by Stone Thomas
“If we have to leave him here,” I said, “he shouldn’t be defenseless.”
I cracked open the guardian’s skill menu. I unlocked Block, though the familiar’s low attributes would still leave it fairly weak. I made a blocking motion with my spear to teach the little guy what to do. “That’s it,” I said. “Sort of.”
Mamba took my hand after that and led me away from the circus caravan.
We ran past a table with a woman dressed in purple robes. “Futures foretold!” she yelled, but we were already on our way past her. Besides, I didn’t need another person telling me I was doomed today. Other stalls had games of skill, games of chance. We raced past them all.
At last we reached a tent with its front flaps pulled aside. Inside, men and women sat at wooden tables with glasses of beer and wine, and small plates of food I didn’t recognize but which made me salivate anyway. This is where that wonderful barbecue smell was coming from.
Mamba let go of my hand after she sat me down at a table. Brion was already there, sitting with his head slightly bowed and his hands folded. He said nothing until Mamba returned from the bar with three mugs of deep red wine.
“These are fortified,” he said. “They will raise your blood alcohol concentration to 0.03%.”
“I see they’ve let you out of your kennel,” I said. “Ready to tell me what Kāya has in store for Nola?”
“I held no information back last time,” he said. “With 1,344 plus a maximum of 400, the plan would affect a total of 2,758 at a rate of 16 per second. Kāya would require one minute forty-nine seconds to complete her plan.”
“Are those the same numbers you said last time?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “Why would they stay the same?”
“You make so little sense.” I sighed. “I’m sorry Gelma couldn’t do more.” I actually meant that, which surprised me. Brion was a random number generator with whiskers, but he was earnest, and suffering. I turned back toward Mamba, but a waitress walked over with a platter full of meat.
“Three please!” Mamba said.
The woman set down plates before each of us. Mine had four strips of brown meat clinging to long bones, and a thick slab of steak next to those. As far as ribs went, these didn’t look the juiciest, so I tore off a salty, fatty mouthful of the steak first. I didn’t sink my teeth into it, though. Even my molars struggled against the tough rubbery meat.
“How ya like it?” the waitress asked.
I pressed the wad of meat to the side of my mouth. “It’s difficult to chew.”
“And that’s the tender belly of it,” she said. “You want chewy, try the whiskers.”
“What kind of pig has meaty whiskers?” I asked.
“Ain’t no pig, love,” she said. “That’s grippersnout.”
I turned and spat the contents of my mouth onto the plate. The stringy strips of meat with the bones still in them weren’t ribs. They were snout fingers. Everything about this animal was the worst. Why would anyone name a bar after this thing?
“I’ll stick with wine,” I said. The waitress shrugged and wandered away.
“When I got back here,” I said, “the portal arch was still in the main tent. Did Vee have trouble setting up a permanent portal arch with the idol I gave her?”
“I’m not sure,” Mamba said. “I haven’t seen her at all today. Yesterday she was trailing after Gorinor like a warm breeze through summer thistles. Everywhere he went she kept vying for his attentions. I guess you could say she was Vee-ing. Ha! I made an Arden joke!”
“What’s an Arden joke?” I asked.
“That’s where you make a pun, but not a very good one,” she said. “At least, that’s how Nola explained it.”
“What else does Nola say behind my back?” I asked.
“That sometimes, when you’re thinking really hard, you make a cute little thinky face like maybe it hurts to make your brain try so much,” Mamba said. “But I already knew that.” She took another small sip of her wine.
I took a long swig. This drink was stronger than regular wine, with a sharp sting to it, but it was also sweeter than I was used to. It tasted of dark berries and butterscotch. It would pair well with sweet rolls. Then again, I thought anything would pair well with sweet rolls, so maybe my tastes weren’t too finely honed.
“How did you pay for all of this?” I asked.
“My snakies have been working to help set up for the bassador,” she said. “Their hard work opened us a tab at the bar and reserved us a room out back. You and I could slip away for a while…”
Brion leaned into a mug of fortified wine. His cat ears turned toward Mamba, pushing back some of his bushy lion mane. I raised an eyebrow.
“I guess Brion could come too,” Mamba said, “if you’re curious.” I nearly choked on my wine.
“Beastkin can be closed-minded about a lot of things, but never sex,” Brion said. “I would be amenable.”
“Bi-curiosity killed the cat,” I said. “Why don’t you just make sure no one interrupts us.”
Mamba finished off her wine and took my hand, leading me to a flap in the tent’s rear. The tent’s back door opened onto a narrow strip of grass surrounded by small sleeping tents. Many had light streaming from beneath their doors. This bar was also an inn, and it was mostly full.
“I haven’t forgotten about your promise,” she said.
“What promise?” I asked.
“To make me a momma,” she said.
“I don’t think I ever said that,” I said.
“You didn’t have to. You’re a very promising man. Your promises speak for themselves.”
“You’ll be a wonderful momma,” I said. “One day.”
“Starting today,” she said, pushing open the door to a tent she had reserved for us.
The entire floor was a sleeping pad, covered with soft sheets and pillows with tassels on them. Mamba pulled off her boots and jumped onto the low bed. I followed suit.
She lay back, raising her hips from the floor so she could pull off the wrap she wore around her waist. I climbed on top of her and brushed her hair away from her face.
“Are you sure you want this?” I asked.
“It’s all I’ve wanted,” she said. She rolled onto her stomach and propped herself up on her knees, arching her back deeply. “Don’t hold back now. The harder you try, the harder we’ll succeed. Just think about babies.”
“I absolutely won’t,” I said.
I ran one hand between her legs. The second my fingers found their destination, she began to moan. Her hips moved from side to side, flexing the small muscles at the base of her spine. Every part of her body was toned and strong.
I leaned in, tucking my knees behind hers and bringing my hips close against her.
She breathed in sharply and tilted her head back. “Make me a momma!” she yelled. “That’s it, harder!”
I bent over her body, pressing my chest against her back. My hand left her hip and sped toward her mouth as my lips grazed against her ear.
“Mamba,” I said in a low voice, “you’ll wake the neighbors.”
A voice called out, “We don’t mind!”
+47
We lay in that sleeping tent together for hours. I stroked a hand down Mamba’s torso, tracing the space between her breasts. “How much time do you think we have?”
“It’s midnight now,” she said, “but—”
“I’m late!” I yelled. I jumped up, pulled on my clothes, and nearly tripped over my untied boot laces as I left the tent.
“Arden!” Mamba yelled. “I didn’t finish—”
“Yes you did,” I said. “Twice. But we can’t keep trying tonight, I have to get to the Chal!” I burst from our private tent and through the warren of corridors toward the center of Barren Moon.
Just when I thought I was lost, I saw the fortuneteller we had passed earlier. I ran toward her, retracing the steps that brought us so far away from the Chal’s tent in the first place.
“You need to know!” the fortuneteller yelled as I approached. She ran out from behind her table and blocked the road. “I will tell you your future!”
“I really don’t have time,” I said.
I dodged left. She dodged too. I dodged right. She blocked me again. I charged ahead, trying to avoid her and failing. She grabbed my hand and pulled it toward her face, crossing her eyes slightly as she read the lines in my palm.
“There’s a woman,” she said.
“There are lots of women,” I said. “Wait, that sounds like bragging. There are also lots of women that aren’t. No, that doesn’t make any sense. I have an average number of women? Though, the women themselves are above average in every way.” Modesty is hard.
While I stammered, the fortuneteller worked.
“You risk losing her,” she said. Her eyes glowed the same dark purple as her robes. If this were a trick, it was a good one. I suspected it wasn’t though.
“Tell me,” I said. “Quickly.”
“Death is not the end it used to be,” she said. “Tell your gilded lady to stay vigilant.”
“That’s so vague it’s not even a riddle!” I said. I pulled my arm, but the woman held firm. She arched an eyebrow.
If I had gold, I’d have tossed some her way, but my pockets were as penniless as I was. “I can’t pay you for that. You made the mistake of accosting someone with no gold to his name. Really, if you were better at this, you’d have known I couldn’t pay you.”
“Cheap ass!” she yelled as I wrenched my hand free and sprinted toward the Chal’s tent. I burst through the front flap, unceremoniously out of breath.
The center of the tent was just a bare patch of grass, surrounded by a ring of chairs three rows deep. They sat half empty. A handful of people chatted casually around the room’s edge.
“I’m sorry,” I said, practically wheezing from the short run, “I’m late.”
“The Chalmaster’s not here either,” one man said. “Gypsies never start anything on time.” He went back to his conversation while I sat and caught my breath. He kept glancing over at me with narrowed eyes. After Mournglory, and now Barren Moon, I looked forward to going home where I wasn’t an outsider. Or where we were all outsiders, which amounted to the same thing.
A few minutes later, Mamba waltzed through the front door. Or tangoed, or whatever she was up to this time. “I tried to tell you,” she said. “Midnight is more of a suggestion. You’ll know it’s time by the sound.” She sat next to me and took my hand in hers.
As more gypsies filed into the Chal tent, it was clear which were the important ones. They tended to have flashier clothing and a train of people that followed behind them.
The bloodkinds present were all so different. Every shade of skin from the milkiest white to the deepest brown. Every style of clothing, from sparse sheer fabrics to dense billowing furs. I couldn’t imagine how far they had come for this.
Mamba’s hand squeezed mine as a familiar woman approached. “Isilya,” I said. “We have an empty seat here.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll sit with Gorinor’s crew when they arrive. I just came over to wish you luck tonight. And don’t forget what I told you.” She smiled at Mamba then crossed the tent’s central floor to sit with other olive-skinned, dark-haired gypsies like herself.
“What did she tell you?” Mamba asked.
“Let’s see, that was two days ago. Never show fear. Um… praise the Chalmaster. And… And… Something else.”
A trumpet blared and everyone stood up, so I did too. The Chalmaster entered, his bald head shiny and his green garb minty. He walked in alone and took a place in the center of the open floor. The rest of his bloodkind were already in the tent, sitting together as a group.
Outside, a loud chorus of cheers rose up as the metal latches and locks on the prison carts clanged open. “I know you are all eager to attend the circus,” the Chalmaster said, “but you know the first hour is all shows and no blows. We’ll finish here before the real fighting begins. Now, a representative from each bloodkind shall make themselves known.”
They did exactly that. The first five bloodkind representatives announced themselves, each with their own people cheering on their leader, including the representative dressed similarly to the Chalmaster. Then Gorinor threw open the tent’s entrance flap and strutted in with his people in tow. “Gorinor Hinth,” he said, “representing the bloodkind of Barren Moon proper.” His people — Mamba’s people — clapped and hollered. So did the gypsies from three other bloodkinds. That didn’t bode well.
“Where is our seventh representative?” the Chalmaster asked. Everyone looked around, but only six bloodkinds had arrived. “Perhaps we’ll wait—”
“For our women to return themselves?” Gorinor asked, standing from his seat. The room was still and silent as the two men locked eyes.
“The floor is mine,” the Chalmaster said. “Speak out of turn again and I’ll expel you from the Chal.”
Gorinor bowed slightly without breaking eye contact. “The Chalmaster is brave and strong.” As he sat back down, people began to chatter among themselves.
“Enough,” the Chalmaster said. “We cannot wait to address the safety of our own. It is my intention to name a champion this night to bring back our women alive or bring news of what foul fate befell them so that we might seek vengeance. Has anyone other than Gorinor yet been nominated?”
People looked around, but no one spoke. “Gorinor Hinth, make your plea.”
The Chalmaster sat, allowing the gaudily dressed representative of Mamba’s bloodkind to take center stage. He lost no time before launching into a well-rehearsed speech. I swallowed hard. I hadn’t rehearsed my speech well. My level of preparation was best described as diddly-squat.
“Gypsies own these woods,” he yelled, “and it’s time we acted like it!” A few people cheered.
“For too long, we have allowed the city-dwellers, and the empire, and the gods to treat us as outlaws. Our people live in every corner of the world forest, from Barren Moon’s flat grass to the elf lands’ towering trees.
“Our numbers are greater than ever, our gold stores are growing, and our skills are at their peak. The day of the gypsies is dawning!
“Yet, as our power grows, it threatens the empire. We’ve all seen them, imperial daggers stalking through the forest like this land is theirs. Sneering at our camps, at our children. They wish our kind would die off with this generation. Make no mistake. They did this. Somehow, they disappeared our women and I won’t stop until we’ve captured every stray imperial and tortured the truth out of them.
“I vote for myself to lead this charge. Who votes with me?”
Gorinor’s people all stomped one foot on the ground, all but Isilya. Three other bloodkinds stomped along in unison, thumping like a war drum against the ground. Four gypsies, including Gorinor, raised their hands to vote on behalf of their people.
The Chalmaster rose and the tent fell quiet again. “I see that Gorinor has won four of your votes,” he said. “Normally that might yield a tie. With the absence of one voting member, four would instead carry the majority.”
Those four bloodkinds all clapped and hollered. “However!” the Chalmaster continued. “The vote will not occur until all nominees have fully spoken. I nominate Arden Hochbright. Perhaps, by the time his plea concludes, our absent member will arrive.”
He wants me to stall. Here goes.
“Strangers, gypsies, forest men…” This was off to a bad start. Even the gypsies that hadn’t sided with Gorinor seemed cold. I spun around, scanning their faces and not finding any of them friendly.
“Maybe the empire is behind this,” I continued, wondering how long I’d have to stall before the missing bloodkind showed up. “But maybe not. Let’s think long and hard about where we might find the missing women. Would we find them in a house? Would we find them with a mouse? Would we find them here or there? Would we find them anywhere?”
Vamping somehow turned into a children’s book. It dawned on me, that was the only book I’ve ever read to completion.
As I pondered my literary un-geniusness, someone threw a greasy bone at me. It hit the grass, a clump of dirt sticking to a strand of meat that still clung to the bone. I looked the man that threw it in the eyes. He clenched his jaw and reached toward his belt, no doubt for a weapon. I stepped toward him anyway.
Show no fear? Check.
“You,” I said. “Are any of the missing women people you care about?” I let the question hang there for a second. “I suspect they are. They’re important to me too. Among those missing women are the mommas that raised Mamba, and I won’t stop until I find them. If the empire is kidnapping innocent women, we’ll stop them. But we won’t limit our search on Gorinor’s baseless hunch.”
“Following a hunch is better than the Chalmaster’s weakness and inaction!” someone yelled from the other side of the room.
“The Chalmaster brought you together to find a champion,” I said. “None of you wanted an early bassador.” A few people nodded. “Yes, the festivities are fun, but it’s the wrong season, and some of you hail from distant lands. The Chalmaster made you travel this far. He lost some of your goodwill knowing that his position is an elected one, but he risked it anyway for the greater good. He is gracious and selfless.”
Compliment the Chalmaster? Check. Now what was the last thing?
“So what do you propose we do?” someone yelled.
“Look inward,” I said. “You have the skills to find the women yourselves. Your psychics and psycholowitches could make a good start. Come together as one people to figure out who’s behind this. Point me in their direction, and I will bring those women home.”
I turned slowly, scanning the faces around me. Isilya smiled. So did a few others. I was winning some of them over.
The faint sound of tiny cymbals chimed behind me. Then Isilya’s advice crashed back into my memory. If you think someone’s attacking you, they are.
I spun around and whipped my polearm out, holding it straight at Gorinor.
The entire tent gasped. The man didn’t hold his tambourine mid-attack though; he had simply stood up, as if preparing to speak. The tip of my spear lay only inches from his chest.