The Knights of Cayenne wear thick mustaches, but only, you understand, as a preventative measure against the sneezing. They also carry canteens of sour cream.
Savarin would of course have difficulty with the first part. She’s sure she can overcome it, though, by means of a scarf or shaved-down corks or just force of will. She peppers her hair every day before scimitar practice. So what if the others think she has lice?
Let them sneer and mutter. To be a Knight of Cayenne is to face the flames, she knows, and to have the strength not to wipe your eyes.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” says Cole nervously, “I’m just saying you have to remember what we’re doing here. The revolution’s about more than one girl.”
“The revolution is nothing without her.” Figaro’s eyes are burning, but his voice is steady. “Leave if you think it’s the right thing to do, but I’m going after her.”
Cole glances back at Machinetown, steaming like the breath of the mountain. “Life to the daring, fate to the coin,” he mumbles, and tightens his pistol belt.
At the mouth of the cave, the little white bear waits, the antenna on its head beeping patiently.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Littlest Tarrasque wakes from its eons-long slumber and scratches its nose. It’s sooo hungry! It decides to maraud for food.
“Hello there,” says a friendly adventurer while the Littlest Tarrasque is busy marauding at some minnows. “Are you lost?”
The Littlest Tarrasque nods.
“Why not take a nap in this rune-laden adamant chest?”
But it turns out that’s a trap! Those sneaky adventurers! The Littlest Tarrasque giggles, and rends them joint from joint.
Eventually the Littlest Tarrasque rememembers that it eats rocks and burrows deep into the side of Mount Worldspine (there are lots of rocks in there).
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
“Fiction of the last century often posited that mannequins were in some way trapped,” says Volure, “that they longed for freedom of movement, or left their pedestals to creep about at night. Of course the Book of Stillness teaches otherwise.”
Pearl looks carefully at the bare-chested jeans-wearer gazing flatly out the window. “But they use subjective time dilators, right?”
“Only when they’re starting out. The professionals are in deep trance.”
“How much do you have to pay them?”
He laughs. “They pay us.”
Pearl thinks she catches the mannequin breathing, but it might just be the sun going down.
“Don’t turn around,” says the hoarse voice behind him.
“Who are you?” quavers Gordon, in his darkened office. “How did you–”
“You’re a good loan officer. Maybe the only good loan officer in the city. How do you survive in this business, not being on the take?”
“I’m no rat,” says Gordon firmly. “They all know it.”
Papers flip onto his desk. “There’s an application in there. A solid one. Take it to your boss tomorrow.”
“And then what?”
“Watch for my sign.”
“But how do I know you’re a worthwhile credit ri–” says Gordon, but Bat-Homebuyer is already gone.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Miss Havisham, in a rare concordance with simple student beliefs, actually does live at school. She started doing so during the winter break, when things were even emptier than usual; no longer afforded residence at her boarding room in town after a violent disagreement with its proprietor, she packed her things and paid the cinema boy a nickel to stow them in one of the empty wings. She eats in the dining hall and bathes in the gymnasium lockers. She’s almost always first to class.
In her shame, she doesn’t go exploring much of the school–until one restless April night.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
“We missed you at Vesperfest,” says Brother Tufnels, with a gentle rebuke in his voice.
“I was wrong not to attend, I know,” sighs Brother Rallen. “I’ll be at Matinsfest and Laudsfest! But I was moshing so hard to the Holy Chords that I lost consciousness, and–”
“Part of being a Metallic is judging for yourself the line between indulgence and righteous rocking.” Tufnels is smiling now. “Now, can I persuade you to help me sacrifice a baby goat on the dark altar?”
“WHAT ARE YOU GUYS TALKING ABOUT,” asks Brother van Sveren, who took vows of extreme loudness last year.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Burning Armory is four fathoms tall and its stubby fingers are pierced with sharpened bone. Its half-blind eye searches out the Princess Leaves as she coughs sand and struggles to her feet; above, Dog Shouting grips the pit’s edge, and the Papa Bosom’s mottled crew cheer and place bets.
Very few of the bets are in her favor.
The Armory snacks on a guard-turned-victim, and the Princess closes her eyes. The Wish Power is with her. The enormous portcullis rises; the Armory tries to follow her under it; the portcullis falls.
“Oh dear,” says Blow the Skin.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
“I knew the curse would come for him one day,” cries Barrymore over the old man’s body. “It didn’t even mark his body–the sight alone must have been fright enough to stop his heart. Damn that Deinonychus of the Baskervilles!”
Mortimer scoffs. “You can’t possibly believe a dinosaur did this to him!”
“It’s not like a normal dinosaur,” says Barrymore. “It’s a ghostly creature, scarred and hideous, eyes alight with vengeful flame!”
“Burning bog gas and an old man’s heart!”
Far off in the mist, something krees like an enormous eagle, and the carriage pachys snuffle and stomp their feet.
Friday, November 21, 2008