Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel

by Benedict Patrick

  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 be
en 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.

  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 Mi
ce’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.