Chapter Thirteen. Tinman
THIRTEEN
Tinman
Faos finds me in the Magpie in the middle of a game of Crooks & Aces.
The tavern at this time of night is loud and riotous with a band trying their hardest on the makeshift stage, searching for pockets of air space between the shouting and fighting and laughter.
A fire crackles on the giant stone hearth.
The thick wooden mantel above it is tacked full of handmade charms that swing from leather cords, catching the light.
They’ve accumulated over the years, nailed there by visitors hoping to ward off the Great and Terrible Curses. Or to beg the gods to return.
It’s all superstition. The curses part. Not the gods.
I’ve seen the gods with my own eyes.
When I was a boy, my mother would take me and my brothers on an annual trek to the Emerald City for the Reaping of the Gods.
They would stand, one in each cardinal direction, and replenish the earth with magic.
Back then the Yellow Brick Road was a creek that flowed gold with power.
Now it’s bricked over and only half as powerful.
It’s been more than twenty years since anyone has seen a god, and there is no more annual reaping. Either they’re dead or they’ve abandoned us, and if they’ve abandoned us, I’m not about to fucking capitulate.
But the curses, those can come out of nowhere. So maybe I can understand the superstition of trying to ward one off.
If mine hadn’t come from someone, instead of nowhere, I might be inclined to collect stones and sticks and weave them together too.
The front door creaks open and the cold mountain air of the West End steals in, driving out the dry heat. With my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the chill creeps up my arm, lifting the hair. On my left arm, anyway. My right arm, made of metal and cogs and wires, feels nothing at all.
Faos scans the tavern. Light from the iron lampposts outside rims his folded wings in gold.
The tavern goes quiet.
There is only the sound of the fire now, and the clanking of pots in the kitchen.
The West End may be under the rule of the Witch of the West, but everyone on the ground knows it’s Faos and his winged monkeys you have to be wary of.
Sometimes they are under the witch’s command. Sometimes they are just thirsty for blood.
When his gaze lands on me, I pretend not to have noticed him despite how impossible he is to ignore.
I have a shit hand. I suppose his arrival has come at the best time.
“Tinman,” he calls.
My name sounds like a command in his wild, animal voice. Half the tavern shivers at the sound of it.
“I’m busy, Faos.” I shuffle through my cards again, willing them to be better.
“The witch has called for you.” He crosses the room.
People scurry out of his way. He has to turn sidelong in order to maneuver through the tight spaces between tables.
He is large compared to a man, but slight for a winged monkey.
He’s easily twice my size with wings folded closed. Wings open, he’s a goddamn nightmare.
Word must have spread to the kitchen because the pots are quiet now too.
One of the cooks pokes her head through the swinging door.
“Unlike you, monkey,” I tell him, “I don’t dance when the witch commands it.”
His nostrils flare. His wings jitter behind him.
Possibly an unnecessary dig, but I’m nothing if not consistent with my audacity. Or stupidity, depending on who you ask.
But Faos and I have an understanding, I think. He doesn’t serve the witch out of the goodness of his heart. And I have no heart to serve with.
We are both beholden to her in a way. She commands him with a golden mask. She pulls my strings by holding my brother hostage.
Gabriel has been a prisoner in her dungeon for three years. Nothing I’ve done has freed him. No barter. No threat. No trick.
It’s been months since she’s let me see him. For all I know, he may be dead.
The thought should stir some kind of emotion, but it’s hard to feel anything when you can only feel nothing. If emotion is a well, mine is dry.
“You’ll want to hear this one,” Faos says.
I keep my eyes on my cards. “Oh?”
“She’s willing to make a deal.”
Now he has my attention.
“Go on.”
“If you agree to the job and succeed, she’ll release your brother.”
The entire tavern is entertained by this exchange and I’m aware that what I say next will be gossiped about for weeks to come. There isn’t much to distract the Enders other than drama in this cold, unforgiving land.
“What kind of job?”
“None of their concern,” he answers and sniffs at the tavern customers.
A secret mission then? Secrets are like desert scorpions—they’re only good if you’re the one who holds them.
But I may never have another chance to free Gabriel.
“Very well,” I say and throw down my hand.
I have three aces and the royal crook—the king of emeralds. A winning hand.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” I say to the other players and scoop up the golden piats. “Try your luck next time.”
“Hey!” The man to my left shoves his chair back and it teeters on its legs. “That’s impossible! You’ve cheated!”
“Have I?” The coins chime as I toss them in my pocket. “Say that again.”
The man’s name is Grainy or maybe Grosson. I forget. He’s neck deep in debt to just about everyone this side of the Crossroads. And desperate men are oftentimes more dangerous than dangerous men.
But not tonight.
Not with me.
“You’re a liar and a cheat!”
I have my axe in hand before Grosson finishes his sentence.
I have it swinging before he can blink.
I have his head lobbed off before he can gasp out a breath of surprise.
His head hits the dirty hardwood floor with a loud, wet thump. It rolls under the table and the rest of the players leap back to avoid getting blood on their boots.
The rest of his body slumps over in the chair and I use his shirt to clean my blade, then slide it back into its holster strapped to my back.
“Apologies, Mr. Hanson,” I call to the tavern’s owner. He’s standing behind the bar, a glass in hand, the polishing rag hanging limply from the other. “For the trouble.” I flip him a gold piat. He drops the rag, fumbles with the glass. The glass hits the bar top and shatters.
He manages to catch the coin though.
Glass is replaceable. Gold not so much.
“It’s all right, Tinman.” He avoids looking me in the eye. They all do. Except for Faos. Faos isn’t afraid of me even though the scar running across his face says he should be.
The monkey makes his way out of the tavern and waits in the cold night.
When the door swings shut behind me and I meet him beside the lamppost, the dirty snow crunching beneath my boots, his breath puffs out in an exaggerated cloud. “Did you cheat?”
I unroll my shirt sleeves, warding off the cold, and pull out a cigarette, running the end of the twisted paper between my lips, wetting it. The lighter comes to life when I press the button and the cogs inside whir, flint striking against the wheel.
A spark ignites.
I inhale.
The dried nightshade crackles as it burns and perfumes the air with sweetness.
“Did I cheat?” I repeat, exhaling smoke. “Of course I did.”
Faos scowls. “Have you no honor?”
“Says the monkey who tossed me over the Great Waterfall last we met. My arm was rusted for a week.”
He rolls his eyes. “I had orders.”
I level my gaze at him. “Oh really? The witch told you to toss me over a waterfall?”
He looks away. “Fine. I improvised.”
“See? Was that so hard?” I take another hit and trudge forward. “Anyway, you already know the answer to your question, dear Faos. Do I have honor? No. It’s impossible to have honor when you have no heart. What’s your excuse?”
I hear him grunt behind me and then take to the air.
I guess I’m walking alone then. Just as well. Faos is terrible company.