Ichor Well

by Joseph R. Lallo

  Digger slowly raised his hands and pushed back his hood, then began to unwrap the scarves. When the last loop fell free, it revealed stark-white skin on a long, gaunt face. A face that could only have come from the fug.

  Lil raised her eyebrows, gripped her gun tighter, and looked to Captain Mack. His expression hadn’t changed. Instead he leaned back against the wall and puffed slowly on his cigar.

  “Coop,” Mack called.

  “Yeah, Cap’n?” he replied.

  “How do things look down there?”

  “Nothin’ much to see, Cap’n.”

  “You lookin’ good and hard?”

  “Lookin’, listenin’, and all that good stuff, Cap’n,” Coop said. “Nothing came of it so far.”

  Captain Mack took another slow puff, filling the room with the oddly sweet smell of the cigar.

  “Digger, most of my life, seeing a face like yours would have put me on edge. Because most of my life, folks like you held an awful lot of power over me. I did what you said, followed your rules, or I couldn’t keep living the only life I knew how to live. For better or worse, that changed when the good Miss Graus saw fit to join our crew. It’s fair to say, for a bit, once I was out from under your thumbs I swung pretty wide in the direction of hostility. I’d thought of all the fug folk I’d wanted to put a bullet in over the years and thought how nice it was that these days I could, if I was so inclined. But then your folk snatched Nita away from me. Locked her up. Lil here too.”

  Lil nodded.

  “And I can’t say you were the best of hosts. But the folk you locked her up with were a bunch of your own. And I’ll be darned if they didn’t turn out to have some decent sorts among them. I ain’t the kind of man who assumes everyone of a certain type is a certain way. At least, not anymore. For instance, one thing I always thought about fug folk was they got a lot going on upstairs. So it makes me curious to know how you thought this meeting was going to go.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down Digger’s face. “Not much different from this, honestly.”

  “Then maybe that bit was right.”

  “I’d hoped I would be able to convince you of the purity of my intentions before I had to reveal myself.”

  “You lookin’ to sell me goods you ought not have isn’t what I’m liable to call pure intentions. But, now that we’re not hiding anything from each other anymore, I’d say we can start this off the way it should have started off. On your feet.”

  Digger hastily stood. Captain Mack stepped up to face him, looking slightly up to meet the gaze of the taller fug person. He removed the cigar from his mouth and blew the smoke to the side.

  “The name is Captain McCulloch West. This here’s my deckhand Chastity Cooper, fella downstairs is my other deckhand, Ichabod Cooper,” Captain Mack said.

  “Most folk call him Coop, and me Li’l Coop, or just Lil. So if you’re lookin’ to get our attention, I’d suggest you do the same.”

  “And what may we call you?” Captain Mack asked.

  “I’m Fenton… Albus.”

  “That pause and the sweat on your brow makes me doubt that particular sobriquet,” Mack said. “I thought we weren’t hiding anything anymore.”

  Lil stepped up and looked at him hard.

  “Fine, fine. I’m Fenton…” He took a shaky breath. “Ebonwhite.”

  Lil slid the gun from her jacket but hung it low.

  “We ain’t had much luck in our dealings with folk bearing that name, Fenton.”

  “Nor have I, I assure you. We are a large family, as families in the fug go at any rate. Somewhat smaller these days.”

  “We didn’t kill your kin, Fenton.”

  “You may or may not believe me when I say this, but that doesn’t come as a surprise. My cousins were heading for an early grave for a long time. You just happened to help them find it on their own. But back to the matter of my association with the rest of the Ebonwhites. The mayor isn’t the patriarch, but he is the favored son. I’m a good deal further down the line. Youngest son of the youngest son. Well… technically my father and the mayor are both first generation, and thus establishing relative age and relation is complicated, but that is another matter for another time. I worked for the mayor briefly. He didn’t appreciate how I did business. Now I spend my time in the fringe of a part of the fug we call The Thicket. Many would call it a greater punishment than being locked away in the Phylactery.”

  He looked to Lil.

  “If you’ve been in the Phylactery, you know about the hounds. Bloodthirsty, massive. The Thicket is where we first found them. And they’re hardly the worst of the things that lurk there. You’d be astounded by what the fug has made of the simplest woodland creatures… And for what it’s worth, I was telling the truth. The group I’ve fallen in with has taken to calling me Digger, and I rather like the name.”

  “All right. So you’re the enemy of my enemy. Maybe that makes you better, maybe that makes you worse. But at least now I know what the truth sounds like when it comes out of your mouth.”

  Captain Mack pulled out a chair, hung his coat on the back, and took a seat. Lil did the same. After a moment, Digger joined them.

  “I must say,” he said shakily, “this isn’t what I’d expected when I imagined the Wind Breaker crew.”

  “Oh no? What did you have in mind?”

  “You should hear the stories they tell about you down there. ‘Captain Mack is a raving lunatic. Bloodthirsty. A thing of unbridled rage.’ They say you have an endless horde of soldiers, and that your crew were like demonic apes, swinging from rigging and soaring through the air.”

  “Hey! I’ll bet that bit’s about me!” Lil said proudly.

  “I half expected you to breathe fire or shake the ground when you walked. To hear your story told, you are either an archangel descending from above to pay justice upon the unrighteous or the most vile and cold-hearted of killers ever to blight our society.”

  “I ain’t an angel, Digger. And the killer bit only comes when you get on my bad side. Stay off it and you’ll find me the reasonable sort. Now let’s get down to brass tacks. You being local to the fug, there’s no question how you got a fresh can of phlogiston. The only questions now are how many you got, and how much it’ll cost us to get them.”

  “As for your second question, the price will be quite reasonable. To you and anyone else who wants them, provided we can come to an agreement. Though Mayor Ebonwhite doesn’t appreciate my methods, I am a business man. And I can see quite a bit of profit to be made charging a fair price to people who are used to a stiff one. But how many cans I can get, and therefore you can get, is another matter. Because the reason I’ve reached out to you in particular is simple. I need your help securing the source.” He leaned forward across the table. “You see, Captain Mack. I won’t be simply selling the phlogiston. I’ll be making it.”

  “And I take it securing this source is the sort of task you imagine it would take the Wind Breaker crew to accomplish? A bunch of fire-breathing earth shakers, and high-flying apes.”

  “More or less.”

  “Then if you’re willing, I’d like to take this discussion to the rest of the crew. If it involves all of us, then it involves all of us. And there are some questions Gunner and Miss Graus are liable to ask that I might overlook.” He stood. “Get yourself bundled up. We’re going for a walk.”

  #

  Lucius Alabaster’s white ship had taken on a bit of a purple tint after several days of travel, but his home port of Caer Fiona was in sight. It was like most cities in the fug, a small cluster of well-kept buildings within the heart of what had been a much larger settlement before the fug had rolled in and taken the local residents with it. In this case, the majority of the remaining structures were vast, sprawling estates hidden behind wrought iron gates and high stone walls. Pools of green light lit the handful of streets that had any life in them, and here and there a steam-powered carriage trundled along the cobbles. Though what passed for a sky in the fu
g was black as pitch, it was only just hitting sunset, and much of the business of the city was still being done.

  “Mr. Mallow, I rather think a bit of imbibing is in order after so lengthy a sojourn with so little to show for it. Take us to the tower nearest the Ruby Club,” Alabaster said, smoothing his mustache against his lip.

  “Already on my way, Mr. Alabaster. As per usual.”

  Alabaster squinted. “… As per usual. What precisely are you implying, Mr. Mallow?”

  “Merely that it is your prerogative to conclude long journeys with a visit to the Ruby.”

  “Are you suggesting that I am a lush?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No indeed. It is a well-known fact, proved by the most skilled scientific minds, that deep thought requires steady nerves, and the finest nerve elixirs come diluted in spirits. If I am to ply my trade and work my brilliance at the highest levels, I must partake of these elixirs on rare and appropriate occasions.”

  “Of course, Mr. Alabaster.”

  “That’s right of course.”

  “Do you suppose… I might partake of some elixirs?”

  “Mallow, you are mercifully simple. Your nerves are unperturbed by the woes of great intellect. The deeper effects of the nerve elixirs would be lost on you. However, as I predict we are on the very cusp of my rise to greatness, I would be willing to allow you to join me for a bit of refreshment. For you, I think, simple spirits will suffice.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Alabaster.”

  Mallow piloted the airship into a berth at a multilevel mooring tower. It was something of a vertical pier, built to accommodate the two- and four-person personal vessels favored by the wealthy residents of the town. He performed a contortionist’s act of a dismount, squeezing his long, lanky body through a hatch near the pilot’s seat and opening the door for Alabaster, while a small crew of ground workers tied the mooring lines. Alabaster strutted toward the wire cage of the elevator, looking through the ground crew as though they weren’t there. When he stepped onto the elevator with Mallow and allowed his manservant to press the button, his gaze fell upon his ship and the grape color it had taken on during the trip.

  “Ugh. Honestly, Mallow. See that my vessel is once again restored to glorious white.”

  “I shall, sir. If I may offer a suggestion, perhaps it would be wise to change to a darker color in the future. Everyone else favors the dark colors, I think because they don’t readily show the stains of the fug.”

  “Yes, Mallow. But one does not distinguish oneself from the rest of the rabble by doing what others do. If it requires a bit more upkeep to maintain my singular status, then that is merely the cost of superiority.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The elevator reached the street, and they paced a short distance to a large, ornate building. In a more typical town, the Ruby Club would have been a tavern or pub. Caer Fiona was almost entirely occupied by the wealthy elite and their servants and staff. Thus, something so crass as an establishment where any simple man could gather, socialize, and purchase alcohol was contemptible. The Ruby Club was exclusive, requiring a recommendation to even be offered membership, and a rather stiff annual fee to retain membership. That every last member of the local gentry had such a membership didn’t seem to matter in the least, nor did the fact that said gentry used the place to gather, socialize, and purchase alcohol. The key point was that it cost more than the average man could afford. A man at the door, rather larger than Alabaster and rather smaller than Mallow, greeted them both and allowed them inside.

  If one were to see the inside of the Ruby Club, one would not for a moment mistake it for a common pub. An enormous fireplace stood at one wall, and warm yellow light came from oil lamps scattered about. Thickly padded easy chairs upholstered with red velvet were clustered into small groups, strategically situated to offer the warmth of the fire and encourage but not require socialization with the others who might be seated. There was no bar, instead only a steward standing beside a servant’s door. A few tables were set along the wall opposite the fireplace. Some were clear, others were stacked with the accoutrements of the sort of incomprehensible table games the wealthy busy themselves with. The walls themselves were hung with the stuffed heads of assorted creatures. The older, more ragged of them were familiar forest creatures: boar, wolves, deer, and similar. Fresher additions were a good deal more twisted and ferocious, usually covered with pale gray fur and barely recognizable as what they might have been before the fug got ahold of them.

  Alabaster took a seat in one of the high-backed easy chairs. It was quite near the fire, and a small brass plaque with his name on it was affixed to top center, as though labeling him while seated.

  “Put in the order, would you, Mr. Mallow?” Alabaster said, handing off his hat and cane. “I shall have… a White Willow Nerve and Mindfulness Tonic. And something for yourself, naturally.”

  Mallow set off toward the steward.

  “So, Alabaster,” said a gruff voice to the left of the fire, “any luck in your dealings?”

  He turned to the source of the voice. He was a rare sight among the fug folk, a portly gentleman. Such was the physiology and temperament of the people of the fug that maintaining anything more than a rail-thin physique required a vast overabundance of food, but this fellow had made the effort. He was dressed in a cream-colored uniform more appropriate for an expedition into the wilderness than sitting in polite company. He’d lost a fair amount of the white hair on his head, but made up for it in the form of a walrus-like mustache hanging past both lips.

  “No, Barnum,” Alabaster said. “I’m afraid he is even more shortsighted than I’d given him credit for.”

  “Bah. What’s he think then? That we can leave these rabble-rousers to rouse further rabble?”

  “Well said, Barnum. But no, he believes sanctions shall be sufficient to wither them.”

  “Bah again. You can leave a white boar in a trap to starve as well, but is that how I caught the devil?” he said, hiking a thumb at a pig’s head the size of a horse’s hanging over his chair. “No! If the beast is worthy of the hunter, the hunter owes the beast a proper hunt!”

  “Precisely, Barnum. But our friend in Fugtown holds a different opinion on the subject.”

  “Too much time away from The Thicket. It makes a man soft.”

  “Yes, Barnum,” Alabaster said. “You would be the leading authority on the subject of men being soft.”

  “Mmm,” murmured Barnum, absorbing the portion of the statement that appeared complimentary and remaining blissfully unaware of any other intimation. “Well, my boy. Let the man shoulder the consequences of his own foolishness, that’s what I say. He’ll get his. But the hour is late. I do believe I shall turn in.”

  He got up and ambled away, leaving only the steward, Alabaster, Mallow, and a simply dressed older gentleman to the left of the fireplace in the establishment. The older gentleman seemed out of place and likely would have been thrown out on his ear if not for the fact he’d been tending the fire in the place for longer than any of the other members could remember. As far as anyone knew, the man was named Tender. That was what everyone called him at the very least.

  Mallow returned with a tray laden with two shot glasses and two mugs. One glass was filled with clear liquid, the other brown. Both mugs were brimming with ale.

  “Now, Mallow, how many times must I tell you, I do not drink something so coarse as ale. It does not suit an evolved constitution such as mine.”

  “A thousand apologies, Mr. Alabaster. Of course I’ll be happy to—”

  “I wouldn’t mind disposing of the spare mug,” said Tender. “If you’re willing to spare it.”

  Alabaster made a dismissive gesture. “It is a low drink for low men. If you don’t mind the implications, then by all means.”

  Mallow shot the man a hard look, no doubt displeased at not having the second mug for himself, but handed it over. He then turned back to his employer.

 
; “Mr. Alabaster, I—”

  “Have a seat, Mallow. I detest having to look up to someone as they speak.”

  Mallow paced over to the table games area and borrowed a chair. “May I ask a question, Mr. Alabaster? I may be a bit thick, but it seems to me if this crew has been causing Mayor Ebonwhite so much trouble, why are you so eager to make it your problem?”

  “First, Mallow, no, you aren’t thick. Barnum is thick. You’re merely dim. And second, I want the problem because history remembers the problem solvers. I want the problem for the same reason I want my ship white. Because no one else does. Great men do great deeds. Great men stand apart from the rest. To support my case I point to none other than our most celebrated of figures, the great Ferris Tusk. In our earliest days, when the fug was still finding its feet, it would have been simple for those above to strike us down. Admiral Maxwell would easily have been the man to do it. Dealing with the admiral? That was a problem no one wanted either. But did Tusk turn away? No. He stepped forward. And in single combat, through superior tactics, he bested the foe and opened the door for the grand and glorious status now held by the fug folk.”

  “But, and forgive me for being dim again, if memory serves, Admiral Maxwell was gunning for the fug folk. The Wind Breaker crew seems content to stay out of the fug these days.”

  “That point is debatable. They are vile brigands and no one can know the dark plans of their twisted minds. And, moreover, history will not show what their intentions might have been. It will merely show the things they did and the name of the man who was wise and powerful enough to stop them. And I mean for that man to be me.”

  “Won’t that cause trouble? Seems like any time that crew has a mind to dip their toes into the fug, something gets broken or someone gets killed.”

  “If I seek greatness, I cannot afford to be timid in the face of potential peril. Lives will be lost, certainly. Ideally a great many lives will be lost, because such a crime would make the Wind Breaker crew a still-greater prize.”

  “You’re comfortable with your own people dying because of what you’re doing?”