Hour of Mischief

by Aimee Hyndman

  “Janet?”

  “It’s just me, Mother,” I said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

  The bed creaked from within the bedroom as my mother turned beneath her sheets. “Oh,” she said. She sounded rather inebriated. Not that I would stay sober in her place. “Good to see you, honey. You haven’t been in since this morning.”

  I stared at the ground. I could practically feel Itazura’s curious gaze but I chose to ignore him. “It’s been since yesterday morning. I’ve been gone two days, remember?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Silly me. So glad you’re home, Janet.” She let out a contented sigh and my heart clenched.

  “Get some sleep, Mom.” Then I closed the door the rest of the way and continued on to my room.

  “Seems your mother has drunk a bit more than she can handle,” Itazura commented when I’d shut the door.

  “She’s usually like that,” I said, fumbling through my drawers for my spare knives. I tossed my weapons onto my bed as I found them. “It’s hard to be sober when you have her job.”

  “Is it now? What does your mother do?”

  I paused, my throat tightening. “Every man in town.”

  A brief silence filled the room before Itazura said, “Your mother favors Meroquio then.”

  “Meroquio?” I shook my head in disgust. “What she does has nothing to do with love. It’s all work. Work and sick pleasure. There’s no love in it.” I exhaled, my shoulders sagging. “Though yes, she does favor him. Keeps his talisman around her neck and his symbol on her bedroom wall. All of the women in her profession do. I’m sure your fellow God would be pleased to hear that.” I slammed the drawer closed.

  “I don’t know. I’d have to ask him,” Itazura admitted. “I imagine you don’t appreciate him quite as much.”

  “Not really,” I said. “But he’s not the one who forced my mother into this. And he’s not one of the men who come knocking every night. I’m used to it by now.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” I said, snatching a leather pouch from under my bed. “When I was a kid, it was worse. Back before she got out of the whorehouse and found an apartment for us. My last name is Redstone, so I guess you know where I was born.” I hated that last name. Redstone. The sign of Meroquio. The last name of all children born of whores. “Anyway, she saved up money for the longest time. We’re lucky to have this place. But these apartments still have thin walls. I go to sleep to the sounds coming from her bedroom. But I’ve learned to block it out.”

  Mostly, anyway.

  I scooped my supplies into the satchel, a set of five throwing knives, two long daggers for hand to hand combat and, in case of emergencies, a revolver “But even so, I try not to spend too many nights here. When I don’t want to hear it, I just go to the clock tower down the road. That’s where Sid stays when his dad gets too drunk. That’s where we met.” I managed a smile, but it quickly faltered when I remembered where Sid was right now. Had my friends woken up yet? Did they wonder where I had gone?

  Did they think I’d abandoned them?

  I pushed the thought from my mind and slung the bag over my shoulder. “So, ready to get this show on the road?”

  “I suppose so,” Itazura said.

  I lead the way back through the house, this time not stopping when my mother called my name through the closed door.

  “Janet. Where are you going?”

  I didn’t answer. My mother needed to sleep, and even if I told her my plans, she’d only forget a few minutes later.

  I opened the front door and almost ran headlong into a man.

  He was a broad-shouldered brute, the kind of slum dweller who usually worked in the mines or the factories. Somewhere requiring heavy manual labor. But beyond that, he bore the typical look of one of my mother’s customers. My eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “Where’s your mama?” the man drawled. His breath reeked of alcohol as it wafted over my face.

  “She’s closed,” I said shortly. “Come back tomorrow. Or never, if you don’t mind.”

  “Your mama doesn’t close until two in the morning. I’ve been here before,” the man said, giving me yet another reason to dislike him.

  “Well she’s closed now. Sorry.”

  “If she’s closed, then who is he?” The man nodded at Itazura, who stood in the doorway behind me. “He’s her customer, ain’t he?”

  “No, he’s not her customer.” My steel hand clenched slowly into a fist. The gears whirred faster beneath the plates.

  “Yours then? You taking customers now?” The man leered.

  Those were the last words he spoke that night. Seconds after that question exited his mouth, I drove my left fist into his gut with a force that drove the breath from his lungs and sent him flying off our porch. He hit the cobblestone ground and stilled.

  “Bastard,” I muttered, stepping off the porch. “Hey. Itazura. You don’t happen to have the ability to lock doors do you?”

  “I do, why?”

  “Lock that door.” I glared out into the empty darkness. “I don’t want anyone else trying to bother her tonight.”

  Itazura raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a key yourself?”

  “No,” I said without turning around. “My mother has an open door policy. Lock the door, please.”

  “All right.” There was a zap and a clicking sound from behind me. Itazura came up to stand beside me. “Ready to begin now, little thief?”

  “Why not? I need something to distract me.” I started forward, kicking the unconscious body of the man as I passed it. “Lead the way O God of Mischief.”

  he clock towers throughout Fortuna had tolled one in the morning by the time Itazura led me to a large tavern on the border between the middle ring and the slums. It was a large establishment, two stories high with windows and doors all painted gold.

  Usually, the parties were just getting started at this time, but I couldn’t imagine the people packed inside getting much louder. I could hear them a mile away, cheering, laughing, and beating their fists against the tables or their nearest companion’s face.

  “I really hate parties,” I muttered.

  “Why’s that?” Itazura asked.

  “Thieves like to stay in the shadows and out of crowds,” I said. “When I drink, I go to the emptier bars.”

  “Little young for alcohol, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it’s safer than the water in the slums. The point is, I hate large, drunken crowds.”

  “Well, Laetatia loves them, so you might as well put a smile on your face,” Itazura said as we neared the door.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” I started when a drunken man flew out one of the windows. He hit the ground, rolled, and then staggered to his feet and stumbled back into the building.

  “Yes, why?”

  “It’s just–I can’t see a Goddess hanging out here. It’s the rich who hold the lavish parties in the center ring.”

  “True.” Itazura steered me toward the door. “However, said lavish parties are lacking in their supply of strong alcohol. Laetatia finds the rich as boring as I do. The middle-class bars are the best for a good time.”

  “As opposed to lower class?”

  “Well, think of it this way. Middle-class bars are still depraved enough to offer tons of drunken entertainment, but they can afford the stronger alcohol.” He knocked once on the door. “Besides, gold doors. That makes it fancy.”

  “Sure.” I turned as he opened the door–and barely ducked in time to avoid a flying glass. “Shit!”

  “Welcome to the world of fun and games.” Itazura laughed.

  He called it fun and games, I called it an obstacle course for the intoxicated. Tables were crammed all throughout the room, leaving very little space for walking. Such narrow paths were potentially deadly to drunken folk, and several customers sprawled over tables, chairs, and the ground where they had tripped. Some stumbled back to their feet, sluggishly. Othe
rs decided they liked lying on the ground just fine and passed out right there. No one appeared sober in this bar. Even the bartender stumbled a bit as he slid glass mugs to his customers. The air smelled distinctly of whisky and sweat and the air was stifling. I clutched at one of my knives on instinct as a group of men lumbered past us.

  “Ronnie! We’re low on shots. It seems my competitor is putting up more of a fight than I expected!” A woman’s voice pierced the drunken ruckus, rising from a large crowd gathered on the opposite side of the room. Men and women were packed together in a ring around a small table. I searched for the owner of the voice but I couldn’t see her.

  “Ah, there’s Laetatia.” Itazura said. “Another drinking competition. How predictable. Do you see her?”

  “No, I’m a lot shorter than you.” I clambered onto a table, one of the ones not occupied by rowdy guests, to get a better look. “Give me a second.”

  At one end of the table sat a huge man with a thick beard that almost hid his face. At the other end sat a young, cheerful woman in a red dress much nicer than the occasion called for. She wore a corset fancy enough for the center ring, embroidered with silver gears and emblazoned with a golden mug in the center. The sign of Laetatia, Goddess of Festivities. She and the man across from her each had a large stack of empty shot glasses in front of them.

  “Red dress, right?” I asked.

  “That would be her,” Itazura said.

  “She looks far too sober for someone who’s drunken that many shots,” I said.

  “Well, one of her domains is drinking,” Itazura said. “She has to work very hard to get even a little drunk.”

  “How much is very hard?” I asked as the two competitors took another shot.

  “Barrels,” Itazura said. “She’s probably already competed in several competitions tonight and the poor girl still can’t get more than buzzed.”

  “Well, she still looks happy.”

  “That’s because Laetatia likes winning almost as much as drinking.” Itazura said.

  The bartender handed the competitors another shot and Laetatia grinned.

  “To your health, my drunken sir.” She tipped her head back, emptying her glass.

  The man, who looked to be not at all in good health, was slower to raise the glass to his lips. A bright-red flush covered his face and his eyelids hung heavy.

  “He’s going to pass out after this one,” I said flatly.

  “You think so?” Itazura asked. “Hmm, he might last one more.”

  “Nope. That’s a look of a man who is about to lose a drinking game.”

  Itazura raised an eyebrow. “You know something of drinking games, little human?”

  The man finally managed to drain his glass. Then he swayed on the spot and tumbled out of his chair.

  “Yes.” I smirked. “I do.”

  Itazura’s eyebrows rose. “Impressive. It’s a shame spectating on drinking games won’t garner Laetatia’s favor on its own.”

  “Who says I get my knowledge from spectating?” I asked.

  Itazura stared. “Wait, you actually participate?”

  “I told you alcohol was safer than the slum water, didn’t I?” I shrugged. “You survive by building up a tolerance. I could never quite keep up with Sylvia, but that girl has a hollow leg, I swear.”

  I smiled fondly at such a memory. Many nights Sylvia and I sat across from each other at a table in one of the rundown taverns, tipping back shot after a shot. We’d always had a good tolerance for alcohol. My mom only ever kept hard liquor around the house and Sylvia had come across the stronger stuff while trying to cure her anxiety. She could hold her liquor even better than I could. Both of us could out drink Parker and Sid any day. Though, then again, Sid didn’t drink at all, so he didn’t provide much competition.

  On busy nights in the local taverns, we drew a small crowd of miners fresh off a rough days work. We were quite a spectacle, two girls in the midst of a crowd of broad shouldered, dirty men, drinking until our heads spun, and Parker and Sid had to drag us out of the bar and back to the clock tower.

  A tremendous hangover greeted us the next morning, but it was worth it. They never lasted too long anyway.

  I wished for Sylvia more than ever now. She was the strategist of our group. She could convince every god to spare humanity if she put her mind to it.

  “Girl,” a quiet voice spoke below me, jerking me from my thoughts. I looked down to see a hooded man, sitting at the table I perched on. He was of the few calm people in the tavern, which probably explained why I hadn’t noticed him before. “Do you mind removing yourself from my table?”

  “Oh, yes.” I jumped down. “Sorry.”

  The hooded man nodded and went back to his drink. For a split second as he looked at me, I could have sworn his eyes flashed . . . red. I frowned.

  “Come on boys, who wants another go?” Laetatia called, drawing my attention back to her as she raised her mug above her head. “I still have a few games left in me! Let’s not leave it at just thirty.”

  “So you want me to get her attention?” I asked Itazura.

  “If you’d be so kind,” he said. “I can’t help you. If she sees me first, she’ll never give you the time of day.”

  “Fine. Useless bastard.” I stalked forward and pushed my way through the crowd, using my steel hand to pry apart the wall of bodies. I emerged at the unoccupied end of the table where the chair had been tipped over by the last competitor’s fall. “I’ll challenge you,” I said, slapping my metal fist against the table, locking eyes with the Goddess of Festivities.

  Laetatia blinked at me in surprise. “Well, this is new.”

  Some of the onlookers laughed. I didn’t blame them, but their chortles still hit my ego hard.

  “What?” I snapped. “Bet I could out drink all of you any day!” I looked back at Laetatia, trying to keep my face cool and confident, despite the fact I was challenging the Goddess of Drink to a drinking competition. But seeing as she had probably had over three hundred shots already, maybe my odds would be a little better.

  Maybe.

  “So, are you up for round thirty-one?”

  Laetatia studied me for another long moment before a grin split her face. “Bartender! Let’s have some clean glasses!”

  The crowd cheered

  “Take a seat.” Laetatia gestured to a chair.

  “Actually, I have a better idea,” I replied. “See, drinking is one thing, but my friends and I like to add an extra something to the competition.” I reached into my belt and drew two throwing knives. I stabbed them both into the center of the table. “With each shot, we throw a knife at a target. Any target will do. We keep going until one of us misses the target or passes out.”

  Laetatia raised her eyebrows, and the crowd roared their approval, banging their half-empty mugs on tables and sloshing liquor over the red wood.

  “Interesting idea,” the Goddess said.

  “You have an advantage when it comes to drinking,” I said. “But I know knives and I know how to throw them. Unless you think it would be too difficult.”

  Laetatia’s eyes flashed. The Goddess of Festivities would never back down from a challenge, especially one questioning her skills. She pointed to a group of burly men standing near the barrels of unopened wine. “You three. Bring that barrel over here. Put it on the table.” She looked to the bartender as he brought over the requested shots. “I’ll buy off the barrel, Ronnie, if we cause a spill.”

  “Of course, my lady, it’s not a problem,” Ronnie said, setting the shot glasses on the table across from our target.

  “So,” Laetatia looked at me. “You’re the challenger. How many paces back?”

  “Fifteen,” I said.

  “Fifteen it is.” Laetatia nodded at one of the women. “Jasmine? You’re not too drunk to walk in a straight line yet. Measure out fifteen paces for us.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Jasmine said, swishing the skirt of her purple dress as she took her place by the
target and began walking out fifteen paces. The crowd counted along with her as she walked. By now, the entire tavern had their attention on us and the room was nearly bursting with onlookers.

  “Fifteen,” Jasmine sang, twirling around to face us. “Here’s the line, my lady. As you asked.”

  “Very good,” Laetatia said. Jasmine moved back to the edge of the crowd, swaying her hips as she did. She walked like my mother on the days she worked the street.

  I shook my head to empty it of that thought, and turned my attention back to Laetatia. She picked up one of my knives from the table and strode over to the marked line, scooping up a shot as she went. “I declare this game,” she held up her glass for everyone to see then downed it one gulp. “Begun!” She slammed the glass down on the table and let the knife loose. The point buried itself near the center of the barrel, quivering upon impact. She had a good throwing form. I guess, being a god, she had time to learn lots of things.

  She laughed at her victory and turned to me. “Let’s see what you’ve got, girl.”

  I took my place and tipped back a shot with as much dramatic flair as possible. A smirk curled over my face as an idea sparked in my mind. If I was going to gain the favor of the Goddess of Festivities, I would have to do something especially interesting, and I had an idea of what might help.

  I stepped up to the line, still turning the glass my hand. Every eye in the tavern was locked on me. It was an exciting feeling. My adrenaline so often came from moving in the shadows, as my trade required. The spotlight was a whole new arena. My every nerve pulsated with excitement as I raised my knife in my left hand.

  But my right hand moved first. With a flick of my wrist, I sent the shot glass whirling toward the target. My knife followed after, spinning with deadly accuracy through the air. The blade sliced through glass, shattering the cup, before burying itself in the dead center of the barrel with a satisfying quiver.

  Dead silence lingered as the last shards tumbled to the ground, scattering across the wooden floor. Then the crowd thundered with applause, vibrating the whole room. The sound made my nerves sing like never before. I had to fight to keep from beaming like a child as I turned to face Laetatia. “Good enough for you?”