“But how could they have gotten free?” asked Genna, looking about worriedly.
Hristomarth considered things. “While I still rate their purse-snatching skills as subpar, the little monsters have been quite attentive on the subject of teasing a lock.”
THE ROLE OF PAGEANT MUSE involved more labor than Hristomarth had expected.
He heaved again at the crossbeam before him. It resisted, even bending a little until the great wooden enclosure of the pageant wagon slid forward another three paces. His grunts mixed with those of Turble and Iollo, each struggling to move the enormous stage from within.
The mule outside was just for show. All motive power came from the pageant members themselves, pushing blindly from the wooden interior of the pageant wagon. Three walls supported the flat stage above, with the stairs descending to the rear. The floor was open to the street, with light from the noonday sun shining in past the wheels. A hatch at the rear and a small trapdoor in the stage above provided an exit. Along one wall hung several of the diva’s wicker baskets, mixing fresh bait to the smells of sweat and papier-mâché hanging in the air.
“Surely,” grunted Hristomarth, “a more efficient method of propulsion could be devised?”
“Infamous!” cried Iollo. “This is a perfect example of your failings as a muse.” He turned back to face Hristomarth, his equine silhouette fierce in the gloom. “I have slaved for years at this work; such toil is expected of a worthy pageant member!”
Turble grunted in agreement.
The trapdoor above snapped open, flooding the space with sunlight. Rosilia appeared, glaring down through the portal. “Stop pushing! We’re at the town square already.”
The door snapped shut before Hristomarth could try to flatter the diva. That was easily repaired, however. Grabbing a basket from the wall, he backed to the rear hatch. “Be glad,” he said to Iollo. “Your annual exertions speak to a hidden truth—you are well suited to menial labor! It is rare that the Ministers of Fate plan so clearly. My destiny, however, lies with the lovely Rosilia.”
Hristomarth tapped the battered brim of his hat in mocking salute, then slipped through the hatch. The sullen glares of Iollo and Turble followed him out.
Jocund’s town square was unimpressive. The crowd filling it was even less so. They surrounded the pageant wagon at a polite distance, fidgeting children shushed by bored mothers. Only the men seemed excited, elbowing each other and making ribald jests at the stage.
Hristomarth couldn’t blame them. Currently Hetman Winge was prancing about, making some introductory speech. But behind him stood Rosilia. Hristomarth’s breath went short at the sight of her. He would play his part well. When the day was done, her approval would be clear.
Eagerness drove him up the stairs, transmuting to joy halfway up as she noticed him. She tensed up in alarm and made small shooing gestures with one hand.
“Not now!” Rosilia hissed.
Hristomarth froze. Right. After. The basket came afterward. He adjusted his satchel and the broken sword at his belt as he crouched down behind the papier-mâché. Rosilia took to the stage, light applause and wolf whistles coming from the crowd.
The diva started to sing. Her voice echoed out across the square like the cry of a raptor, like waves crashing upon the shore, like ... Actually, the diva was somewhat shrill.
“Hristomarth!”
It was Genna Myrmidon, calling up from the bottom of the stairs, the empty iron cage beside her.
Couldn’t she see he was busy? Hristomarth set the basket aside and scuttled down the stairs, careful not to be seen past the top of the wagon. “Worthy Myrmidon,” he said. “Is this the best time? The pageant is underway. Rosilia’s song needs minding.”
Genna glanced past him. “It’s always been more of a warble, really. No one tells her she can’t sing.”
“The verse does seem to be a little ... off,” agreed Hristomarth, a ringing ululation echoing down to them.
“She writes it herself,” said Genna. “But listen! I was following along, watching for the wyrmlings, when I heard a crash. I think they’re in the hetman’s house!”
“Ah.” Hristomarth sat back disdainfully. “Then it would only be prudent for you to go catch the little monsters.”
Genna frowned. “How can you be so callous? They’re only babies. And they’re yours as well.”
He grimaced. “I am merely afflicted with the little beasts. If they’ve run off, then so much the better. I wish good fortune to whatever fool stumbles across the nuisances.”
“Oh, really?” Genna placed her hands on her formidable hips, staring at him intently. “If they’re so much trouble, do you really want them free while you settle down with Rosilia? We can be quick about it!”
The thought gave him pause. Hristomarth could see it now: people running madly about, the buildings of Jocund aflame. Left alone, the wyrmlings would certainly raise chaos. It was also certain who would take the blame.
Still, Hristomarth glanced back up to the stage.
“This part goes for a while,” said Genna helpfully.
“Fine,” he sighed.
“This way!” said Genna, taking off like a shot.
Hristomarth climbed around the cage after her, swearing in every tongue he knew. The blacksmith plowed through the crowd, heading to a cottage in one corner of the square. Rich but drab, something was obviously amiss; one window was broken, and the door hung askew. A great crash sounded within as he reached it. The unpleasant scent of reptile hung on the air.
“The poor things are probably frightened,” stage-whispered Genna.
Hristomarth snorted. He pushed inside, immediately pausing at the devastation he saw. Solid, hand-carved furniture was splintered. Cushions were ripped open. Fine glassware lay shattered upon the floor. Through it all, two wyrmlings raced around like a reptilian whirlwind, while a third was busily collecting things into a pile in the middle of the floor.
A large leather sack lay atop a table nearby. Hristomarth snatched it up as the pair raced past, the clumsy one constantly tripping over its own wings and the vicious, biting one. He reached for the latter, and it snapped at him, forcing Hristomarth back against Genna.
“Fiends!” he snarled.
“Try naming them!” said Genna.
Hristomarth glared at her. “This isn’t the time for—”
But he stopped. He had to get back to the pageant. It couldn’t hurt to try, and he supposed he owed her a little. The silver amulet buried at the bottom of his satchel, never far from his thoughts, reminded him what such obligations were like.
“Fine,” he said, watching the third wyrmling as it dragged a vase across the floor.
It paused to rest, and he grabbed it up by the neck. The wyrmling squawked in surprise, dropping the vase, though it grabbed for the tumbling jar even as Hristomarth lifted it away.
“Catchmaw,” said Hristomarth, stuffing the greedy wyrmling into the sack.
“Oh!” said Genna. “That’s a good—”
The other two wyrmlings rounded the room at that moment, the one in front yowling in distress. It tripped on its own oversized wings and spun in a somersault that plowed it through the pile of items with a tremendous clattering crash. Catchmaw wailed from inside the sack. The last wyrmling dodged aside, only to ram into a wall face-first.
Hristomarth grabbed the clumsy wyrmling by its tail and considered the floppy, oversized wings. “Splaywing,” he said, shoving it into the sack.
“You’re stronger than you look,” said Genna.
“I would have to be,” said Hristomarth, reaching for the last wyrmling.
The little monster reared up and bit him on the hand. Hristomarth yelled, pulling back before it could latch on completely.
“You!” he hissed at the wyrmling, shaking his fist. “And I suppose you want to be called Tyrantclaw or Foebane or some such violent nonsense?”
To his surprise, the wyrmling bobbed its head excitedly.
“Tough,” he
said. “You are Breaktooth.”
The little dragon sagged in disappointment. Hristomarth seized the opportunity to force it into the sack. “There!” he said to Genna. “Now let us return.”
She nodded. “Rosilia is probably almost done by now.”
Panic shot through Hristomarth. He fled, Splaywing, Catchmaw, and Breaktooth yowling unhappily from inside the sack.
They returned just as Rosilia gave one final warble, eliciting applause from the men in the crowd. Hristomarth flung the sack of wyrmlings back to Genna and mounted the pageant wagon stairs. He was halfway up when he realized that the basket of fishing bait wasn’t where he’d left it. Instead, it was clutched in the hooves of Iollo, crouching near the top of the stairs. Hristomarth watched in horror as he passed the basket to an impatient Rosilia.
“Outrageous!” Hristomarth croaked as the false unicorn descended. “You had no right to usurp my role within this pageant!”
Iollo eyed him disdainfully. “I dispute the claim. Have you never heard of the Inevitabalist Mode?”
Hetman Winge appeared atop the stairs. “Layabouts! Our second stop awaits. Back down below with you both!”
Hristomarth complied with ill grace. His mood only soured at the sight of the three wyrmlings below, delivered back to their cage by the now-missing Genna Myrmidon. They trilled contentedly among themselves, watching him creep back inside the wagon.
As they heaved it along, Hristomarth recovered himself. All was not lost. He was wary now. Watchful. Though the air was made worse by Iollo’s smugness and a terrible flatulence that could only have been Turble’s, he forced himself to laugh.
“Worthy horse-man,” he said. “I apologize for my earlier ire. How can I hold you blameless for what I would have done myself?” Hristomarth waggled a finger. “But don’t think I shall be so lax a second time!”
Iollo gestured flippantly back at him. “You are innately unsuited as a muse, while I am the portrayal of the Benevolent Unicorn itself.”
“This pageant contains unreasonable elements,” growled Hristomarth. “Whoever heard of a benevolent unicorn?”
“Ours is a more spiritual reenactment.”
The trapdoor above snapped open, blinding them all with sudden daylight. “Idiots!” hissed Rosilia. “We’re here! Stop pushing!”
This was his chance to recover lost ground. “Dearest diva,” began Hristomarth, “allow me to congratulate you on the finery of your performance so far—”
Rosilia rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Don’t be late this time!”
The trapdoor shut, and Hristomarth’s heart sank. He took another basket from the wall and backed toward the rear of the wagon, only to pause at Iollo’s smirk. Hristomarth glared at him and lashed out, yanking the horn from his outfit.
“My horn!” cried Iollo.
“There,” said Hristomarth, tossing it to the ground. “The Perceptive Mode forces me to observe that you are unsuitably attired. Let resolution of this issue keep you occupied.” With a mocking salute, he departed.
This time the wagon rested before a stable. Another crowd of dour townsfolk had gathered, though not as large as the last. The wyrmlings in their cage were thankfully quiet, content for the moment to chew on the papier-mâché of the pageant wagon through the bars.
Hristomarth hadn’t taken two steps up the stair before Genna appeared again. “They’re in the town stable!” she said, breathless.
“You can’t know that,” said Hristomarth desperately.
“I’ve had plenty of time to look around,” she said. “This wagon isn’t very quick. Just listen! And look: smoke.”
It was true. Something neighed within the structure, and a thin gray streamer curled out one side.
Hristomarth punched the papier-mâché beside him. Why was he shackled so to these little monsters? “Does it really matter?” he asked. “Why is the pageant even here? What’s so important about a stable?”
Genna seemed taken aback. “This is where Obregon Chull first met the Benevolent Unicorn and founded Jocund.”
A crash came from the stable, loud enough that several in the crowd glanced back. “Fine,” Hristomarth almost shouted. “Fine!” Dropping the basket, he grabbed the leather sack, then leapt from the stairs and ran through the crowd. He had to hurry.
The wyrmlings proved easy enough to track. Chubby reptilian paw prints led him through the wide door of the stable, past stalls of snorting, kicking horses and chirping moa and into a small room used for storing tackle and feed. Hristomarth held his breath and peered in through the smoke wafting out of the doorway.
Three more wyrmlings were rampaging about. One climbed across the stacks of grain towering along one wall, frantically scrabbling as they heaved and slid. A second was busily igniting one that had already fallen. The third lay in the middle of the floor like something dead.
Hristomarth adjusted his satchel and stepped into the room. He snagged the nearest dragon, lying unmoving on the floor. It barely reacted, one beady eye opening at him lazily.
“Idleheart,” said Hristomarth, throwing it into the sack.
“Be careful with them,” said Genna, coughing at the smoke. “You don’t want them resenting their new names!”
“The world contains many harsh realities,” Hristomarth said with a grunt. “A lesson: they will take what I give them.”
A jet of flame washed across the room, scorching a pile of leather tackle. The wyrmling responsible hissed in manic pleasure, then reared back for another deep breath. Hristomarth grabbed it by the throat, and the wyrmling went pop eyed.
“Coalbelly,” said Hristomarth. “You little arsonist.”
Idleheart chose that moment to flail about inside the sack. Hristomarth lost his balance, slipping on loose grain and losing his grip on Coalbelly, who unleashed a great gout of flame. Only reflexes honed by many years of adventure saved him, though he still slammed himself against the floor of the shed, stunned. Hristomarth barely heard Genna’s cry of alarm.
“Look out!”
He blinked up at the collapsing stack above, topped by a wide-eyed wyrmling that yowled in terror. “Jitterclaw,” he said flatly as they came down.
Eventually Genna pulled him free. Hristomarth gasped for air, only to choke on the smoke. It filled the shed now, though no flames were apparent.
“I can’t tell if the fire’s out,” coughed Genna.
“Never mind!” wheezed Hristomarth. “I have to get back to the pageant!”
The pile of sacks shifted beside him. Two pairs of chubby claws popped out, causing Genna to gasp in alarm. Jitterclaw came first, going willingly into the leather sack with Idleheart. Coalbelly came next, but he fought.
Outside, no one seemed to notice the smoke coming from the stable. Or that most of the animals had fled their stalls. The crowd seemed enthralled by Rosilia’s piercing warble, especially the menfolk. Hristomarth felt a wave of relief. He wasn’t late this time.
As he jogged back over, Rosilia fell silent. Throwing the leather sack back to Genna, Hristomarth mounted the stairs, racing up two steps at a time.
But the basket wasn’t where he’d left it. It was at the top of the stairs, being handed over to the town diva by Turble in his lungfish costume.
Hristomarth stared in dismay.
Turble scuttled backward as Rosilia turned to the crowd. Bumping into Hristomarth, he whirled in surprise.
“You!” roared Hristomarth.
“Ah,” said Turble, flinching away.
Hetman Winge appeared above them. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Our last stop awaits! Down below with you both!”
Turble shoved past as Hristomarth sputtered for a response. Growling, he chased after Turble, passing Genna as she locked up the other three wyrmlings.
“Only one left!” she stage-whispered as Hristomarth dove inside the wagon.
His quarry was caught trying to straddle the first crossbeam just inside. Up near the front of the wagon stood a glowering Iollo, horn tied poor
ly back into place.
“There is little cause for indignation!” cried Turble. He heaved his costume across the beam and whirled to face Hristomarth. “The lady obviously prefers those with the gentle soul of a poet. Beside this fact, your own failings are miniscule!”
“I am the established muse!” roared Hristomarth, dropping a hand to the hilt of his broken blade. “The treachery of you two rubes is unrelenting. Have you no respect for the sanctity of the pageant?”
The trapdoor above them snapped open, Rosilia glowering through. “Will you dolts get moving?” she demanded before slamming shut the door.
Turble smirked as they bent again to push the wagon. Irate, Hristomarth wished a thousand sour curses upon the diminutive man. The rest of the trip was silent, however, though the stinking air was fraught with tension. Turble and Iollo glared at each other as much as they did him.
Finally, Rosilia called for a stop. Hristomarth grabbed the last basket and slipped out the door, glaring at his pageantmates. Outside, the wagon had parked between a wide pond and a handful of other buildings along the outer wall of town. The pond was warded with a delicate fence, and a crude statue of a fish-man rose from the lily-covered waters. Only a thin crowd stood gathered this time.
“I found him!” gasped Genna Myrmidon.
Hristomarth turned as the big woman strode up to the wagon. She dropped the empty leather sack atop the wyrmlings’ cage and leaned on it for support.
“No!” said Hristomarth, waving her away with his mangled hand. “Twice have I been late before. I won’t miss out again.”
Genna looked at him pleadingly. “There’s only one left. Over at the tannery. Surely it won’t take long?”
Up above, Hetman Winge finished his penultimate speech. A piercing warble echoed out across the pond as Rosilia took the stage.
Hristomarth glanced at the tannery, then at the cage of wyrmlings. They were quiet, busily chewing on the bottom of the sack. Past them spread the waters of the pond.
An idea came to him, accompanied by a malicious sense of relief. A solution to these monsters was finally at hand. “Of course,” he said. “But hurry!”
Rofolio's Scaly Circus Page 4