by J. M. Martin
A century of unidentifiable muck fell away, exposing my shame.
“What next? We’ve covered every part of the town. You’ve got to move or it’s all for naught.”
Of course it was all for naught. My mother had told me I’d end in a midden, burning my feet or clawing my eyes out to supply pain enough to trigger nivat’s release. Bastien was right to scorn me.
“You made a bargain, Valen. It’s almost sunset. You have your seeds. Come…I know where we’ll be safe.”
Reed-like Denys, who scarce came to my shoulder, dragged me up. Hunched over my clenching belly, muzzling groans, I staggered onward. Deeper into the alley. Down a narrow stair. Steam billowed from a door with hinges that scraped like claws on steel. Torchlight seared my eyes, and the cacophony of reedy scraping that might once have been music filled them with tears.
Hands shoved my stinking body to a hard bed and crammed a stick in my teeth. “Bite this so you won’t scream.”
My hand! Please gods, no! I tried to fight them off, but every muscle seized.
“They’re in his rucksack…the seeds.”
“Get out, Denys.” A dry reasoned voice spoke softly as if he knew every word shrilled like Iero’s trumpeting angels. “Ludo will hide you in a tub until the caravan leaves tomorrow. Gatzi spawn, did you two spend the whole day in a sewer?”
“Valen kept them off. He risked everything. Is he going to die?”
“He might wish so, but I’ve a notion what’s needed. Bastien doesn’t know he’s here?”
“He thinks we’re hid at your place.”
“Go.”
Pain splintered my bones. I could do naught but shiver, weep, and await the ax.
But then, a crunching noise released a scent of spice and earth that near stopped my heart with hunger. “Please,” I mumbled. “Let me enspell them, then you can cut it off.”
“You’ll have to provide the blood and the magic,” said the dark-haired man, stabbing my finger with a lance that masqueraded as a silver needle. “I’ll do the rest. But I only cut parts off corpses, and you’re not there yet.”
#
Lazy and warm, deliciously clean from the bath, I settled deeper in the pillows, enjoying a bit of eavesdropping.
“God’s bones, Bek!” said the man beyond the wall. “The edane’s sorcerer said this Valen was surely pureblood—very likely the Cartamandua renegade that’s stayed free so long. We could have made our fortune had we turned him in.”
“You’ve kept Denys alive and whole,” said Bek, dry as dust, “even if he can’t be with you, and the pureblood’s vanished.”
“Aye. Worth the price.” Sadness laced Bastien’s growl. “I’m thinking someday I’ll buy me a pureblood contract. Could be useful for the Coroner of the Twelve Districts of Palinur to have his own sorcerer. Gods save me from a twistmind, though. A drunkard surgeon is bad enough.”
Their laughter faded down the passage.
I burrowed my face in Katie’s rosy breasts and smiled to think of Denys safe. And I’d twenty-eight days before I’d need the seeds again.
From below, the sop-house music called me to the dance. Too bad the taproom wasn’t safe and my legs weighed like lead. Instead I’d sleep a while, and then, if Katie pleased, we would celebrate the holy rites.
Jancy’s Justice
Kenny Soward
Jancy is a secondary character in the GnomeSaga series, but for Blackguards I felt she deserved a bit of the spotlight. “Jancy’s Justice” takes place some years prior to the Battle of Hightower (as told in GnomeSaga). Working as a barmaid in the rough-and-tumble city of Half Town, ‘Jancy the Quick’ keeps her true profession a secret, but is poised to respond whenever injustice is found. In this instance, injustice has found her, but this time, Jancy may have bitten off more than she can chew.
~
Jancy tipped her serving tray as she wove through the crowd. Four dented, pewter cups filled with Laureen Pimpleton's best watered down swill leaned dangerously over the heads of her drunken patrons. A single spilled drop could ignite a wall-shattering brawl, and Laureen knew it.
"Walk straight and keep your tray up, Jancy, or you'll be eating outside with the dogs tonight!" The squat, black-haired proprietress belted out from behind the chipped oaken bar where she scrubbed dirty cups in a barrel of sudsy water.
Jancy smiled and gave the tray an extra twist as she spun between Rex Knuckleminder and Friar Beltonis. Her lithe form swam in her skirts. Her feet danced. Yet, she was never in danger of spilling anything; in fact, she'd never spilled a drop throughout her employment at the Broken Dog Tavern, never in the ever-crowded great room, and never in front of (or on) the patrons, many of whom were Half Town regulars with their toothy grins and sly hands, others just passing through on their way to Pelore or Vrath.
But let Laureen think I’m some was a clumsy, yellow-haired twit. That's me. Just your average serving wench.
Despite Laureen's bawling (a noise these patrons were used to), everyone’s attention focused on the traveling bard, Hopper. The gangly fellow sat splay-legged on the lip of the stone hearth, and his long fingers trilled delicately across the strings of his worn, wooden harp. Words sprung from the man’s buck-toothed mouth in golden tones at odds with his bucolic persona, and his ridiculous feathered cap seemed to dance upon his head. The crowd was rapt. Even rowdy Billben Hardhand's jaw hung open as Hopper’s tale unraveled. A somber yarn about the arrival of the gnomish race from far across the Dawnbreak Ocean, had them enthralled.
“Exiles,” Hopper crooned, “from some faraway land, the race of sharp-brained folk arrived on Sullenor's west coast, wet and bedraggled, in wood ships banded with steel and brass and copper, driven by tremendous steam engines, autonomous paddles beating mercilessly at the ocean waves. Wherever gnomes settled, the sky above swarmed with a flotilla of aeroships buzzing like giant wasps—bzzzzzz. Armored plates covered wooden hulls, kept aloft by clusters of brawny, air-filled teats, sails driven by conjured gusts—”
“You talkin’ about teats? Ain’t seen any in my bed!” Rodge the drunken glass worker shouted (a fixture at the Broken Dog Tavern) and fell forward into his ale.
“Go home, Rodge,” someone yelled. “We want to hear Hopper’s tale, not stories about your teatless bed!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and then Hopper continued: “In this time there was but a thousand gnomes left in the entire world. And just as fast as they made land, they were turned away by the humans of Teszereth, and so they drove south down the coast to the shores of what would one day become the Pelorian capital; there, the gnomes found their respite, however brief. They gathered themselves, salvaging and modifying their ships and engines, sinking the rest, and then ventured inland, seeking a place to burrow, some place deep and dark and well-protected. An aerostat scout led them on one final trudge through the Cogspine Mountains to its highest peak, Kubalesh, named so by the thick-headed barbarians who dwelled there.” Hopper growled that last part like a severely malnourished bear—(the bard was so damn scrawny). “Not for long though, because the gnomes were ruthless and cunning in their desperation, and their hands were soon steeped in blood.”
Rodge’s head rose. “Gnome bastards,” he complained, then hiccupped. “How big do you think their gnomewoman’s teats are?” Spittle flew from his mouth as he made a smallish gesture with his thumb and index finger.
“More than what you’re getting!” That might have been Rex.
The crowd bent and swayed with raucous laughter. Even Jancy cracked a smile. Like clockwork, nearly every night, Rodge would start his mouth up and the others would tear him down.
“Now SHUT UP before I smash your face in!” And that was definitely Rex.
“Deep within the mountain,” Hopper proceeded yet again, “like a great stony helm above their gnomish heads, they dug. The city they forged there in those cavernous halls was called Thrasperville.
“With their safety ensured, the gnomish Mayor was re-established, and the K
ing and Queen from the old world, who had lived in the shadows for two dozen years to protect their gnomish line, were to be re-seated in the glorious new throne room made from the parts of broken machines, a new foundation built on iron and steam and steel, cogs and gears, and bone-numbing voracity.
“The gnomes had survived…”
Rodge clapped weakly and nearly rolled off his seat. Someone shoved him straight again.
“…yet, too much time had passed, and the Thrasperville gnomes were too distant from their original home in the old world. Many did not feel bound by the old ways; it was a different time, and their recent hardships had carved out a new type of gnome. Rebellious cogweavers and powerful thaumaturges made their claims to power. Old royal families, far removed from their lofty places, thought to regain their lost glory.
“One such gnomestress, a machineweaver called Vilka, sought the gnomish crown for her family, the Stillbrights. She marched into the throne room surrounded by a small army of whirring automatons and threatened to take the crown by force.
“It was a sad moment for gnomes,” Hopper’s voice had turned melancholy and droll. “One of the few times when greed surpassed the curiosity of invention.” He strummed a mournful chord for emphasis.
“Jancy!” came a cry from the kitchen. Five seconds passed, and then again, “Jancy!”
Damn, Laureen!
Jancy reluctantly got back to work just as the story was getting good. She knew better than to ignore the proprietress twice. She resumed serving mutton and carrot stew, and more ale, while receiving a few well-placed slaps on the backside because she was too enthralled listening to Hopper to dodge them. Finally, turning her hip to avoid yet another grabby hand, she gave up on the story and focused on finishing her job and dodging deviant patrons.
That evening, when the patrons had all gone home (either on their own two feet, or dragged out by their less drunken friends), she found Hopper at the hearth with a flagon of wine for company. She usually found him there after a performance, except on overly rowdy nights, in which case he made a hasty exit, but tonight he’d left them thoughtful and melancholy, and they’d gone quietly home to their ale-spun dreams. His demeanor, shoulders slumped and eyes filled with weariness, conveyed how much energy he’d expended during his storytelling.
He put on a buck-toothed grin at her approach. “Hello, luv. I was just gathering myself for a good, long sleep.”
“What room are you in?”
“Oh…can’t stay here, dear. I’ll be out in the stable with my pony.”
“You outdid yourself tonight. The drink is on me. For that matter, let me get your room and board for the night.”
Hopper’s thin red face lit up, his smile large and even a bit frightening in the low tavern light. Then he sobered, cocking his head. “What’s the catch?”
“Finish the story.”
“Already done, dearie. Finished ‘bout an hour ago.”
“No…for me. I didn’t get to hear it all.”
His head sunk, and his eyes studied her from a lower angle. Jancy could tell he’d been taken for a fool before, and probably paid dearly for it, too. “So’s you’re sayin’ if I finish, you’ll buy this flagon….the wineskin the flagon was poured from, and you’ll have me put upstairs where it’s warm?”
“That’s the deal.”
The bard sighed, nodded, and re-arranged his expression. It was a miraculous transformation, one Jancy had seen several times before. His chest puffed up before her eyes as all traces of weariness slipped away, as if he was sucking life from the fire, the candles, and even the lingering smells of mutton and fried potatoes, and feeding off it. He worked his jaw around and puckered his lips. Twisted them. Squeezed his eyes shut. Then loosened everything into a visage of happy contentment, complete with a big, dumb grin plastered on his face, buck teeth still as gargantuan as mill stones, but far less pronounced.
“Yes, dearie,” he said, his voice markedly higher, happier, and a touch mischievous. “I saw you whisked away by your duties ‘bout the time I was telling what Vilka did after bursting into the throne room with her steel soldiers.”
“Yes! That’s it. What happened next?” Jancy said, as she pulled a chair over and sat facing the bard.
“Well,” Hopper began, edging forward, “she demanded her crown, that’s what she did. She demanded half the metal in the mountain and her choice of suitors to start her bloodline fresh and new and full; yes, that was what she wanted the most. A child…wooooeeeeeooooo…a child.” Hopper sung that last part in a lilting falsetto that made the hairs on the back of Jancy’s neck stand on end. He picked up his harp and launched into the tale’s finale.
“The high-ranking gnomes in attendance called their swordsmen to them, realizing their sure doom should they remain divided. They banded together and shouted down Vilka and her claims; wizards and tradesman alike joined the fray.
“But Vilka did not back down, ruthless and cunning as she was. She ordered her stiff-legged, clankity-clank automatons forward. They marched to a song of spinning cogs and glowing eyes, steel hides deflecting all brave blades.
“And rather than christening the great hall with laughter, the place rang with steel and cries of horror as the already bedraggled colony suffered even more horrible deaths. Fathers and sons, young gnomes and even gnomelings just come of age perished in the desperate fighting.
“The throne room was bathed in blood and oil.”
Jancy felt a little sick at the thought. “Oh no. I don’t like this Vilka gnomestress at all. Not one little bit.”
“As well you shouldn’t,” Hopper continued, standing now, his arms open wide in oratorical ecstasy. He fairly shouted, “Vilka has forever been the thorn for Thrasperville gnomes, stuck in their side, even to this day.”
“Quiet down in there!” Laureen shouted from the kitchen.
“Never mind her,” Jancy said. “Go on. Please.”
“Just when it seemed Vilka would win her throne by bloody battle, a young gnome named Frank Grundzest carted in a mighty magnetic stone they’d used to lift machines across great chasms on their path through the mountains. With a few quick words and the flick of a lever, he removed the spell that bound the stone’s power and loosed its magnetic effect upon the throne room.
“The defenders encircling the throne gaped in awe as the automatons ground to a halt, toppling backwards at the mercy of the stone’s pull!”
“Oh, but what about the gnomes? Their armor?”
“Fortunately for them, most of the gnomes in attendance wore leathers and tradesman’s garb, yet the pull from the magnetic stone stole the weapons right out of their hands and yanked any loose metal from the walls and ceiling in a deadly rain. The center of the throne room was a heap of twisted, twitching metal, and a floor greased with the blood of their kin.
“With the motorized clatterers incapacitated, the gnomes went after Vilka. But she was impossible to kill. Once she saw the battle lost, she simply vanished.”
“That’s strange.” Jancy bit her lip. “But I’ll bet everyone was quite pleased with that.”
Hopper shook his head vigorously. “Not so, dearie. You see, Vilka the Damaged, as she later came to be known, had absconded with the royal child.”
Jancy’s stomach twisted. “She took their child?”
Hopper nodded. “Thrasperville’s scryers caught up with her soon enough. A hundred furious gnomes plunged down through the Cogspires in pursuit, stopping before a deep valley that twisted through a flock of knobby hills. A dozen went in, never to return. A dozen more, with the same result. Of the last dozen, one returned, crawling up the barren hillside to his kin. His lips raced with incoherent babbling, his eyes bulging with distant terror. He died in their arms, against the wishes of the company cleric, whose gods seemed to have abandoned them in the face of the evil sorceress, Vilka.
“Full of rage and sorrow, what remained of the Thrasperville gnomes left the valley and returned to their new home under the mountain, more
haunted now than ever before.”
“That’s terribly unfair.” Jancy was disappointed the story had taken such a melancholy turn. She was even more upset about the fate of the stolen child, the little prince or princeling who might have had a wonderful life and ruled the gnomish subjects with a fair and just hand.
“That’s not all, lass. No. Upon hearing news that her child had not been retrieved, the Queen threw herself from a high peak.”
Tears welled up in Jancy’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks (the first thing she’d ever spilled at the Broken Dog).
“What’s wrong, lass? You look like you just lost a friend to a river dragon.”
Jancy wasn’t entirely surprised to find herself furious and heartbroken. She often got this way whenever she experienced some sort of mindless injustice, especially when it came to children. Only most of the time there was something she could do about it…and she often did. It was the ‘itch to move,’ she called it, a feeling that she needed to act, to be in sudden motion, sudden emotion.
She sputtered. “It was a wonderful tale, Hopper. Really. I’m just sad for the child, is all. Taken from its mother and carried away by some complete stranger. Poor thing was probably dead before dawn.”
“That’s a thing, isn’t it?” Hopper giggled. “You might think Vilka and the child passed away, victims of time and the natural order of death. Never mind magick elixirs and youth-altering spells…”
Jancy cocked her head, shifted in her chair. She started to speak, stopped, started again. “She’s not still alive, is she?” Jancy was incredulous, but curious too. “That was hundreds of years ago. Even with magick, there’d be no way anyone could stay alive that long, could they?”
Hopper grew suddenly quiet, a mere whisper of the personality that been ringing through the tavern for the past half hour. He leaned forward, his wormy lips twisting. “I know she’s alive, because I’ve seen her, luv. I’ve sang for her…in her tower at the foot of the Cogspire Mountains.”
“Hopper…” Jancy threatened him with a look. She was in no mood to play.