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

by Benedict Patrick

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 dis
covered 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 Mouse. 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.”

  “But… but if I never draw my sword, then I’ll never have the chance to earn a reward in combat.”

  Galloping Turtle said nothing, but continued to lock Crazy Raccoon’s gaze, his face expressionless.

  Crazy Raccoon exploded out of his seat, sending it tumbling to the floor behind him. “This is fucking ridiculous, that’s what this is! What a great way to handicap yourself, bringing the most feared Bravador in Espadapan into combat and then refusing to use him.”

  Galloping Turtle’s face finally cracked at this, a small smirk darting across it, which he did his best to hide as quickly as possible.

  Crazy Raccoon pointed an accusing finger at Galloping Turtle, surprised that the stable master was smiling instead of showing fear. “You just see. When word gets out among the others about how stupid this is, about how much you’re going to cost the stable, d’you think they’ll want to see you stay in power? I’ve been a Paw for a long time. Doesn’t mean there aren’t other options open to me.”

  Crazy Raccoon turned around, doing what he could to swish his cloak in a dramatic fashion, and pushed through the doors to the room. As he did so, he could swear that both guards were smiling, as if sharing in some private joke.

  His face burned. How dare he! How dare he! The whole stable thinks I’m some kind of joke because of him, denied my lick.

  It was true. As Crazy Raccoon marched down the stairs into the common room, he was aware of the stares from others, of the hidden smiles and the furious whispers that erupted from clusters of Bravadori who were celebrating around the room.

  They were all laughing at him.

  Galloping Turtle, you complete bastard.

  He stormed out into the courtyard, where the celebrations were still in full swing. The local brothels had been emptied into the Paws’ estate tonight, and men and women of the night were being paraded up and down the courtyard for the Paws to choose from. Crazy Raccoon hardly registered any of the festivities, so consuming was his anger.

  You know what this is? He’s scared of me. Scared of how much power my name has. Look at how the Mice shrank from me as soon as I arrived.

  But Galloping Turtle, he’s figuring out how much of a threat I am to him. He’s leader of the Paws, but he isn’t the most famous or feared Paw in the city. And he’s getting old. Bet he’s realising I’m looking like a pretty good choice right now for stable master, so he’s humiliating me in front of the others.

  However, in the back of Crazy Raccoon’s mind, an older memory was trying to break free. This memory took on the form of an elderly woman, wearing a mask decorated in brown and white hawk feathers. She was staring disapprovingly at Crazy Raccoon, tapping her foot at him. Had he let somebody know their secret? He had promised to never let them know.

  The earlier glasses of wine making his feet light, Crazy Raccoon moved along the dusty streets of Barrio Bravadori, the district controlled by the Paws. Without fearing hidden assassins, Crazy Raccoon moved through the dark snickleways between buildings - small,
tight alleyways that offered numerous shortcuts through Espadapan, if one took the time to learn their routes, and if one did not fear travelling without the constables’ protection. The snickleways were originally just the access routes that building owners used to get to the rear of their establishments, but so many citizens kept using these private paths as shortcuts that the governors long ago decreed that they were right-of-ways for the public. His white and black bandana clearly signalling who he was, Crazy Raccoon knew his reputation would fend off any possible attacks as he made his way to the wharf.

  He wanted somewhere free of the Lion’s Paws, to think.

  Maybe what I said to Galloping Turtle is exactly what I should be doing, Crazy Raccoon mused as he entered Stork territory, the up-market buildings of Barrio Bravadori giving way to the ramshackle constructions that were erected down by the sea front. A couple of Barrio Muelle children fought bare-fisted at the edge of the street, blood running from both of their noses. Crazy Raccoon spat at them as he passed, the sight reminding him of how high he had risen since his days growing up on the wharf.

  The current leadership of the Paws clearly doesn’t respect me anymore. They use me when it suits them. It isn’t just Galloping Turtle - they were all laughing at me tonight. They have the great Crazy Raccoon, but they treat him like a maskless fool.

  Well, maybe I should show them what happens when you have something worth keeping and you don’t look after it. There are plenty of other stables in Espadapan who would like to have the opportunity to rise to the top.

  These thoughts continued to occupy Crazy Raccoon’s mind as he wandered down the sea front, looking for cheap ale and a bed to warm for an hour or two.

  As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan

  This is how the Bravadori came to be.

  It was in the early days of Espadapan. The city was hardly a city at all - it was less than a decade since the Muridae, the Mouse folk, had been sent over the sea by their Queen, to find new lands worthy of plunder. Their own Grasslands had been expanding quickly, hungrily filling the gaps left by the fallen empire, but now the Muridae were meeting resistance, meeting borders that were well defended. Explorers who had taken to the sea had discovered The Wilds, and had discovered the Wildfolk, with all their gold and jewels. The Queen had happily sent her Muridae across the water, asking them to take from the natives and to establish new settlements in her name.