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“The bail’s all here. Step over to the waiting area. Enjoy the complimentary mintwater. Sorry, bidders only; your big tagalong here can’t have any. We’ll release the prisoner into your custody just as soon as exit processing’s finished.”
The young clerk finished sweeping Mr. Grey’s treasure-bail into a metal coffer. She handed the heavy box to another attendant, smoothed the fabric and straightened the buttons on her single-shoulder, peppermint robe, and stepped back from the long processing counter. Behind this long stone table - and its row of clerks attending other buyers’ bails - rose a crumbling edifice; sandstone blocks and draping vines. Yawning rectangular passages opened at the wall’s base. Their clerk pushed aside a vine curtain hiding one such entrance. She disappeared into the dark corridor, carrying the order for Honeydew’s release.
Mr. Grey and Tom stepped from the counter. They walked across the plaza tiles, side-by-side, to a bundle of granite benches huddled under the shade of a silk-tree. A tapped keg of mintwater sat on a grassglass coffee table at the center. A tourist knot gathered at the spigot while they waited for bails to post. Neither Tom nor Mr. Grey felt thirsty. They avoided the other tourists and took seats on a granite bench.
Tom sniffled, and rubbed a ferocious palm against the cloud-zeppelin patterned over his clavicle. Mr. Grey said, “Maybe you should let it be. Let the cologne work.”
“It makes me itchy,” said Tom. He dropped his hand to the bench. “And smells like a wafer mill.”
“But you’re still sick, Tom. You need scent defense. You look better already: a less waxen face, diminished eye bags, coarser whiskers on your cheeks.”
Tom’s sour expression worked against his improved pallor. His mouth opened for complaint, but a jeering rancor of voices interrupted him. Mr. Grey and Tom looked across the plaza, past a geyser-fountain of splishing water.
Beneath the facade of a temple, on the opposite side of the plaza from the wide clerks’ counter, a wider stage was set for auction. The temple pediment glared down as a single immense, carved, vanilla-ebony-swirl marble block. The stage came from simple driftwood and leather stock, and cowered beneath the threatening overhang. The marble above bore the likenesses of two great fish - Prawn and Koi - facing each, with a smooth stone bubble between, and a surrounding phalanx of rifles. The stage below bore a dozen prisoner-tourists, and an auctioneering officer.
The hubbub came from the crowd surrounding the stage. They cried rapid-fire bail bids for the latest prisoner, while the auctioneer rattled along at a chariot-pace. Gradually, the shouts turned scanty as the treasure-bail rose and the interest in each prisoner dropped.
Mr. Grey nodded toward the stage. “How do you suppose that works?”
Tom stared blankly. “What’s confusing about it? They bid for inmates.”
“But why would bidders compete? Who’s competing here? Couldn’t they bid once; one bidder per prisoner? Why raise the bail bid?”
“Local custom probably.”
“Well I’m glad ours was private.”
“What was Honeydew’s bail price?”
Mr. Grey ground a palm on the stone bench. “Oh, nothing too expensive.”
Tom grunted. He drew his handkerchief, cracked it in the air, then blew his nose. In a muffled voice he said, “We should have broken her out. She’s with you and me, not the partisans. She’s held here unlawfully.”
“Better this method. These are the proper channels. Besides, you’re still sick.”
Tom said nothing. The two sat quietly in the stringy shade of the silk-tree. They listened to the rising auction bids, the gurgling fountain, and the gossip around the mintwater spigot. Mr. Grey felt peaceful - oddly at ease in a city troubled by miasma and violence - sitting by Tom on the stone bench.
Jangling chains. Clattering hooves. They looked to the tall, rectangular hall, the one their clerk had vanished into. That clerk reappeared now. She drove - beneath the dangling vines - a cowsowhorse-drawn wagon. The wagon bed held a person-sized wooden box; tightly wrapped in huge iron links, with a top-end perforated by airholes. Mr. Grey and Tom stood. The clerk steered the cart through a set of swinging bar-doors in the counter. She threw an extra lash into the cowsowhorse, which stumped to the sitting area at an unchanged pace. The box in the wagon rattled; more than expected from the wagon’s passage over smooth plaza-tile.
The clerk drove the cart to the waiting pair. She hopped from the driver’s bench. As she walked around to the back of the wagon - big iron keys jangling in her hand - she said, “How much did you pay? Actually, don’t answer. Whatever the treasure, you deserve a refund. This is one ill-tempered animal.”
The clerk undid the oversized padlock holding the chains into an X-shape. The links dropped with a final clatter. The clerk stepped to the side, grasped a rope handle with a long reach, flung the box’s door wide, and stepped quickly back. The crate’s dark interior gawped at Tom and Mr. Grey.
Then Honeydew appeared. She did not leap savagely forth, but stepped coolly from her confinement, and hopped from the wagon. The clerk shied away, but Honeydew paid her no least mind. She looked right to Tom and Mr. Grey. Both her dark eyes, and the dark eyes in the golden water-lilies on her robe, glinted. She said, “What’s up goons?”
In immediate and absolute contrast to her domestic exit, Honeydew turned feral. Her nostrils flared, her eyes unfurled with bloodshot rage, her lips curled back in a snarl, and her legs flung her - shoulder-first - at the pair. Mr. Grey stepped back. Honeydew paid him no more mind than the clerk. She launched herself at Tom.
Honeydew landed upon Tom a barrage of shoulders. Tom used his arms in defense, but he had much body to protect. As soon as his big hands moved to cover his head and face, she came in low and thundered against his chest. When he curled in to spare his bruised belly, she slunk behind, shouldering his spine and the backs of his legs. No matter where Tom brought his hands, Honeydew found an opening for one of her pointy shoulders. She accompanied the attack with furious yelling. “YOU FAT, SLOW, BUMBLING DOUBLE-CROSSER!” she screamed. The gossip circle around the complementary mintwater looked on in awe and terror.
Honeydew retreated a few strides; not to ease off or catch her breath, but to make room for a momentum-building charge. Mr. Grey saw an opportunity. He stepped between. She might have charged regardless, had not Mr. Grey been a man of singularly stoneish aspect. She growled and stalked sideways. Mr. Grey raised a hand and said, “Please, Honeydew. Tom’s sick. We just came from the hospital.”
Honeydew stopped, but glared at Tom with frozen-oil eyes. She said, “I don’t care. He deserves it.”
“He came here with me though. He helped free you too. What’s the issue?”
Tom dropped his heavy arm-shields and stood straight. Angry welts rose across his pale skin. Tom’s brow furrowed. His expression showed hurt, anger, and perhaps some fear.
Mr. Grey noticed that not just the tourists in the waiting area, but the ones on the bidding stage, and the bidders too, had all fallen silent. They watched the scuffle. He gestured to Tom and Honeydew; a suggestion that they continue their discussion - and any possible violence - in a private setting. Both ignored him. Honeydew flung an accusatory index at Tom. She said, “This oaf’s the problem! Not just the problem; all our problems. We’ve let him waddle behind, slowing down every step. He pretends he’s this wise warrior, our hero, our protector. But he’s only some lazy, stupid, hang-dog, gorbellied, TRAITOR!”
After an angry pause, Tom roared. “I’m not stupid or lazy!” His voice boomed across the plaza, cracking like a teenager’s on the last word. Mr. Grey noticed all the stranger-eyes bearing on them: the clerk’s, the tourists’ by the mintwater barrel, the tourists’ on the stage, the bidders’, the soldiers’. He wished this last group of rubberneckers would jump in; tell them off; send them from the plaza. But the soldiers watched Tom and Honeydew’s fracas with the same fixedness as everyone else.
Mr. Grey said, “I know what this is: a miscommunication. Let’s discuss calmly - somewhere in private - to…”
“Miscommunication!” said Honeydew with a snarling click. “You’re picking his side. Won’t even hear me out.”
“Certainly I will. Listen to your side, I mean. But we’re jumping…”
“Then listen well,” Honeydew cut him short again. And not just Mr. Grey, but the third-parties too, listened. “This isn’t a jump. It’s direct from Diegeonary Ordus; that noisy soldier. You remember how they caught us in The Lost City. When they PUT ME IN CHAINS?!”
“Yes, but there was…”
“Well Candlehead escaped. Put on a pipe show. His spectacle - his enchantment - set Ordus off. The diegeonary went on this bean-spilling rant. But before that even, remember how they found us at the dragon ferry?”
“I think Ms. Maysey caused that. Clued them to our plans; the Defense Force men, as well as Blackjaw and Slake. In fact we saw her. Not…”
“No, there’s no Ms. Maysey here. Here we have a spectacular case of betrayal. It. Was. Him,” she said with a flourished finger at Tom. “He told the soldiers where we were going, when he sulked away at the temple. Not Ms. Maysey, not Blackjaw and Slake, but this WEASEL, has been telling the Defense Force where to find us. He told them after the temple, he told them in Museumtown. I hope you’ve kept an eye on him since you got here. I expect he’ll tell them again. First chance he gets.”
A hush fell over the onlookers. Mr. Grey turned to Tom. The big, sick man hadn’t grasped everything Honeydew said. But his face, with half an understanding, showed half an anxious grimace. He glanced at the listening crowd. He said, “Let me give my own version, but with privacy.”
Mr. Grey wanted the same, but Honeydew clicked sharp. “Say it here and now. No more sneaking and skulking, you odious worm!”
Mr. Grey and Tom glanced at the backdrop gazers. The hard gleam in Honeydew’s oil-eyes, however, said there’d be no privacy in the dialogue. Mr. Grey turned to Tom and said, “Go ahead then, Tom. There’s nothing embarrassing. Just explain plainly.”
Tom shuffled. He couldn’t meet Mr. grey’s blank stare. He settled his eyes on Honeydew, who responded with a derisive click and glare. Tom fixed his face into anger. He said, “She distorts my intentions. She twists my actions. She… meanly corrupts.”
Honeydew snapped. “His words have no weight!”
Mr. Grey held up a hand. He cricked his head at an angle to catch Tom’s eye. He said, “Tom, you have my trust,” Honeydew screeched, but Mr. Grey went on, “Just speak to the truth. I’m sure it’s not bad.”
Tom met Mr. Grey’s eyes. He looked tired. He sighed. “Mr. Grey, you’re a good man,” he began. “But you’re bad at choice. You won’t pick a side. Not when you can avoid sides, when things are easy... But making a choice; that’s what existing’s about. Any side will do, if you believe it.”
Tom cleared his throat and struggled on. “And the thing is, Mr. Grey: with adversity, you’re forced to action. It makes you stronger, buddy.”
Tom went quiet. He kept his eyes on Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey felt his ticker pulse keenly. After some tocks he said, “So… you did inform on us? To the Defense Force?”
“Of course he did!” said Honeydew. “I just told you so.”
Mr. Grey patiently waited. Tom said, “Yes, I told the Defense Force. For your betterment!”
Mr. Grey wore well his face of stone. He said, “Back in Wine Medo, Gourd’s ship attacked our hostel. Later after that, you met him alone...”
“I forgot about that,” said Honeydew with wrathful excitement. “They stole our treasure!”
“That was an experience!” said Tom. His voice rose above its usual gravel, full of defensive pitch. “It was exciting, and we weren’t injured. All we lost was some treasure. What’s treasure matter? Old bookmarks, tie clasps; they’re only… pointless gewgaws.”
Tom pulled his eyes wide, lifting the heavy bags, loosing the wrinkled corners. He left them open for Mr. Grey; if only Mr. Grey would return compassion, understanding. Mr. Grey returned, to the hopeful face of Tom, cold stone. Tom’s eyes turned elsewhere. They skirted past Honeydew. She had her own opinion on treasure; he’d have no sympathy from her. Tom looked at the crowd. His eyes jumped from face to face, seeking a corner, an understanding port. Each onlooker his eyes lit upon shifted their own eyes away. Even the marble ones of Prawn and Koi - on the pediment above the bidding stage - averted Tom’s.
Tom returned his steely, shiny eyes to Mr. Grey. He said, “I didn’t betray… I only wanted to…”
“It’s no matter now. What is done is done,” said Mr. Grey. Tom’s wide, scared eyes lulled with relief.
Honeydew sputtered. “You mean to forgive him?” she asked. “After all that, you still want him with us?”
Mr. Grey said, “I do think it’s time to part,” Tom had the road-worn handkerchief halfway to his nose. He stopped. Mr. Grey went on, “Honeydew and I, we’ll resume our vacation. We’ll wrap up business. But the fact is this; You’re still too sick, Mr. Tom.”
Tom tossed the handkerchief to the plaza tiles. He said, “I’m not si…”
Mr. Grey interrupted him. “I’m sorry, but I feel firmness is called for,” And Mr. Grey certainly put words to action. He shifted not a sliver of grey body, twitched not a muscle of grey face. Only the grey mouth moved, forming toneless, dry words. “You’re simply unable to accompany us in this endeavor. It’s not a question of eligibility based on visas, or a question of willingness. It’s a deficiency of capacity.”
Honeydew huffed, but said, “As long as he leaves and can’t tattle,” She took out her hand mirror and put in place a few golden strands.
Tom spent a moment confused. Mr. Grey didn’t elaborate. When Tom finally grasped the words, he straightened his shoulders. He forced a smile in his whiskers; it didn’t reach his eyes. He said, “I’m your protector. Remember the Lost City? And the Sourbeak field?”
Mr. Grey checked the time on his ticker. “Your services aren’t needed,” he said. “I suggest you return to Wine Medo… sir.”
Tom’s face quivered. It flickered between a forced smile of courage and sickly, sad defeat. The latter won. Tom's lids, his mouth, his whole expression, sagged. Illness, remorse, resignation; they overspread his pale cheeks and tarnished his metal eyes. He picked up the battered, soiled handkerchief from the plaza dust.
Tom stepped toward the nearest plaza exit. He glanced back, however, at Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey looked the same; held the same mask as always. Tom said, “Good luck Mr. Grey,” He walked away with head hung. Mr. Grey kept his eyes fixed on his ticker; when he looked up, Tom was gone.
The bidding plaza had been mute in the last exchanges. Even the fountain ran silent. Now, as tourists and soldiers and environmental factors realized the show was finished, they returned to business. The mintwater circle gossiped at lower hush, the bail-bids resumed, and the fountain gurgled, sadly.
Honeydew walked beside Mr. Grey. “Good riddance. Can’t keep traitors on your team. You… you are okay, right?” Mr. Grey nodded stiffly. “Good. You kept the lure?”
Mr. Grey nodded again. “It’s in my violin coffin,” he said, in a little voice.
“Capital. Odds are it’s pawnable. Let’s talk travel plans.”
They walked toward a different exit from Tom’s. Honeydew noticed the bidding for the other jailbirds. “Completely rigged,” she said. “They’ve got Glory Day’s ringers, spinning up the bail. By the way, how much was my treasure cost?”
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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