Night had fallen on the village of Wensdale. Taverns and
shops had been shut up, lights had been turned off, market stalls packed away.
The shutter of almost every house was closed, doors had been bolted and
whatever security measures were needed were in place. Even at night, the place
was a village of contrasts – medieval folk on the cusp of modern enlightenment.
Electric lamps lined the streets where horse and cart roamed, some villagers
would be tuning in to late-night television and cheeky children would be
playing games consoles under the covers. Ancient and modern lived side-by-side
in non-judgmental harmony, unlike in the rest of the world where they sat on
opposite sides of a fence and snarled at each other.
Another noticeable contrast was the figure standing by the
gallows, watching the body swing from it.
The figure was large, not just in height, but in proportion
as well. There was a person who would fit the great, obscuring coat that it
wore, but this was not that person – too tight around the shoulders, too baggy
about the trunk. Legs like great columns peeked out from beneath the hem of the
garment, arms like tree trunks stood placidly at the person’s sides. An eerie
red glow permeated from underneath the hood, aimed like fiery spotlights at the
corpse that hung from its neck and illuminating the blood and puke that stained
the front of it.
The body had belonged to Meredith Forsythe, the authorities
had claimed. She had been hung this very afternoon, guilty of charges of fraud,
grand larceny, petty theft and more than a few incidents of sexual deviancy.
She’d been oddly silent and calm as she’d been lead up to the gallows, not
saying so much as a single syllable as the executioner grimly fitted the noose
around her neck. The only flicker of emotion, as the final rites had been read
out, was a small smirk as the priest attending the execution had croaked out in
his humourless drone “May all the Gods and Goddesses, from Armadon to Raijin,
have mercy upon thy soul”. It had been quick and painless, the authorities had
said.
The figure waited and watched, watched and waited. A crow came
down onto the gallows, hopped over to the body and began pecking away at the
eye sockets.
The thing about the authorities, however, was that they only
knew what suited them. If there was anything that they didn’t understand, they
ignored it - it was more convenient that way. They could not explain how two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars, stolen by Meredith, had gone completely
missing, with all possible sites turning up completely empty. They did not
account for why the Duchess of the Moorlands insisted the one who had visited
her in the night and charmed her silken garters off had been a tanned brunette,
not the fair-skinned blonde they’d hung.
They probably would not have explained the cracking noises
from within the body, either.
They explained themselves in short order.
The corpse bulged horribly, the crow squawking in fright and
flapping away. The sternum tore in half and ribs snapped like breadsticks as
the entire front half of Meredith Forsythe split in half like a clam shell.
With a choking gasp and a gush of fluids, Amanda Dime slid out of the body
she’d grown around herself and collapsed to the ground, rolling down the wooden
ramp that lead to the noose and leaving a sticky trail behind her. The huge
figure did not move until she’d come to a stop at the foot of the ramp,
writhing in the dirt and clawing at her own throat until she found out she
could breathe again.
Then it approached her with slow, measured steps, procuring
a bottle of water from its pocket, and knelt down.
“Some Water, Miss Dime?” it asked. The voice rumbled like a
grindstone wheel, and each word was deliberately pronounced, as if the speaker
was assembling them out of instructions.
The prone woman said nothing, but yanked the bottle from the
other’s hand and practically tore the top off in her haste to unscrew the cap.
That was the one issue with being a Changeling – whenever you shed a body, you
felt, for the first hour or two, all the sensations your last vessel went
through before you ditched it. In this case, the tightness of woven hemp
constricting the windpipe, a problem that could only be solved by gulping down
the entire bottle in one go, which Amanda Dime demonstrated with surprising
speed.
When it was all over, she looked taller and fuller, and
there was more shine to her brown-tanned skin. She yanked the bottle away from
parched lips and gasped once again.
“I liked that
body,” she groaned, hauling her nude form into a sitting position in the mud
she’d created. “It was slim, it was active. I could do things with it!”
“I Do Not Doubt That,” rumbled the tall figure.
“And those fuckers ruined
it!” Amanda practically howled, trying to stand up. But the ground was like a
skating rink, and her feet slipped out from under her, throwing her onto her
back with a splat. “Still,” she groaned from where she lay covered in mud, “at
least we still have the money. Good job with that, by the way, Crank.”
“It Was My Pleasure, Miss Dime,” was the response. A massive
paw of a hand was offered, and the Changeling clasped it with both of her own
and hauled herself up it. Her feet found purchase on dirt not smeared with
unidentifiable liquids, and soon she was standing up and looking at her massive
companion with glinting, iris-less eyes.
“You still got it?”
In response, Crank reached inside his coat. There was a
sound akin to a mouse trying to perform opera and a series of clicks, and then
the hand probed deeper into the shadowy recesses before withdrawing. A large
bag, full to almost bursting, rustled and clinked its way into the open air, and
was practically snatched away by Amanda, who looked as though she might burst
into crowing at any moment as she weighed it with both hands.
“Just think,” she whispered, nearly hissed with glee. “Those
fucking guardsmen looking everywhere, and they never thought to look for a
really tall man in a suspicious coat!”
“Everyone Knows,” droned Crank, “That Amanda Dime Works
Alone.”
“Everyone is a git, Crank,” the woman responded as she
handed the money back. “And some are bigger gits than others. That’s why we do
this – to show the world that gits don’t deserve to swan about in fancy fucking
coats and dresses, pretending to be people.”
“You Grow Bodies To Hide Your Identity, Miss Dime,” retorted
Crank as he put the money back into who knows where. “Does That Not Count As
Pretending To Be A Person?”
Amanda shot the man a look that could melt metal, were it
capable. “Hey, at least I’m honest about it. Not like the rich folk I pick on,
lying about how influential they are and their cousins being in some foreign
government somewhere. They all make me want to puke, the Agaryulnaerea.”
“As You Say, Miss Dime.”
That was the funny thing about Crank. He asked questions,
yes, but he never seemed to linger on them for long. He wasn’t like most
sidekicks Amanda had been with, who challenged her way of thinking as though it
were a personal affront to themselves or the world – they usually ended up in
prison or dead, or she simply abandoned them after a quick fuck and minus their
wallets. Crank just… accepted things, even though he posited the kind of
questions that most human con artists would stumble to answer without um-ing
and ah-ing.
Amanda, though, was a Changeling. Concepts such as morality
and philosophy didn’t enter her head very often, and when they did they fit in
there like old furniture in a space station. In her experience, this meant that
she could think clearly about the more immediate things, as well as some way
into the future, and not get sudden changes of heart as she handed forged coins
over to fat, bristle-chinned gentlemen. It was simply better to not care,
sometimes.
And right now, as she looked over the sleeping town of
Wensdale, the immediate situation did not look very good.
“We can’t stay here,” she muttered, an air of disappointment
in her voice.
“We Cannot,” agreed Crank in his rusty growl of a voice.
“The Watch Was To Come Here To Collect The Body At-“
“No,” hissed Amanda, throwing up her hands, “I mean we can’t
stay here. On this fucking world.
What’s left for us, Crank? We’re wanted people here, in Ardea, Todenwald’s poor
as shit and full of vampires and ghouls, Barrath hates me for fucking their
queen – can’t blame me, she was hot – and Ostaria hates everyone, me included.
And we can’t just take a fucking boat to somewhere else, because half the
kingdoms over their either want me dead or think I am, or want to melt you
down!”
“I Understand,” droned Crank very patiently, “That Zindovia
Is Still Open And Welcoming.”
“Yeah, if you like sand and camels.” Amanda shivered at the
memory of that place – there was no way in all the hells that existed anything
she did there had been worth it. Sultan’s son was rather cute, though, and by
now he’d probably grown up to be a fine young man, assuming they stopped feeding
him roast peacock every dinnertime. But still, that wasn’t worth all the dust
storms and scorpions and palm oil. Okay, maybe the palm oil, but still…
No, she decided. There had to be something else out there.
Somewhere where she – and, by extension, Crank – could make a fresh start, with
a clean record and no royal soldiers out to kill them. Where she could do what
she did best, to her heart’s content, and have all the excitement come back
again. Walking into a town, putting on a show for the people and lining her
pockets with the results. Getting caught, running away, sometimes fighting and
getting away, sometimes getting thrown in prison only to escape in two days.
And all the little pleasures on the side, too – the food, the booze and the
sex, sometimes two at the same time and sometimes all three at once.
Oh, yes. She loved being a con artist.
“Crank,” she said slowly, after a moment. “What do you know
about the Star Festival?”
Crank took a moment to respond. “The Star Festival Is Over,
Miss Dime,” he rumbled. “There Is Nothing To Know.”
“I mean in general,” sighed Amanda with irritation. That was
the other thing about Crank - you had to be specific, otherwise he didn’t
understand.
There was a creaking noise from somewhere.
“It Is My Understanding,” said Crank slowly, “That The Star
Festival Is The Chief Meeting Place Between The Peoples of Porphyrion And Those
Called The Star People. It Is During This Time That The Two Sides Interact And
Trade Vital Goods Between Each Other For The Purpose Of Building Trust, Good
Will And Strong Business Ties. Occasionally, A Group Called The Kobbers
Descends To The Planet To Right Some Wrongs And Save A Kingdom Or Two. The
Details Are A Little Fuzzy On That One.”
There was silence as Amanda turned this over in her head.
“And… where do these ‘Kobbers’ come from, Crank?”
“Most Appear To Originate From A Planet Called Earth, Or
Terra. It Is A Highly Developed Planet, With A Technology Level Far Above Ours. It's Culture Has An Unusual Fascination With The Female Posterior, There Is A City By The Name Of Las Vegas Which Is Dedicated To The Pastime Of Gambling, And A Woman Named Celestia Canicco Is Famed For-"
But Amanda had long since tuned out her associate's rambling spiel. Did she hear that right? An entire city dedicated to gambling? Of course, she was no stranger to casinos and other luck-based shenanigans - she could still recall Brightfields and it's dazzling lights and freak shows, as well as how completely gullible the townsfolk were. They'd even fallen for the old fake diamond ring act, a ploy so old it was gathering dust with the fossils in the Natural History Museum of Orvance by now, and all for the mere chance of winning a few extra thousand gold.
But an entire city...
Something went click in the Changeling's mind, whirred, and brought up a very attractive picture. It involved elaborate disguises, silver tongues, sleight of hand and distracting attention with a flick of a wrist. Finding a good contact, gathering information, targeting the biggest and most smuggest of stuffed shirts. Sneaking in, pulling off, getting caught, running for the hills, sneaking back in to do it all again but bigger and better. And, somewhere along the line, a very handsome man or pretty girl to weasel a sneaky double-cross out of.
And this picture was captioned "Greatest Heist Ever."
"-Which I Cannot Understand, As I Do Not Find Skeletons To Be-"
"Crank." Amanda rounded on the tall figure, eyes gleaming with the excitement she hadn't felt in years. "You are going to pick me up and take me out of this miserable shithole of a village, out through the north gate, right now. Do it."
"...As You Wish, Miss Dime."
Without further comment, Crank leaned down and reached out with an arm that could crush the ribs and lungs of a man with the lightest of movements. Yet the way it picked up Amanda and hoisted her onto one massive shoulder had all the grace and care of a mother bear carrying her cubs, and the brunette reveled in the feel of the cold night air on her skin as her transport set off down the streets. The cobbles echoed with each heavy footfall from the huge unknown, yet not a single soul stirred in their houses - the Changeling was more than thankful for that.
"What Is Your Plan, Miss Dime?" came the rumble, the reverberations of Crank's voice traveling up its cargo's spine.
"Plan?" Amanda grinned at the star-dotted sky above her, seeing dollar signs and possibilities written in every glimmering pattern above her. "Who said anything about a plan?"
"You Have Not Spoken So Eagerly," comes the retort, "Nor With Such Determination Since The Great Eggplant Caper. You Must Have A Plan In Mind."
The cackle that comes from the brunette in response rings off the streetlamps. "Simple, Crank! This planet's done, finished. Nothing left for us to do or exploit. So we go to this Earth place, yeah? Fresh start, new cultures and sights to take in, no gguardsmen trying to kill us everywhere we go! And we start in this Vegas place, where everyone throws their money away so willingly they don't even care if the diamond is really a polished-"
“But Miss Dime, We Cannot Go Just Yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because You Are Naked And Covered In Mud.”
Amanda looked down at herself, noticed that Crank was right
and sighed with disappointment. Where she in any other position, time or place,
naked and covered in mud was something she’d be more than happy to be –
especially if there was a young, impressionable prince on hand. But there
wasn’t one, and her plan of getting off-planet relied on not being noticed long
enough to sneak aboard a shuttle. So in this case, being naked and covered in
mud was not really an option. A pity, that.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s get me cleaned up and find me
some clothes. Maybe I can grow a new body whilst we’re on the shuttle.”
“Which Shuttle Will That Be?” asked Crank, not changing pace
for an instant.
A smile cracked across Amanda Dime’s face, like a shark
seeing it’s dinner being wheeled in.
TO BE CONTINUED
(Probably)
