a2ch35

If one thing got taken for granted in the city of Midden, it was having someone to blame for all of your problems.

Every morning, the city’s inhabitants rolled out of bed with a grumble and, upon stubbing their toe on the bedpost or spotting whatever substance their pet had left on the carpet during the night or finding that the day was just too cold, each denizen said a quick “that damn mayor” or “that damn councilman” under their breath, a quick affirmation of pious allegiance to the city’s unified culture, and then, as if assuaged by emotional painkillers, they went on about their day.

Those words were the mantra of the people of Midden, and they shot like arrows at anything and everything that dredged up the faintest distaste, regardless of whether the city’s governing members had anything to do with the problem at all. A paper cut, refuse in the gutters, changes in the weather—the people played an endless game of pin the atrocity on the politician.

And they were happier for it, at least in the sense that it kept them unhampered by the burdens of self-reflection and personal responsibility. When none of your problems are your fault, you enjoy a lofty position over others—you’re a victim of political oppression, and woe, you’ll just have to wallow in it and seethe. No sense cleaning the gutters while those bastards remain in office.

(Happier, of course, but also bitter, stewing in resentment as it rotted them from the inside out.)

This cornerstone of Midden culture, long enjoyed as one of the best amenities the city had to offer, had been taken for granted for far too long, and now the people felt a sense of emptiness as it leaked away from them. The politicians had been disappearing lately—vanishing in small groups here and there as the weeks passed by. Folks woke and stubbed their toes and stumbled headlong into a tizzy as they flicked through their mental lists of who to blame, only to find a lengthening list of empty chairs and missing faces. A vacuum had formed at the heart of Midden culture.

Fortunately, in the confusion and need, something—someone—had arrived to fill that void. Hamlick. He wasn’t someone to blame, he was better. He was someone to cheer for, someone to laud and to love, a great man with a great vision for the city. A tremendous shift had upended the attitudes of the people of Midden, and though they still stewed and sneered, they did so under the guise of patriotism.

It was… unsettling.

And so it felt like the slightest uptick on the trajectory of correction when, somewhere deep in the heart of the city, a small cluster of individuals awoke and—with a sigh that spoke the words for them—muttered, “That damn Hamlick.”

Root was last to rise the next morning. She made her way out into the common area to find the morning passing by at the speed of syrup through the mouth of a bottle.

The room smelled like food—eggs and potatoes and hot, sizzling fat. Syrus pushed things around in a pan while Azriah and Beel ate at the table and Vit looked out the window. They greeted her as she took a helping of food and settled into an armchair with her knees up and her plate balanced between them. She ate while listening to Azriah and Beel discuss whether spirits counted as animals, whether or not Vit was an arachnid, and whether or not that meant they had any sway over someone with arachnophobia. Azriah argued spirits weren’t animals, and therefore excluded from taxonomic classification, and therefore Vit (in “spider” form or otherwise) was not truly a spider and not properly associated with arachnophobia. Beel argued that if he was frightened of something, it didn’t matter. Vit only weighed in when they saw an opportunity to further muddy the waters.

When they’d all finished with their breakfast and pedantry, Root, Vit, and Syrus joined the other two at the table.

“So this Hamlick guy,” said Root. “What’s his grand plan?”

Syrus licked his finger and flipped through some of his documents, all sorted into piles across one end of the table. “Uh, a good question, and one I found myself asking for a while as well. I think the first thing to know is that he came from the woods.”

“Ah,” said Root with a nod. “That… actually makes a good deal of sense.”

“He appeared in Midden for the first time only around a month ago. That part of his history is well documented—it’s practically a holy day for the people here now, anyone could tell you as much. When he got to town, he started going all around talking on the street about dealing with ‘the rat problem.’ Oh, all of the city’s politicians are—”

“Rats,” said Azriah. “Or, rat spirits, rather.” He raised his eyebrows in a glance Beelwards.

“Yes, that. Um, so anyway, he’s been going all around. His soapbox performances turned to real campaigning. People came out to listen to him in droves—even the city council and sitting mayor got pulled into his ensemble of groupies.”

“Because of the periapt,” said Vit.

“Yes, the mote periapt.”

“What is it, exactly?”

Syrus flipped a few pages and then tugged a sheet from the pile. He slid it towards Vit; across the page sprawled an artist’s sketch of Hamlick bent into his ungainly jig while playing his flute.

“This is that pipe thing he plays, right?”

“Wrond’s Prurience.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s its name. Or one of its names. The mote periapt of passion.”

“So that’s how he’s becoming so popular,” said Azriah. “He’s playing this flute for them and controlling their passion. He’s making them love him.”

“Precisely that, yes. Uh, and what he’s going to do next, that’s still unclear, but all of these notes from Betrum have provided some very helpful insight. What he’s up to hasn’t gone unnoticed, neither in Midden nor out in the woods. Folks have seen him here and there, gotten to talking. Betrum hears a lot—it’s why I went to him, he’s the best in the business when you’re parsing out rumors.”

“Did he… know about the periapt?” asked Vit.

“Oh, no, not about that. Well, not the true nature of it, at least. There’s plenty in here speculating about it—many knew, or at least guessed, that it was magic, mostly assuming it had the power to draw out corruption like venom from a wound.” Syrus laughed and shook his head. “No, what’s most useful to us are the accounts of what Hamlick has been doing, where he’s been, that sort of thing. Uh, like here…” He took up another sheet of paper. “This is an account of someone who saw Hamlick on the road near the border of the woods. Apparently he was leading two individuals east. The account says the pair looked like they were in some kind of trance. Also, uh, doing a two-step?”

The four of them shared a quick glance.

Syrus continued. “The descriptions of the two individuals match with two members of the city council who disappeared around that time.”

“So he’s, what,” said Root, “leading them into the woods and killing them?”

“It seems likely that he isn’t killing them. If they returned to Yg Balta, and assuming they were willing to pay for an expedited travel service, they’d be back in the city already. There are numerous accounts like this, and none of the missing have returned yet.”

“Not that we want them to, right?” asked Root. “I mean, sure Hamlick isn’t great, but the people didn’t seem thrilled about the alternatives whether under some spell or not.”

Syrus dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “The people of Midden can fight their own battles. As long as they have the free will to do so.”

“So your goal is really just to take the periapt out of the equation,” said Azriah.

“Yes. To remove it from Hamlick’s possession and get it safely into ours. But then, also, to try to undo some of the damage it has done—bring Hamlick’s image back into focus. And reality.”

“And what’s your plan after that?” asked Azriah—delicately, casually, but directly. “What do you plan to do with the periapt once you have it?”

“Uh, well let’s focus on getting it somewhere safe first, hm? We certainly don’t want Hamlick to have it, right? Or worse yet, Ajis.”

Beel slumped in his seat. “Remind me why these are the people we’re surrounding ourselves with?”

“Anyway, the plan,” said Syrus. He shoved a few paper piles aside and replaced them in front of him with others. “Are you familiar with the concept of a smear campaign?”

“Is it a smear campaign if it’s true?” asked Azriah.

“Well, you know, we can exaggerate here and there. But the foundation of it will be true.”

“He’s leading people into the woods and they never come back,” said Root. “Do you… really think we need anything more than that? Maybe tell them he’s pissing on clotheslines too?”

“You’d be surprised what it takes to divorce people from their political beliefs,” said Azriah. “And that’s without magical manipulation.”

“I’ll lay out what I’ve come up with and we can fine-tune some of the details together,” said Syrus.

They worked out the plan through the morning, a series of moves that hinged around Hamlick’s next performance in two days’ time—his last before the mayoral election, and according to the whispers picked up by Betrum, he was planning something big. They had to swipe the periapt before slandering the guy or else they’d have an angry mob on their hands, but they had to slander him before he realized he’d lost the periapt in case the whole event devolved into chaos (that is, chaos that they hadn’t intended or directly caused) or ended abruptly, the people of Midden ushered away and dispersed back to their homes.

They looked over maps of the city and plotted out routes and access points, drawing on Syrus’s insider info from his role—as something of a mole, they learned—volunteering with Hamlick’s campaign.

They worked until lunch and then broke to eat and take some downtime. Vit and Beel each retreated to their rooms. Azriah ate while reading through some of the documents in one of the window alcoves. Root took a seat on one of the couches and was perfectly happy to eat in her own solitary peace until Syrus came over and sat beside her.

He didn’t immediately say anything, which was perhaps the worst part, and left Root feeling as though the burden of conversation lay on her. The silence had stretched on far too long when, finally, he spoke.

“Uh, so, are you liking the city?”

“Haven’t seen much of it. Mostly just the sewers and this place.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

“Are you… from here?” asked Root.

“Oh, no.”

Silence.

“Just in town for a bit of political meddling?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Silence.

Root tried to look busy with the stitching around the seam of the couch’s armrest and with her empty lunch plate. The crumbs were about as conversational as Syrus, but at least they weren’t sweating through their shirts.

She’d had the whole morning and a good chunk of the day before to properly size up Syrus, and the best word she had found to describe him was “damp.” He always seemed to be sweating, whether standing over the hot stove or in the breeze from the open window, whether under the stress of socialization or emerging from his room after hours alone. But his dampness hardly ended at his forehead and armpits and thicket of chest hair on full display. Beneath his drooping eyelids swam watery green eyes like two peeping swamps, magnified under the lenses of his thick glasses. And of course, there remained the mystery of his hair and why it had that ambiguously damp look to it. She hadn’t seen him bathe since their arrival, which leaned her towards a conclusion, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sneaking away every so often to dunk his hair in a wash tub. That, too, might’ve explained the sogginess of his shirt.

All in all, it was as if his body had been saturated with too much liquid and had to expel it somewhere, someway.

Beyond the obvious dampness, she’d struggled to put together a good read of the guy. He seemed intelligent in the way he spoke, and his obvious wealth made her wonder if he’d paid a school somewhere to teach him how to make people come to such conclusions about him, or if he’d actually managed to learn a thing or two. Much of the way he talked and acted felt like a rug over a hollow floor, a guise propped up in the interest of a certain image. He seemed like the sort who would give money to a beggar on the street, but ask if they could break a mantle.

But he was awkward, and he still hadn’t said another word despite all too much eye contact.

“Have you… been enjoying your stay here?” he asked at last like the worlds’ least welcoming innkeeper.

“It’s nice. A very… interesting sense of design.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

“You know,” he said after another moment, quieter now and in a tone that immediately set Root on edge. “You’re, uh… I just… you’re a very beautiful girl, and—”

“Oh, no—”

“I was just wondering, uh, if maybe, later on—if you’re interested, that is—you might like…” He licked his lips, adding more unneeded moisture to his face. “To, uh… go west?”

“Ew, no!”

“Oh, uh, of course.”

Quite miraculously, Beel entered the room right at that moment.

“Root, have you seen my—”

“Oh, hey Beel!”

Beel blinked at her. “Hi Root. Have you seen my—”

“I’ll come help you look.”

She stood up and left the room with Beel, leaving Syrus alone in a puddle on the couch. Unfortunately, the unspoken half of Beel’s question was: “—toe blister? I know you said not to worry, but it hurts, and I don’t think it should be this color, right?”

“Let me think…” said Yown. He tapped his mouth thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure there is anything you can help me with. The fields are tilled and planted, the orchard takes care of itself these days on account of the special fertilizer I’ve been giving the trees—now they bend their branches around all so and pick the fruits themselves, you know… and the geese are all accounted for and laying just how they should… not much else I could ask for.” Yown sized up the strange newcomer—said he’d just come to Midden and was looking for ways to “help out.” Dressed like that, he didn’t look like he’d be much help around the farm. Maybe something over in the financial sector, then, since he had all the getup of a clown already. Yown chuckled to himself. “Unless of course you can do something about all these damn rats.”

“Rats?” asked the stranger. “Have they been eating your crops and such?”

“Oh, no. Well, yes, but I don’t mean those types. You’re new here, I’d forgotten. I’m talking about the mayor and the city council. Damn rats. Let me tell you, life in this city would be a hell of a lot better if not for all those crooks.”

“Hm,” said the stranger. “Well, what good news I bring you, then, because I am a mayor.”

“You’re a mayor, too? And you’re looking to help around a farm? Hold on, mayor of where?”

“Well, that depends, I suppose. What’s a mayor?”

Yown scratched his head. “Now you’re of a funny sort, you know that? I don’t know what your game is, but you head out now and don’t you come back and bother me here again, all right?” Yown shook his head. “Mayor. Who in their right mind votes for a mayor who doesn’t know what a mayor even is?”

The stranger cocked his head. The angle made Yown fear his head might topple right off his neck by the way it already looked to be slopping off of it. “You’ll vote for me.”

“Vote for you? Fat chance!”

The stranger lifted his flute to his lips and played two quick notes. Perhaps Yown had been too quick to judge… and perhaps he hadn’t been properly kissed lately…

“You’ll vote for me.”

“Vote for you?” said Yown. “Damn the farm, give me some signs, I’m canvassing for you! No, I’ll get the signs myself—no, I’ll make them! Do you have merch? And, hey, what was your name, again?”

The stranger smiled. “Come along, let’s take care of some rats. Oh, and we can discuss payment later, hm?”