Chaos Tryst

by Shirin Dubbin

  The one called Corbel adjusted his cap to one side, allowing light to shine on his khaki face. His visage closely resembled a well-worn ballet slipper.

  “We don’t need to hire one,” Corbel said. “We need to take something from one. That one’s you, if you know what I mean?”

  “Ahh,” Ari said. She glanced back at Maks with a wink, evidently comfortable with the situation. He moved closer behind her anyway. They had business to attend to and she would not be harmed as long as he still needed her. Goblins could turn on you fast as rabid dogs.

  “If that’s the way of it then I’ll have to accept it,” Ari said. “But would you mind telling me what you want and why?” She made a meek gesture, allowing her shoulders to droop. “If you’re agreeable.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Trajan said, his voice an irritant. Unlike Corbel his features were sharp, his nose long and wedge shaped.

  “Would you be so kind, Trajan?”

  “Certainly I would, Corbel.” Then to Ari he said, “We’ve come for the necklace the Grand High Oni hired you to get for ’im.”

  Maks’s attention piqued and he stepped around Ari to stand beside her. A flash of puzzlement crossed her expression. She concealed it quickly, but goblins were quick too.

  Trajan did a little jig and chortled. “She’s confused as to how we knew about the necklace. Goblins is smarter than returners. Ain’t we, Corbel?”

  “You’re a wise one, Trajan,” Corbel said to his buddy before holding out a hand to Ari. “Turn it over.”

  They certainly enjoyed the sounds of their own names, these goblins. Apparently the two misshapen henchmen had no time to inquire Maks’s name or even acknowledge him. The pair should at least be wary. Maks stood six foot two and possessed a daunting build he thanked boxing for. Mayhap they thought he was in Ari’s employ—believing him a henchmen, like themselves. Otherwise he couldn’t explain why he’d gone ignored.

  “Is it wise to take from the Grand High Oni?” Maks asked. “He takes pleasure in tormenting your lady.”

  Both Corbel and Trajan glared but kept their attention on Ari. Maks may as well have remained silent. He looked down at himself. He was formidable, truly. Not as frightening as Dmitri but stomping goblins was easy and, at the moment, appealing.

  “Maks is right,” Ari said. “Stealing the necklace would just invite more antagonizing from the Grand High Oni. Hasn’t your lady been through enough?”

  “Now, now,” Trajan said. “We don’t hold with stealing. We’re born to appropriate.”

  Ari blew out a breath in exasperation. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “If you must know, nosy returner, our lady has had quite enough of the Grand High Horse’s Ass. He got hold of her latest fiancé and told the fellow she has the nasty goblin’s disease. That was too much for the lady. I mean, Corbel’s got the stinging itchies but she don’t.”

  “That’s right, Trajan. Tell ’em everyone’s troubles while you’re blathering.”

  “You know I will, Corbel,” said the oblivious Trajan. “Our lady figures to give The Ogre a bit of his own trouble back.”

  “You’re fond of your own names,” Maks said dryly. The goblins said nothing.

  “Yeah, you do use your names a lot.” Ari assessed the duo. She seemed equally confused by their refusal to acknowledge Maks.

  “Why wouldn’t we? Our names is loverly,” Corbel said. “Names is the most precious thing a goblin possesses.”

  “Time was we didn’t have names. We didn’t like that, did we, Corbel?” Trajan’s voice hitched up an octave as he slapped his companion on the back.

  Maks made a sound in his throat, hoping Ari would take the signal and wrap up her conversation with the squat pair. He wanted her done with the night’s work when her client called. There didn’t seem to be any threat from the henchmen and his patience stretched thinner the longer they delayed with them.

  Ari didn’t look at him but nodded in understanding. To the goblins she said, “Don’t tell me you steal—pardon me, take possession of your names along with everything else you acquire?” She buried her disdain beneath sweet tones.

  Maks couldn’t understand her contempt. As though she had the right to look down on the goblins when retrieving and appropriating weren’t so different. At least the goblins were honest. Retrieving may have been Ari’s career but lying was in her blood. He exhaled. His thoughts were unfair. Returners were an honored part of Faebled society. It was just that the three of them annoyed him to no end. Moreover, he had no tolerance for thieves or liars.

  “’Course we do,” Trajan answered Ari. He shook his head at Corbel, pointing at her as though she’d spent the afternoon sniffing Freon. “Everything we’ve got we appropriated. It’s the goblin creed. What is we, heathens that don’t steal nothing?”

  Maks opened his mouth to point out their earlier censure of the word steal, but since they’d only ignore him he refrained.

  “I’ve heard the grapevines say anything you claim belongs to you. Is that true?” Ari continued to play the role of an agreeable participant. Maks knew from her staunch refusal to give him his heirloom back she had no intention of turning the necklace over to the goblins. What was she up too? Conceivably nosiness had taken over. Or possibly she was buying time to plan a peaceful end to the confrontation.

  “Right you are,” Corbel said.

  “Well, obviously not people.” Ari’s remark was more to herself than directed at her two antagonists. What had made her say this? The smattering of rosy particles now haloing Ari answered the question. Chaos.

  Corbel got a look in his eye. Something devious had suddenly popped into his head. He lunged at Ari, his teeth bared in a kind of grimace-come-poisoned smile. Both she and Maks reacted. She executed a quick backbend, having caught on a second before the goblin made his move. Before she’d thrown her hands back Corbel’s teeth had clicked closed, barely taking skin from her bared forearm but drawing a small bit of blood. Maks thumped the goblin in the forehead with a flicker of his pointer finger. Corbel staggered backward.

  “What was that?” Maks asked Ari. She had pulled her staff from her bag and stood at the ready. Impressive.

  “The little buzzard got the idea he could claim me by taking my blood.”

  Maks was one step beyond annoyed. To attack a lady in the presence of a Medved, as though she didn’t have an escort, was a slight he wouldn’t have let pass. But to bite her…His lip curled. A lesson needed to be taught. He shuddered all over and his teeth elongated.

  Corbel, who’d been rubbing his forehead, finally took a good look at Maks. The energy of imminent damage would be difficult to ignore. Even for goblins and their single-minded attentions.

  “I think we made a miscalculation, Trajan.”

  “I’d be for agreeing, Corbel. I thought he was a gentleman. And as such we needn’t pay ’im no mind”

  I am no gentleman.

  “He ain’t nothing nice. You thinking about running?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What a coincidence. Me too.”

  The pair tucked, tumbled and ran. Corbel moved so fast his heels struck him in the hind end as he sped away. Maks, or more appropriately Bear, caught Trajan first and knocked him into a wall. He hit the bricks head on and crumpled like a beer can. Corbel looked back with an “eep” and moved even faster. Not fast enough. Bear passed him, spun about and reared on hind legs to block the goblin’s path.

  Corbel skittered to a stop just as a paw came down across his cap and face, splitting both into as many pieces as Bear had claws. The goblin touched the slices in his face in shock. “That’s gonna scar—” he looked down at his button-down shirt, and pulling the garment from his chest he stared at the bloody drips on it, “—and stain.” Bear bopped him on the head and Corbel dropped, taking a concussion nap.

  Ari ran up. “I am too stupid for words tonight.” She yawned and grinned. “I don’t know why I said what I did. Aghh, I need a couple days off.”

 
; Maks returned to his Faeble form and checked his clothes for splatter. Blood on your fur, blood on your attire. This time there was none. Good. “We must go,” he said to Ari and strode off. The ogre side of Fanaweigh wasn’t far and delivering the necklace the goblin pair spoke of would draw him closer to getting his parents’ statue back.

  Instead of following him, Ari went over to Trajan’s prone figure and picked him up. His neck flopped as though his head were held on by skin alone. Ari’s eyes widened at Maks in regards to the damage he’d done. “They bit you,” he said by means of explanation, and returned to stand beneath the streetlight.

  She nodded, stuffing the goblin into her open shoulder pack. The act shouldn’t have worked. The pack was half Trajan’s size. Ah, so it held enchantment. Good to know. Maks took a moment to contemplate her reasoning for collecting her attackers. When nothing rational came to mind he asked, suspecting she was mad and wouldn’t have an answer. She had an answer and she’d gone mad.

  “We can’t leave them on street. They might be killed before they heal. There are a lot of ogres out and about.”

  Maks took a breath and released it. “I remain strangely unconcerned.”

  Ari chuckled as she bent to retrieve the other goblin. “You would be.” Then to the henchman she said, “Up you go.”

  Before she touched him Corbel rose in the jerky manner of a reanimated corpse. Ari hopped back. Maks moved to knock him out again but the goblin’s eyes remained closed, his head lolling. Still unconscious.

  “That’s unexpected,” Ari said.

  Unexpected indeed. Maks flashed her a wicked look. “Tell him to dance.”

  “Dance,” came Ari’s command. Corbel did just that. His body mimicked a decapitated chicken, erratic and ridiculous, completely independent from his lolling head.

  “Yeesh.” Ari shook in disgust. “Be still.” The goblin went limp and fell. Ari caught him and lifted him into her pack. She zipped and secured the bag on her shoulder, jiggling…Do it again…a bit until she appeared comfortable. She looked to Maks. “I’m ready.”

  Maks avoided looking anywhere below her neck. Her jiggling had been…invigorating. “You do not wish to examine why the goblin bends to your will?”

  Her expression became stricken before morphing to nonchalance. Odd. Ari waved him off and started walking. “Not really. I’m sure the answer will come in time.”

  Maks admired her pretense of Zen but didn’t buy it. Ariana Golde did not wish to think on how she’d gained control over the Lady Goblin-kin’s henchman. Maks dismissed his contemplation. It didn’t matter. Her troubles were not his problem.

  “Do we go to see Wend—the Grand High Oni now?”

  “Nope. We’re going to drop these annoying little pukes off on the goblin side of Fanaweigh.”

  “Is this wise?”

  “Probably not, but we’ll be quick. I can’t leave them out here to be killed. Okay?”

  Maks nodded. “Should we take my car?”

  “No. Fanaweigh is so close I’d rather walk. Plus, if I get into a car right now I’ll be lulled to sleep…and good luck waking me after that,” she said.

  Maks swept out an arm in a gesture for her to precede him. Ari bowed her head in thanks and they set off.

  The edifice known as Fanaweigh’s Scar rose before them. Not far now. Maks and Ari walked along the sidewalk, approaching the Scar from the outer edge, parallel to ogre territory. From their vantage point the wall wound back into the horizon—a grotesque stone and steel caterpillar slowly eating away at Fanaweigh. The ogre fence had been constructed of boulders and mortar with artful chunks missing to allow in sun or moonlight. The fence ran perpendicular to the Scar but was shorter by twenty feet or more.

  Maks avoided Fanaweigh’s Scar as best he could. He did not like the aura of the thing. It reminded him of the accursed stained glass window hanging over his and his brothers’ home. In the same manner the crows of legend loomed over battlefields, the window had loomed over the Meveds until he’d come in contact with the returner. At least she’d done something helpful.

  Thoughts of the window and the dark oppression of the Scar transported Maks to a time he normally avoided through force of will. He’d become practiced at suppressing his past, but there were catalysts—moments, scents, symbols. Ignoring the window had become rote; in breaking it the returner had inadvertently brought him hope. And hope unlocked doors.

  In his head he sidestepped fetid puddles of memory. Working not to slip, he almost missed the weight of the returner’s hand on his arm. Perhaps she acted to anchor him. Useless. Soon his mind overflowed with pains of the past and he sank into the remembrances of a time before his parents became stone.

  An image of the bone witch, Baba-Yaga, rose before him. She’d taken a liking to his father in those days. No mystery there. Mikhail had been an incomparable craftsman, especially when he worked in amber. Each piece his father shaped held magicks. Maks fondly remembered his brothers and himself receiving sculpted toys that moved of their own volition. In those times the bees encircling his mother’s special statue flew freely around the honeycomb or followed her in a swarm of protection.

  From his understanding, Baba-Yaga had wanted his father to mold monsters for her—creatures of stone and semiprecious gem she would use to gather infants, the sustenance to appease her power along with her palate. The bone witch offered Mikhail a taste of the foul puissance she would gain as a result. He hadn’t wanted anything but to watch his wife, Valentina, dance and his children grow. If only he hadn’t told the witch his truth. Perhaps…

  A shiver of regret passed over Maks. The warm squeeze of the hand on his arm fought off the chill and he continued to follow the memory.

  He’d been at his mother’s side when Baba-Yaga came to collect her. A hunting expedition had called Mikhail and Dmitri away. Pride infused the memory. The common folk had begun to tell tales of the man and the bear who hunted as one. His father and brother had carved their place into folklore early on.

  With the elder males gone, Valentina took Maks and baby Konstantin into the forest. Like her, Maks had the gift of dance and song. She wanted to teach him to use it.

  He’d done well. Valentina had laughed as he spun by a riverbank, flowers growing where his feet struck. Her breathtaking smile lit her face as she clapped and kept time with bare feet.

  Who could’ve foreseen the arrival of the bone witch? Only the babe sleeping in a basket by the tree stump their mother sat upon. And he could not yet speak. Baba-Yaga oozed from the tree line and seized Maks as he danced. She bit into his shoulder, the sting of her teeth searing. Before his mother’s name slipped from his lips, venom seeped into his body. The last he saw, Valentina had risen, her visage fierce, twin daggers twirling dangerously in her hands.

  The witch must have made a bargain to convince his mother to leave her two “sleeping” babes behind. Maks guessed it was something to free him from the effects of the poison—Valentina had never spoken of it after her return. He’d awoken to Kostya’s wails and darkness, his body curled around the baby’s basket with his mother’s daggers at his fingertips.

  Guilt had seized him. Chest aching, it took him a great while to bury the emotion deep within his subconscious. After Maks carefully placed the blades in the basket, Bear had taken over. He’d gripped the handles in his teeth then tracked his father and elder brother.

  Mikhail had taken the news of his wife’s abduction with a curt nod of his head. He and Dmitri left the younger boys in the care of the Faebled Gypsy side of the family and left on a hunt for Baba-Yaga’s ever-moving hut. Having done his duty Maks turned his face to the wall of a wooden caravan and cried. During the following days he’d allowed no one to console him. Only the return of his mother could.

  As Dmitri told it, their father had outsmarted Baba-Yaga and won Valentina back without having to craft monsters. The witch hadn’t taken the loss well. She’d cursed the couple. In time their love would rot, turning them against one another; and th
eir children would never find succor in love nor families born of it.

  Valentina’s chaos had fed the spell. Mitya recalled watching it coalesce in a rain of shimmering red particles that painted their mother’s face in stricken shades.

  After his family retrieved their two younger members, they’d all returned to their home to find the stained glass mounted in a formerly solid wall. Since then it followed the family, making itself a part of each home they’d taken. His parents fought the curse until Dmitri came of age. When the time came, Mikhail and Valentina kissed their children goodbye before combining their magicks. They’d turned to marble to escape the end of their love—a horror neither of them could bear. Their three sons hadn’t fared much better. Somewhere inside, in a place Maks dared not think on too long, he believed his and his mother’s entropy had united to cause their family’s misery. He had given the bone witch an opening and his mother had enhanced the curse.

  Maks shook off the thrall of his past. Could the curse have been broken when the window shattered? He pummeled his hope back down into a manageable size. Yet, if so, his brothers would be free to find mates and begin families of their own. Possibly their parents would return to them, as well. Good. Happiness had infused his life as fully as breath before Baba-Yaga. Having them back, with his brothers able to fill out the Medved ranks, would be more than enough for Maks. He would live vicariously through their joys—if the curse had truly been broken.

  Maks did not allow himself the thought of a wife and cubs. There would be no family for him. The threat of passing on his propensity for chaos prevented him from risking the barest longing for those he could call his—

  Ari yawned loudly. Maks erased any evidence of pain from his expression as he turned to her.

  The returner trudged along beside him. Her head drooped and she barely lifted her knees with each pace, as though the joints were made of lead.

  He allowed suspicion to color his voice. “What is wrong?”

  She took her hand from his arm and rubbed her nose. “I’m so tired. I’ve been working nonstop for days.” She sighed but continued to move.