Did you know your taxes pay for Penitents to flagellate themselves? Yeah, that’s right. Three years ago, the Conclave approved a ‘research grant’ to the black robes to sit in rings of candles and moan at all hours of the night.
The Penitents like to avoid attention. Their favored deacon, Maxwell, will go on and on about the phantom threat of ominous names like “Brant” that are corrupting our youth. We’ve all heard that one by now.
What Maxwell won’t tell you is that he’s taking Ruhum’s money to huff incense in the hopes of seeing God. Funny. That sounds a lot like that southern heresy…
Let’s celebrate some pastoral hypocrisy with a song! Next up is…
Spring 31
The next morning , Oliver glanced out the window of his apartment above the Mayor’s Dive and spotted a trio of Tommy’s gangsters loitering casually at the bend in the road. They made camp on the stoop of the barber shop, watching both sides of the street and the door into his diner. To pass the time, they smoked and nursed beers.
“Camped for the day, huh?” he murmured to his dish rag.
Both rag and table declined to comment.
He considered his new friends. Did you take our last little talk personally, Tommy?
Possible, but that had been several weeks ago. He never marked Tommy as the sort to play a long con. The boy would start his revenge with a brick through the window.
Then again, what about those boys talking a new scheme against the church?
Worrying clouds brewed on the horizon…
For the moment, those boys could enjoy counting his regulars; he had a shop to prepare and a fryer to kickstart.
Wrist deep in machinery, he sang to pass the time.
Three-score years I bent my back
Lugged the sun from rise to fall
Picked apples and plucked sweet pears
Husked and shucked and tilled and tore
Sweat and swore and grunt and bore
Three-score years for our great Lord
Three-score years and just one more
One high pear and one sharp drop
Wrung from me my final charge
Spit and swore and gave it all
Three-score years and just one Lord
As I lay, the Lord arrived
Wisdom on his tongue
Those that work shall know bounty
A hearth for all that till and bear
The rest surrendered to the road
Beyond the sight of one great Lord
Wisdom seized in hand I rose
And struck him where he stood
Those that work shall know bounty
The rest surrendered to the Road
Three-score years and not one more
Not for me nor for my God-damned Lord
That song had been banned eight times by eight names in Oliver’s lifetime.
Funny how everyone knows it.
By the time he finished patching that damned kitchenware yet again, Jimmy knocked on the back door. Oliver let him in, sat Nix on her perch above the fryer, and opened the diner for lunch.
His regulars trickled in over the next hour, ready with a pack of cards. Jimmy had their orders ready before they ever hit the bell, freshly toasted with the secret Nix sauce, and the diner echoed with their patter.
Old men chewing the same lunch over the same worn cards and same old war stories.
A little time bubble of a chrome diner.
This was the true strength of the Mayor’s Dive: normality. A man could eat lunch here and forget the slum outside.
Nobody else showed up, and Oliver stepped over to the table to chat.
“See the boys outside?”
“Yeah, rumpled suits and smirks. What’s this borough coming to?”
“Been having any troubles of that sort yourselves?”
The men nodded, happy to regale the young’un.
Apparently, Tommy’s boys were probing across the borough. Sticking a toe across the street here; trying a door there. Sniffing for trouble.
“Hells.” Oliver smacked his towel on the table. “They really are gearing up for a bruising, aren’t they?”
“Aren’t they always?” the old men laughed.
“Where in the icy hells is everyone today?” the mayor asked, surveying his empty diner.
“Off to one of those southern holidays.”
He pinched his nose. “I need to talk to Boucher and he’s off getting drunk?”
The old men only laughed harder. “Nobody respects the prestigious mayor of Sevensborough!”
“Keep that up and I’ll schedule an inspection at your shop!” Oliver threatened.
“At least it will keep my grandkids busy hiding the merchandise!”
He refilled their drinks and asked where the festival would be today.
“Betha’s place, probably.”
“Figures,” the mayor sighed. “Can I bother you guys to stick around while I step out? Jimmy can set you up.”
“Sure. Any of those boys poke their head in, we can club them with the stiff boards you call buns!”
Ignoring them, the mayor ducked into the kitchen. There he found Jimmy cooking the usual pile of food – ten times what could be eaten today!
Hells, half of this is going to spoil!
His deaf-mute assistant offered a thumbs-up.
Oliver realized his mistake. Jimmy lives by routine. Should have realized he would cook the usual by habit.
He turned so Jimmy could get a good view of his lips. “I need to step out. Nobody is coming today, so ease off on the cooking, okay?”
The cook frowned and tapped the sheet above the fryer that listed how much to make of everything.
“Just for today. You and Nix hang out here. I’ll find someone who needs the extra. Okay?”
Jimmy reluctantly nodded.
“Good job. Nix.” Oliver reached up to stroke his phoenix on her perch and feed her a chip. “You stay put too.”
She chirped in assent.
Just in case somebody decides to charge in with a gun.
Though, deep down, he worried more that the Wavespeaker might make a poorly timed visit…
Nix preened smugly.
“Hey, none of that lip. I’m being sassed by my chicken here!”
She nipped at him, and he waved her off.
Then he crossed the diner, hopped up the stairs to his apartment, and tucked his pistol into his belt.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Just in case.
He left the diner, walking right past Tommy’s boys.
They pretended not to notice.
After a block, he stopped to check. They had not followed.
Staking out the diner, not me. Interesting.
He couldn’t rule out more gangsters in the wings, of course, but attention on his restaurant implied attention on his diners. He usually visited his business partners on their own territory, and that left a short list of probable suspects: Alisandra, Belle, and Valkyrie.
Probably not Ali. Even Tommy can sense a fish too big for his hook.
Besides, there was no money in tailing a noble. The half-sunk Livery still maintained their vice grip on that market.
Belle or Valkyrie then. But Belle has her escort. Big men ready for trouble. A poor fit for gangsters that prefer ten to one in a dark alley.
Thus, the most likely conclusion: Tommy wanted Valkyrie.
More worrying, though: why?
Lee wants Valkyrie. Maybe Tommy trying to curry favor? Or intercepting for the pay-out?
That was the palatable answer. Pure mercenary, pure borough.
There was another answer, though.
Tommy could be hunting on behalf of the church.
Exactly the kind of demon’s bargain a daft, ambitious young man would make and call himself clever for it.
The borough’s turning south again, the mayor despaired. Things had been calm for a solid couple of years now. Long enough for people to forget the cost to claw even this much from the mud.
Turning north onto a warehouse street, Oliver fantasized like a young man. Phoenix on his arm, opponents awed by his flames.
Old dreams of glory that rang hollow in his dotage.
If you’re gonna flaunt a phoenix, you’re probably gonna have to burn someone.
A simple way to run the world: run the list of enemies down to cinders.
Hit the bottom? Start a new one.
Then again, if he wanted to knock off everyone who hated him, he’d need to quit his day job. That kind of list only ever grew.
Like monsters in the Spring.
Sighing, Oliver released those thoughts to the sky. Better to contemplate Main Street under his feet. This close to the warehouses, Main was smooth-paved and cheerfully fenced. Since the warehouses brought work, the shops here were alive, the plaster front to the slum beyond.
Puffy clouds rolled overhead, the morning kept a pleasant chill, and a touch of overnight rain had cleared the borough stink.
Here were the best days of the year.
This is ours, he thought. Even the Wyrm cannot seize what we refuse to surrender. Kill us? Sure, that’s easy. But this moment? This is ours.
He stepped aside to allow a trio of work trucks to rumble past. All three drivers waved to the man responsible for their jobs.
He waved back.
Sevensborough is still worth fighting for.
A few blocks later, he ducked through a hole in the fencing and into Azure territory. He supposed someone watched him; there were always spotters on the perimeter. No matter how he looked, though, he never saw them in their urban blinds.
Never underestimate the homefield advantage. Not in baseball, not in love, not here.
That threat alone kept the constables – and the Inquisition – at bay.
Mostly.
Tambourines rang through the alley, leading him forward. Ducking a corner, he entered a crowd of the Azure faithful congregated in the clearing before Betha’s place. Heretic men, heretic women, and even a few heretic children clapped to the beat as heretic dancers whirled with color on a temporary platform.
The Catechisms say: Raise your voice in joy. Exult in fellowship. The warmth of your hearts holds back Winter.
Two girls about Valkyrie’s age shook the tambourines, stomping their heels against the platform like a drum, and the dancers spun around each other like the stars in their heavens.
And the Inquisition says: this is evil.
He marveled at how freely they claimed holy words they had never Known.
“Oliver!” Boucher hollered from a table before Betha’s door.
Waving, Oliver weaved through the crowd towards where Boucher, Betha, and a few other influential figures waited for food.
Someone offered him a drink in passing.
He assessed the beer. Alright, Oliver. What’s your limit?
This brand was half water. After a moment, he decided, Two.
Smiling, he accepted. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Heretical beer, freshly chilled and taste…avant-garde.
The song ended as he drew near, and he called to Boucher, “We need to chat!”
The crowd laughed, women calling, “Boucher’s in trouble now!”
“Damn straight!” the mayor agreed. “Today isn’t a vacation!”
Boucher grinned. “On the contrary, my pious sir, today is a venerable day of rest. Ladies?”
The dancers spun together and recited the holy words.
Fuggettaboutit!
The weather’s nice and the work is slow
Heaven high and petitions dull
Whatever it is – it can wait
Fuggettaboutit!
“That’s not a real holiday,” Oliver scoffed.
“If we celebrate, it’s a real holiday,” Boucher answered.
“The holy day when our great Goddess got sodding drunk and kicked everyone out of her temple to enjoy the attention of her coterie,” Betha added.
Sounds like every day for Lynne, he thought. Still…
Glancing around, he counted smiles.
More than usual.
“Fine, fine. Here’s to holy Fuggettabuttit.”
Giggling, the children corrected, “Fugg-etta-bout-it!”
The dancers launched into another routine, the crowd passed more beers, and Oliver took a seat beside Boucher and Betha.
The Azure aldersman leaned over to talk privately. “Don’t tell me you care that much for the paperwork.”
“Nobody cares about the paperwork, but Tommy just posted three boys outside my diner.”
“Interesting.” Boucher sucked his lip. “We knocked a half-dozen heads last night. They were seeing how far up the creek they could get, scooting along the west side.”
“Sixborough is usually neutral ground.”
“We decide what counts as neutral.”
Oliver nodded. Sovereignty by another name.
And sovereignty required the plausible control of force.
“I’m hearing the same sort of stories from everyone else,” the mayor continued. “Tommy’s gearing up.”
“Obviously.” Boucher sighed. For a moment, he watched the dancers wiggle their assets. Then he added, “Perhaps this is unlucky coincidence, but my boys have spotted Lee headed Conclave-wise twice in the last week.”
“He isn’t praying for our health!” Betha cackled.
“Tommy’s got itchy breeches, and Lee’s pleading the church.” That would explain how Lee has met payroll without his papers. He found a new benefactor. “That’s two against us for sure. Greenleaf?”
“Neutral until he’s not as usual.”
Now the experienced dancers yielded the stage, and a gaggle of children took their place. What they lacked in coordination, they compensated twice over with noise, and no one spoke until that chaos subsided.
The music dimmed, and the folk started passing out lunch.
“I’ve got a feast set to spoil at the diner. Jimmy overcooked. Interested?”
Betha nodded. “There’s always another belly to fill.”
With a whistle and a word, she dispatched a few boys to relieve Jimmy of the extra food.
Meanwhile, Boucher glanced at Oliver. “That’s why I like you, Oshton.”
“What? That I don’t throw out perfectly good food?”
“Seen it done,” Boucher muttered. “Seen men piss in the trash to keep ‘our kind’ from eating it.”
Now that’s just petty.
Lunch reached the head table, and they accepted their share of the feast: a rib sandwich composed mostly of shreds and doused in mustard; fruit fresh from winter storage and approximately the same color as last year; and a slice of corn bread slightly hard as a rock.
This pressure keeps up, and we’ll be back to famine.
While the rest of Ruhum held their plates out of reach.
Putting on a smile, Oliver asked, “Want to know why I like you, Boucher?”
“Is it my dashing good lucks and sexual prowess?”
“Because you’ve got the same plate as the rest of us, you dolt!”
“I would never pass up some good old heretical corn bread!”
Snorting, Oliver leaned over. “If you need funding…”
“If Oliver of the endless purse offers…”
“Erudite provides,” the mayor evaded.
“Of course,” agreed Betha, eyeing him skeptically.
“And is this your corn bread recipe? Delicious!” Oliver complimented.
Snorting, Betha let him get away with that. A little girl appeared from the milling crowd, and Betha pulled the child into her lap.
What was her name? Lina? She’s growing fast!
Or he really was getting old.
He accepted beer number two.
“Might as well talk business before the food puts me to sleep,” Boucher shrugged. “So?”
“Lee worries me less. He’s carved his little island and hunkered down. Two blocks out, everyone hates his guts. Limited reach, you know? He can take church money, but he can’t penetrate the warren.”
“They could push him for mayor.”
Oliver snorted. “And how much influence do I have, Boucher? As a representative of Mel?”
“As a representative of Mel?” Boucher smirked. “Less than zero!”
“Precisely. There are other things I worry about with Lee–”
“Like a song bird in a certain cage?” Betha hummed, bouncing the child in her lap.
Oliver glared. Hells, I swear this woman is a seer! “–but the clock on that runs out in another two weeks. My real worry right now is Tommy. His boys are borough-raised; they know enough to cause trouble. Or to invite in trouble.”
“Mel’s been itching for an excuse for a while, Oliver. What’s different this time?”
“Because no coffer is infinite,” warned the mayor carefully. Conclave expenses are a whole other level. A normal man could live a year on what they spend on a single vote.
Boucher arched an eyebrow. “You know something about House Erudite?”
“They’ve tried and failed to break us with constable raids and civvy-clothed Inquisitors ten times over. If it was me? I’d look for a weak point closer to home.”
Like Sevenborough’s House sponsor.
“I have a hard time believing Mel would honor anything it would offer Tommy, but is he smart enough to realize it? Or would that brainless boy figure he could double cross first? Either way, the city doesn’t need him strong enough to defeat the Azure enclave. He just has to raise a stink enough to put the squeeze on Erudite, and we’re cooked.”
If Erudite falls, we go under holy receivership. New management.
The aldersman considered his words over a new beer. Finally, he admitted, “Oshton, I am not sure we have the capacity to influence the Conclave any longer.”
Over the child’s head, Betha added, “The last Azure family in Fourthborough is moving this way. Landlord tripled rent with no notice, and the magistrate threw out the complaint.”
“Hells! Who’s the judge? I’ll…”
The old woman shook her head. “Young man, what use is a two-year case with a one-month settlement? They have already sold their furniture to cover expenses…and word is the same scheme is warming up in Fifthborough.”
Oliver raked his thinning hair. “You should have called me! I’ll help. Alisandra will help.”
A helping hand offered beer number three. With the slightest hesitation, Oliver waved it away.
“The Lady has other duties,” Betha admonished.
The child on her lap bounced in excitement, announcing, “I met the Tempest! When she took Daddy to see again. He sent me a letter. Do you want to read it?”
“Shush, Lethe. Eat your corn bread.”
“I’m trying but it hurts my teeth…”
Lethe. I forgot.
Boucher cleared his throat. “My folk in the farms say they’re kept in locked barns at night. Sharecroppers can’t raise enough gold to buy – price is whatever they have plus twenty percent. Seems the boroughs aren’t the only squeeze. How long do we have before Fifth and Sixth crumble? A year, maybe? All I’m saying is that Sevensborough starts to look less like a refuge and more like…like a cooking pot.”
“We are not doomed yet!” Oliver snapped.
“Not saying we are. I simply observe that we are increasingly…discouraged.”
From making trouble.
From speaking.
From existing.
“I know. I know!”
Shops fire anyone who takes a southern holiday. Southern kids are forced to cut their hair. Muggers target Azure and Jungle workers knowing the constables will never investigate.
“But we can’t give up. This is still our home!”
Betha caught his eye, her expression strange. “Is it?”
“Yes!”
“Lethe, sweetie, tell the mayor your dream.”
The little girl frowned. “Is it okay?”
“It’s okay. He’s a good man.”
Nodding, the little girl closed her eyes. Then she recited words too old for a cherub’s lips, rolling her letters with Lynne’s lilt.
Hear my siren song
A vast, empty sea
Far shores flower born
Sail, sail with me
Floating lotus deep sea
Oliver shivered. “Lynne, if you have words for me, say them to my face.”
Alas, the slumbering goddess ignored his mortal dare.
“I’m not ready to surrender,” he insisted to Betha and Boucher. “I am not asking you to fight alone. Just help me get some visibility on Tommy’s schemes. We can’t afford a borough war right now. We need to know who he thinks his friends are. Once we know, we can decide the appropriate response.”
The aldersman nodded. “On that, we agree. Let me extend a few questions. Perhaps a few of his boys are willing to contemplate other arrangements.”
“That’s all I ask today.”
Sevensborough is worth fighting for.
***
After Oliver left, Lethe squirmed with all the power of a little girl holding a secret. Gnawing her last bite of corn bread, she finally burst out, “I wanted to tell him about going to see Daddy!”
Betha ruffled her hair. “You were very good, child. You remember what we said about secrets?”
Lethe scowled. “But you said my dreams are True!”
“Many True things are dangerous,” the matron hummed. “Not everyone understands Verdandi dreams.”
“Even the Stormmother took a dim view of them until recently,” Boucher shrugged.
“Even gods change, boy.”
Even after all these years, Boucher was still ‘boy’ to Betha.
Sighing, he cracked his neck. “I’ll put a half-dozen men on Oliver’s request – if you can spare them?”
A request, of course.
Both knew the real power around here.
Betha nodded. “A half dozen. No more. We need to prepare.”
Letha mimicked her nod. “The siren song is close!”
“That’s nice, but I’m not quite ready to pitch my borough on the words of someone who can’t keep her sheets dry at night,” Boucher muttered. He rose, accepting one last beer for the road, and took his leave.
Alone at the table with Lethe, Betha tickled the girl’s sides. “Never mind the boys. They need to swing their sticks around. Now then, why don’t you tell me what your dreams say of the Valkyrie that shall lead us to deliverance today?”