"Is Jarbul here?"
"In the cellar…" She wielded a collection of tankards and didn't turn around. "…getting another barrel. Shouldn't be long."
"Thanks."
"Good game, you two." Jessica held out her drink.
Their mugs tapped, contents wobbled. Clara drank and oats filled her mouth. It was like drinking a meal.
"Jarb! Kid over there wants you!"
A silver-haired black man lumbered behind the bar, a cask on his shoulder. Sinews strained along his arms. He heaved the barrel onto a stand, grimaced, and rubbed his collarbone.
"Jarbul?"
"Yeah?" He leaned on the bar. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Clara. This is Rayya. We know Ghadi."
"Oh…" His whole face twitched. "Has something…? Is Yallis…?"
"They're… They're okay. She…" Nothing seemed adequate, but she pressed on. "She was really good to us. And she said… She said if we came, you could get us on a wagon to Lemstras."
"Huh. You two on your own? No parents?"
"Not anymore." She touched Rayya's arm.
"I'm sorry."
"Her brother lives in the city. If we could get there…"
"Say no more." Jarbul looked across the taproom, put two fingers to his lips, and whistled. "Simon!"
A man plodded to the bar, all hair and beard and belly. He held a tankard in each hand. A gulp finished one, a second the other. He plonked the vessels down.
"Yep?"
"Got space on your wagon for these kids?"
Simon looked down at them, burped, and wiped his mouth.
"Maybe. How much?"
"We… We don't have any money," Clara said. "But we can work! If there's anything…"
"Name a fair price." Jessica reached into her pouch. "I'll pay it."
"We'll pay you back," Rayya said. "When we're in Lemstras, we'll…"
"Won't hear of it. Least I could do for our champion goal-scorer, what?"
"Got bedrolls and stuff?" Simon said.
"Here." She handed over a fistful of coins. "Be a good chap and find them whatever they need."
"Yeah…" He stared at the mound of money in his palm. "Yeah, okay. I'm heading out soon, mind. Meet you here?"
The girls nodded. He plodded away.
"Thank you so much," Rayya said.
"Don't mention it! How about another round while we're waiting?"
***
"Hi!" Silas said.
He lifted his head from the table. Katrina's eye glared down at him, and he grinned at her.
"I've been looking for you," she said.
"Sorry! These blokes, they kept buyin' me drinks, because I beat the crap outta them."
"What?"
"Couldn't refuse. Didn't want to be rude. Like you said, they're our arses and ears!" He covered his mouth and belched into his hand. "'Scuse me. Oh, got us a room though."
"How many have you had?"
"Dunno. I'm a monster hunter, not a counting man… A count?"
"If Gunnar could see you…"
"He'd give me another drink."
"I suppose he would."
"I like your scars. Don't think they're ugly, like all the other trainees said. They're… They're… artistic. Like… Like art."
She blinked at him. Or maybe it was a wink. It was hard to tell with her, so Silas winked back just in case. She sighed.
"Get up."
He stood, fell, and she caught him.
"We goin' monster huntin'? I'll get my sword…"
"No. You're going to get some sleep. Where's our room?"
"Upper… Up the stairs. Third room… Fourth… Fourth room? On the… the…"
She sighed.
"I'll find it."
Katrina draped his arm around her neck and they weaved their way across The Bleeding Boulder's taproom.
***
Simon's snore buzzed and grated on the other side of the campfire's embers. He may as well've sawed logs, but there was something restful about it all the same. Clara imagined she was camped outside a bear's cave, while the animal hibernated and dreamt within. Rayya's sleep-breaths rippled closer at hand. She lay and listened to them both for a while.
The night was sharper, crisper than usual. Clouds drifted over the moon and stars, but gloom didn't conquer the field. Clara sat up and stared until she understood that the darkness hadn't changed. Her eyes had. They parted shadows, traced shapes the nocturnal realm should've hidden. Was this how cats saw the world? No wonder they smiled, while humans blundered about and bumped into things…
Bushes rustled across the field. Clara got out of her bedroll, pulled off the gloves, unwrapped her hand. Fingers flexed and claws glimmered. They were blacker than the dark, save for the motes of light they'd captured. The flesh behind them had blackened too, as though their essence seeped into her skin, crept back towards the nearest joint of each digit. Blackened and hardened, like nails or… scales?
It didn't matter. Ducks, not chickens.
She trod the grass and it cooled her feet. That noise came again, a susurration amongst the foliage. Then a thump. Clara slipped through the bushes and the deer looked up at her as it lay on its side. Things sprouted from its flank, plants with feathers instead of leaves. Blood trickled over red-brown patches. Clara's claws yearned for the hunter, but they might've been miles away, deep into their sleep. The deer drew a breath and the arrows heaved.
Clara Mandrake stroked its muzzle and drove her claws into its neck. They went in easier than she expected, parted vessels, spilled crimson. It exploded in her nose. Molten metal. But after a moment it subsided, and her nostrils adjusted as her eyes and ears had done. This was her new existence. Sharp senses and sharper claws. What was there to do but accept it?
A musty, wet-fur scent drifted in with the metallic tang. Four eyes glowed in the undergrowth.
"It's yours," she said. "Eat."
She backed away. The wolves watched, waited. At last they came. Their jaws chomped, tore, tasted her kill. Every so often their eyes, noses, teeth tilted up at her. But she made no move and they bit again.
Clara turned to the heavens, closed her eyes.
The silhouette lurked above her bed. Fingertips on her cheek, a tender shiver. The monster was there. Behind the shadow-man, lithe but powerful. A fresh smell. Fur, though not like the wolves'. Impossible. How could new senses penetrate old dreams? But headless chickens ran, dead ducks flew, and girls grew claws.
Ah!
That odour was out in the world too, well beyond the aromas of earth and leaf and ancient wood. Miles from this place where wolves fed.
"Lemstras."
Her whisper crumbled on the breeze. But if she could smell him, perhaps he'd hear her all the same, somewhere in his monster mind.
"I'm going to Lemstras. Find me there."
***
Silas opened his eyes to the morning light, closed them again, and wished he were dead. Maybe he was. That'd explain the wasteland festering inside his mouth…
"Drink this."
His lids half-opened. Katrina held out a cup and Silas' brain shuddered. Memories dislodged, tumbled in front of him. Oh, no… No! No! No!
"Take it."
He sat up, clasped the vessel, and spilled a bit on himself. His mouth gaped but only a rasp came out.
"Drink first. Didn't you have hangovers after your fancy banquets?"
Silas swished the water around his cheeks. It was foul, but he swallowed, then swished another mouthful. By the time the cup was empty, he didn't want to hack his own head off anymore. Not until the next memory-avalanche crashed down on his consciousness.
"I…"
"You were drunk. Now you're sober, and we have work to do. Get changed."
Silas stood up. His vision lurched but he fought the nausea back down. He grappled with his sackcloth tunic, got it off, and tossed it aside.
"Did you learn anything over the ale?"
"Er…"
Katrina sighed and scratched th
e scars on her cheek.
"Today's a local holiday. Most of the townsfolk are in the same state as you." She lifted her patch, massaged her eye. "Plenty of people loitering around the pubs and streets. We can-"
She stared at the floor, grabbed the tunic.
"Where did you get this?"
"Huh? They gave it to-"
"This blood." She traced a rust-coloured line that bisected the saltire. "Whose is it?"
"Oh. A girl. Clara. Why?"
"There are monster traces. Strong ones."
"That's… She got near a monster?"
"She must've. What do you know about her? Is she a local?"
"I don't think so. She was here with her friend… Rayya."
"Get dressed. Now. Someone has to know where she is."
Silas could only nod. He pulled off his clothes, got changed, and wondered what danger Clara had fallen into.
Part 3
Pink and Black
13
Rashida opened the door to the masjid, blinked, and worried she'd forgotten the date. Rows of young men and women knelt in the middle of the chamber. Their lips intoned prayers. The rug-maker's children were there, alongside the cobbler's. Had a festival ambushed her? Because that was the only time she ever noticed them among her congregants. The imam's eyes widened. Those two brawlers from the marketplace knelt there too. They glanced at their neighbours, imitated every word and movement after a moment's hesitation.
More Kharjis sat or stood in groups at the other end of the room. Dozens of murmurs mingled with the holy words.
"…she said the One Goddess would-"
"Fatima!" Rashida grabbed her arm, pulled her away from Yasmin. "Why are you wearing that?"
She jabbed her finger at the woman's belt. Then Yasmin turned, and polished metal gleamed at her waist too.
"Knives!" The imam glared at each of them. "Wearing knives in the masjid, like a pair of robbers!"
"The mawlana's people wear knives." Fatima pulled free and crossed her arms.
"They're…" Rashida bit back a word, pursed her lips, and found another. "…warriors."
"We'll be warriors too. Jasmina says she'll teach us how to defend our brothers and sisters."
"The prophetesses were warriors," Yasmin said. "And the martyrs who died fighting the non-believers."
"They lived among armies. There's no war here in Lemstras."
The girls' eyes glinted, and all arguments, all admonitions froze on the imam's tongue. Rashida went past them, towards the far corner of the prayer hall. Fahmaia Hashad sat cross-legged in front of a drawing stand. She wielded a quill, and the feather soared and swooped. Inked parchments lay around her. Jasmina and Azim passed other pieces to nearby Kharjis. Most had to tear their gazes from the mawlana to look at them.
Rashida crouched and inspected the ones on the floor. Ink glistened. Drying lines formed faces. Each differed in expression, angle, or the whispers of hair that flittered around it. But all showed the same girl.
"This is…"
"Clara," Fahmaia said.
The child's gaze, the shape of her lips… Clara might've been a lost daughter, as dear to Fahmaia as her own soul. Rashida almost cried. But the imam's eyes hardened.
"What do you expect our people to do if they see her? Stab her in the street?"
"If they learn where we may find her, they can come to me, or Jasmina, or Azim. No one else need bloody their hands. But if they must act, Allat will smile upon them." The mawlana's gaze swept her audience. "Clara isn't our enemy. She's a little girl who's suffered more than any child ever should. When we strike, it will be swift and without cruelty. And we'll pray that the One Goddess embraces her."
Several Kharjis nodded. Rashida looked from face to face, and her heart hammered.
"Excuse me, mawlana… I have… I have matters to attend to."
The imam strode across the prayer hall and left the masjid.
***
Vasile Zarabanov unlocked the front door of his shop and tossed a coin into the corner. Metal clinked. A copper avalanche clattered all over the floor. Vasile swore. He gathered the coins one by one, groped beneath a herb-laden bookcase for the last, and returned them to the ledge in front of the idol.
The apothecary went behind the counter. He almost called to Sachin, then sighed and went into the stockroom himself. Mugwort… Damn. The jar held enough for one customer. After that, he'd have to root through the cellar if anyone wanted potent dreams or an empty womb.
"Hello?"
A young woman stood in the middle of the shop. She glanced over her shoulder at the wooden idol, as though the goddess of drugs and healing might be about to pounce.
"Do I have to…?"
"Only if you want to," Vasile said.
She rubbed her cheek, reached into her pouch, and found a coin. The apothecary held his breath, but the girl set it down atop the others and money didn't rain.
"What can I help you with?"
"I'm having nightmares. Bad ones…"
"They always are."
"…with platypuses."
He blinked, coughed.
"Are you with child?"
"Huh? No."
"Do you intend to be, any time soon?"
"No! What's that got to do with it?"
"The same herbs do different things. One moment…"
Vasile returned to the back room and transferred the last of the mugwort to a bag. Maybe this was the goddess' revenge for spilling her offerings. He'd have to make a trip to her temple soon, and drop them in the donation box…
"Here you go. Make it into a tea and drink it before bed. You'll have better dreams."
"No platypuses?"
"If there are, you'll know you're dreaming. And you can just give them a good kick."
"Even the blue one?"
"Kick that one twice."
"Thanks!"
The apothecary sat down after she left, and picked up Eurydice's Concoctions. He opened it to his bookmark. Old recipes were hit and miss, but it never hurt to peruse a dusty tome every so often.
"You don't have to…"
A female voice drifted through the window. Vasile stood and put the book away.
"Yeah, I do. Today or tomorrow or sometime…"
The door opened.
"… so it might as well be now."
Grey flesh twitched beneath Sachin's eyelids. He scratched a patch of fuzz on his chin and gazed into the shop.
"Morning…" Vasile said. His apprentice blinked in his general direction. "Are you… I mean, are you sure you should be here?"
Chriki stood behind her boyfriend, met the apothecary's eyes, and gave her head a quick shake.
"Have to." Sachin looked up at last. "Going crazy, just sitting around. Doing nothing. When Chriki's at the theatre, I just… I can work."
Vasile Zarabanov bit his cheek. An apprentice with every reason in the world to have his mind elsewhere… One mistake with a mixture… Dead customer… Angry mob… Flaming torches through the window…
The apothecary sighed. He'd have to keep an eye on Sachin Shimud's work today.
"Yeah, okay."
"Thanks. What needs doing?"
"We're out of mugwort up here. Check the cellar and…"
Sachin's whole face gaped. His eyes goggled, and no longer focused on Vasile. His mouth widened. Lips quivered. More voices came through the window, penetrated the sudden quietness.
"I think it's this one."
"Is that an apothecary's sign? It looks more like…"
"Yeah. That's a bottle, and a pestle and mortar."
"Oh. Like the one I…"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
Sachin Shimud rotated on the spot, like the shadow on a sundial, and his brown face paled. Chriki took a step nearer, put out her hands as if to brace him when he fell. But he stayed up. The door opened and revealed two girls. Sachin's body shook.
"Rayya!"
One of the girls darted at him. They threw their arms arou
nd each other, wailed, and babbled. A million words bounced around the store. They dissolved amid sobs and Vasile couldn't make out a single full sentence. He looked at Chriki, mouthed at her.
"Isn't she supposed to be…?"
Chriki looked from him to her boyfriend and the girl, then back again. Her eyes were bigger than Sachin's had been. The actress' shoulders rose and she held her hands to either side, palms upwards.
A man appeared in the doorway. He stepped into the shop, paused, and stared at the scene in front of him. His face reddened. His gaze flicked away, and he pretended to examine a display of colourful bottles. Vasile coughed.
"Sachin. Why… Why don't you, er… go upstairs? Help yourself to… to whatever."
"Y… Yeah. Thanks…"
Tears streamed down his cheeks. The girl's too. He led her to the stairs, went up, and kept looking behind as though she'd disappear the second he took his eyes off her. The other girl moved that way, then stopped.
"I… I should let them…"
She looked around the shop, at Vasile. He could only shrug at Chriki.
"Let's go get you something to eat," the actress said.
"Oh… Okay."
The customer watched until the door closed behind them. He waited a few more moments, came to the counter, glanced behind him.
"Here… I've got… I need a…" He coughed. His face shifted to a deeper red. When he spoke again, he whispered. "I've got… bits… growing on… on me bits."
Vasile sighed. It was going to be one of those days…
***
The pretty black girl pulled the shop door shut and glanced skyward. A grey mantle hung overhead. But Rayya was under a roof now, warm and safe. Who cared if it rained?
"I'm Chriki," she said.
"Clara."
"Oh… Rayya wrote about you. In her letters."
"You're Sachin's girlfriend?"
"Yeah."
Chriki's mouth shaped the beginning of a word, then another, but neither made it off her tongue. They looked at each other.
"There's a nice tavern nearby. Do you like sweet pastries?"
"Sure."
The actress beamed. She did her best to smile back. Chriki led Clara through the city's streets and scents. Bread, fish, herbs, smoke, human waste. They flowed all around but even the strongest and foulest didn't overwhelm her. Perhaps her nose had claws of its own, and shredded them one by one…
Clara Mandrake's Monster Page 17