Root had never had much of a taste for gambling. No particular reason, really—it just wasn’t her vice. Or, rather, it wasn’t one of her vices. She made hobbies of most of the others.
She’d dabbled, sure. During a particularly lucrative lunch at school, she’d once turned six candies into six candies, two cookies, half a sandwich, three new pencils, an ugly hair clip, and a beetle. She might’ve kept going if Eshra hadn’t marched over with a teacher and put an end to her budding career, or if the beetle hadn’t made off with one of the candies. She hadn’t really understood the rules of poker then. More important, however, was that all the other kids had understood them less.
But presented with the chance to turn her hard-grave robbed fortune—at least, the portion she hadn’t mailed home—into more money, how could she resist? Even if that opportunity presented itself in the form of a shady horse racing track deep in the Atnaterran wilderness.
They’d been tramping through the wilds for weeks, cutting left-east across the spirit world since leaving Midden. Over the weeks, certain scents had accosted her nose to no end and stuck there like a wad of greasy hair in a drain: the stink of muck, sweat, and—for a period of about four days, for reasons she’d never discovered—buttered popcorn. After weeks of that unwelcome trio, it’d been a pleasant shock when a new assortment had wafted through the trees: aromas of hot roasted nuts and carved meats.
But she’d learned her lesson about unexpected smells in Atnaterra (which was her well-demonstrated reasoning for not pursuing the popcorn smell) and she kept her olfactory guard on high alert, so when the newcomers had arrived, she’d promptly chained them up and questioned them until they sang like a pair of sizzling canaries.
And those smells had led them here.
The kaleidoscopic trees and oversized fungi that Root had come to expect from the Atnaterran wilds were joined here by chitinous pustules—big, bulbous things twice as tall as Root that exhaled reliably every fourteen minutes to spew a cloud of luminous glitter twenty feet skyward. The trees, the fungi, the pustules—all of it had fallen away suddenly, dumping the four of them into a pasture, level and neatly landscaped. An oblong dirt racetrack filled the center, and along one side rose tiered stands filled with more lace than a polygamist’s quadruple wedding night.
The promising smells of hot food had lured them in, though not without lengthy debate. A racetrack and a whole crowd of people? In the middle of nowhere? It was eerie, they all agreed—suspicious, eerie, not their scene. They’d shaken their heads in agreement while walking closer to get a better look at the concession menu.
The food had lured them in, but it was the sounds that convinced Root to stay a while. One of the sounds in particular, rather: the chee-ki-kcheeki-clinkink of handfuls of coins sliding across a countertop.
She knew a thing or two about horses, she rationed, coming from a farm and all. She’d never had one of her own, and they hadn’t been as common around the village as oxen or water buffalo, sure, but she’d watched them. She rode one once, nervously and not for very long; nervousness led to smoke, and smoke led to an antsy horse bucking the poor, smoldering six-year-old from its back. She’d refused to ride or approach one since, but she knew when one looked strong, energized, and ready for a day’s labor, and she knew when one looked like it needed to be led around to the back of the barn. So she’d looked around at the afternoon’s entrants—keeping her distance—and placed a modest bet on a big grey speckled horse named Sounds Like Ubadan Trellisbeak Squabbles.
But all of that meant little after Root sat down in the stands between Azriah and Beel with a hot sandwich that dripped sauce onto the intrusive tulle shoulder poof of the spirit in front of her. Root wasn’t worried about that; the spirit looked like the sort who was on a first-name basis with her dry cleaner. The sandwich was halfway gone before she looked up again.
“What took you so long down there?” asked Azriah as he licked a bit of grease from his finger and crumpled his empty sandwich wrapper. “The line wasn’t too bad when I left.”
“Stopped to make a bet,” said Root through a mouthful.
Azriah rolled his eyes. “I thought we weren’t staying long. We’re still a long way from Urk.”
“Well, we have to finish eating anyway.”
Beel looked up at her. “You’re almost done, and you’ve been here for thirty seconds.”
Root shrugged. “I’m going back for seconds. They have cocktails, too.” She leaned back and propped her dirty boot on the bench below her, earning her an equally soiled look from the spectators on either side.
Azriah looked around, scanning the people making their way up into the seating. They had a clear view of it all from their spot in the topmost corner of the stands. “Vit?” he asked.
“Still in line for lemonade. Last I saw them, at least.”
Stip, shwip. Two cords of spider silk caught the metal frame behind their heads, and a second later, Vit rose into view, eyes glowing green and their full arsenal of arms deployed. They cradled drinks and waxy paper boats heaped with food.
“Hey guys. Did you want lemonade? I got you some just in case. Here.” They handed cups down one at a time. It seemed “some” was Vit’s code for “enough for two cups each.” By the looks of it, they’d bought out half the concession stand and robbed the other half. “Here, this one’s for Azriah. I know you like mint.”
“Oh—yeah, thank you.” Azriah took the cup, several bright green leaves drowning in the sweet beverage.
“And Beel…” Vit handed him a cup. “Strawberries and extra sugar. And here, Root.”
Root took a sip. That was some strong lemonade.
“You had them add booze to this?” she asked.
Vit winked. “Bartender to ex-bartender. Quite a bit, too.” They retracted their extra arms and settled in. “Here, can you all take some of these, too?”
Root had to balance multiple paper dishes of food on her lap, but she couldn’t complain. This was the first proper meal she’d eaten since Feldrock.
They’d left Midden in a hurry. After stealing Wrond’s Prurience—the mote periapt of passion—from Hamlick, they’d had no interest in sticking around to find out how he felt about their switcheroo. They’d pulled the wool over Syrus’s eyes, too, then left him in the dust. Not to mention Ajis and Ophylla had both turned up in the city as well. All in all, they’d had enemies old and new in Midden, and it didn’t seem like the best opportunity to throw a mixer.
A week’s walk left-east of Midden, they’d arrived in the town of Feldrock. From there, they’d paid no small chunk of change to a local portal-making spirit who dropped them in a small village several hundred miles away, but still several hundred miles from their destination. Root hadn’t followed his explanation—something about not being allowed to go all the way there via his portals, and really if you’re passing through the area you must see the three-headed mountain. Two dozen apologies and a complimentary brochure later and they’d been deposited in a backwater village with a wave and a long journey by foot still ahead. But Root had to admit—the mountain had been impressive.
“I don’t mind a bit of a break,” said Beel. “It’s nice to sit down on a proper seat again. Even if we do have to be near those horrid things.”
Root shook her head. “I already told you, Beel, those are just those… ugh, I’m forgetting the word. Those fucking… stupid little fakey umbrellas rich people use.”
“Heh-hm.” Root turned to see a spirit in a sleek teal dress eyeing her with a sneer. “They’re called parasols, dear. They’re for keeping off the sun. And this one was quite expensive. And please do watch your language. And mind your manners. And wipe your face—you have sauce on your lip.”
Root pointed at the sky. “You realize there’s no sun here, right?”
“Hmp.”
Root wiped her mouth with the heel of her palm. “Anyway, as I was saying—”
“Not those,” said Beel. “Those… other things.”
“The horses?” asked Vit.
Beel shuddered. “Yes.”
“You’re scared of horses?”
“I’m—”
“Well, I mean…” started Root as memories churned through her mind, “he’s little, and horses are tall. Might step on him.” Vit raised an eyebrow. “Not that weird,” added Root under her breath.
“You think they might step on me?” asked Beel, worry deepening the persistent creases along his brow. “I was mostly worried about those big teeth. Should I be worried about being stepped on too, you think?”
“Hey, it looks like it’s going to start,” said Root, ignoring him.
The first group of horses was lining up at the row of gates.
“Not all the way up here, though, right?” Beel looked nervously down the back side of the stands. “Though come to mention it, we do seem to be awfully high up…”
“A race or two, but that’s it, yeah?” said Azriah. “Then we get back on the road.”
“Would be nice if there was a road,” said Vit.
“I just want to see Sluts,” said Root. The other three turned to her in surprise. “The horse! The one I bet on.”
“You bet on a horse named ‘Sluts’?” asked Vit.
“Well, his name is Sounds Like Ubadan Trellisbeak Squabbles. But I shortened it to Sluts.”
“That’s a weird name.”
“Doesn’t matter what his name is as long as he’s fast.”
“But then we’re off?” asked Azriah again.
“Sure, yeah.”
“And they’re off!” called a voice from a tower at the track’s center. The row of gates swung open and the line of jockeys broke into a sprint.
“Do you see Sounds Like… uh, do you see Sluts?” asked Vit.
Root craned her neck. “No. Not in this race. Whatever.” She turned her attention back to her food.
The next race and the one after were equally uninteresting—uninteresting, at least, in the sense that Root didn’t have any money on the line. She could hardly see anyhow, peering between big feathered plumes and tulle flower headpieces and oversized top hats. It seemed the real competition of the day was to see which attendee could obstruct the views of the most people behind them with their ridiculous headwear. Root couldn’t understand why wealth never seemed to buy a halfway decent sense of fashion.
Cheers and bickering erupted after each race as patrons discovered how much they’d won or lost. That was another thing Root just didn’t get; she’d placed a bet for kicks, not caring if she won or lost—and by the gaudy sight and overbearing smell and shrill, grating sound of these people, they could afford a loss a hell of a lot more comfortably than her.
Then again, there was no group stingier or with a whinier pitch than the wealthy.
“Sluts!” said Root a little too loud, pointing as the next group of jockeys led their horses to the starting line. The lightly-marinated spirit woman in front of Root clutched her neckline as she turned to stare at her, horrified. “That’s the one,” said Root to Vit, pointing. “Grey with the spots and the green thing.”
The horse that some might’ve referred to as “Sluts” lined up alongside the others behind the row of starting gates. Root sat up a little straighter to see over the top of the egos in front of her.
A bell trilled and the gates flew open. “They’re off!” called the announcer again.
Emerging from the cloud of dust that plumed behind them, a brown horse took the lead, followed closely by Sluts and an even browner horse with white sock markings.
“Quilt Supreme taking the lead,” said the announcer in a flat voice, “followed closely by Sounds Like Ubadan Trellisbeak Squabbles and Yellowfin Tuna. Lady Beautiful taking that fourth-place spot as we enter the second furlong.”
“You think he’s going to win?” asked Vit.
“Shh!”
“Yellowfin Tuna falling back by two lengths. Lady Beautiful taking third. Quilt Supreme still the lead on the far turn, Sounds Like Ubadan Trellisbeak Squabbles one length behind.”
“Should they really be hitting their horses like that?” asked Beel.
“Shh!”
“Like, they’re kind of scary but that just seems unkind…”
“Quilt Supreme now leading by two and a half lengths with four furlongs to go.”
Root leaned back. “This is fucking rigged.”
“Maybe Quilt trips or something,” said Vit. “Breaks a leg. I’ve heard horses are good at tha—”
“And Quilt Supreme is down!”
Vit looked up in surprise. Quilt Supreme and her jockey were rolling through the dirt.
“Wha… I didn’t do anything, I swear.”
Root got to her feet.
“Sounds Like Ubadan Trellisbeak Squabbles taking the lead now. Lady Beautiful following at three and a half lengths. Sounds Like Ubadan Trellisbeak Squabbles goes down.”
“Are you fucking—!”
“Yellowfin Tuna down. Lady Beautiful down. Blue Corduroy Wairm down too, now. Chilly Chili and Fleeting Amber Queen both down.”
“What the hell?”
One by one, the horses dropped, leaving none in the race. They didn’t trip on one another, didn’t collide with the wooden walls or hit uneven ground. It was as if they hit invisible barriers, the only signs that they were soon to fall coming as a sluggish footfall, a lolling head. They didn’t get back up. Several jockeys lay on the ground, shouting in pain. A few had managed to get back to their feet or tentacles or whatever other appendages made them right-way-up.
“Well folks, it looks like the horse plague has taken this race.”
“Horse plague?” Root looked down at the others. They shrugged.
Several other spectators called out in outrage. A few climbed to their feet and cheered, clapping one another on the back.
“Yes, a big pot awaiting those who bet on horse plague for this one,” said the announcer. “Please, everyone, stay clear of the track while we get our crew out there to clean up.”
“You could bet on horse plague?” sputtered Root. “Who the fuck bets on—”
“Hold on just a minute, folks, it looks like… yes, Lady Beautiful is back up.”
One horse had climbed back to her feet, and now she staggered, wheezing, towards the finish line with her limp jockey trailing by one stirrup. She looked half dead. The left half of her looked hardly better.
But she moved, slowly, and she was the only one still up. Or alive, by the unlooks of it.
“Lady Beautiful making her way towards the finish line,” said the announcer. “Half a furlong to go. It’s a miracle!”
Carr-oom. A blast echoed from somewhere off in the forest. Rackk scrack. Trees snapped.
“Lady Beautiful three lengths from the finish.”
A huge dark shape blotted out Enyn’s light. Root looked up. Something huge skidded to a stop on the racetrack.
It was a spirit, two dozen feet long at least from its head to the tip of its tail. It landed on all fours, crouched and ready to pounce, fur bristling—grey-brown with black speckles along the body and forelimbs stained deep, rusty red from the claws to the elbows.
With one lightning-fast snap, the spirit’s jaw unhinged—the mouth stretching so wide that it split the spirit’s face from one side of the neck to the other—and a tongue like a spear shot out from amidst a collection of every type of tooth imaginable. Fangs, tusks, incisors—the spirit had them all. Skewered by the beast’s tongue, Lady Beautiful faltered. The spirit drew its tongue back into its maw, horse and all, and choked her down whole with three heaving smacks of its enormous jaw.
Screams filled the stands. The announcer—failing to read the crowd in a way that seemed like it should have disqualified him from the profession—spoke again, barely audible above the shouting.
“But Lady Beautiful’s jockey seems to be all right! It’s a miracle!”
The huge spirit’s tail whipped around as the last strands of the horse’s tail flossed a displaced horseshoe from its teeth. The tip of the spirit’s tail split, revealing a second, smaller mouth at its end. The tail-mouth sank its teeth into the jockey’s arm and, with one quick flick, tossed her into the air. It was not the last place she could list being in, though it was very near the end of that list. A crunch filled the field.
The spirit raised her eyes—two vibrant yellow-orange irises with wide, rectangular pupils. A light mist rose from them and glowed in the Atnaterran twilight. She turned her gaze on the stands.
“Horse plague does appear to be the winner after all,” said the announcer. “Please collect your winnings at the betting counter.”
The myth that horses were fragile didn’t tell the full story.
In truth, horses were remarkably well built for their natural doings: trotting about, eating grasses, and kicking things in the head. It was only when humans and spirits shinnied their way into the picture that things started going downhill.
Humans—and spirits, but especially humans—loved to optimize. It’d been a great hobby of humans throughout their history. And the best thing about optimizing was that it never ended—you could optimize the same process forever, which was great news about any hobby as it meant the hobbyist would never run out of work to do. A process, a contraption—these could be optimized until they worked better and better, they could be optimized until they functioned at incredible efficiency, and then they could be optimized further until that efficiency started sliding down the opposite slope, bowing back around like a horseshoe. And then, now lacking efficiency, it could be optimized more—how magnificent!
This process could be repeated, over and over, all throughout time, an endless metronome ticking through the stages of overoptimization.
The same rules applied to evolution, just over a much longer period of time.
(Spirits loved evolution, by the way; it was so much more exciting as an immortal, which came with the ability to watch the same lineage through eternity in the same way a kindergarten class observes an army of caterpillars as they metamorphose into butterflies. When the first human to discover the concept, the seminaturalist Galches Owrint, first proposed his theory, the news spread rapidly among spirits who had been wondering with much concern where all those fascinating monkeys had gotten off to. Ever since, a great number of spirits had been involved in societies which, over time, raised the same lineage of house cats or swine or shrews, slowly but surely experimenting with the various new features they could add. The most ambitious of these managed to breed a species of crow with a special gland that excreted green ink and was prized by notaries everywhere.)
As for horses, they were somewhere on the downward slope of their selective breeding optimization horseshoe. The breeders, the jockeys, the spectators—and most importantly, the investors—were of the mind that speed was paramount. And like any optimization process done at the behest of investors, corners simply had to be cut. The result was horses with more muscle and a lighter skeleton, pushed to the extreme so that someone could win a few bucks. The combination resulted in a species with a few… weaknesses.
And unfortunately, one of those corners cut in the name of a lighter, faster build was the immune system, which turned out to weigh quite a bit and was among the first items jettisoned.