The Glass Slipper shuddered and bucked under their feet as Bard threw open the cockeyed cabin doors. MicMacMcPherson flew passed his ear, landing on the splintered table in the center of the ramshackle cabin in a swirl of dust. Bard strode to the foot locker on the far side of the cabin as the rest of Bardsong flowed in behind them. Shrine took up position beside the door, long white robes drifting sinuously around his shapeless form. Dirge swung himself up onto the captain’s little bunk as Bard withdrew a rolled chart from the disarray of the locker. Shaking a wandering spider from the parchment, he turned and spread it on the table, white eyes searching the formations of the land. Wail crossed her arms and looked on idly. “Here.” Bard tapped the port he wanted. MicMacMcPherson glanced at the selected stop and cackled, “Arr, Bardsong. Ye doesn’t pick easy ones, does ye? I’lla get ye as close as I kin.” He flapped his gray wings and was gone. Dirge sat up in the bunk and bumped his head. “Oww.” “Careful.” Bard started rolling up the chart. Where to? Shrine inquired quietly. Bard stopped and glanced up at him, grim, “You know.” None of us are too eager to see that place again. Shrine’s quite voice was firm. “Speak for yourself, deadhead.” Dirge slid off the bunk carefully and plucked the parchment from Bard’s hands, spreading it back on the desk. “I have a score to settle with that guy.” His wrist moved and a little knife flashed in the air, pinning the chart through their destination. He moved to pull it free. A hand caught his wrist as he touched the hilt; Wail glared at him. She looked up at Bard, amber eyes demanding “Why?” He shrugged, “They said the messenger was a peasant.” Wail released Dirge and drew back, scowling. Dirge hesitated, “That’s a big city. What if we can’t find him?” “We’ll ask Kane.” “He’ll lie.” Wail pointed out flatly. “That’s why we have Shrine.” Bard replied. Dirge pulled his knife from the desk and frowned, “I don’t like those guys.” We all have misgivings. Shrine spoke suddenly. They turned to look at his white hood. If he finds out we’re in his city, we’re in for a brawl. He won’t let us leave alive. But we can’t not go. Dirge scratched his ear with his knife, a sad little smile on his face, “I wanna quit.” He whispered. They all heard. “Someday.” Bard sighed softly as they all swallowed. “Someday….this’ll all be over, and we can all go our separate ways.” Wail glanced up and met his eyes. “But for now,” Bard turned and glanced at the chart spread on the battered desk, “For now we go to The City of Thieves.” “Fool’earty, that wot this bes - some lily-livered, slosh’eaded, stumpie butted fool o’ a mother’s kettle done commed up within dis course o’ action.” The Quartermaster’s one good eye flashed rebelliously as he muttered away to himself at the helm of the Glass Slipper. “Why ye’d wants at sail inta unfriendly waters wherein a matey mighten loose ‘is guppers ifin ‘e weren’t near carful ‘nough, I done not kin figure. Blimey swab - likely a born lubber wot’s never spent narry a day in the sea air, aye.” Bard turned to looked at the old pirate as he reached the sterncastle. He raised one eyebrow, though better, and turned to look over the rails at the land passing below them. Their shadow was stretched behind like a tail as the sun began to sink below the rim of the canyon above them. Shadows were lengthening, dusty colors were shading all the world; the black plumes of smoke from the twin engines were lost in the twilight behind them. “I ask ye, me laddie - wot marmalade-tailed junket o’ a werm would dare risk me ship in such a venture, eh?” The Quartermaster addressed the leader of Bardsong, “Does it not be tha most fool’earty thing ye done ‘eard? MicMacMcPherson landed on the raining in front of The Quartermaster with a screech, “Ye heard it from me, laddie buck. Stow the gab an’ navigate! I bees the captain on this here vessel, an’ I’lla be the one wot tells ye where she sails! Heave to!” “Aye, Capt’n!” The Quartermaster saluted stiffly. “Aye, Capt’n!” George’s high voice floated up from below decks. MicMacMcPherson cocked his head approvingly and flew to Bard’s shoulder. “Aye, Bardsong. She’s just beyond the next hill, so she is. Lovely little city, though I doesn’t care much fer her company. We’lla be able to pull right ovar tha city with the sun a’setin’ like she be. I’lla have George run ye out a line ta make yer stop more pleasant.” The gray parrot cackled, nodding his head with each sentence. Bard glanced at the bird on his shoulder, “My thanks, MicMacMcPherson. You’ll wait in the normal place?” “Aye. It be a game little crew ye captain, Bardsong. Each one’s ring tha devil’s bell fer ye ifin needs be. Good wind and fast sailin’ ta ye.” The grey parrot flapped his wings and sailed off down the splintered deck of the steel ship. Bard turned from the rail as the mangled figurehead of the Glass Slipper pushed her way passed the last of the canyon walls separating them from their destination. Ahead lay The City of Thieves, resplendent in all her finery - ragged banners of villainy fluttering from each window in the glowering stacked taverns, rainbows of colored lanterns burning along each and every street that wound up the steep hill to the very crystal place that crowned her depraved head, thousands of legs clad in barbaric silks and russet furs milling through the wine tended street. She lay in the golden bask of sunlight for a moment, the picture of decadent splendor, and then the sun sank behind the rim and darkness reined in the world of mortals. Bard laid a hand on The Quartermaster’s weathered shoulder. “Keep her steady.” “Arr.” the stooped pirate growled as the seer moved off down the ship. Shrine turned as he came up to join the others at the bow. Wail glanced back from the bow rail, long white hair tossed back in the wind, lips pursed in displeasure. Dirge crouched on the bowsprit, white blond patch in his hair already gleaming in the night. Bard grabbed a headstay and swung himself up on the rail beside Wail. Below them the lights of the City of Thieves grew brighter. The coarse and bloody laugher drifted up from her darkened streets, mingled with the shattered innocence of violent screams. “Part’n I!” George’s little black brim peeked between Bard’s boots. He stepped aside and the slouchy hat tossed a long weathered line over the rail of the Glass Slipper, “Gots ta do me job, don’ts I? Gots ta do wot Capt’n ordtars, that’s fer sure…Elsewise I’s might be wot goes inta tha furnaces next, aye?” The little floppy hat made fast the line around a cleat as he chunnered cheerfully on, “Make fast tha line, George; shovel tha furnaces, George; find me leg, George; whistle me tune, George; cook me a nice stew George; hold that thar barrel whist I stand on et, George! One might think I werest tha only ‘at on this crew tha ways they ordtars me about, one might!” he popped to the deck and scuttled off under Shirne’s blowing robes and across the creaking deck, “Off ta make me some stews, I am! Blimey, wot kinda stew does ye gonna make fer tha Capt’n now, George? Carrots? Robbit? Maybe parsnipit! Avast an’ ahoy, George ol’ ‘at - Capt’n don’t like Parsnipit, do ‘e? Ah, well I does enjoy makin’ a nice grubb stew, so I does!” Dirge glanced back as the little hat disappeared down into the lower decks, brow furrowed over his green eyes, “Does he ever shut up?” “No one’s been able to find his mouth to make him.” Bard replied, glancing down at the City as the first of the outlying taverns passed under their wretched hull. “Oh.” Dirge rolled his eyes and turned back. Bard dropped to the deck and tested the line. He nodded, “Ready?” “If we say no will you let us stay behind?” Dirge stood and jumped to the deck. “When has that ever been an option.” Wail turned around suddenly, scowling, amber eyes dark. “Let’s get this over with.” The engines growled angrily as The Quartermaster pulled her up sharply, sails dieing to hang listlessly against their spars. “Ark. This bees as close as we kin get ye, Bardsong.” MicMacMcPherson appeared at the head of the ship, gray wings flapping against the night, “Any closer an’ yer dear friend’ll aspot us.” “Understood, MicMacMcPherosn.” Bard swung himself over the side of the Glass Slipper, “This’ll do.” He glanced at the others, “All abroad?” And let the rope slide through his fingers. ~ Bardsong, (c) Arrow De La Vega
Posted on: Sat, 15 Jun 2013 20:23:18 +0000
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