Wargermopolis - Mignardise
Treats of Bar Plots
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“Give us the special. Or whatever you recommend,” said Honeydew. She cut the cold, humid air with a dismissive hand. The wooden skewers woven through the chalky robe of their server jangled. He bowed low, with an arched spine instead of bent hips. He padded down a set of shallow, stone, felt-topped steps. Other patrons - scattered, sitting at the crescent aisles below Mr. Grey and Honeydew - hushed while the server passed. Only when he reached the bottom of the half-moon gallery where patrons sat, and crossed the stained floor with orders for the bar, did the clandestine patrons resume whispering.
Honeydew watched the server go. When he’d left earshot she said, “I hope it’s not candy-flavored. This local drink special. What do you think?”
Mr. Grey was listening to the local enchantment special; a shoe-shining piece plucked on the tavern bard’s zither. He guessed, from the vapid, off-key notes, that the shoes in question were turning out streaky. A double-click follow-up from Honeydew got his attention. He said, “What’s that? Oh I’m not sure. Maybe it’s more mintwater.”
“Why doesn’t anyone here sell regular drinks?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“Or who knows, maybe this one’s the fortune-shifter. Sure, there’s not enough bats and roach rivers. But the people are the same shade of Starharbor-pale. We might finally have something with beans.”
Mr. Grey observed the sallow-faced, shadowy customers. Mostly tourists, they’d spread themselves as far as possible from one another. Conversation only dwelt within the few duos and trios of the sparse crowd. The rest huddled silently over deep earthenware bowls. They sheltered their fayre and faces from prying eyes with elbows and arms. But while speech issued only from select pockets in little whispers, every patron worked to fill the room with a sniffling, coughing, sickly atmosphere.
A hacking fit sounded from the crescent aisles behind the pair. Honeydew said, “I suspected him, you know. Back in Toscamo. Remember, at the amphora wharf? I mentioned his slinking? Smart of you to remind me. We should have watched him closer.”
Mr. Grey shifted on their bench. Packed, cracked, leather upholstering did nothing to pad the stone beneath. Honeydew waited for Mr. Grey to speak. She sighed, and went on, “I know you and Tom got along. I admit, his mallet was handy. Occasionally. But we’re better off without him. Think what we’ll achieve now. No one forcing us into bandit battles, or partisan-quests. We’ll put ground under our shoes; catch all the sights. Beshrew me! We’ll double - maybe triple - the places we see… We can do it lawfully too. With our visas,” she added, with a conciliatory click.
Mr. Grey said, “That’s so, I suppose,” He tugged absently on the violin-coffin’s zipper. “We should decide on a plan.”
“My thoughts exactly! I say, quit this festering city. See what else happens in Panache. Think there’s anything like the Lost City? A lost pyramid maybe, but less mist-shrouded?”
“What I meant was, a plan about the Golden Lure,” he dropped his voice to its inside-most whisper.
“The lure? I guess so. Let’s have a look.”
Honeydew motioned to the coffin. Mr. Grey checked to make sure they weren’t being observed. Every other patron seemed engaged with their food, their whispers, or their sickly suffering. The aisles behind Mr. Grey and Honeydew lay outside the light let in by the high window-slits in the walls. Mr. Grey couldn’t see where the eyes of the patrons behind him fell. He brought his shoulders in to block any view. He unzipped the coffin’s front pocket quietly, pulled the tiny golden minnow out - in a tight fist to prevent its flashing - and slowly splayed his fingers. Honeydew curved her own shoulders to help conceal the open palm. She gave an appraising squint over the Lure.
She said, “What do you think; grand treasure? A little wheel, some deal, a bit of a bidding war? I wager whatever we get will fund this entire vacay.”
Mr. Grey said, “We spent so long in the retrieval…”
“You think we should charge by eons spent?”
“I think we shouldn’t sell it.”
Honeydew dropped her head to the table and groaned. She angled her neck and rolled her eyes at Mr. Grey. “You’d take it to Jodee? Still? For some visa-filling ‘adventure’?”
Mr. Grey closed his fingers over the lure and returned it to the coffin pocket. He tilted back his own head. He stared thoughtfully. Above, a painted plaster ceiling revealed a rugged, flaking, smoke-absorbing character. The fresco showed a gang of weasels darting at an enormous sea-serpent. The weasels nipped at the armoring scales from the serpent; a monster with a dozen snake heads. The heads coiled and struck with their fangs among the furry hoard, trying to fend them off, to keep them from its faded-gold belly. But the rodents used numbers to overwhelm the snake heads. They tore the monster’s armor, and rushed the vulnerable guts. The smoke damage to the fresco worked hardest on whatever compound gave the weasels’ their umber fur. Their painted coats were sooty, and the flaking paint made them look infested with fleas. As Mr. Grey looked up at this scene, the coughing and sniffling of the inn’s secretive patrons seemed to echo the sounds of the ferocious conflict. The coughs became the growls of the weasels; the sniffles became the ripping-away of the serpent’s scales.
Honeydew went on. “Fine. We’ll give her the lure. A quick jaunt to… wherever Jodee’s citadel is, here in Panache. A hopefully quick visa signing. Who knows; maybe her stronghold’s worth seeing.”
Mr. Grey brought his eyes from the faded fresco. He looked at Honeydew and said, “I actually don’t think we should. Deliver it to Jodee.”
“What!” she said. The other whispers paused. A few sets of eyes glinted their way. Honeydew threw her own glares back at the lookers, and they returned to their business. In a softer voice she said, “That’s the whole reason we followed the partisans. Find the Golden Lure. Get it to Jodee. Fill out her visa. You want to regroup with that candle-headed freak?”
Mr. Grey shook his head evenly. “I don’t think we should give the Lure to Candlehead either.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s just,” Mr. Grey looked at the other, pale customers. “I think giving the lure to Jodee… it’s wrong. Lawfully speaking.”
“Why? It’s not like it does anything. It doesn’t, does it?” Mr. Grey shook his head; again, evenly. “Yeah, it’s some trinket. Giving it to her won’t hurt or help. So it’s not unlawful. Or we can keep it. Sell it for treasure. Am I missing something?”
Mr. Grey thought. The coughing and sniffling made focus difficult, but he fought for an organized mind. He thought of the illness and suffering. He’d seen the rash of odor violence distantly, in the streets of Wargermopolis. He’d seen the sickness up close, inside the hospital. He thought about Ms. Maysey. About her breath coming in spare squeaks through her mouse-hair. About her lying, not-existingly-pale, on a stone-and-moss bed, barely spared by a contract with a Fish. He thought of all the tourists - and of all the Glory Days locals - who wouldn’t scratch by like Ms. Maysey. His mind flashed, for a moment, to Tom’s illness. He pushed away that thought.
He nodded to himself, looked at Honeydew’s impatient frown, and said, “I begin to think: making her fill out a visa won’t change anything.”
Honeydew snorted. She peered closer at Mr. Grey. “You’re serious? Of course it won’t. I thought that wasn’t the point. I thought it was ‘a matter of form’?”
“It started that way,” Mr. Grey admitted. He waved a hand; gesturing at the murky room around them; gesturing at the wracked city beyond. “But look at what’s happened in Glory Days; all from Jodee. She should return to Starharbor. It’s to everyone’s benefit. And now that’s become clear, I no longer feel like making her fill a visa fixes the problem.”
Honeydew drummed her right hand’s fingernails in tiny clicks against the stone counter. With her left she cradled her chin, and watched the bar for signs of their drinks. Seeing none, she turned her head with her fingers, back to Mr. Grey. Both her eyes and her mouth said, “So what then?”
“I had one idea,” Mr. Grey leaned in and whispered at the ear Honeydew cupped.
She frowned. “Bad idea. Impossible odds. It’s beyond our reach; they’re keeping out tourists. Too much risk of partisan attack, from what I heard.”
“I heard that too. But I also heard of an opportunity. Except, we’d need a scheme.”
Honeydew’s oil eyes ignited. “Sounds like a half-interesting diversion.”
The return of their server paused their planning. He leaned over, set their drinks before them, took their payment of shiny pebbles, and without ceremony, returned down the felt-topped steps.
Mr. Grey and Honeydew peered into their clay cups. Honeydew’s held fizzy candywater. Mr. Grey’s held milk.
They grimaced, glanced at each other, and swapped drinks.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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