The Dragon and Rose

by Gerhard Gehrke

  Vinca came running out of the bar and sidled up alongside him. She grabbed one of his hands.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You can’t come with me, bug. I’m going to buy fish.”

  “Mudo’s really hungry. He was crying.”

  “I know,” Hellard said. “I heard. I think everyone heard. How much fish do we have left? Why don’t you give them a big breakfast and I’ll bring more soon.”

  She paused, looking down at her feet. “Tonto ate it all. At the castle we gave them each a big bucket for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  “I’ll just have to buy extra, then. You still have the sticks?”

  She nodded. The fish-emulsion-infused troll treats could keep the creatures occupied for a while.

  “Good. Keep them quiet so Lady Sofia doesn’t get mad with us. Can you do that?”

  She nodded but kept a grip on his hand. While Monty and Sofia had fed the little pureblood girl without hesitation, if he had to take the trolls elsewhere he’d need to make enough to care for the girl. He didn’t want her out on the street or returning to the castle and the abusive stablemaster.

  The piece of scrip in his pocket wasn’t going to cut it.

  Convincing Monty was a long shot.

  He looked at the crumpled paper advertisement for monsters and wondered if he could make enough to feed all those grumbling bellies. He had to hand it to whatever organizer had posted the bill. It was intriguing.

  “What does that say?” she asked.

  “It’s an opening for a job that I’m thinking about.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “It doesn’t say.” He showed her the paper.

  She sounded out a few of the words. “Communion Street.”

  “You’re a good reader. That’s near here. I’m going to see if this is for real. If it isn’t, I’ll buy enough fish for today. So tell Mudo and Tonto not to worry. Sprat’s going to take care of all of you.”

  THE SIGN HANGING OVER the street for the old Temperance District theater had faded, but its relief carving of a pair of masks, one sad, one happy, remained discernable. There was no other open establishment in the area.

  A pair of men at the double doors stiffened like scared rabbits as Hellard approached.

  He showed them the bill. “Is this you guys?”

  They both appeared relieved that was all he wanted.

  “Yeah, that’s here,” one of them said. “You’re just in time. Come on in.”

  He opened the door and led Hellard inside.

  The lobby was lit with a chandelier that hung so low even the smaller theatergoers would have to watch their heads. The wallpaper was peeling and an old poster, yellow with age, featured a man in a top hat and a woman in a bonnet, both smiling eerily at each other across a ribbon of musical notes. A threadbare carpet that might have once been red revealed scuffed floorboards beneath.

  A woman in a long green gown approached him and gave him an appraising look. She wore so much pale makeup it was hard to tell whether she was pureblood or not. She had a crystal tiara in her hair and the sequins in her outfit caught the light. She was a near-perfect image of Lady Claudia, save for the prominent Adam’s apple.

  Hellard smirked. “I see the queen of Loom Island is slumming tonight.”

  This earned him a wink. “Only when onstage, my dear. By the by, your mother made a big one.”

  “The kids in my village said the same thing, but they meant it differently.”

  She slapped his arm playfully. “Oooh, I like you. You’re a funny fellow. Are you here for the show?”

  “You said you were hiring monsters.”

  “And so we are. Come!”

  The queen escorted him under the chandelier and through one of the doors leading into the auditorium. Rows of bench pews were arranged before a stage. Heavy curtains wavered as people moved about behind them. A few tired-looking men were spread out on the benches, kicking back with feet up and holding notebooks or clipboards.

  A pureblood at the front sitting backward on a chair perked up when the queen brought Hellard down towards him. He wore a small round hat and held a flask in his hand.

  “Got another, Red Eye,” the mock queen announced.

  The rest of the men perked up. Red Eye thumbed his hat back and his eyes went wide.

  Hellard made a show of his hands. “Here I am. I hear you’re paying for monsters.”

  Red Eye showed a set of perfect teeth. “That we are, my big sir. That we are. Let’s get you backstage and we can see if you’re a good fit for what we have in mind.”

  Red Eye led him up a few steps that took them backstage. “Stay put here. We’re going to make our choices soon.”

  Hellard was left standing alongside three other fel. A few stage workers were busy around them. Everyone kept their distance.

  He sized up the competition. One wore a thick row of hair down the center with the sides shaved. He was twirling a short stick in his hand. He thrust the air a few times and made a mock blow at a freestanding piece of scenery that might have once been a shrub or tree. The other two looked like factory drudges and wore shabby overalls. One appeared to be missing his front teeth.

  Hellard tried to make eye contact and smiled at the others, but he was studiously ignored until his grumbling stomach made the nearest fel inch away.

  The workers finished their various tasks and left the stage.

  Hellard peered through the curtains. More people were coming in and filling the seats. The mock queen circulated among them, laughing loudly and kissing cheeks as if welcoming old friends. Red Eye was off to one side and whispering with one of the men with a clipboard.

  “Hey!” the fel with the stick said. “We were told to keep away from the curtain.”

  “You were told. I wasn’t told anything. What are we getting paid for exactly?”

  “Some kind of show. Does it matter?”

  Hellard guessed it probably did but kept his mouth shut as he let the curtains close. He paced the length of the stage. The wood creaked as he moved. Voices were coming from somewhere in the back. A man in a blue page’s uniform was leading a pair of workers who were lugging a large case to the center of the stage. The leather trunk had clasps, which the page proceeded to snap open. He flipped the trunk lid over, revealing a rack of costume weapons made of wood but painted black and silver.

  “What’s this for?” Hellard asked.

  The page stepped away as if admiring the selection. “The fight. You, them, take your pick. The curtain goes up and you put on a show. The crowd has fun.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure them out as you go. Make the crowd happy and see a big payday. But Diregloom can be a finicky lot, so don’t be boring.”

  Hellard selected a ridiculous double-headed battle axe. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Following his lead, the others likewise chose weapons. A pair of stagehands made adjustments to the scenery and then cleared out. The buzz of the crowd kept growing. Hellard wiped sweat from his palms. What kind of fight were they expecting? Lanterns were lit around them and shined from the front of the stage towards the curtain. He again tried to peer out at the audience but the light was blinding.

  Soon the audience was stomping feet and clapping. There were hoots and shouts and screams of “Get on with it.” More minutes passed and the theater only grew louder.

  “You’re not actually going to hit me with that thing, right?” one of the fel in overalls asked Hellard.

  “We put on a show, the man said. No need for any of us to get hurt. We get paid to fight and I get to eat.”

  “That crowd sounds kind of crazy.”

  “You must be new to Diregloom.”

  “New? No, my grandparents came here when they were teenagers and had their—”

  Hellard shushed him. The audience had gone quiet.

  The mock queen mounted the stage and was visible through the gap in the curtains. “Welcome t
o the Loom Island Palace! I hope everyone here tonight is ready for a new extravaganza worthy of such a congregation of discriminating guests. Did you think the catacombs were grand, but you didn’t have the sack to afford your ticket? Not enough spank in your bank? Tried to see the big show but the big bad queen on the hill thought you didn’t quite measure up to go traipsing through her furrows? Well, at the Palace we have enough honey for everyone.”

  The crowd went nuts.

  The mock queen waited for them to settle down. “This is a special afternoon matinee. I’m pleased as a pixie to see so many come to our new spectacle. You don’t have to have blue blood, a signet on your pinkie, or a family crest to get the entertainment you deserve. The Palace wants you here for a sneak peek of what we hope to be a season of spectacles to thrill you.”

  A pair of drums before the stage started beating a thumping cadence. The curtains parted. The mock queen had her arms up as she turned to face Hellard and his companions.

  “I give to you our monsters!” In a hard whisper she said, “All right, boys, don’t let them down.”

  The crowd began clapping and jeering as the queen sashayed offstage. The lights left star patterns on Hellard’s eyes. The other fel seemed dumbstruck.

  “Come on,” the closest fel said softly. “Hit me and I’ll hit you back.”

  Hellard slammed him with the faux axe. It knocked him backward and onto his butt. The crowd reacted with a cheer, which died down as Hellard stood awkwardly in place and waited for the fel to get back up. The others onstage looked shocked.

  His fallen opponent got back to his feet and licked his lips. “Yeah, kind of like that. Just not so hard.”

  The fel swung his faux sword. Hellard blocked the blow and they began sparring. It was easy and kind of fun. The two other monsters caught the spirit of the game and began trying to whack each other with their wooden weapons. The stage was filled with clacks and thuds as two duels got underway. A handful of spectators roared with delight. But as the matches played on for a while, a few people started booing.

  “Come on, hit each other!” a woman screamed.

  Someone threw a head of cabbage. A lemon nailed Hellard in the chest. Tomatoes, apples, and a farmer’s cart worth of produce followed, until the mock queen appeared at the corner of the stage.

  “Dear guests, please!”

  No one threw anything at her and the crowd settled down.

  “This is but the warm-up round. It appears we didn’t give our monsters the appropriate motivation.”

  From her cleavage she produced a small bag and jingled it. Coins. Enough for a month of meals and plenty of fish parts. She placed it on top of a decorative pedestal.

  “Only one winner gets the prize.”

  As she turned to leave, Hellard said, “Hey! I thought we all get paid for this.”

  The mock queen only gave a backhanded wave as she departed. As Hellard turned to face his sparring partner, the fel struck him across the side of the head with his stick. Pain exploded through his skull and he almost lost his footing.

  “That hurt,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  The others had stopped fighting.

  Hellard spat a wad of blood. “Well, boys? It’s time for a real show. Because I’m not leaving here without that purse.”

  Chapter Ten

  CLEANING UP THE THIRD body took longer than expected, but finally Digger took his cart to the cemetery, where one of the day workers had a temporary grave already open.

  Digger prepared to dump his burden into the pit next to a shrouded body who, according to the worker, was a decrepit fel who had died of natural causes.

  He could only speculate at how rare such a thing might be of late. He pulled the corpse from the cart and out onto the dirt. The shroud was soaked through with purple-and-red stains.

  But instead of rolling the body into the pit, he paused.

  A stray thought nagged at him. Something about the way the opium dealer had been killed struck him as familiar. He had seen so many violent ends. It was never neat. But all three had suffered a similar and particularly gruesome finish.

  The worker was craning his neck to better see. He was an acne-scarred pureblood with a brush of light-brown hair and a gut barely held in by his overalls.

  “That one looks quite nasty.”

  “He’s just as dead as the rest. I’ll fill the hole.”

  But the worker lingered, a wolfish grin on his face. “I know you. You’re on the night crew. You’re the one the sisters are pining on.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t notice those two and the looks they give you. I can’t even get them to tell me their names and I’ve been working this gig for a year and a half. You haven’t been here much longer and my boss says they follow you around like lovesick pigeons. What’s your secret?”

  The worker was leaning on his shovel and appeared to be in no hurry to go anywhere.

  “My secret? I’ll show you.” He unwrapped the dead opium dealer, unfolding each corner until the man was laid out in the center of the shroud, his hands placed across his chest and his collected innards bunched up around his midriff.

  The worker blanched and almost dropped his shovel as he hurried away.

  Finally alone, Digger took a moment to examine the body again. He was certain he hadn’t missed anything. There was nothing left to take. But all three had suffered a deep wound where they had been struck under the ribcage. The opium dealer’s face and head bore no bruises or obvious marks. So he hadn’t been knocked down and subdued before being gutted. The attacker had been quick and strong, judging by the ferocity of the wounds.

  But it was the wounds that picked at a memory.

  When he had been one of Duke Tito’s rangers, they had been tasked with hunting down the duke’s enemies in the wilderness. Sometimes they were sent after bandits, but Digger had been on more than one assault on the scattered desert settlements where ogres lived. Most of Sprat Hellard’s kind were long dead, but not all. While an ogre was a tough opponent with superior strength and surprising speed, a simple tactic taught to Digger was to use a boar spear to stab them through in the belly.

  Hard to fight back when you’re tripping over your guts.

  Digger’s unit had been ordered to return to their forts and surrender their arms. This was right after the duke’s edict had been made public and Digger had learned his parents were going to lose their Diregloom restaurant. Digger had abandoned his comrades and made it to the island, but it had been too late for his parents and almost too late for his brother. Only weeks later did he learn that his fellow rangers had all been arrested.

  Was this the work of a fel ranger?

  Digger knew imagination could be a powerful enemy. It planted things in the night and populated the darkness with dangers. The world had enough real threats. Fear was a waste of energy. He had been taught better than that.

  Surely there were other explanations for the facts before his eyes.

  He wrapped the body back up and slid it into the grave. Then he pushed the loose soil in over it all.

  But as much as he tried to dismiss his apprehension, it only grew. These murders were the start of something, he feared. The sheriff had been correct. Once word got out, his kind was going to suffer the repercussions.

  THE DRAGON AND ROSE had music that evening.

  A lute player was plucking away on the strings while a woman with a vibrant voice sang, all to the stomping and clapping of a small crowd of revelers.

  Digger had to push his way past a cluster of patrons to make it out of the storeroom. It was early evening and the bar was full. The patrons were mostly young. Many of the men and women around him wore tuxedo shirts in an array of bright colors. A few of the women had frilly dresses much more revealing than anything seen in the city just a year prior. Some in the crowd also sported knives and rapiers on their belts.

  The bar was in full service mode.


  Monty stood behind the bar and was arranging trays of deviled eggs and skewers of meat. Lady Sofia was selling mugs of beer and glasses of wine. Over a dozen bottles were lined up behind her.

  Isabel and Hellard were nowhere to be seen. He had hoped either of them might be useful in keeping an eye on Monty. Taking care of the body had taken too long.

  The singer reached the end of her song to a raucous round of applause. A crooning lullaby followed, sung a cappella. Digger was about to make a beeline for the bar when he noticed that his brother, although harried as he rushed towards the kitchen, was smiling. This was him. This was what he wanted, never mind the danger. And even though the bar was obviously a construction zone and its front door remained nailed shut, he had a crowd and they appeared to be having a good time.

  He slipped to the rear of the bar and took down a stacked chair. He sat down in it next to a couple leaning against a wall who were so busy kissing they didn’t notice him. Glasses of wine were on their table. He took one and sipped and brooded.

  Monty brought out two platters replete with cheese skewers. Quickly the platters were emptied.

  When the pair next to Digger came up for air, the girl tittered when she caught sight of him. Whispered something into the boy’s ear.

  The boy had orange lipstick marks on his lips and neck. “Told you this place was cool.”

  “No, I really do recognize him. That’s the champion of the games!”

  The girl appeared to be in her late teens. Had she been in the audience?

  The boy leaned over, his eyes full of wonder. “Is that true? Are you the catacomb champion?”

  Digger ignored him and swallowed the rest of the wine.

  A new group of three entered through the storeroom. They were laughing hysterically and paused to look back behind them.

  One of them was shaking his head in open astonishment. “That is a nice touch! A corpse in a grave cart. Just look at this place!”

  The three filtered past and headed for the bar.

  A corpse?