Faben sighed. "Haste and his goons all use torturgy and opium pine to enter the Pheonal trance. If I think about it too much, or actually start planning, they could catch wind of that. What's one more disappeared Carnie to those criminals?"
She puffed at the falcon pipe and pondered the newspaper stabbed to the wall.
Dawes let his eyes roam over the monumentally large piles of books. It would take him a hundred years to read them all. "When do I learn to fight monsters and summon creatures from other realms?"
Faben's cold gaze flicked from the newspaper to his face. "You're very eager to be tested, my young friend."
"Well, it's what I'm paying you for, right?" said Dawes. "The sooner I get your endorsement, the sooner I can begin training at the Lodge."
She raised an eyebrow. "You pay me for assessment and for rudimentary training. But my
endorsement
cannot be bought!"
Cold sweat formed on his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with one raised finger.
"I know what you meant." Her voice rose. "You need to remember that there is no guarantee I'll sponsor you. If I do, there's no guarantee they'll accept you. If they accept you, there's no guarantee you'll complete training. If you complete training." She paused. "You'll probably die."
She stared at him stone-faced for a long moment before her lips curled into an involuntary smile. She chuckled as she puffed away on the falcon head pipe. She grabbed another book off the stack and shoved it into Dawes' hands.
Dawes laughed then, too. "Thank you for the book." He looked down at the title. "
The Appetites of Lesser Demons
. Well, just as long as none of them have a taste for ol' Dusty Dawes."
Faben folded her arms and leaned back. "That's the problem. They all do."
Chuggie tramped along an overgrown logging road until he came to a big teardrop-shaped turnaround for oxcarts and the like. Seeing the terrain in daylight somehow made navigation easier than it had been at night. Perhaps someday he'd get out pen and paper to figure out why that was so. For now he just kept walking, trying not to get poked in the eye by branches.
The city couldn't be much further, not if the smell of industrial smoke was any indicator. Approaching it in daylight would probably get him arrested, since the guardsmen had already turned him away. At least in darkness there was a slim chance of sneaking in.
He should have lingered longer with Shola. Since he had the time, he wished he'd spent it getting nude with her. Stripping the body naked could be a symbolic gesture for stripping the soul naked. Two souls bared to each other had to be the ultimate act of honesty. He stumbled on a rock before he could fully explore the notion.
Walking lackadaisically along, Chuggie whistled Shola's song. The sun dropped down behind the trees, and night tiptoed in. The moons shimmered into sight off to the east. Two crescent, one half, and one full moon. He gave them a friendly wave, doubting the celestial snobs would wave back. His tendency to become distracted had become quite distracting. The goat-face purse; that was his mission. He needed to stay on course, mind the sails. He held the rope of Shola's hair to his nose. He breathed her in.
The trail grew darker as he advanced. When he listened he could hear the far-off percussion of factories. Would he be able to pass through the city gates freely? He had doubts. Would he be able to find and meet this Arden Voss character? He doubted that even more. If Stagwater's top leader agreed to meet a fellow who emerged from the wilderness on foot at night, he'd eat his hat.
The trail bent around a corner, and Chuggie slowed. Something in the air didn't feel right. Just ahead, beams of moonlight stabbed through some leafless trees.
He stopped just before he stepped into the moonlit section of the trail. For an instant, he could have sworn he heard someone breathing. Was he letting the moonlight and shadows get the best of him? Most likely. He walked on. Dry sticks and crunchy leaves crackled beneath his boots as he stepped into the patch of moonlight.
Something burst from the brush behind him. Something burst from the brush ahead.
"HA!" yelled the man in front, brandishing a dagger over his head.
"DIE!" hollered the man behind, holding his dagger low.
"Fools," Chuggie chuckled. They might've gotten him if they kept their mouths shut, but they
had
to sound a battle cry. Just like boys in a schoolyard playing pirates.
There came a
chink
of chain as Chuggie flung his anchor at the frontal assailant. He felt the anchor's impact through the chain as it struck the man's chest. He yanked and swung the anchor behind him in a wide arc, high enough to catch the other man's head.
A surprised grunt came as the chain met the side of the rear attacker's neck. Chuggie looped a section of the chain and tossed it over the punk's head. He pulled the chain tight.
His battered attackers managed to stay on their feet, but just barely. Chuggie felt they'd be much more comfortable relaxing in the grass. He heaved on the chain, yanking one into the other. They fell in a heap. "What in the name o' piss was
that
all about?" Chuggie roared.
Neither answered. They coughed and sputtered instead.
Chuggie stood over them and struck a match. When his pipe was lit, he threw the used-up match at them.
"Better start singin', little birds." Chuggie snorted smoke from flared nostrils. "I'd hate for this to get ugly, y'know?"
Neither answered as they tried to get on their hands and knees.
"I ought to make you eat each other's balls! Gravel and fury filled his voice. Lucky for you, I'm pressed for time. Now, I figure you both know who sent you an' why. If you both have the same exact knowledge and serve the same exact purpose… well, then I don't need you both."
"W-we thought you were a raider," stuttered one. "We're out here to protect against raiders."
"No, you aren't." Chuggie grabbed up the daggers they'd dropped in the dirt. He stuffed one in his boot and clutched the other in his fist. "Say goodnight, chatterbox. I bet your friend here will be more helpful when he sees your headless body twitchin' in the weeds."
"Okay!" coughed the shorthaired shithead with the chain around his neck. "We're supposed to keep you from coming to town. They sent us here to kill you so you don't attack our city."
Chain-neck's partner moaned and clutched his chest. Both of them got to their feet.
"You turd weasels got names?" said Chuggie.
"Dan," said the shorter man of the pair. "That's Jaron."
"Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt. Those're your names from now on. Sound good, Stinkface?"
Dan nodded and tried to remove the chain.
"Leave that chain where it is." Chuggie waved the knife. "You idiots have a lantern?"
"Over there by the rest of our gear," said Jaron.
They struggled to their feet and stumbled up the trail a little ways to where they'd hidden their things.
"Light that thing up." Chuggie planted his boot on the Mutt's backside to give him a little extra encouragement. He dug a match out of his pocket and lit the lantern.
"Sweet bleedin' bastard, is this a joke?" Chuggie said. "They sent two kids into the forest for a nighttime ambush? Ha! Whoever sent you boys out here don't care if you make it back!"
"We can take care of ourselves just fine," said Jaron the Mutt. His long, black hair had come free of its ponytail. He tossed his head in a proud gesture that failed to get the hair out of his face.
"Oh, obviously," Chuggie taunted. "You're born killers."
"Look," said Stinkface Dan, "Why don't you just take our lanterns and daggers? Leave us here."
"No, Stinkface, you're carrying the lantern." Chuggie puffed at the boar tusk. "We're gonna walk and you're gonna talk.
"Now grab up your gear. I gotta get you kids home for supper."
Eyeballing their backpacks, Chuggie saw a bit of rope sticking out of one. He snatched it and fashioned the ends into leashes. He collared up his guides, and the three set off toward Stagwater.
Stinkface Dan and Jaron the Mutt kept glancing over their shoulders at Chuggie. Any fool could see they were planning a mutiny. He decided to play along and began staggering from side to side even more than usual. He added extra slurring to his speech, even a few phony hiccups.
Chuggie couldn't make out everything they said, but he clearly heard the words
drunk, kill,
and
get him
.
"Hold up there a minute." Chuggie bent down and fiddled with his bootlaces. "Damn the boots," he slurred. "Hey, kids, how 'bout you come gimme some light."
The boys turned around and stepped toward Chuggie. They spread apart, doing their best to flank him. Dan and Jaron balled their fists, got up their courage, and made their move.
The two segments of rope, each ending around a young man's neck, lay under Chuggie's boot. As they sprung, Chuggie stood and pulled the rope, using his boot as a pulley. Stinkface and the Mutt fell forward, their faces yanked toward the ground.
Chuggie didn't let them fall on their faces, though. Dan got a knee to the nose. Jaron got a backhand to the mouth. Both of them landed on their backs on the opposite side of the road.
Chuggie picked up the lantern and took a look at his stunned guides.
"Break's over, ladies." Chuggie gave a tiny pull on the rope to make sure he had their attention. "First one on his feet doesn't have to carry the lantern."
That got them moving. Jaron the Mutt won the contest. Dan wiped blood from his lip and took the lantern. Chuggie snapped their reins and they started moving again.
"Look, dipshits, I see everything back here. Next time you start swappin' funny looks, I'll yank this rope so hard your heads'll pop off. You need to remember, you can get paid tonight or you can shit out your own teeth tomorrow. Maybe the next day." Chuggie felt satisfied the team had been properly motivated.
"Shit our own teeth?" Jaron asked.
"He's going to knock our teeth out and we're going to swallow them," Dan said.
"We'll see about that," Jaron grumbled.
"Okay, put your hands out," Chuggie said.
Neither of them put their hands out.
"Put your hands out, damn you. I'm not gonna chop 'em off."
Reluctantly, they did as instructed.
"Palms up," Chuggie growled.
They obeyed, and Chuggie slapped both their palms with a small stack of cash. Jaron and Dan stared at the money with eyes and mouths open wide.
"Now let's get to town. I'll pay twice that when we get where we're going, but if you try anything again, I'll take the money back along with them pretty hands. Got me?"
Stinkface and the Mutt nodded grimly to one another and led on.
"How about one of you tell me who sent you out here." He glared at the backs of their heads. When they didn't answer, he gave a little tug on the rope to remind them who held the reins. "Jaron the Mutt, you go ahead and tell me about it."
"Fine," Jaron sighed. "Mr. Kale hired us. He said there'd be a man with horns and a chain out here. We're supposed to kill you."
"Doesn't make sense," said Chuggie. "I don't know anybody named Kale, and I didn't decide to head into town until this afternoon."
"They use the Pheonal trance to see the future. This is our second night out here waiting for you." Jaron looked over his shoulder at Chuggie.
Dan elbowed Jaron and scowled at him.
"Hands to yourself, Stinkface," Chuggie warned. "I told you before, I only need one o' you. Tell me, Mutt — who's this Kale guy?"
"Kale is a magistrate. The Council of Magistrates runs Stagwater." Jaron looked at Dan apologetically and shrugged.
"So they run the town. And you guys are gonna, what? Ride their coattails all the way to the top?" Chuggie chuckled.
Neither Jaron nor Dan gave a reply.
"I worked with some guys like you years and years ago." Chuggie examined a dagger in the moonlight. "Nice knife by the way. Looks expensive."
His guides led on in silence.
"These guys thought big things were in store — that they were on their way to the high country. Fleas on a big dog's back, that's all they were. They figured when the dog caught the rabbit it'd be their rabbit, too. They thought that when the dog won the dog show, they'd get little flea-sized ribbons."
He thumbed the blade's edge. "Ooh, that's sharp! As it happened, these guys turned into
actual
fleas. I suspected witchcraft at the time. They were man-sized fleas at first. They showed up at work, did their job about the same as ever. They never stopped talking about how their fancy friends were carrying them to greatness. Lucky for the rest of us, nobody can understand a flea when it's talking."
Chuggie pulled the other dagger out of his boot and examined it. It was identical to the first.
"After about a week, we noticed that these giant fleas were actually shrinking, on their way down to actual
flea-size
. By the time they got down to the size of a rat, we all got sick of their chatter. A guy named Horny Hoff took a shoe and splattered them right there on the floor. Smell was fuggin' terrible, but we got the next day off. With pay."
If the story resonated with Jaron or Dan, neither gave any indication.
Kagen Kale did not like children. He especially did not like them in his home. Their filthy little fingers did little besides get fingerprints on his fine leather furniture and clean glass tabletops. Only the decorative shields, high on the walls, were safe from nasty little hands.
Olin Stone was a shining example of all Kale despised in children. The boy sprawled on his couch, making himself right at home. He ate ice cream out of a dish, but most seemed to be smeared on the furniture. Each time the child took a spoonful, it dribbled on his shirt and face. The boy invariably wiped his mouth with his bare hand, then wiped the hand on the couch. A cloth napkin lay unused on Olin's lap.
The child had been in Kale's home for less than three hours, and already he acted like he owned the place. Kale couldn't wait to be rid of his little visitor.