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

by Benedict Patrick

  “That how they fight in the country?” Red Curtain jeered, his own blades ready now, eyes locked on Arturo. “This is going to be easier than I thought.”

  He’s just trying to get me worked up, Arturo thought, trying to provoke me into doing something stupid. He’d seen plenty of other Bravadori fighting single weapon style since he came here, during the evening duels in the plaza, so he knew it was a popular choice. Still, he thought, eyes darting briefly to his readied off-hand, did they normally keep their hands close to their body, or should it be more outstretched?

  That small movement of Arturo’s eyes was the opening Red Curtain had been waiting for. The Paw lunged forward, his rapier heading straight for Arturo’s chest. Arturo only realised at the last second what was happening, and he threw himself backwards, smashing into the left hand wall. Panicking, forgetting his Knack, unused to fighting by torchlight, he slashed wildly at his opponent, hoping to make contact.

  Red Curtain scuttled backwards, laughing as he did so. The other Bravadori joined in. “What was that? With those moves, no wonder you’ve no stable. Do you... do you even have the Knack for it? Who told you you could wear that mask?”

  I do have the Knack, Arturo reminded himself, trying to calm down, trying to engage his talent for reading patterns. Time was not slowing the way it normally did for him when combat began. His Knack was showing him nothing. Arturo preferred to react to his opponents, to let them make the first move so he could get a good read on them. However, maybe he wasn’t going to get an opportunity like that against another sword fighting Knack. Maybe taking the initiative might be the best option.

  His footwork restricted, Arturo continued to shift his weight as much as he could, forcing Red Curtain to likewise change his stance. These stances had names, Arturo knew, but he had never been taught them. He was copying what he had seen others do, as best as he was able. He hoped he was doing it correctly.

  There. Whenever Arturo leaned forward, Red Curtain twisted his body to the side, presenting Arturo with a much more achievable target.

  Now.

  Arturo lunged forward, rapier point heading towards Red Curtain’s chest. Which was exactly what the Paw was trying to goad Arturo into doing.

  Ready for the manoeuvre, Red Curtain’s dagger whipped up, guiding Arturo’s blade away from his torso. A tugging sensation told Arturo he had still made contact, but it must have been clothing and nothing else.

  At such close quarters, Red Curtain could not use the blade of his sword to any great effect, so instead smashed his rapier’s basket into Arturo’s nose. Not expecting the attack, Arturo crumpled, his sword falling uselessly into the darkness.

  Red Curtain kicked Arturo a few times, laughing. “Queen’s tits, you weren’t much sport, were you?”

  Arturo moaned with each blow. Another Bravador started to work on Tomas, beating the Wildman around the head. Arturo, dazed by the violence and pain, tried to speak, but could not force his tongue to make any intelligible sounds.

  “Alfrond’s cock, this one’s taking a long time to die,” Red Curtain said, beckoning towards his remaining two companions. “Help me finish him off.”

  “You’re not trying to kill him?” another muttered, walking sheepishly towards Arturo’s curled form. “We don’t kill each other.”

  Red Curtain spat on Arturo, reached down, and ripped off his mask. “Nothing to worry about here. This one’s no Bravador.”

  Laughing, the three of them took it in turns to bring their heels down onto Arturo’s body and head, not stopping until his moans and movement ceased.

  Just as Yizel was getting ready to leave, assuming the message to come to the Proving Grounds had been a hoax, she felt a presence at her shoulder. She turned her head slightly to find a Paw beside her, the female Bravador’s owl-styled mask giving the woman the air of being in constant shock.

  “Yizel Ochoa?”

  “You know it’s me,” Yizel answered, her dull eyes dancing over the collection of bottles at the other end of the bar. “Nobody else in here looks like this.”

  The Paw grunted in agreement, and took a drink from her tankard. “Heard you’re the one that did Brother Spider in last week.”

  Fuck.

  Yizel said nothing. Somebody had sold her out. Possibly Sinister Crow, more probably the strutting jackass who had hired her in the first place, Creeping Scorpion.

  The owl-faced Bravador continued. “We hear you like money.” A purse clunked on the bar in front of her.

  Instinctively, Yizel’s hand shot out to grab it, pulling it close. The purse felt nice and full. Even if it was just copper inside, it would be enough to keep her under a roof for a week.

  “What’s it for?”

  “That’s half the payment. Other half’s waiting for you outside, between Arbens and Theo.”

  Yizel knew the snickleway the Bravador was talking about. Nice and out of the way, perfect for taking care of unsavoury business.

  “What’s the job?”

  The owl feathers on the Bravador’s mask rustled, and Yizel turned to look at her. The Paw was smiling.

  “I guess you’ve got to turn up to find out, don’t you?” The Bravador drained her glass, gave Yizel a final nod, then exited.

  Yizel took a deep breath. It was not unknown for the Bravadori to hire Shaven in this way, when the work involved was not pleasant. Protection of known criminals, burglary, assassination. These things were exactly the type of work that Shaven were called to do.

  Or this could be a thinly veiled ambush, to pay me back for killing one of their own.

  Yizel weighed the coin purse in her hand, and looked inside. Copper glinted back, with a few specks of silver. An awful lot of coin to trust me with, in the hope that I take the bait for more. Not exactly what I’d do if I was planning to have someone killed.

  Still, it’d be stupid to take another risk, when I can already come out on top without doing anything else. Should just take the purse and leave.

  Yizel finished her drink and left the Proving Grounds. She exited at the same time as a pair of Rabbits came inside. They snarled at the sight of her bald head.

  Staring at the streets of Barrio Bravadori, Yizel felt the coin purse once more. Two week’s pay. She could push that to over a month with one small job.

  She made her way to the townhouses the Bravador had named, and gingerly stalked along the snickleway, ready to bolt at the sight of trouble. She froze when she saw a body lying on the ground, dimly lit by the street torches a short distance away.

  Quietly, Yizel drew her rapier, eyes darting to the shadows of the alcoves and uneven walls along the close, perfect hiding places for an ambush. Confident nothing was there, Yizel made her way over to the body. The domino mask lying beside the corpse betrayed its identity before Yizel had the opportunity to roll it onto its back, although she had already guessed who it was.

  Starving Pup. You unlucky bastard.

  The boy’s face had been so badly battered, she would not have recognised him without the mask.

  A whistle blew behind her, echoing down the confines of the snickleway. Yizel’s head darted up, but too late - a companion whistle came from in front of her, from the other end of the alley. She had nowhere to go.

  Yizel looked at the line of constables running down the snickleway towards her, batons raised. She looked at the body at her feet, and the blade in her hands.

  So. Ambush, then.

  Crazy Raccoon knew where he was before he woke up. The low hubbub of despairing voices, and the stench of urine gave it away. He was in one of the constables’ holding cells. The only question now was which one.

  He opened his eyes, doing what he could to blink the pain away. The blinking did very little to help. Crazy Raccoon sat up, double-checked that his mask remained on his face, and surveyed his surroundings.

  Low level crime was high in Espadapan. The Bravadori seldom helped the constables manage it, and often contributed to a lot of the issues themselves, as was their
right. Every so often, however, the Bravadori crossed the line, and the constables had no recourse but to lock the swordsmen away until they calmed down or sobered up.

  Imagine that’s what happened to me, Crazy Raccoon thought, bringing his hand to his head to check if it throbbed because of drink, or if he had won an injury he couldn’t remember.

  He dimly recalled a handful of wharf-side taverns, all noisy and foamy. There was at least one whore and… and his purse had been empty. Crazy Raccoon distinctly remembered laughing at the expression on her face after he realised his purse had been lifted.

  Despite the ache of his head and the smell of his surroundings, Crazy Raccoon smiled at the returning memory. That’ll teach her to play before she gets paid. Imagine that little incident has a lot to do with why I’m here now.

  He checked his knuckles. They were indeed bloodied. His face and stomach felt tender too, as if he had taken a number of blows. Probably the wench’s enforcers. Doesn’t explain why I’m in Barrio Bravadori instead of wharf side, though.

  Each of the barrios had their own holding cells, stationed at each of the constable watchtowers that overlooked the city quarters. Crazy Raccoon could tell he was in Barrio Bravadori by his fellow occupants - at least half of them were Paws, all of whom were either lying unconscious, propped up against a wall, or laughing with each other, waiting for their stable masters to come bail them out. The barrio’s cells were basically a dark hall, at least twice the size of the Paws’ common room. There were almost two dozen occupants in here now, sitting in the filth left on the floor, doing their best to recall what they had done to end up here in the first place. The light through the many barred holes that let air in and stench out told Crazy Raccoon it was early morning.

  A moan from beside him drew Crazy Raccoon’s attention to the closest occupants of the cell. He almost recoiled when he saw a Shaven within an arm’s length from him.

  Dull-bladed freak, he thought. Don’t know why you got thrown in here instead of a knife in the back. Any decent constable would’ve put you out of your misery.

  As if she could sense Crazy Raccoon’s eyes on her, the Shaven turned around. Her bruised face reminded Crazy Raccoon of a skull, so sunken were her cheek bones and dead were her eyes. As lifeless as they were, those eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, in recognition.

  Not even fuckable. No idea how these things stay alive for so long.

  Crazy Raccoon’s interest heightened at the sound of another moan. There, head resting on the Shaven’s knee, was a young Bravador. His small domino mask covered his eyes, but the boy writhed in pain, coughing every so often.

  “What you got there?” Crazy Raccoon asked the Shaven.

  She kept her gaze on him for a moment, then returned it to the fallen Bravador. She placed her hand hesitantly on the boy’s forehead, as if it was an unfamiliar gesture to her.

  “A dead man,” she said.

  Queen’s tits, even her voice is drained of life.

  “Or so I thought.”

  “Just wishes he was dead now, am I right?” Crazy Raccoon laughed, looking at the Shaven expectantly.

  The women turned her head to him again, but said nothing, gave no reaction.

  “Who did him in, then? You? Which stable’s he in, anyway?” He leaned over to get a look at the boy’s arm, but there was no band to be seen.

  “Paws got him,” the Shaven said, her eyes on the yellow band tied to Crazy Raccoon’s arm. “Doesn’t have a stable, yet. Been in the city for a week, at least, and still no stable.”

  “Drink my own piss,” Crazy Raccoon said, shocked, and then gave a hearty laugh. “Little bastard is the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve met, then, to live this long. And the stupidest.”

  The injured man groaned again. “Calvario,” he said, clutching at the Shaven’s faded leather tunic. She gently took his hand off her, and returned it to the boy’s lap.

  Crazy Raccoon took the time to scan the rest of the cell. There were a small number of Storks, Crickets, and Rabbits. Some of the smaller stables were represented as well. One Honey Badger - the constables would have a fun time dealing with those bastards when they came to pick their companion up - and Crazy Raccoon fancied he could spot a Squirrel doing her best to hide her allegiances. No faces he knew the names of.

  He turned back to the Shaven, as the boy muttered, “Calvario,” again.

  “What’s that then, your name?” he asked, indicating the Shaven. “You still have names, don’t you?”

  The Shaven shook her head. “No. It’s the name of a village. The village he got beaten for.”

  “Go on, then,” Crazy Raccoon said, once it was obvious the Shaven was going to leave it at that. “We’ve got fuck all to do until we get picked up, or they run out of room and let us go. How’d a village get him beaten up?”

  “He was going to save it,” the Shaven said, staring at the boy, her hand on his forehead again. “A Wildman came looking for help, and Starving Pup - this beaten man - was the only Bravador who said yes.” She paused. “Then the half-masked idiot came to the Proving Grounds to recruit some others, to guilt them into joining the cause.”

  Crazy Raccoon laughed again. Not difficult to see how that turned sour.

  The Shaven continued to look at the boy, biting her lip. That was the most emotion Crazy Raccoon had seen on her face the whole time. “He came looking for heroes. Said that’s what we all should be…”

  The woman was deep in thought, her sentence trailing off.

  Crazy Raccoon looked at her, lost in the boy’s words, and then he gave a bark of celebration. “Not you?! You don’t think he was talking to you, was he?”

  Her face shot up, coal-eyes glaring at him.

  “He was looking for Bravadori, Queen’s Blades. We’re the city’s heroes, not some stinking Shaven.”

  For the briefest of moments, a pained anguish burst through the woman’s anger. She looked away from Crazy Raccoon, and when she turned back again, all emotion was gone.

  “Stupid fucking Shaven,” Crazy Raccoon muttered, shuffling away from her. “You had your chance. Just die, or get out of the city.”

  A larger shaft of light broke through the darkness, signifying that the main door to the cell had opened. Crazy Raccoon squinted through the half-light, and caught a glimpse of yellow on the newcomer’s arm.

  “About fucking time,” Crazy Raccoon muttered as he stood up. Unsure on his feet, he walked over the bodies towards the Paw who the constables had let in. He recognised Colossal Newt by the greens and yellows of his mask.

  “What took the Turtle so long?” Crazy Raccoon grunted, shielding his eyes from the light as they exited to the street. “Constables usually send word as soon as they take one of us in.”

  Colossal Newt looked awkward, not sure how to properly address Crazy Raccoon. “He ain’t happy at the moment. Not your biggest fan right now.”

  Crazy Raccoon laughed, and wiped off some of the muck of the cells from his boot. “Aw, he’ll be fine soon enough. He’s used to my little indiscretions.”

  Colossal Newt said nothing, but continued to look uneasy as they made their way across the city.

  A quarter of an hour later, they arrived at the Paws’ headquarters. Galloping Turtle and a good portion of the Paws high command waited for them on the steps. As Newt had promised, Galloping Turtle did not look best pleased.

  Crazy Raccoon smiled, and stepped forward to address the stable master, arms raised. “You put on this show for me? Come on, Galloping Turtle, let’s kiss and make up. You didn’t give me my lick, I made a small mess for you to clean up.”

  “Do you remember what happened to you last night?”

  Crazy Raccoon screwed up his face. “You know what I’m like when I’m in my cups. Broke a few noses, I guess. Drank more than my fair share. You know what it’s like.”

  “You got into a fight.”

  “So?” Crazy Raccoon grinned, catching the eyes of the other Paws. None of them smiled back. A few o
f them looked worried, but more of them seemed… sad? Disappointed? “Not unusual for a Bravador to knock a few heads together when they’re angry. It’s our right, as protectors of Espadapan. Am I right, boys?” Crazy Raccoon’s attempt to play the crowd fell on deaf ears.

  “You got into a fight,” Galloping Turtle repeated, “and you drew your blade.”

  Crazy Raccoon laughed again, doing his best to dismiss the memory of Galloping Turtle’s command last night. “Well, that’s what it’s there for.”

  “You lost.”

  Crazy Raccoon’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto Galloping Turtle. The old man was deadly serious. An icy pang began to well up from Crazy Raccoon’s innards. “No,” Crazy Raccoon said, shaking his head, “that can’t be right. I never lose. Everyone knows I never lose.”

  In the corner of his eye, Crazy Raccoon fancied that he could see the ghost of Restless Hawk, his former stable master, shaking her head at him, waving the brown and white feathers of her mask in disappointment. You’ve done it now, she seemed to be saying. You let them find out.

  “Now they know you do lose. Half the Bravadori in the city have heard about it already. The rest will know by sundown, the way the rumour is spreading.”

  Trying to not let his hands start shaking, Crazy Raccoon brought them up to his face, mopping his brow. “How many were there? How many of the bastards jumped me?”

  Finally, Galloping Turtle smiled. “One.”

  “No. Not just one.”

  The leader of the Paws stepped down from the porch, fully grinning now. “She was a common whore, Crazy Raccoon. You refused to pay her, so she drew her blade on you.”

  “Dull your blade, you’re lying.”

  “She drew her blade, disarmed you, and beat you in front of a tavern of Storks. From what I hear, it was hilarious.”

  Crazy Raccoon was shaking. He looked at the growing crowd of Paws, and saw the smiles on their faces. They thought it was funny. They were laughing at him.