03: Sultan's Curse

    FREDRICKSON FISH. The tackle shop was a sombre old building, and the faded, banana-yellow paint unevenly slathered over the decaying weatherboard walls did nothing to soothe the effect. The sign's lettering was a cheap pale blue with white trim, the old enamel paint flaking off in the wind; the humid swampland eating away at it day by day. The building looked all but abandoned, more a part of the marsh itself than a construction of society – in fact it blended so seamlessly into the landscape that if Lyric hadn't noticed the old wolf hammering at the fence out front, he was likely to have simply kept going. The wolf didn't bother to look up from his work as Lyric's feral slowed to a halt, whinnying softly as the jackal swung a leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground. Boots hit the earth with a crunch, and after a quick adjustment of his belt, the jackal sauntered up to the worker. He stood there, waiting until the sour wolf eventually glanced up.

    He looked gaunt despite his soft middle, grey fur intruding at the edge of his dark muzzle, one eye milky and scarred; it was like reality was stretching him, pulling on his edges and letting him waste. “Ken I help ya?" The wolf said, slurring with so much Gallentry accent Lyric almost mistook the sentence for a single grunt.

    “You the owner?" Lyric asked. He wore a brown leather jacket, pale faded jeans, and tight black riding gloves tugged over his paws. He was also missing a tail; a fact the aging wolf did not fail to notice, his eyes flicking suspiciously away from the jackal's ass as he was caught.

    “Nup." The wolf huffed, spitting to the side. He rubbed his paws together, staring at Lyric blankly.

    “Any hope then of you telling me where he could be found?" Lyric asked slowly, his own northern drawl stretching out the words. With a half-look Lyric noticed the ancient, stained revolver on the wolf's hip; thing probably hadn't been cleaned in a decade. The wolf chewed on something, his upper lip quivering slightly. He motioned with his chin over one shoulder, towards the store proper.

    “Remaine should be inside I guess. Lazy git." The wolf said, muttering the last few words. He turned back to the fence, slamming his hammer down again on some rebellious nail. Lyric sighed, nodding a thanks and walking towards the tackle shop, his gloved paws hanging loose by his side.

    A doorbell tinged as he went in, old hinges creaking with age. Remaine, another aging wolf, sat behind a counter with his feet up, his boots caked with dried swamp mud.

    “You Remaine?" Lyric asked, cocking his head. The wolf looked up from the tattered book he held, a toothpick held dexterously in his teeth. Lyric saw the cover of the book had a poorly drawn female wolf splayed across it, her anatomy impossibly contorted. Remaine was practically a caricature of himself, and Lyric almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the scene. “Fella outside, he said you was Remaine." He added, crossing his arms.

    “Y'ain't got no tail boy." Remaine said, dropping his 'novel' on the filthy counter top and sitting forward in his seat. “What kinda wolf is you then huh?" Lyric sighed, rubbing at his muzzle.

    “Look, a guy down in some Gallentry shithouse of a bar said the owner of this place would know where to find the people I'm searchin' for." He breathed in and out, slowly. Then he gave a slight bow. “I would appreciate, if you might help direct me to them."

    “Oh he did, did he now?" Remaine asked. He stood up suddenly, peering into a nearby toolbox and rummaging through it. “Who exactly is you lookin' fer then mister?" The wolf asked, plucking a grimy lure from a nearby box and picking at it.

    “Bunch of fellas I used to know s'all." Lyric said conversationally. “Nomadically inclined type…move around a lot. Call 'emselves the Sultan's Curse." The wolf stiffened slightly, his ears flattening. Lyric went on. “I'd be especially interested if you were to know some fool goes by the name Beau Riddon." The old wolf went still, his eyes to the wall, lure clutched uselessly in a still paw.

    “Nope." He said after an awkwardly long pause. His paws resumed hurriedly rummaging through the lure-box. “Don't know either of them names. Now if you'll excuse me, I got work that needs doin'."

    “I just need--" Lyric started, but the wolf shook his head.

    “I said get out." He snapped, without looking away from the box. Lyric licked his lips, glancing around. How covert could a group of some forty quasi-outlaws even be? He pivoted sharply on his heel, slamming the door behind him as he left, striding back to his feral. The old wolf at the fence glanced up at him as he returned, pausing a second at the saddle. He exhaled slowly, looking around.

    Quiet spot. He thought. The trail he'd come here on was old and dilapidated, full of potholes. Around them a shroud of thick swamp-forest surrounded, and Lyric hadn't seen anyone on the road for a good thirty minutes while travelling on this particular side trail. He didn't have time to go gallivanting through the bayou, praying blindly to come across the Sultan's campground.

    There was nobody else around.

    He turned back, marching towards the door. As he pushed inside Remaine's head snapped straight to him, his jaw flexing.

    “Look partner, I already told you I ain't got nothin' to say to the likes of--" He started, one paw raised warily, the other tight on the counter. He didn't get to finish, as in one fluid motion Lyric's dashed forward, a paw snaking behind Remaine's neck and slamming his head forward. The old wolf was totally unprepared, and his body offered almost no resistance, his face echoing a tight crack as it smashed into the edge of the wooden countertop. Lyric released as Remaine ricocheted back, stumbling back with his paws on his face, blood dribbling from between his fingers.

    “Fuckin' bastard!" The wolf hissed, stumbling into the wall and knocking a tray of cheap bait to the ground. In a second Lyric had hopped the counter and put a paw around Remaine's throat. He shoved him back against the shelving, pinning him there, teeth bared.

    “Well thank the Old Gods I ain't got a tail, or you'd be really in a world'a trouble, huh?" He snapped. It was childish and he knew it, but the comments and questions got tired a long time ago.

    “Get'ff me ya madman!" The old wolf choked, squirming. His paws were clawing at Lyric's fingers, but the jackal had a better grip and was the stronger one by far. He squeezed a little more, fingertips digging into the soft neck fur.

    “Sultan's Curse. Where are they?" He growled. At that moment the door behind him crashed open, and the wolf from outside came stumbling in.

    “What in all the damned hells?" The fence-wolf cried, paws going for the revolver at his hip, fumbling with the leather catch. Lyric threw Remaine to the floor, grabbing the nearby lure-box and hurling it at the fence-wolf's face. It collided with a metallic crash just as the old canine had yanked his rusted revolver free. He cried out, dropping the gun as he fell over, fishing lures raining down around him. Then Remaine was up again, and as the jackal went for him he caught a punch to his eye. Lyric reeled back, pulling Remaine with him to the floor. They collapsed in a thrashing mess, and Lyric struggled with his coat, trying to get his own gun free.

    “Eddi! Ay Eddi I got 'im!" Remaine wheezed, his words distorted by the blood in his mouth, spraying out over Lyric's chest. The jackal swore, head butting the old wolf in the face. There was a sharp, distinct splitting noise and Remaine's eyes went wild as he fell, howling.

    A moment later Lyric was up, his slide-action pistol clutched in two gloved paws and aimed straight at the fence-wolf.

    “Don't you fuckin' move!" He barked, his entire face throbbing from the two collisions. He cleared his throat, spitting blood on the countertop. 'Eddi' had his paws raised and his back to Lyric; the ancient revolver a few feet in front of him. 

     “You crazy bastard…" Remaine moaned, still writhing on the floor.

     “Don't do it Eddi, you're smarter than that." Lyric said, ignoring the groans.

     The wolf glanced back sluggishly, there was no way he could make it.

     He dove forward anyway, and Lyric squeezed his trigger. A punchy explosion sounded and Eddi screamed as the slug tore through his thigh, throwing him wide as his leg suddenly refused to hold weight any longer. Lyric hopped the counter again and deftly kicked the revolver across the room, putting his foot on Eddi's back.

     “Please don't kill me, I'm sorry mister…" The old wolf mewled, clutching his bleeding leg. Lyric held a palm against his aching face, wincing.

     “I ain't gonna kill ya." He sighed, feeling the inevitable headache building. “Tell me quick-sticks though, there another gun behind that there counter?" He glanced over to where Remaine had gone suspiciously quiet.

     “No, I promise." Eddi groaned. Lyric pressed his foot harder, earning a squeal.

     “Really? Lie to me and you get a bullet old boy."

     “We keep a scatter in the back! That's it, and my cattleman." Lyric waited another moment, and stepped off the old wolf. He didn't look like he was moving anytime soon, so the jackal wandered over to the counter, walking around it this time. He found Remaine sat up and leaning against the wall, cheap flannel shirt held to his face in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding.

     “So then." Lyric asked, squatting next to Remaine, a grimace on his face from the aching skull. “Sultan's Curse. Beau Riddon." The old wolf looked slowly over to him.

     “You don't wanna mess with their ilk, I promise ye. They…they got real bad types. That Beau boy? He's got the devil in his tail I swear it." He groaned, sighing deeply and squirming in place. “I even saw some'a them lunatic cult-jobs come by, all decked in their bone robes and metal. Steer clear if you know what's good fer ya kid." He spat to the side.

     “They're called the Curse for a reason, ay?" Lyric said with a wry smile. His slide-action was held loosely in one paw, and he used it to gesture as he spoke. “But Beau, I know all about that boy's devils, don't you fret. Prolly more'n you do I'd guess. Now. Just tell me where they are, so I can get the hell outta this janky shop?" Remaine stared at him, as if assessing whether the panting jackal really deserved to know. Finally, he shrugged.

     “They're long gone 'fraid. Ran deeper south, towards Kallinger Province I'think, don't right know exactly whereabouts. Savage lands them, Kallinger Baroness is worser even than old Fulbright." Lyric raised his eyebrows.

     “Yeah…I been to Kallinger before. Shit." He exclaimed. “Right then, where were they?" Maybe he could find something useful.

     Remaine pointed to one side. “Ya get out, keep going that way 'bout twenty minutes, pass by a small creek. They were on a clearing just the other side, prolly still warm even. They left in a hurry, bout two nights back."

     Did I spook them? How would they know I got to Chester already? Lyric thought, shaking his head. He nodded, standing and tucking his gun back into his jacket.

     “A'right." He croaked, still tasting copper. “I thankya kindly for your assistance gentlemen. I'd best be on my way." He stepped over Eddi as he left, who laid on his back, breathing heavy. He let the door slam shut on his way out.

     “Do not attempt to lie to me." The tall, slender raven said haughtily, leaning back in her seat. Fletcher was losing himself in her feathers, they seemed endlessly black, impossibly deep and yet also iridescent, reflections of purple glimmering even as he tilted his head. He and Thume sat across from the woman, fidgeting nervously as she studied them. Outside the small tent, they could hear the sounds of the circus being packed down; they were moving on soon.

     Midnight Meridian. Extraordinary Cirque à Minuit. An tastefully designed poster behind the raven read. Her name was Merissa Meridian, and she was the ringleader of the performance troupe; how Thume had secured an audience with her Fletcher didn't know.

     “You think I don't know who you two are? I'm an open minded creature Master Fulbright, but only when given the respect to act so." Her voice was trill and a little sing song, the void-black eyes somehow staring right at him despite lacking pupils.

     “We meant no disrespect." Fletcher said.

     “Nobody ever does." Merissa replied. “So why don't you start again? It's our business here to deceive and transform young man, if you lie to me…I'll know it." Fletcher believed her.

     The coyote glanced to Thume, who nodded. He swallowed. “I am a good marksman, that much is true." That felt weird to say. He hated sounding arrogant. “And if you'll take us, we can pull our weight – we'll do anything you need. We have to leave Gallentry is all, and…this whole province really, soon and somewhat discreetly. That's the truth."

     “I see." Merissa replied gently. “Our performers, you must understand…they aren't just good. I try not to be cynical, it is a flaw of mine and we must work to better ourselves - but people won't pay to see a good marksman."

     “He's the best I've ever seen." Thume said with a shrug. “It's probably not worth much to you, you don't know me from a bar'a soap, but it's true." Merissa's eyes narrowed, and Fletcher felt himself blush.

     “Be that as it may. We do have a lot of people here with nasty history, and we aren't shy of controversy." Merissa said. “But I don't want to bring a Baron's wrath on me unduly. We've done that sort of thing before, and it's not fun – trust me. Have you even seen our show yet?"

     “My father wouldn't have allowed me. But I'd have liked to." Fletcher said, looking at the ground. It felt so flimsy and stupid, he certainly wouldn't bring them along in her place. Merissa sighed.

     “I see."

     “We just need to leave." Fletcher went on. “We can pay you, I don't have much but--"

     “Hold up. Isn't your family the richest in the area? Sort of by definition?" She cocked her head. Fletcher flushed deeper again.

     “Well, er…yes." He said. “But that's my father's money. I'm only given what he thinks I…well, need. It isn't much."

     “The boy's father scarcely allows him out of the house, let alone the district. Bit of a control freak at the best of times." Thume scoffed.

     “Ah."

     “But we can work!" Fletcher interjected quickly. “If you don't want me to shoot I can lift things, serve food, sell tickets, whatever you need! Please, I just can't be here any longer, and I don't know a better way out of the city!" Fletcher leaned forward in his seat, earning a raised eyebrow from both Merissa and Thume.

     Thume cleared his throat. “Mason Fulbright is a small minded individual. The kind that gives you respect for the gravity and scope of an ant's mental capacity." He said. “His lawmen are all aware he doesn't like Fletch going walkabout, and it's difficult to get into the Baron's good graces. We would never be allowed to leave."

     “Go yourselves, in a disguise perhaps?" Merissa cocked her head. “I could lend you a costume."

     “Word would get out fast." Fletcher mumbled. “Two men, a coyote and a goat…doesn't matter the disguise, they'd track us down." Goats weren't rare enough to make the news this far south, but they were certainly uncommon enough that people were happy to stare.

     “I see." Merissa said slowly, mulling it over. “I will be straight with you two. Things, they have not been exactly lucrative for our show as of late. People are getting bored with what we have, the world is maturing and while I'm not struggling to put food in mouths nobody is living in luxury here. I just don't know if I can afford to support two new – and untrained - bodies, especially on such short notice. It will be at least a month before you could perform even!" Fletcher felt his heart sink.

     “We don't eat much." Thume said. “And hell, if you can't make it work, once we're clear of Fulbright us two could take off. Leave ya in peace and book it to Quindon."

     “I want to help you I do." Merissa said. “And it's not any of my business…" She stood, sighing. “But I simply can't take the risk, especially with two of you. Maybe six months ago, but now? We are a family here, the only family most of us have left, and I won't jeopardise their wellbeing, not for you."

     “Please, you have to!" Fletcher said, standing suddenly. Merissa looked taken aback, her neck feathers rustling slightly.

     “I don't have to do a single damned thing young man. And as nice as you seem, I'm not about to invite risk for some rich heir who's bored, because his father won't let him play outside. I am sorry, but that's simply how it is." She snapped the last bit, and Fletcher felt himself wince.

Wrong move. The raven stood and Dessica Ablish's face entered Fletcher's mind. The idea of her naked body laying down, expecting him to…

     “Please. You don't understand…" He groaned, turning even as Merissa walked past him.

     “Whining will do no good on me lad." She said curtly. “Now if you may excuse me I have a show to pack down." And with a flourish she was gone.

Fletcher stared at the swinging tent flap, suddenly both furious and crushed. He looked to Thume pleadingly.

     “I'm sorry Fletch." He said. “It was worth a shot…but…well it was unlikely at best. We'll have to try our luck alone, maybe bribe a lawman." He shrugged. Fletcher felt tears in his eyes and he gritted his teeth.

     Be ready to impress them. That's what Thume had said, but he hadn't even had the chance! If he let this go, they could run on their own…but Mason would find them. And then Fletcher would never be allowed outside ever again, it would all just get worse. He couldn't marry a person he didn't love; couldn't agree to spend his whole life with someone he couldn't be attracted to even if he forced it.

     He slung his rifle off one shoulder, clutching it in paw and storming outside.

     “Wait!" He cried out. Merissa was a few metres from the tent, talking with a lean jackal in a leather coat done nearly up to the neck. The raven turned slowly as Fletcher approached, her expression displeased.

     “What now boy?" Merissa snapped. “I'm an understanding woman, but you're trying my patience."

     “You didn't even give me a chance!" Fletcher blurted, his voice cracking slightly. “I came here to impress you and you just left! I-I didn't even explain why I have to leave!"

     “I said no." Merissa said firmly, turning away. “I'm sorry but life isn't fair, the reason is immaterial now."

     “My father, he's going to force me into a marriage with a woman I've hardly exchanged three words with; just because it'll get him some trade agreement with the Ablish Baron!"

     “So say no, it's not my problem." Merissa said, looking back to the jackal. Who was watching curiously.

     “He doesn't work that way!" Fletcher insisted. He stepped forward again, grabbing the raven's arm and tugging at her. “Please, I…" He swallowed, thinking back to yesterday when he'd begged Thume similarly.

     “I know you'll tell me to suck it up, I've heard it before. But there's this contract, and she's so much older than me and…and she's a woman!" Fletcher was ranting now, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, threatening to break free and wet his fur. “I don't even like women like that, I can't…I tried! I don't want to cheat on her, I don't want to be forced to have pups or foals or…with her…I…Please, my father is insane and I can't stay here anymore! You said that Meridian is a family and that's what I need so badly. Please. Please don't leave me here alone. I'll do whatever you want. Anything!" The raven stared down at him.

     Fletcher wiped at his eyes, noting the jackal behind her, his gaze flicking between the two. Merissa opened her beak to say something, but the jackal put a paw gently on her shoulder.

     “Rissa…" He said, his voice was even and calm. She glanced back.

     “Ooooh no, don't you do this to me...not now. We don't have enough money and you know it!" The jackal cocked his head, ears splaying.

     “Is that what you would have said back in Whitewall?" He asked. Merissa sighed deeply. The jackal let her go, stepping away and approaching a nearby pile of crates, being slowly stacked into a wagon by a delicately proportioned fox.

     “Don't drag me into more of ya drama, I ain't touchin' this with a ten-foot-pole." The fox said gruffly, before the jackal had even opened his mouth.

     “Which one of these has plates in it?" He asked simply. The fox gave Fletcher a sharp glare, then gestured to one. The jackal pulled three wide plates out. “Rack your rifle boy." He called, and Fletcher quickly knocked the slide in place, one smooth motion. Behind the jackal, the fox blanched, his mouth hanging open in shock.

     “What'd those plates do to you?" He grumbled, turning back.

     “Go on then!" Merissa insisted, right as the jackal hurled the three plates straight up into the air. They veered slightly, spinning and each going in a slightly different direction, soaring easily enough.

     Fletcher exhaled quickly, squaring his feet in an instant. He slammed the rifle butt into his shoulder and popped the first plate, tiny chunks of ceramic raining down even as he shot the second and then the third, slamming the bolt into place between each shot.

     The bits of plate shattered across the muddy ground. Merissa glared first at Fletcher, then at the jackal, then back to Fletcher.

     “Damn you. Nobody is going to wait around on you! Everybody pulls their own weight around here." She exclaimed. Fletcher nodded eagerly, wiping again at his eyes. “Old Gods damn you Lyric." She groaned to the jackal.

     I can't believe that worked. Fletcher thought, still in shock.

     “Go on then!" The raven continued, gesturing to a far-off wagon. “Throw your lot in there, then come back here and give poor Aloysius a paw picking up what you did to his plates." And then she stormed off, muttering about being surrounded by easily-influenced pups. Fletcher glanced at the jackal, who shrugged, turning on his heel and walking away.

     “Well shit boy." Thume said from behind him, coming up and clapping him on the back. “Guess you impressed."