The merchant woke up breathing hard. The bottom of a rough burlap sack was scratching against her face; it smelled of dirt and old carrots. Voices and heavy footsteps sounded out around her, but she couldn’t make out any of them. Her first instinct was to shut her eyes and try to place a signal. Last she remembered, she’d been wandering through the Near Northwest as Short Queen. That was certainly still true; there’d been no joining up since then. How she knew that, she never could explain.
Short Queen could sense Doctor C and Lefty nearby, but their presence was weak, as if it had been filtered through a wall of water. She tried to join up with them, but couldn’t. Her heart began to race, and she felt faint. That was never supposed to happen.
An unseen hand abruptly pulled the sack from Short Queen’s face, and harsh light shone down. A fancily dressed gnome, sporting a shiny name tag that simply read H.P., appeared at her feet. H.P. climbed onto a pedestal to meet the merchant at eye level, and silently examined her from behind his silver spectacles. The merchant was human and on the younger side, with a tight bun and—
“Hey, you! Beady eyes off!” Short Queen snapped. “Let me go, or my union representative will come kick your front door in!”
“Oh, darling, what a ridiculous notion!” said H.P., who had a grating voice and unsettling eyes. “You’re nothing but a merchant. Expendable. Easy to forget. And even if somebody did miss you, they’d never think to look for you here!”
“I-I’m serious!” Short Queen said. “I’ll bet you anything I’ve got people looking for me already!”
As she said it, she knew it couldn’t be true. For as long as she could remember, the only ones truly looking out for Connie Conciencia had been Connie’s own selves. And if Short Queen could no longer link up with the others, that meant she had just lost all her greatest allies. Her only allies.
“Besides, I’m going to reinvent you anyway, baby,” H.P. continued. “Soon you’ll be fabulous, a superstar! And the who won’t matter—it’s the what that’ll make Uncle Herophilus here a rich man!”
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“You forgot what bruteberries do?” Connie snickered, as her moving shop slowly chugged through the woods. “You’re telling me your café has exactly one ingredient that could spawn a monster—”
“I get it,” Lyle groaned. “Not one of my brighter moments—”
“And only in a certain situation too—”
“Which is why we never have to enforce that rule!” Lyle interrupted. “Really, who in their right mind brings a badger into a café?”
“And you let that exact situation happen not five minutes into your journey,” Connie laughed. “Lyle Larsen, you sure are something else.”
“Look, if we excuse the fact that BGBs are cute and I felt really bad for this one,” Lyle sighed, "the damn thing was following me! Probably wouldn't have stopped until I gave it food. What was I supposed to do, scare it off?"
“Of course not!” said Connie. “You use badger repellent. Duh.” With her free hand, she reached beneath the driver’s seat and pulled out a red can of Hamlin the Handy’s Patented BGB-Gone!. “Here. You clearly need it more than I do.”
“Badger repellent,” Lyle repeated. “Can’t wait to thank my boss later for definitely telling me this existed. Also, you carry that around at all times? Isn’t that oddly specific?”
“There are tons of oddly specific dangers out there; why not be prepared?” Connie shifted one of the tiles on the caravan roof to reveal a wooden crate full of almost a hundred repellent cans in all different colors. “Okay, so I’m a bit of a hoarder. But check this out—” she took a lime-green can and examined it— “Cliché-Away? It works on any story riddled with tired, played-out plot points.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” said Lyle. “You can pry the reluctant hero trope from my cold dead hands.”
“Noted!” Connie said, and shuffled the white Cliché-Away can back into the crate. “Wait, here’s a good one: Annoying Customer Spray—”
“Mine.” Without an ounce of hesitation, Lyle snatched the repellent and pocketed it. “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish smile. “You’re a merchant. You understand.”
“Keep it!” Connie giggled. “I’ve got a bigger one in here somewhere.”
Soon, the tall trees thinned out and the rolling meadows returned. After discovering Short Queen’s destroyed caravan, Lyle and Connie had immediately changed course, but Lyle still had no idea where they were going. Lefty’s caravan, with Doctor C's caravan hooked up from behind and Short Queen’s wreck being towed at the very back, had been moving northeast for an hour. Connie was apparently leading the whole procession with some sort of sixth sense. But Lyle didn’t get it.
“Sorry if it’s rude to ask this again,” Lyle piped up, “but what exactly is the situation with the…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “The other versions of you?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” said Connie. “They’re not other versions. They’re all me. I can split into many identical selves, and each of my selves is just as much Constance as any of the others. The alternate names are just so we can refer to each other when we’re all split up. We tried numbers, but it felt dehumanizing.”
“Okay, I guess that makes sense,” Lyle said. “Earlier, though, I saw Lefty and Doctor C do some sort of fusion…thing.”
“Joining up.”
“Joining up. Right. But are you Lefty now, or are you Doctor C?”
“Both. But also…kinda neither,” Connie mused. “I remember being both of them. It’s the same thing if three of us join up, or thirty. I can also slightly sense where all my other selves are. That’s how I’m tracking Short Queen.”
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” said Lyle, whose brain was still hurting. “Wait—back up. Thirty? You have thirty selves?”
“And those are just the ones who work daytime shifts,” Connie laughed humorlessly.
“Wow,” Lyle whispered. “So you don’t really stop, do you?”
“Nah,” said Connie, letting her figure slump. “Even if I get eight hours of sleep, I know I’ve still got selves who wander these Questlands in the dead of night. And every time we all fully join up—every time we become just one Connie—I remember everything the others felt, and it’s enough to make a girl collapse in on herself.”
“I never considered that part,” Lyle said quietly. “You do the work of so many people, but at the end of the day it’s all just you. And everybody says the Wandering Merchants at ApotheCare are the best in the business. Whether that’s true or not, it puts a lot of pressure on you, doesn’t it? The way folks in Reminok are, I’m willing to bet they forget you’re just a person sometimes. I’ll bet they force you onto a pedestal you didn’t ask for.”
Connie raised an eyebrow, shocked at hearing that feeling so precisely put into words. “That’s exactly it. How did you—wait!” Connie stopped the caravan and jumped to the ground. “Short Queen’s signal just got stronger! She’s here!” In the distance stood a crowded tent beneath a floating sign, like the kind ad companies cast into the city skies, only smaller. The sign read, Herophilus’ House of Heroes, and the line to get inside stretched all around the tent.
“Short Queen must be in there!” Connie said. “But why are there so many people?”
“Oh hell,” Lyle growled. “I wasn’t planning on visiting one of these cesspools today.”
“Wait, what?” Connie gasped. “What’s wrong with this place?”
“It’s a magnet for all the Wren Honeysuckles of the world,” Lyle said with utmost disgust. “I know you don't know who that is, but...the most shameless heroes come here to turn a profit posing for Memo-Runes and giving out autographs. That is, if they’re not being held hostage and forced to rake in the coppers for someone even more shameless. And if someone crashed Short Queen’s caravan and took her here, I’m guessing she’s not waiting in line to get her forehead signed.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Wait, but I’m no hero!” Connie cried. “I don’t even have a Mark! And even if I did, you think people are so desperate to rub shoulders with celebrities that they’ll line up for someone they don’t even recognize?”
“Without a doubt,” Lyle said dryly. “Especially with a strange gift like yours, the multiplying thing you do. Superfans see that kind of thing as a novelty, no offense. And even if you were totally normal, well, so am I. And since I got my Mark, random folks on the streets of the city want to meet me, just to say they know a hero. Any hero.”
“Ah.”
“It’s oddly demeaning, too,” Lyle said, “seeing people notice this Mark decide they’ve learned all they need to know about me. Even if they’re only thinking good things, some arbitrary symbol shouldn’t make me just better than everybody else.”
“So that’s how you understand,” Connie realized, studying the House of Heroes crowd with morbid fascination. “Lyle, I have an idea. And I hate to say this, but you might have to take advantage of that arbitrary symbol. Just once. For me.”
“What’s your idea?” Lyle asked. “And why would it involve—” He paused, remembering his unpleasant encounters with Wren and the other hero-crazed city folks, and suddenly he realized what Connie was plotting. “No. No way. I am not about to put myself in front of these fanatics willingly.”
“It would turn a lot of heads,” said Connie. “Maybe even make a big enough diversion for me to slip into that tent. One of my selves is in trouble, so hero or not, you’ll just have to suck it up.”
“Fine,” Lyle groaned. “I’ve dealt with plenty of terrible customers at the café. How much worse can this be?”
“That’s the spirit.” Connie took Lyle’s arm, and they hopped down from the caravan roof together. “Alright, the barista uniform’s gotta go,” she muttered, as she opened up the side of the vehicle and started to poke around. “Luckily, this week ApotheCare’s doing a cross-promotion with Armor Outfitters, so I can loan you a nice, fashionable set. You’ll be looking shiny and heroic in no time.” She glanced at Lyle’s belt. “The sword is good. Keep that on full display.” From the seemingly endless cabinets of the caravan, she took out a sleek silver helmet, pairs of armbands and greaves, and a titanic chestplate that was so polished Lyle could see his reflection in it. “Here.”
Lyle haphazardly stepped into the armor, which clashed with his Overture Café polo and made him feel as heavy as a walking boulder.
He stared at himself in the caravan’s hanging mirror and grimaced. “One time. Then let’s never discuss this again, please.”
“Deal,” said Connie. “Now go get your hero on.”
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The new abductee was doing great. Herophilus had given her a two-piece chainmail suit with a legitimate-looking Blue Mark patch sewed on. He’d also given her a new name and forced her to memorize a tragic backstory—some fans went wild for a good tragedy. Of course, H.P. had let the girl choose. He wasn’t a total monster. But the alternative, as usual, was to starve.
So the girl chose to be a good little actress.
All the while, H.P. was sitting in the corner behind a concealment spell of his own making, counting his growing pile of coppers with a greedy grin. He had a perfect view as his team of false heroes worked the crowd. That way, he could make sure they stuck to the script and didn’t try anything funny. H.P.’s enterprise had worked this way, flawlessly, for almost nine moons. But suddenly, he and his team found themselves facing an uncommon sight—an empty tent.
“Why, this is not fabulous at all,” Herophilus muttered. “My darlings, what happened to all our paying customers?”
“Somebody outside got their attention,” rumbled a much older actor.
“I’ll bet it’s a city official,” Short Queen hissed. “Someone who will end this whole operation and expose you for the fraud you are!”
“Oh, relax,” H.P. sneered. “We’ve just got a little competition—so what? People are fickle, their attention spans fleeting. They’ll be back.” He sauntered past the group, weaving a blank rune stone between his fingers. “Since you’re so worried, though, I’ll gladly reassure you by going out there and incinerating whoever dares to try and steal my fans today.”
Just outside the tent, a hero stood poised, his blade raised toward the sky, and sunlight brilliantly reflecting off of his armor. His red Mark, depicting a hammer and an ornate letter L, shone like a beacon, and the commoners gathered around him.
“Greetings, fine citizens of the High Northwest!” shouted the hero, his voice ringing out across the hilltops. “I am Lyle the Mighty, slayer of the ever-changing Poltergeist King, and today only, I am offering you all the greatest gift I can muster: one session of autographs and pictures with yours truly, completely free of charge!”
“Free?” one of the commoners gasped. “That’s the best deal ever!”
"Hey, you!" H.P. snapped at Lyle. "You're interfering with my business—now get out of here before I make you!"
“Well, no way I'm paying a thousand coppers for one photo op now!” another customer piped up.
“Forget the House of Heroes!” chimed a third. “Let’s go meet Lyle the Mighty!” The entire crowd cheered and swarmed around Lyle. Herophilus seethed and began to mutter into his rune stone. All this commotion was the perfect window for a young Wandering Merchant to slip into the tent.
“Don’t you dare hide from me, hero!” H.P. screeched, as a searing bolt of energy charged up in the rune stone. “Come out so I can make an example of you!"
"I would, but I'm a little tied up at the moment!" Lyle grunted—in terms of respecting personal space, the fans left much to be desired.
H.P. flashed a wicked smile. “Oh, I'll get to you one way or another. I've built myself a following before, and I can do it again."
“What’s that supposed to—” In the corner of his eye, he saw H.P.’s spell building up. With horror, Lyle realized Herophilus was aiming the light blast right into the center of the crowd. He'd destroy all these people just to get to me, Lyle thought. Like the other day, back in the café with the Poltergeist King, some kind of pure instinct flooded Lyle’s bones. He knew exactly what he had to do.
“Citizens, as your hero I demand you make way!” Lyle bellowed. “Get me in front of that spell!”
The sea of fans parted. Lyle charged at the spellcasting gnome, his blade fully outstretched.
“There you are!” Herophilus cried. “Time to die, glory hog!”
He released the horrible blast, which collided with Lyle’s painstakingly polished chestplate…
And bounced straight off.
The beam scorched the grass, missing H.P.’s tiny frame by mere inches.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Lyle mumbled, and made a mental note to thank Connie for the reflective armor. He turned to the utterly rattled Herophilus next. "You. How's it feel to have a near-death experience?"
“Why, I think I mistook you for someone else,” H.P. laughed nervously. “No hard feelings we can’t settle over a cup of tea and some bruteberry muffins, I’m sure!”
Suddenly, the slippery gnome was staring down the sharp end of Lyle’s sword. He gulped. “On second thought, you don’t look all that hungry. I think I’ll just—” He threw down another rune and vanished in a puff of smoke.
Behind Lyle, the fans erupted into applause, and with mild annoyance, Lyle remembered he’d had an audience for all this.
“That was amazing, Mighty One!” one of the spectators said, and vigorously shook Lyle’s hand. “You’re an inspiration to all of us!”
“Yeah!” added another. “I never could’ve guessed that the guy selling meet-and-greets for a thousand coppers apiece wouldn’t have all our best interests at heart!”
“Well, that’s why you’re not the hero, dude,” a third fan replied.
“See that, Lyle?” a familiar voice sounded out. “Hero or not, I knew you could do it.” Connie was standing outside the tent, beaming with gratitude. Behind her, a series of bedraggled actors crawled out from their prison, one at a time.
“Let me guess,” Lyle said with a smile. “Lefty, Doctor C, and Short Queen?”
“You bet!” said Connie. “By the way, you were right about heroes. In Herophilus’s tent, I think I saw that dark side of reality you were talking about. And wow, is it awful.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Lyle giggled. Then he hesitated, before extending his hand. “I’m sorry you know what it’s like to be put on a pedestal too. For the record, you’ve got a friend at the Overture Café from now on. Or, at least, someone who won’t forget you’re just a person doing her best. Same as any of us.”
Connie was secretly tickled pink by that idea. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” she said, faking indifference. “If you ever want…I dunno, some discounted health potions or another can of Annoying Customer repellent, come find one of my caravans. I’m everywhere.”
“Or maybe a day of actual shadowing sometime?” Lyle proposed. “There’s still been no professional skill-building today.”
Connie wiggled her eyebrows in amusement. “Hasn’t there been? You just went toe-to-toe with an evil runecaster and survived, even if the way you survived was totally ridiculous. Plus, you’re finally donning armor, and for the first time all day, you’re holding your sword right!”
Lyle went red and tucked his blade away. “Those are all hero skills.”
“Well, you’ll have to forgive me for saying this, but I think you’ve got potential,” Connie said. “You could be a great hero if you wanted to, I think.”
Lyle wouldn’t admit it in a million years, but Connie’s sentiment made him feel the slightest bit warm and fuzzy inside.
“On another note, I can’t wait until that creep Herophilus realizes what else we did,” Connie continued. “The back of his tent was full of all these wild animals in cages. A Southeastern Halcyon, a Brutal Gorging Badger, you name it. So I set them all free too. Maybe they’ll have a field day trashing all his things.”
“Huh,” Lyle said. “He owned a BGB. That’s funny.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
Lyle thought of H.P.’s final suggestion—that they talk their problems out over bruteberry muffins. “It means he’s an ordinary city dude through and through,” Lyle snickered.
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After the hero, his merchant friend, and the crowd of fanatics had all left, a smoke column rose up in the House of Heroes tent, and H.P. reappeared.
“Well, this has been a very un-fabulous day,” H.P. growled, as he looked around. “My actors, my riches, my exotic pets…gone.” He took his solitary chair in the corner and angrily thrust it aside. “Know this, Lyle the Mighty, I will have my revenge!”
His stomach grumbled loudly. “What am I saying? I can’t plot vengeance on an empty stomach. This calls for muffins.” He reached for his baking tin—that, too, was mostly empty, except for a few bright red crumbs.
Herophilus didn’t notice the enormous shadow moving along the wall. He wasn’t ready for the fearsome creature, with its razor-sharp fangs and red-stained muzzle, to burst through the fabric and pounce.
However, it was no longer a mystery where his bruteberry muffins had gone.