The gabbon halted just above the fruit vendor in front of them and wiggled its body in a curious way. Enoch was about to ask what it was doing when all of a sudden the ape defecated, dropping filth onto the poor man’s shoulder with amazing accuracy. Rictus shook his head and pulled Enoch along, chuckling as the soiled vendor shouted curses at the retreating ape.
“Reliable but dirty. And stop looking around like a yokel shepherd boy. These streets eat Midianites for breakfast.”
Enoch caught sight of the three-winged men he’d seen earlier. They were tall and stately, with coppery wings that shone in the morning sun. They looked nervous and wary, with one of them constantly watching the streets around them, but Enoch wondered how they could even dream of hiding. They were vibrant even in their canvas cloaks. Their skin shone with gilded edges, some sort of odd bronze jewelry at their elbows and wrists. Their hair ranged in color from green to a deep aqua blue, and they wore it long and braided, with bronze and copper wire woven through the strands. One of them noticed Enoch staring and turned to confront him.
“What is it, boy? Has this worm overcharged you for his rusting junk as well?”
Enoch shook his head no, and the gnome winked before pushing his cart away with a wave. But the gesture was quickly forgotten by the shepherd, who could not look away from the beautiful beings in front of him. He paused to see if their feathers were actually metal, and what he saw was unbelievable. The winged men had metal woven throughout their entire bodies! The jewelry on their arms were actually elements of their metallic skeleton which extended beyond their flesh.
But this was nothing like the platabruja, the silverwitch. Her exterior form had been a shell of beauty, but the underlying machinery was pure functionality. Reflecting back on what he had seen, Enoch realized that much of the platabruja design was built around redundancy—something which made sense if they were going to be doing battle with a “mind-wrench.” But these winged creatures, this design was something else entirely. The melding of natural form and synthetic materials apparent here was appealing in ways both deep and powerful to Enoch.
Using his new sight, he looked deeper into the man nearest him and saw a delicate lace of alloyed metals which supported bones, protected organs, and balanced the wings growing from his back. Subtle projections from his cheekbones and brow held mounts for a series of lenses and rings which could flip down to magnify and protect his eyesight.
Magnificent!
The man stepped up to Enoch, his hands on his waist. His eyes darted left and right, obviously not appreciating the attention.
“Alright, move on.”
A delicate hand rested on the winged man’s shoulder.
“Oh leave him alone, Beyn. He’s obviously never seen an Alaphim before.”
Enoch looked up and froze. He hadn’t noticed the girl standing between these Alaphim, and he stumbled backwards in surprise. This was a different sort of wonder.
She’s beautiful.
She leaned forward and grabbed Enoch’s arm to steady him. Her grip was firm but careful.
“Are you from around here?”
Enoch didn’t know what to say, and he found himself answering by instinct.
“N . . . no, Milady. I’m from Midian. Rewn’s Fork. It’s south of here.”
The angel smiled and tucked an errant strand of sky-blue hair behind her ear.
“Well, welcome to Babel, young shepherd. The livestock market is just through the eastern ramp over there.”
Enoch furrowed his brow, then laughed.
“Oh! Oh no, you see. I’m not a shepherd, or . . . at least, I’m not a shepherd anymore. I’m—”
A bony hand closed on Enoch’s shoulder and pulled him backwards.
“Let’s go, son. The sheep are getting hungry or something. Say goodbye to the nice lady.”
Enoch didn’t even look at Rictus as the exasperated specter practically carried him back into the bustling crowd. He couldn’t pull his gaze from the girl. She gave him a parting smile and then returned to conversation with her companion. Enoch gave her a feeble wave.
Goodbye.
Rictus scowled unconvincingly.
Grabbing a skinny arm, he pulled Enoch along towards the end of the market. The connecting street spilled into another large, open pavilion where rows of booths were set up haphazardly against the walls of great domed temples.
The Swampmen they had seen earlier at the gate had apparently made it through and were at a large stall unloading cages. Their steed stamped nervously and snorted at the surrounding cacophony.
Rictus released his arm and gave the boy a light cuff behind the ear.
“For the last time, close your mouth, shepherd. Keep your eyes down. And follow me closely.”
The specter’s voice was uncharacteristically stern, and Enoch tried to focus.
Enoch followed Rictus into a narrow alley, shaded by the multitude of ramparts, cables, walkways, and drying laundry strung between the two buildings which seemed as tall as the Edrei. His head still spun with thoughts of the angel, but even those were soon drowned out by the enormity of Babel.
This place is endless!
The alley narrowed, and the bustle of the crowd began to dim.
“Where are we going?” His voice sounded small echoing in the dark alley.
The specter looked up and down the alley to be sure they were alone and then shot him a long-toothed grin.
“With this face of mine it might be hard to believe, but even old Rictus has friends amongst the true music lovers of Babel. I can pull some favors and keep us safe for a while, but we’ll have to be heading out in a day or two. With the kind of attention you’re sure to have stirred up, we needn’t make easy targets of ourselves.
“You almost spilled our disguise to that pretty bird back there. From here on out it is best you understand, kid. The forces after you are strong. They are smart, they are quick, and they will not hesitate to do nasty things to you. Even with your training and abilities, you are no match for them. These snakes were killing Pensanden Blood Dukes before you were even a concept. I’ve been trying to teach you some less . . . orthodox . . . fighting styles to give you an edge. The skills your master taught you are useful, but you lack savvy. You’ll need to know how and when to fight dirty. Luckily—” and here Rictus extended his hand with an odd elegance, and bowed “—that’s my specialty.”
Rictus straightened and patted the long, gaunt weapon hanging at an angle on his back, then cocked his head.
“Oh, and you’re gonna have to sharpen up your listening skills here in the city. You can’t listen for snapping twigs and crunching leaves, but I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
With that cryptic remark, Rictus winked a leathery lid at Enoch and returned to his long-legged gait down the slowly descending alley. Enoch recognized the challenge and slipped into the pensa spada, commanding his senses to come alive.
Hear.
Rictus was right—he had been trained to listen for the bending of grass under a heavy foot, the whistling of the country wind around the shape of a man. All the rules were changed here. Sounds bounced and giggled off of the high walls, shadows moved unexpectedly, and smells were born, matured, and died in a matter of seconds. So Enoch listened for city sounds.
There was a pattern within the greater boil of noises in the city—a pattern which syncopated with his footsteps. A pattern which was whisper-quiet, but that had stayed constant while all others waxed and waned. Eyes closed, Enoch turned towards the pattern. There was a muffled splash as something leapt from a nearby puddle and into the surrounding refuse.
Rictus saw Enoch’s expression and chuckled. “It’s been following us since the gates. I think you may have started something back there.”
Enoch strode back to where the form had disappeared into the shadows. Between some broken slats in a large wine barrel, two bright eyes suddenly flashed back at him.
“Aaargh!”
The surprise yanked him free from his tr
ance as he stumbled backwards, tripping over a broken pot. Something launched itself from the shadowy recess and landed on his chest. Enoch could feel small, sharp claws digging into the front of his tunic where the wrappings had fallen away. He fumbled for the sword at his side, but it was still tangled up in the dusty shrouds.
He heard dry, familiar laughter. Rictus was obviously enjoying seeing him torn limb from limb by this alley beast.
The beast seemed less interested in tearing him apart than sitting on his chest and staring at him with those fierce yellow eyes. On further inspection, Enoch decided that the beast was less of a “beast” than he had first surmised.
As long as his arm from nose to tail, the creature had a silky and inconstant pelt which seemed to ripple from brown to indigo to black, alive with subdued color. The pointed snout ended in a small black nose, underneath which sharp white teeth almost glowed in the alley gloom. Large triangular ears swiveled towards him, amazingly motile upon the creature’s curiously tilted head. Enoch slowly turned his head to face Rictus.
“What is it? Is it dangerous?”
Rictus stepped closer to examine the creature.
“I think not. Or at least not to you. A dangerous animal wouldn’t have gotten so . . . so cozy on your chest there. This ferocious monster is—” Rictus shook his head, “—more enamored than alarmed, I would say. But as to its genus and species, I couldn’t venture to guess.”
Rictus rubbed his forefinger and thumb across his bony chin in a parody of scholarly inquiry.
“Judging by the chameleon fur, it seems to be some sort of a shadowcat hybrid—but if I’m not mistaken, there are some aspects of hue and pattern at play here which you don’t see on the common breed. I’ll bet this little guy . . . uh,” here he tilted his head to peer under the creature, “sorry, this little lady can go invisible in the middle of a Technicolor sandstorm, more than just match grays with the shadows like her cousins.”
He jerked his thumb around to indicate where they’d just come from.
“Those Swampmen are adept at mixing genes around, and it doesn’t hurt that the very swamps they live in are just silly with the worst kind of rads and unchained nantek—Garron was ground zero for some of the worst of the Schism. That stinking pool of glowing slop used to be a city founded on the principles of art and romance. And that, my little friend, is what they call irony.”
As usual, Enoch only understood about half of what Rictus was saying, but he parsed enough to realize that this creature—she—was not going to bite him. He slowly moved a hand towards her head. She twisted with boneless grace to sniff at the hand and then licked it with a rough, pink tongue. Enoch ran a hand over the creature’s back and was amazed by the softness of the fur. Eyes closed in feral pleasure, she began to purr.
Ambushed by such unexpected tenderness in the middle of this alien place, Enoch felt some sort of emotion welling up from his throat. It was alarming, and he coughed while staggering to his feet. The creature practically slithered up his arm and onto his shoulder, where she perched confidently. Enoch reached up to take her off—the last thing he and his skeleton companion needed was to look more conspicuous—and barely pulled his hand back in time as she bared needle-teeth and snapped at him.
With a purr that was half warning growl, the creature settled back onto his shoulders and turned to look at him as if to say: Okay, now we can go.
This time, both Enoch and Rictus laughed.
“It would appear that we have a new captain. Good job, Enoch.”
Enoch gave Rictus a miniature replica of one of his own signature shrugs. With that warm, somewhat prickly weight on his shoulder, he followed the chuckling corpse into the shadows of the city.
* * * *
The tavern, if it could be called that, seemed to be a half-hearted attempt at copulation by three or four run-down buildings of various styles and compositions—an architectural orgy of splintered beams, pock-marked columns, and drooping lintels. The sign hung crookedly from a rusted iron ring over the front porch, swinging in the slow breeze. At some distant point in the tavern’s history, the sign had been painted with festive colors, colors now bruised with the pale marks of age. Enoch could just make out the crudely drawn logo: a naked man sitting on some sort of a rounded chair, his head draped in black cloth, a comically large axe across his knees. Rictus spread his long, spidery arms expansively in a scarecrow embrace.
“This, my young friend, is the Headsman’s Hole. There is no finer tavern in all of Babel, excluding, of course, the ones which use plates.”
With a laugh, Rictus pulled the dusty shrouds from his shoulders. Already tattered from the journey, they practically disintegrated at his touch and fell to the damp pavement in a cloud of dust. Enoch didn’t follow suit—even if they were now entering safe territory where disguise was no longer necessary, he felt safer incognito. He wasn’t sure he wanted anybody noticing his swords until he was ready to use them.
Entering the tavern was much like walking into a den of sleepy nerwolves. The low-pitched murmuring was occasionally punctuated by mad laughter, slurred cursing, and the clanging of tin mugs; the heady smell of an overcooked roast struggled to dampen the less-palatable odors of unwashed men and stagnant pinebeer. A pair of frazzled youth—gender entirely indistinguishable—trudged back and forth from the kitchen carrying trays piled high with mugs and steaming piles of meat. Thick, vermilion clouds jetted from the brass pipes of bleary-eyed coral smokers, hiding anyone or anything from scrutiny in the flickering orange lamplight.
Feeling conspicuous, Enoch rushed to catch up with Rictus, who strode through the gaggle of drunkards, thieves, and worse as though he had just arrived home. Few people looked up at the gangly apparition, and those who did so showed only casual interest. This frightened Enoch, for what could be more dangerous than a place where specters were a common sight?
This train of thought was interrupted by a strange sound coming from the back of the tavern. It was oddly out of place in this din—the odd part being that something could actually sound so uniquely incompatible in this boiling stew of sounds. Enoch was reminded of a pan flute, common enough in sheep country, but this was something different—more complex in tone, yet beguiling in its melody. Wistful and elegant, the music swam untouched through the heavy air, weaving in and out of the mumblings of the crowd in melodious counterpoint.
It was a music that, for a few sweet moments, brought Enoch out of the harshness of his immediate surroundings. He would have been content to stand there listening forever, but Rictus had almost disappeared into the crowd, heading straight for the source of the music. Enoch scurried after him.
“Cal, you dried out piece of fly candy, how’s it hangin’?” Rictus’s voice rose in raucous greeting.
The music stopped just as Enoch reached the front of a small stage. At first he had to look around to see who Rictus was addressing. There was an ape on the stage, connected to some weird apparatus, but he could see no one else.
Just then the ape crouched, bringing the apparatus on its back into the light. Enoch gasped. A wrinkled human head was strapped to the animal, wrapped in dusty skin almost as leathery as Rictus’s. And, like Rictus, a snakelike metal tube emerged from the withered neck stump and connected to a steel box which was adorned with a dull red light. It blinked in syncopation to the one nested in his companion’s chest. As the ape scratched itself, the head turned to glare at the tall specter, and then lifted an eyebrow.
“It is ‘hanging,’ my crude friend, just as it always has. In the antique store across the street on a very large stand.”
Enoch jumped back as both of the apparitions burst into sandpaper laughter. He didn’t know what surprised him more, that Rictus was friends with an animated head, or the fact that the head spoke with a cultured, high-society accent. Strapped to one of the ape’s shoulders was a thin metal stand which held in its branching arms an odd assortment of whistles, flutes, and reeds.
Is this the musician I heard earlier
?
As if in response to Enoch’s thought, the head leaned down and blew a short, staccato melody on one of the pipes. The ape cocked its head in attention and then leapt up to the crossbeams above the stage, swinging from one hairy arm. The head blew into another pipe, this time a short copper tube. A piercing whistle rang through the crowd, and all eyes turned towards him.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen, all esteemed clientele of this most hospitable of drink-houses!”
Laughter rang out from all corners of the room, both for the genuine pride in the speaker’s voice and for the insinuation that ladies, gentlemen, or even anything as banal as “clientele” would ever frequent this tavern. Another whistle quieted them.
“It is my honor as proprietor of the Headsman’s Hole to announce the long-awaited return of the most despicable villain ever to survive the Schism, my drinking chum for the past three centuries or so, and the one-time lead guitarist for the extremely overrated Dogfish Knights. Drinks are on the house.”
As drunk and buzzed as they were, the crowd understood the last sentence, and a lusty cheer went up. Several entirely drunk fellows actually walked up to Rictus and patted him on the tattered shoulder in warm congratulations for something or another. Rictus looked up at the simian-mounted head with a boney grin.
“Cal, you unrequited ham, come down from there and talk with us.” He unstrapped the monstrous sword from his shoulder and leaned it against the little stage. “And the Dogfish Knights had three platinum albums, unlike your woefully undersold little recordings.”
The head, which Enoch guessed was Cal, whistled another short blast and was soon back on the stage in front of them. Cal’s parchment skin pulled into a dramatic scowl, exposing a yellow patch of skull above his wrinkled brows.
“I played to sold-out crowds in San Vegas for fifty years, Ric,” growled the animated head. “The Knights were a lucky flash in the pan right before it all went dark and you know it.”
Rictus grinned as he tapped the pulsing red light at his chest.
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