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 only 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 som
e 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 masks 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.
When it appeared that this was going to be a silent questioning, Arturo spoke. “Em, I’m here for Tomas? Tomas Arroyo?”
The Honey Badgers showed no recognition at the name, instead continuing to glare at him. He was beginning to get the impression that all of this was a bad idea, and his confidence in his scheme began to waiver.
“He, uh, he spent some time with me last week. His village was in trouble. Calvario. I said I’d help. We got separated, and I’m trying to find him again. Thought he might know people here.”
The Honey Badgers looked at each other. The female raised her eyebrows lazily, and then they moved aside to let him past.
With caution, Arturo stepped forward into this new world. At first glance, Wild Town reminded Arturo very much of any other part of Espadapan, but particularly Barrio Mercado. The main street here was lined with shops, but it appeared that the Wildfolk preferred to do their business outside. Bakers had ovens firing in the street, and butchers had hired small children to fan legs of goat and cattle that hung from hooks outside their buildings, doing what they could to swipe away the flies that the bloody meat attracted.
Not knowing where to go, Arturo approached the nearest stall, a butcher with an elderly Wildwoman standing at the table outside, decapitating chickens with a cleaver.
The old lady stared at him as he approached, eyes locked on Arturo’s mask while her blade severed sinew and bone methodically. Her mad, wispy grey hair stuck out from her head, giving the impression of a field of rotten dandelions. She did not seem impressed to see Arturo approach her stall.
“I’m looking for Tomas Arroyo,” he said.
Clunk. Another chicken lost its head. The Wildwoman said nothing.
“He’s from a village a long way from here. Calvario? They’re in trouble. I’m here to help.”
Clunk.
Arturo thought for a moment. “You know, I’d love to buy some of this chicken from you, to help loosen your tongue, but here’s the problem - I don’t have any money.”
Clunk.
“But my lack of money isn’t the issue here. The issue is that people - Wildfolk - are in trouble, possibly dying, and I want to do something about it. But if you know where Tomas is and aren’t telling me, well then, I guess you may as well be killing them too, right?”
Clunk. The old woman stopped her butchery, kept her eyes on Arturo, but pointed to a nondescript shack a few doors down from where she was working.
Arturo looked at it, dubious. “He’s in there?”
She nodded, finally broke eye contact with him, and went back to her chopping.
Arturo made his way to the building. It had no door, and there was a foul stink coming from the blackness within. He stepped inside, but then was forced against the wall when a pig ran past him into the street, a small child following close on its trail, laughing as she rushed to catch it. Smiling at the child’s game, Arturo moved further inside.
&n
bsp; The entrance hallway had a few doors off of it, and a small set of stairs went up. There were many Wildfolk moving about in the rooms down here, and the shuffling of feet told Arturo that upstairs was similarly crowded. Most who moved through the hallway paid him little heed, although one Honey Badger glared fiercely at him, and Arturo noticed the man checking the lack of stable band on his arm.
“Tomas Arroyo?” Arturo said, loudly in the dark. He paused, then repeated the name again.
The sound of footsteps told Arturo somebody was coming down from above. The tension on Arturo’s face collapsed into his winning grin when Tomas’ shocked face descended from above.
“Starving Pup?” the Wildman said, and then to Arturo’s surprise the small man jumped down the rest of the staircase, gathering Arturo into a strong hug.
Taken aback by the sign of affection, Arturo remembered the last piece of human contact he had received, his mother saying goodbye to him as he went to seek his fortune. Arturo returned Tomas’ embrace equally, glad beyond all measure he had been able to locate this man.
“But, you were dead?” Tomas said, finally, when he let go of Arturo, showing no embarrassment at the display of emotion. The sight of the Wildman’s toothless grin could not help but bring joy to Arturo’s heart.
“Apparently not,” Arturo grinned back. “Although not for lack of trying. Took me a while to recover, but I’m back on my feet and ready to continue our quest. That’s one thing you can say about life as a Bravador - we learn to take knocks pretty well.”
At the mention of the word Bravador, Tomas’ face darkened. “Those people were evil,” the Wildman said. “They had no reason to do that to you. Those were not the Bravadori I had come here to the city to find.”
Arturo nodded, knowing exactly how Tomas felt. “Apparently in Espadapan, the filth rises to the top.”
“They’re all like this, Starving Pup. All Bravadori I have met in my weeks here are selfish, all take delight in making those they see as beneath them suffer. There are none here worthy of the Queen’s Blessing. None I have met, except for you. And you… Forgive me, but one man is not strong enough to overcome the horrors of the city, and I cannot believe one man will be enough to deal with Procopio and his bandits.”
Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel Page 11