The man inched forward before pausing halfway through the gate to let it all absorb. He shook his head in bewilderment. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and I’ve seen a lot.”
The gatekeeper released a heavy sigh. “In or out—er—wot’s yer name?” Up close, the gatekeeper could see that the man was a youth, probably no older than eighteen. He could also count the freckles on his face.
Scratching the back of his neck, the boy said, “I don’t really have a name. They’ve just been calling me Mongrel.”
“Mongrel?” The gatekeeper quirked his brow as he produced a notepad from seemingly nowhere and jotted it down. He dreaded the answer he would receive for the next question: “’Ave you any identification or papers, Mongrel?”
“What are those?” He cocked his head.
“That answers me question.” The gatekeeper sighed and put the notepad away. “Things’re goin’ to be difficult for you ’round ’ere without papers.”
“Why?”
“You need papers to get a job, buy property, take out a loan,” said the gatekeeper. “I doubt any bank ’ere will do business wif you.”
“Bank?”
“Never mind.” The gatekeeper dismissed the thought with the wave of his hand. Then he remembered his prize. “Just give me the jackalope, and you’ll be on yer way.”
“Sure . . .” Mongrel hesitated before handing it over. The gatekeeper snatched it out of his hands and tucked it under his arm.
“Well met, Mongrel.” He extended his hand.
Mongrel tilted his head. “I don’t have anything else to give you.”
“Forget it,” he mumbled, putting his hand away. “Just come on in.”
He ushered Mongrel through the gate before the portcullis came down. Mongrel jumped back and watched, hackles raised, as the great wooden door closed behind him.
Mongrel let out a low whistle, pulled out an arrow from his quiver, and used it to scratch his back before returning it. The gatekeeper eyed him suspiciously. “Tell me, Mongrel, was it? Where did you say you were from?
“I didn't say.”
“Right, right. So mebbe you could tell me—”
“What’s that amazing smell?”
“Dunno. Could be a number of things.” He didn't bother sniff the air. Between the animal farms and the meat processing plants, there wasn’t a breath of fresh air in the city. Not to mention all the air pollution. Of course, the creek was a factor for sure. But naming the origin of the smell was pointless really. The city always stank. “Whot yer prolly smellin’ is the slaughterhouse. Don’t worry, yer nose’ll numb to it soon enough.”
“Slaughterhouse?”
“It’s just as the bloody name implies.”
“Oh.” Mongrel made a thoughtful face. He sniffed the air. “Smells like ten different meats cooking at once.”
“I reckon it’s ’bout lunch time,” he said.
Mongrel licked his lips. “I haven't had meat in years.”
“Is that so?” said the gatekeeper, suspicions reignited. He retrieved the notepad and pen from somewhere within his doublet. “Where exactly did you—”
When he looked up, the boy was gone.
“Ey, come back ’ere! I’m not finished wif you!”
But Mongrel didn’t pay him any heed. The scent of meat led him into the street, right into the path of oncoming traffic.
“Watch it!” The gatekeeper called as a horse-drawn carriage came rambling toward him. The crossing guard blew her whistle and held out one white-gloved hand, but Mongrel continued, as though hypnotized, into the path of the carriage. The gatekeeper closed his eyes, too squeamish to watch. But he could hear the skid of the wheels, the shriek of the horse, and the crash of the carriage at the moment of impact. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see Mongrel unharmed on the other side of the street. A patrolman was waiting for him.
Just walk away, the gatekeeper told himself. Pretend you didn’t see it. But something drove him across the street. By the time he reached Mongrel, the patrolman was scratching away at his little notebook.
“That’s one citation for jaywalking. And another for walking without appropriate footwear.” The patrolman tore off two slips of paper and handed them to Mongrel. “Identification, please.”
“I don’t have any,” said Mongrel. Then he spotted the gatekeeper. “That guy knows who I am.” He pointed at him. “He’ll speak for me.”
Too late to turn around now.
“It’s all right; ’e’s me stepbrother’s insane second cousin,” he told the patrolman. “Twice removed,” he added for good measure.
“That so?” The patrolman smirked. He tore off another slip and handed it to Mongrel. “Then maybe you can explain to him why it’s illegal to carry one or more weapons without a permit.”
“Will do, officer. Thank you very much.” The gatekeeper took Mongrel by the shoulders and led him away. When they were out of earshot, he leaned in and whispered, “Wot did I say ’bout them papers?”
Mongrel didn’t hear him. Instead, he stared, dumbfounded, at the slips in his hand. His brow furrowed as he struggled to process what just happened. He shook his head. “I don’t understand why I need papers to carry my weapons. And why does one person get to decide who can cross the street and when? And why does everyone follow those narrow, painted lines? It’s not natural.”
“Some o’ the things we do ’round ’ere don’t make a lot o’ sense, but the rules’re the rules, so you’d better folla them unless you wanna find yerself in the stocks.”
Mongrel cocked his head.
“Forget it,” he said, then a thought came to mind. “Say, I’ll bet yer ’ankering for a good meal. ’Ow ’bout we grab some grub? My treat.” He nudged Mongrel with his elbow.
Mongrel perked at the mention of food.
“C’mon.” The gatekeeper led him down the sidewalk to the nearest ride-thru window. He read the street menu until a woman popped her head out and asked to take his order.
“I’ll have the bucket o’ meat,” he said and then turned to Mongrel. “What’ll you ’ave? Giblets? Gizzards? They’ve got great chicken wings ’ere.”
“I don’t know. What would you suggest?” Mongrel scanned the hand-drawn images of meat, overwhelmed by the variations of chicken alone. His eyes watered. “All of it.”
“’E’ll ’ave a number seven,” the gatekeeper said.
Tilting his head, Mongrel asked, “What’s a number seven?”
“You’ll like it. It’s got beef in it,” he said and stepped up to the next window to pay.
“What’s beef?”
“Meat.” The gatekeeper took his change and led Mongrel up to another window, where they received their orders in two paper sacks.
“’Ere you go.” He passed one sack back to Mongrel, who was disappointed to find his food wrapped in more paper. He hastily removed the paper to find a hunk of beef wrapped in some kind of flat bread. He took a bite. A tear rolled down his cheek.
The gatekeeper laughed. “Tastes right, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Mongrel said between bites. “It tastes right.”
The gatekeeper watched as Mongrel horked the rest of his wrap. He was reminded of a dog devouring its meal.
“So, Mongrel,” he said, crumpling the paper wrapper in his hand and tossing it aside. “Do you ’ave any idea where yer goin’?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in a human city before.”
Was he serious? The gatekeeper stared at him a moment before saying, “If I were you, the first thing I’d do is find me a job.”
“Job?” Mongrel wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then licked it clean. “What’s a job?”
He was serious.
“It’s ’ow yer goin’ to get the money to pay for all o’ those tickets,” said the gatekeeper, chuckling.
“How do I get one of these jobs?”
“Yer kiddin’ me?” He stared at Mongrel in disbelief. “
Right, listen up. At the end o’ this street, there’s a staffin’ agency.” He pointed the way. “Tell them yer lookin’ for work. They’ll find an openin’ that suits you.”
“Great, thanks a lot,” said Mongrel, standing.
The gatekeeper nodded, his mouth too full of chicken to speak. At last he choked it down and said, “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Mongrel. “What’s luck?”
“Forget it.”
Mongrel followed the gatekeeper’s directions to the staffing agency. Inside he found a single employee sitting behind an old wooden desk, glowering over a display of brochures, pamphlets, and office supplies. Mongrel found it an unwelcoming place, especially when the employee didn’t offer him a greeting, just a flitting glance in his direction that quickly turned into a glare.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here for a job,” he said, stepping up to her desk and resting his hands upon its top. The woman scowled as the desk shook beneath his weight, causing the items atop it to scatter. With meticulous care, she put them all back into place.
“Oh, really?” She raised one thinly tweezed eyebrow and pulled out a clipboard. Attached to it was a sheet of paper with blank spaces all over it. “First, I’ll need some information for our files.”
“And then you’ll give me a job?” said Mongrel, straightening.
“Something like that.” The woman dipped her pen in the inkwell, twice for good measure. “First name?”
“Mongrel.”
She started to write it down, but paused. “Seriously?”
“That’s what they call me.”
“Last name?”
“I’ve only ever had the one.”
“I see.” She sighed and continued down the form. “Any prior work experience?”
“Oh, I’ve worked plenty,” said Mongrel. “When I was a boy, they had me down in the mines, mostly pulling mine carts and digging. I’m a good digger. I’m also good with dead animals. I know they’re for preserving, not for eating.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have any mines here,” she said. “And there are no openings in the guild for another taxidermist. Have you any experience in the slaughtering, packaging, or transportation of meat?”
“I’ve . . . eaten meat,” said Mongrel.
To this she had no response other than to stare at him blankly. Momentarily, she moved on to the next question. “Have you any experience in metalworking?”
“I’ve got a little.”
“Mhmm.” She made a note before glancing back up at Mongrel. “And are you the chosen one of a prophecy or the heir to any ancient blood lines?”
“Chosen one? Heir to a bloodline? What position is it you’re considering me for exactly?”
“Blacksmith,” she told him frankly. “The city is always in need of a new one.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Destiny,” she said. “It tends to latch itself on to young blacksmiths. Last one dumped the profession to become a dragon rider or something like that. The one before that was called upon to defeat a dark sorcerer. What’s your destiny?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think I have one to be honest.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said, filling in the rest of the sheet and tossing the clipboard aside. “The key’s under the mat. You can start first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you,” said Mongrel, then a thought came to mind. “Do you know anywhere I could stay the night?”
“Well, my husband likes to spend his nights at The Moose Tavern.” She huffed. “That is, when he’s not staying the night at The Pink Flamingo.”
“The Moose—where’s that at?”
She snorted. “Around the corner. There’s a big sign. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” he said, turning to leave.
“Oh, and while you’re there,” she called after him, “tell my husband to get his fat butt home!”
“I sure will,” he said, then paused in the doorway. “What’s his name?”
“His name is Willie,” she said flatly. “Willie Fisterbottom.”
The Moose Tavern was a welcome sight for Mongrel. The room was dimly lit, and the air was filled with the smells of sweat, cooked meat, and fermented drink. Mongrel licked his lips. Too long it had been since he’d last had a sip of ale. He stepped inside and found his way to the bar, circling three times before taking a seat at one of the wooden stools. Behind him, patrons shouted, made toasts, and slammed their arms on the wooden tables, all familiar sounds to Mongrel, who had spent a great deal of his childhood in the company of heavy drinkers.
“Wot’ll you ’ave, lad?” A man on the other side of the table came up to him, wiping a glass out with a dirty rag.
“I’ll have an ale,” said Mongrel happily. “And a plate of whatever meat you’re cooking up. Smells good.”
“Sure thing.” He spat into the mug and gave it another good hard wipe before holding it under the tap to fill it. Mongrel’s mouth watered as the froth spilled over the lip and down the side of the mug.
“Yer not from ’round ’ere, are you, lad?” the man asked Mongrel, sliding the mug over to him.
Mongrel leaned over the mug and lapped the froth on top with his tongue. Then he picked up the glass and tossed it back. When he had drained it entirely, he slammed the mug down onto the table and belched loudly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
The man snorted. “That answers me question.”
“So, are you the man in charge of this place?” asked Mongrel as the man took his mug and refilled it.
“I’m the barkeep if that’s wot you mean. ’Ere.” He set the mug down in front of him. Mongrel drained it in two gulps.
“Do you have any available beds?”
“It depends.” The man looked both ways before continuing, “What’re you lookin’ to spend?”
“Nothing fancy. I’m not a picky guy.”
“Then you’ll want to speak to Millie.” The barkeep gestured to a young woman with heavy black curls and a plummeting neckline. “She offers the fairest prices for her services.”
“I don’t need services, just a bed.”
“In that case, Luanda might be more up yer alley,” said the barkeep in reference to the strawberry blonde standing next to Millie. Then he lowered himself over the table and said more quietly, “Just steer clear o’ Alice.”
“Why?”
“Trust me, lad, you don’t want wot she’s offerin’.”
“Oh, okay.” Mongrel nodded, imagining the sorry state of the rooms she offered. “This place sure has a lot of landlords.” Then he remembered. “Oh, I was supposed to pass along a message for a guy named Willie.”
“Wot’s that?” The barkeep asked, taking back the empty mug and holding it under the tap.
“His wife said he needs to get his butt home.”
“Willie, eh?” He shook his head. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Wot’s the last name?”
“Fisterbottom,” said Mongrel, causing the barkeep to frown.
“So yer that kind o’ drunk, eh?” he said flatly, drawing ale from the keg. Once full, he passed the mug to Mongrel, who accepted it graciously.
“Drunk? Not me.” Mongrel laughed. “It’d take a lot more than this to get me drunk. This one time—” He paused when the waitress brought out his plate. “Hold that thought.”
He plowed into the plate, shoveling meat and mashed potatoes into his mouth with his hands. Then, remembering his manners, he took up the cutlery even though it slowed him down. He was so busy working on his plate he did not even notice when a man sat down in the seat next to him.
“So, Mongrel was it?”
He turned at the sound of a familiar voice.
“Hello, gatekeeper,” he said with his mouth full.
“Jared, actually,” said the gatekeeper. “Funny runnin’ into you again, eh?”
“Do you live here?” Mongrel asked to the man’s amusement.
“’E might as well,” the barkeep piped in. Then to Jared, he asked. “The usual?”
“Sure,” he replied.
“Payin’ in cash tonight, or is that goin’ on yer tab?”
“The tab, o’ course,” he said before turning back to Mongrel. “So, any luck findin’ yerself a job?”
Mongrel nodded. “I start tomorrow, actually, as a blacksmith.”
“That’s great.” Jared smirked. “Though to be honest, I didn’t take you for a chosen one.”
Mongrel cocked his head.
“Never mind,” Jared said as his drink was brought to him. After a few sips, he turned his attention back to Mongrel. “So wot’s the story behind the rabbit?”
“No story, really.” Mongrel shrugged. “It was just something a friend and I put together, as a joke sort of.”
“Right, right.” Jared nodded thoughtfully. Then, from somewhere behind him, he produced the rabbit head and, after some internal tussling, handed it back to Mongrel. “’Ere take it. It’s yers.”
“Thank you,” he said, accepting it. He admired it briefly before slipping it into his satchel for safekeeping. “You don’t know what that means to me.”
“I can ’azard it means a lot,” said Jared. “Sounds like you and this friend ’ad a lot o’ fun together, eh?”
He screwed up his face. “Well, we weren’t friends exactly. We just sort of lived together for a time. You see, I lived with this tanner, Galaeron. Laerilas was his grandchild.”
Jared quirked his brow, so Mongrel explained, “They found me in the woods after the dwarves kicked me out of the mines when I was a boy. Armed with nothing but an axe—”
“Wait a minute,” Jared cut in. “Wot’s all this ’bout dwarves?”
“I was raised by dwarves,” said Mongrel to Jared’s amazement. “That is, until I got too big for the mines, plus I was sneaking outside all the time for fresh air—and to chase goats. Have you ever chased goats?”
“Can’t say I ’ave.”
“That’s a shame. It’s tons of fun.”
“So ’ow did you come to live with the dwarves?”
“Well, dwarves have this bad habit of striking first and never asking, so when they found me in the wolf’s den—”
The Wizard's Gambit Page 3
