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III
Since I’d had a steady job with the Resurrection,
my mornings had been routine: I’d hit my alarm clock two or three times,
get out of bed, wash and braid my beard – two braids, one of only three
styles I’d ever seen a tauren wear his beard in – and slap on some
overmusk. (If it was Monday, I’d squeeze myself into the tiny shower and
wash everything.) I’d walk downstairs, have a blood sausage at Widget’s
bar, check my mailbox, and get to work on whatever quests the day had
brought me.
I’d tossed and turned for hours, alternating
between staring at the ceiling counting exploding sheep, and drifting in
strange nightmares where random people knew more about me than my best
friends did. I’d seen my mother, who I hadn’t seen in a decade, and she
hadn’t recognized me, walked right by me. I’d woken up crying.
When the alarm clock went off, I hit it so hard I
crushed it. That wasn’t actually that unusual; any night I’d gone to bed
late, or angry, I risked crushing my human-sized alarm clock before
waking up enough to control myself. I went through a couple clocks a
month.
I didn’t get up, though. I stared at the ceiling
more, listening to the morning bustle downstairs. It had stopped
raining, thankfully. I lay there, listening to my cat purr from
somewhere in the room. My hooves dangling off the bottom of the bed, and
I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Then I started wondering if
I’d in fact had anything to do with getting into it at all. Fang had
known things about me that I thought no one but Rhy and Ti did. He knew
a good deal more about me than my employers did, and seemed to have
plans for me that had begun when I’d gotten off the airship from Orcmar.
Plans that didn’t take my own plans into account in the slightest. I was
angry at this for a moment, until I remembered that I hadn’t really had
any plans to ignore.
Everyone thought the Murloc was dead, and I was the
only one I knew that knew the truth, and the reason I knew it was
because the Murloc wanted me to. It was heady stuff.
* * *
An hour later, I got up, pulled on my leather pants
and jerkin, donned my boots, cloak and hood (with holes for my horns I’d
cut myself), and walked downstairs for breakfast.
“Morning, Widget,” I said.
“Morning, Horse!” said Widget from behind the bar.
“You’re late this morning. The usual?”
“Breakfast is for the weak,” I said. Widget wasn’t
fooled, and he hopped down off his stool to begin preparing it.
“Only the best!” the gnome piped cheerily. I pulled
some coins out of my bag and tossed them on the bar. “Your friend left
right after you did,” he said.
“Is that right?” I wrinkled my forehead. “You
didn’t catch his name, did you?”
“Wouldn’t give it.”
I nodded. “To me, either.” There was a bamf
sound from behind the bar, and a puff of green smoke mushroomed over
where Widget’s voice had been coming from. He popped up on his stool and
handed me a sizzling plate. He reached under the bar and produced an
oversized fork and knife, which as far as I could tell he only kept
around for me. I was suddenly starving, and ate greedily. “Thanks,” I
said, through a mouthful of sausage.
I finished, and went outside. Widget’s building’s
mailbox had a spring on top with a bouncing metal square painted like an
envelope. I twanged it, like I always did, and opened the box.
Inside was a folded piece of parchment. Only
pretentious people used parchment any more, and I only ever got it from
the Resurrection. I pulled the parchment out and looked at it. The
outside was unlabeled, except for the thirty copper stamp, a magic
(human-sized) seal, and the words, written in spidery calligraphy, “This
letter is property of the Law, and is intended only for its recipient.
Unauthorized viewing will be detected and punished immediately.” I
pressed my thumb to the seal, and it disintegrated. I opened the letter.
“Please meet my agent at the bridge to North End
tonight at dusk. Bring what you wish to, but pack light. A weapon would
be advised. My agent will know you.” Of course, I thought. Apparently
every mysterious person does. “Thank you for the faithful carrying out
of your duty. I will see you soon.”
Instead of a signature, there was what appeared to
be a bite mark at the bottom of the page. Clever.
I sort of panicked. Before I quite realized what I
was doing, I had hurried upstairs and begun to pack. I threw a change of
shirt and britches in my bag, along with a few trinkets I was loath to
leave without: a few potions, some stale pumpernickel bread that Rhy had
conjured for me weeks before, and a broken totem of Tidus’s. He made fun
of me for holding onto it, but I told him I used it to chase the mice
out of my apartment. Really, I just thought it looked cool, and the
thing tingled slightly when I held it. I was sure there was some kind of
magic still in it. I pulled my mace off its wall mount, and strapped it
at my side.
I pulled my cat carrier out from under the bed.
Ajax, my orange tabby, was curled up inside and sleeping. I put him in
the bag, on top of everything but the potions (which I might need at a
moment’s notice), closed the bag, put it on my back under my cloak
(where it was harder to steal, and harder to see), and ran breathlessly
back down the stairs to the street.
Then I felt a bit foolish. It was ten thirty in the
morning, hours from dusk. I stood there, staring dumbly around, feeling
quite lost.
The numbing feeling of being swept up in something
much larger than myself took over, and I wandered around the city by
foot. I headed south, for no reason, finding myself in the Goldshire
Village district. It was the City’s cosmopolitus, the district where
young people from all over the known world came to live their vibrant
years, artistic bohemians congregated, and young, clever businesses
thrived. It was also the home of the Panda Pub, owned by the only
pandaren I had ever met, and home to the best beer in the City. I found
myself outside it, and ducked in.
It was bustling with midday traffic, and although I
was head and shoulders above most of the crowd (and head, shoulders,
chest, waist and knees above some of it), I felt a bit claustrophobic. I
headed over to the bar and sat down. The owner was behind it, almost as
large as me, wearing his graceful, curving sword strapped across his
back. Local legend had it that while he swore it was ceremonial, he had
sheathed it in flesh more than once in living memory.
“Can I get you a brew?” he said in a thick pandaran
accent, after making his way over to me by way of several other
customers.
“I’ll take a two-pint of house stout,” I said,
tossing a few coins too many on the table, “and any gossip you’ve got.”
Might as well.
He brought me my glass of beer, and planted his
fuzzy elbows across the bar from me. “The Gossip, you want. All they
talk about this week is the Murloc. They say he’s dead!”
I nodded. “But no one found the body, right?”
“No,” he said, “they did! This morning, washed up
in the Old Town canals. Beaten to a bloody pulp, too, but it was his
blue scales.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “They’re sure it was
him?” Gossip, I reminded myself. It was just gossip.
“How many blue murlocs do you know in the City?” he
asked, taping his nose knowingly. “Not many, I bet.”
“Murlocs, though,” I said, “don’t they breed like
gnomes? How hard would it be to get a big blue murloc and drown him in
the canals?” I shouldn’t be arguing, I thought. My job was to spread the
rumor, not fight it.
“Drown a murloc? I don’t think you know murlocs
very well,” he said, as though that settled the question. I nodded in
agreement and finished my beer. It was delicious. “Another?” he said,
and as the first one had gone miles towards calming my nerves, I
couldn’t say no.
As he was filling my glass at the tap, there was a
crash behind me. My cat reflexes kicked in: I leapt off my stool and
turned around, mace in hand. Towards the middle of the room, an area had
cleared out, and a drunken, flushed blood elf stood opposite a drunken,
flushed dwarf.
“Don’t dishparage my anceshtorsh, you worthlesh
half-pint drunk,” shouted the elf.
“Yer ancestors are dead or fled, you twig of a
bastard breed, an ah’m right here!” The dwarf hiccoughed. “Don’t
disparage me! …hic!” He had his hand on a great hammer that dangled at
his side. The elf had his hand at his side too, on a tiny twig of a
thing, which looked to be inlaid with runes.
“Barfight!” shouted someone. “NO MAGIC!” shouted
the bartender. The dwarf laughed heartily, spitting a bit into his
beard. The elf curled his lip and stepped back, lowering his hand. The
dwarf detached his hammer, raising it over his head and shouting, “Khaz
Modan!” There were cheers.
I put my mace back at my side and turned back to
the bar. My beer was waiting for me. I set about to draining it.
Apparently mere fights didn’t stop business at the Panda Pub.
The dwarf shuffled over to the bar, plopping up on
the stool next to mine. “A beer for the victor,” he said. He seemed a
good deal more sober than he had moments before. “I’d love to feel like
I’m actin,” he said, and winked at me.
“I wouldn’t mind either,” I said back. The
bartender brought the dwarf a pint of stout. “What’s your business?”
“My business is no business of yours,” said the
dwarf. “I’m only in town for a few days.”
“I’m Horse,” I said matter-of-factly. “I’m leaving
soon too, I think.”
“Trouble with the Law?”
“My business is no business of yours,” I shot back.
“Fair enough.” He chuckled. “Horse, you said? Funny
name for a bull.”
“Funny, no one’s ever said that to me before,” I
said.
The dwarf chuckled again. “Well,” he said, “I’d
better be off before the elf has another quarter-pint of lager and
decides breaking pub rules is a good idea. I've got the work of a
prince!" he declared. “Yer beer’s on me,” and he tossed coins to the
bar. “Best of luck with your business, an wish me best of luck with
mine!”
I nodded at him as he faded back into the crowd.
There were no sudden noises, and I guessed that the elf had swallowed
his pride, or, more likely, delayed its satisfaction. Blood elves aren’t
given to sneak attacks, but I was sure the dwarf would be challenged to
a fair duel before the day was out.
I finished my beer, and left. The alcohol and the
excitement had taken my mind off of the day’s thoughts, and I strolled
back towards Old Town. The old Stormwind Keep was in the distance ahead
of me, and off to the east rose the spire of the Old Abbey. The medieval
city must have been a beautiful sight, I thought.
* * *
The afternoon was getting on by the time I was back
in Old Town. It was too late to go and see Rhy and Ti, and I had no idea
if they were in. I also had no idea if I wanted to see them. The night
before had felt suitably final, if final was what was required. So I sat
at the edge of a canal and dangled my hooves. I let Ajax out to play a
bit. He pawed after fish. The rim of the sky lit up, silhouetting the
City skyline in red and purple. It was relaxing, and I sat there, my
eyes closed, trying to absorb it.
Finally it was dark. I packed Ajax back in his
carrier and headed East towards the North End. It was a quiet, up-scale
area, tucked into a little valley at the base of the mountains, and
there were a trio of bridges running from the City proper, across the
Northshire Stream, and into the District. The East North Bridge and the
West North Bridge were small affairs, just a footpath for pedestrians’
sake. The middle one, the only one large enough to support wagons and
carts and traffic with wheels, was known simply as the bridge to the
North End, and was where my instructions had told me to meet. I arrived
at it as darkness fell completely and the streetlights began to blink
on.
Out of the city night, off the far side of the
bridge, a lithe, low-to-the-ground shape streaked towards me. It stopped
in front of me, and sat, purring. It was a large speckled cat, and it
looked at me with intent in its eyes. “Agent?” I said, feeling a bit
silly. The cat wagged its head in what was clearly a nod.
I slipped into a shadow, closed my eyes, and
concentrated. My hooves grew smaller, my legs skinnier. My arms reached
down towards the ground, muscle stretching against bone; the hair on the
back of my neck grew into a mane and I could feel my face growing long
and slender. I stepped back out, naked now, a gray stallion. As suddenly
as it had arrived, the cat streaked off back over the bridge, into the
North End, and I cantered after it.
IV
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