Moonsong - Prelude: Power

Because I am forced to be away from my home (and my computer, and all of my free time), I thought instead of giving another bit of Muramasa: Blood Drinker, I would give everyone a taste of what I wrote last year. This is the prologue to Moonsong, an epic fantasy story I began writing last year in pieces sent one at a time to the woman who would become my wife. Eventually the story grew so large (some 325,000 words) that breaking into volumes became necessary to pursue publication. The third I'm hoping to get to this fall, after I wrap up Muramasa.

The following bit I'm rather fond of. Since reading Eye of the World  I've always liked the idea of starting off a book with a villain. This one is effective as because, just like in Jordan's classic, we don't get to meet the big bag evil guy right away in the main narrative. I hope it stimulates your hunger for more!

Prelude: Power

“Tell me, Vindrel, what is power?”

Sarthius Catannel turned his head away from the window for a moment to regard Claire as she stepped across the threshold to the small room overlooking the courtyard. Below his shock of blonde hair, his green eyes stared at her with the same vacant stillness as when she had met the man years before. Never a word to acknowledge her, his lingering look held all the wisdom she needed to understand. She felt a chill and drew her robes around her body tightly. She saw that the window was open. Just a breeze then, she thought.

“Power, sir?” Vindrel, the captain of the guard for as long as Claire could remember, stood beside Sarthius, his uniform of blue and green and as crisp as always. He was one of the few higher-ups of the military staff that had been kept on after the old count passed away, probably because he had no family to speak of, and therefore nothing at stake in the politics of court. She envied him.

“Yes, power.” Sarthius stared out the window as Claire crept up to stand slightly beside him. “What does it mean to have power? To be powerful?” She could smell the fire in the courtyard below, and understood what was taking place. She didn’t want to look, but knew somehow she would. In the end, she could not avoid it. Then the smell would get worse.

“Power…” Vindrel looked down for a moment. “Power is the ability to exact your will. To do what you wish.”

Claire noticed the flintlock pistol that Vindrel openly carried, in defiance of divine law. There were rumors that Vindrel was a Promethean, or as they called themselves, Somniatel. Watching him stare out the window with his familiar stone-cutting gaze, she believed he could, in truth, be a member of one of the strange highland clans that as much as worshipped the technological apostasies of the Dark One, even though they lived like savages in wilds of the world. If it was true, it explained much of his retention with the young count; Prometheans were valuable sell-swords, just as much for their uncanny skills as for their lack of ethics.

“A good answer,” Sarthius said, “but not quite right, I think. A woodcutter chops down a tree because he wishes it. Is he powerful?”

“He is to the tree,” Vindrel said.

Tyrant’s Gallow, an Aphorism

            Below is another extraction from my novel, in this case a legend about an anarchistic town and its origins. I’ve preserved all the original markings, dialogue, and description from the narrative. About 1,500 words.

Hunny’s manner had worked its friendly magic on the boy, and he eagerly answered their questions, feeling liberated to speak about the city he called home. They walked mostly uphill, and though the street itself was not terribly steep, the buildings around them rose up higher than in the square. Occasionally they passed a house that looked more like a keep: iron gates and stone walls; parapets rather than shake roofs. As they passed one particularly ominous and ancient complex, Horus spoke up.

“This one belongs to Seamus Delving, in case you ever wanted to have lunch with the terror of the south sea.” He glanced back at them, “He actually loves guests. He’s quite the character.” They passed by an iron gate, flecked with rust.  Behind it a rough-looking man leaned against the wall in the gateway eating an apple. His musket, bayoneted, primed and cocked, sat beside him. He did not look up as they passed. Past him could be seen a green lawn on either side of tile walkway which led up to the house proper, made of much the same dark stone as the encircling wall.

“The city is full of people like that, if you know where to look,” Horus went on. “Lots of sailors settle here because they can buy land and property that would be off-limits to anyone but the gentry or nobility somewhere else.”

“Was the city always lawless?” Hunny asked as they turned up another, slightly narrower avenue.

“We’re not lawless, madam. We are kingless, but not lawless.”

“Who writes the laws?” Hunny said.

“God,” Munin cut in. “Or no one.”

Horus smiled and turned back to Munin. “Which god, eh?”

“Depends on the company,” Munin said.

“Nobody here care’s about heretics, sir,” Horus said. “If you’re worried about that sort of thing. Hell, the prison’s more popular than the chapel.”

“The Dreamer, then,” Munin said.

“Prometheus,” Horus said with a smile, drawing out the word. “The dragon god. It’s a good town for that, sir. A very good town indeed. I believe you will get along with the mistress quite well.”

“Neither of you have yet to answer my question,” Hunny said.

Rone smiled. “You don’t need kings to write laws, love. There are no kings in the mountains either; at least, we recognize no kingship. We have laws. They don’t have to be written in stone by a divine ruler to be real. You don’t need sheriffs and judges to execute them. When people have a need for a law, it will come to exist, and nobody will question when its justice manifests itself. The law of kings is made out of the gentry’s displeasure with the law that is.”

“Well, what law said poor Minneo could be killed because of a debt? Why doesn’t anyone stop it?” Hunny asked irritably.

“He himself wrote that law,” Horus replied, “Begging your pardon, madam. He signed a contract to that effect. He agreed to a law that would bind himself and Madam Porthagan. He chose his law, and the people here respect that. Now as to whether we’ve ever had a king; as far as records can go, there’s never been one, though the city was occupied a few times in the last thousand years or so. There is a legend, if you like to hear it.”

“Of course,” Hunny said.

“Well the story that gets told around here says that many, many years ago there was a king in Tyrant’s Gallow, only it wasn’t called Tyrant’s Gallow back then, it was called Convection, though not on account of the warm currents that keep the island’s weather pleasant up in this latitude, but because the King’s family name was Convect. Anyway, this king supposedly lived in a gold palace. He was also known to consort with wizards, and the island became a gathering place of sorts for them because of his tolerance and the distance from the mainland.”

“And now it’s a gathering place for pirates,” Hunny cut in with a chuckle.

“Begging your pardon, but we don’t tolerate pirates.  Privateers, freebooters- they’re a different sort.  Madam Porthagan has put out quite a few bounties for those foolish enough to prey on her ships, and it’s called the Gallow for more reasons than the tyrant.”

“Which you were getting to, I assume,” Hunny said.

Horus nodded. “Eventually the Church of the Twelve heard about the lavish King Convect and his cabal of dark wizards, and raised an army to put a stop to it. Some tales also say the whole affair was actually the construct of his older half-brother, who could not take the throne because he was a bastard and was forced to join the clergy and live a life of poverty.”

“Poverty?  Hardly.” Munin laughed.  “When was the last time you stepped into a church?”

“Never have, actually,” Horus replied. They turned another corner and saw the great and famous Gallow Bluffs, mottled white and grey, looming before them.  “The church has no real army, you know, so what really happened was an invasion by a few of the petty kingdoms of the lowlands, all gone by now of course, at the behest of the church, and blamed upon the will of the Twelve.  The force was overwhelming, but they were repelled from the harbor by the power of the wizards and the many inventions they had come to develop over long years of tolerance. For ten days they fought, and many of the invading force’s ships were burned.  The quest was on the verge of abandonment by the parties involved, who each held a distrust of the other.

“One night, the king’s brother took a single boat and rowed up to a beach outside the city.  He was arrested by the king’s guards, but was taken to see his brother once his true identity was learned. Everyone thought he had arrived to give the king strategic information. He feigned to give him the information he sought, but at the same time secretly poisoned his wine. The king was found dead the next day.”

“So, would the brother have become king?” Hunny asked.

“Yes, that’s exactly what happened. The king’s advisor notified him that, as the last surviving member of the Convect family, the crown had fallen to him, bastard or no. The advisor gave him the king’s crown and clothed him in lavish clothes. The new king was prepared to end hostilities with the crippled fleet, but before he could even leave the palace the admirals and a high priest walked in the front doors.  They had found the streets empty and the canons unmanned.  No guards were posted outside the palace gate. The brother, who now resembled the old king in such a way as to fool his former allies, was put in chains and dragged outside the palace. 

“They hanged him there for high apostasy in front of the mixed armies of the petty lords in an otherwise deserted street. The palace was searched, and a writ of succession was found, naming ‘Fontaine’ to be the next legal heir to the king. The high priest declared it legal and stamped it. Soon it was discovered, by virtue of a lone soldier that had traveled here before, that ‘Fontaine’ was merely the high mountain on the island. Needless to say, that man earned a poor fate for his honesty. Frustrated by the will, and unable to come to a consensus on who should rule the island, the petty princes began to argue with one another. Violence broke out and many of the armed men who came ashore were killed. The last prince, victorious and standing in the town square on a hill of dead men, declared himself king.

“At that time, the king’s advisor approached. The petty prince soon found himself surrounded by the city’s wizards, who stood on balconies and atop buildings surrounding the square, armed with strange guns and other heretical devices. They destroyed his remaining force with their forbidden technology, ending the lives of the invading soldiers in seconds. The advisor then declared the prince a criminal, and the wizards hanged him beside the new king. The advisor sent a courier to the Arch Priest in Chalandier with the stamped writ, and the island officially became ruled by the mountain.  In essence, free.”

“What happened to the king’s advisor?” Hunny asked.

“He was a wise wizard and had the golden palace rebuilt into the golden courthouse, of which he became the first chairman. The gold from the bricks and decor of the king was melted down and used as the monetary base for a new bank in the same place. It’s all legend though- even the Golden Courthouse’s records have gaps and limitations. Ah, we’re almost here.” 

Thanks for Reading!

-DVS

The Microscope, part 4

This is the fourth part of a short fiction work, planned to be about 25k words long, set in my unique world. Updates should be coming on Wednesdays, but this one is a day late due to other unavoidable commitments this week.

If you are new to this story, check out the previous installments here:

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

***

Felix was dreaming.  He was running down a long stone corridor. Cold sweat was drying from the wind of his spring pushing over his bare skin. There was a thudding sound behind him. Something was coming for him, and he couldn’t spare a single stride to turn his head and see his pursuer. The thudding turned to loud crashes.

“Wake up, lazy bones!”

The knocking sound returned.

“You dead in there, mate?”

Felix opened his eyes. In his ear he heard soft breathing. Marta, that’s right. The canvas shade above them was bright yellow with the light of day.

“What is it?” He rasped. Marta moaned in her sleep beside him. He felt her body adjust against him.

“Vic sent me over to tell you we’re breaking camp mid-day,” Jeffrey said.

“Mid-day?” Felix said, pulling his head off the pillow.

“Who’s yelling?” Marta said softly from beside him.

“Jeffrey,” Felix said. “Sorry.” He slipped himself out of the small bed of the caravan wagon, letting Marta’s arm flop down on the straw mattress. He realized he was still fully clothed, and found his shoes nearby on the floor.

“You figured out a plan for the meeting thing?” Jeffrey said.

“I’m working on it,” Felix said. He looked over to see Marta, leaning on her arm, her black hair falling in dense curls around a sleepy face. She stared at him with soft eyes. “I’ve got to go attend to some business I’m afraid.”

“You don’t think you have business right here?” She said, then yawned.

He looked back at her, frozen with one foot in the air, a shoe pushed half-way onto it. “Um…Now?”

Marta gave him a confused look.

“Let’s go skinny!” Jeffrey called. Felix shrugged at Marta. She sighed.

“Just see me before you go off and do anything, will you?  This conversation is long overdue.”

“Sure thing,” He said, and stepped out the cabin door.

Marta watched him go, then chuckled to herself after he left. “Men are such simple machines.”

*

“Hey Vic, why are we breaking camp so early?” Felix said, favoring his left leg, as he strode up to Victor, now dressed in a leather jacket and pantaloons and looking hung-over.

“Because the city guard told us too. Big, fat, angry man calling himself captain came up with some sort of official document this morning.” Victor spit into the nearby dirt as he watched a few hands struggle with toppling the large center pole of the big tent.

“You’ve never let them push you around before,” Felix said.

“We’ve never had to camp inside the city walls before.”

“Where else would we park?” Felix said. “Other than this bare patch of park here, there’s not a flat acre of land for twenty miles.”

“It’s their city. If they want to run out the entertainment that’s their prerogative.”

“What am I going to do?”

“About what?” Victor smirked as Shera, looking under the weather herself, approached with a few half-finished bottles of wine.

“Found these in the stands,” She said. “Got to be pretty rich to forget to finish your wine.” She handed him a bottle and they both took a drink.

Victor looked at Felix again. “I’m guessing you still haven’t cleared up that little mess, then.”

“How was I supposed to do that when I know nothing of the other thief?”

“That’s your problem,” Victor said. He took a sip of wine and looked at Shera. “That ought to put the knocking to sleep for a bit.”

“Listen, Vic,” Felix said. “I’ve got a meeting with the girl at noon-”

“How’d you get a meeting with her?”

“She dropped a note into Jeffrey’s pocket.”

Victor’s eyes widened. “She was here and you didn’t kill her?”

“I didn’t see her,” Felix said. “Neither did Jeffrey.”

Victor shook his head, and looked down at the dirt. “I can slow the march out of town a bit so you can catch up, but I can’t have us just wait around.”

“Thanks, Vic,” Felix said, a sarcastic tone creeping into his voice. “You got any advice?”

“Kill the bitch.”

“If I can’t?”

“It’s all I can do for you.”

*

Felix opened up his old leather backpack, set it beside his heavy locking trunk, and started packing. He threw in his extra set of black clothes, since his black hooded shirt from the previous night now hung in shreds below his left elbow. He set aside a few casual pieces for walking the town during the day, and packed a few tools of the trade he couldn’t easily walk around with: two fuse-lit grenades, a powder horn, another paper-wrapped gas bomb, some .50 caliber balls, and a set of lock picking tools.  He opened up the false bottom of his chest and withdrew some coins: A handful of copper cyprals of various origin and a stack of Datalian Argents (notable for the fact that the face side depicted the emperor rather than the church mandated profile the god Denarius, which made them both dear money or cheap, depending on the faith of the recipient). These he put into a small cinch-top purse and then stuffed into his backpack. He stuck five gold Aurals into his pocket. Just in case.

Lastly he set aside his set of throwing knives, rusted and dull from lack of recent use, but sharp and deadly nonetheless, and his old, well-worn pistol. He began pulling off his shirt, noticing as he did so dozens of tiny sore points in his muscles that hadn’t presented themselves in the events of the night.  He groaned as he struggled to get his shirt over his head and shoulders.

“Need some help?” Marta said. The door swung shut silently behind her.

I should do a better job listening, Felix thought. The shirt was wrapped around Felix’s arms and shoulders, looking like a great cloth cone extending from his shoulder blades. “Sure,” he said and pointed his arms at her.  He yanked hard on the tight garment and it slipped over his shoulders and head.  She threw it to the side.

“Never seen these scars,” She said, and ran her hands along his back. Several old cuts crossed over his spine, like the lashes of a whip. He wriggled under the light touch.

“Prefer not to show them around.”

“I thought men took pride in their scars.”

“Battle scars, maybe,” Felix chuckled. “I was just about to come see you.” He felt flushed, partly out of excitement and partly out of embarrassment, as he thought about Marta’s sudden pursuit.

“Sometimes you have to take things into your own hands,” She said.  She sat down casually on the end of the bed and smiled at him. He smiled back and rubbed his hands, nodding. “Are you going to finish getting dressed?”

Felix paused in confusion. “What?”

“Aren’t these your street clothes?” She asked as she held up Felix’s peasant shirt. “I thought you were getting ready to go into town.”

“I w-was,” Felix stammered. “But I thought we were going to…um…” he rubbed the back of his neck as his excitement turned into embarrassment.

“Your pants are making your intentions obvious,” Marta said, leaning back on her palms and nodding toward Felix’s crotch.  Felix quickly turned away to hide the bulge. “You can have it, but I’m not just going to let you bed me; you’re going to have to work for it.” She laughed.

“Well, what did you want to talk to me about?” Felix said, turning back and pulling his shirt over his head.

“Us. This.” She looked around.

“The circus?”

“How attached are you to it?”

“It’s just a means of work to me.”

“Is that all?” She crossed her legs, letting her knee-length skirt fall back a bit and reveal the flesh of her legs. Felix made no attempt to hide his gaze

“I guess I’ve made a few friends.”

“Like me?”

“Not like you.” He chuckled. “Well, you of course, but also people who aren’t like you. Like Jeffrey.  What are you getting at?”

“Just wondering if you would leave, given the right offer.”

“With you?”

“Possibly. Now might be the time, if you can’t get this job squared away. It’s just an idea, not an offer yet.”

Felix nodded. “More circus work, and not the other thing?”

“Circus work. I figure you know how to do the other thing well enough you wouldn’t need a ring leader in on the whole thing taking a cut.”

“Alright, I’ll think about it.”

“Good.  And don’t tell Victor.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Now, turn around.”

“Turn around? Not going to let me see the goods?” Marta said with a smile.

“As long as I’m working for it, you’re waiting,” Felix said. Marta turned her head away to the canvas shade on the window, much like her own. As soon as Felix dropped his pants she cast a quick glance to see his buttocks, and smiled.

“Listen, I’m going to stay behind for a bit to take care of this ‘K’ business-”

“‘K’?”

“Oh, that’s how the girl signed her note.”  

“I see.” Marta stood up as Felix began to buckle his belt. “Well, if it doesn’t turn out, or if it does, try to catch up with me first, and we can talk more.”

“Whose circus is it?”

Marta walked to the door and smile softly at him. “See you soon.” She closed the door.

“Damn you’re confusing,” he said to the door with a frown. “Beautiful, but confusing.”

“I heard that,” She called back from beyond the door.

“It’s true!” he shouted back.

*

Felix looked up at the sky.  The sun was still in the east. Few hours to spare yet, he thought. He sat on the back of his caravan wagon, huddled in the shade, and opened the diary. Who are you, K? Quickly he found a passage mentioning wine, and he thought of the fat sleeping man from the night before:

Denara 24^th 435

Thank Althius for his gifts, he makes men even stupider than usual. Tested my belief today- that even a light alcohol like beer or wine can hide the flavor of sleeping powder- a few bar patrons. Quick results:

1 spoon, 1 beer- man complained about the 

bitter taste. Drank anyway. Passed out.

½ spoon, 1 beer- man did not seem to notice. Became drowsy and slept in a booth a few minutes later.

½ spoon, 1 glass of wine- likewise 

undetectable; woman drankand fell asleep 

later.

To poison a whole bottle of wine it should 

take about 2 spoons, maybe a bit more.

Hmn. Doesn’t seem to know what chemical she’s actually using. Felix flipped through a few more pages. This is like a little list of bad experiments, only their all concerned with drugging or hurting people. Felix flipped through a dozen more entries to another page:

Terrana 28^th 436

Master would not show me the technique I wanted. He said I was too inexperienced. Prying it from his second was quite easy. If I get a moment alone I will practice it:

Head strike for debilitation.

-Striking instrument should be no more than an inch and a half in diameter, and no less than an inch, or the impact will either be too spread out or too concentrated, and result in death.

-Ideal is a pole or stick, smooth, with a flat-sawed end, about 2 feet long.

-Place one end in right palm, place other end between thumb and finger of left hand.

-Place palm on back of the victim’s skull, placing the thumb on the soft spot of the neck below the skull- this will find the correct strike location

-Quickly tense left hand into a fist and push stick through with immediate force

-If done correctly, the brain strike will knock the victim unconscious, but not kill them.

Below there were some poorly sketched pictures that attempted to diagram the maneuver. Not a bad sap in a pinch, Felix thought. I should copy some of this down. I wonder who “master” is. He’s probably not an actual spymaster, or this diary would be encrypted. Felix stood up and went back inside his own caravan wagon, intent on gleaning at least a few more secrets before the meeting and placing them safely inside his own diary.

*

Felix watched from the shade of the patio as people emptied from the great doors to the church. The bells above rang out a sounding chord. He knew that each god had a particular set of chimes that called to the faithful a service in their honor. Despite the remote location of his upbringing, his profession (which often dealt with the exchange of inventions quite outside the legality of church’s deities), and his general distaste for the religion of the cities, Felix had become rather good at recognizing the music for each god, chaotic though it might seem. This particular parish was dedicated to the teachings of Ferral, god of iron and fire, and it’s exterior was crowded with scenes of the stories surrounding him; stained glass crowding the buttresses and sharp stone statues depicted the gifts of his many crafts. However, the chord of the ringing bells was the light and ethereal seventh chord of Metearala, the goddess of wind and weather, who gave no gifts to man but the sails of his ships and the compass to guide them.

Odd to have a sea-centered sermon in a mountain town, Felix thought as he sipped his tea. Might be a holiday. He occasionally looked through the window to his left and watched the young serving woman, with covered shoulders in the fashion of the country, as she went from table to table, smiling. The sun was high above him in the sky.  His eyes scanned the church courtyard in front of him, but he expected to meet the mysterious K as she approached from behind.  He reached under his jacket and positioned the muzzle of his pistol, hanging in a hidden thong around his shoulder, so it would fire directly behind him. He pulled back the hammer.  The old spring moved easily. I hope it can still push though a few inches of cloth and make a spark. Minutes ticked away as he sipped the tea.

“You’re easier to sneak up on than that great oaf at your little circus,” a familiar cockneyed voice said softly from behind him.

“Just waiting in good faith. Or do you intend to assassinate me?” Felix didn’t turn his head. He glanced down at the shadow cast from behind him, taking in the gentle curves of a young woman. Her body position revealed to him the presence of a weapon- a knife most likely- held away from prying eyes.

“You speak of good faith, but I don’t see a microscope.”

“I’m not stupid enough to walk around in front of the church with something like that.”

The woman moved past and sat in the chair across from him. She was wearing a deep forest green dress, long sleeved in the custom of Minalay. It had decorative cream-colored lace across the midsection below a ruffled neckline which revealed youthful round breasts, pushed up on display. The face above the soft white chest made Felix pause mid-sip, sending drops of hot tea into his short beard. She was a woman of the Northmarch, pale and white with platinum blonde hair that was straight as an arrow. Blue eyes splashed with green stared at him calmly, their whites still slightly red from Felix’s gas bomb. Beautiful lips smirked arrogantly between blushed cheeks.

Felix realized it was the first time he had seen her in person. “What’s your name?” he asked her calmly as he wiped the tea from his lips.

“Why does a name matter?” She said. Without a word, the serving girl placed a cup of tea in front of her. She acknowledged the young woman with a glance, then turned her stare back to Felix as she picked up the tea cup.

“Just something to call someone by. I’m-”

“Felix,” She said. “I know. You may call me…” She paused for a moment, as if considering the which name she would give. “Kay will do for now.”

“Smart name, Kay.”

“I assume when you say that I can infer you also use a false name.” She grinned at him.

“Assume. Infer. You won’t confirm.”

“It’s fine. I rather like Felix. Sounds exotic.”

“Thanks. My mother would be proud.”

“Now that’s a lie,” She said. “So, where is the device?”

“It’s safe.  The journal?”

“Also safe. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“Indeed.  Would you like your diary back?” Felix tossed the book out on the table.

Kay snatched it up. “Did you read it?”

“No.”

“Liar.” She gave him an insincere smile.

“What answer would you prefer?”

“The truthful one, of course.” She flipped through the pages quickly then threw the little book into her leather satchel.

“You’re in the wrong business if you’re looking for truth.”

“The truth is always hidden. How will you find it outside the business of the hiding?”

Felix shrugged. “What do you propose we do?”

“You give me the device.”

“And then what?”

“And that’s it. You live.”

Felix chuckled. “That doesn’t work for me, I’m afraid. I’m not the sort to pass out death threats, so why don’t I give you some more amenable alternatives?”

“Amenable to you, you mean.”

“And you.” Felix sipped his tea again, his hand steady. “How will the condition of your life be if you fail to deliver on this job?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She frowned.

“Will your employer kill you if the job doesn’t pan out?”

“Should I say yes and invoke your sympathies? You just said this wasn’t an honest business.”

“What I’m proposing is that we split the payment from one of our sides. Which side depends on how vengeful each employer is, and how high the pay, of course.”

“You’re asking for a whole lot of truth right there,” She said and raised her eyebrows.

“It’s always hidden, isn’t it?” He put down his tea and folded his hands. “I’m willing to pay you for the journal. Right now: an honest fifty percent of what I anticipate.” He set two gold coins out on the table.

“If that’s honest you’re awfully low paid,” She said. Felix added two more to the stack, and put out a small stack of silver coins. “I might be inclined to believe that.” Felix put out the fifth gold aural. Her eyes widened at the sum of money stacked on the table in the open.

“What do you say?” Felix said. “I can wait here for you to bring it to me.”

“Or I could just rob you.”

“If you think you can,” Felix forced a chuckle. “Are you getting paid more than double this? It’s pretty simple, Kay. Whoever pays most gets all.”

The young woman stood staring at the large sum of money, sitting on the table out in the open. “I have to deliver the goods,” She said. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Then pay up.”

“I don’t carry around cash like that.”

“Then you’d better start,” Felix said. “I’ll see you at sunset. North corner table of the Bailing Inn, just east of the castle gate. Bring the journal, or bring your money.” Felix swept the coins into his pocket and stood up.

“The castle? Are you crazy?” Kay said with a frown.

“No, I just don’t want to worry about being murdered,” he said with a smile, and walked off, slinging his bag back onto his shoulder.

Thanks for reading! More coming next week.

          -DVS

The Microscope, part 3

This is the third part of a short fiction work set in my unique world.  Updates should be coming every Wednesday.

Check out part one here: http://davidvandykestewart.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-microscope-part-1.html

And part two here: http://davidvandykestewart.blogspot.com/2013/10/part-1-here-httpdavidvandykestewart.html

“The fuck is wrong with you, Felix?” Victor leaned back in the folding canvas chair, picking at the tips of his white gloves as he carefully pulled them from his large hands.  His broad brow was wrinkled more than usual, a bitter frown forming a “v” between his eyes. Below that, broad pursed lips were pulled in, buried in his thick, curly black beard. Shera, a young yet well-worn woman, that Victor called his wife stood to his side collecting his costume pieces and placing them carefully into a trunk.  The baggy men’s clothes she always wore made her look leaner and more flat-chested than what was true.

“Presently? A knife wound, and possibly a broken ankle.” Felix held the dingy cloth, soaked in whiskey, up to the scratch near his elbow.  The bleeding had slowed and scabbing had begun, but he had willed himself to scrape them away and clean out the wound.  The whiskey burned horribly, and Felix tapped into an old reservoir of pain tolerance gained from harsher tortures to keep his face relaxed in front of Victor.

“You’re lucky you ain’t dead.  You should have just killed the bitch and be done with it. ‘Stead,” he spat, “we got a broken piece of merchandise, which is only half of what we’re being paid to get in the first place.”

“This was a no-kill contract, Vic.”

“No-kill for Bartolini or other civies. Competition is always free game. You know that.”  Victor stood up and Shera helped him take off his jacket.  Even in his costume Victor still kept a loaded pistol tucked into his belt in the small of his back.

“I didn’t know she was competition till I saw the knife,” Felix lied.  Victor gave him a harsh stare as he slipped off the suspenders that held up his baggy silk pants.  “Besides, what was I supposed to kill her with?”

“A pistol, or a knife, or your fucking fists?  Whatever you got.”

“I don’t usually bring killing implements to a no-kill cat burglary.”

“Well you better fucking start.  Thanks, love,” Victor said as he finished undressing and Shera placed the last of his costume into the trunk with his colorful plumed hat on top.  Victor began putting on his simpler clothes.

“Things could definitely be worse,” Felix said, almost to himself.

“Yeah?  How?” Victor sat back down and uncorked a wine bottle, then took a sip.

“I could have brought back nothing at all.”  Felix stood, still holding the scratch on his arm.  He put weight on his ankle and felt only a dull ache. Not a break after all, he thought. Lord of Luck. “We also do have one unexpected advantage, which is that Bartolini will know her as the thief and not me.”

“Yeah the sheriffs won’t be looking to any of us for a change,” Shera said.

“She was probably planning on being disappeared from the city by now, do you think she’ll stick around?” Victor handed the wine to Shera, who took a sip as well.

“If she was getting paid anything close to what we are she’ll certainly have a strong incentive,” Felix said, “but obviously she won’t be able to walk around very openly.”

“Good, we’ll have a chance at getting that journal and fixing the item,” Victor said.  “Fixing this whole bloody mess.”  He took another drink.  “Be honest with me, Felix.”

“I always am.” Felix pulled the whiskey soaked rag away and wrapped the scratch in a clean cloth that was laid over the back of his canvas chair.

“That’s a joke, right?” If it was a joke, Victor didn’t seem to find it funny. “Tell me, do you think she knows your cover?”

“I recognized her from the crowd.  She was here. So yes.”

“Shit.”  Victor drank again.

“Also, she said something about it, I think.” Felix tried to remember.

“You don’t remember?”

“I was hanging falling out of a window.”  Felix began to tie the cloth into a make-shift bandage.

“You think she’ll come round looking for you?” Shera said. “You should go talk to Jeffrey.”

“This is my bloody business,” Victor said, glaring at his wife over his shoulder. “Need to keep your place.”

“Sorry,” Shera said insincerely. 

Victor turned back toward Felix.  “Go talk to Jeffrey, yeah? See what he has in mind for keeping us tight up in here, or maybe setting a bit of a trap. We need that Journal.”

“Will do,” Felix said. He started walking for the exit of the large tent.

“And Felix,” Victor called as Felix reached the exit. “Keep a damn pistol handy, yeah?”

*

“You put your foot in it, that’s for sure.”  Jeffrey, the troupe strongman, moved to the rear end of the boxy caravan wagon he called home and opened a trunk.  Inside was an assortment chemicals in glass bottles, powder horns, and small wooden boxes. He bent over to rummage in it, his massive shoulders filling up all the space between his bed and the table opposite it. He pulled out a small jar filled with a clear liquid and handed it to Felix.  “That’ll nock her out if you can manage to get the drop.”

“Ether?” Felix said.  He absent-mindedly picked at the make-shift bandage on his arm. “She’s a lively one, and a professional, I’d wager. I don’t think I could keep her sniffing long enough.”

“This is new stuff.  Chloroform.  Works in just a few seconds.  Don’t try to get yourself high with it either, it’ll give you hard knock like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I made it.”  Jeffrey laughed, his bulk heaving. “You plucked a formula for it awhile back, and I managed to get ahold of the papers before Vic sent ‘em off.”

“Nice to have, but I still doubt I’ll get the drop on her.”

“Keep it just in case.  We gonna have to spend all night on the watch, or what?”

“We?”

“You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”  Jeffrey slapped Felix hard on the back. “Let’s see what other kinds of goodies we can dig up just in case, eh?”

They both turned as the door to the little wagon opened up and Marta stepped in. Her hair was down, falling to her shoulders in heaps of curly black locks.  Her makeup as also washed away, revealing a round and youthful face, perverted by a current tension.  “There you are,” she said. “I was worried when you didn’t make the final bow.”  She pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’m fine, just still working out some details,” Felix said.  He patted her back awkwardly.

“What happened to your arm?” Marta said as she pulled away from the hug and saw his sleeve cut away and a white cloth wrapped around his elbow, dotted with blood.

“Ran into some competition.”

“Did you get him?”

“Her, actually. And no, but we’re working on it.”

A momentary frown flashed across her smooth face. “Good. I’m glad you’re alright. Stop by my trailer before bed, would you?” She turned toward the door, gave Felix a fleeting smile, then stepped back out.

“You’re a lucky man, my friend,” Jeffrey said, and slapped Felix hard on the back again. “What I wouldn’t give to plow a woman like that every night.”

“Our relationship is strictly professional.”

“Aw, come on.”  A wide smile spread across Jeffrey’s stubbled face. “You really mean to tell me you’ve never taken the act to the old mattress?”

“Never.”

“Well it seems like that’ll change tonight.”  He laughed deeply again.  “You’re a lucky bastard.”

“Doubt I’ll be able to tonight,” Felix said. “I’ve gotta keep watch for our competition, like you said.”

“Hell, Felix,” Jeffrey said as he placed a few more odds and ends from the trunk onto the little table. “I’ll stay up by myself if you promise to take that girl to bed.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I’m an excellent friend, and friends don’t complain when other friends get laid.  Now, where did I put that salt peter…”

*

Felix pushed inward the door to the little wagon, a near duplicate of Jeffrey’s, except that instead of having a small table opposite the bed it had a mirrored vanity.  It was here that Marta sat, dressed in a simple robe of pale blue.  An oil lamp sat near the mirror, reflecting its dull flickering light down onto a book that was splayed open.  As Felix entered, Marta’s head pulled up from it and she smiled.

“Glad you came, come here,” She said, and stood up.  She directed Felix toward  the stool in front of the mirror.

“What did you want to see me about?”

“Hold still.” Marta untied Felix’s simple bandage and pulled the cloth away as gently as she could. Felix made no effort to hide a flinch as the cloth stuck to the cut and pulled open fresh bloody areas.

“It’s just a scratch,” Felix said.

“It’s a lot more than that,” Marta said leaning in close to inspect the wound. “Let me get my needle.”

“I should’t need stitches,” Felix said.

“You’ll need a few,” Marta said.  She pulled open a nearby drawer and produced a sewing kit. “This is going to hurt, I can get some ether from Jeffrey if you like.”

“I have this. It’s supposed to be more potent.” Felix produced the bottle of chloroform and set it on the top of the dressing table.

“Let’s try it out then.”  Marta picked up the bottle and uncorked it.  She made a sour face at the odor as she held it up to her nose.  She poured some of the colorless liquid on a rag.

“You know what? It’s fine, really. I’m not going to need the-” When Marta held the cloth up to his face he immediately swooned, even before the reflex of breath took over, and the world became a blur of color: The faded blue of Marta’s robe under a streak of black that was her hair, the blood-red of her sheets as he collapsed into her bed.

Marta, using the strength of her compact body, was able to guide Felix into her bed while holding the rag to his face. After he sleepily let himself go limp, she pushed his legs in.  His arm she set on the stool to stabilize it, and after hanging the lamp above her bed, she kneeled down to the floor beside him to work.

“This is good stuff,” she said as she held the needle up to the flame of the lamp. She pierced his skin, and he grunted softly in his stupor.  When she finished, she reached under the bed and produced a bottle of liquor, and doused the wound with it, then dabbed it clean.  “That ought to do it.  You’ll thank me later,” She said and patted Felix’s forehead. 

“Marta,” Felix said with his eyes closed, seemingly in sleep.

She kissed his forehead and smiled, then ruffled his dark hair.  A sly look came over her face as she bent over and felt around his chest and pockets. “What do we have here?”  She rolled the anesthetized man over and found tucked in his belt, pressed against his back, a small leather-bound book.  She removed it and cracked it open.  “This is a diary,” she said, and sat on the stool under the lamp, letting it’s light shine on the unevenly cut pages. “Felix, my darling, why do you have the diary of another girl hidden on your person?  This just won’t do.”

Felix groaned beside her and rolled onto his back. “Marta,” He croaked again.

“I’m right here,” She said, but she was focused on the text of the book.  “I should burn this.  But I won’t.”  She smiled and read on.

*

Felix awoke with a headache to darkness.  He blinked hard.  Even the canvas covered windows of the wagon were black as pitch.  Everyone must be in bed. He thought about that for a second.HeHe th  I’m in bed.  He looked over and the darkness could perceive the edge of a soft round face.  He felt a small hand on his chest and curly hair on his neck, and realized that Marta lay against him, as if his shoulder was a pillow, and she was sleeping.  He reached out with his right hand into emptiness at the edge of the bed.  His left was underneath the sleeping woman.  Carefully, he hugged her with his right arm and removed his left.  He placed a pillow softly under her head and slipped out of the sheets.

He couldn’t see her well enough in the dim light to tell if she had in fact been awakened by his movement, but she didn’t seem to move.  He felt himself: his pants and shirt were both on, but not his shoes. I probably didn’t have sex with her. He shrugged. He felt the stitches in his arm.  They ached slightly. He frowned.  He was missing the journal from his belt.  He felt around blindly for it, then hit his head on the lamp hanging near the bed and toppled a stool than banged around loudly before coming to rest.

“Felix?” Marta said to the darkness.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you leaving?”

“I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep at all.  Jeffrey’s been up all night by himself.  Actually, what time is it?”

“I don’t know.  Listen, I wanted to talk to you.”

“If you wanted to talk to me you probably wouldn’t have drugged me, now I’ve got to go.”

“I had to sew up  your arm, stupid.” She bit her lip.  “I mean, sweetie.”

Felix shook his head again, wondering about the seemingly sudden shift in his relationship with his dark-haired performance partner.  “Hey, I had a little book- a journal, do you know where it is?”

“Why? do you need it?”

“I got it off the girl who tried to kill me last night. I think it’s her diary.”

“Oh, that,” she said with a flat tone.  “It’s in the top-left drawer of my dressing table.”

“Thanks.” Felix felt his way to the vanity and opened the drawer.  He felt the leather cover of the journal and tucked it back into his belt, up under his shirt. 

“Come back and talk to me before you do anything, alright?”

“Okay,” Felix said, not fully understanding her meaning. He found his moccasins and slipped them on, then stepped gingerly out the door, the pain in his ankle returning to match the pain in his head.  She’s acting awful strange, he thought as he crept across the central yard of the circus’s camping circle.  Soft moonlight in the western sky lit his way. 

Maybe it is like Jeffrey said.  Maybe she does really want me. He started thinking of the curves of the woman’s hips and buttocks, and the way she felt in his hands during performances, firm and supple.  He thought of her breast hanging out of her costume earlier, like so many other nights, but in his mind it became suddenly an erotic thing, and he flushed in thinking what more the costume might hide.  Damn.  I should have stayed.

“Hey there, mister lucky,” a voice whispered.  Felix looked up to see Jeffrey’s large frame atop an enclosed trailer that he knew housed the lion.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Trying to stay awake and watch for your mysterious agent-girl.”

“How did you manage to get up there?”

“You ain’t the only climber in the bunch, mate.” Jeffrey laughed quietly. 

Felix grabbed a hold of the bars in the small window slots of the trailer and pulled himself up till he had a hand-hold on the roof. He felt the wound in his arm.  Actually glad I got those stitches now, he thought as he pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the trailer.

Jeffrey picked up a nearby tea cup and took a sip. “So, was she all you hoped?”

“Who?”

“Come on, you can tell you’re old pall Jeff.”

“Oh Marta.  We didn’t, uh… do the deed so to speak.”

“Well, why not?” Jeffrey said.

“At least I don’t think we did.”

“What do you mean you don’t think?  Did she turn off the lights and put your dowsing rod in some other well?”

Felix laughed. “That’s a good one.  Let’s just say that I got a first-hand lesson in the potency of that chloroform.”

“You used it on yourself?”

“No, she used it on me.  She stitched up my cut, see?”  Felix held his arm out to Jeffrey.  “Packs quite a wallop.”  He knocked against the temple of his head.

“Headache?  I got something for that.” Jeffrey twisted away and began poking through a leather bag to his side.

“Of course you do.”

“I understand the ‘don’t think’ part now.  But you don’t need to worry about it.  You didn’t miss any fun; stuff makes your willy as wiggly as an earthworm.”

“Good to know, I guess.” Felix craned his neck over to see Jeffrey emptying something into a cup and filling it with tea from a nearby iron kettle. “I’m starting to think she actually cares about me. As in not in the professional sense. Though I don’t know where the affection came from.”

“Here,” Jeffrey said and handed him a tea cup. “Not gonna taste that great, but it’ll get rid of the hard-knock in a few minutes. As for Marta-”

“God this tastes awful, what is it?” Felix said as he tried to chug down the bitter tea.

“It’s called aspirin.  Now like I was saying-”

“Foul is what I’d call it.”

“Shut up, would ya?  I’m trying to give you some encouraging advice, friend to friend, okay?  Now s let me talk, you overbearing bastard.”

“Okay, go on,” Felix said and downed the rest of the tea.

“You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘shut up,’ do you?”

“It’s two words actually.”

“Shut up!”  There was a pause as both men chuckled. “Listen, Marta’s probably had a thing for you for a while, and after she heard from Vic that you ran into trouble, she got worried about those feelings. That’s why it’s so sudden.  Well sudden to you, I’ve seen it for months.”

“Months huh?”

“You’re a fool, you know that?”

Felix shrugged. “Near death experiences can do that do you, but usually it’s in the one dying. Wonder why she never said anything before.”

“You want your feelings to be reciprocated, simple as that.”  Jeffrey put his palms behind himself and leaned back. “You get faced with death, the prospect of never saying your peace seems a little worse than not having those feeling returned.”

“What should I do?”

“I told you what to do.  Now, I’m going to bed.  You’ve had enough sleep for the night, so you can watch the sunrise. Mind that front gap there,” Jeffrey pointed to a separation in the wagon circle. “I put a mine there.”

“A mine? Are you crazy?”

“It’s not like that, just a pop to scare ‘em, that’s all. Still, I’d pull it up before the others are out and about. Also, take this,” He picked up a musket that was laying nearby and handed it to Felix.

“I’ll keep it primed.”

“See that you do,” Jeffrey said.  He stood up and put his hands in his pockets absent-mindedly as he looked west at the moon. “Hello, what’s this?”  He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket.

“What is it?”

“It’s a message. I’ll be damned.”  He handed the paper to Felix.

“I knew I should have skipped Marta’s,” he said as he unfolded the paper and strained to read it in the moon light.  “You have a candle, or a match?”

“Both. And you won’t ever say that to Marta if you know what’s good for ya.”  Soon light emerged in the form of a small candle.  Felix read the message, written in blue ink in long, fine lines:

Let’s discuss terms, one professional to another. Noon. Fountain square north of the church. Shop in the east end of the square. Under the west window. Bring the item. Come alone.

-K

            Below the message was written in hasty charcoal:

P.S. After seeing you at the house, I was hoping for a challenge. Slipping this note into the pocket of this fat mouth-breather sure wasn’t one.

“Hey, I’m not fat,” Jeffrey said.  “This is all muscle.”

“All muscle?”

“Mostly muscle.”  Jeffrey smiled.  “Listen, dieting saps your strength, and this circus is my sole source of income.”

“Soul source?”

Jeffrey laughed. 

“We might as well both hit the sack now, yeah?” Felix said and pushed himself up.

“Which one you hitting, mate?”

“I’m taking your advice, for once.”

“That’s a good boy.”  He cackled again as he collected his tea cups and carefully set them into his leather bag. Side by side, they lowered themselves off the top of the lion’s wagon-cage, the beast inside seeming not to care that his home was rocking back in forth under the weight of the two men.  They each went their separate ways.

Felix was surprised to find his heart beating as he approached Marta’s wagon.  Maybe I like her a little more than I thought.  He pushed on the door. Inside was a field of darkness. He stepped in, trying to let his eyes adjust, but he saw little more than black shadows against the very pale canvas cover of a window backlit by the setting moon. He softly stepped toward the bed and slipped himself back in. Marta’s hair tickled his neck. She adjusted slightly and put her arm back around him, but her breathing remained the deep, slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Felix stared up, content to let sleep take him, trying to ignore the ache in his head, arm, and ankle as he tried to relax.

I wonder what K stands for.