If they’ll let me quit.
I crossed the street to get a better look at some of the statues. They looked like . . . goblins and orcs or some weird Tolkien shit. Not a statue guy, but if I was a statue guy, you can be damn sure there’d be some naked women in my front yard with some perfectly shaped marble breasts. Prudes can’t even say nothing ‘bout marble breasts: they’re art.
Least these statues hinted at personality on Plutarch’s part. Into some dark shit, but he ain’t a cog all happy with his square lawn doing the normal civilized thing. Got some stone statues like watchdogs. Needed a sign: beware of statues, will bite.
Don’t blink.
I went around to the backyard fence. It’s made of wood, not stone. Old fence, taken some environmental damage from rain and snow in its time. Nails were loose in a few places, would have to be careful. Normally I’d use an anima pool to make a bit of dirt step to go up over the side, but I’m saving my pool for the door in case it’s locked.
Me pooling anima would make Plutarch’s feet start rumbling. Even asleep he’d be likely to feel it and know I was lurking about. Better to keep the five-minute-pool I had and save it. Hard as hell to sense if a person has a pool even when you’re awake, though being we’re both geomancers he might manage it.
Only precaution I had, so I kept my pool tight and my anima senses in my head, such as I could. Didn’t want to give away my element of surprise . . . pun fucking intended.
Saving my pool meant my short ass spent the next ten minutes trying to find a spot in the fence that would take my weight as I hauled myself up and over the eight-foot-tall boards. Fences, don’t approve of them at all. Like I don’t approve of basketball and top shelves at grocery stores and damn tall women I keep falling for.
Least Naomi was short. Shorter than me. Actually get to kiss down for once.
If she let me.
She’ll let you. Curious little flower had sex with Raj ‘But Where Do I Put My Hands?’ Malik, she’ll be interested if the rumors about the Foul Mouth are true.
I hoped.
Don’t think I could take getting dumped by Val, getting hillbilly crabs—really need to see Miss Strange about that—and having Naomi Gullick turn me down right in a row. Might have to kill myself.
Or become a monk.
Maybe that’s what happened to Plutarch.
Woman broke his heart.
I thudded over on the other side of the fence, ungraceful as always.
Here there was no grass at all.
Just sand and stone pathways and more statues.
Freaky.
These statues were more lifelike. Or more humanlike at least. Though a few of them had pointy ears and bone structure way too fine to be anything but imaginary. One particular statue drew my attention above the others; it was a dragon, wings outstretched, maybe ten feet tall. It sat by itself in the yard’s corner, bird shit and erosion its only friends.
I made sure to step on the stone pathways. There was a flow to the sand, like one of them eastern rock gardens only without the rocks. Hope Plutarch is stone and not sand. Heard some bad shit about sandy geomancers. Shifty, nosy fuckers mostly, end up in your ass crack after a day at the beach and the like.
Stone, I can handle stone, I thought, studying that dragon statue some more. Wonder where he found the rock to carve that thing out of? Some geomancers good with stone could merge them, maybe Plutarch could. Never been a part of my skill set. Wrong talent tree, I suppose.
Next to the dragon statue was what I could only call a workshed. Not a little shed only good for holding some tools neither. Was twelve or so feet tall and maybe twenty feet squared and go fucking figure it was made of stone and not wood or metal like you expected. Kind of reminded me of one of those desert homes in Star Wars, all hovel-like with a rounded roof. Plutarch’s a short, green guy and I’m punting him over the fence.
I turned back to the house proper, watching the windows in the darkness—my only friend a summer moon. Night still had some heat to it, air a stillness. More of nature was awake than I cared for there to be. Don’t mind me some mountains or even some forest, but bugs and beasties ain’t my thing—especially after meeting Pemberton.
Gonna have to ask Jesus about that freaky shit.
Could hear bugs all around me, even in Plutarch’s desolation of statues and sand. Scorpion pops up from the sand and I’m crushing the stingy fucker with my shoe, don’t care how quiet I’m trying to be.
I studied the door on the stone workshed. It was stone too, with a single handle depressed into the door. To grab it, you’d literally have your hand surrounded by stone. Got to risk it. I felt around the edge of that hole, with both my fingers and my senses for the Mancy. Wasn’t no anima inside of it. Would’ve felt something for the others and would’ve known geo-anima in an instant. It was clean.
I think.
Fucking eighteen, I should know all this stuff by now, but I don’t know shit.
Clean . . . but if anything ever looked like a trap then this handle looked like a trap.
Could just drill through the wall.
I’m good enough with stone to do that.
Be noisy enough to wake up Plutarch though.
Be noisy enough to wake up a corpse.
Wonder if Mordecai Root has a shed like this in his backyard, all filled with dead bodies?
Think he get pissed if I burned it down?
Can’t abide Constructs.
Can’t abide that the Asylum and mancers as a whole abide Constructs. But it seems like dead bodies being used as tools is just a fact of the world. Ain’t right, ain’t natural. Jethro Smith is the only necromancer I ever liked and he ain’t a Bonegrinder. Never met a Bonegrinder I didn’t hate.
Not sure why.
Bonegrinders and Artificers are supposed to get along really well.
But I’m just distracting myself, I thought as I stood in front of that stone door with its depressed handle waiting to snap my hand off.
For once, curiosity took a backseat to prudence with King Henry Price.
I headed back over the fence, making for the front door.
[CLICK]
I waited until midnight . . . so Plutarch would be asleep when I kicked down his door.
It’s the Asylum, so my assumptions kicked right on back . . . into my balls.
Plutarch sat in a rocking chair facing the door, waiting for me to show and unsurprised in the extreme when I did. He stood, studying me. “About time you stopped piddling yourself and came to see me, Junior.”
I studied him back, my mouth opening in not a little bit of shock at the sudden reversal, but even more at his appearance.
It’s the Asylum, so my assumptions kicked right on back . . . into my balls . . . again.
“You’re black,” I found myself sputtering.
Plutarch snorted at me like I’d done the expected yet again. “I suppose I should take heart that your surprise over that fact and your verbiage is far less offensive than I’ve heard over the years.”
Man.
Did not see that shit coming.
Guess he did get called worse once upon a time. Hey guys, met my new teacher, I called him a negro! Hey guys, met my new teacher . . . I should really stop thinking about this just in case he has a mind reading artifact or it shows on my face or something. But . . . did not see that shit coming!
How the fuck does a black guy get ‘Plutarch’ as a nickname?
Could’ve even seen him being some old, short, Asian fucker telling me to wax my taint hairs or the like.
Confession: never actually got around to seeing that movie and every time I think wax, I think of an accident Val made when we were experimenting with candles. Well . . . she was experimenting with candles and I just kinda put up with it. And I hope it was just an accident. No guy deserves to have to rip out his own taint hairs, even a latently-racist asshole like King Henry Price.
“Guess it could be worse,” I said at Plutarch to snap back into the conv
ersation, “least you’re uglier than I am.”
He nodded at me like he’d heard it all. Guess he had. He sure looked like he’d heard and seen and felt it all. He’s over six foot barely, slightly hunched forward. He’s like eighty, so of course he’s slightly hunched forward. Doesn’t look frail though, still solid, solid enough to take a punch and snap one back at you.
Thick gray hairs run over big forearms and bigger hands. I thought I had big hands, but Plutarch’s are massive. His are even more scarred than mine are, so are his forearms, these slightly lighter marks over chocolate-colored skin.
He had on a plaid shirt and jeans, kind of clothes you might find on blue-collar management if they were studying a manufacturing plant’s operations on site. Work boots on his feet, steel-tipped. His face was blocky and what little hair he had was white and very receded. There were scars on his face as well, especially one along his jaw and neck. One of his ears was missing a huge chunk.
And . . . motherfucker had an eyepatch.
I wasn’t getting taught by Yoda or Mr. Miyagi.
I was getting taught by Grandpappy Nick Fucking Fury.
Plutarch snorted at me again like every move of my eyes was expected, like it all followed a pattern. “So you’re the new ignorant boy I’ve got to turn civilized.”
That the way you want to play it?
Fine.
“If you ain’t crippled, then why’d I just have to chase you across the damn school to find you?” I growled at him, showing my canines in that threatening way I like to do to unnerve people.
Plutarch wasn’t unnerved. He just grinned back at me, showing two missing front teeth. “They led you to believe I’m a weak old man. I wanted them to lead you into believing I’m a weak old man. Besides . . . I don’t like children much. I get tired of them screaming over my scars.”
“How you get ‘em?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Tougher men and eviler creatures than you, Junior.”
“Don’t call me that. Call me ‘Foul Mouth’ or ‘King Henry’ or ‘Price’ or whatever mix you want, but no belittling shit or I give as good as I get, Pappy.”
“Junior, I’ve trained thirty-nine Artificers in my years. You’re nothing special and nothing you say will scar me worse than the real thing. So how about you shut that foul mouth and stop your yapping and just accept that you’ll need to do what I say and put up with whatever I call you, since I’m the only way you’re graduating from this school and entering the Guild as a full member.”
I stared at him for a long while.
Plutarch held the silence just fine, with a kind of confidence about him that wasn’t put upon. Reminded me of Fines Samson of all people, that attitude that you couldn’t surprise the man, that he had done and seen everything the world had to offer. Samson was a Shadeshifter though; bit more sly about it all.
Plutarch was all geomancer about it. All in your face and unmovable.
I’ll be like him if I live that long, I thought.
Just don’t think I will live that long.
Don’t have it in me to be silent in my confidence. Got to be loud about it, got to drag in the bullies and fight them, test myself, all that. Not a bit of monk in me; just pure roving vagabond, side of the road as my only home.
Yeah, this is going to be three years of war or at least three years of a very uneasy peace, I decided during that first meeting. No other way it could go. Irresistible force versus the unmovable object and all that. Solid pillar versus the earthquake.
“No respect, eh?”
Plutarch snorted again, motioning for me to follow him deeper into the house. “In this home,” he said over his shoulder, “you get the respect you earn. All you’ve done is sit on your ass for a day and sneak through my backyard. How much respect should I give you for these feats?”
“Fine,” I said, “no respect. Guess I don’t need it. Guess I’ve never needed it, nor craved that particularly useless string. I’ll just settle for what’s in your head and what you can put into my head. That’ll be enough to keep the peace.”
Plutarch finally nodded like I had said the right thing. He led me into a living room. There was a coffee pot and a huge bowl of potato chips sitting out on a table. Odd mix if you ain’t a geomancer; but if you are a geomancer, then it’s just about heaven on earth.
“Figured you could use the caffeine,” Plutarch explained. “It’s going to be a long night for you, Junior.”
Shove it up your ass, Pappy, I thought but didn’t say. I didn’t bother drinking none of the coffee either, didn’t even focus on Plutarch. My eyes were all for the room and the objects inside of it. They’re all over the place, like steampunk robots. Some are humanoid, others are shaped like animals. “What the hell are these things?”
For whatever reason, Plutarch enjoyed my curiosity if not my personality. “Golem shells.”
“You have golems?” I asked, impressed.
“Just the shells now. Even a Guild Brother in Good Standing isn’t allowed to keep a personal golem. Too rare, too selfish. Every one of their number is for the Guild whole, not for the man.”
“You like the Guild.”
“The Guild of Artificers does this world good turn after good turn, Junior. I know you’re not one to like constraints and I’ll admit Massey is a knucklehead of a Guild Master, but you’ll see once you start making artifacts that a little order is a good thing and that a group of average men can accomplish more together than the most brilliant man can alone.”
As you can imagine given my present employment, kiddies, that’s still a point of contention between us.
I kept studying the room. TV, sofa, bookshelves. Had some old books on the Mancy in there, would have to steal them one day. No artifacts though, not out for decoration at least. More of them in Quilt’s Testing Room than there were in Plutarch’s living room. “Guild don’t let you have artifacts either?”
Plutarch shook his head while still inspecting the golem casings. “Have a few examples to show you when I’m teaching, but not every Artificer makes artifacts; some of us have talents in other areas. Me, I’m good with anima concentrations and stone manipulation, especially where they intersect.”
“Fairies?”
“Why do you think I have so many different statues? When they come visit me, they need a place to stay. Kept yourself all locked up while you were sneaking around, didn’t you? Don’t know if that’s a sign of prudence or stupidity on your part. Maybe a bit of both, being sneaky but also going into unfriendly territory blinder than a one-eyed man.”
I again ignored the insult, focused on the information.
Golems and fairies.
That was . . . different. Not what I expected or what I wanted out of a teacher, for sure. I wanted to make artifacts. Wanted to be great at it. Felt like it was mine. Who gave a crap about this golem shit? Golem shit wouldn’t help Mom, especially if the Guild hoards all of them like a good little monopoly.
“I’ve heard that you like working with metal,” Plutarch said, sipping from his own coffee cup but not sitting down on the sofa.
“And glass,” I managed to be as friendly as I could be while being condescended to by another person. If his last name was Welf, I already would’ve kicked him in the balls . . . if someone hasn’t already removed them like they did his eye and teeth.
Plutarch nodded at the correction, sitting down his cup. “We’ll need to test you to get it all sorted. Regardless . . . can’t help you with glass; you’ll have to figure that out on your own.”
My lips curled back to show teeth again. “No artifacts. No glass. What good are you to me again?”
“Geomancers who can manipulate glass are . . . very rare. I can help you with metal though and give you the basics on artificing, get you started before the Guild trains you up the rest of the way. You learn enough and maybe we’ll even get you started on your first artifact before you graduate.”
Did it by Hex, kiddies.
Yes, yes, my imagi
nary Artificer penis is indeed massive.
“What if I’m not interested in the Guild?” I asked, maybe for the first time voicing what was inside my head about my unhappy future.
Plutarch frowned over the question. “What else would you do?”
“Recruit?”
Man, guy was scary with all them scars when he wasn’t happy. “The Dale girl has been twisting your head around with her foolishness.”
“Twisting my head around with reality if anything,” I defended Ceinwyn.
“I know what happened with your mother, it’s regrettable, but the status quo is something Maudette and Fines and many others have worked very hard for almost a hundred years to maintain. We had a few thousand years of teething with the vampires and shapeshifters, but we’re all grown up now. No reason to get nostalgic for the good ol’ days of chaos and wars and worse—too much anima flying around nowadays to chance it.”
Yup, solid pillar alright.
Was gonna be a long three years.
But it wasn’t starting tonight.
“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told him, “if I can find my way back here in the light. Worse comes to worse I can always follow the stink of bullshit, right?”
“Where you think you’re going, Junior?” Plutarch yelled after me as I made for the door.
“My apartment . . . schedule says I’m supposed to be asleep, don’t it?” I played the good boy, both of us knowing I was just as full of shit as he was.
“You owe me seven hours a day,” Plutarch kept yelling, coming after me. “You’ve got six and a half more to give.”
“I was in the designated classroom, not my fault if my teacher skips class,” I pointed out, still walking.
“Running away like a child just to show you have some modicum of power? That really the move you’re making, Junior?”
“Nah, just want to sleep in my own bed, not listen to you rattle on about geopolitics.” I was almost at the door.
“Don’t make me stop you, you won’t like it,” Plutarch warned.
The Foul Mouth and the Mancy Martial Artist (The King Henry Tapes Book 5) Page 16