The Mistress’ smile grew wider, and she waited.
The mound of ash before her trembled.
Then, like a family of worms searching tentatively for hungry birds after the rainfall, five needle-like black fingers emerged from the dust, probing the air. Another set of fingers emerged, finding the first hand, and then reaching out to grip the ground on either side of the ash pile.
A moaning noise now emanating from the earth, the slender, wasted arms pulled, and the figure they belonged to birthed forth, screaming her anger to the world as she crawled back from whatever hell she had been tortured in.
The being of poisoned blackness pulled herself upright, ash falling from her face, her scream unceasing.
Unperturbed, the Mistress of the Wilds remained before the creature, smiling. The elder lady reached out with a hand of dust, and stroked the newly born creature’s face. The black thing’s scream silenced at the Mistress’ touch, but its anger remained, still trickling forth in the form of child-like sobs.
Leaning in, the Mistress of the Wilds kissed the creature again.
When she stood back, the smile left her face. The folds of her chins parted, and a wide mouth that curved from ear to ear, lined with tiny, needle-like teeth, spoke. “Now, my Black Shepherdess, now we will discuss our eternal revenge on these mice men, and their offspring, and all their evil works upon our land.”
“And Alejandro,” the Black Shepherdess spoke, her ruined voice bubbling forth dryly, sounding altogether wrong. “Alejandro will suffer too. He will suffer most of all. Him, and all of his lineage, until they are pulled screaming from the face of the earth.”
The Mistress observed her new creation silently for a moment, as if trying to judge where this unbidden urge had come from.
“Yes,” she said, slowly, this time from a toothless opening at her side. “Yes, he and his will suffer too, in time.”
Then the Mistress of the Wilds and the Black Shepherdess withdrew to their hidden place, to discuss how best to rid the Wildlands of the Muridae people.
“You have no money left.”
Arturo sat up in his bed, muscles aching. The Shaven - that was what others called the bald-headed woman who had tended to him over the last week - stood in the doorway to his room, staring at a stain on the wall.
“You have to leave, now, or the innkeeper will call someone in to deal with you.”
It was the Shaven who had dragged him up here, after they had released him from the constable’s cells. She had found the purse he had hidden in his boot - the rest of his coin must have been taken by the constables when he had been arrested - and had used it to pay for the expensive room over the last week. She had slept on the floor at the foot of his bed. That final stash of money should have lasted longer than it did, but Arturo did not blame the Shaven for any extra she may have taken. If not for her, he would have died.
Arturo knew he should have gotten out of bed days ago. He could have, physically, but had no urge to do so. His dream, his desire to become a Bravador, had failed. No, not failed - he had been wrong to have that dream in the first place. He had come here to become a hero, to make his family proud of him by becoming a legend. But it was clear to Arturo now that there were no Bravadori in Espadapan who could hold that claim. Perhaps… perhaps it had all been a lie. Perhaps there had only ever been true heroes in fireside tales, when liquor and drowsiness allowed men to believe the world might be better than reality allowed.
Aching, he dressed himself, hesitating for a moment before buckling his rapier to his belt and putting his Bravador mask back on.
Walked those streets without a mask would be the same as giving up. That was not a decision he wanted to make in a dark room.
Ready to leave, Arturo walked up to the doorway. The Shaven had stood there the whole time, still contemplating the wall. When she heard him approach, she looked directly at the mask and raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Sheepishly, Arturo looked away.
“They beat you. None of them would have you, and they beat you. You still want to be one of them?”
“I’ve always wanted to be,” he answered, without looking at her. “And I never thought it’d be easy.” But I’d expected them to be so much more than they really are.
The Shaven lowered her eyes at this. From what Arturo could tell from his short time in the city, all Shaven had been Bravadori, once. He could not tell if he had just offended her.
“Right, good luck then. You’ll need it.” She shook her head again. “Although you’ll need more than that to save you from your own stupidity.”
After a week with her, Arturo had discovered a hidden kindness behind the Shaven’s cold continence and harsh words. She had cared for him, saying little, but giving a lot of her time. Even now, as she ridiculed him, her face did not echo the bleakness of her words, and she did not leave him.
“What’ll you do now?” he asked.
“Same as always. Find work, earn coin. Survive. That’s a word you should learn the meaning of, Starving Pup.”
Arturo grinned, that grin the daughters back on the estate loved. He knew it would do nothing for the Shaven, but he gave it anyway, and offered her his hand. “Arturo. My real name’s Arturo Merlo. Reckon you’ve earned the right to that, for all it’s worth.”
The Shaven stared at his hand, as if it was the last thing she expected to see at the end of a wrist. She glanced at his face, eyes frozen, then back at the hand.
Tenderly, Arturo moved it closer to her.
By the Mouse, what a life she must live to have reason to distrust a handshake.
Slowly she reached out and took his hand. She gave it one sharp shake, then withdrew.
“Goodbye, Arturo Merlo,” the Shaven said, then she turned and left him.
Quickly, Arturo gathered the rest of his belongings, then half-ran down the stairs, nodding at the innkeep as he left. However, by the time he made it outside it was already too late - the crowds were strong and there was no sign of his rescuer.
Arturo sighed. The sight of his mask was already attracting curious glances. Holding his left side, which ached the most after a week of recovery, he began to fit in with the crowd’s movement, doing what he could to find his bearings. He knew he was in Barrio Mercado - he had cursed the morning cries of fishmongers and bakers for the past week - and very soon the tolling of a distant bell told him where the cathedral and the Queen’s Plaza lay. He turned his back on the plaza, and headed north towards the city gates. It took him the best part of an hour to hobble there. Arturo kept his eyes down, the wide brim of his hat dipped low to avoid as much attention as possible. He suspected his wounded limp put off any challenges from passing Bravadori, more than his pathetic attempt to disguise himself.
Penniless, Arturo lowered himself onto a step at the corner of a counting house that bordered Calle Raton just before it met the gates and opened up onto the Wildlands. As with the rest of the barrio, traders were selling their wares here, mostly targeting the merchants that made up the majority of the traffic to and from the Wilds. The smell of roasting lamb and smoked fish drifted across from nearby stalls, and he did his best to ignore the emptiness of his stomach.
Now what? I’ve no money, and I’m not fit to earn anything either. But that’s what I’ll have to do, if I’m not going to crawl off to the park tonight and find a bush to sleep under.
Nearby, a trader had a small herd of deer tethered to metal posts that appeared to have been driven into the flagstones for just such a purpose. Arturo marvelled at the sight of the wild animals, just as much as he marvelled at the fact that they stood there docile, doing nothing to escape the sale and the slaughter that awaited them.
Every so often, Arturo spotted a line of grey moving through the crowds, and hoped against all hope that the procession of Queen’s Brides might contain Gavrilla. That hope continued to be dashed, and the urge to find her soon diminished to a curiosity, as if she was a character in a story he had been told once, but could now on
ly distantly remember.
They beat me, he admitted to himself. I finally faced off against another Knack like my own, and I was beaten.
It was the first time Arturo had been bested at sword fighting since developing his Knack. He had known it would happen eventually, knew it would feel like this, but that anticipation did not lessen the sting of the blow. The people he had trained with as a young boy back at Janitzio had been unKnacked. Herdsmen, for the most part, used to holding machetes, cajoled or bribed by Arturo to try out a sword against him instead. Whenever he had been able to best them with little effort, he had allowed himself to try out against the men and women his father had hired to guard the estate from bandits. There were no Bravadori among them, no true fighting Knacks, but those fighters had experience, and it had taken young Arturo some time before he had been able to fight them and succeed. However, finally Arturo found he could anticipate their movements, could judge their next move just by looking at them, by seeing the small shifts in weight of their stances and by how they looked at him. He learnt to be patient, to use his opponents’ mistakes against them.
Then, young Arturo began to win. He spent an entire month being challenged by his father’s most experienced fighters, and kept winning. He became the talk of the estate. Nobody had been surprised when his Knack arrived shortly after.
But Red Curtain had beaten him. The first time he had faced another fighting Knack, it had nearly killed him. Arturo had been worried that his Knack was weak. Encouraging its appearance by fighting unskilled swordsmen, it could be nothing otherwise. It never had the benefit of another Bravador’s attentions to fan it to greater strength. Arturo had received no formal training. Even now, when other swordfighters adopted different stances, Arturo could tell their intention, but not the names and origins of those movements.
And when those Paws had accosted him, all of his skill, training and experience had just fallen away. No wonder Tomas had abandoned him. There had been no sign of the Wildman since that night. A single Bravador like Arturo had no hope against a gang of bandits, no hope when faced with a gang of cutthroats like the Bravadori of Espadapan.
He sighed, raising his eyes to the flat Wildlands, just beyond the city gates. Broken lines of merchant caravans and other travellers filed across the brown dryness, walking the roads to Hidalgo or distant Oaxaca. Somewhere out there to the south was Janitzio, Arturo’s father’s estate.
I’ve no food, no means to get it, and no prospects. Time for Starving Pup to go home.
He reached his hand up to his face at this realisation, almost pulling his mask off straight away. He had tried to become a Bravador, but had failed. Even if he had succeeded, Arturo knew he wanted no part of what the Bravadori of Espadapan were offering him. He wanted to mean something, not to gang up with a bunch of thugs who had nothing better to do than to serve themselves. Tomas’ time searching for help for his family told Arturo there was nobody in the city offering him what he actually wanted.
He could not help the tear that rolled down his mask, joining with red fabric that represented the lives he had taken. Ashamed, he wiped it away, lip trembling at his own stupidity. He had wasted so much of his life chasing a child’s dream.
He would be welcomed back home, of course. He would even have a place there. The estate was already destined to pass to Javier, his brother’s Knack for balancing the coffers matching that of their father. They would find a place for Arturo, but there was nowhere he could bring his Knack to bear, except for the few occasions in a decade when they had a direct attack to fend off. Instead, Arturo fancied he would probably be given a herd to look after, a small group of drovers to manage, but would ultimately report back to Javier. It was not a bad life. Certainly much better than most in Espadapan had to look forward to, but it was not what Arturo had dreamt about.
He reached up again to his mask.
It would do.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to take those off?”
The voice broke Arturo from his thoughts, and he jumped back from the figure that was standing right beside him.
Gavrilla - for it was the Bride, finally - laughed. “Queen’s sagging tits, Little Bravador. It took a while to find you, but the look on your face was worth it.”
“Gavrilla.” Arturo jumped up, and moved forward to embrace his friend.
Gavrilla’s face turned serious, and she stepped back from him, towards the street, shaking her head. “Not a good idea. They wouldn’t like that.”
It was then Arturo noticed the cloister of Brides standing a short distance behind Gavrilla, all in single file. All pointed towards the city gates.
“You’re leaving Espadapan?” he asked.
Gavrilla reddened, lowering her eyes slightly. Behind her, Arturo could spot two older Brides looking at him accusingly.
“Yeah, well,” Gavrilla said, half-smiling. “Turns out the order doesn’t take kindly to novices that run off in the middle of a brawl and spend half the day traipsing unescorted around the city with a swordfighter. And when some bitch tells on that novice - and believe me, once I find out who it was, the Queen herself won’t save her from me - then that novice will get confined to a convent for the rest of her life.”
Arturo’s face fell. “Gavrilla, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise I got you into so much trouble.”
She brightened, looking him in the eyes again. “Not to worry. There’s always a way to get out of these things, that’s what my father taught me.” She nodded her head back to the cloister. “We’re on a missionary mission to Hidalgo. Turns out they won’t turn tainted novices like me away when we volunteer for those jobs.” She lowered her voice, and smiled devilishly. “Maybe they heard how much experience I have with… missionary.”
Arturo reddened, and coughed.
“Time’s up, novice,” the oldest Bride shouted from behind.
Gavrilla rolled her eyes. “All right, all right. Look, I couldn’t pass you by without saying something, seeing you sitting there, moping. Thought you’d been killed already, for all I knew. But, now I see you’re not, and that’s good and all. Guess things have worked out for you.”
It was Arturo’s turn to lower his eyes. “Yeah… Look, you’re travelling all the way to Hidalgo? Won’t it be dangerous, travelling the Wilds?”
“Well, you know, I’m not alone. There’s a dozen of us on the road, and Brides always find a caravan to trot along with. No shame in finding safety in numbers. That’s what you Bravadori do too, right? Fight as a team, look out for each other?”
Yes. Yes, that’s what Bravadori do. Arturo remembered Red Curtain, ordering the other Paws to surround him, forcing Arturo into a fight he had no hope of winning.
Arturo smiled.
“Now, novice,” the older Bride shouted again.
“Queen’s tits, I’ve got to go. Just… just, look after yourself, all right? We’ll be back in Espadapan someday, and I’ll find you then. Shit, I don’t even know your name, after all this time.”
Continuing to grin, without missing a beat, Arturo answered, “Starving Pup. They call me Starving Pup.”
Gavrilla barked a laugh, and turned around. “Farewell then, Mister Pup. When we first met, I thought you were mad, someone like you wanting to become a Bravador. But you know what? I think it’s a good idea. The Bravadori could do with someone like you, someone to remind them how they’re supposed to act, how to be proper gentlemen and all that. And I guess, since they haven’t killed you yet, they must have realised it too.”
She bowed to him, winking. “Queen’s blessings to you, and I look forward to our next meeting.”
Arturo smiled at Gavrilla as she passed with her cloister, and smiled again at the older Bride as the woman shot him one last dark look. But most of all, he was smiling because of Gavrilla’s parting words.
The Bravadori could do with someone like you.
Alfrond’s balls, she’s right. There are no true Bravadori in this city. Nobody who wears a mask who remembers what the ma
sks mean, what the Bravadori are supposed to do. Nobody, except for me.
Just a few weeks here, and I’ve already run into someone else hoping to find the true Bravadori. Tomas and I can’t be the only ones to have come so far, only to find disappointment. We need the heroes we were told about as children, and if nobody else is going to live up to that promise, I’ll have to do it myself.
Aching, Arturo got to his feet. He was going to help the Wildfolk village, Calvario, going to save them from the bandits, from the man with the dead face.
Before he did that, however, he had to find Tomas again, before the man left Espadapan. And the best place to look for any of the Wildfolk was Wild Town.
Although he had never been there before, Arturo knew the way to Wild Town. He had often seen its borders, where the quality of the buildings changed noticeably, the strong timber constructions of Barrio Bravadori giving way to ramshackle log homes, held together with cob and earth.
The entrance to Wild Town was guarded at all times by members of the Honey Badger Family, the Wildfolk Bravadori stable. As Wild Town was simply a part of Barrio Bravadori, the area was of course patrolled by the governor’s constables, and the Honey Badgers would let any constables past, glaring at them all the while. However, all non-Wildfolk entering the area were questioned by the Bravadori, and politely encouraged to leave if they did not have a good enough reason to be here.
Maybe my grandmother’s blood will get me past without incident, Arturo thought.
Proving him wrong, two burly Honey Badgers - one male, one female - stepped out to bar his path as he approached the gate. Wordlessly, they eyeballed him. Beside the Bravadori, nailed to the wooden posts framing the entranceway to Wild Town, were the bodies of two chickens. Arturo noticed they were both twitching slightly, still alive. Animals sacrificed at the entrances to homes or settlements was a common Wildfolk ward of protection. They were actually requesting this protection from the Mistress of the Wilds, a religion strongly forbidden under the Queen’s rule, but no constables were stupid enough to ask the Honey Badgers to take the dying animals down.
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