He drew the broken sword at his belt and jammed it through the handles of the hatch beside him. Let those buffoons try and usurp him now.
Genna beamed. She grabbed for the sack, but Splaywing yanked it away and down into the cage. The others immediately rent it apart.
“Never mind,” said Hristomarth. “I’ll carry the little monster!”
He stormed off across the street with Genna racing after. “It’s just around back,” she called to him.
“Then why didn’t you grab it?” demanded Hristomarth.
She caught up beside him just as he reached the tannery. A weathered wooden fence led to the rear of the building, a small gate allowing entrance. The stench in the air was almost eye-watering. “Because it is really...” She trailed off.
Hristomarth barged through the gate and stopped in his tracks.
“Because it’s really gross,” finished Genna.
The yard was filthy, situated between the rear of the tannery and Jocund’s outer wall. Racks stood everywhere, covered with hides. Most drained into traps that clearly hadn’t been emptied in months.
A lone wyrmling was attempting to rectify this. It hunkered before the nearest trap, drinking the moldering fat as if it were sweetest nectar. Slobbering, sucking sounds echoed about the yard in a vile song of purest gluttony. The little monster finished and looked up at Hristomarth with a happy belch.
The smell hit Hristomarth like a physical force. He staggered, and Genna gagged. The wyrmling merely went for another trap. Hristomarth had never seen such a dire promise of ruination in all his years of travel. He grabbed up the creature, holding it at arm’s length.
“Greasetrap,” he said, appalled. “Your name is Greasetrap. You awful thing.”
The wyrmling licked its jaws happily.
Applause echoed back from the street. Hristomarth rounded on Genna, panicking. “She’s not singing anymore.”
“Of course not,” she replied with watering eyes. “It’s the denouement.”
Hristomarth swore. He shoved the wyrmling under one arm and raced out to the street, past the crowd to the pageant wagon. The hatch at its rear was shaking, still locked by his sword jammed through the handle. Beside it, the wyrmlings were picking at the lock of the cage. Hristomarth ignored all that, leaping onto the stair up to where he’d left the basket. It was still there. He grabbed it in his free hand and climbed to Rosilia, who glared down at him with arms folded tightly.
“You’re late!” she cried. “The denouement is ruined!”
“Beauteous diva—,” tried Hristomarth.
“No! It’s ruined!”
“Surely the crowd—”
“Shameful,” said Hetman Winge, appearing beside the diva. “Look upon their disconsolate faces.”
Hristomarth followed the gesture. The crowd seemed bored, though a small child shook his head sadly.
“Never has there been a worse pageant muse,” added Winge.
“And this smelly thing!” shouted Rosilia, grabbing Greasetrap away from Hristomarth. “These were supposed to be locked up!”
“They are!” said Hristomarth. “I was just about to throw them all in the pon—”
Something brushed against Hristomarth’s boot. It was Jitterclaw, tottering nervously past. The rest of the wyrmlings followed, spreading out to inspect the top of the pageant wagon. Catchmaw pounced on a shining stud that had fallen from Rosilia’s dress. Coalbelly attempted to ignite the papier-mâché.
“They got out again,” called Genna from down below.
Rosilia shook the wyrmling, screaming in frustrated rage.
Hristomarth held up a hand. There had to be a way to fix this. “It really isn’t that bad—”
“Fire!” came a shout from the crowd. “The old stable is on fire!”
A deep, troubled rumbling echoed across the top of the wagon. Hristomarth glanced back at Greasetrap. The wyrmling looked ill.
Hristomarth stared. “Ah. I wouldn’t ...”
“The fire’s spreading!” shouted Hetman Winge.
“It’s like you did all this on purpose!” screeched Rosilia. She shook Greasetrap wildly, causing another gastrointestinal retort. The wyrmling flailed, its eyes popping wide. Rosilia looked at it in irritation. “What is wrong with this thing?”
In response, Greasetrap vomited up a gallon of liquid fat.
HRISTOMARTH ROFOLIO PEERED OUT from the branches of the sallow tree. The wyrmlings did the same from the branches beside him, watchful for angry villagers.
“Hello!”
The cry came from below. Hristomarth peered down to see Genna Myrmidon standing beside the trunk. She wore traveling clothes, with a rucksack hoisted over one shoulder and a bundle of coiled leather in her free hand.
“Oh,” he replied. “How are you?”
Genna looked away for a moment. “I’ve been banished.”
“The townsfolk are still upset, then?” He glanced back to the column of black smoke rising on the horizon.
“They put away the pitchforks to fight the fires.” Genna shook out the coil of bundled leather, revealing seven well-crafted leashes. “I made this for you.”
Hristomarth considered it. “My thanks?”
“It’s a leash.” She gave him a wry look. “You’re going to need it.”
He glanced at the wyrmlings. They ignored him, glaring at the leash as if it were a snake. A sudden, sinking realization struck Hristomarth.
“I’m never going to get away from them,” he moaned. “I should have followed the Interactionist Mode from the start.”
Genna made an apologetic shrug. “The Ministers of Fate might plan something else ...?”
Hristomarth did not respond.
The big woman hoisted her sack. “I should be going.”
Eventually he gestured farewell, though his heart wasn’t in it. His heart wasn’t in much of anything. After all this time, after going through so much, he was completely and utterly defeated.
Hristomarth broke down sobbing. The wyrmlings leapt to console him by biting, slobbering, and clawing him affectionately.
Stage Plight
HRISTOMARTH ROFOLIO STAGGERED UP to a fork in the roadway.
A wyrmling, Breaktooth, collapsed beside him, sending up a little cloud of dust. Before it could pick itself back up, the other six crashed into view. Hristomarth considered the weakly flailing reptilian mess and dropped their leashes.
“Let us just lie down,” he wheezed, “and die here together.” He doffed his hat and wiped his brow, removing a layer of caked-on grime that was an offense to propriety and all good order.
The road baked in the midday swelter. It was dry dirt, running through the grassy plains like a scar on an old soldier’s chin. Heat haze caused the air overhead to shimmer, so that the distant horizon melted into a blue-brown blur. Whatever wind blew was so faint it failed to stir the tall grass. It certainly failed to provide any relief.
A road sign sat planted in the fork of the road. Alhambry still appeared quite distant, though Darmx was now just a memory. Of more interest were the handbills nailed all about the sign’s post. They advertised miracle cures, lewd offers, official notices, and the status of varying wanted men.
“Well,” Hristomarth said, “this appears somewhat promising.” A quick investigation verified that local law enforcement had never heard of him—always an important consideration. The other handbills were mostly pedestrian, though one in particular caught his eye.
“Thespians sought,” Hristomarth read, “for the role of a lifetime. Full and generous stipend offered. Artistic souls should inquire with Playwright Provon Quaile in Littern Township, at the Curled Horn Theater.”
Hristomarth drew back in distaste. Acting. Was there any more ignoble profession?
He turned on his heel and held up a finger. “Attend,” he said to the wyrmlings. “An instructional moment is upon us. Even in our bedraggled state, we must consider your proper education. Never forget that the world is arrayed against you,
that success only follows guile and cunning.”
The wyrmlings followed his gesture, looking wearily at the handbill. Then Breaktooth bit Catchmaw on the head, and Greasetrap, the fat green one, tried to eat a rock.
“Upon this advertisement,” continued Hristomarth, “we have an offer of gainful employment—worthy of derision all on its own! But even worse, it seeks those with a calling to the stage, those with poetry in their souls and room enough in their hearts to channel great stories for the enjoyment of the teeming and grubby masses.”
The wyrmlings shared a confused look, except for Splaywing. The little dragon watched him intently. Differently. It seemed intrigued.
“Now, the initiate might be tempted to consider our nascent circus a similar endeavor. Not so! Our circus is merely cover, the means by which we separate objects of worth from those who don’t deserve them, either due to inattention or gullibility.”
Hristomarth folded his hands behind his back. “It might even be said that our pretense, though still in its infancy, may be the more honest profession. What does the acting troupe leave in its wake? Impossible dreams and emotional upset! At least our victims learn a tangible and valuable—”
The clatter of wheels on the road cut him short. A close-topped coach approached from one fork in the road. It trundled along, pulled by a large, flightless moa. The driver on the bench seat drew close and hauled on the reins, stopping his conveyance beside Hristomarth.
“Wonders never cease!” boomed the driver, peering down. He was short, stocky, and grizzled, dressed in a cheap but colorful outfit. “Can it be? Is it truly Hristomarth Rofolio?”
Dismay and embarrassment washed over Hristomarth. “Wollop Mabram,” he said, smiling tightly. “You old confidence trickster. May you have all the fortune you deserve, and the thief-takers comfortably at your back.”
Wollop laughed. “My fortunes go well! But what’s this? You appear threatened by a diminutive pack of reptiles. I would offer assistance, but for what might prove an inconvenience on my part.”
“There is no need,” said Hristomarth. “What you see before you are the elementary stages of my new circus.”
Wollop blinked. “Desperation comes to us all,” he said. “But the fruits of success ripen in strange places. Consider my current endeavor: Wollop’s Company of Players!” He gestured expansively at the coach behind him, as well as the trio poking their heads out of a window in its side. A haughty woman and a haughtier man considered Hristomarth with disdain, while a spot-faced youth goggled at the wyrmlings.
Hristomarth’s fake smile faltered. “Players? You lead an acting troupe?”
“Indeed!” Wollop said. “Littern Township is just ahead. The great playwright Provon Quaile has put out the call, and we mean to be the first to apply. Once Doriana has taken the stage and the exquisite Vernol has summoned forth his muse, the parts shall be as good as ours. Not to mention the rich spoils brought on by having such a patron. Of this I am certain! But daylight fades. May the Ministers of Fate soften the pain of your next failing, Hristomarth!”
Wollop cracked the reins, driving his carriage forward. Tittering laughter echoed from the window.
Hristomarth bent to retrieve the wyrmlings’ leashes, his eyes never leaving the coach as it rolled away. “A change in plans,” he said. “It occurs to me that a stint upon the stage would do excellently for your confidence before a crowd.”
The wyrmlings shared a wary look among themselves.
THE CURLED HORN THEATER WAS at odds with its location. Whereas Littern Township was small, the theater was expansive. Where the neighboring structures were plain, the theater was ostentatious. Such evidence forced Hristomarth to reconsider his assumptions concerning the financial stability of a playwright’s profession.
The interior proved no less impressive, where wide galleries looked down upon a broad stage lit with expensive Phlogosi lanterns. At its center loomed a figure who could only be Provon Quaile himself: a tall man with long white mustachios that curled past his beardless chin. His immaculately tailored clothing restrained a broad gut that was no stranger to the bountiful sideboard laid out along the eastern wall of the house. There was barely any hint that he was listening to the petitioners groveling below the edge of the stage he stood upon—the playwright seemed well trained in the art of condescension.
“…and our performance of The Fusty Matron was hailed across Lodara,” wheedled Wollop. “Truly, there is no need to seek any further for those who can express your stories.” The trio of actors behind him nodded emphatically.
Hristomarth yanked Greasetrap away from the buffet sideboard and guided the wyrmlings across the floor of the house. “Indeed,” he said, upon reaching the gathering. “Their selection would invoke an unwavering finality, such that you would never need hire another troupe. An excellent choice, should penury and failure be your design.” Hristomarth stepped up beside Wollop and doffed his hat in a low bow at the stage. “Hristomarth Rofolio of Rofolio’s Scaly Circus.”
Provon Quaile lifted an eyebrow in surprise. Doriana and Vernol gasped in outrage. But Wollop was an old hand at this game.
“Rofolio!” he said with a laugh. “Famed wherever farmers have left their barn doors unsecured. Whatever are you doing here?”
“I was informed of a new production by an esteemed local playwright.” Hristomarth yanked tightly on the wyrmlings’ leashes as Greasetrap tried again for the sideboard. “How could I stay away? For the sake of art, it is good that I came! I must apologize for not arriving sooner. Then you might have been saved the sting of presenting yourself for inevitable failure.”
“Would that you had never found out,” replied Wollop through grinding teeth. “But there is no need for your charity—my troupe is already perfectly placed to master the necessary lines and roles. Might I suggest that you turn those admirable feet, which have propelled you ahead of so many vengeful municipalities, to their prime execution?”
“Attend,” said Hristomarth, replacing his hat. He faced the wyrmlings with an upraised finger. “An instructional moment is upon us. Proper physiology is important when selecting your role in life. Consider Wollop and his grotesquely large overbite, sure to mutilate any prose that must rake itself across his palate. Last I heard, similar features were found upon Kentirk the Dog Biter.”
“Oho!” growled Wollop, turning to his crew. “Vernol? Did you know that Hristomarth is wanted in six townships for the counterfeiting of livestock? There is also this fascinating rumor concerning the Illuminate Knights—”
“Enough!” boomed Provon Quaile. His roar had both power, range, and poise. It was a voice used to cut across crowds, to quieting their meager concerns in favor of his own importance. Hristomarth’s retort died in his throat.
“I care not for the vagaries of your circumstances,” continued Quaile. “Actors consistently try to prove themselves through previous accomplishments and backstabbing skullduggery. The only pertinent qualification is whether they can channel the glory of my work. Rofolio! I take it that your troupe wishes to join the theater?”
“Indeed,” replied Hristomarth. “So long as the accompanying generous stipend is still on offer.” The wyrmlings chirped their agreement from around his boots.
“Then there is only one solution,” said Quaile. “We shall have auditions.”
“But they’re lizards!” cried Vernol. The actor’s face screwed up in outrage. His well-manicured hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. He glared at the wyrmlings like they were a personal insult.
“Darmxian mountain dragons,” corrected Hristomarth coolly.
Provon Quaile gestured dismissively at Vernol. “A trifling concern. Wollop! Since you were the initial applicant, your players will go first.”
Wollop bowed low. “Doriana will audition, followed by Vernol. His understudy will remain ignored and unobtrusive.”
Provon nodded agreeably. “This is the proper way of dealing with understudies. Now, our selection shall be the great Moon
Folk play Xexamere and the Fox of Shal-Zu. I rest assured that professional players such as yourselves all know it well. Any scene will do. Take a moment for preparation before we begin.”
Wollop eagerly shepherded his troupe over to the musician’s pit and bent their heads together to confer in hushed tones. Hristomarth glared after them to hide his own dismay. Outright competition wasn’t a possibility he had foreseen. Worse, he’d never even seen the Fox of Shal-Zu. This would require a carefully considered approach.
Smoke interrupted his ruminations. It was Coalbelly, trying to ignite the leg of a bench. The others sat around him in various positions of boredom and weariness—except for Splaywing, who watched intently as the actress Doriana left her cohort to climb onto the stage.
Hristomarth dissuaded Coalbelly with the toe of his boot. “We have inadvertently entered into a competition,” he said. “Not a desirable state, but a common—Splaywing? Pay attention, if you please.”
The little dragon sat still as a statue, focused on the stage like it was the entirety of its world. It haltingly turned its attention back to Hristomarth, but when Wollop’s actor cleared her throat, Splaywing stared at her anew. It was studying, Hristomarth realized.
“Taken by the allure of the stage?” he asked.
Splaywing chirped eagerly over its shoulder.
“Best get used to disappointment, then.” He yanked on Greasetrap’s leash, arresting its progress as it crept away toward the sideboard buffet. “Acting is a profession based on figments and imagination—never does it hold up to the hard light of day.”
The little dragon hunkered down, abashed. Then it looked up with a hopeful chirp, snout pointed at the stage.
“The auditions?” Hristomarth rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Attend, my wyrmling. We have entered a contest for a cushy prize: room and board and an excellent source of income while we prepare for the Grand Fair. Any mummery we performed would be a sham—mere pretense. Now, cunning and guile are our watchwords. As I said, we are in a contest, and you must remember that all contests are simply fights in the end.”
Rofolio's Scaly Circus Page 5