by Aaron Yeager
“Central just received updated paperwork from the Thesdan offices.”
“Aww,” she pouted, “Thesda is on the other side of the Blue Sea, why’d they have to go in the opposite direction? What dock are they in?”
“They didn’t pull into a Naval dock, so they must be in one of the civilian slots.”
“See if you can find out which one. I’m going to hop the first ship I can.”
The image faded and Mandi took one last bite of cheesecake. Her flesh burst apart, revealing a skeleton of black bones, which cracked and reformed themselves into a much smaller four-legged design with a long tail. Flesh, muscle and sinew reknit themselves around the bones and grew a fresh layer of fur.
A tight-nosed waiter walked up to her table, and saw the small gray cat sitting amongst clothes and a purse. The waiter watched dumbfounded as the cat pulled a platinum coin out of the purse with its mouth and laid it down on the table before scampering off down the walkway.
Mandi hopped up to a window sill in the tower that sat directly over one of the massive anchor lines that led up to the docks above. The ferries were always overloaded this time of night, so she saw little need to miss the evening departures by heading up there in hominid form. She hopped down and began running up the line, feeling the cool wind whip across her whiskers.
“Where is the Treemaster?” she could hear her father asking in his detached voice, staring right through her as if she wasn’t there at all.
Hopping over a circular stopper meant to prevent rats from doing the same thing; Mandi increased her pace and wondered what kind of food they served in Thesda. It’s been forever since I had a really hot curry, she thought as she leapt to grab a loose tarp and hefted herself up on top of a cargo pallet. Sailors and passengers walked this way and that without giving her a second glance as she read the schedule chalkboard looking for outbound ships headed for Thesda.
Selecting a suitable vessel, she turned around, only to find a young girl standing there looking at her sappily with large brown pigtails and a rag doll at her side.
What do you want, kid?
“Kitty!” she shouted, grabbing Mandi with both hands and squeezing her tightly. Mandi flailed and struggled, kicking her small limbs out, but she was unable to squirm free of the overwhelming grip. She tried to cry out, but the girl’s forearm was crushing her windpipe, and her body instinctively panicked.
Tiny lungs burning, she managed to sink her claws into the girl’s forearm, but her grasp didn’t slacken and darkness washed over Mandi as she lost consciousness.
Chapter Eighteen
Bric-a-Brac
Spirea thought that Alder hid his enthusiasm well as the accolade wheel spun before him. The wheel came to a stop and a friendly blue symbol fell into the center of the wheel and enlarged itself. Alder exhaled sharply then looked disappointed in himself for holding his breath.
“Would you be so kind as to allow me to spin the wheel again?” he asked expectantly to the tired-looking booth attendant.
“Not for another half hour, just like last time,” she huffed. Alder bowed politely and slipped off. Spirea looked at the nearby clock tower and noted Alder’s precision. It took him only 24 minutes to spin every accolade in the plaza, meaning he only had to wait 6 minutes before he could start over again, and during that time he spent it filling out a new stack of information cards.
Spirea couldn’t understand Alder’s rapidly growing obsession with the prize wheels, but she respected his methodical approach. After three days in this market district, he had gotten so accustomed to filling out the little information cards that he had started doing it without looking at the paper.
Spirea’s lips pursed curiously as she watched Alder make his way through the crowds toward another booth. He had a stoicism about him that she appreciated.
He was well trained, she thought to herself. It's no wonder he was the best candidate in his family. His traditional quiet demeanor was refreshing, not at all like the loud childlike quality that a certain other crewmate possessed. Spirea's brow pinched at the thought of it. She hated that bounding energy. Only one other person had ever managed to get on her nerves so quickly...
“Spiri, you have to come check this out!” Athel squealed in delight, grabbing her by the hand and nearly causing her to drop the pineapple juice she was sucking on.
“I told you not to call me that,” she protested as Athel dragged her in front of an oddly designed curio shop. The adobe facade had been covered with stained planks of hardwood carved with strange symbols and patterns. From pots flanking the entrance grew tall vines, draped over every conceivable surface and occasionally suspended by strings to keep them from growing back down to the ground.
There was something strangely familiar about it all, and then Spirea realized what she was looking at. The language was Wysterian, but scrawled so poorly that it was almost completely unreadable.
“I Luv Wysteria?” Spirea said aloud, reading the waving banner phonetically.
“It’s a Wysterian-themed curio shop,” Athel bubbled. “Let’s go inside.” Before Spirea could protest she was pulled along.
The interior was a gaudy imitation of Wysterian decoration with large-leaf potted plants placed along the shelves interspaced with books and baubles, most of which were decidedly unauthentic to Spirea’s eyes. The young woman behind the counter adjusted her glasses and approached to greet them, bowing in an exaggerated version of the old-fashioned manner. Her robes looked like she had made them herself, with inconsistent stitching and unmatched sleeves.
“Kai'eu-Ea' tris-Mana-Milia, as they say in Wysteria. Good morrow, my ladies, I am Lady Margaret, of the Gerstun family. Feel free to peruse the exotic artifacts from far-off and mysterious Wysteria.” Spirea heard Athel suppress a chuckle. Margaret’s costume was patterned after creosote robes, which were supposed to signify a woman too old to bear children. It was ridiculous for someone as young as this to wear them.
“Our new item this week is a rare rose medallion,” Margaret said as she produced the jeweled necklace from her sleeve, waving it around as if it possessed some supernatural ability. “This is given to Treesingers on their twentieth birthday, to remind them that they must choose their first husband before they reach thirty. If they are from an affluent family, the medallion is crested with three rubies to signify that their second and third husbands must be chosen by thirty-five.”
“Wow!” Athel exclaimed. “You really get into this Wysterian stuff, don’t you?”
Margaret’s eyes grew wide with delight at the question, and Spirea could tell that the young blonde girl was accustomed to being told to shut up.
“Absolutely,” Margaret bubbled. “I’m assistant to Professor Ancorage at Thesda University. He’s a celebrated authority on Wysterian culture and customs.”
“They have a professor for that? It’s not that interesting,” Athel commented uncomfortably as she sipped on her pineapple juice.
“Sure it is,” Margaret insisted. “A kingdom ruled by women, sanctified with long-life and living demigods of all plant life. It’s like a fairytale. I had to leave my kingdom and move out here just so I could be taught how to read.” Margaret sighed and hugged her arms around herself. “There are a lot of misconceptions about Wysteria, however.”
“For instance...” Athel asked curiously.
“For instance,” Margaret began, “most people think that Wysterian men are forced to crawl around on all fours. That’s not true at all.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. They are only forced to crawl when in the presence of their female master.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“And their reputation for cannibalism is completely unfounded.”
“Cannibalism?” Athel responded, aghast.
“Yeah. That rumor probably started after some sailors stumbled upon a Wysterian marriage ceremony.”
Amusement spread across Athel’s face and she folded her arms. “You’ve never
actually been to Wysteria, have you?”
“Not yet,” Margaret admitted, “Wysterian visitor’s passports are ridiculously hard to obtain. The entire kingdom is practically closed to outsiders, but I’m hoping that I can get a job as a translator with the Thesdan Ambassador’s office. That way I’d be able to go with him the next time he meets with the Wysterian Monarch.”
“Why would they need a translator?” Athel inquired. “We Wysterians speak common too.”
“They do...I mean, you do?” Margaret asked, mouth agape. “YOU’RE Wysterians? Where are your horns?”
Spirea rolled her eyes and tuned out Athel’s conversation while she perused the shelves. Being surrounded by living things again reminded Spirea of how much she missed her island kingdom. Athel loved foreign things, but to Spirea they were lifeless carvings. She longed for the songs of life that the trees sung to each other. The gentle sounds of living wood stretching in the morning light and the cool taste of ripe fruit. It wasn’t just the taste she missed, it was the sensation of connection she felt when the fruit touched her lips, and their minds touched. To feel the consent of the fruit as it allowed itself to be consumed, fulfilling the purpose of its creation...
Spirea’s thoughts ceased, and her mind began to recoil as if it had just touched something scalding hot. Fruit and trees rejoiced in fulfilling the purpose of their creation, because their purpose was wholly good. They could never despair, because darkness never touched them. Without realizing it, Spirea’s hands came up and pressed against the scars on her chest.
I don’t belong there anyway, Spirea thought, punishing herself. She loved her island, enough to acknowledge that it was made better by her leaving. It was at that moment that a small glimmer of silver caught her eye. She gathered up some old, cracking maps and pulled out a dusty pistol case. Most of the artifacts in this curio shop were cheap imitations, but this was unmistakably authentic. Spirea opened the case and held her breath.
A real Wysterian seed pistol lay inside, adorned with silver-vine filigree in the handle. She pulled out the pistol and felt the weight of it. It felt so right in her hand. Of all her sisters, Spirea had been the only one forbidden to use a pistol.
One does not give honor to an empty shell, Spirea remembered her mother saying once. She flipped the pistol over and looked at the artificer’s seal on the grip to see if it was a name she’d recognize. Then she saw the price tag and her countenance fell. With her meager salary, it would take her years to afford something like this.
“And another thing you should know,” Athel explained, her conversation breaking Spirea’s train of thought. “No Wysterian woman would be caught dead wearing this thing.” Athel pointed to a bathing suit hung on the wall that was made from large leaves that had been woven together.
“Why not?” Margaret asked innocently.
“Well, first of all, because it’s tacky. Second of all, because it’s made from Birichit leaves, which are poisonous.”
Margaret opened her mouth to respond, but the door chimed and Alder slipped in, closing the door behind him and bracing himself against it.
“Hey Alder, aren’t you supposed to be crawling on all fours?” Athel chided.
“Uh-huh,” Alder grunted as he peeked through the corner of a window, panic on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Please forgive me, my Lady, but it seems that thing has found me,” Alder squeaked as something started knocking on the door. Alder threw his weight into the door as the latch rattled and then the knocking began again, even louder.
“Donation?” asked a sweet little voice from the other side.
“That thing found you again?!” Athel complained.
“I swear,” Spirea groaned, “when I find the shop that thing belongs to, I’ll grow a flytrap and have it eat their children.”
“Your plants eat children?” Margaret asked, shattered.
“She’s just kidding,” Athel explained. “We need to go out the back, do you mind?”
“Oh, I can’t do that, only store employees can go back there.”
“Donation?” the small golem asked as it beat against the door. Athel reached into her pocket and pulled out the first thing her hand caught a hold of.
“How would you like to buy an authentic handcrafted Wysterian handkerchief, blessed with the holy seal of the Wysterian royal family?”
Margaret squeaked in delight and delicately grabbed the soft piece of cloth, taking in its glory. “Is it used?” she asked seriously.
“Used?” Athel asked suspiciously, her nose wrinkling.
“Yeah, it has a higher collector’s value if it’s been used.”
“Why would that increase its value?” Athel asked, disgusted.
The thumping against the door became even louder, and the door strained under the force of it. “Donation?” asked the golem again.
Spirea huffed in frustration and snatched the handkerchief out of Margaret’s small hands, and loudly blew her nose into it. “There, now it has been used by the heir to the Sotol guild.”
“Wow,” Margaret exclaimed as she received the wadded cloth back again.
The thumping against the door became a beating and the door cracked, threatening to break.
“Donation?” asked the cute little voice.
“Why would anyone make a little sample-distributing golem that is strong enough to break down a door?” Alder complained as he impotently threw his bony frame against the door, attempting to brace it. “It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Okay,” Athel said, “Now can we go out the back?”
“Well, you made a sale here in my shop, so I guess I could count you as a new distributor,” Margaret justified, scratching her shoulder.
Alder abandoned the fracturing door and the three made their way into the back, where they weaved through stacks of books, racks of clothes, and several of Margaret’s homemade costumes before bursting out the employee’s entrance in the back.
“I can’t believe you blew your nose into that handkerchief,” Athel commented as they slipped into the crowds. “You realize that you just sold someone your snot?”
“Shut up, Forsythia, I’m not the one who left her purse back in there.”
“Grubs and thorns,” Athel cursed as she stopped and turned around, realizing her mistake. It was only then that she noticed that the crowd of people around her was moving faster than normal. In fact, they were running in all directions.
Athel looked around to try and find the source of the panic, but all she could see was a blur of moving people and slamming shutters and doors. A shadow fell across the plaza, and Athel looked up to see its source. An enormous creature, with fat fins protruding from a long bloated body writhed in the air above them, flicking its head this way and that as it let out a roar that shook the very ground they were standing on.
“What is that thing?” Spirea asked as she worked her way over to Athel.
“It’s an Eiria, but I don’t get it, they’re supposed to be docile, peaceful creatures.”
The Eiria flicked its tail out, catching the top of a building, which came apart, blocks of adobe and masonry shattering against the ground as they fell among the panicking shoppers and traders.
“We need to alert the authorities,” Alder said as he joined them.
“Look at your uniform, we are the authorities!” Athel shouted as she ran back toward the Wysterian curio shop. She grabbed onto the vines and clumsily pulled herself upward.
“But I’m just the ship’s cook,” Alder complained as he followed her.
“What are you two doing?” Spirea asked as she watched the pair awkwardly climbing up the side of the building, making little progress.
“We need to get up to the roof so we can try to snare the creature.” Athel said.
“No, I mean, why are you trying to climb up the building?” Spirea pulled out her staff from its holster on her back and tapped the ground. A tangle of vines and roots bore her up past her climbin
g shipmates, where she effortlessly stepped out onto the roof above them.
“Oh sure,” Athel moaned, “like I’m gonna’ carry my staff around when I go shopping.”
The crack of cannon fire pulsed through the air as a Naval patrol ship appeared overhead. The cannonballs hit the flank of the Eiria with fleshy thuds, doing little damage to the massive creature. With a moan the Eiria turned toward its attacker, a glimmer of metal shining in the sunlight when its sphincter-like maw cracked open.
In a flash the creature attacked, closing the hundreds of yards in seconds. Two more cannonballs thumped into the flesh of its brow as it opened up its circular mouth, revealing row upon row of serrated metallic teeth, which bit down into the prow of the ship, splintering wood and shattering steel as the men on board screamed and hollered, a few of them tossed overboard by the bucking of the bow.
The Eiria crunched down on its mouthful and flicked its head from side to side, struggling against something before opening its maw once more. From within whipped out several dozen long lash-like tongues, which wrapped around anything they came in contact with. Barrels, chests, lengths of cordage and several crewmen were lassoed and pulled toward the cavernous mouth.
Spirea slammed her staff down and massive vines burst up out of the ground; weaving themselves together like a rope as they climbed ever higher, until finally wrapping themselves around the Eiria's tail and yanking it backward. The beast roared but refused to release the wrecked ship or the prey in its tongues.
Leaving a struggling Alder far behind, Athel hoisted herself up onto the roof and smoothly drew her pistol, taking aim at the creature far above.
“Oh, sure, you don’t have your staff, but what shopping trip would be complete without your pistol?” Spirea jeered as she gripped her staff with both hands; sweat beading along her brow from the strain. At Spirea's command, the vines pulled downward even harder, straining against the strength of the monster above.
“Of course I brought it, it matches my boots,” Athel retorted as her pistol fired. The small seed sped upward, but began slowing long before it reached its target. With an outstretched hand, Athel commanded the seed upward further, bursting it through its tiny lifecycle in moments. The vines from the small seed reached out, wrapping around the Eiria’s many tongues, binding them tightly together. The Eiria roared in frustration and began to bite down, as if it preferred to sever part of its own body rather than release its squirming prey. Just before the teeth met they stopped, and the tongues released the men and crippled ship, which retreated slowly away.