Spear of Destiny by James Baldwin (little bear else holmelund minarik .TXT) 📕

A gang of five Mercurion toughs hung outside the rusted gate leading in, checking people for weapons as they streamed in and out. It was a fight night, and people from all over the city were sneaking in to see the show.

“Halt, Sanghi.” One of the Mercurions stepped out in front of Suri and Cutthroat, their face hidden behind a battered mask. “You can take your ghora to a public stable. It isn’t coming inside.”

“She’ll wait out here.” Suri slung her leg over and dismounted, pulling Cutthroat’s reins over and dropping them. “We’re here on business. Red made an appointment for us.”

We couldn’t see the Mercurion’s expression, but they straightened up at Ebisa’s street name. “Prove it.”

Suri pulled a small sheathed dagger from a pouch: the [Ravenstar Dagger], a relic of the Royal family that Ebisa carried with her as a badge of office.

“Understood. Someone will be out to take care of your mount.” The Mercurion waved us through.

We passed through the gate into a compound with a ring of run-down houses. Strings of brightly colored lanterns hung between the hipped Chinese-style roofs, casting rainbow light over the crowd of people talking, drinking, dancing and brawling on the filthy straw-covered pavement. Suri bulldozed a path to the largest house at the end of the courtyard, bouncing a couple of drunk Vlachian teenagers off her armor on the way up the stairs. We entered to find the place just as animated as the outside. The floor was crowded, staffed by attractive human and Meewfolk bartenders. Every table was taken. Downstairs, the sounds of fighting could be heard: shouts, the ringing of a bell, the thump and crack of fists on flesh.

“Phew! Smells intense!” Karalti clung to my arm, sniffing the air. “Hang on, okay? I want to get a drink and some fried fish!”

“I ain’t stopping you,” I replied, glaring at a drunk Vlachian thug angling toward us. He turned and stomped away, looking for a better mark. “Have you ever actually drunk alcohol before?”

“Nope! I’ll get whatever seems tasty.” Karalti wiggled happily, then let go of me and slid through the crowd toward the bar. “Do you want anything? Suri?”

“Sure,” I said. “Whiskey if they’ve got it, vodka if they don’t.”

“Grab me a beer as well, would you?” Suri called out to her over the noise. “Oh look: I think that’s our table.”

I looked in the direction she was facing and spotted what she had: a group of gaudily dressed Meewfolk seated at a booth, gambling with cups and drinking themselves into oblivion. One of them had a small, fluffy dinosaur of some kind perched on his shoulder. More telling was the golden quest icon that hung over his head.

“That’s not all,” I said, glancing at the next booth over. “Look at the table next door. Starborn.”

Suri’s head turned sharply. The Starborn in question sat in front of a row of three NPCs, playing cards with the single-minded concentration of a serious gambler. He was older, with a rough beard and stringy grey hair pulled into a short half-ponytail. He wore a long brown duster over a red satin vest that looked like it had seen better days. A pearl-handled pistol lay on the table by his elbow.

“I’m impressed,” I said. “It takes real effort to look like a grimy cyberpunk character in a fantasy game.”

“Doubt he’s got anything interesting to say.” Suri said. “Anyway, you want me to do the talking? Or you want to do it?”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “Gotta get that street cred somehow. You and Karalti watch my back.”

“It’s your funeral.” Suri equipped her helmet and fell in by my left.

We rolled up to the Meewfolk as the leader slammed his cup down and pulled it up to reveal a pair of sixes. His companions roared, thumping the table and cursing him good-naturedly as he laughed and quipped something to them in his native tongue. When he spotted us, his blue eyes turned sly, and he fixed a toothy fanged grin on us.

“Ahh, you must be Red’s guests!” He cried out to us, waving us with a ring-encrusted hand. “Come, come, sit with us!”

“Thanks.” I dropped into the seat, looking back to see Karalti weaving back toward us from the bar. “Red didn’t give us your names. I’m Hector. This is Suri. What can I call you?”

“My name, dearest human, is Samboon Taksin, captain of the Wattana,” he replied, leaning back in his seat. “I am told you seek passage to the land of my people?”

“Sure do. We need to arrange an audience with the Avatar.” I smiled at Karalti as she set our drinks down and plopped into the chair beside me. Her plate was stacked high with fillets of breaded fish and a bowl of what looked and smelled like tartar sauce.

The Meewfolk at the table all did a doubletake. Captain Taksin, who had been taking a pull off his mug, sputtered on his mouthful of beer.

“A human? Gain audience with the Avatar? HAH!” He slammed the mug down. “If I wasn’t an outcast, I’d have to slap you with claws for such an arrogant, blasphemous statement. But I am an outcast, so sanyelak mra’ah.”

I had a quiet sip of whiskey. It was surprisingly good: sharp, caramelly, with a warm smokey finish. “I don’t speak your language, yet, but I’ll take it as a wish for luck.”

The other Meewfolk at the table laughed uproariously, rocking in their seats as they toasted each other.

“Oh yes, that is what it means. Wishing luck for an audience with the Avatar, hah!” The Captain shook his head. “How do you plan to do this thing?”

“We have knowledge we can return to your people,” I said. “I was hoping the Avatar might be interested. If you have any good ideas