by Greg Curtis
“Oh shite!” Manx swore under his breath. Then he reached for the door and pulled it open, just in time to see Adern already half way up his front path, and the steam wagon behind him, chugging away steadily. Naturally the others were already on board, waiting impatiently for him. How was he going to explain this he wondered?
“You ready?” Adern asked.
“Oh apparently we are.” Manx emphasised the “we” a little. Then he picked up his soft leather carry bag, and walked out into the sunshine.
“We?”
Manx didn't answer the man. He just turned and locked the front door behind him. The man could work out the “we” for himself.
“You're bringing the cat?!”
“By the gods, he's witless! Half the number of legs he should have and half the amount of brains too!” Whitey complained. “He's practically dribbling as he speaks!”
“Is the cat saying something?” Adern asked suspiciously.
“She's just telling you how much she's looking forwards to the trip and getting to know everyone.” The man was lucky Manx thought. Adern didn't understand her. So he didn't have to listen to her endless complains and put downs. To him she was just mewling as cats did. He picked up his carry bag again, with the cat already lying down on it and digging her claws into the soft leather.
“Uh huh!” Adern muttered. Clearly even he didn't believe that. “We should make tracks. It's a long trip to Clearview and we don't have a glider. It'll take all day.”
“Actually if the roads are good it'll only take a few hours,” Manx corrected him. It was only a dozen leagues. But of course Adern and the others had come from a time when there hadn't been steam wagons. A dozen leagues in a horse and carriage might have taken that long. But technology had changed things.
“Even better.” The walker slapped him on the shoulder as if they were friends. “Just stow your stuff in the back and we'll be off and I can tell you what we're dealing with.”
“I know my part,” Manx replied, already tired of the conversation. He didn't want to be on this trip. “The rest doesn't matter.”
“Except my food!” Whitey interjected. “He needs to know about that! And I require soft bedding and regular grooming! And no more changing my words either!”
“What's she saying now?” Adern asked as they reached the tail section of the steam wagon.
“She's just anxious to be underway. She loves to travel!”
“You piss pot!” The cat snapped at him. “Muck spout!”
But she didn't have a lot of say in how he translated her words, Manx thought. Save of course that Larissa was up ahead, and as a shaman she too understood the cat. However, he somehow doubted that the shaman would be any more compliant. He placed his bag on the steam wagon's back tray where all the other bags were already stashed. Then he climbed on up after it.
“What are you doing?!”
“Getting some sleep,” Manx replied as he made himself comfortable on the two hard wooden benches that ran the length of the tail section.
“But you'll be much more comfortable up the front in the seats,” Adern told him. “They're good, padded leather couches.”
“I'm comfortable anywhere,” Manx replied. And to prove it he leaned back against the front wooden wall of the wagon's tail section and stretched out over the bench. But really the truth was that he was uncomfortable everywhere. Besides there were all sorts of strange people in the front section of the wagon, ones that he not only didn't know but that he didn't want to know. He knew the shaman Larissa of course, but they weren't exactly friends. And the others? There was a giant with horns on his head and sideburns that ran down his face and neck. He knew the man was a tauran, granted the magic of strength and vitality, but he didn't know what that meant. Manx was however sure that the man frightened him. And then there was a soothsayer, a shaman of truth and a follower of the Lord of Truth, Veritan. Sitting next to him might not be so bad. But talking to a man who could compel the truth from him with just a look, was.
It was better he figured, to be alone – even if that was alone with a cat.
“No!” Whitey interrupted. “The three eyed monkey man is right. There are comfortable seats up front. Not a bare wooden bench!”
“Well you can go and join them up there. I'm not stopping you. Or you can stay here. It's all up to you.”
“Bastard!” The cat glared at him. “I'm not going to be molested by strange monkeys! Just what do you think I am? A damned dog slobbering everywhere?!”
“Then make yourself comfortable,” he told Whitey. Then he turned to Adern. “Wake me up when we get there.”
Adern replied with an untranslatable noise, that Manx chose to believe was agreement, and rapidly vanished from view. Soon after that they were off. The steam engine just in front of his head was chugging away slightly faster and the houses along the side of the road began moving backwards at a steady clip. Meanwhile Whitey was trying to find the most comfortable of the bags to sleep on.
“You know,” she complained as she pushed and pulled at the material of one bag after another trying to make a comfortable bed, “You're just selfish! After all that I've done for you – this is how you treat me?!”
“I mean, here I am, going out of my way to keep you safe. You just have no consideration for anyone other than yourself!”
“You're just worried that the neighbours won't feed you properly,” he replied
“What happened to you?!” She glared at him. “I thought it was just cats you couldn't deal with. I used to think you were just this sullen and rude with me. But you're actually this awful with everyone!”
“What can I say.” Manx tipped his hat forwards so it slipped over his eyes. “You've taught me a lot!”
Chapter Nineteen
Clearview had gone easily. Taking down the dimensional maze had taken him and Adern only six hours or so and after that well over another thousand prisoners had been released. Manx thought he should be pleased with that – he supposed. Then again maybe he was just a traitor to the people of Redmond. He didn't know. But if it forestalled a war, maybe that was a good thing. He had to hope it was.
After Clearview they'd done the same in Mount Hall as they continued their journey east and he'd continued wrestling with his conscience. Manx wasn't even vaguely sure that he was doing the right thing. But it was clear that he had no choice. The others had told him that clearly. And some of them frightened him. He quite liked Adern. The walker, once you got past his extra eye, was an easy enough chap to get along with. He could even tell a joke. But the others? Not so much.
Tracey Mann was straight out scary. The tauran didn't just stand a head taller than him and have the shoulders of a giant wrestler. He had magic that made him surely ten times as strong as a normal man and twice as fast. And when he laughed the sound was like thunder rumbling in the distance.
Then there was the drake, Pilot. The scales running along his shoulders and up his neck were worrying. But the man literally breathed fire – like a dragon. And he could do a lot more with it. He liked to breathe it into his hands and then shape it somehow into burning works of art that floated off into the sky like balloons. Manx liked to keep his distance.
The others perhaps, weren't so frightening. You could get used to antlers and glowing eyes. But they weren't his friends either.
It was of course wrong that these people had been locked away in this strange dimensional prison, he knew. They should be released. But then releasing so many of them among the people of the various towns and cities all at once, was going to cause trouble. It was already causing trouble.
They'd only been to two new cities so far and each time as they'd rolled into town they'd seen people in disarray, burnt out buildings and wild animals in the streets. The giraffes in Clearview had been an unexpected surprise he had to admit. He couldn't think why anyone would summon them as defenders. But apparently the druids who'd gone there like all the other spell-casters, were having difficulty with their magic.
And each time too they'd had to face upset people and city guards, which was why they had a drake and taurans with them. They had to protect themselves from worried city folk.
Manx wasn't sure he liked that.
He was however sure of one thing. That he didn't like the fact that for some reason Larissa had decided to join him in the tail section of the steam wagon for the next leg of their journey. She wasn't his friend. In fact he wasn't sure what she was. But they weren't close. Still there was one person who hated her more.
“The unguent is helping?” she asked as the wagon lurched into life once more.
“It seems to be.” And it was. It was freeing up his scars a little. He could move more easily. And some days he could almost believe that the ugly redness had faded a little as well. But that could have just been his imagination. But give it another week or two, and maybe he'd know more. His worry though wasn't about what the unguent could do. It was whether what it was doing would last. And if it didn't, if his scars became angry and stiff again, what would be the cost for more of it. Thus far he hadn't asked. It was easier that way.
“Good. But you know the healers want to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because they're concerned about your condition of course.”
“No. I understand that.” He sighed and turned his gaze to the fields they were passing where gazelle and sheep grazed side by side. “What I don't understand is why they, or you, care. I'm a Smythe. A low born criminal by blood. You don't trust my kind. You mostly don't want to have anything to do with me. And if it wasn't for the fact that I can help you with this, we wouldn't be talking at all.”
“But we are talking. And maybe while what you say is true, it isn't quite the same as it once was. Maybe you are what you claim to be, a librarian.”
“No he's a selfish, surly, good-for-nothing wastrel!” Whitey piped up from where she was supposedly sleeping. She was still annoyed about the earliness of their start and the lack of a good breakfast as she called it. And apparently he'd rolled over in the middle of the night and knocked her off the bed. She wasn't going to forgive him for that in a hurry either. “I don't know why I keep him around!”
“Because he feeds you?” the shaman suggested with a shrug.
“Not properly! The food tastes like shite! His ability in the kitchen is sorely lacking!”
“Do you eat a lot of shite,” the shaman asked innocently, “that you should know the taste?!”
“Cow!”
What was Whitey complaining about, Manx wondered? She ate as well as he did. Or did she just like complaining? He suspected that was the truth. Because she got fresh meat when he had some. Milk too. She got her choice of comfortable places to sleep, and even a warm house to sleep in. She even got petted regularly and sometimes brushed down – which despite her moans, she loved. Why else would she keep coming back for more? As cats went, he thought, she had a very good life. But he kept that thought to himself. She'd never accept it. Besides it was more interesting to listen to the two of them argue and wait for the inevitable insults to fly between them. He didn't have to wait too long.
“Fleabag!” The shaman announced unexpectedly.
“You've got fleas between the ears!” Whitey accused her.
“And you've got nothing between yours!” The shaman retorted.
“How dare you, monkey face!” Whitey let loose a little anger. “You think just because the Goddess granted you some proper ears you have any right to speak to me like that?! Ears alone do not make a cat!”
“Praise the Goddess! And pity her that her first servants have failed her so badly!”
“Servants!” Whitey actually sat up and howled at the shaman. “How dare you! We're cats! We are the Goddess' children. We don't serve anyone!” She was already hissing and spitting, and possibly about to start scratching!
“Oh that's so true!” Manx reached out and picked up the angry cat before things turned to violence, and plonked her down in his lap. He didn't want to get involved, but he didn't want fighting either and the way things were going there would be open warfare in the back of the steam wagon shortly. Then he started petting the cat, calming her down as best he could while she turned around and glared at him, not wanting to be calmed. But at least she didn't attack him. “You have never served anyone in your entire life.”
“You're trying to be clever, monkey!” Whitey accused him. But despite that she was actually letting a little of the tension ease out of her body. Even retracting her claws. She couldn't help herself. “Don't think I don't know what you're doing.”
“I wouldn't think that for a moment,” he told her quietly. But his hands were really doing the talking for him. And for the moment the shaman was keeping quiet which was helping.
“Damn you,” Whitey muttered. “It's so hard to stay mad when you do that!” But even as she complained she began to purr a little.
“You want me to stop?”
“No!”
“Good. And then maybe we'll talk about a little cream when we reach our next destination.”
“Oooh cream!” She purred a little bit louder, already dreaming of the cream to come.
Manx knew then that he had her under control. Cats had a hard time staying angry for long. Or for that matter, anything else. They were very much creatures of the moment. And for the moment all she wanted was comfort and the promise of cream. It wasn't long before her eyes were closed and she was sleeping. It was then that he could restart the conversation.
“So you wanted to ask me some questions?” He knew that. He didn't even have to ask. Why else would she be there? Neither she nor any of the others wanted anything to do with him. Except maybe Adern. He was a friendly sort who didn't seem to give a damn about his family blood.
“You like books,” she began.
“Yes.” Manx agreed instantly. He liked books. Many of them he loved. Books were more than just enjoyable for him. They were safe. They could take him on great adventures, excite and amaze him, and then bring him back home safely. They were a true joy. And you could never be hurt by a book. But she wasn't interested in that. That wasn't the question she'd wanted to ask him. He knew it. But for some reason she was having trouble asking the actual question she wanted answered. So he asked her to get to the point.
“Your family. They threatened to kill us.”
“Al … right.” Manx didn't know quite what to make of that. Whether to believe her or not – though Adern had said much the same thing as he recalled. Something about a gun. He didn't even know whether it mattered. But one thing always held true for him when it came to his family. It had nothing to do with him.
“I haven't seen a single member of my family since I was five years old and hurled into the infirmary and then tossed in a boarding school. Apart from a few letters from my mother which came in the following years, I don't know anything about them.” But they should know that, he thought. He'd been telling everyone the tragedy of his upbringing lately. Even though he didn't want to.
“We know, but still …” He voice trailed off for a moment and it was a while before she returned to the conversation. “Do they have magic?” she finally asked.
“How should I know?” Manx answered her simply. “Until recently I didn't know that anyone had magic. I only knew that I could do certain things like talk to cats. And I thought I was alone.” He rubbed at Whitey's chin making her purr a little more. “And I still don't really know what most of you can do,” he added.
“That's the thing,” she replied. “You should know more. Even if you weren't raised by your family, you should have a basket full of magic you can cast by instinct. Instead you can talk to cats.”
“I found a few books in the library,” he told her. “Some are helping me learn things. But it's slow and things don't always go right.” Manx thought he should tell her that – before she and the others found out by accident. It was hard to travel together for weeks or even months and not let things slip out.
&nbs
p; “But that seems wrong. You shouldn't have to learn from books at all.”
Manx couldn't answer that. All he could do was shrug. Maybe she was right, he didn't know. All he did know was that he was making progress.
“But our magic isn't working as it should either,” she continued. “Maybe it's connected somehow.”
Again, Manx could only shrug. Maybe she was right. He didn't know.
“Our sages and sorcerers have been working through the details of what happened to us and why, and they came up with a strange theory.”
Manx started paying a little more attention about then. He knew that the sorcerers were the spell-casters with the shining blue eyes and fingernails, and that the sages were some of their number who had been blessed with the magic of knowledge, whatever that meant. But that was fairly much all he knew about them. There weren't any people with glowing blue eyes among their number at the moment. He, Adern and Larissa were the three who were always together. The others came and went, and of course they never told him why.