5

MIDNIGHT MOON

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“And so I tells the blasted Thud. I’ll put up whatever banner I damn well please. It’s a free Protectorate ain’t it.”

“Oh, I imagine he didn’t like that.”

“Ah, bleeding Hestian’s ain’t so tough. You just gotta shows em’ you ain’t scared. Lay down the line.”

Wylson listened to the two drunks with half and ear and one eye open. Face down at his table.

“Was it a big one?” The drunk with the scar on his face asked.

“Huge,” the drunk shouted, slamming his tankard onto the bar-top. “With those beady little yellow eyes, mouth full of fangs, claws as long as my little finger.” The bald drunk held up the finger in question, waggling the digit for emphasis. “So he says to me, that my banner is oppressing him. That the Second Sons pressed his people into service. So I says to him, right they was to do so. You leathernecks can barely read. What else is you good for.”

Wylson snickered lightly into his hand. Baldy over there didn’t know how lucky he was to still have his head on his shoulders. Empty as it may be.

“And what did he say?” The scared drunk asked.

“Nothing. Just growled at me. Got this scary look in his eye. Then his old lady came out and started yelling at him in lizard speak, trying to push him in the house. Bastard should have listened to his woman, instead he tries to brush me off. Starts jumping at my window to snatch my banner down. So I does the perfectly reasonable thing.”

“Told him what for?”

“Nah, I hit him over the head with a two by four.”

“Hah,” the scared man said, drinking from his own mug. “That’ll show the blue bastards. Damn leathernecks.”

“Then those blasted Krysties showed up. Jackboot bastards dragged me before the courts. And that bitch Judiciary says I gotta pay blood price to the leatherneck, on account of him having a concussion. I told em’ he was trespassing. That it was my right to defend my property. Can you believe that bitch took the Krysties word over mine, one of her own. They says to her, I just ran up and tried to kill him.” Baldy slammed his tankard onto the counter. “If I’d wanted to kill him, I wouldn’t have hit him in the head. I’d’ve hit him an organ those bloody lizards actually use. Pfft. You should’ve heard his peanut brain rattle when that board hit em’.”

Both men laughed, but it died down as they took long pulls on their mugs.

The scared man spat to the side of the bar, before speaking. “Dimming Krysties, walking around like they owns the place. As if this town weren’t shite enough without them stopping all over the city.”

“Bloody right,” baldy agreed. “All cause some of their fancy pants lords got offed in Gratis. Where was they when the quakes tore your brother’s flat down last month?”

“Bastards don’t give a damn about us.”

“And the king just lets em’ do whatever they dimming want. Licking their Krysty boots. Let me catch that crown wearing, knot-head, fop on the streets. I’ll…”

Wylson didn’t hear the rest of the drunk’s empty boasting. He heard footsteps approaching his table, so he shut his eyes and began to snore obnoxiously.

“I didn’t order the fish,” he mumbled incoherently, as two pairs of strong hands lifted him under the arms and hauled him off of the table.

He noted the demeanors of the two drunks in his mind, filling them away for later use. If he ever needed to play a brainless, belligerent rebel toady, then he knew exactly what mannerisms to use and accent to butcher. He started practicing the slurred jumble under his breath, trying to the r’s just right, as the barmen dragged him outside and deposited him into the gutter.

The light of a blood-red moon broke through the clouds over Skithia, shining scarlet light into soiled alleyways and forgotten side streets. City buildings closed in on every side, casting shadows that even the brightest of lights could not banish. Shadows that provided a convenient screen for those who thrived in the dark of night.

The deserted alleyways were a dim contrast to the well lit and crowded main streets of Tetamin City. They provided the only means of surreptitious travel through the city. Anansi Wylson flexed his arms inside his dingy brown jacket, making sure not to dishevel too many of the caked flakes of mud crusted onto the sleeves. Stepping over puddles of bile and vehicle oil, he moved through the alleys if he owned them. And he did, in a way. Wylson was of the streets, and therefore the streets were his. One need only glance down at his boots to see that, stained with grease and saturated with foul grit as they were. His matching auburn brown hair was likewise flecked with specks of dust and grime. His hair was shaggy and unkempt. Not in a topknot of course. Wylson had always thought those looked ridiculous. The look, gave credence to his alibi for the evening, tossed into the gutter after a bender.

Stepping over one of the back alley’s less affluent residents, he tried to refocus on the task at hand. He looked up as he walked, glancing at the protruding bars of cracked Soulstone. No one was watching. No one cared to. Not even the Anima. The streets of Tetamin were strewn with the diseased and the downtrodden. The city was populated by selfishness and fear, and therefore ruled by it.

Which was why Wylson was free to walk right into the Midnight Moon Tavern and Gambling Den for one of his more… legally challenged business ventures. He adjusted his coat before stepping out of the alley and onto Tyne Street. The crimson light of the moon above illuminated the street, making everything seem red and angry. As if the world itself were seething, broiling with unchecked rage. It was of course, and the moonlight only served to emphasize that fact. M’dami was always the last of Terrene’s three moons to rise, adding an almost supernatural red light to the lands beneath it, and to the tavern that owed the moon its namesake. The proprietor didn’t call his tavern Blood Moon, of course. That would have been too on the nose, even for Apophis Nester.

The glowing hollowcast displayed above the Midnight Moon was a clear indication of what one could expect to find inside. The stylized, red lettering was a classic tribute to Eraela gaming arena in Hesbuul. Unfortunately the effect was dampened by the flickering hollowcast “D” and “O” in Midnight Moon. Even still, Wylson could easily make out the club’s doormen, Orcis and Mors, in the soft, pink light of Mi-night Mo-n.

Wylson fought back a sigh. He’d gone through all the trouble of monitoring the tavern’s shift changes and preparing an alibi for the evening, only to have the only two guards who knew him show up on their night off. Wylson would recognize those hulking Hestian frames and rough cerulean skin from a league away. Fortunately, Hestians were no more skilled with Solarasis, than he was. They were just the regular kind of strong, four or so times his strength. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Those pea shooters at their hips on the other hand.

Sunstone powered revolvers with soulstone bullets. Not the kind of weapon a Solar would use, but just as deadly, if not more so. He did his best to ignore the guns.

Wylson fashioned his face into a winning smile and swaggered up to the doormen, raising his arms in greeting without breaking stride. “Mors! Orcis! My two favorite shoulder-thumpers,” he said, working his best slur into his voice.

The two Hestians looked so similar that Wylson had often wondered if they were twins. Wylson could see identical spots of emerald-green skin mixed with the blue as their bare arms flexed with tension. The two bruisers stared daggers at him with identical pairs of amber-hued slit pupil eyes, peering down their noses at him. On their collarbones were the triple nested diamond tattoos of Anurai, the most prominent gang this side of the Prefecturate. Wylson had seen that mark on half the clubs in Tetamin, and on every RAz dealer he’d ever met.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The Hestian thugs leaned down towards him, then drew back as if they found his scent offensive or repugnant. As if they didn’t smell like a burning belt factory. Wylson kept walking. As if on cue, their arms snapped up to the edges of the doorway. Their skin-tight, leathery, black suits creaked with the strain of sudden movement. Their arms may as well have been scaffolding, barring Wylson’s path. They had no reason to fear a man with no Solaric ability.

Wylson sighed. “Fellas,” he chuckled. “Must we play this game every time I drop by for a night at the moon?”

Mors snarled. “No games. Not this time,” He punctuated his words with several pokes into Wylson’s chest.

“Nester's sick of your bugshite, Wylson,” Orcis added.

“If you can't pay, then you can't play,” Mors said.

“You dodge your tab, you annoy the other customers…,”

“And you annoy us.”

“Turn around, go back in your alley, and crawl back into whatever hole you came out of,” spat Orcis, raising his arm and pointing to the alley in question.

Wylson shrugged, giving the thugs a wink and affixing his face with an affable grin. “Guys, as much fun as this is, I really do prefer betting games. So if you don't mind…” He made as if to step by them, leaning to duck under their outstretched arms.

“Are you deaf, Grub?” Orcis growled, giving Wylson a firm shove that nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Go to the five hells! You spineless worm!” added Mors.

Wylson winked again.

“And cut our game short?”

Mors stepped forward, grabbing Wylson by the collar of his scruffy jacket. “On second thought, Grub,” Mors said. “Maybe we go out back and play a new game.” Orcis chuckled. “I call it, Crush.”

Perhaps Wylson was pushing this a tad too far.

In a flash of movement, a segmented card appeared in Wylson's hand, flicked out from a compartment he had flash-sewn into his sleeve. He had fast hands. With his other hand, he reached over the hulking arm that gripped him to snap a single serrated chip off of the card. Holding it out to Orcis, the other Hestian’s eyes widened as he slowly opened his hand, allowing Wylson to deposit the snap into his massive scaly palm.

Their brows furrowed in confusion, their blunt, blue faces creasing into wrinkled masses. Wylson supposed that they weren’t exactly used to him… paying, as it were. And they certainly hadn’t been expecting him to use silver to do it.

“Snaps?” Orcis said, gravely voice breathy with astonishment.

Pieces were the smaller denomination of currency. Snapped off of a thin sheet of metal, cast from the same materials as the more valuable Plates. Either Copper, Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Platinum. Pieces were easy to pass about. And Wylson had just dropped two silvers as if they were copper.

“As good as pure plate, Gentlemen,” Wylson answered. “Don’t spend it all in one place.” Although that was often the point of snaps.

“Where did a grub like you get bank like that?” asked Mors.

Both Hestians had their slit-pupil eyes locked on the tiny chip in Orcis’s hand. Wylson smirked, managing to shrug, even with only the very tips of his toes touching the ground.

“You don't really expect me to answer that do you? Now if you…” Wylson taped at Mors's hand with a finger. The Hestian, realizing that he still held Wylson in his ham-handed grip, reluctantly released his hold. Falling to the flats of his feet, Wylson brushed imaginary dust from his well-worn coat, only to smear actual grime onto his hands. “If you don't mind, I'd like to go game with the other paying customers.”

Sideling past the door men, Wylson walked into the club through the open door. As he crossed the threshold into the club proper, he heard a thick, gravely voice thunder behind him. The two thugs must’ve recovered from their sun-struck gawking.

“Don't make us come in there after you, Wylson!”

Wylson ignored the leathernecks. Stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, he scanned about the club with eager eyes. There were two kinds of people living on Skithia. Merchant lords, guild bigwigs who ran the city from the paradise side of the isles, and the beaten down, working stiffs of Tetamin. Both were welcome in Midnight Moon. As long as they could pay.

The tavern was located in the Habitation Quarter, a section of town that lay in the shadow of Lothai Tower. Wylson called it home. But most people just called the old Echelon structure The Zoo after the menagerie of disparate peoples living in unkempt close confines. The club was an escape for the residents of the tower, guild washouts like himself. Something that could be seen at a glance. Most wore the rough vests and trousers of mill and cannery workers. They had no Krystarian uniforms, no colors to display. If they had, they were wise enough not to strut about in them. The Krysties weren’t particularly popular in Skithia these days. And that attack in Gratis had only heightened the tension.

None knelt under the Krystarium, my arse.

Wylson snorted, eyes squinting as he adjusted to the lighting inside the club. In addition to the light of the Sunhearth, bright sunlamps shined spotlights on the game floor and dance stage. For the most part, Wylson ignored the dancers spinning about on raised platforms. A dark-skinned Nukare man, with scarlet hair and scant lingerie, and a two-horned Crijatan doing back flips in a traditional loincloth. But he spared a glance for the orange-plumed Mazeroki woman in the center. He had never seen hips sway quite like that before.

Wylson suspected that Nester would gladly drop the live dancers, if he could get by on hollowcasts alone. Less people to pay that way. Most likely, Nester offset the cost by engaging the dancers in escort services under the table. The gangster would not be willing to meet the safety regulations that a brothel permit required.

He was, by all unbiased accounts, a complete tosser.

The game floor of Midnight Moon was checkered with games tables. Scatia, a Crijatan Tileset game, was a favorite. Hestian Throwing Wheels lined one of the walls, with members of every species attempting to throw the forty stone disks into cork targets, with varying degrees of success. Card games were also common on the floor, although Wylson did not have particularly good luck with those. There was even an A’telaval table, with a tall and star shaped playing board. The game was popular among the Mazeroki. One of the few they played.

Regardless, Simu-suites and Abyssal Dice weren’t why he had dragged himself to his least favorite smuggler’s private gambling den and escort stop. On the other side of the door to the back office, opposite the simu-suite, was the bar. Wylson walked up the bar and took a seat at one of the stools, which were attached to the bar via metal rods bolted to the underside. Wylson didn’t appreciate the design. He couldn’t spin in the seat unless he doubled up and raised his knees to his chest. A move that, Wylson knew from experience, was frowned upon.

Wylson took a hand from his pocket and gestured at the bar keep, a scruffy cheeked Crijatan with one horn. He wore a pleated yellow vest and his large eyes were so dark that they looked like black pearls. He glutted at Wylson in the Crijatan tongue.

“Sepher, no ice,” Wylson said.

The Crijatan stared silently at him, reaching up to scratch his fur covered cheek. Wylson sighed, and reached back into his pocket to pull out the snap card. Breaking off one of the smaller snaps, he placed it on the bar top. The Crijatan reeled back slightly, his already large onyx eyes widening. He reached out to snatch up the snap, as though he were scared Wylson might try to take it back.

The barkeep then raised his right hand and began to work his fingers about in the air. Behind him, dozens of spirits and wines were arranged in intricate containers. One of them, a hand-sized, pyramid shaped, decanter filled with clear liquid, began to shake. The Crijatan barkeep grabbed a glass from a cylindricallly stacked assortment of containers next to him, just as the cork popped off of the Sepher bottle. A trickle of the clear liquid flowed around the barkeep’s rolling fingers and filled the waiting glass two thirds of the way with the sepher. He placed it on the counter in front of Wylson.

Wylson snorted. Nymphs.

“Show off,” he said, and scooped up the cup.

Wylson took a swig of the beverage as he glanced about the room. Then with one finger, just a casual brush, Wylson pressed the wristlet concealed inside his sleeve. Causing the Soulstone interior of the band to press against his flesh. Wylson was no Solar, but he could do this much. He just hoped his partner was ready and in position.

And safe.

*****

Elemental Affinities are those that push life into the natural elements that make up the universe around us. These are the most common of Solaric Affinities, often passed down from ones parents and going back through several generations of a single family. Families of long noble ancestry, are often known for a single Affinity dominating even the farthest branches of the family.

From An Introduction to Elementary Solarisis

By Artemis Grunwell, Born of Crijatakure, under Bhazima

Crijahtan Institute of Science and Solarics