Morrigone looked at me. “We all must use our strengths in these difficult times. And it is incumbent on Council to determine what the strength of every Wug is.”
I looked back at her uneasily. Had she just read my mind?
Later, as we parted company, Morrigone said, “I would very much appreciate if neither of you talked about your trip here. I realize that most Wugmorts don’t live at this level of comfort. And I myself find it more and more difficult to remain here when I understand the challenges the rest of Wormwood faces. However, it is my home.”
John said, “I won’t say anything.” I could tell in his voice that he was hoping for an invitation for another grand meal. John was smart, but he was also a young male with a usually empty belly. Sometimes it was simple as that.
The carriage took us back, with Bogle of course at the whip. The sleps moved swiftly and in perfect coordination and we were soon at the Loons, but Morrigone’s home would remain a vivid memory for a long time, as would the wonderful meal we had consumed.
As we headed up to our cots, John, who was staggering slightly under the weight of all the books he had brought with him, said, “I will never forget this night.”
Well, I knew that I wouldn’t either. But probably not for the same reasons.
QUINDECIM: The Start of the End
NEXT LIGHT, I walked John to Learning. He had stuffed as many of the books from Morrigone’s into his tuck as possible. I knew he would spend the time at Learning reading them. I had loved books at his age. I still loved books. But Morrigone had not extended her offer to me.
I struck out for my tree, where I planned to eat my first light meal, which would forever seem trivial in comparison to the one we had enjoyed at Morrigone’s. It was no wonder that she kept her living arrangements a secret. Jealousy was not a lost emotion in Wormwood.
As I walked, I touched the chain, which was wrapped around my waist and tucked under my shirt. A sliver later I ran into them.
I first saw Roman Picus in his greasy coat and dented hat. A long-barreled morta rode over his shoulder and a short-barreled morta was in a garm-skin holder on his belt. With him were two other Wugs, both carrying mortas and long swords. I knew both of them, although I wish I didn’t.
One was Ran Digby, who worked at Ted Racksport’s weapons shop. He was a mess of a Wug, one of the filthiest blokes about, actually. I would wager that he had never held cleaning suds in his hands in all his sessions. Racksport kept him in the back, building the mortas, principally because no one could stand the stench of him.
He looked at me from behind his great, bristly beard that was filled with remnants of meals eaten long ago. When he smiled, which wasn’t often, there were only three blackened teeth visible.
The other Wug was watching me in quiet triumph. Cletus Loon carried a long-barreled morta nearly as tall as he was. He was dressed in some of his father’s hand-me-downs. Whether this was done to make him feel like a full-grown male, I didn’t know. But the effect was comical. My face must have betrayed this because his triumphant look changed to a poisonous scowl.
Roman said, “And where might you be headed, Vega?”
I looked up at him blankly. “To Stacks. And where might you be headed, Roman?”
He made a show of checking his fat timekeeper and followed that by an equally impressive gazing up at the sky. “Early for Stacks o’course.”
“I’m going to eat my first meal at my tree, then Stacks. That’s my routine.”
“Naught ru’teen n’more,” said Ran Digby, who followed this nearly unintelligible pronouncement with a great wad of smoke weed spit that hit within an inch of my boots.
“Outliers,” added Cletus Loon, looking self-important.
“Rii-ight,” I said in a drawn-out syllable. “But I still have to eat and, at least until Domitar tells me differently, I still have to go to work at Stacks.”
Roman scratched his cheek and said, “Nae up to Domitar. Not anymore.”
“Okay, who, then? Tell me!” I demanded, staring at each of them in turn. Cletus wilted under my confrontational gaze. Digby didn’t seem to understand my question, so he merely spit again, and I watched in silent amusement as he misfired and the yuck slipped down his beard. My amusement turned to disgust when he made no move to wipe it off.
Roman said, “Council’s who.”
“Okay, has Council acted yet? Is Stacks closed?”
Now Roman looked like a Wug who had overplayed his hand. When he said nothing, I decided to go on the offensive.
“What are you doing out here with mortas?”
“Patrol. Like was said at Steeples last light,” replied Roman.
“I thought that would be for lesser Wugs than you, Roman.”
“If ya must know, female, I’m chief of the newly established Wormwood Constabulary. A powerful, high position worthy of a Wug like me. Thansius created it last night and appointed me to head it special.” He indicated the others. “And these are my duly appointed Carbineers.”
“Well, Thansius might have picked you because you have more mortas than anyone else.” Then I looked at Cletus. “Do you even know how to use one?”
Before Cletus could say anything, Roman replied, “If you’re going to Stacks, best get on. But after this light and night, every Wug must show proper parchment to the patrols.”
“What kind of parchment?”
“Allowing them to go where they’re going,” said Cletus viciously.
“Why?” I asked.
Roman said, “Council orders, female. Way i’tis.”
Digby spat to confirm this.
“And where do you get this proper parchment?” I asked.
“Aye, ain’t there a brainer?” said Digby with another dollop of smoke weed going splat on the ground.
I drew a deep breath, trying to will my mouth from saying something that might cause a morta to go off in the general vicinity of my head. “What difference will parchment make to a bunch of Outliers?” I asked.
“You ask too many questions,” snapped Cletus.
I kept my gaze on Roman. “That’s because I get too few answers.”
I turned and continued on my way. With all those mortas behind me, I really wanted to take off running before they could fire and later say it was a tragic mistake.
I could hear Roman’s excuse now: “She made a sudden move. Don’t know why. Morta went off. She might have grabbed at it, scared-like, being female and all.”
And the great git Digby would have probably added, “And what be fer me sup this night? Har.” Splat!
Later, as I finally headed to Stacks, someone was waiting for me on the path. Delph looked like he had not eaten or slept for many lights and nights. His huge body was slumped, his gaze on his brogans, his long hair hanging limp.
“Delph?” I said cautiously.
“Wo-wo-wotcha, Vega Jane.”
Somewhat relieved by him using his typical greeting, I asked, “Are you okay?”
He first nodded and then shook his head.
I drew closer to him. In many ways, Delph was my younger brother too, though he was older in sessions. But innocence and naïveté had a way of upsetting chronological order. He looked lost and afraid, and my heart went out to him.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Steeples.”
“The meeting?” He nodded. “There’s a plan, Delph. You heard Thansius.”
“Heard Th-Th-Tha-Thans — Oh, bollocks,” he mumbled, giving up on the name. “Him.”
I patted his thick shoulder. “You’ll be a great help with the Wall, Delph. You could probably build it all by yourself.”
His next words cast away my lightheartedness and riveted my attention. “Virgil’s Event.”