"Hell no," she smiled. "We'd never make that mistake. But I loved him. There's nothing I wouldn't do... You remind me of him in some ways. You don't know what's waiting for you up there, but you seem intent on going."
"I am," Chuggie nodded.
"I think you'll need a Woodsman," said Faben.
Chuggie froze as he was about to take a drink. "Are you saying you wanna come with?"
"I am," nodded Faben. "I feel like I owe it to Korkorahn to do my part to kill that thing that's eating up the Carnie folk. I have an apprentice who'll join us, too. Dawes. A bit of a smartass, but you can give him a slap if he runs his mouth too much. Just try not to break his jaw. He's on our side."
"You an' Dawes?" Chuggie couldn't believe it. All he could do was stare at the table in wonderment. "Good ol' Dawes."
"You know him, too?" Faben chuckled.
"Nah." Chuggie smiled, sipping his wine. "Did I tell you Haste wore a green jacket when I met him?"
"No. What difference does that make?" Faben asked.
"Never trust a man in a green jacket. I've been known to wear one myself, but only when I know I can't be trusted. It goes back to my smuggling days when I'd been hired to move a boatload of kittens and puppies across a certain border that I shouldn't mention. Kittens and puppies being perfectly legal to transport, I found myself confused about the job. The guy wanted to pay, so I went ahead and assembled a team.
"Crossing the mountain range was tricky, and we ate all but three of the men on the crew. It's not that we were hungry, mind you, or even low on food. We just hated them and couldn't bear the thought of them sharing our money. So we delivered the kittens and puppies. Probably the most adorable payload in history. The kittens were snuggling with puppies, and the puppies were wrestling with kittens. Hundreds of 'em, and not a one mistreated during the journey.
"But the owner turned it around on us. He insisted he could only pay in puppies and kittens. We didn't know anything about puppy/kitten/cash exchange rates, but what the hell were we supposed to do? We didn't like it, but we had to accept his shitty terms. In the months to follow, I learned seventy-five interesting ways to prepare puppy and/or kitten. The guy who hired us, he always wore a green jacket. Green or red, I can never remember. Actually, I think it might've been red. Ever since, I don't trust nobody in a green jacket."
Faben blinked at Chuggie.
Chapter 11
Back in his room, Chuggie considered his preparations for the trek north as he got ready to bed down. He'd bought two goats, food, water and another night's stay at The Fifty Moons Inn. His cash stack remained good and thick, though he hadn't bothered to count it. Barring a real estate deal, he wouldn't be running out of funds during his time in Stagwater.
The rope of Shola's hair had lost most of her scent, but a few hints remained. He lay on the bed holding her hair over his face.
"Shola, Shola," he asked the hair, "where'd you ever get so much money? Bet you're sittin' in the grass right now askin' scarecrows when I'm comin' back."
He let the hair brush his forehead. "Soon, crazy lady. Real soon. Maybe tomorrow night if I'm lucky, and —."
Excited pounding at the door interrupted his one-sided conversation. Chuggie threw a blanket over the money and the hair. He put on his most sour expression and got up to answer.
"Who's poundin' my damn door so late?" he asked as he opened it.
"Fey Voletta, and it's hardly late," answered the girl. She seemed very familiar in her silky white robe trimmed with burgundy. The hood cast her face in shadow, all but her dark red lips and powder-white chin.
Chuggie'd prepared himself for an argument with the innkeeper or another tenant. Seeing the young woman in exotic dress had him disarmed and fumbling.
She smiled about as flirtatiously as cat meeting a mouse and stepped forward as if to enter.
He blocked her passage.
"Aren't you going to ask me inside?" She spoke in a slow whisper, almost a moan and pushed her way into the room. She smelled like flowers on the beach, and he could just about hear seagulls in the distance.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked. "We met last night, very briefly."
"Sorry, I had a lot to drink last night." Chuggie shook his head clear and looked at the door. How had she gotten inside, and why was the door closed?
"I bet you did," she smiled. "Like I said, I'm Fey Voletta. And you are Norchug Mot Losiat. Isn't that right?"
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "It is, but I jus' go by Chuggie. Who told you my name?"
"Non told me. I work with the Steel Jacks."
Now it all made sense. Chuggie grinned. "I get it, I get it," he nodded. "Thank you for stopping by, my dear. Won't be needin' your services tonight. Please tell your boss that I'm leavin' town very soon and —."
"Services?" she cut him off. "What services might those be?" The flirtatiousness had gone from her voice.
Chuggie stared at her. His mouth fell open. Some women were too volatile to accept his tendency to say the wrong thing at damn near every opportunity.
"You think I'm here to fuck you? You think I'm a whore? No, no. I'm nobody's whore, old man. Old… whatever you are. Since you bring it up, I've never slept with anyone. Not for money or status or anything else. I bet you can't say the same, can you? If anyone in this room is a whore…" She pointed an accusative finger at his face. Her fingernails were the same deep red as her lips.
"Whoa, whoa, take it easy," he said. "If you were me, you woulda thought the same. This Non character has been trying to enlist me since I got here. You're a pretty girl, and you said he sent you. The pieces fit, but I was wrong and I apologize."
"You're wrong again. I didn't say he sent me. Nobody sent me. I'm here on my own." She smiled mischievously.
"You came on your own." Chuggie's mind scrambled to process everything. Was she playing games with him? "Why would you come here on your own?"
"I heard you were going on some sort of archeological reclamation. Thought it might be fun to go along."
Chuggie studied her for a moment. "I don't think that's a good idea, miss."
"Why not?" She took a step toward him.
"For starters, you might get your pretty silk robes dirty."
"That would never happen. I'm far too graceful." She rubbed the fabric between her fingertips. "If you wore fabric of this quality, you'd take care of it, too. Go ahead, feel it," she said. "What do you think it's made from?"
"Rat guts," he said, taking a seat on the only chair in the room.
"It's human skin," she said, pulling back her hood.
Elegant, intricate scars swooped and curled across her pale face. These were the self-inflicted designs of a blade worshipper, which made her even more of a riddle to him. Each line, dot, and curl told a story. Some shapes represented people she'd killed, others indicated techniques mastered. Blade cultists were perfectionists by nature, the exact opposite of Chuggie. How could such a person stand to be around someone like him, who constantly bumped into walls and tripped on open ground? At the very least, this girl was interesting.
"You have to have a lot of skin for a whole robe." She twirled on one toe with a dancer's grace. "You have to beat the skin, stretch it, treat it with chemicals. You have to be careful not to over bleach, because that will destroy the tissue. It's a very long process. I won't even tell you how many different men went into these robes."
Chuggie lit up his tusk pipe, hoping a cloud of smoke could keep the strange young woman at her distance. "What about the red edging? Dyed with the blood of children?"
"It's crimson velvet," she said. "Not everything's about killing."
Her red, fire-like hair curled to match the shapes of the scars. Her eyes looked like superheated emeralds set in ivory. Damn these women and their eyes.
"So take me with you," she said. "I can handle myself. Don't worry about that."
He shook his head. "Sorry, I can't. It's not that I'd mind if you were around. Problem is — if I'm tellin' the truth h
ere — I think you could be a little distracting. I don't know what's up there, and I'll need to be on my toes."
"That's a load." She shook her head in mockery.
"I don't even know you, girl. Why in bloody, screaming, shrieking hell would I bring you along on a… a fuggin' suicide mission?"
"Because if you go alone it will be a suicide mission."
"I'm prepared, equipped, an' fed." Chuggie clapped his hands on his belly. "I got a squad of thirty or forty men, ready to kill and die accordin' to my whims. They're savage brutes, y'see, every damn one of 'em. For me to even consider them for the mission, each had to go into the forest unarmed and bring back a drakana claw. They haven't had nothin' to eat besides the blood o' the innocent for the last six days, and I think I… yep, I can hear 'em howlin' right now. I'm in good hands. All's I need now is a night of rest, an' I'll be ready to whoop ass from here to spring."
"Then bring me back something nice." She bent down close enough to kiss him, and he caught her beach-flower smell again. "There'll be something nice waiting for you when you get back."
Chuggie felt her breath on his face and a tingle in his loins.
Without another word, she turned and left. He locked the door behind her and spent the next several minutes reminding himself this was all for Shola.
◊ ◊ ◊
On the east side of Stagwater, Dustiv Dawes sat with a couple friends in a tiny tavern called The Stone Hat. The bartender, a matronly gal named Rosie, smiled and listened to him like always.
"I'm not saying I'm the greatest knife-thrower in the world," said Dawes. "I merely submit I'm the best in the city."
"Sure," she said. "Maybe someday you'll give us a demonstration."
"Out of the question. If I did that, you'd all learn the secret of my technique. I couldn't stand to be plagiarized that way." He downed his shot, grimaced, and signaled for another.
A hand clapped him on the back, and a woman said, "Time for bed, Dawes. You've got a big day tomorrow."
Dawes turned to see Faben. "Ah-ha! Faben! Now it's a party. Pull up a stool, madam. We were just about to play —."
"Can I have a word with you, Dawes?"
Faben led him outside.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, unsure if he was in trouble.
"I'm taking a little trip tomorrow. I'd like you to come. I'm not forcing you to. But if you do, it could go a long way for me endorsing you to the Lodge."
Dawes gave a chuckle. "Where are we going?"
"I met a fellow last night, and interesting man. He's going to look for an artifact tomorrow, up north of the city, and I'm going with."
Dawes tilted his head. North was bad news. Nobody knew what was up there. Some said a monster. But Dawes subscribed to a theory of his own. Nothing lived up there. People died from the treacherous terrain. When they were dead, little woodland critters came along and made a mess of them. Magistrates created the monster stories to frighten children and keep them from sneaking out of town. Then the children grew up, still believing the story, and passed it to the next generation. Stupid superstitions; yet another reason he wished to be gone from Stagwater.
"So who's this man? How do you know you can trust him?" asked Dawes.
"Haste hates him. The magistrates don't want him coming back, so that's good enough for me. I'm going to help him. Haste and his little gang have been screwing us long enough. Maybe this way we can do some screwing of our own."
"Is it going to be dangerous?" said Dawes.
"I don't know," Faben replied. "But I can't endorse you to the Lodge if I've never seen you outside city walls."
Dawes jutted his chin out and nodded. "I get you, I get you. I'll go with you, sure."
"Good," said Faben. "You'll want a weapon. You'll want some food and some water. The plan is to leave early in the morning and be home before dark. But plans go to hell quick, so it couldn't hurt to be ready for a camp out." Faben put a hand on Dawes' shoulder. "I want you to come with, but I also want you to understand the risks."
Dawes brushed her hand away with a smile. "Hey, I said I'd go. You clearly need me and my unorthodox, yet devastating, abilities."
"Yeah, well, get some sleep, and be at my door by dawn." Faben gave a solemn nod and walked off toward Carnietown.
Dawes stuck his head back in the bar and shouted a quick farewell to his friends. He blew a kiss to Rosie and headed for home.
He loved and despised Stagwater at the same time. The city of his birth might as well have been a prison. He needed adventure. He needed exploration. He needed Fey Voletta.
Dawes felt no hint of fear over the journey north. No eyewitness had ever seen the rumored hell-spawned horrors. As a summoner, Faben spoke with many spirits, and none of them could say what was up there. It was a ghost story for children, so what was everyone so afraid of? He was a little embarrassed on behalf of his people.
And even if some demonic beast lay did lay in wait, true Woodsmen stood tall, even in the face of death.
Dawes increased his pace. He hoped he'd be able to get some sleep, but it seemed doubtful. In his mind, the Woodsmen had all but accepted him as a greenhorn.
◊ ◊ ◊
In Stagwater's northeast corner, a townhouse towered over the river. Kale stood in the window of the apartment Dan and Jaron shared, admiring their view of the moonlit water. The two young men rested on couches. They groaned every time they moved.
"I want you men to remember why you were on the table today," Kale said without turning from the window. "This drunk drifter you brought into town, he's the reason. You might as well know he's going on a little trip, and we don't expect him to return."
When Kale turned around, Jaron and Dan's bloodshot eyes watched him intently. He crossed the room and stood over them.
"You aren't in this alone, and you never were. I'll tell you this, too: If I'm lucky enough to see that miserable bastard again, I'll kill him where he stands."
"I'd like to watch that," Dan's voice was shaky and weak, as if he'd been on a six day march.
Kale smiled. "And speaking of miserable, you know that little bastard from the orphanage? Well, I haven't had the time for him, and my house is starting to smell like… well, like an orphan. Every time I try to take him out of the house, Haste dreams up some crisis. Orphan doesn't wash out of suede, boys. I'll be needing your help in that department soon. That should cheer you up."
They gave him little, tired smiles. Jaron cleared his throat and swallowed dryly.
"I want to kill him," said Jaron with some effort.
"The orphan?" asked Kale. "Don't we all?"
"No… Haste." Jaron looked to Dan for support, but Dan had fallen asleep.
"Some problems take care of themselves, my young friend," Kale said with a grin. He placed two stacks of money on the table, shook Jaron's hand, and made his exit.
In the wake of their torturgy session, Kale felt generous toward these two. Stepping onto the street, he got the notion to send them up some prostitutes.
Chapter 12
The Darkness Stirs.
The flame flickers as dire death occurs.
Shadows planted in years gone by have breached the soil and seen the sky.
The traveler drags the darkness on. The weak are failed by the strong.
Leaders know not what's been stirred. They misread and misspeak the word.
The sun rose over Stagwater, but it never broke through the clouds. Morning chill washed over the few shivering souls ambling about the streets. A touch of frost iced a metallic sheen on top of everything.
Faben dressed in a gray trench coat, and her bright-eyed apprentice Dawes led a goat apiece toward the Fifty Moons Inn.
In front of the inn, Chuggie strapped his goats up with water jugs and various bundles. He nodded to Faben.
"Good morning, boss," she called.
Chuggie finished packing up the last goat. "Gotta say, I don't know if I expected you to show up. I probably wouldn't have."
"This
is Dawes. I've told him to keep his damn mouth shut, so you two might just get along."
Dawes put his hand out. "I'm Dustiv Dawes, sir. You can call me Dusty."
"Nice to meet you, Dawes." Chuggie shook his hand. While he certainly appreciated the young man's help, Dawes seemed far too happy for this time of day. Chuggie hoped the kid wouldn't talk to him much.
"That's a nifty hat you're wearing, sir. Where's a guy get a hat like that?" Dawes pointed a finger at Chuggie's head.
Chuggie stared blankly at Dawes for a moment. Bringing the kid might have been a bad idea. The smooth-faced youngster didn't look like he'd ever shaved, let alone been in a fight. Worse, he didn't look like he had a speck of fear in him. Still, Faben vouched for the smirking teenager, and Chuggie had to trust her. He turned to Faben. "You two need breakfast?"
"We're fine. Ready to go whenever you are." Faben studied Dawes as if she shared Chuggie's doubts.
Chuggie pointed to the staff strapped to the side of Faben's goat. "Is that what I think it is?"
"That'd be my summoner's podium." She held the goat still and unsheathed the weapon.
One end of the staff spread into a three-pronged spear for stomping into the ground. Tiny letters covered the shaft. As Faben removed the leather cover, the semi-circular blade at the top of the staff glinted in the morning light. With the prongs in the ground, the blade's shape allowed it to hold Faben's book of summoning. Razor sharp, the podium doubled as a close-quarters weapon. She handed it to Chuggie.
"Looks brand new," he said, studying the armament. "Ever use this thing before, Brassline?"
She smiled, took it back from him, and stepped into the street. Faben moved her legs apart and lowered herself into an athletic pose. Still smiling, she began swinging the podium blade in figure eights. Faster and faster, then behind her back, she whirled and spun, whipping the weapon about in a blur. Her trench coat twisted with her in a dizzying display. She glanced the blade off the cobblestones in clanking rhythm, flicking sparks at Chuggie.
Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater Page 15