Jorge’s eyes widened, and so did his smile. “Right. I see. Listen, I don’t know how else to do this. It’s just my friends and I, we’ve not seen someone like you before. There’re plenty of girls in the village, and they’re nice. But it doesn’t take that long to get to know them all. So, me and the lads, we spoke to your friends, and they agreed that I can go first.”
They spoke to my friends? Yizel’s eyes narrowed. “Go first?”
The man was clearly embarrassed now. “Go first, yeah. Go first, with you.”
“What do you mean?”
This time, the man laughed. “Well, you know, I thought we might head off somewhere together. I’ve never been with someone from the city before, and the big guy said you’d be up for it. Said I needed to tell you he said we had his permission. So, I’ve got his permission, so why don’t we head off and...” The man was looking at Yizel, and his embarrassed confidence wavered.
“He gave you his permission?” Yizel’s eyes narrowed to slits.
The grin died on Jorge’s face. “He can’t do that, can he?”
Yizel shook her head, eyes boring into the back of the man’s skull.
Jorge paled. “Queen’s tits, I’m so sorry. I should’ve realised. But, you know, we hear so many stories. About the city. And,” he indicated Yizel’s bald head, “Shaven people. You’re not the same as normal people. That’s what he said, and we’ve heard that before.”
Yizel stood up. Her hand went to her rapier. “Do you know what I would do if I was you?”
The man shook his head. His eyes were fixed on Yizel’s sword hand.
“I would get the fuck away from me.”
Jorge nodded. “That sounds like a really good idea.” Eyes still on the sword, the man stumbled backwards, then turned and ran towards his friends.
In a rage, Yizel could not sit still. She scanned the party, looking for Crazy Raccoon. He was no longer dancing around the bonfire. Perhaps he had convinced the Wildwoman to take him to bed. A movement to the west of the party betrayed his location. Clearly having walked away to relieve himself, Crazy Raccoon was slowly stumbling back to the crowd.
Yizel marched across to him, each step ploughing into the Wildland dirt, anger and frustration flowing into the land around her. The Bravador saw her only seconds before she reached him. Yizel placed both hands on his chest and pushed him to the ground.
“You don’t fucking own me. You can’t give me away. Nobody is paying me to be here. I ran after the Cadejo by myself.”
The Bravador smiled, pushed himself off the ground, and smashed his fist into Yizel’s eye. She fell with a short grunt, and Crazy Raccoon jumped on top of her. His bulk holding her to the floor, he landed two more blows to her face, each impact spurting blood from her mouth. Between each of the pounds, she saw the light from the fire reflected in his eyes.
After the blows, Yizel lay still, head reeling from the impact. Crazy Raccoon leaned in closer, the fetid stench of alcohol from his breath making her stomach clench.
“I’ve paid you. I don’t care that we’re not in the city. I’m a Bravador, you’re a Shaven. If I tell you to do something, you do it. You get to accompany us by my good grace and nothing else. I do not want you fucking this up for me. So, if I think that screwing a man will give us some ground, you will go and fuck him like it’s your wedding night.”
Crazy Raccoon patted Yizel on the cheek, picked himself up, and made his way back to the firelight.
She turned in the dirt to watch him go. Nobody seemed to have noticed what had happened between them, but they all cheered when Crazy Raccoon returned to the circle.
Groaning, Yizel picked herself up. She should have used her blade. She should have stuck it in the fat pig before he even knew she was there.
She shook her head. But then where would they be? The villagers would run her and Starving Pup back to the city, and Yizel would lose her only chance to be part of something like this.
She spat blood, and sat staring at the dark stain it left on the Wildland dirt. Why did she want to be part of this, anyway? It would not make a difference to her life, even if they were successful. Crazy Raccoon would never think of her as anything other than scum. Starving Pup was halfway to believing it as well. Even this far from Espadapan, the common Wildfolk knew how to treat her. What was the point of risking her life, if she was not going to change it?
She stepped forward, and stopped at the sound of her full purse jingling at her belt.
There, that’s what’ll make a difference to me. Her hand reached down to feel the full weight of the coins again. I’ll never stop them from hating me, but by Alfrond’s cock I’ll milk this quest for as much as I can if it means never having to work for the Bravadori again.
Face aching, not wanting to return to the party, Yizel looked for somewhere to hole up for the night. Other than the lights around the bonfire, the only illumination in the village came from the doorway of Tomas’ home.
Head still swimming from the pounding Crazy Raccoon had given it, Yizel hobbled towards the doorway the light was coming from. Clearly Tomas’ wife was not attending the festivities. Why would she? Today, her life had been ruined, her husband returned to her, a puppet with no strings. She would be tending to him now, trying to come to terms with the dismal future she had left. The door was open, and Yizel stood in it for only a few moments. Tomas was there, sitting on a chair beside the hearth, blankets draped around his legs. Beside him, on the floor, sat his wife. She glanced at Yizel when she entered the doorway, and the Wildwoman’s face soured at the sight of her.
“Go away.”
Of course the woman hated her, Yizel was one of the three people responsible for the fate of her husband.
“He was brave.” Yizel should have left, but her head was swimming through a mix of beer and pain, and she wanted the woman to know what had happened. “He was brave, but he was also foolish.” For a brief moment, a look of anger crossed Tomas’ wife’s face. Then, her visage turned to that of grief and she nodded her head, stroking her husband’s knee. “That sounds like him. That sounds like my Tomas.”
Her face throbbing now, Yizel stepped inside. She was aware of how cold it had become since night had fallen, and the heat from Tomas’ fire was appealing. “He was trying to save a child. There was no child, but he thought he was doing what was right. He had been warned, but I guess he just couldn’t leave a child out there in the dark.”
Tomas’ wife nodded again, and began to cry. Yizel shifted awkwardly as the Wildwoman tried to regain control of her grief. As if aware of the city woman’s discomfort, Tomas’ wife indicated the fire, silently inviting her to come closer.
Yizel did so, sitting on her knees in front of the flames. Tomas’ wife stared at her, looking at the rising bruises on Yizel’s face.
“What happened there?”
Yizel tensed the muscles of her face, testing her injuries. She could feel the skin around her left eye swelling, realising it would probably be shut by the morning. She’d have to cut it open if she wanted the use of both her eyes tomorrow. “I got into an argument.”
Tomas’ wife’s eyes widened, but she did not voice her surprise.
“Some of the women in the village get into arguments with their husbands. Queen’s blessing, Tomas was not one of those men. I would often suggest they wear their hair to hide their marks, but I guess you can’t do that.”
Yizel ran a hand over her shaven pate. She had run a blade over it yesterday morning, but could already feel the stubble forming again.
“No, no hair to hide the bruises.”
“Funny way to look. A city thing, is it? Wouldn’t catch any of the Wildfolk cutting all their hair off. Not even the men.”
Yizel was surprised. “I... I am Shaven,” she said, as if that should be explanation enough. People outside of the city had heard of the Bravadori. Surely they had all heard of the Shaven as well.
The confusion on Tomas’ wife face told Yizel otherwise.
“Is that, is that like being a Bravador?”
Yizel laughed. She could not help herself, and was surprised at the noise her throat was able to make. “No. Nothing like them. Almost the opposite, in fact.”
“You wouldn’t catch me dead cutting my hair off, no matter the reason.”
Yizel stared into the fire. “I didn’t do it. Not the first time. Four others grabbed me in the street, and chopped it off for me. Three women, and a man. I’ve kept it clean ever since. Didn’t want to give them the chance to do that again.”
Tomas’ wife was horrified. “What? Why would they do that?”
“Because I’d lost my honour. I should have done it myself. I knew it was going to happen. I was already Shaven then, in name. Should have known it wouldn’t even take a day before somebody made me Shaven by sight as well.”
Tomas’ wife shook her head. “What is this, Shaven? You lost your honour?” The woman lowered her voice. “Did you do something horrible?”
Yizel, still looking at the glowing embers, nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
In the silence that continued, in the heat of the fire, Yizel was taken back to that day. The day on which she should have become the leader of the Whispering Mice. There, in the flames, she saw the body of her former stable master, Yizel’s own knife in the man’s back. She saw the hungry grin on her face, and she saw the long shadow cast by her companion, fellow plotter, and closest friend, Sinister Crow.
With the stable master dead, the position was Yizel’s by right. She was the older of the two, she was the most accomplished. Furthermore, Sinister Crow had promised the position would be hers.
But that did not stop her friend from betraying her.
“Murderer!” Sinister Crow had shouted down the corridor, bringing other members of the Mice running.
Yizel had been shocked, but looking back, she should not have been. Anyone wanting to lead a Bravador stable should expect competition, should expect foul play from those with ambition. But she had not expected her closest friend to turn on her. They had planned the assassination together, and both had known the stakes. To be caught intentionally killing another Bravador would mean the loss of their masks. However, the others who first arrived on the scene instantly took Sinister Crow’s side, believing her claims that she had caught Yizel in the act of killing their former leader. The scheming woman had clearly bought these witnesses in advance. She had planned for everything. Everything except for Yizel’s anger. They had both known that Sinister Crow had a stronger Knack for swordplay and duelling, and so Sinister Crow had never expected Yizel to fight her. The sparks of the fire cracked, and Yizel flinched at the phantom memory of the blade that pierced her gut just moments after the duel had begun. She closed her eyes at the gasps from the crowd, at the voices that only that morning had belonged to her friends, voices that would never be friendly for her again. As she knelt there, putting pressure on the wound, stopping the flow of blood, her friend Sinister Crow, Dielena, the new leader of the Whispering Mice, had walked up silently to Yizel and ripped her Bravador mask from her face. The two of them never spoke again, not until a few weeks ago when Yizel had been brought before her.
“I killed a man for no reason other than to take his place. But that is not why I am Shaven, not really. I fought my friend, and I lost. That is why I fell.”
Tomas’ wife said nothing, and Yizel finally looked away from the fire to see the Wildwoman’s reaction. Exhausted, overcome with the emotions of the day, the woman was asleep, her head lying on her husband’s lap.
Exhausted herself, trying not to think about the day that was to come, Yizel lay in front of the hearth like a family dog, and welcomed the oblivion of sleep.
Crazy Raccoon woke himself up with his own grunts. He blinked a couple of times, staring at the roughly plastered ceiling above him, trying to remember where he was. His hand reached up to his face, confirming his mask was still on. His touch wandered away from himself and came into contact with warm flesh lying close by. Somewhere in the room there must have been a window, because early morning light was starting to filter through. As his eyes adjusted to the half-light, he could see the woman lying next to him, and his mouth curled into a grin at the memories that began to flood back. His head had a dull ache, his stomach was nicely filled, and he had spent the first night in a very long time with a woman he had not paid for. He stared at her, squinting in the fading darkness, trying to remember her name, but failing. She was nicely plump, still naked, face turned away from him. Her dark hair spread out on the pillow like thirsty tree roots.
Queen’s tits, but last night was good. Finally, I’ve found people who know how to show me some respect.
Crazy Raccoon sat up, scanning the room for his clothes. The woman - Carlotta, possibly - had been shy to begin with, but once they had been left alone for a few minutes she had assured him she knew exactly what to do with a man in her room. Crazy Raccoon smiled again, and began to pick up his things, trying to disturb his companion as little as possible. He had managed to pull his trousers on and was doing up his shirt when he noticed the child sitting on a stool in the corner of the room.
“Shit.” Crazy Raccoon was not used to dealing with children. Usually, in the city, they ran away at first sight of him. “Shit.”
The boy did not seem to be put off by Crazy Raccoon’s presence. Neither did he seem to be put off by the Bravador’s swearing. Crazy Raccoon looked at the woman in the bed then back to the boy. Her son?
The child gave a grin. He motioned conspiratorially for Crazy Raccoon to follow him, and the boy tiptoed outside the cottage. Taking one final look at the woman in the bed, Crazy Raccoon did up the last of his buttons, and followed the child.
The boy was sitting on another stool outside of the house.
Crazy Raccoon looked down at him. “So, um, that your mother in there?”
The boy nodded, staring up at Crazy Raccoon, still grinning.
“How long were you watching?” Crazy Raccoon couldn’t remember Carlotta ever mentioning a child. He certainly did not remember a child at any point last night. However, he had had a lot to drink.
“A while,” the boy said. “You’re a masked man. Everyone’s been talking about the masked men who came to save us. Wait till they hear I had breakfast with one.”
At the mention of breakfast, Crazy Raccoon was surprised to find his stomach yearning for it, despite the fact it was still heavy with last night’s feast. As if in response to Crazy Raccoon’s thoughts, the boy pulled out two corncakes, and offered one to the older man. Crazy Raccoon gladly took it, sat on a grain sack close to the boy, and began to eat. As he tucked into the cold leftovers the boy had smuggled from last night’s festivities, Crazy Raccoon gave another scan of the village. The tables from the feast were still there, littered with a collection of cutlery. Some resourceful soul had managed to kill the fire before retiring to bed, possibly saving the village from the stupidest disaster in the history of the Wildlands. Other than that, despite the sun threatening to peek over the nearby cliffs, there was no movement in the village, save for a domestic dog wandering around the feast tables. The village, much like Crazy Raccoon himself, was probably in sore need of recovery after the night before.
“Why do you wear them?”
Crazy Raccoon looked at the boy, his face a question.
“The mask,” the boy said. “I mean, I like it, but it’s a bit weird. Why’d you wear them?”
Crazy Raccoon smiled and nodded. “We’ve all got our different reasons. Some Bravadori tell stories with their masks. My colleague, Starving Pup, you seen his?”
The boy nodded.
“Every speck of blood on his mask represents a man he’s killed. Lots of Bravadori do things like that. A feather for every duel won, a mark for every sword broken, which is a load of rubbish by the way because nobody breaks a sword. But mine, mine is a bit different.”
The boy had forgotten his breakfast. Crazy Raccoon was pleased to see the child was focussed on
his every word.
“My mask is a warning. My mask is me. Everyone in the city knows my mask, and what it means.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means, there’s that crazy bastard, run the hell away from him. Better run, or bad things will happen. People see this mask, and they know one thing. They know that I’m the best.”
The boy’s eyes were wide, and a smile slowly spread across his face. “I think I want a mask like yours.”
“That’s what they all say, boy. But you can’t have one like mine. Got to find one of your own.”
The boy was puzzled, and a bit disappointed. “Why can’t I have one like yours?”
“I already told you, wearing this mask means you’re the best. Only one person can be the best, and that’s me. My mask.
“Now, time to live up to the stories. Let’s find out where my companions are holed up for the night, then let’s go kill some bandits and save this sorry little shit hole you call home.”
As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan
It only takes dedication and a pure heart to achieve something amazing.
Roaming Iguana was a member of the Friendly Crickets. He had trained hard to develop his Knack, and in return he was allowed to join one of Espadapan’s most prestigious Bravador stables. Roaming Iguana was, however, a dreamer. His colleagues would often laugh at him when hired for guard duty, for he was the worst of their number to choose for such a role, his mind drifting off when allowed even a minute to play by itself.
“Give me action,” he joked sheepishly to the other Bravadori, when they jeered at him for drifting off. “Give me action, and I will amaze you. But do not ask me to sit here and waste my life away staring at nothing.”
Like many of the famous Bravadori, the Friendly Crickets often took out contracts to defend the small settlements that neighboured the City of Swords. So it was that Roaming Iguana was part of a group of swordsmen hired to protect a cattle estate, two day’s journey from Espadapan’s gates.
Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel Page 19
