AKA

Frisbee

This excerpt takes place only a few weeks after "Repairs" and tells about the beginning of Alan and Kynan's friendship.

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         The bell on the door tinkled as Kynan went inside. He paused, blinking, and had to pull off his sunglasses in the dimness. Books. They were everywhere, on the shelves that circled the narrow shop, on the shelves that stood alone on the floor, from carpet to ceiling. Books, and a counter standing out from a wall, on which were stacked even more books and from behind which Kynan could hear the scritch-scritch of a quill on paper.

         Taking off his hat, he approached the counter and peered through a gap in the wall of dusty, leather-bound books to peer at the young woman scribbling so furiously. She sat on a stool, garbed in modest attire as becoming a single young lady, with her hair done up neatly in a bun and glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She wrote on some cards affixed to a number of packages, paper-wrapped books, Kynan assumed.

         "Um, excuse me?"

         She jumped, dropping her quill and staring up at him. He smiled. She smiled hesitantly back.

         "Can I help you?"

         "I hope so. I'm looking for some books."

         She blinked and laughed, a soft sound, much like the bell on the door. "Well, sir, you are in the right place. What kind of books?"

         "For my nephews."

         "How old are they?"

         "Uh," he held up his hand, about chest high. "This big, maybe a little taller, for the elder."

         "Oh, young men, then. What are their interests?"

         "You mean, aside from books?" Kynan winked and the maid laughed again. "Well, the younger one asked me for a book on plumbing?" He said the word cautiously, trying to remember some of the jargon. "And the other is going through a wolf phase."

         "I see." She pushed up her glasses. "Wolves or werewolves?"

         "Um, I don't know."

         "Well, let's see, then." She rose and brushed off her skirts. Scanning one of the shelves, she asked, "You like kids, then?"

         "No. Well, I guess I should say I don't know any."

         She dragged over a stepping stool, gazing curiously back over her shoulder. "But your nephews?"

         He scratched his head sheepishly. "I've never met them. They're coming into town. My, uh, brother, wants to set the older one in trade."

         "Oh, I see," she replied, and laughed. She plucked a tall, thin book from the shelves and Kynan gave her a hand down. "This," she brushed dust off the binding, "was a top-seller a number of years ago. It's an anthology on werewolves, history, legends since the time of the Demon Wars." She opened the cover. "There's even some illustrations."

         Kynan stared at the picture and burst out laughing. "If the rest of the book is that accurate, no thanks."

         She frowned at the picture. "So you know werewolves?"

         "I've seen a few, yes." He tapped on the drawing. "They don't look like this. For one, I've never seen fangs, those are more a vampire thing."

         "Werewolves are descended from vampires, you know."

         He cocked his head. "No, I didn't. Hmm." He took the book and flipped through it, following the shopgirl absently as she moved to another section towards the back of the store.

         "This is more of a children's book," said the young woman, breaking into Kynan's thoughts to show him a thin, square-shaped book. "It's a depiction of the acqueducts under the city. There's some explanations for each drawing that says what they are and how they work. Is this what you're looking for?"

         "Yes. That would be perfect."

         "Okay, let me just wrap these up for you. That'll be eight pence, please."

         Kynan set the money on the counter. "Isn't that rather low?"

         She shrugged, hands moving quickly with the brown paper and twine. "They've both been on the shelves for a long time, and, besides, it isn't everyday a policeman comes into my store."

         "Police?" Kynan started and darted a look around.

         "Yeah," she replied, reaching for a knife to cut the cord. "I saw your sword." She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses. "I've never seen anyone carry theirs like that, though."

         Belatedly, Kynan realized that she was talking about him and smiled in relief. "Oh. Well, I work on foot." He shrugged. "It's easier to carry this way."

         "I can't imagine it'd be easy to draw."

         "Not under my coat, no, but if I'm expecting trouble, I can adjust the straps to hang at my waist."

         "Oh, I see. How clever. Well, here you go, sir. Thank you very much."

         He gave her a dazzling smile. "Thank you, Miss. Have a good day."

         Walking back outdoors, Kynan set his hat back on his head and blinked. His eyes adjusted slowly to the bright afternoon sunshine after being inside the dimly-lit store, even behind the sunglasses he hastily jammed back on his face. It was a nice day. He strode down the street, mind wandering, looking, but not really seeing any of the people or places he passed.

         He seldom had a day free where he wasn't on assignment or hanging about for one, or otherwise called upon to be at court. He paused and bought a meat-filled pastry that he tucked in a pocket, and a cup of iced lemonade, his feet drawing him towards the center of the city and the park. Throwing down his coat in a shady section by the lake, he unbuckled his sword and laid that carefully on top, then sat down in the grass to pull off his socks and shoes and eat his lunch.

         The shopgirl had tied tight knots; he ended up drawing the knife at his side to cut through the cords. Laying down on his stomach, he flipped through the werewolf book. He had to laugh at the illustrations, all clearly old. The book, written some twenty years prior, according to the inside cover, had collected old folklore and legends about werewolves. The drawings were actually copies of older works. The author made many scathing remarks as to their accuracy and Kynan laughed again, but what he really found interesting was the variations in the tales. Nothing that Kynan had ever read ever agreed in the origination of werewolves and this book was no different. Still, there were many stories, with amusing comments and critiques by the author, that Kynan had not read before.

         As he read, the shadows shortened until Kynan lay half-in, half-out of the sunlight. He unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt as he grew warm and otherwise hardly stirred. He was not a good reader, more lack of practice than anything else, but he did like to read. Some of the language in the book made the chapters hard to decipher, and the small, cramped handwriting slowed his pace still further. He kicked his feet idly, the small sounds of chatter, of children's laughter, the water lapping against the edges of the lake, and the pleasant warmth soon lulled him into a light doze.

         He woke with a start, picking his head up from his arms in a slight panic. He hadn't had such an unguarded moment in years. But all that met his questing eyes was a grubby-faced street urchin, crouching only a couple feet away. His greenish eyes studied Kynan curiously, his face very solemn for one so young.

         "Are you a policeman?" he asked.

         Kynan blinked.

         "You have a sword," said the child.

         "Ah ...."

         "What's wrong with your eyes?"

         Kynan sat up, sliding his sunglasses back on. "Nothing, kid." He checked himself and his coat, but nothing had been disturbed.

         Another kid came running up, this one with a head of shockingly red hair and freckles under the dirt on his face. "We gonna play, or what?" he asked the other, waving one of the pie tins, as Alan had called them.

         Kynan leaned over a little, extending his hand. "May I?" he asked.

         Red turned to the other boy, who shrugged, then offered the circular pan to Kynan. He hefted the light metal, then sent it soaring, curbing his throw so that the tin only flew a few feet.

         The boys stared at each other. The first one studied Kynan again. "Want to play?" He followed Kynan's gaze to his things. "Nobbody'll take anythin'. Swear." He made a gesture in an x-shaped pattern across his chest.

         The other boy duplicated the gesture. "Swear."

         They peered up at him and Kynan grinned. "Okay."

         Before long, his shirt and belt-knife joined the small stack of belongings as Kynan chased a half-dozen children around the park. Or they chased him. He threw the tin and then would race the boys to nab it before they could. He even tickled them to steal it when he caught them. They threw the tin to each other to keep him from getting it. He knew that others in the park found his behavior ridiculous and un-gentleman-like, but for once he didn't care. He ignored their stares.

         He chased after one particularly strong throw, the tin caught in a sudden gust of wind and looked back over his shoulder as he ran. Reaching out to snag the toy, he ran smack into someone where he'd inadvertently run right across the main thoroughfare. They landed in a tumbled mess of books, papers, knees and elbows. Laughing around his gasps for breath, Kynan slid his glasses back on and tried to apologize while fending off some, come to think of it, rather familiar fists.

         "Alan?"

         The boy, still half-sprawled under Kynan, ceased trying to push at him. "Kynan? What are you doing here?"

         The children chose that moment to run up, laughing and pointing and Kynan sagged back into the grass, joining in. The boys bickered and giggled until Kynan reached for the tin and tossed it for them to chase. He laughed again at the indignant look on Alan's face.

         "I'm sorry, Alan, guess I wasn't watching where I was going. You okay?"

         "Fine, just fine," grumbled Alan. He ignored the hand that Kynan offered to pull him to his feet and began picking up his things. "How come you never came by?"

         "Came by?" Kynan asked, grabbing for a couple errant documents.

         Alan scowled. "Yeah. The store? I finished your guns."

         "Oh!" Kynan stared. "Has it been a week already?"

         For a minute Alan just stared back, suspicion warring with anger. "It's been three."

         "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I hadn't thought -- I'll go get them right now." He started to step away and then remembered that he stood barefoot in the park in only his jeans, covered in sweat that was now beginning to give him a chill. He looked up. "I can't believe it's almost dusk already," he murmured. "Where has this day gone?"

         "What were you doing?" asked Alan, arms loaded with books again.

         A light blush rose to Kynan's cheeks and he rubbed his head sheepishly. "Playing. With the kids." He gestured, but he didn't see the boys any more. "Um, yeah, anyway, are you walking back to the shop now?"

         Alan nodded.

         "Just a minute, I'll get my things."

         Alan followed to where Kynan's things still lay haphazardly and, for a wonder, untouched. Kynan re-wrapped the books hastily, before Alan could get a look at the titles. While he pulled his socks and boots back on, Alan continued smoothing out his pile of books and satchels.

         Kynan looked up as Alan asked, "What do you do?" with a rather peculiar expression on his face, eyes flickering between the long knife and the sword.

         For a split-second, Kynan's mind went blank. Then he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, the same thing that everyone else seemed to be asking today: "Watch. I'm in the City Watch."

         "Oh."

         If Kynan wasn't mistaken, the last remaining tinges of hostility faded from Alan's eyes and face. The boy shrugged, as if in answer to some kind of unspoken question, and then went back to organizing his materials.

         "So, uh, how's the house coming?"

         Alan snorted, scowling at one of the books he held. "Be a lot easier if I hadn't lost my plans." He glanced over at Kynan. "I was showing them to you, wasn't I? I can't find them anywhere and had to start over. Well, maybe not entirely from scratch, but I had to re-copy the one at home and at least I still had the books I'd found, so it was more a re-drawing of what I decided, and then I realized that I'd made a mistake anyway. I would have had to re-draw it, so I guess it's a good thing, but it's still pretty aggravating. If someone else builds my heater and then sells it, I'll look like a fool, or a copy-cat, and no one will ever buy my inventions. Not, I suppose, that anyone's buying them now, but that is what I want to do, to make things that no one's ever seen before. I'm trying now to solicit for a financier, but they all keep telling me I'm just a kid and couldn't possibly have anything worth while."

         Kynan, now dressed and carrying some of Alan's things as well as his own, tried to sound encouraging rather than just confused. "So, I guess you'll just have to prove them wrong, then."

         "I guess, but you have no idea what it's like, to go to lenders and merchants day in and day out and beg and cajole and flatter, only to be told you're too young and what I say I can do can't be done and to come back in another ten years when I have something to show for myself. What's the point in going back when I've already got a name for myself? I won't need their money then. At this rate, I'm never going to be able to stop working for my dad. Not that he minds, we do more business when I'm there to help. It's just that I don't want to be shoeing horses and mending kettles for the rest of my life, and I'm terrible with swords."

         He rolled his eyes. "Not that that has stopped Dad at all. He keeps trying to teach me, as if all I really need is practice. I can help, but I hate it, and anything I've tried to do on my own he's broken up for scraps because they're not good enough to bear the family crest and sell in the shop. Or even to give to someone else to sell. It's totally frustrating! Why can't he see that I don't want to be a blacksmith? Or a swordsmith? Why does he have to be so stubborn? He calls my inventions a waste of time, says that I'll never be able to support a family without some decent, regular work. Work that's not constantly blowing up parts of the store. I tried to tell him that was an accident, but was he listening? Of course not! Just nag, nag, nag, and I better plan on spending all my free time repairing the roof. What, was I just going to leave the damage? I'm not that irresponsible!"

         He scowled up at Kynan. "And what if I don't want a family? Mother's been throwing girls at me for months since I moved out; don't know what she's thinking, that I'll magically turn into a steady old tradesman like Dad just by falling in love?" He snorted, grinding his teeth. "What about you? Did you choose your career path, or did your family foist it on you?"

         "I ... well, I suppose --"

         "Not that joining the Watch isn't prestigious or anything, I understand they pay well, but it must be hard, working all the time. I bet that must be difficult, on a family, I mean. You're not married, are you, Kynan?"

         "Uh, no, no that --"

         "Huh, didn't think so." He nodded shortly, in satisfaction. "You don't seem like the kind who'd let your family push you around. Are you?"

         Kynan fought back a laugh. It took him a moment to realize that Alan was staring at him again, eyebrows wiggling.

         "Well? Are you?"

         "What?"

         Shaking his head, Alan sighed. "What do your parents do?"

         "Um, well ...."

         "Bet it's not boring, like being a tradesman."

         "Well, actually --"

         Alan did a little hop-step suddenly, grinning up at Kynan in excitement. "Have I got something for you! I've been working on the formula for a while now, and when you last came by I put in some extra time, that's how come I blew a hole in the roof, but wait'll you see! And, Kynan, you've really got to keep your guns cleaned, they're fragile pieces of machinery, you know. You can't expect me to always be available on short-notice to fix things. The mount itself was particularly filthy. Though," he paused, his face taking on a far-away look, "I did notice that the grip seemed the worse for wear, so I added some mother-of-pearl inlay to help. Might make things a bit slippery, so let me know later how that's working out for you."

         "Um, sure."

         Kynan saw with some startlement, that they were now only a few steps away from the smithy. Alan dropped his books on the counter and grabbed the sleeve of Kynan's coat to drag him to the back. Too surprised and far too curious to object, he followed, standing awkwardly by the forge under Alan's father's suspicious frown. Alan vanished, then reappeared a minute later, waving a small, leather packet. His dad's eyes widened.

         "Alan ...!" he started to say, but then, Alan had thrown a fistful of powder into the fire and blew wood chips and soot all over the workspace.

         "See?" he cried, grinning with delight. "Ow! Dad, come on! It was just a little!"

         Kynan peered over the bench that he'd ducked behind, to see Alan squirming under the grip his father had on his ear. The elder Mammon shook his son, snarling a litany of curses and gesturing most emphatically at the forge and the mess. Kynan grinned. Then he laughed. He was still laughing as he staggered out into the main room in front of irritated smith and son.

         Clutching the counter, watching, he thought, I could get used to this!

         His back stiffened, as if a door had slammed shut in his face, and he turned away from the comfortable family dynamics.

         I can't do this, he thought. Then he looked back over his shoulder, and away again. He strode to the door.

         "Wait!" cried Alan. "Wait, Kynan, your guns!"

         Hand tightening on the latch, he paused. Turned. Met Mr. Mammon's frustrated stare. He shifted from one foot to the other awkwardly until Alan returned, his freshly oiled and repaired guns in their holster, held out in his arms. He thrust the weapons at Kynan, along with a couple of small boxes. These he tapped excitedly.

         "This one's the normal kind," said Alan, poking one. "The ones I gave you last time. These," he grinned mischieviously, poking the second box, "are special. They explode."

         "Explode?"

         "Yeah! Ka-boom! Like the forge back there! You be careful with them." His gaze went back to the bullets and he frowned. "I didn't get as many done as I'd thought I would, and then you didn't come back, so I wasn't sure, but there should be enough bullets there for a couple months. I'll make more now so they'll be ready when you need them, but --"

         "Listen, Alan," said Kynan quickly, seeing that his father had stepped back into the workroom, "I can't come back here."

         "What? Why not?"

         "Well, it's ... it's just too dangerous, okay? But I love these guns, and I'm still going to need bullets for them."

         "But if I don't see you again, how will I know you've run out?"

         "Don't worry. I'll get word to you. Hey." He smiled and stuck out his hand. "It's been a real pleasure, Alan. I mean it."

         "But ...."

         "Good luck with the house and all. You'll have to tell me all about it sometime."

         "I guess."

         Kynan moved to the door and paused, looking back. Alan scuffed his toe against the flooring. Why was this so hard? He forced a smile back onto his face and waved.

         "See you around, Alan."

         "Yeah," said that muffled, little voice, and Kynan pushed one foot in front of the other.

         He left, and if every step down the street came a little easier, he didn't know, for there was an ache in his heart he thought he'd patched up years ago. That's what it was like ... to have family. People you cared about. A friend. And he couldn't have that. The queen would as soon kill them all, if she found out, it wasn't like it hadn't happened before; he knew she would, for friends of Kynan were only a threat to her. He didn't stop walking until he reached his mentor's home again. He stood for a long time staring at the windows, but ultimately, just returned to his own, hidden room. He sat down on the bed, but couldn't concentrate enough to read. In a fit of pique, he threw the werewolf book across the room, to slam against the not-so-far-away wall, sliding to the floor in a heap of loose pages and broken binding.

         Then he stood. He needed to go kill something. That was it, this gnawing in his insides would be sedated by the hunt. He would go see the queen, see if she had work for him. That was all there was to do. What he wanted was irrelevant. Would that he had never met Azil, never gone to court with Karadur that day! She'd thought him gone forever; he could've been safe. If he'd stayed at the orphanage, he might even have a proper home, or a family -- but no! No, of course that wouldn't have worked. He would have only killed them, and then he'd be a lot worse off. No, he was safest to everyone right where he was. He was content.

         He loaded the guns and fastened the belt back around his waist. No more time for petty selfishness; it was time to work.

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