Morning begins with a ruckus outside the inn that wakes the entire block. The sounds of agitated people and a suffering animal make further sleep impossible.
I rise make the rare decision to skip my morning routine. I use the pail of water to wipe away whatever filth might have rubbed off from the mattress and blanket. I dress and gather my things, lay the mattress up against the wall, and pull the curtain aside. One of the other men has pulled another mattress over his head in an attempt to drown out the commotion, but the other two are gone. I can see they haven’t left, however, because their shoes are still next to their bedding.
I dip under the low door frame between the front and back rooms and see the innkeeper, a waif of a maid girl, and the two other men looking out into the street. I push past them out the doorway and glance at the scene.
A runaway horse and cart careened into the house across the way. The horse is tangled up in its reins and the cart is on its side. Pained neighing indicates to all in the vicinity that the horse is injured. The homeowner of the building it crashed into is an inconsolable, middle-aged woman who is yelling at what I can only assume is the horse and cart’s owner. Two men are trying to quiet the horse and about a dozen townsfolk are out on the street observing overtly. A glance at the doors and windows of the buildings at the intersection reveal dozens more faces.
From what I can overhear over the shrieking animal, the main arguments seem to be about the fate of the horse and payment for damage to the house.
I head past the chaotic scene and toward the south gate road. I’ll take it north to the Rose District and see if my luck is better than the horse’s.
Yo’crounda Nirvana is not open for the day when I arrive. It’s quite early and working folks are just starting to head off to their place of business. There are workers in the kitchen and its side door is open to receive a delivery, however. Since I am not a customer, I get the attention of someone who looks like a restaurant employee, and possibly a relative to Vong.
“Yes, man?” the young man asks, wiping his hands on a rag and tossing it over his shoulder. He seems uncertain about me, but I’m used to that.
“I need to speak to Vong. I am an associate,” I reply.
He looks confused for a moment and then smiles, “Which one do you mean? I’m a Vong, but I am guessing you don’t mean me since we’ve never met.”
Oh right. The family’s odd naming tradition that Vong mentioned.
“The fourteenth,” I clarify.
He nods to himself and says, “Come on, wait inside. I’ll see if he can come down.”
I allow myself to be ushered into the kitchen and find a bench to sit on. After this Vong goes to retrieve the other Vong, I realize he didn’t treat me as an outsider once I mentioned my association with Vong. He didn’t make me prove it, just brought me right inside. I don’t recall a time I’ve ever been made that welcome by a stranger before.
So it seems the entire family is soft-headed simpletons.
I watch the kitchen staff expertly pluck and butcher a dozen chickens in the time it takes the Vong who I came to speak with to come down a back staircase from the upper floor, which is a surprisingly short time.
Vong smiles at me, “Hey, back for more of our Crown Chicken, eh?”
Maybe I should have sent one of the others. But I’m here now, so I suppress my annoyance at his presumption and respond, “The team has arranged to meet tomorrow night at the Pale Pine Tavern. If your mourning has ended, then join us. If you expect your mourning period to go on for some time, and will be unavailable for duty, I can instead convey that to Corporal Level and leave you to grieve.”
The mention of grieving wipes the smile off of Vong’s face, but lights an unexpected fire in his eyes—a deep, vengeful fire I wouldn’t have thought possible in this amiable youth. “Whoever killed Chong will pay.”
Interesting. The intensity of his emotions are radiating from him in an almost palpable manner. Is there a dark side to Vong that needs to be let out? Better yet, how can I use it?
The thought takes merely a moment, so I respond without delay, “Is there a culprit?”
Still angry, but dipping in intensity, he says, “The watch says he was in the slums, and they think gangs might have been involved.”
Perhaps I could drive him to murder a whole group of people and then, as the only one who knows his dark secret, he comes to rely on me, on my counsel. Using his dumb luck to my benefit doesn’t seem so bad, if only he would do as I say.
I plant a seed of doubt that could perhaps spur him to take matters into his own hands. “Hopefully they have not skipped town. I’m sure the watch will find whoever is responsible eventually. Until then, you should be with your family. I’ll let Corporal Level know you’ll be in hiatus and take the team out on a patrol or two. Rakatha, especially, could use the pay,” I feel good about my tone being both commanding and humane.
Vong literally shakes off his dark mood and smiles up at me once again, “No need, I think I’ll just brood if I stay around here. The funeral is tomorrow morning so, if we’re meeting up later, then I can come.”
Hmm, perhaps I pushed too hard to dismiss him. I recall reading something in a book about the natural resistance of beasts. The stronger the restraints, the harder they fight. A horse will fight a rider with a heavy hand, a dog will pull against its leash, and a dragon would easily dispose of anyone who refused to do its bidding. I suppose I am no worse off, but my situation has not improved either.
“So be it,” I say.
Vong half turns, half points at the stairwell, “Want me to go get Rakatha? We can have breakfast!”
Ugh. What have I got myself in to?
“I have matters to attend to,” I reply and turn to leave.
“Okay, see you tomorrow then. Or, if you wanna come by later, we can get lunch!” Vong calls after me, somehow totally aloof from the harsh realities of life.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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