup of other grey wolves.
“It’s just a wolf,” said Julian. “There's nothing to suggest –”
Stacy grabbed him by the back of the head and forced his eyes back on the wolf. “Look at what he’s got in his mouth. That’s Frank’s dice bag.”
Julian had to admit that the circumstantial evidence for this being the specific wolf in question was piling up. A hierarchy of thinning doubt flashed through his mind.
Wolf.
Grey wolf.
Grey wolf with a bag.
Grey wolf with a bag matching the description of the bag they were looking for.
Grey wolf with a bag matching the description of the bag they were looking for wandering unaccompanied in an urban setting.
Grey wolf with a bag matching the description of the bag they were looking for wandering unaccompanied in an urban setting in the specific neighborhood Stacy had been seeking one of the people known to be traveling with said wolf.
Grey wolf with a –
Stacy shook Julian’s head. “What are you doing?”
“I was thinking. And I think you’re right. Should we follow him?”
“If we can get the bag now, our situation will be vastly improved. We can take it back to Frank and everyone can calm the fuck down. He’d recognize you as an ally, right? Call him.”
Julian licked his lips, then swallowed. “Butterbean!” he called out.
The wolf stopped and looked back at him. There was no mistaking that. Julian started to sigh, then sucked his sigh up in a gasp when Butterbean turned back around and bolted away.
“Shit!” said Stacy, preparing to run after it.
Their path was blocked by one of the biggest and baddest-looking orcs Julian had ever laid eyes on. His body was covered in enough scars to suggest that he’d been stabbed at least five times a day since birth. The lower tusk on the right side of his mouth had been sawed in half and capped with silver. He glared down at Julian with his one functioning eye, the other being just a blood-red orb.
“What did you call me, elf?”
Julian scrambled for an appropriate response. “Huh?”
“He wasn’t talking to you,” said Stacy. “I’m his Butterbean.” She pinched Julian’s cheek very hard. “Isn’t that right, Honeylamb?”
Julian felt his head being guided up and down by the cheek until he got the hint to start nodding voluntarily.
The orc grabbed a handful of Julian’s serape. “Are you mocking me, elf?” he challenged.
Stacy tugged Julian’s cheek from side to side.
He slapped her hand away. He’d collected himself. “No, sir. My heart was overwhelmed with joy at reuniting with my true love. I was compelled to shout her name.” Was this a bad Diplomacy roll? This felt like a bad diplomacy roll.
The orc turned to the companions he’d been sitting with at a table outside of a little shop. “Does he speak truth?”
The only orc at the table not covered in scars was calmly sipping coffee from a tin cup. He shrugged. “It’s a different culture here than what you’re used to.”
The orc looked back at Julian, breathing heavily through flared nostrils. He let go of the serape and smoothed it down the front with both hands. “I apologize. I am new here and your ways are strange to me. I’m afraid I misunderstood.” He bowed low.
Julian grinned nervously. “No harm done.”
“Time to go, Sugarbunch,” said Stacy. “We don’t want to be late for that... thing.”
“Go, new friend,” said the orc. “Attend to your thing. And may the New God watch over you.”
“While I’m attending to my thing?”
Stacy grabbed Julian’s arm and yanked hard. “Let’s go!”
Julian was grateful to no longer be staring horrible violent death incarnate in the face, but Butterbean’s trail had gone cold.
Ravenus caught up to them a few minutes later, panicked about Julian’s sudden shift in emotions, but even aerial reconnaissance turned up no sign of any wolves in the vicinity.
“Sorry I panicked back there,” said Julian. “It’s my fault we lost him.”
Stacy shook her head. “We can’t outrun a wolf, and he clearly didn’t want to be followed.”
“I thought you’d be more upset.”
“Not at all. You think it’s a coincidence that Butterbean turned up in this neighborhood? The neighborhood where you and I are about to have a meeting with an organized crime boss? I’m telling you, we’re right on top of that little jerk.”
The shop where the appointment was scheduled was nearly indistinguishable from any of the surrounding structures. The windows were boarded up. The brickwork was crumbling. The area in front of it was littered with garbage.
The only two things that set it apart from the others were that it had what looked like a relatively new front door, and a hastily painted sign hanging over the door which read “GIFTS”.
“I’ll do the talking,” said Stacy.
That was just fine with Julian. He was more than happy to unload the burden of being ‘the face of the party’ onto someone else. But he would have felt better knowing that they were going in with some kind of plan. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“I’ll adapt as the situation progresses. Trust me. I’m, like, crazy smart.”
“That’s
very reassuring.”
“Your role is silent partner,” said Stacy. “You’re mysterious and unpredictable, but not outwardly threatening. Can you do that?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“Good. Let’s do this.” Stacy didn’t even bother knocking. She turned the handle and walked right in the door.
Julian followed behind as silently, mysteriously, unpredictably, and not outwardly threateningly as he could.
The interior of the shop wasn’t any more inviting than the outside. The flaky remnants of paint suggested that the walls had once been blue. Now they were dingy grey, most of the paint having succumbed to neglect or whatever creature had scarred the walls with claw marks.
One wall – the only one Julian recalled from the outside as having had a window – was obscured by a large dusty bookcase. A random assortment of trinkets sat on what shelves were left of it. A bronze cup, a stringless lute, a broken ship inside a glass bottle. It was like they were trying to meet some minimum legal requirement to be able to call the place a gift shop.
A half-elven woman in a satin magenta blazer sat behind a desk which appeared to have come with the building, given that one of its legs was a stack of old books. She’d been speaking to a human assistant in a light green cloak when Stacy and Julian barged in on their conversation.
She folded a small piece of paper and tucked it into her breast pocket under her right lapel. Turning back to her assistant after a brief glance at her guests, she said, “Snaketongue couldn’t be bothered with it, so they passed it on to us.”
“Seems that way, ma’am,” said the assistant.
“Send word to our contacts in the west. Find out what it is.”
The assistant bowed, then walked briskly toward Stacy and Julian. Stacy stepped to her left, and Julian followed suit, stepping to his right. The man in the green cloak walked between them without even sparing them a glance and left the room.
Three more assistants remained, all of them silent, mysterious, and unpredictable, but not outwardly threatening. Each of them was lean and wiry, about as physically intimidating as Julian. If scowls were an inherited trait, he supposed they could all be brothers.
