“Jhurpess,” Cræosh hissed as they stepped nearer the guards, “I want to make something abundantly clear.”
“Yes?” the bugbear asked.
“You pull any of your cowering, whimpering shit here, I’m gonna yank out your tongue. Via your ass.”
“Jhurpess understand.”
“I’m so glad.” They waited patiently while the guards asked a few casual questions of a small merchant caravan that arrived just before they did. Cræosh pointed over the travelers’ heads to a large building visible between the gates. “If we get separated, meet there.
“Gork,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower as the line shuffled forward, “if we need any scouting, you get to do it. Your Manspeak is up to it, and you enjoy skulking anyway.”
“I’m tired of skulking,” Gork whispered. “I thought I might prowl for a change. Maybe even lurk. Is it okay with you if I lurk?”
“Gork…”
“Because I wouldn't want to ruin any of your plans. How set on this are you? The skulking versus lurking thing, I mean.”
“Are you through?” Cræosh asked irritably.
The kobold pondered that. “Probably not.”
The last of the merchant's carts trundled through the gate, and it was now the goblins’ turn.
Captain Sirribeth of the Brenald Capital Guard and Lancers had long since ceased berating her men for slouching and bantering while standing post. The processes of gate duty were mind-numbing, capable of boring even the most attentive sentry into insensibility; so long as they remained aware, and asked each entrant the questions they were required to ask, she wasn't about to yell at them for a little unprofessional fraternization.
But she was heartened to see them straighten, snapping to something approximating attention, as the procession of monks, the hems of their robes coated in road grime, approached the gates. The guards knew when to pretend a certain element of respect. Sirribeth stepped in to handle this one herself, plastering her lips into a welcoming smile, and then almost tripped over her own boots as the passing wagons offered her a clearer glimpse at the brethren.
“Is that a child?” asked one of her subordinates, one Corporal Dennis.
Her lips struggled to turn down of their own accord. The lead figure looked no taller than her own son. “If it is, they're recruiting a lot younger than we are,” she replied.
In fact, the entire bunch appeared more than a little odd. There was another child or midget, only a tad larger than the first, while three of the others were taller than Sergeant Boldryn, the biggest man in her unit. Only one of the lot looked to be of average height, and he walked with a shifting, arm-swinging gait more animalistic than human. The first trickles of suspicion began pooling at the base of her skull. Still…
“Greetings, Brothers,” she said formally, advancing into their path. Unsure as to whom, precisely, she ought to be addressing, she rested her gaze neutrally between the first two monks. “May I inquire as to your business in Brenald?”
“You may,” the short one answered, his words hoarse. She'd heard similar tones in the voices of men too much enamored of their pipes. Sirribeth shuddered slightly. She'd never cared for the habit herself. Wretched-smelling stuff, that.
She craned her neck downward, focusing on the spokesman. “My apologies, Brother,” she told him. “It's just—”
“Just that you expected someone tall enough to have experienced puberty.”
Sirribeth made a faintly strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a chuckle. “Well, um…” This isn't exactly what I expected….
“It is of no moment, Captain. My brothers and I hail from a specialized order. Our members, as you've no doubt already surmised, are drawn from the ranks of those who are, let us say, atypical.”
She nodded wordlessly.
“There is little place in this world for the deformed, Captain,” the monk continued. His hood tilted in what might have been a nod as the captain blanched. “Even the word disturbs you, yes? We are grown used to it. In fact, we revel in it, for we are living proof that all mankind may honor the gods, no matter what shape they may have seen fit to grant us.”
“You shame me with your words,” the captain said. Cheeks flushing, she bowed her head. “Your appearance…I've been rude.”
“Humanity means making mistakes, my friend,” the short monk offered sagely. “Mend your ways, and all will be forgiven.”
“Of course, Brother.”
“We have come,” the monk said, changing tack, “so that we might pray, at the greatest and most resplendent temple in all the Allied Kingdoms, for the safety and success of our brave warriors who go forth to battle the heathen minions of the Dark Lord.” A slight hitch marred his words at that. He despises even speaking the creature's title, Sirribeth thought in wonder.
“But,” he continued, “we have never been to your great city before. Might you direct us to your temple, friend Captain?”
“Of course, Brother. I…That is, the roads in and around the marketplace are confusing in the extreme, practically labyrinthine.” She smiled ruefully. “Brenald still thinks of itself as the small town we once were.
“I fear,” she said, falling unconsciously into the monk's own formal cadence, “that if I attempted to provide you detailed directions now, you would find them meaningless by the time you arrived at the market, and already, I see looks of impatience cast our way from those who await entrance. Let me instead direct you to the marketplace. Once there, you should have little trouble in finding someone to show you the way.”
“That will do,” the hoarse voice agreed. “And I thank you.”
“No, Brother. Thank you.”
Directions were given, and the motley procession finally proceeded through the gate. “All right!” Captain Sirribeth yelled, responding to the mutters coming from those next in line. “Keep your shirts on; it's your turn now!”
She moved to question the next band of travelers, but her mind remained on the peculiar monks. Their leader's words had struck her hard, but already she felt better about herself, knowing in her heart that she would indeed mend her ways when dealing with those less favored by birth.
To her credit, Sirribeth maintained her new attitude for two full seasons—far longer than most would have—before drifting back into her old habits. Simply for the sake of posterity, it ought to be noted that she struck her head on a loose cobblestone and died seventeen years later, almost to the day, when a one-legged beggar, aggravated over the soldier's lack of charity, stuck out his cane and tripped her.
“That,” Cræosh said as they pressed through the shuffling crowds, “was impressive.” He was unable, despite his best efforts, to keep the admiration from his voice.
It was hard to tell beneath the thick folds of his robe, but he thought Gork might have shrugged. “It's really just a question of character,” he explained as they walked. “Get yourself in the mind-set of the person you're supposed to be, it's pretty easy to come up with the right answers.”
“How him know so much about human priests?” Belrotha asked.
Cræosh, though no one else could see it, raised an eyebrow. “How about it, Gork?”
“Does it really matter?”
“No,” the orc admitted. “Tell us anyway.”
The kobold sighed. “If you must know, we ate one a few years ago.”
“We?” Gimmol asked.
“My tribe. It was in the middle of winter, and we encountered a small procession of pilgrims near the Brimstone Mountains. We were pretty full after eating their mules, so we saved the humans for later. One of them was a monk on his first pilgrimage in ten years. We spent a few days talking to him. Idiot thought that by educating us about the glories of his gods, we'd come to see the error of our ways and accept our places as their servants—albeit less well favored than their human servants, of course.”
“Okay,” Cræosh said. “Then what?”
This time, Gork's shrug was obvious. “Then we got hung
ry again.”
“Let's try to restrict ourselves…to more human conversation,” Katim suggested from deep within her robe, her voice almost inaudible. “Wouldn't want to…be overheard.”
“You know,” Cræosh said, “Gork just sounds hoarse, and me and Gimmol can pass if we have to. But that croak of yours is a dead giveaway. Not to mention the fact that, with your snout tucked in like that, your chest bulges when you talk.”
“So I'll be mute. We're…all deformed anyway, remember?”
“Mute.” A beatific grin spread over Cræosh's face. “These robes are holy.”
Their first sight of Brenald's bustling marketplace was revealing, perhaps even profoundly revelatory. Not because it was sparklingly clean, or overflowing with the joy of carefree, happy patrons, because it wasn't. It was very nearly identical, in fact, to the bazaars at the heart of Timas Khoreth.
Sure, it differed in the specifics. Fewer of the humans were clad in armor or military uniform. None of the goblin races could be found, but here a dwarven beard wagged as the little man argued with a merchant; there, a willowy elf glided through the streets, her graceful steps unimpeded by the roiling mass of humanity; and once, they even spotted the head of a halfling, bobbing through the throng.
(Gork, for all he loathed the annoying, childish race, couldn't quite suppress a grin when he realized what the halfling was doing. His technique needed a bit of work, but several humans were going to find themselves greatly perturbed—not to mention rather more impoverished—in the next few minutes.)
But those were mere details. The atmosphere, the feel, the souls of the two markets were the same. Unwashed bodies rubbed moistly against one another, spreading their sour miasma over the streets like a plague. Merchants shouted, trying to make themselves heard over the mob; customers shouted, trying to make themselves heard over the merchants. They were barely people at all, these creatures, but organs in the greater living body that was society—just like in Timas Khoreth.
And that was the problem. This was Brenald, not Timas Khoreth; Shauntille, not Kirol Syrreth; the realm of Dororam, not Morthûl. Argue and debate and war over which was better, but they should, at least, have been different. For all the proclaimed weakness of the living king, all the whispered evils of the dead one, the subjects of both lived the same lives. They woke, and worked, and ate, and breathed, and slept, and died the same.
As revelations go, it disturbed Cræosh's sense of the world far more than it should have.
Okay, enough of this shit! He shook his head, setting his entire robe to rustling. He could ponder the intricacies of life some other time; right now, they had a job to do.
“So who do we ask?” he muttered, directed not so much at the others as at himself.
Gork responded anyway. “I’m sure one of the watch could help us. But honestly, I'd just as soon avoid them if possible. Call it a habit. I almost broke out in hives just talking to the captain.”
“I can respect that,” the orc said. “Okay, so what? Pick someone at random?”
“How about her?” Gimmol asked, pointing.
The gremlin's finger guided them to a nearby kiosk apparently belonging to a fruit merchant. She was an older woman, worn by the toil of years. Her hair was wrapped in a scraggly babushka, and she wore a slightly less scraggly dress. She was, at the moment, arguing—and blatantly growing ever more exasperated—with a customer.
And it was to this customer, in particular, to whom the gremlin had directed them. She was short, for a human. Her hair was a lustrous black, although how much of that luster was natural and how much from a buildup of oils was impossible to tell. But what had attracted Gimmol's attention was not her hair, or her size, but her intellect—or her apparent lack thereof.
“…don't understand,” she was whining at the merchant, absently fingering a gently bruised and surprisingly pungent cantaloupe. “Why are they so much more expensive this year?”
The merchant sighed, and launched into an explanation that she'd clearly repeated a goodly number of times already. “As I've said, m'lady, it has to do with the weather down in Gorash. They had an unusually long winter, so they couldn't begin their planting season as early as usual.”
“But we didn't have a long winter!” the woman protested. “Why should we have to pay more?”
The merchant's eyes began to glaze like a pastry.
Cræosh glowered at the peak of Gimmol's hood. “Any particular reason you want to saddle us with an idiot? If her brain were any smaller, it'd fall down her throat and be digested.”
“She won't ask too many questions,” Gimmol countered, “or make a fuss about our, uh, deformities. Or wonder why we don't know how to get where we're going.”
“You're assuming she knows how to get to the temple.”
“Eh, she's obviously a citizen here. I think even she probably knows the landmarks.”
“Jhurpess will talk to woman!” the bugbear announced brightly, and was off into the crowd before his words had fully registered.
“Oh wise and mighty gods,” Gork intoned, “please, in thy mercy and grace, ensure that our misguided companion comes to no harm, nor brings any upon his brethren.”
“What the fuck was that?” Cræosh asked.
“I’m staying in character,” the kobold replied, his voice tight. “Jumping up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs might look suspicious.”
The orc glanced apprehensively at the merchant's stand, bedecked in multihued produce, and at the robed form that drew ever nearer to it. “You could always claim to be possessed,” he said dubiously. “I’m sort of feeling the need for a little judicious hollering and screaming myself.”
“Don't tempt me,” Gork told him.
Had Jhurpess been aware of his companions’ reactions, he'd have been crushed, since the whole point of his peculiar decision was to impress them. The bugbear was determined to make up for his previous weakness when it came to bustling cities, and though he quailed and quivered inside, though his fur stood on end beneath the heavy robe, he was determined to prove that he could function just as well here as in the depths of the woodlands.
As he crossed the bustling market, he realized, in a show of foresight that would have stunned those selfsame companions, that he probably ought not call himself by his real name here. Not that anyone in Brenald knew who “Jhurpess” was, but it didn't sound like any human name he'd ever heard.
He steadied himself with a single deep breath as he approached the woman's side. Her scent—ripening fruit, a human's typical tang, and a mixture of various pheromones that meant nothing to the bugbear—was cloying.
“Pardon,” he said, struggling to force his voice into something resembling a human tone.
The woman jumped, startled by the growly, heavily cloaked creature. “Y-yes?” she asked hesitantly. “Who are you?”
“Jhu—umm, John.”
“John?”
Jhurpess nodded quickly, relieved she hadn't detected his misstep. “John.”
The merchant, by this point, had taken immediate advantage of the woman's distraction and moved on to other, less aggravating customers.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“John needs directions to temple. John wishes to pray.” Hey, this wasn't going so badly! Who needed Gork?
“Why are you all wrapped up?” she asked breathlessly.
“John a monk!” Jhurpess said, pounding a fist against his chest for emphasis.
“Really?”
The bugbear frowned inside his hood. He couldn't read her well enough, didn't know if the question was purely rhetorical or a genuine expression of disbelief. If she was getting suspicious…
But then, Jhurpess had overheard two good stories used to fool humans in the last few days. And if one was good, then both together must be better!
Lowering his voice even further, trying to remember exactly how Gork had sounded when he'd knocked on the church door, he said, “Not just because John a monk.” He hac
ked out a gurgling cough. “John also has bad sickness. When John—”
And then he could only watch, puzzled, as the woman dashed away into the crowd with a terrified wail.
He was just giving some serious thought to chasing her down and asking what was wrong when a thick, meaty hand closed on his shoulder. “You ever do that again,” Cræosh hissed in his ear, “I’m going rip your testicles off and choke you with them! You got that?”
“Yes,” Jhurpess said sullenly. “John understands.”
“Good! Now let's get the hell away from here! We're drawing attention.”
The large monks quickly retreated from the marketplace. As they neared the remainder of the squad—all scowling at Jhurpess beneath their hoods—Cræosh stopped short, his nose wrinkling as confusion wafted before his face like a foul odor.
“Who the fuck is John?”
While Belrotha clutched the back of Jhurpess's neck in a firm (and moderately agonizing) grip, Gork wandered in search of another potential guide. This particular encounter went a great deal more smoothly, possibly because Gork refrained from mentioning anything about plague, and within moments, they were on their way once more.
“Left at Rolly's clothing shop, then a right at the building with the big stain on the wall, and then…” Gork muttered as they trooped through the milling crowds. “I hate locals. I don't care where you go, the locals are idiots.”
“Wouldn't that sort of make everyone an idiot?” Gimmol asked. “By definition?”
“Now you're catching on,” Gork said.
Finally, with only a modicum of further grousing, they arrived. The grandest, most venerated temple in all the Allied Kingdoms rose up majestically before them…
Well, not too majestically.
“That's disappointing,” Cræosh muttered.
“Why do you care…what a human temple looks…like?” Katim rasped from within her robe.
“I expected this to be something I could make fun of. But it's practical. Since when do humans do anything practical? My sense of the natural order just took one on the chin.”
“Shall we?” the troll asked dryly.
Heads bowed as piously as they could feign, their steps slow and shuffling, the train of “monks” climbed the wide stone steps.