Mr. Brass

By Daniel Lawlis

After a rash of brazen daylight crimes by wild drug fiends plagues the capital city’s plushest shopping district, the senate wonders if it is time to outlaw a popular new substance called Smokeless Green. However, more than one senator has found this treat to his liking, and thus an exemption for gentlemen is proposed.

Some worry that outlawing this product is going to send crime rates through the stratosphere and bankroll a new criminal class.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Lawlis
• Release date: Oct 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311572837

Book preview

Chapter 1

Lady Mary was unsure as to whether she wanted the gold or the silver necklace. The silver one was actually prettier. It had an image of a beloved Seleganian deity and exquisite calligraphy in Ridervarian. The gold one was also handsome, but it lacked any of the ornamentation of its competitor on this beautiful, sunny Friday afternoon. Such are the worries that plague some, as the mind is intent upon inventing dilemmas, and thus, where no real quandary exists, the imagination produces such a superb counterfeit as to cause the same worry another might feel over lack of food or shelter.

She stepped outside to consult her husband, Sir Edgar, who appeared unsure as to whether he would deign to enter the store. His resolution not to do so had once been firm, but the display of an array of fine top hats in the storefront window teased him as mercilessly as giant lollipops might a small child. He had several dozen at home, all without blemish (the appearance of the slightest wear on the leather crowns that signaled him as a gentleman would earn them immediate destruction), yet there was one in the window that seemed unique. It was perhaps an inch or two taller than any of the others he had, though not so much so that he feared upon wearing it it would make an unpleasant encounter with some low-hanging ceiling that would reveal to all the ferocious pace of his growing baldness.

Suddenly, just as Lady Mary appeared to present her vexing dilemma to her husband, a shrill cry interrupted both her incipient question and Sir Edgar’s deep meditation.

Ahhhhh!!!!

It was a woman’s voice. Of that, there could be no doubt. And judging by the sound of it, one could justifiably assume more than a purse-snatching was underway. Perhaps some heinous criminal had brandished a knife and dared interrupt the sublime ambience of this exclusive shopping district just blocks away from the senate.

Both Lady Mary and Sir Edgar turned to look, their curiosity just barely excelling their urge to turn tail and run to the refuge of their fine coach parked nearby, within which they could barricade themselves from whatever unwholesome mischief was afoot.

Their curiosity, erstwhile a narrow victor, soon became a domineering force so powerful they could not have moved if their lives depended upon it, and perhaps at some deep level they feared their lives just might so depend.

They had turned just in time to see the last of what appeared to be about a dozen . . . things quit a fine carriage within which they had presumably all theretofore been traveling. They appeared pale white, yet their whiteness was in contest with some vile substance smeared all over their bodies. And though mud had seemed to be the most logical guess, the smell, apparent at a dozen yards, soon better informed their senses.

WE WANT IT!! one of them cried, soon chorused by another.

WE WANT THE GREEEEENNNNNN!!!

It was at that moment Lady Mary swooned, as she realized these savages were coming her way at no slow pace, covered in what appeared to be horse dung, and otherwise as naked as the day their mothers bore them—that is, unless they were demons that had merely assumed a fleshly form.

The wild men began running around madly, clearing a large path far more efficiently than a hundred armed soldiers could have done amongst this mass of moneyed gentry. It soon turned into a full stampede, as humans—like antelope—usually see the sense in paying heed to their fellows’ efforts at self-preservation, rather than waiting to see if such hasty flight is indeed warranted.

The band of naked savages began overturning tables filled with fine merchandise they surely would never have acquired by lawful means within their entire miserable lives, yet they dispatched these commodities willy-nilly, the way a thieving child might impatiently brush aside gold coins while searching for candies.

IN HERE, MATES!!! one of the beasts announced.

When the unfortunate store owner realized HERE meant his store, he didn’t waste time attempting to barricade the door, as he might have under less severe circumstances, but instead left his shop running like a gazelle, lest he find himself cornered by these fiends.

A local policeman, proud to be of service to the community, prepared to tackle one of these mysterious savages, who had perhaps invaded from some far-off land where the benefits of clothing had not yet been taught to them by a more polite people, but as he neared the closest ruffian he was so overwhelmed by the pungent, putrid odor issuing forth from the body of this barbarian like an invisible shield far more powerful than armor that at the last moment he feigned so convincing an accidental stumble that, had the city’s premiere theater director been present, he would have hired him on the spot for the starring role of his choice in the next major production.

Unfortunately, the feigned stumble was too good, for it convinced even the hard ground, which sprained his ankle fiercely in appreciation for the noteworthy performance. His ankle now swelling dreadfully, he was not able to rise to his feet without assistance.

Being the only police officer in the near vicinity, as this was generally not an area where any other than the affluent dared to step foot, there was now little standing in the way of these hooligans and their apparent aim. While the polite gentlemen and ladies were fleeing for their lives, they were still comfortably within earshot and sight of the criminals’ activity.

SMOKELESS GREEN, MATES! announced one of them joyously, holding two large bags of it in his hands.

Soon the sound of breaking windows, crashing merchandise, and bloodcurdling war whoops of joy pierced the air with a frenzy.

A neutral observer might have expected the ruckus to continue unabated for hours, yet the thieves either seemed to have had a singular purpose in mind with respect to their objective or were well aware that such a scandal would not be permitted for much longer than ten to fifteen minutes before the far more fearsome national police issued out of the senate building like angry hornets from a disturbed nest, ready to cudgel these savages into submission.

They did in fact issue as described, although, instead of finding the beasts there to be slaughtered, they merely found the signs of their handiwork. Broken windows, scattered merchandise, and other evidentiary items told the story of their vicious rampage. They themselves however were not to be found anywhere.

Chapter 2

Donive was in a pensive mood, but happy that she at least understood the source of Pitkins’ reluctance to have children. Last night, Pitkins had apologized to her about this and explained that he had not told her the whole story about what the Metinvurs had done to his family. Far from only having killed his wife, they had massacred all his children, which included three boys and three girls. The news of the loss of his wife alone had nearly killed him with shock and grief, but when he learned all six children had been stuck on pikes he went into a near catatonic state from which he didn’t take a leave of absence for at least a month.

He probably would have died of hunger or thirst if Sworin hadn’t practically forced him to take an occasional nibble of bread or sip of water. Sworin had proven his friendship to Pitkins beyond any doubt during that period. An ambitious man would have used Pitkins’ momentary weakness to glide over him and slip snugly into the head general position, but, quite the contrary, Sworin withheld Pitkins’ truly desperate state of mind from everyone, not wishing anyone to take advantage of him.

Sworin would visit Pitkins daily and make sure he at least ate and drank a little bit, but usually all Pitkins did was sit and stare into space like a statue or lie on his back and look upwards blankly like a corpse. Sworin told everyone that Pitkins was taking the shock relatively well, given the circumstances, and that they were conversing over important matters of military strategy daily and that this was helping Pitkins to keep himself distracted from emotional pain.

In reality, Sworin expected every day that he came into the tent to check on Pitkins that that would be the day he would find Pitkins with his throat slashed from ear to ear, his sword stuck to the hilt into his breast, or the victim of some other fatal, self-inflicted wound. Instead, he found his body alive and present but his mind far, far away. Sworin was beginning to more grow worried by the day that Pitkins would never even speak again, much less be capable of reassuming command of the Nikorians.

He knew that a lengthy period of mourning was to be expected for a tragedy as ghastly as this, but only so long could go by—no matter what the tragedy—without the general of the Nikorians showing his face in public before people would begin to wonder whether he was capable of overcoming the tragedy or whether his spirit had been smashed like a house at the base of a towering mountain that had unleashed a merciless avalanche upon it. Furthermore, Sworin felt that ethically, close friend or not, he could only cover for Pitkins for a finite amount of time, and that period was dwindling.

When not involved in an active military campaign, Pitkins often reported directly to the king at least once a month on various military matters, and Pitkins had been due for a visit right around the time the tragedy happened, thus creating a near two-month absence from the king’s court. Sworin knew that if the country were attacked by Metinvurs during this vulnerable time and the country’s defenses were overrun because he had not properly taken command during Pitkins’ indisposition, he would not only face a severe court-martial but also the unbearable psychological guilt of knowing he was to blame for putting his friend’s reputation before the country’s safety.

He had the men drilling regularly but had not given them any new orders, since he did not want Pitkins to think, upon recovery, that he was ambitious and had sought to use his temporary weakness as an opportunity take command of the army. However, Sworin knew this could not continue much longer—either for his conscience’s sake or for practicality’s sake.

The day Sworin walked into Pitkins’ tent prepared to deliver a regretful speech to a glassy-eyed statue that he was going to have to inform the king of the state of affairs he had instead met a human being. It wasn’t quite the old Pitkins. Sworin knew that Pitkins might never come all the way back. But it was no zombie either. Pitkins was alert and looked him right in the eye and said, A different kind of man would have told the king within a week that I was unfit for command. That had been all. But it was the power and conviction in those words that let Sworin know just how much Pitkins appreciated his loyalty.

Pitkins had sworn to himself he would never discuss the tragedy with anyone ever, and he had broken that promise partially when he had revealed to Donive long ago that he had lost his wife. But he had kept the oath with respect to his children until now.

Donive might have laid into Pitkins for withholding such a significant part of his life, but her face was bathed in tears by the time Pitkins was done, and she wondered how he had ever found the strength to be able to love again. It caught Donive’s attention that with regards to the specific fates of his family he had mentioned his children being put on pikes but had never said the nature of his wife’s demise. Donive took that as an indication it was too horrible to relate even in an abbreviated version.

Pitkins had started to apologize, but Donive had quickly hushed him with a single finger and let him know that no more apology or explanation was needed for the time being. Someday, Pitkins whispered softly into Donive’s ear. Someday, I’ll be ready, and she nodded her head, now unsure herself whether she would ever be ready. The story had left her with a terrible case of the goose bumps.

While at the store the next day buying a few spices for the pantry, she was in a bit of a daze thinking about the grizzly tragedy that had befallen Pitkins’ family. Next to a row of spices an advertisement caught her eye:

SPICY GREEN!

GIVES YOUR STEW SOME ZING!

An image on the container showed a smiling woman pouring some into a bubbling stew. Feeling a bit adventuresome, and believing that perhaps anything would be welcome provided it distracted her from the gruesome images parading around in her mind, she added it to her basket. It was in the spices section after all, and it must be some sort of seasoning.

Koksun was acclimating quite nicely to life in the Pitkins-Donive home. Meals were regular, milk was plentiful, and back rubs were frequent. His usual schedule involved waking up around 7 a.m., when Donive awoke, and then getting a generous breakfast. After that, he usually traipsed around the grassy acres of their luxurious estate, chased a mouse or two (he had not yet acquired a taste for them in spite of his love of pursuing them), and then found a shady tree where he would nap for several hours.

After a hardy lunch, he would often play with Mervin, the bulky, nearly lion-sized Great Dane that patrolled the estate with all the rigor and enthusiasm of a handsomely paid guard. Koksun had been quite uneasy with his towering companion at first, given that he felt the size of a mouse compared to this animal. But, fear for corporal safety aside, he felt quite fortunate to have ended up with such a companion. Koksun had been an avid dog owner and trainer in the Varco and had personally owned a Great Dane very similar in appearance to Mervin, and thus, he had felt a fondness for him immediately.

It had taken him a full three weeks to work up the nerve to approach Mervin and play with him, during which time he had observed the giant animal with utmost attention. He had found that Mervin was not aggressive to anything he considered family, and both Koksun’s eyes and nose told him—when he was being pampered by Donive in Mervin’s presence—that Mervin was not only beginning to see him as a friend, but as part of the family and thus entitled to his full protection.

One day, realizing that the slightest miscalculation would result in him being wolfed down like an afternoon snack, he decided it was now or never and approached Mervin. Mervin was sitting in front of the house like an upright statue surveying the premises unblinking. He didn’t even seem to notice Koksun as he came and lay next to him. Then, Koksun took a lengthy nap. When he awoke, Mervin was off patrolling the grounds, but Koksun was still in one piece and not inside Mervin’s stomach, and he had stopped fearing him after that.

In fact, they had become quite playful, and occasionally Koksun would chase Mervin around the house or lawn, or vice versa. On other occasions, Koksun would test Mervin’s alertness by scaling a tree, waiting patiently for Mervin to come by on one of his many patrols, and then jumping down towards his back. He found that his Metinvurian skills were still sharp because he succeeded in landing directly onto Mervin’s back around eighty percent of the time. Mervin would often let out a loud WOOF! and then buck him off. Koksun could have dug his claws in deeply to Mervin’s side and held on, but he didn’t want to hurt his buddy. In fact, he was becoming quite chummy with The Beast, as he often thought of him.

But he missed Tristan too. It wasn’t necessarily that he savored Tristan’s passion for large-scale wars designed to expand Dachwald’s section of the map, but rather he liked the intellectual challenge that conversations with the old man had afforded. Koksun had rather taken it for granted at the time but now sorely missed it as he had been unable to speak to anyone for quite some time. The last person—or rather the last anything—that he had spoken to was Chip, and he now found himself feeling quite curious as to whether that tiny bird had succeeded in finding Tristan and, if so, whether he survived the encounter.

He knew that Tristan had almost perpetually distrusted the konulans and that he was probably going to kill all of them, especially after the revolt of the pholungs, whom he had trusted twenty times more than their miniature counterparts. He suspected that if Chip made it to Tristan and was not killed for his troubles Tristan would likely send him a message someday via Chip. But as for now, here Koksun was not only imbued with the gift of speech but also with a lifetime of having used it and not having any stretch before now in his memory where he could not.

It was beginning to eat at him. He was starting to contemplate talking to Donive, maybe even Pitkins, although he knew Pitkins would likely chop him in two without a second’s hesitation if he thought that he was in any way an ally of Tristan’s. And since Koksun felt it to be a pretty safe guess that Pitkins had never seen a talking animal in his life with the exception of the pholungs, he would be very prone to suspect the involvement of Tristan if Koksun suddenly started talking. He had seen Pitkins come riding into Tristan’s lair on the back of Istus and had seen the fire in his eyes.

However, if Pitkins was able to be convinced that the pholungs were really just victims of Tristan’s, why couldn’t he be convinced that Koksun was another of Tristan’s many victims, rather than a willing collaborator? Even if Pitkins had seen Istus fling him from the cliff, that wouldn’t rule out