Rostoc staggered through and shut the door. Then he looked at the lone wing remaining from his meal. Hristomarth was already leaning across his own table, pretending to be engrossed in the gambler’s conversation.
“Hilarious!” he said, just a bit too loudly. “The Lumbering wouldn’t budge, you say?”
The gamblers looked at him in annoyance. “Yes,” Krasic said. “So I challenged him to a contest. But this is a private convers—”
“Hey!” snapped Rostoc. “Who’s been at my dinner?”
Krasic, his friend, Hristomarth, and Greasetrap all looked at the door guard. Hristomarth froze his features in a well-practiced mask of innocence.
“We’re not sure what you mean, good worthy,” replied Hristomarth.
A vein stood out on Rostoc’s forehead. “I mean that one of you grimy wanderers have been at this chicken!”
“Ridiculous,” said Krasic, rolling his eyes at his companion. “This place is packed to overcapacity, and now the thuggish doorman accuses us of eating his dinner. I won’t be passing this way again, and you can be sure I’ll leave a strongly worded review with those I meet.”
Rostoc ground his teeth and jabbed a finger at the gambler. Before he could reply, the door shook with the banging of many fists. The raised voices on the other side were clear.
“Hristomarth!” called Nose Ring of the Tophic monks.
“Get out here, you rogue!” added Falad of Suuth.
“Give us our money back!” cried Relisolde of the Conclusionary Mode.
Rostoc growled like an angry dragon. Jabbing his finger at the chicken wing in warning, he ripped open the door and barged through with a wordless shout. The pilgrims’ shouts turned to cries of pain as Rostoc laid into them. Hristomarth reached over shut the door firmly, until the latch clicked into place. Krasic and his companion watched him a moment longer before returning to their chat.
Among omens, the angry mob was a simple one to interpret. Perhaps it was time to leave. But even if he found a window and managed to clamber outside without breaking his neck, that meant a long night spent under a bush or contending with owls. No. A bed. He had swindled a dozen people for a ludicrously priced common-room bed. Hristomarth vowed to have it.
He’d also have something to eat. Glancing about to make sure he wasn’t watched, Hristomarth snatched the wing from Rostoc’s plate. It was somewhat scrawny and had been charred during roasting. His belly did not care, however.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Hristomarth was startled as the proprietor appeared on the opposite side of the table, spitting each word of her query with the wrath of a city magistrate. His pilfered chicken wing slipped from his fingers, falling promptly into the open, ravenous maw of Greasetrap. The wyrmling had been lying on his back beneath Hristomarth with his mouth open. Just in case.
A crunch and a gulp and the wing was gone. Hristomarth shot to his feet. “I think that I am attempting to take my ease!” he blustered. “Which is apparently impossible in this treehouse hovel.” Hopefully going on the offensive would distract her from his theft.
The proprietor returned his irritation with a flat glare. “While you laze about,” she replied, “your pets run rampant. Look at how they disrupt the ambience!”
She gestured at the rest of the taproom. It was quieter and a little emptier, now that some of the others had departed to their quarters above. The commotions he’d been completely ignoring up until now were obviously apparent.
Left on their own, the rest of the wyrmlings had taken matters into their own claws. Breaktooth was hunkered on the table of a family of four, eating their dinners and staring down the patriarch of the family as they all sat frozen in terror. Splaywing clutched the shoulders of a fat merchant, her huge wings wrapped around his face as she craned her head down into his drink. Catchmaw hid beneath a table, sneaking a clever forefoot up to snatch whatever was left unprotected. Coalbelly had taken up position in front of the hearth, breathing great gouts of flame that had those nearest shying away uneasily. Jitterclaw crouched before an elderly man in a chair who fed him, nervously eyeing each scrap before taking a tentative bite. Idleheart lay like something dead near the bar, waiting for someone to trip over him.
Hristomarth relaxed. This was the source of the proprietor’s ire, not him. “I fail to see the cause for your concern.”
The proprietor stared. “My guests are completely unable to enjoy their evenings!”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you so very certain that’s my fault? Consider this: no one is currently on fire or screaming of bloody murder. This is high praise for this establishment. I can only assume whatever inconveniences my fellow patrons undergo from the presence of me and mine is sufficiently tolerable in comparison.”
She bared her teeth like a wolf about to attack. “Get. Them. Out. Of. Here.” Snatching up Rostoc’s empty platter, she stormed away.
Hristomarth glared after her. He took up Rostoc’s tankard and drank it defiantly in her direction. The ale went down smooth. Refreshing. Even if it was a little warm by now.
He replaced the tankard and sat. What to do next? The pangs in his belly had grown significant. The architect of those pangs looked up hopefully from beneath the table, then belched. Hristomarth considered as he waved away the stink. Perhaps it was time to make himself scarce. The bed above was calling to him.
Beside him, Krasic was reaching the climax of his tale. His companion laughed, slapping his knee. “A Lumbering,” he said. “You’re telling me you ended up in a drinking contest with a Lumbering?”
“It’s true!” said Krasic with both his hands up. “I figured, well, they drink a lot of water, sure, but it’s not like the seas are made of alcohol! And I had a secret: a hidden funnel with a piece of hose running out of sight.”
The front door banged open, and Rostoc bulled through. Blood covered his knuckles and dripped from his nose. Both of his eyes were blackened. Notably, the mob outside seemed ominously quiet.
The doorman slammed the door shut and grabbed up his tankard. He tilted it back for a draught, stopping in surprise as he found it empty.
“So yes,” continued Krasic, lowering his voice for the big finish. “I drank it all! I drank and drank, and that dumb oaf never figured out what was going on!”
Rostoc stared, dumbfounded. Then he slammed his tankard down on the table. Everyone sitting nearby jumped, including Hristomarth. It was Krasic who had the big thug’s attention, however, and he turned to find himself on the end of an accusatory finger.
“Damn it all to the Black Vault Below!” Rostoc snarled. “You think you can pull a trick like that and get away with it?”
Krasic rolled his eyes. “It’s not your business, but you’ll find that I already did.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Rostoc roared and grabbed the man by his shirt, heaving him up and upending the table. Nearby patrons fled. The wyrmlings watched in interest.
The time had definitely come to retire for the evening. Hristomarth slipped around the brawl for the safety of the open floor. Just a short distance away lay the stair behind the bar leading upwards. If nothing else, he’d have his bed tonight. The thought cheered him considerably.
SOMEONE’S KNEES JABBED INTO Hristomarth’s back. The stink of unwashed bodies pervaded the air. A cacophonic chorus of grumbling, lip smacking, and log-sawing snores resounded all about him.
The common room was a cramped loft above the private quarters of the Mayfly Inn. His bed proved to be a pile of straw on the floor with a thin, ragged blanket. His pillow was a sack of moldy flour. The single window looked outside, where the monks and the cultists below had placed sentries to watch for his exit. It was shut, which provided security but made the stuffy air all the worse.
The wyrmlings lay across him in a tangled heap of claws, fangs, and rough, scraping scales. Their weight crushed him. They had grown more during his travels than he’d expected.
Hristomarth redoubled his determinatio
n to enjoy this. Grabbing at the thin blanket, he tried and failed to cover himself further. Twisting for more comfort, he found himself staring directly into Greasetrap’s awful maw. Turning away, he found a pair of sweating feet.
A single tear worked its way down his cheek. He waited in vain for sleep to claim him, Greasetrap sleep-belching softly against his head. Outside, the lone hoot of an owl echoed through the night.
The Grand Fair
of Alhambry
HRISTOMARTH ROFOLIO REJOICED IN the crowd before him. He bowed low and doffed his hat, the gesture practiced a thousand times before. Flourishes were an important part of any proper performance. Now, at last, he had an assemblage worthy of the effort.
“Gathered worthies,” he cried. “Far wanderers and local ruffians of dubious parentage. Stop a moment to lend your senses. Before you is a wondrous rarity, one that can only serve to improve your ruthlessly banal lives.”
The snap of his fingers summoned two wyrmlings from the grass, tottering over to stand beside the thoroughfare. Each goggled at the crowd, one end of an oversized banner stuffed into their jaws. So far, so good.
Hristomarth straightened and spread his arms. “Here in the Sideshow Alley,” he cried, “at the Grand Fair of Alhambry, I am pleased to bring you Rofolio’s Scaly Circus!”
Breaktooth and Jitterclaw thankfully remembered their cue, spreading apart and stretching the banner to reveal this title in gaudy golden paint. Their fumbling gave only gave the briefest glimpse of the other side, which recalled a harvest festival in some small town they’d passed last week.
The crowd watched with indifference. They fidgeted. A few spent their attention on the jam seller in the booth nearby or the other attractions lining the thoroughfare. A fat merchant in a sea-green tunic sighed loudly and turned to leave.
A less accomplished entertainer might have despaired. Hristomarth knew better. Any proper performance was a contest between audience and entertainer. So long as their feet kept them in place, his scheme was proceeding just fine.
Hristomarth made another flourish with his hat. “Be amazed,” he continued, “at the dreaded fire-breathing wyrms of the Cinderpeaks!”
Coalbelly crawled out from behind the banner. He peered suspiciously at the crowd. But just like they rehearsed, he sat back on his haunches and took a deep breath. Flame erupted from his maw in a great red-gold gout that wilted the grass a dozen paces away.
The crowd wasn’t much impressed. “Is that all they do?” asked a woman. “There’s a man on the midway who swallows swords and breathes fire.”
“Of course not,” said Hristomarth confidently. “Wyrmlings are flying monsters, as well! Consider their grace and aerial agility.”
Another snap of his fingers brought Greasetrap and Idleheart out from behind the banner. The fat wyrmling gripped a wide wooden hoop in his maw, stolen along with the banner. Idleheart yawned sleepily, muttering to himself as he walked. Behind them both came Splaywing, with her head held like an actress about to take the stage.
As they passed, Greasetrap trodded obliviously on Coalbelly’s tail. The pyromaniacal wyrmling yowled and whirled, breathing a gout of flame at his siblings. They scrambled aside to avoid the blast. The wooden ring wasn’t quite so lucky. Its top burned merrily now, and Greasetrap watched the flames crawl down the sides as he chewed on it apprehensively.
Weak chuckles rippled through the crowd. Hristomarth snapped his fingers. Greasetrap lowered the hoop for Idleheart to gingerly grab in his maw. Splaywing took up position between the two of them with enough space for a running start. Her earlier haughty expression now seemed uneasy.
“Come on,” coaxed Hristomarth. “Just like we’d practiced. Your audience is watching.”
Splaywing glanced at the crowd, eyes going a little wide. She chirped and turned back to the ring, puffing herself up. Then she bounded forward and leapt into the air. Her wings snapped wide—far too wide to clear the hoop.
The little wyrmling hit the burning ring with a startled squawk. She fell, taking it with her. Idleheart ducked away, but Greasetrap refused to open his maw. They landed in a snarling, burning tangle, rolling right into the banner as the others fled.
Peals of laughter erupted from the crowd. Hristomarth smiled. Perfect.
The wyrmlings proceeded through act after act. Each ended in chaos and confusion, not so much rehearsed as well managed. Hristomarth knew enough about the little monsters by now to guess how pretty much anything involving them would go.
So far, the gamble appeared to be paying off. The crowd laughed a little louder with every new catastrophe, until their amusement roared up and down the lane, drawing others. Soon there was barely any room to watch.
Eventually the wyrmlings were finished. They laid down on the blackened grass, refusing to do anything else. Hristomarth stamped out the burning banner while the crowd dissipated, moving on up Sideshow Alley as they made their way on to the fair proper.
“That could have gone better.”
Hristomarth glanced up to see the jam seller in the adjacent booth. Proprietor of “Borth’s Jellied Preserves” by his signage, Borth wore a gray beard and mustache that didn’t quite hide the old scars underneath. Smoke curled lazily from a richly made pipe between his lips.
“Pardon?” asked Hristomarth.
Borth jabbed his pipe stem at the wyrmlings sulking beside him. “Your act is obviously in its nascent stages: The finale lacks force, and more props would be helpful. Your crowd was decent, I will grant. But you didn’t even set aside your hat for tips! How will you derive financial stability?” Borth tapped the side of a jar. “These jams are always present to be sold.”
“My hat belongs firmly upon my head,” said Hristomarth. “Except against the need of dramatic gesticulations or dire circumstance. There are planned improvements to my little circus, but the core features are quite well in place.”
What remained of the crowd departed, revealing a single remaining wyrmling hunkering in place. Catchmaw peered about warily before scuttling over to Hristomarth. Dozens of purses dangled from her jaws.
“Ah,” said Borth.
“Indeed,” replied Hristomarth.
He bent down and held out a hand to Catchmaw. The little wyrmling froze, glancing around for avenues of escape. This trick, Hristomarth had to admit, she was resistant to learning.
“A workable scheme,” admitted Borth. “If one is careful in its application.”
Hristomarth grabbed for the purses. Catchmaw fought back, biting down and rearing her head away from him.
“It has yet to fail,” he replied, scuttling closer. “These wyrmlings are more capable than they appear. How difficult is it to fleece some local rubes?”
“It is not the locals who should concern you.”
Hristomarth feinted, tricking the wyrmling just close enough to get a grip on the purses. He set his feet and only then looked back warily over his shoulder at Borth.
The jam seller’s avuncular seeming had hardened. “You are not the only grifter in this fair to practice creative financial redistribution. Did you think yourself alone in recognizing the opportunity?”
“Of course not,” Hristomarth lied. The road from Darmx had been long and difficult enough. There simply hadn’t been time to consider competition.
“Avarice is unlimited,” said Borth, “but the potential pool of victims is not.”
“Well, I—” Hristomarth began just as Catchmaw chose to whip her head back and forth in an effort to pull free. “I ... would hate ... to break with neighborly accord,” he continued. “Who ... deserves my consideration ... on this lane?”
Borth pointed with the stem of his pipe. “See the tent with the many flags in front? The owner presents them as painted silk, though they are really cheap linen.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’m given to understand the flag with tripartite wolves howling at the moon is especially popular, though I do not know from where such a banner originates.”
“It is a mystery,” agree
d Hristomarth. He covered Catchmaw’s snout with his free hand. She tried to breathe furiously for a moment before going slack and playing dead. Hristomarth fought to stay upright against her weight and break the vice-tight grip she retained on the clinking bundle of purses.
“There is also a decent scam running in the armorer’s tent,” continued Borth, “selling ‘authentic’ Moon Folk blades to spot-faced youths. I myself am also not beyond a little entrepreneurial subterfuge. Consider these jams.”
Hristomarth risked a glance at the signage. “Fruitful, all-natural preserves.” He thought a moment. “Why wouldn’t they be natural to begin with?”
Borth knocked ash from his pipe. “The implication is the more important consideration. What does it matter if they contain more than a modest amount of moa beak or rendered horse hoof? These are still naturally occurring ingredients.”
Desperate for breath, Catchmaw scrabbled suddenly to her feet. Caught off guard, Hristomarth lost his grip on her snout.
“Duly noted,” he grunted, fighting now for balance. “And how might I avoid conflict with your brotherhood of opportunists?”
“Simple enough,” replied Borth. “Your technique is too blatant! Success lies in avoiding repeat performances in any one place. More specifically, here again in Sideshow Alley. The midway is likewise too conspicuous for such attempts, but that is of little concern to me. Perhaps the field where the pie-eating contest is held?”
Greasetrap sprung up from his siblings with an eager, questioning chirp.
“Oh,” continued Borth. “You should also refrain from troubling the sorcerers.”
Hristomarth froze. “What?”
The jam seller looked at him pityingly, pointing with his pipe out beyond Sideshow Alley. In the midway beyond rose a large black tent, ominous and dark as night.
Rofolio's Scaly Circus Page 10