Warsinger by James Baldwin (most important books of all time txt) 📕

The bouncer reached over and held the door open for us. “Back room. Auntie should be there, too.”

“Thanks.” Suri kissed him on the cheek, and he gruffly returned it with a small smile.

We entered into a cloaked-off area, where we were given rope and had to peace-bond our weapons before we were allowed into the main club. Past the drapes was a tavern area that was currently full and focused on the strippers who were performing on stages at the end of the room. Beyond the was a dusty pit fighting arena crowded with punters. A pair of very buff, heavily oiled dudes in tight leather pants were wrestling there in the dirt.

“Hmm.” Vash nodded along as one man threw the other over his head by his neck and the seat of his pants. “Nice technique. Nice pants.”

Suri laid a hand on the edge of the door and smiled fondly at the scene beyond. “Yeah... the Tiger is a bit of an institution in these parts. Found the first good people I'd ever met in this place.”

“Beat up a fair share of them, too.” Karalti held onto my arm, sniffing intently.

“Sure did.” Suri looked back at me. “Let’s go find Mamaji. She'll be at the rear bar.”

Mamaji turned out to be a very old woman with a stack of golden rings around her neck and big gold rings in her ears, lip, and nostril. She exclaimed with joy when she saw Suri, embracing her, cupping her face with trembling wrinkled hands. I found myself feeling wistful. The bar I'd worked at had this same family feel about it, the same love between the staff who worked there. The Full Stop had been a popular haunt for Vets, a pretty good number of them in their fifties and sixties. Our proprietor had been a rave producer turned bar manager when the pandemic in the ‘20s trashed his eventing business and forced him to downsize. He'd been a pretty cool guy: older, white, a bit hippy-dippy when it came to topics like aliens and angels. He'd been a good manager and a good landlord, though: the kind of landlord who'd turn up with a blunt to share during 'house inspections'.

“You okay?” Karalti asked.

“Yeah. Head’s fine. Just homesick.” I breathed deeply of the scent of old alcohol. “I just heard Aksil's name, though, so I bet we're about to go meet Suri's appraiser.”

“Mmhmm.”

Suri returned, then jerked her head to the right and led us through a dark doorway to a quieter series of booths, all of which would be great for lapdances, murder, or fencing stolen goods. Aksil, to my surprise, was a Meewfolk. The lean, punkish cat had the same rough-as-guts feral look that Taethawn did, but he was much older. The fur along his cheeks and around his eyes was shaved off, revealing lines of crudely inked tattoos. His eyes were crossed, but they were a very brilliant blue.

“Ahh, now here is a face old Aksil has not seen in a long time,” he said. As he spoke, I noticed he only had one front fang – but unlike almost every Meewfolk I’d met, he had no trace of an accent. “Our Red Lioness has come crawling back to Auntie’s House, has she?”

“Not crawling, you old fleabag. Very much walking.” She eased down onto the bench across from him. “I don't have any more time for small talk, though. Can you speak Vlachian? My friend here, the one with the artificed arm, doesn’t speak any Dakhari.”

“I can, yes,” he replied, in that language.

“Great. We got something for you to look at. What's your going rate for identifying artifacts, these days?”

“Artifacts?” He reached up to stroke his whiskers, purring softly to himself for a few moments. “Between old friends, let us say... ten Vlachian olbia? You are dealing in that currency, yes?”

Suri chuckled. “Olbia are worth a lot more than dinari.”

“It's true. But for artifacts, that is my price. Likely it is worth a lot more than my humble fee.” Aksil spread his hands. Like cats, his long, dexterous fingers had pads on the tips.

“Make it five,” I said.

His ears twitched and swivelled toward me. “Ohh, a haggler? Well, five is impossible. I have four children, and my family must eat. Eight.”

I brought the star-shaped medallion out. “For this thing? You have to be kidding. I already know it's made out of electrum-”

“Wait.” Aksil's face closed down, and he made a grabby motion with one paw. “Let me see that.

I glanced at Suri, who nodded. Vash and Karalti peered in curiously as the appraiser took the necklace, donned a magnifier headset, and began to examine the script.

“Ten pure gold pieces,” he said, in a firm whisper. “That is a fraction of what this is worth to the right buyer. And in terms of non-monetary value...”

“Then ten gold it is.” I held up a hand before Suri could protest. “But you get five now, and the rest after you tell us what it is.”

Aksil took his money from Suri, then glanced between the four of us. “This is either one of the Shields of the Firmament, or a very good copy. They are artifacts made in the lost Shrine of the Anvil, reputedly the first temple to Khors ever built by human hands. It was crafted by none other than the Arch-Smith Pranad Ba’nadi, He of Many Talents. He was the first human Forgemaster in our history, the first to learn the esoteric secrets of high artificing from the dragons.”

“How do you know?” I asked, passing him the rest.

The Meewfolk’s eyes hooded as he added the five coins to a pouch. “Trade secret. What I can tell you is that this script is comprised of tightly compressed Words of Power, the kind mages of today wish they understood. Do you know much about magic? Any of you?”

We all shook our heads, even Karalti.

“Magic is a language which, when properly spoken, shapes the nature of reality itself,” he said. “Before the Destroyers appeared in