Sole Wolfess and Kid
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel and Walter Reimer

(The Sole Wolfess and Aedith ‘Sunny’ Winterbough are courtesy of E.O. Costello. Thanks!)
Thumbnail art by  tegerio, color by  marmelmm


Part Seventeen.


I’m proud of the fact that the sword’s point never wavered. Still, he had me; Elves Don’t Lie.

“You saw me, back behind the flower stalls.”

“Heh. Before that, too.” I took a step back and the grubby cat got to his feet. “Saw ya back before th’ Aerie took a dive. Not something a fur forgets, ya know?”

I sheathed the sword and returned it to my Elfintory with a disgusted snort. “I don’t have time for this.”

“I expect ya don’t,” he smirked. “Yer daughter’s probably starting to wonder where ya are. Tell ya what,” and he took a puff on his pipeweed roll, “I’ll be at the Thrown Missile Pub, just down th’ road from here and a block north, until midnight.”

I had to blink at that. I knew about a Thrown Missal Pub, just around the corner from the Cathedral in Albric Tor. Mephitist priests and monks would gather there, drink, and argue the finer points of their faith.

The place also did a thriving business upstairs, if you know what I mean. Mephitists.

“They have a lot of fights there?”

Again with the smirk. “No, darts leagues. Ask for B. E. Moth, that’s me.” He shouldered past me – pee-yew – and I pooked back to the bookstore.

[Note appended to manuscript: “He smelled that bad, wolfess? When you think of what feral canines roll in . . . “]

[Note appended to manuscript: “He smelled worse than you did after you had that salted nut roll in the Duchy of the Gray Horde.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Ouch.“]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Yeah, ouch. So shaddap you muzzle.“]

I reappeared where I’d pooked away, but I really needn’t have worried, because Aedith was sitting quietly, looking at a picture book. “Hello, Mommy,” she said, without looking up from her reading.

“Did you miss me?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” she said, “but I knew you were coming back.” She looked up and smiled at me before holding the book up for my inspection. “Can I get this?” I looked, and my ears went back.

The book was titled Jane, the Lowfolk Femme: A Walk in the Forest.

I sat down beside her, opened the book, and almost breathed a sigh of relief. This was a carefully written version of the Master’s favorite reading material, designed with children in mind. Depicted as a young vixen, Jane was just as clueless and brainless as usual, but never lost her clothes. No venery, either.

[Note appended to manuscript: “Never lost her clothes? No venery? Where’s the fun in that?“]

[Note appended to manuscript: “It’s a children’s book, you cretin.”]

Instead, her adventures involved having to solve several puzzles, or have some prank pulled on her by her obviously smarter Elf friends. While funny, the pranks weren’t petty or mean, and were designed to show the right way to do certain things.

I closed the book and asked, “Are you sure you want this, Sunny?” She nodded eagerly, and I perused a few other titles, discovering that the book was part of a set. Each slim volume had a different subject – numbers, letters, and so on. After quickly checking my Elfintory I asked, “Would you like the whole set?”

Her smile was everything I could have asked for, although I started to wonder if I was spoiling her too much.

Hmm.

Nah.

I bought the entire set of five books and added a children’s edition of the Brilliant Light’s prayer book. She was a Wild Priestess, but it might assist in her education. Fortunately, the books weren’t very expensive, but I had to keep an eye on my funds.

There were no post-ball matches scheduled for the afternoon, oh so tragic, so after we left the bookstore Aedith and I went for a stroll before it got close to dinner time.

What with the Council meeting, the flower show and all the fun she’d had, it didn’t take long after supper before my daughter’s eyelids started drooping. I was reading one of her new books aloud to her and I noticed her drowsing off, so I got her cleaned up and put her to bed.

“Mommy?” she asked.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you going?”

I smiled. “I’ll be back very soon. And you’ll be very safe.” I meant that; while getting her ready for bed (which included a bath), I’d covered the floor, walls and ceiling with wards, along with the windowsills and doors, and planted detection cantrips up one end of the hallway and down the other. No one was getting near her if I had anything to say about it.

I spent some time with her, cuddling and nuzzling her, until she was fast asleep. I paused and looked back at her before I pulled on my cloak, flipped the hood up to conceal my features, and left the hotel room.

[Note appended to manuscript: “Overprotective much?”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Shaddap.”]

B.E. Moth was telling the truth; the pub wasn’t very far away. Nevertheless, I detoured and basically circled the place, doubling back to see if anyone was following me and thinking of mushrooms once or twice to throw off anyone who might be scrying me. I paused at the door, adjusted my hood, and went inside.

The Thrown Missile Pub, indeed; the place was paneled in dark wood and dimly lit apart from the areas where the darts teams were playing. There was a thin haze of pipe-weed smoke at about eye level, which did nothing at all to dispel the smells of bodies, spilled beer and spoiled food. I made my way to the bar.

The barman was a tall, heavyset bear. “Moth, huh?” he growled in response to my query. “He’s over there, watchin’ th’ darts.” I thanked him, bought a beer, and headed over to the playing area.

Elves are very good at throwing things, notably with the use of a bow, and while I’m regrettably only fair with a bow, I’m quite good at throwing knives. Watching the darts players, though, was impressive. Two teams of two were playing, and rather than step up to the toe line and throw, they were facing away from the board, bending over, and throwing them between their legs. The scoring was accurate and consistent.

A grating laugh behind me, and I turned to see B.E.Moth sitting a small table in the corner. “Over here.”

I approached, my nose wrinkling. The corpulent feline was seated by himself, and there was only the one chair. A stoneware bottle of aqua vitae stood sentinel over a series of dishes that bore pickled mushrooms, pickled fish, pickled pickles, and bread.

I loomed over him, deliberately blocking his view of the darts. “You wanted to talk to me,” I said. “So, talk.”

He puffed at his cigar, before knocking back another shot of aqua vitae and belching. “Direct, aintcha. Okay, m’girl – “

“I am not ‘your girl.’”

“Heh. See anything odd at th’ flower show?”

I shrugged. “I saw three twits – “

“’Come sailin’ in, on a sunny day in the morning,’” he sang quite unnecessarily, in a voice that was neither tuned nor melodious. More like a path choked with brambles if you ask me. “Weren’t talkin’ about them. See anything else?”

I cast a cantrip at my beer before taking a sip, followed by a longer swallow when I was satisfied that it wasn’t drugged or poisoned. “Two mels and a femme.”

“Yeah?”

“The femme was by herself. The two mels were trying to follow her without being seen.”

He sat back, puffing at his pipe-weed roll and wreathing himself in smoke as he applauded slowly. “Good job. Know who they are?”

“No.”

“They’re thieves.”

The tip of my tail twitched. “And?”

“The femme’s out to snatch something. The two guys are trying to get it first.”

“What’s the target?”

He shrugged, something like sticking a pudding in a cheap and tatty suit and poking it with a stick. “Dunno that yet.”

“Why don’t you tell – “

He suddenly sat up and shushed me. “Don’t mention them in here ‘less you want yer throat cut,” he hissed. “Can’t tell ‘em,” he said, “cuz I’m Unseelie.”

Elves Don’t Lie, I blinked at that. “You’re Unseelie?”

A many-chinned nod. “Proud of it, too. They won’t listen to me, so I have to tell someone else.” He pointed. “That’s you, Fathead.”

I felt my hackles go up. “Calling me ‘Fathead’ isn’t the way to get my aid,” I growled.

“Heh. Yer Seelie, an’ fight fer Justice,” he said. “Knowin’ what’s what now, ya ain’t gonna resist doin’ somethin’ about it.” He sank back in his seat and poured himself another aqua vitae. “Run ‘long home now, girl; we’re done talkin.’” He started popping pickled mushrooms in his mouth, chewing noisily with his mouth open.

Disgusting.

I left my barely-touched beer on the bar and left, reciting a few cantrips to clean the smell of the place from my clothes and fur.

Still, I was thinking about what B.E. Moth said as I made my way back to the hotel.






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