Threadbare - 54Getting Down to the Crunch

“Then we are decided,” Jericho slammed the gavel down with frankly more force than it needed. “This council will not and shall not define the requirements necessary for a human to be a human. Furthermore, given the inconsistency between existing religious authorities, we shall not accept any definition provided by outside forces, even though they should be the gods themselves.”

Celia eased back into her chair, and carefully kept a smile off her face.

This had been a hard-fought debate. Easterlynn-Proudsmythe had come in ready to fight, and she hadn’t been alone. Celia was pretty sure she’d spent quite a bit of money bribing Longcroak and Pleezetwomeetchu, given how quickly the Councilors had fallen in line. If she hadn’t had the dwarves in her corner, it would have been a hopeless fight.

As it was, both sides had weathered the initial debates, and the swing vote had come down to Jericho.

He had sat, silent, listening to each and every argument. He had kept his face stony, giving no hint as to his leanings. And when the time came, he cast his vote without explanation or justification.

And now… now it was hard to say. But as he replaced the gavel and headed for the door, she thought he looked sad.

She shifted her gaze, and caught Easterlynn-Proudsmythe looking back at her. And there was sadness in her eyes, too. A mute appeal there that flickered and died as Celia watched. Then the woman blinked, and it was gone, replaced by frustration before the mask went up again and Celia lost any insight on what lay behind her eyes.

Longcroak and Pleezetwomeetchu were waddling off together, and she caught a snippet of conversation from them about the festival. The thought made her smile, as she thought of seeing Jean onstage again. The beastkin had spent a lot of time visiting the last few days, so much so that Celia was worried it would impact her rehearsals. But she had painted a glowing picture of the musical, and promised that Celia would feel like all her cares had been lifted away from her.

Celia didn’t know about that, but the actress had been sympathetic and helpful these last few days. Always willing to listen, never being judgmental or asking for favors.

It had helped. It had gotten her through some bad times. She was starting to look forward to her visits, and the thought that Jean would have to eventually go away was distressing.

That took her to a darker place. She abandoned that trail of thoughts, though it took serious effort, and rose to her feet. Celia left before she caused a scene. It was a good day. A GOOD day. She kept thinking that over and over again as her feet rang on the floor, and she left the council chambers far, far behind her.

The gardens helped settle her mind sometimes, so she headed that way. But she never got there.

“Lady,” Jericho said, from behind one of the pillars in the main hall.

“Ranger,” she replied, sending him a tired smile. “I imagine you’re glad that mess is over.”

“For more reasons than one,” he said, nodding toward the gate. “Walk with me? I see problems ahead and I’d welcome another mind to think on them.”

It was rare that Jericho asked her to do this. Something weighed heavy on his mind, and she followed him into the city. The streets were mostly empty, with the sounds of the opening acts of the festival in the distance, the Royal square full of performers and eager citizens ready to drink, eat, watch, and play. There was plenty of privacy in the most crowded part of Cylvania, and she watched Jericho visibly pull his brain together before giving voice to his thoughts.

“She’s desperate and I don’t know why,” Jericho said.

There weren’t too many other she’s in the equation, but Celia asked anyway. “Gladys?”

“Gladys Easterlynn-Proudsmythe.” He shook his head. “Our fellow councilor. Working for the good of Cylvania.”

There was enough bitterness in those words to make lemonade without lemons.

“Did something happen?” Celia blinked. Normally he was very measured when it came to his Council work. Jericho was the portrait of neutrality most days.

“She hinted that food shipments to the north might be a little slower if I didn’t vote her way.” Jericho’s mustache twisted as he grimaced. “She was desperate. Or else she would have known what a bad idea that was. What I’m struggling to understand is just why she’s desperate.”

“I know. It doesn’t make much sense. She got what she wanted from that human purity law. If she hadn’t raised the issue again, tried to take this further, it would have stopped there. Now the purity law is useless, because of our decision today.”

“Purity.” Jericho studied the closed storefronts as they went. “Have you ever noticed how good people, truly good ones never really toss around that word so much? They just do good, and don’t waste time trying to define it. It’s only the weasels who argue about that, who try and define purity, and declare that this sort of good is better than that kind of good. They try to change the definition of good to fit what they’re doing. They can’t compete with folks who come to goodness honestly, so they try to change the idea to lift themselves above others.”

That was the most words she’d heard Jericho string together at once. Celia walked in silence, digesting it.

Then she decided to focus on the important issues. “She threatened to withhold food. Do you need aid from central Cylvania? The farmers are expecting a decent harvest this year, we can probably shift some your way.”

“Actually we don’t,” Jericho smiled. “I might have been slightly overestimating our numbers in the last census. We’re sitting on a small surplus that should last us through the summer, even if we lose shipments from the west.” His smile faded. “It won’t last long past that, but it should be long enough to convince her we won’t bow to that particular threat.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Cecelia murmured.

“It’s fear, in the end, though, and that concerns me,” Jericho murmured. “Fear of change. Her and the folks backing her using it to whip up her folks. Trying to build a sort of human solidarity against this new order we’ve got.”

“They’re a part of that order. What’s the point in singling humans out? They’re our people.”

“She doesn’t want to see it that way. We went through the same training under Melos, Celia. You remember those classes. How to most efficiently kill or exterminate gribbits, dwarves, orcs… nevermind that we never had orcs to worry about after the Oblivion.”

“I remember.”

“She and her people want humans to be more. To be special. Because if they’re just another part of Cylvania, then she’ll lose a lot of power and control. She’ll lose ways to manipulate the people she’s got fearing dwarves, and gribbits, and golems, and YOU. And she needs them to fear you. She needs you to be her enemy.”

Celia frowned. “I’m nothing to fear.”

“You’re wrong,” Jericho said, stopping and kneeling beside her for a second. He put the side of his hand on her slim shoulder. “You’re the face of the future, Miss Gearhart. She’d fear you for that alone. But you’re beautiful, and smart, and immortal, and unchanging. How could she not be threatened?”

Celia stared at him, meeting his eyes. Worried for a second that he was coming on to her.

But she saw no love or misguided lust in him. Just worry.

“She was sad, when she looked at me,” Celia said.

Jericho’s mouth tightened. “She doesn’t hate you. Even respects you, in her own way. But don’t think that will stop her.”

“Stop her from what?”

He squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t know yet. But I know some of the people who are pressuring her, and they won’t like what’s happened here today. Watch yourself, Celia.”

Then he stood, and with a whisper of his cloak he left, into the shadows and gone as only a ranger could disappear.

“Wow,” came a voice from behind her. “He’s good.”

Celia whirled around, readied to defend herself…

…and stopped, staring in surprise at the short catgirl doll that stood behind her, hands on her hips, grinning insolently.

“He’s good but I’m better, desu,” said Kayin. “Didn’t even see me!”

Celia stared at her, then darted forward and hugged her tightly. “You silly cat! Where have you been? How have you been?”

“MeOW! Careful with the squish, I’ve got vials full of poisons. Uh, I’m good. But I’m here on business, desu.”

Once released, Kayin dusted herself off, and resettled her camo cloak around her plush form as she spoke. “So uh, not to add more dire warnings to your heap of troubles, but I’ve been looking into stuff for Garon and he just got a hot anonymous tip. You might be having a small problem with pirates tonight…”

After Kayin explained matters, it wasn’t a good day anymore.

Little quirks and tics of Jean’s behavior, certain moments that Celia had noticed and glossed over came back to her mind and started to add up. And the conclusion that she had to draw from all of it was inescapable.

She thanked Kayin, hugged her again, and went on her way but all the while she had her face settled into the mask she wore when she didn’t want Threadbare to worry about her. That familiar stiff set, that adjustment of the sliding porcelain plates that made up her “muscles,” that face she showed to the world when everything had fallen away into that black pit in the back of her mind.

For a second she debated just turning around and going home. But no, if this whole thing was about kidnapping her, then they’d just come later, and maybe hurt the neighbors or the city watch. No, this way would get it over with quickly.

The noise of the festival rose up ahead of her as she pattered her way through the streets, joining the flow of traffic as people left their jobs for the day and went to go blow off steam. She got looks and murmurs and smiles, and she waved back, her own false smile firmly affixed to her face, but her mind was far, far away into that black pit and she barely registered them. They didn’t crowd too close or try to engage her, though. It was festival time, and for once she was the lesser attraction.

Midway through the crowd, dodging legs, hordes of screaming kids, and random pets that people had brought to a very overstimulated place, Celia snapped out of her funk, just for a moment. The frustration of having to navigate the crowd turned her hollowness into anger.

She probably thinks I’m going to be easy to take, Celia thought, her lips twisting with bitterness. But I’m damned if I’ll be damseled so easily.

Ducking into a tent latrine, and collecting some very strange stares from the line, she took a quick moment to fire up her defensive buffs.

“Flexible Pose. Always in Uniform.”

It wasn’t much, thinking it over, and after putting them in place she went and purchased a set of tiny knives from a vendor who’d discovered that golems didn’t mind paying extra for properly sized weapons. Then it was back to the latrine, and she chanted as she held up each blade. “Animus Blade. Invite to Party. Kingsguard.”

Under her dress they went, sliding into place on each limb like long needles, and she decided to tuck the fifth and final one into her hair.

It was sharp, and cut a few strands as it went, and Celia wondered if she really wanted to harm Jean. This was only a kidnapping, after all.

“It’s better to have options,” Celia said, stepping out of the latrine and tossing on a quick “Clean and Press,” to make sure none of the smell followed her out.

“There you are miss!”

The Mousewife bustled up to her, whiskers and floofy dress bouncing. She had on her festival best, which included a flour-streaked apron and oven mitts.

“Oh, right. You told me you were going to help with the baking. I forgot,” Celia felt her smile shift, just a little more toward the sincere end of things. “Is it going well?”

“Oh it’s going splendidly Miss Celia! So many hungry people, and so many tasty treats! There’s a few of the babbies I helped deliver in the crowd and they’re all so big now, and all of their mothers stopped by and I made sure each of them got plenty of loaves and sweet rolls and twice baked honey cakes!” The Mousewife paused. “I tried to make some thrice-baked ones. It didn’t go so well.”

She pointed with her oven mitts, and Celia glanced over to see a plume of black smoke rising from one corner of the square. She stifled a chuckle.

“But someone said you was here, and that means it’s the end of my shift because I asked in advance to be off when you were off, and I’m glad you’re off because now we can get a good seat if we hurry!”

Celia opened her mouth to tell her that she’d lost her enthusiasm for the show, tell her about how Jean had manipulated her, but before she could say a word the Mousewife had grabbed her hand with one oven-mitted paw, and hustled through the crowd, squeaking apologies all the way. “Scuse me, sorry, sorry, coming through, scuse us, oh dear, hey mind the tail buster, pardon me, sorry, scuse us…”

There was nothing to be done but be towed along in her wake, and Celia didn’t mind. This left her free to scan the crowd.

And sure enough, there were quite a lot of bunny beastkin in full piratical costume working the crowd. They were ARRR-ing and strutting around, and playing hurdy gurdies and hornpipes, and dancing, and doing sword tricks for the kids. A few of them even had hooks replacing hands, or peg legs, or leather ears, or eyepatches that looked like the real thing, rather than an affectation. There were many scars on display, and though Celia’s mind was hovering on the edge of that black void where memory took too much effort, she realized that she’d never seen some of them before. These weren’t the actors in the troupe. Or if they had been with the troupe, they’d been far out of sight of the public.

They were watching her back, too. Some of them were more discrete about it than others, but a few of them were staring at her like she was the tastiest carrot in the world. Normally she would have chalked that down to her ‘Gorgeous’ skill doing its thing, but here and now? No. No, there were definitely shenanigans afoot, and they were padding in on oversized, soft, bunny feet.

They drew closer to the stage, a massive theater built in the center of the square. Curtains hung from nearby tall buildings, prodded up even further by scaffolding and poles, covered the structure. It was five stories tall if it was an inch, and she could see great masts poking out from the uncovered top.

And under the murmur and cheers from the crowd, she could just hear a faint thrumming. A mighty engine, no kind she knew, idling in a smooth purr.

PER+1

“Oh there we are! There’s that handsome Gaston fellow!” The Mousewife practically hauled her down the aisles between the benches, past crowds of people packed in tightly, past the food and beer vendors busily hawking their goods, past a row of nobles and wealthy citizens who waved at her and tried to get her attention or shouted words that were lost in the noise…

…down to the very front row, where a surly and annoyed human was telling a pair of drunk and well-dressed patrons that no, these seats were taken, kindly piss off, s’il te plaît?

“No, we don’t want a salted plate,” the woman screeched. “We want those CHAIRS.”

Fortunately, the Mousewife had come prepared.

“I’m very sorry miss, but those are saved for Miss Celia and guest you see, and that’d be us, so here’s some tasty and healthy cookies for you and your husband, and a few more for the road.”

The couple scarcely had time to look around in drunken surprise before Karen Mousewife was in among them, drawing baked goods from her apron with lightning speed, and tucking them into whatever pockets or purses she could reach. The man opened his mouth to protest, and she promptly leaped up on one of the seats and jammed a muffin into it.

“There you go sir! Goes great with milk, I think I saw a feller selling some down the way there, bye bye now!”

“But…” the woman said, spilling beer as she scowled down at the Mousewife.

“Bye-bye now,” said the Mousewife, and the two practically fled down the row, and didn’t stop until they had vanished down the aisle.

“Merde!” Gaston was wide-eyed, staring down at the fuzzy little woman. “How did you do that? I was thinking I would have to hurt them.”

“It’s one of my secret weapons, so don’t go telling anyone, okay now?” said the Mousewife, in front of the crowd of eager onlookers. To be fair, most of them were focused on the stage, but still, Celia thought it a perfect testament to the woman’s peculiar-yet-effective mentality.

“Oh I’m so sorry I’ve been rude, here you go Mister Gaston! I made these for you and Miss Jean special, they’re carrot cookies with real carrots!” she pulled them out and happily waved them in front of his face.

And to Celia’s surprise, the hairy man’s eyes went wide with alarm. He stared at the cookies, then whipped his head around to look at the setting sun. Back and forth, back and forth, and then he slapped a hand to his mouth, and shook, literally trembling as he said. “No, I… merci, but… I can’t… Ihavetogobye!”

The two watched him run away, slamming through the crowd, leaving an angry wake of people behind him before vanishing under one of the curtains.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, that didn’t go well,” the Mousewife said sadly, putting the oversized orange and green cookies back into her pockets. “I wonder if he’s allergic, poor thing.”

“Maybe,” Celia said, staring after him, her gloom momentarily forgotten. “But I’m not sure what kind of allergy makes your ears grow and your skin start sprouting fur.”

“What?”

“Maybe nothing,” Celia took her seat. “Let’s get this over with.”

The Mousewife stared at her, whiskers quivering in shock. “Ma’am! This is going to be a fun play! This is the biggest, bestest play I’ve ever been to, and Miss Jean is going to be in it! You like Miss Jean, don’t you? This will be fun!”

Celia opened her mouth to explain…

…then shut it again.

What could she say?

There was no time to explain the horrible news she’d gotten not an hour ago.

And this was not the place to do it, not in front of a crowd that though loud, was eager for drama and none too picky about where it came from.

So instead Celia gathered herself, and hugged Karen Mousewife.

Surprised, the Mousewife hugged her back.

“You’re a pure soul,” Celia whispered. “Just… be ready. Run when the trouble starts and get help. Okay?”

“What? Trouble?”

Celia settled back into her chair, shook her head, and patted the empty seat next to her.

Karen hopped up beside her.

She had been a blessing, the Mousewife had. All of Celia’s minor troubles, all the miscommunications and slip-ups, all the myriad tiny things that kept going wrong and distracting her or making her feel worse, all of those things had started to disappear when the Mousewife had joined her staff, rolled up her sleeves, and gotten busy sorting matters out.

The sun sank below the horizon. Glowgleam lanterns along the scaffolding flickered on. Hidden somewhere within or perhaps under the stage, an orchestra stirred, and the first notes of music were met with a deafening cheer from the eager crowd.

And despite herself, she felt a part of that eagerness, felt her own interest stirring, pulling her away from the pit.

Something new was happening.

This wasn’t any of the old problems, this wasn’t a complicated and thorny political matter, where one wrong word could sink her, or have ramifications that made hundreds of people hate her. This was a simple thing, a new problem, and she didn’t have to make a tough decision or go to lengths to fix things.

All she had to do was stop pirates from kidnapping her.

She looked around while the curtain opened, saw nothing and no one out of place. All eyes were forward.

And there was Jean, stepping out onto stage, a stage which looked nothing less than a full sailing ship. Jean who sang about how she was bound to service with pirates, for the rest of her life.

Jean, who looked at her, and hesitated, eyes wide.

Celia held her face as still as she could, but the words resonated in her mind. I know. She wasn’t sure if she could keep the betrayal from showing in her eyes, and she wasn’t sure if she cared.

But whether or not she saw it, Jean was a professional. She resumed the song, glossing over her slip, although Celia thought there was a touch more sorrow in it than before.

After the number, a woman bellowed from offstage, “WHO’S THAT LOLLYGAGGING WHEN THEY OUGHT TO BE A SWABBIN’!”

Immediately a full bunny beastkin crew popped up out of hatches, out of barrels, dropped from behind the sails, and took up a full comedy song about lazy crew, while a sassy, overendowed bunny woman with a full set of gold buckteeth and a captain’s hat stalked around the stage, firing a pistol into the air and lashing a whip at anyone unlucky to get near her. The captain bunny couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but the audience was laughing so hard it barely mattered. Even Celia found herself cracking a grin, and she forgave Jean, just a little.

Well, if they’re going to try to kidnap me, at least they’re doing it in style.

And then, in the middle of the song, Jean rushed out from the middle of a line of swabbing crew, and screamed “Look out Celia!”

The song halted.

The crew froze, staring at Jean.

The audience stared at the crew.

And something very heavy struck Celia’s skull from behind, as she heard porcelain crunch, and it sounded and felt just like she’d imagined it would.