Those Brave, Foolish Souls from the City of Swords: A standalone Yarnsworld novel
Page 12
As soon as he had spoken, Tomas looked fearful, as if he felt he had said too much, as if he had offended the Bravador standing in front of him. To reassure him, Arturo put his hand on the Wildman’s shoulder.
“Tomas, we will disagree on some points, but I will agree with you on one thing - one man is not enough. We need more for this mission. We need skilled fighters out there who are not afraid to put themselves on the line to help others.”
Once again, Arturo give his grin to Tomas, and was rewarded by seeing the Wildman’s face brighten at the sight of it.
“Thankfully, Tomas, I know just the person who can help us out.”
For the last decade or so, Yizel had done all she could to bury her emotions deep down.
Fuck that little Bravador, she thought, picturing the broken body of Starving Pup. He had brought all the feelings rushing back to her.
It was not the fact he had been beaten and broken. It was not even the fact he had relied so much on her in the week it took him to recover. It was his speech in the Proving Grounds, when he had tried to appeal to the sense of honour that supposedly drove all Bravadori. Ironically, the only one it seemed to have appealed to was Yizel, a Shaven, the worst type of person one could find in Espadapan. A murderer. He had convinced her that she could help people, that she could do something with her life other than kill, drink and screw.
And then, just as Yizel was starting to feel like a real person again, the Crazy Raccoon came along to remind her of the piece of shit she actually was.
When Starving Pup had been recovering, Yizel used most of the coin she found on him to pay for his room and poultices to cure his worst wounds, but she also spent a generous amount of it on drink.
My own medicine.
She snarled as she walked Barrio Muelle, hoping for work. With Starving Pup’s coin drained, so was her own source of survival. Despite hating the Bravadori, they were Yizel’s main source of employment, the only people who would hire a Shaven to do anything. Like a fly to dung, she stuck close to them, hoping to be hired to do a job they felt not worthy of doing themselves. Often this consisted of guard duty, contracts the Bravador stables signed up for, but did not fancy actually completing in person.
The Prickly Storks ran the wharfs, and they were often a good source of work. Ship captains knew the reputation of the Bravadori, and the rich ones would be happy to pay for Bravadori to guard their vessels while conducting their business. Most from outside the city did not know the difference between Bravadori and Shaven, so the Storks often turned to Yizel and her ilk to do the dirty work for them.
Not many ships in the harbour today, Yizel thought, darkly. Espadapan was the only Muridae port this side of the sea, so all traders from the Grasslands came to dock here. Every so often the Leone also sent vessels, but they seldom chose to cross the waters, and were a rare sight in the city.
Only two ships were docked now, and Yizel recognised one as Alfrond’s Pride, owned by a local merchant organisation. The Storks would not risk hiring a Shaven to protect that vessel - the captain would know their reputation - but it could be that Yizel could find work with the ship from the Grasslands, Isabella’s Gift. She made her way to it, ignoring the sting of the salt spray as the waves broke upon the harbour walls.
As she approached the boat, loud voices made her pause. Before her, where the boat’s main gangplank met the wharf, she saw two Storks and an unfortunate Grasslands sailor who was stuck between them.
“I donno, ratty here seems to think he’s better than us,” one of the Storks was saying.
“Yeah, that’s just what I was thinking,” the other responded. “Got that air about him, don’t he?”
“That’s right. Airs like that get me angry.”
The sailor was doing what he could to avoid eye contact with the two, trying to continue with his business, which appeared to be carrying barrels back to his ship.
One of the Storks - one with a mask decorated with boar’s tusks - stepped onto the gangplank leading to the ship, blocking the sailor’s path.
Yizel looked about for more sailors. Her familiarity with scenes like this told her they would come flocking to support their companion. A Bravador’s Knack was nothing against large numbers. Then a realisation hit her - these Storks had been hired to guard the boat. The rest of the crew were probably already catatonic in the nearest bar. The Grasslander was alone.
“You can’t touch me,” the foreigner finally said, realising he was going nowhere until the Storks let him past. “Captain is sick of you swordsmen pushing us about. Soon as I let him know what’s been happening, he’ll never hire you lot again, and will see no other vessels from the Grasslands do either.”
Yizel admired the man’s guts, but she could tell by the face of the lead Stork that this was the wrong way to deal with the bullies. The boar-masked Bravador was properly angry now, and she knew he would stop at nothing to show the Grasslander who was in charge.
It was at this moment the Storks noticed Yizel.
She was a bit surprised when their eyes fell upon her and stopped. Shaven were normally a part of the background scenery of Espadapan, faces in the crowd to be ignored unless you needed someone to do the dirty work.
So, of course, they want me to do the dirty work.
“Hey, Shaven,” the smaller Stork shouted, throwing something in her direction. “Get over here.”
She caught the thrown object, and looked at it - it was a copper coin. Food for a night, when otherwise she would have none. Without thinking, Yizel stepped forward.
“See this Grasslander here?” the boar-masked Stork asked.
Yizel looked at the sailor without locking eyes with him, and nodded.
“We want you to rough him up a bit. Make him regret talking back to us.”
“You can’t do that!” the Grasslander shouted, panic rising, dropping his keg to the harbour stone. He turned to Yizel, confusion on his face. “Miss, you can’t do that. I’ve done nothing wrong. These men, they’re just looking to cause trouble. Please, head on, don’t get involved.”
“Ah, poor Grasslander,” the smaller Stork said, his smile returning, “this is the first Shaven you’ve met, right? See, the thing about Shaven? They don’t give a shit. Unless you’ve got coin to bribe ‘em with,” he said, flicking another copper piece in Yizel’s direction, “then you’re fucked.”
The coin flew true, but this time it bounced off of Yizel’s arm, which she failed to raise to catch it.
The Storks laughed at her.
“Plough your mother, Shaven. I know you’re useless, but really? Can’t catch a copper? Just pick the shiny up and kindly make today the worst day of this handsome fellow’s life.”
Yizel stared at the coin on the ground. She wanted it, she knew the difference it would make for her.
But just a small difference. Just a day, just a night. And the world wouldn’t change. Would get worse, really - this poor bastard could be dead, or broken. All for one small coin.
“Shaven? You drunk or something?”
Yizel looked up at the Stork, and said nothing.
“Beat. The. Shit. Kick him till he bleeds.”
The Grasslander was rabbit-still, waiting for her to respond.
Who have you protected today?
“Do your own dirty work,” Yizel eventually said, breaking eye contact at the last second.
The lead Stork gave a bark of a laugh, looking back at his colleague in shock. “Hear that, Little Bull? This Shaven’s too good for our coin.”
The smaller Stork, equally outraged, narrowed his eyes. “And why don’t she need to get paid, Handsome Boar? Want to know what I think? I think she’s had her eyes on this lovely boat here.” The masked man stepped forward, leaving the gangplank unguarded. Not looking at Yizel, the Grasslander saw his opening and ran up it, back to safety.
The Storks ignored him, fixing Yizel with indignant faces.
“What do we do to Shaven who make us look bad, Little Bull?”
Despite what the Storks believed, Yizel was not an idiot. Seeing the opportunity still available to her, she turned and ran.
Yizel did not know if the Storks pursued her for long. Probably not, since they had a job to do back at the docks.
I’ll pay for that, eventually, I’m sure. Aren’t too many Shaven in the city, and if they want to find me it’ll be easy enough to do so. Just spend some time in the plaza. Everyone in the Wildlands ends up in the Queen’s Plaza at some point in their life.
Staying true to her own words, Yizel was making her way back there now, the copper coin the Storks threw at her still held tight in her hand.
Got to make this last, she thought, looking at her feet on the cobblestones instead of the tempting tavern-light from the many warm doorways that lined the road to the plaza. Got to find somewhere to make this last, maybe keep me warm for a week instead of one drunken night.
The plaza was busy, with a performing troupe in the centre of it, working with human-sized marionettes. Yizel could not quite figure out why the performers were working with the puppets instead of just acting their play out with real people. From what she could see, they weren’t doing anything particularly outlandish, just talking and crying a bit. Some story about the destruction of Bajapena. The puppets were dressed in the finery of nobles, lamenting the destruction of their city as the Shepherdess’ army drew near. Then, like an ill omen on the horizon, from the back of the crowds a black figure rose, casting a dark net over the audience. People screamed at first, but then their cries turned to shouts of delight as they realised the figure was just another puppet, held high on long rods, the Black Shepherdess and her dark army sweeping across the inhabitants of the plaza, bringing ruin to the land. Despite herself, Yizel shivered as the marionette passed above her, momentarily blotting out the sun.
Her heart stopped, however, when she felt a hand rest on her shoulder.
Fearing a dagger in the back, Yizel grabbed the hand and twisted it, turning around at the same time, her free hand reaching for her own dagger at her belt.
“Queen’s tits, stop, stop! It’s me, Starving Pup.”
The darkness lifted as the puppet’s cloak descended to the main stage, where the performers carried out the destruction of Espadapan’s sister city. Yizel spat, and shoved the young man away from her.
“What kind of idiot are you?” she said, angry. “Can’t you figure out why that’s a stupid way of greeting someone?”
He smiled - she hated the white teeth of his grin, the unearned confidence of it - and scratched the back of his head. “It has just occurred to me, yes.”
Sheathing her knife, she studied him closer, noting the Wildman that stood behind him, watching them both intently.
Seeing Yizel looking at the Wildman, Starving Pup ushered him forward. “This is Tomas. Tomas Arroyo. Tomas, this is the person I told you about.”
Starving Pup looked at her, uncertainty now in his brown eyes. “Um, I just realised, I never had the chance to ask your name.”
Yizel should have been used to this Bravador catching her off guard, but she was not expecting that question. “Most Bravadori are happy with calling me Shaven,” she said.
“I don’t imagine that’s your given name. Or your preference.” The boy remained uncertain. “But if you want, I could keep calling you that.”
She looked away. “Yizel. Call me Yizel.”
He smiled again, and her nose wrinkled in response.
“Yizel, I’d like to introduce you to Tomas. He needs our help.”
She raised an eyebrow at this, and then recognised the Wildman as the one who had followed Starving Pup into the Proving Grounds on that fateful day.
“It’s his village with bandit problems?”
“Yes. You’ve heard of our quest?”
She nodded.
“We’d like you to join us. We need good swords.”
Yizel’s head swam, and she did what she could to steady herself. The boy could not know what he was asking. “You… you want to hire me?”
Again, Starving Pup was uncertain. “We don’t have much money. Not in the city, anyway.” He looked to the Wildman for confirmation, and Tomas nodded.
“The people of Calvario are generous, mistress, in our own fashion. We would reward you as much as we could, when you come to us. As a protector of our village, you would want for nothing.”
Starving Pup stepped forward, lowering his voice. “I… we hoped… I thought there might be more out there like me, those who wanted to… to make a difference. To help people.”
Yizel could not look either of them in the face. She wanted what they were offering so badly, had never hoped for a chance like this again, but they were ignorant. “You don’t understand. People hire Shaven to guard things nobody else would waste their time with, or when they want someone roughed up. We don’t get asked to save lives. That’s Bravador work.”
“I’ve asked the Bravadori,” Tomas said. “They seem to have said no.”
“But, I am Shaven.” She indicated angrily to her bald head, as if the two of them had not yet noticed it. “I’m… Drink your piss, don’t you know what this means? It means I’m no good. A failure. I’ve done… I’ve done bad things. Worse than that, I’m a joke. Ask me to stab someone in the back. Ask me to fight a battle you know you’re already going to lose. You don’t hire a Shaven to make a difference.”
Starving Pup smiled again, less cocky now, just friendly. “Yeah, remember, we aren’t hiring you. And remember, you’ve already saved my life. So, we already know you can make a difference, if even a small one.”
The young Bravador stepped forward, and hesitated only for a moment before putting his hand on Yizel’s shoulder. “Yizel, will you come with us to save Tomas’ home, to protect his people as a Queen’s Blade?”
Yizel gritted her teeth, looking away to the puppeteers who were finishing their performance. Half a dozen smaller marionettes were chasing the Black Shepherdess away, each of them holding a blade that glinted golden in the sun.
“I’ll go with you,” she said, not daring to look them in the eyes, keeping her tears to herself.
“You hear about the Crazy Raccoon?”
“I know. Can’t make shit like that up, right?”
“What happened?”
“You’re kidding, you haven’t heard yet? Guy’s a fraud. Turns out, he’s not got the Knack at all, been pretending for years. Been kicked out of the Paws, he’s going to be run out of the city.”
“No?”
“Yeah, it’s true. My brother’s a Paw, saw the whole thing. Says they’re going after his mask next. Going to be easy taking it from him, now they know he’s Knackless.”
Crazy Raccoon’s hand gripped his cup, shivering with rage. He was in the Weeping Widow, a small tavern hidden away in a side street in Barrio Mercado. That was one thing he had found since his ridicule by Galloping Turtle - he could no longer go to any of his normal haunts for a drink and some food. Everywhere, the story of his shame had already spread. The people who had feared him for so long now laughed at him, like these idiots. They did not know he was sitting right behind them, of course. Crazy Raccoon had specifically chosen a dark bar, and had taken a little snug up in the back for himself, to avoid contact with others.
Crazy Raccoon had found that many of the Bravadori of Espadapan were now interested in challenging him to find out if the stories were true.
Having a long, lonely time to think about his predicament, Crazy Raccoon eventually realised Galloping Turtle had set him up for failure.
Clever bastard. He’s been planning this for a long time. For years he’s been forbidding me to draw my sword, getting me out of practice, making it so the others are used to seeing me with my weapon sheathed. Just long enough so he could convince them it has always been that way. No wonder I lost.
It had not been like that with Restless Hawk.
Crazy Raccoon would never forget the many night time training sessions with her, practising in secret so the other Paws never found out how much work Crazy Raccoon had to put in to pass as one of them.
“They fear you,” she had told him, when picking him up from the dust after another failed thrust, “because of what you have done, and what they think you are. That fear will last up until the moment they learn the truth about you.”
She had pulled him to his feet, then planted a motherly kiss on his forehead. “Never forget, little Raccoon, you are the best of us. Even knowing what I know, this is still true. We do this,” and she indicated their practice blades, “so that others know it too.”
Now, years after she had gone, Crazy Raccoon had finally let her down.
He took another sip, doing what he could to ignore the men sitting behind him.
“What a waste of space.”
“I know, right? Imagine how pissed off the Lion’s Paws are right now.”
“The Paws? What about all of the Bravadori? He’s been lauding over them for as long as I can remember. How many times have you heard of a fight being won because of Crazy Raccoon? And now he’s a fake? Someone’s going to put a knife into him.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
“Wait. How can he be a fake, but he’s won so many battles for the Paws?”
The question silenced the group, and Crazy Raccoon chose this moment to stand, raising his head above the wooden panel that separated the tables, looking at the four men with his wide eyes seemingly protruding from his hypnotic mask.
“Because they’re lies. Because the Lion’s Paws are cowards, and because dead men sit in dingy pubs telling fake tales that’ll get ‘em killed.”
Two of the men cried out at the sight of him, the closest falling out of his seat and stumbling away in horror. All turned white, and the general hubbub of the drinking house evaporated.