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14. The Standing Goat
🕑 Added 2021-03-27 17:40:46 +0000 UTCUpdate: Unlocked for all patrons. I'm publishing a chapter every day this week, so you'll see another tomorrow too.
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The inn is three stories tall with a sign out front of a goat standing on two legs. Its brass-covered double doors are open to let the air in and the lively chatter of its customers out. The first floor is given over to a restaurant, and the customers sit on cushions at low tables, the air rich with the smell of warm spices. A stairway leads up to the second floor. An elevator dings, the door opening smoothly to let a guest out to join the crowd. There’s an open area to the left, empty except for an unattended harp. To the right, a slight woman with short dark hair and a pretty face sits on a stool behind the bar. She laughs at a patron’s joke.
A waiter works the busy tables, her son by the look of him, with his mother’s hair and eyes, but broad where she’s slim. Handsome, Hallon notes, and worth a second look. He gestures for them to sit at the table farthest from the open area, the only one with seats available.
“Good,” Karam says, “Mrs. Hataisi hasn’t started yet.”
“Is she good?” Hallon asks.
“She’s Blessed Blue, and the blessing is in her voice,” Karam answers, taking a seat.
Milo beats Hallon to the question. “What does that mean?”
“Just that she’s the best singer in all of Dawrtaine,” Karam says. “All the world if you ask me.”
Milo’s brow furrows, but before he can ask another question, the waiter comes to their table.
“It’s not like you to bring guests, Karam. Welcome. The stew tonight is chicken and fava beans for 75 dirham. There’s also mutton and greens for 1 dinar 20.”
“I’ll take the mutton,” Karam says.
“Big spender. And what about the two of you?”
Milo glances at the next table where a big fellow uses thin sheets of bread to scoop up the stew. “I’ll have that.”
“The same,” Hallon says. Even after the meat pies earlier, her stomach complains of having had not enough food. Besides the smell is amazing, and her mouth won’t stop watering.
The waiter nods, but Karam stops him before he leaves. “A jot, Safi. These two need a room for tonight. Got space for them?”
“Sorry, we’re full up. Some Stoneside folks are here for the show and staying over.” The waiter seeing that there’s nothing else, leaves for the kitchen.
“Hells,” Karam says. “I was hoping you could stay here. A joy house won’t be as nice.”
A woman comes down the staircase at the back, taking each step with calm elegance. She wears a turquoise dress and gold rings on all her fingers. There’s a blue tattoo on her forehead and a scarf patterned with gold stars around her neck. The man at the bar puts down his drink and goes to sit at the harp. He has an easy, dreamy smile.
The room goes silent, the air expectant. The singer takes her place beside the harp, and her first note is pure and lonely. Its beauty draws the audience in like a wave carrying flotsam out to sea. Impossibly, a second voice joins the first, and the singer closes her eyes in concentration as the two sides of her throat work to sing with two voices, spiraling around each other to tell the tale of two lovers. Of how they are found and lost, and found and lost again. The notes build and sway. They rise and fall, following the story until finally it must, of course, end in quiet desolation.
The singer rearranges her scarf and walks back up the stairs. The audience shakes off their trance and slowly comes back to life.
Milo says, “That was. Amazing.”
Hallon doesn’t trust her voice and simply nods in agreement.
“Stoneside, they call her The Jewel, but here she’s still Tanith Hataisi.” Karam grins, proud that a Gloop could sing so well. “Didn’t I tell you? In her, the Taint is a blessing.”
Not just a blessing, Hallon thinks. A voice like that is a gift from the gods. The food comes, and it’s as delicious as it smells. Hallon sighs—good music, good food, and the city of Dawrtaine found—can the night get any better than this?
The singer sings twice more, and the audience is transported each time to worlds made of stories and notes as perfect as human voices can make them. At the end of the night, when she walks upstairs for the last time, the harpist steps out into the audience to lay out squares of cloth on each table. People wrap gifts for the performers in the cloth.
Karam offers his silver spoon. He blushes when he notices Milo watching. “It’ll put me behind again, but music like that’s what makes life worth living.”
“She’s worth all the money from that Armin fellow,” Milo says.
Karam smiles. “Yeah, but you can’t afford that. Put in 50 dirham each. She’ll understand.”
Hallon kisses her coins before adding them to the offering. If Milo and Karam look at her strangely, then let them. Tanith Hataisi’s voice deserves proper reverence.
Hallon. There’s a prickling under the dragon’s thoughts.
She takes a breath to clear her mind. Yes?
Something’s amiss. Eratosthenes shows her the street outside. He’s perched on top of the inn, watching a group walking towards the building. They smell of violence.
They’re hunting, Hallon says.
Yes.
With the hunters is a man with floppy ears and a bloodhound’s nose. He recognizes a patron leaving the inn and walks over to talk to him. The patron points to the Standing Goat, towards the corner where Hallon, Milo, and Karam are sitting. Dog Nose jogs up the inn’s ramp. He pokes his head through the doors, just long enough to sniff the air.
Hallon says, “Karam, are you expecting anyone?”
“No, not really. Why?”
“Someone just peeked in the door and seemed to recognize you.”
“I’m famous,” Karam says with a grin. “Strange that they didn’t come in though.” He stands and makes for the entrance. “I’ll be right back.”
“You have that distracted look again,” Milo says. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, but I hope it doesn’t spoil our evening.”
“Yes, it was lovely, wasn’t it?” Milo whispers the rest to himself. “Almost worth going mad for.”
Outside, Karam gets into an argument with Dog Nose. The hunters surround him, but the boy doesn’t back down. He points back to the inn. This isn’t about him. It’s about Hallon and Milo.
“Hallon, Hallon?”
“Not now, Milo, if you please.”
“I’m sorry, Miss, but we’re closing the restaurant. You’re welcome to come back in the morning,” Safi says with a smile.
The people staying the night head towards the stairs and elevator. Everyone else is leaving out the front door. “All right,” she says, “but is there a back way? Through the kitchen maybe?”
Milo must hear the tension in her voice, because he picks up the picnic basket and slings it over his shoulder. Back outside, a thin man has joined the conversation. He has a giant with him, and the hunters back away to make room. Karam doesn’t look pleased. The argument continues, but the thin man will have none of it. He slaps Karam hard across the face.
Hallon heads for the front door.
“I thought she wanted the back way,” Safi says, confused.
Milo shrugs and makes a what-can-you-do gesture. He follows after Hallon, and Safi trails behind, curious. The argument in the street stops when the three of them step outside.
The thin man’s smile is as thin as he is. “Why, if it isn’t Safi. Look how much you’ve grown. I bet your mama’s so proud. And you have two interesting guests tonight. Did you know that?”
Safi grimaces. “We have a deal, Marid. You keep your business away from our place.”
“We have a deal,” Marid says, “but I’m on the Scholar’s business tonight.”
The woman from the bar comes outside in a wheelchair. “What’s going on out here?”
Marid bows. “Good evening, Mrs. Rugaam. I was just telling your son—these two have something the Scholar wants.” He points to the basket in Milo’s hands. “They must give it over and accept their punishment for breaking the Rules. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Safi, come away,” Mrs. Rugaam says. “We have a deal. We don’t meddle in the Scholar’s affairs, and he doesn’t meddle in ours.”
“That’s right,” Marid says. “They have rethak in that basket, and the rule is—all rethak in No Town goes to the Scholar, no exceptions.”
Karam startles. “You have rethak? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We didn’t know about this rule,” Hallon says. “What is rethak? What does it do?”
Mrs. Rugaam is just as surprised as Karam. “Rethak keeps a child’s genetic structure from mutating. It protects them from the Taint.”
None of the books Hallon has read mention anything about genetic structures. Is it a problem with her understanding of Arabic or biology? “I don’t know what that means.”
“The Taint can strike anyone,” Mrs. Rugaam explains, “so the wealthy give rethak to their children to keep them from turning into Gloop. Treatment starts in the uterus and continues until the child is about sixteen years old.”
“So that explains why it’s so valuable,” Hallon says, nodding. She turns to Marid. “If we give you the rethak, will you leave Karam alone?”
Marid laughs. “Look at her playing the innocent. It’s not Karam you should be worried about, young lady. A rule’s a rule, and the punishment for not turning over rethak is a hand.” He pulls a long knife from its sheath. “But I’ll be generous. I promise to make it quick and let Mrs. Rugaam bandage you after.”
This is bad, Hallon says. How many are there?
Twelve including the ones in the alley, Eratosthenes says. Careful of the big one. His life force is powerful.
The food and music helped, but Hallon’s still bone weary after their journey. She’ll need to strike first if she’s going to come out of this unscathed. Hallon opens the Gate of the Sun Horse and takes a breath to ready herself. She smells the inn’s spices—pepper, cumin, yeast—the unwashed bodies around her, and the innkeeper Mrs. Rugaam’s rose perfume.
Eratosthenes lifts into the air to give her a better view from above. Ready?
Yes.
Be wary. Be bold.
Yes.
Hallon looses the Dragon’s Roar, and her opponents rock back, even the giant with the red tattoo. She launches forward, the stone cracking under her step to land among them. Punches flicker out, and two who had stood too close together go tumbling, already unconscious. Ten left.
The inertia carries her forward to kick a man in the solar plexus, crumpling him to the ground. She redirects the energy, spins it around her center and lets it flow to her hand like a whip, catching the next opponent with an open palm across the side of his head. The man’s feet fly out from under him as he crashes to the ground. Eight left.
Her opponents start to move now, the surprise wearing thin. Their hands come up to guard, to strike. A step here, a step there. Hallon passes through the stance called Wind at War and works her way outside the group, forcing her opponents to stumble against each other to reach her. Only one has a clear shot at Hallon, and she fades back, letting the punch pass and hooking his arm to throw him. It breaks his arm at the same time. Seven left.
Hallon moves back, and her opponents must step over the fallen. One glances down as he passes. Hallon flashes forward, her fists fluttering across his torso in the Hummingbird’s Heart. She feels his ribs break but holds back from cracking his sternum, from the kill at the end that would crush his throat. He falls and joins the fallen on the ground.
Two rush her together. Step—fly—and Hallon spins in the air, catching a man square across the jaw with a heel kick, knocking him down. A woman scrambles back to make space between them. Hallon re-centers, gathers herself and lunges, tackling her to the ground. Hallon tumbles past, finds her feet and kicks back. Another strike to the head, and there are four left.
Hallon rolls forward, passing between two of them. Upright again, she spins around to grab the back of their necks, dropping her center to pull them down to the ground, stacking one on top of the other. She strikes, breaking the top one’s nose. The other tries to scramble clear, but Hallon repositions and kicks him in the groin. He jackknifes around the blow, vomiting onto his companion. Two left. The last two.
The thin man Marid frowns. He isn’t afraid. If anything, Hallon can taste his annoyance. The giant beside him had watched the fight with quiet interest but hadn’t moved to join the fray. He’s heavy like stone. Hallon shakes her energy loose and resettles it through her body. Her senses are open, her mind a still pool reflecting only the actions of her opponents. The depths below remain hidden and undisturbed.
Be careful.
She nods. As if the movement is a signal, the giant launches himself at her with breathtaking speed. Hallon moves—Wind at War transforming to Gull’s Wings—but the exertions of the past few days have left her slower than she should be, and the fist catches the top of her skull. She spins, shedding momentum, letting the attack’s energy flow through and away, but even so, the blow staggers her. The world goes sideways for an instant, and it’s enough of an opening for another of the giant’s punches, lifting her up and into the air.
The giant is faster than she expects. Stronger too.
Turning, Hallon lets the Starling’s Fall help her land on her feet, but the giant is already moving, a fist descending. Hallon spins, turns her center to water, flowing and sliding. She dances the Butterfly’s Landing to create space. The giant presses and continues to press, refusing to give her that space.
There’s a ripple of smoke and a flash of green in the spirit realm; the sense of shadows sweeping in from all directions. Her connection with Eratosthenes tenses with urgency.
Hallon! An ambush!
She doesn’t see the giant’s last punch, and it strikes her dead center on the temple. Everything goes black.
