Mutton (Tales of Cruxia Short Stories Book 1)

Book summary

Alistair Nito, a reformed ex-pirate, is drawn back into a life of danger when a local upstart involves him in a risky heist. Now, he must revive his old skills to navigate the threats that follow. MUTTON is a hard-boiled sword and sorcery short story, kicking off the Tales of Cruxia Short Stories series by Carter Reynolds.

Excerpt from Mutton (Tales of Cruxia Short Stories Book 1)

My joint was on the East End of Cruxia, capitol of the Cruxian province, center of the Cruxian Empire. Not exactly the creative types, us Cruxians. We weren’t always part of the Empire. My great grandfather fought against unification decades ago, but all he got for the trouble was his head on a spike.

I digress. My bar isn’t quite a dive, but it’s not exactly rex. Three rooms to rent hang on a balcony over the sawdust floor. My bar-top is green marble, acquired during my piracy days. I keep good spirits, from Vohlkahn mead to Hanrabi sweet wine. I still enjoy the finer things despite the grime.

I polished glasses while my serving girl swept between the empty tables. Maria’s twenty-five with short red hair, a real tough sort from the Mule quarter. Her dad drank himself to the grave in my joint and she was always there to cart him home at last call. When his liver finally popped, I offered her a job.

She handles the gig well since she doesn’t have time for drunks. Who can blame her?

The door swung in, and we got an actual customer. My friend Digger, the Mole. Mole’s live in the subterranean ruins beneath Cruxia. Half as tall as a man, their skin is wrinkled with a sallow hue and their eyes are milky and blind, if they have them at all. Most proprietors won’t let moles in, but I’m not like most.

Digger took out a ratty old wallet and paid for two pints of Janoe lager. Drinks in hand, he limped to a table in a dark corner. The bar sank half a level below street level, so there were a lot of dark corners.

Maria stowed her broom behind me and leaned on the bar.

“Slow day,” she said.

“Slow week, slow month, slow year,” I said.

“I wonder whose fault that could be.”

“Don’t get started.” I rubbed my eyes. It was too early in the day to bring up the Pickler.

“Heinrich’s shop got rolled over last night.”

“What?” I hadn’t heard that.

“A group of goons dragged out all his stuff and threw it to the curb. Heinrich looks like he went three rounds with a wolf. ‘I fell’, is all he says. Right. He fell about twenty times on someone’s knuckles, you ask me.”

“Nobody did, Maria.”

She leaned in and whispered, “It was Turley, you know.”

Joe Turley. The Pickler, they call him. A dockworker’s son who bullied his way up the bootstraps. He was a real entrepreneur, introduced the café to Cruxia, rex little joints with gourmet food and no rooms to rent. It hurt my business something fierce.

“How could you know a thing like that?”

“Mollusk was there.”

She was right. Mollusk was Turley’s right-hand headbreaker. Turley’s enterprises were a front. He ran everything from slaves to opiates and his cafés gave him a clean room to launder gold. My least favorite kind of crook. One who pretends he’s not. When I worked the industry, I made no false pretenses.

“Well, poor Heinrich then. Maybe it’ll turn more people our way.”

“Keep dreaming, old man.”

I swatted at her and lit a tailor, then cursed. Turley had invented the damn things, little rice paper cigars. They sold them in packs of twenty at every market stall in town. No matter where I turned that day, there was Turley.

“Another thing, Nito.”

“Eh?” I asked, puffing smoke.

“You owe me two weeks back pay.”

“Ah, Vorcan. Let me get out the cash box.”

“Have you paid McEnroy this month?”

I had not. I still owed him on the bar. He let me slide on the rent, but I didn’t want to test his patience. “No,” I sighed, “but you can’t go broke.”

I pulled out the box. She put her hand on it. “My room’s paid and my larder’s full, go pay what you owe. That way I still have a job next week.”

She does a lot for the place. I don’t know how I stayed afloat without her. Of course, back then there was no Turley leeching away my customers and my joint was jumping noon to night.

“Well, you might as well take the afternoon off,” I said. “Come back later for the rush.”

“Don’t send her home yet,” called a voice from the entrance.

I turned. “I can serve you just fine, Bullock.”

“She’s better to look at.” He shuffled his bulk between chairs.

Bullock was a friend from long ago when we both were on the upswing. While I terrorized the Five Seas, he was Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard. A career soldier with a future. About the same time I gave up the industry, the emperor got assassinated on his watch. They busted him down to the Constabulary to cover up the whole mess. These days he was on the take of whatever moneylender was ascendant.

This year it was Turley.

Time hadn’t been good to him. Still a big man, those days he carried most of it in a paunch that hung over his sword belt. He took a seat in a far corner and glared at Digger. Digger ignored him.

I took off my apron and joined him. He wore a big grin.

“A flagon of the Crowster for me. And get a shot of Volaire brandy going,” he called to Maria.

“Watch it, that’s four silver a slug.”

“I can float it.”

Maria set the drinks in front of Bullock. He pushed the shot in front of me.

“I don’t drink anymore.”

“Vorcan below, Nito, that’s like renting a room out to your ex.” He leered at Maria’s hips as she sauntered away. “Bars, let me tell you, little temples of lies.”

I stared at the amber shot. “What?”

“That Maria shakes her can at me like that, smiles extra nice anytime I look her way. She ain’t gonna sleep with me. I know it. She knows it. She knows that I know it. But I’m still gonna tip her this here copper.” He slammed the table. “Worthless, the lot of us.”

“Us men?”

“Us people.” He drained his flagon in two pulls. “How’s business?”

I swept an arm across the place.

“Ah, yeah. Tough stuff, lately.”

“What’s going on Bullock? You’re only ever here after midnight, drunk already.”

“Can’t an old friend stop by and check on his mate?”

“I didn’t make a lot of friends in the old days.” I pushed the shot back to his side of the table.

“Sure, sure. I get it. Play it cagey. Why don’t you make your serving girl scarce?”

“Maria, you mind getting the potatoes from Lewis down the block?”

She grimaced. Looked at the shot and then me. “I know where Lewis’ is.”

“Take your time, sunshine,” said Bullock. She did not give him that smile, but he still watched her hips as she stomped out. “What about him?” He pointed at Digger.

“Digger won’t say snuff. He’s a Mole.” Digger sipped his beer and played dominoes with only three pieces.

“Alright. I’ve got an opportunity for you. Could be a big break, could get this place back on track. Or pay the bastard thing off at any rate.”

“No.”

“Listen to what I’ve got to say, now-” His tone was flippant.

“No.”

“Nito, you’re wasting your potential here. You sure knew how to give the Royal Navy a hard time.”

“That was decades ago.”

“Yeah, and after that you were the best sweeper Cruxia ever saw, even if you were working with the Cazzaratti.”

“Still decades ago. I said no, Bullock.”

“Sure, sure. Figured that was gonna be the case. Turley said-“

“Vorcan, take me! The damn Pickler now, Bullock?”

He got serious. “Don’t call him that to his face. Not ever.”

“It won’t be an issue. I won’t see him. Tell him where he can shove his offer.”

His eyes got hard. “That’s the problem, Nito. This ain’t no offer.”

“What?” I can be real witty when I’m trying.

Bullock pushed back from the table and crossed to my bar, noodling through the bottles like he worked there. He pulled a cheap whiskey off the shelf and came back, pulling the cork out with his teeth. “Your bar’s marker, old friend. Turley bought it.” He swigged deep.

My guts got cold. “Bull. McEnroy wouldn’t do that, we’re tight.”

“Sure, sure. But McEnroy died two nights ago. Pneumonia. Barlow got his markers by deed. Sold them all before they were even signed over. Turley bought yours. Just come out and meet with him. He’s reasonable if you show some respect.” He slid the brandy back in front of me.

“Vorcan,” I swore.

“Yeah, Vorcan’s big leather balls, buddy. He wants to see you at sixth bell.” And he left.

Staring at the shot of Volaire in front of me, I heard the old screams and smelled the burning ship and the burning men. I’d plundered the brandy from the Volaire Navy off the Claret Sea a lifetime ago.

Maria came back half an hour later dragging potatoes.

She looked at the shot with concern. “Nito.”

“Go on home. We’re closed tonight.”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “Nito.”

“I said go home,” I snarled. She did.

Digger left not long after, and I sat in the long shadows, running a finger around the rim of the shot.

We sat there together a long time.