by Rick Johnson
“One on one? Double-teaming? What on earth are you talking about?” Tē’d’Tē asked.
“Just watch, and see what happens now,” Currie replied. “Have some Herbal Rump Barbs and enjoy the race. You’ll see how things work soon enough.”
Although the trallés moved slowly, the strength and power of their majestic movement, and the mysterious atmosphere of the arena, was weirdly entertaining. Tē’d’Tē found herself being drawn into the experience. Soon she was screaming, swaying to and fro, and muching Herbal Rump Barbs by the handful, like everyone else. The only annoying aspect was that, as the action picked up, Knuckles cracked incessantly.
“As I said,” Currie explained, “trallé racing is not about speed, but strength and spectacle. Watch. Trallés are trained to clash with their massive foreheads. All the pushing and shoving is about trying to tire out your adversary. They go at it head to head until one of them weakens and gives way. The first one to break past its adversary, and get to the finish line, wins. No trallé can win without first pushing its way past an adversay.”
Watching the race unfold, Tē’d’Tē noticed that the Gootmos used every conceivable means to urge on their trallé—shouting, stroking their heads, slapping their shells, rubbing their necks, singing. All the while, they were also striking at the opposing Gootmo with long sticks covered with goo.
“Those are Gooter sticks,” Currie said. “The goo on the stick is made from super-hot peppers—hot enough to blister the skin and sizzle right through fur. But snakeskin is impervious to the stuff, so the suits protect most of the Gootmo’s body. It takes skill to keep urging your trallé forward, while trying to hit one of the small holes in your rival’s suit with goo, and fending off similar attacks from him. The goo doesn’t wash off easily, and continues to burn for up to an hour. So while there’s no permanent effect, as long as the goo is active, it’s very painful. If a gootmo gets stuck with enough goo, he’s eventually distracted so much he loses his focus. The trallé notices the loss of encouragement, and often turns away from the contest. If that happens, the race is over for that team. So Gootmos are very important to race strategy.”
As the race unfolded, rival trallés approached one another warily, looking at each other with calm stares. As they closed in on one another, they gradually lowered heads and met forehead to forehead.
Starting slowly, gradually they threw every ounce of strength into the struggle, at last fiercely pounding heads against each other. The struggle went on for a long time, with the rivals displaying immense strength. Tē’d’Tē was also amazed at the skill and cunning used in trying to outmaneuver the challenger. One trallé would lose ground, and be almost forced aside by its opponent, then rally, or apply some cunning trick to regain its place in the struggle. And so the various struggles went on for more than an hour—back and forth, the mighty warriors snorting, whistling, growling, groaning, neck veins bulging out like water hoses.
When one of the tortoises finally pushed past its rival, and made its way through a silver gateway to the finish line, cheering and applause exploded through the arena. “Wrapper Doodle did it!” Currie exploded, slapping Tē’d’Tē and Knuckles on their backs. That’s the best he’s ever run! He’ll be in the Hall of Chargers one day, just you watch!” Unfortunately for Tē’d’Tē, Side Slapper finished far back. But she did not particularly care at the moment, so caught up was she in the exhuberant spirit of the event.
When the last of the trallés had crossed through the silver gateway, or withdrawn from the contest, the flames surrounding the pool of boiling water gradually lowered to a dim flicker, and a hush fell over the arena.
Then the boiling pool began glowing and bubbling furiously, and the surface swelled upward. The water heaved, sending waves spilling outward, as if something submerged was rising to the surface. A melodious sound was heard, and as every beast in the arena held its breath in anticipation, a brilliantly lit, circular crystal enclosure broke the surface. A tuxedoed Coyote sat on a platform inside the enclosure’s dome, playing a beautiful grand piano. A blazing candelabra lit the crystal dome with sparling light.
When the platform had risen to a level a few inches above the boiling pool, invisible seams in the crystal dome separated. The dome split apart into a number of petals that opened outward, much like the petals of a flower. Within seconds, the Coyote, who had continued to play without interruption, was seated with the piano at the center of a glistening flower. His fingers ran across the keyboard with superb skill, and lovely, powerful music filled the arena. Tē’d’Tē involuntarily gasped.
The spectacle was not yet complete, however. High above the arena, a brilliant light appeared, as if the noonday sun had suddenly risen in the darkness. From that dazzling point of illumination, suspended high above the piano by invisible wires, was Wrapper Doodle, the winner of the evening’s race, and his Gootmo. In awe-struck silence, the huge crowd honored the champions, as the Coyote played thunderously on the piano.
“Silverpreen at it’s most spectacular,” Currie laughed. Knuckles cracked in agreement. With steam drifting around the Coyote in his surreal location, the gigantic tortoise and his Gootmo suspended in brilliant light, beautiful music echoing through the arena, and memories of the general strangeness of the evening, Tē’d’Tē had to agree that she’d never seen such a spectacle.
The Master of the Fleet
Nearly running down the stairway, Tē’d’Tē pulled up at the bottom, panting. She arrived just seconds before she saw her Bison Guides approaching. “I may have overslept, but at least I beat those hairy laptoads here,” she smiled. Returning late from the previous night’s racing, she had dropped off to sleep while arguing with Currie and Knuckles. She awoke, still slumped in a sitting position on the floor, leaning against several boxes of Moantraz Lotion, a sought after body oil guaranteed to grow fur in imaginary places.
After returning to Currie’s flat after the races, Tē’d’Tē had spent several hours foaming, raging, roaring, shaking with anger, as she tried to convince the Hare and Wolverine that things were terribly wrong in Silverpreen.
“So you think we should mount some great protest, do you?” Currie had said with a smile. “You really think that I would give up all that I have, and want to have, because some dim-witted Weasel shows up and foams at the mouth? Come, come, Weasel—if you think that, you’re even more vaguely smart than I thought.”
Tē’d’Tē had finally lapsed into silence and sat brooding far into the night. She did not know when she fell asleep, but she awakened late, and had to run hard to be at the meeting place on time.
When the Bison Guides walked up to Tē’d’Tē, they didn’t say so much as, ‘Hello.’ They simply nodded and motioned for her to follow them. Heading off to Tē’d’Tē’s workplace, they walked through the bustling crowds that she now knew well. After walking what she guessed was perhaps half an hour, the Bison turned down a nearly deserted corridor. Once in the corridor, they proceeded for another good bit of time. At last, they came to an unmarked door that stood alone at the end of the corridor. One of the Bison produced a key and opened the door.
“All right, Weasel,” the Bison said, “the underground ends at the waterfront, so we’ll be goin’ outside the rest of the way. The streets here are for Silvers and Preens—not for the likes of you—so, before we go outside, there’s some things you need to know.
Keep your eyes on the ground. They don’t want you lookin’ at ’em.
Slump your shoulders so they can see you know your place.
See the world from their point of view. You’re scum and they don’t want to be around you any more than they have to be.
If someone speaks to you, be polite, even if it’s a bodyguard beating the pulp out of you.
Is that understood?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Tē’d’Tē growled.
“Try harder then, Weasel,” the Bison scowled.
“Well,” Tē’d’Tē responded, after a pause, “I guess I see your p
oint. You mean you’ve got your foot on my neck, and if I keep licking your big fat boots, you’ll let me continue to breathe.”
“I see you do understand,” said the Bison. “I don’t want to see even your shadow anywhere near the dazzling ones outside this door.”
Tē’d’Tē cut her eyes in disgust, muttering, “I’ll take a good look at anything I like.” The Bison did not reply, and pushed the door open. Stepping outside, she was hit with a blast of fresh air! Sunshine! Sucking in like a famished beast, she pulled in great lungfuls of the softly pleasant, salty air. Looking about, she found that they were at the edge of a business area near the waterfront.
Although the crowds were nothing like the crush of beasts below ground, a number of fancy beasts were strolling the street. Their appearance was, indeed, dazzling—at least in some sense of the word. Hair of every kind was frizzled, powdered, greased, shaped, piled, and streaked with colors. Every beast’s complexion was stretched, sanded, scented, waxed, and pounded to look just so. Everyone seemed to have had their body put as it should have been: fixed to enlarge or implant something, or preserved as a photo of what was. And such exquisite gewgaws and trinkets! Every neck, it seemed, chinked, tinkled, or rattled with silver and gems. Every waist swished with fine chain, belts of pearls, and bejeweled bottles. The richly colored swirl of silk, fine linen, and silver-laced brocade was stunning by itself, but the kaleidoscope of chocolates and other sweets being consumed made the street into an exploding, scented rainbow.
The parade of the fancy finery, however, was nothing without the lizards. Pet lizards, with or without leashes, were everywhere. Big and small, low to the ground and high on legs, ruffled neck frills and smooth from nose to tail. All kinds of lizards, all carefully coddled and tended by their masters and mistresses.
Most were walked on gem-encrusted leashes, some were carried in handbags, others were wheeled in buggies. Lizards with painted toenails; others with specially curled tails. Hand-embroidered coats and leggings; dresses of feathers. Lizards here. Lizards there. Lizards everywhere. All dressed and tended as royalty.
“You’d be roasting on a spit where I come from,” Tē’d’Tē growled as she passed one particularly buffed and baubled lizard wearing stylish mother-of-pearl goggles and a beret. The words were hardly out of her mouth when an enormous Hog stepped in front of her. “What did you say?” the Hog demanded, swinging heavy wooden sticks connected by chain. “That’s my Owner’s family you’re insulting. An insult to any member of the family is an insult to me!”
“I didn’t say anything that I wouldn’t say again to a decent beast,” Tē’d’Tē answered, “but since there’s no decent beasts around, I think I’ll keep my comment to myself.”
What could have been an ugly confrontation ended swiftly, when a Bison Guide grabbed Tē’d’Tē’s arms, while another stuffed a bag over her head and pulled it tight around her neck.
“Now, Weasel,” one of the Bison snarled, “you’re in luck only because you’re under the protection of Owner One, and he’s got a special assignment for you. If it was not for that, we’d hold you still while the Hog taught you your place. Now, shut up and walk quietly with us. We’re almost there.”
Tē’d’Tē went quietly with the Bison as they walked the short remaining distance to a commercial building near the wharf. Pulling off the bag from Tē’d’Tē’s head, they led her into the building where a Raccoon stood behind a counter. The Bison wasted no time handing their charge off. “Flat Number 9CC437T99,” they announced, pointing at Tē’d’Tē.
“Would that be the Flat Number 9CC437T99, listed as Owner One Special Label #985, that I have on my list, here?” the Raccoon asked.
“One and the same,” the Bison replied.
“Would you like to leave her here with me?” the Raccoon asked.
The Bison did not reply, simply turning on their heels and leaving Tē’d’Tē with the Raccoon.
“Hello, friend, so you’re here to work for the Master, eh?” the Raccoon asked.
“I have no idea who I’m to work for,” Tē’d’Tē growled. “Since I’ve been brought here, I assume I’m supposed to be here. If you don’t know—”
“Oh, yes, I know,” the Raccoon laughed. “Forgive me the way I speak. I seem to state things as questions—bad habit I have. I suppose you’ll want to meet the Master of the Fleet?”
Tē’d’Tē smiled. “If you don’t mind, good beast—at least then I’ll get past your questions, which seems like progress just now.”
“Well, would you mind coming this way?” the Raccoon said.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Tē’d’Tē replied, wondering at the strange mixture of well-planned tyranny and laughable idiocy that seemed to be Silverpreen’s hallmark.
Showing the Weasel down a hallway to an office, the Raccoon said, “Would Flat Number 9CC437T99, listed as Owner One Special Label #985, be on your schedule this morning, Cap’t?”
“Yes, Pencilfire, you may leave us alone now,” said a large beast standing with his back turned at a bookcase. Tē’d’Tē scanned the room, eyeing furnishings and scattered books and papers, looking for clues to the identity of her new employer.
The deep voice somehow had a familiar sound to her ear. Peering closely at the beast, who was now walking toward her, she could tell little more. The fine, flowing gown worn by her host, fastened around the hips by a well-made belt, blurred the outline of the beast’s body. Similarly, a silk kerchief, worn at a skewed angel, hid half his face. Over the kerchief he wore a well-worn sea captain’s cap, pulled down snug. A pair of reading glasses hung on a chain from his neck. A tangled fall of unusual fiery red hair, so thick it concealed almost everything else above the neck, gave Tē’d’Tē her only other clue. She knew only one beast with hair like that.
“Well, Tē’d’Tē, I confess I was very surprised to see your name on Owner One’s guest list,” the beast said with a chuckle.
Tē’d’Tē gave her host a startled look. “Davison! Davison! You wild-eyed scurrilous excuse for a friend! You say you’re surprised! How must I feel?”
Throwing their arms around each other, the two beasts hugged fiercely, both breaking down with emotion. Tears flowed in the eyes of the friends, as they can only flow between those who have suffered much together. For several minutes they could not speak, simply clinging to one another.
Once they pulled themselves together, Tē’d’Tē ran her sleeve across her eyes and said, “I still can’t believe it’s you! What are you doing here?” Then, noticing a strange whiteness in one of her friend’s eyes and scars on his chin, she asked, “What happened to you? Are you all right?”
“Sailing’s a dangerous business, my fine friend, especially when you have to take on the High One’s armed payroll couriers to get a ship to sail!”
“What? You attacked royal couriers?” the Weasel exclaimed.
“Not exactly attacked them,” Davison replied with a smile, “it was more like they attacked me, but it came to the same in the end, I guess.”
“So, Klemés helps you escape from Tilk Duraow, and instead of just going home like a sensible beast, you rob royal couriers. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Sit down, Tē’d’Tē, and have some coffee. We’ve got some catching up to do,” Davison said, pulling back a chair for the Weasel.
After pouring coffee for himself and Tē’d’Tē, Davison continued. “Klemés arrived at Tilk Duraow after I was already there. When he showed up as a prisoner, I learned all that had happened at Norder Bay. And later, when he helped me escape, I intended to head back over there to look for my family. Seeking my way back home, I headed into the mountains, having heard that was the quickest way to reach the sea.
“I took the Ice-Cutting Trail to where it drops down steeply to meet the road to Destroyer’s Gap. As luck would have it, however, as I was coming down toward the road, I happened upon a gang of bandits in the midst of trying to rob the royal payroll couriers. When I arrived, the couriers, who were well-arm
ed, had just about beaten off the robbers.”
Davison paused and took several sips of his coffee. Then, rubbing the scars on his chin, he said, “Situation like that’s hard for a beast like me. Hate robbing. Hate the High One’s tyranny. Fortunately, I guess, the choice got made for me. One of the couriers had been part of a Club Wolf detachment that transported me to Tilk Duraow after I was arrested in Norder Bay. He recognized me and thought I was with the bandits. He swung his buckslinger my way and caught me in the face.
“A whole bunch of sling-sharps hit me—lost one eye and cut me up bad. That made up my mind for me. I was able to start some boulders rolling—actually a lot more boulders than I intended. I accidently triggered a landslide. Buried both the couriers and the bandits under more rock than you’ll see in a lifetime. The only thing left when the dust settled, was a small part of the smashed courier wagon. But what a precious part it was! In it were three dozen bags of silver—pay intended for Skull Buzzards at Tilk Duraow.” Davison stopped and took a sip of coffee.
“So you took the silver and lit out,” Tē’d’Tē said.
“Not much else to do at that point, it seemed,” Davison replied. “No way to help the poor beasts. Not likely a Tilk Duraow escapee would show up at a Skull Buzzard post to report he’d wiped out a detachment of the High One’s couriers. The unfortunate landslide left a perfectly natural explanation of what had happened, and the rocks were so deep no one will ever find the bottom. So, yes, I took the silver and lit out. Landed here in Silverpreen, and found that where there’s wealth, no one asks questions. The rich do as they will, and no one cares who you might really be, how your got here, or where you got your wealth. That’s why fancy beasts flock here. Seeing how easy things are with plenty of silver, my plans changed.”