The Rabbit Dies

I do not kneel. I refuse to kneel. It's a matter of pride, mostly. It's also a matter of being stubborn and obstinate to a group of people I dislike. I like being that to the people in long flowing robes that look to me through smooth masks from on high. They glare at me. I think they do. They have to be, because I am not kneeling. My hammer is sitting somewhere outside of my hand and that is concession enough for the room and the people in high chairs.

They want me to kneel and I have to admit that the soft fabric covering the floor probably would feel alright. The masks certainly make it easy to kneel, offering every incentive to do so. Mostly the oppressive awkward silence that comes off them in waves over my refusal. Will of iron, spine of stone, it all refuses to bend.

"Burrowmaiden Claire Verlaine," says the one in the center, "The Weavers of the Grand Loom welcome you."

I win. I smile, because, once again, I win this idiotic engagement once more. Petty and childish, but then again, I am not the one in opulent robes and golden masks, making pretend that my wisdom is of any import. I do bow, though. I am a graceful winner, and that is a trait that I have noticed is lacking in the world around me.

The one who spoke sits under the banner for Greaycrow, sullen and silent, gazing down upon the ash pooling at his feet. I feel a shiver crawl under my skin as my gaze goes back to the faceless mask. Always the same bit with that banner. It's not even that bad, but the clash always shifts something in me.

"As always," I say, "It is a pleasure to be a sharpened needle to use as seen fit." That particular analogy might have gone out of favor since my last visit, but I am not corrected.

Eleven of the faceless shapes of long flowing cloth sit on the thrones under each and every one of the banners. Greaycrow of dark and time, Cout of death and earth, Vermil of fire and metal, Treblex of music and color, Finchwing of air and weather, the nameless one of silence and light, Gluhna of drink and hearth, Zeamays of field and grain, Longwalker of travel and commerce Soddal of cold and water. And halfway through the set on my left is my favorite. Warren of growth and fertility, laying on a tree branch, hat pulled low and pipe in his hand. It's a beautiful tapestry. They all are, blending into the same massive sheet that covers the room. Despite the efforts to mask the shapes of people, it's a woman that is chosen to represent him. It's in the chest and that spark blossoms between us. Fun thoughts at least, and I can see the sheet flutter as the acolyte tries to repress the nudge and push as I do. That, I can't tell if I'm winning at the moment. I am still clothed at least, but that could change at any moment.

"Your assistance to your fellow Burrowmaster Amaru Blackmountain has been noted. His enslavement to the demon Dantea has been known for some time, but we were unable to find the wagon. You have my and our thanks for securing another of the herd back to safety," said the woman underneath Warren. She shifts again and her voice drops to a purr on his name before jumping back up to what is a supposed normal tone.

And I doubt my assistance is all that worthy of note on the grand scheme of things. The demon had its fill, Amaru had a lot of sex with said demon and I got to commit violence. All in all, it was a rather beautiful trinity of fulfilling need. But if it gets a good checkmark in the box, then I'm not complaining.

"We have been made aware of the nature regarding your current task," said the person underneath the Long Walker. Too muffled for me to be sure, and the stature hides almost everything else. And I hate to assume with so little information.

"That is why I am here," I say, "My association with Don Saavedra has ended and in the travel to seek new opportunities, the Man of the Burrow spoke to me. I am destined to receive a key, although to what, I am not certain. But, in his wisdom, he told me to seek out Goldenrod. I trust his guidance was not in vain."

And the Burrowmaiden shifts again, although more from awkwardness than anything else. I realize she's new, or at least new to me. Last one with that honor was a sylvo man if I recall. Had a very musical voice from what I can recall. Don't see horns, so I doubt it's a hellion and the size isn't indicative of a gargan. But what do I know?

"That is somewhat of a delicate matter," she says, "the key in question is a... secured artifact. And despite the wisdom imparted, the fault of our own interpretations of that word does not leave for any misinterpretation. We will need to some additional time to consider the implications of handing over such an important item."

"So, you are acting in direct opposition to the will of a Thread?"

"We are not," says the one under Cout. He, fairly certain in that call, moves and I can tell he wants to jump from his chair and get to my face to do some more screaming. The cloth gets in the way of the movement and the words of another stop the tirade.

"We are simply taking our time in determining the true meaning behind the words," said the cloth under Greaycrow, "This is a grave matter, and while you have proven yourself to be a trusted acolyte of your path, and a dutiful needle for the Loom and the Threads, there is still wisdom in treating this request with caution. Surely, you do understand?"

"I do understand. I would just like to remind the gathered Weavers that this is his will direct. I was told to get the key. And I think it best that I do as I was told."

"Loyalty and obedience are commendable," says the one under Soddal, "But there is more to the authority than the Thread. Remember, you are part of the tapestry. While one thread can unmake the weave, it is only in tight knots that the full piece comes together."

I want to grasp the hilt of my hammer. It's comforting to give my hands something to do, something to fiddle with. Tends to wear out the leather grips quicker, but it's worth it. Keeps the hand busy and tricks the mind into thinking everything is ok.

"And now I have to cut this off," says the man under the Long Walker, "Circles, just circles. Burrowmaiden Verlaine, we know. We know that this is something you're supposed to do. We know that this is something Warren wants you to do. We just need to mull it over. We're not handing over the key now, no matter what you say. Your reputation has done a lot for you. Don't get me wrong. The fact that we are even considering it is proof of that. But time. We need to take some time to make sure that this is the best course of action. You will get an answer within a week."

"Weaver," says the one under Greaycrow, "You are speaking for the collective as one- "

"I'm giving her something so she at least has an idea. We can keep playing this game of grand words that mean nothing on the next one. Not Verlaine. Not her. She's earned that. Burrowmaiden Verlaine, I apologize on behalf of us all because the rest never will. I know that this isn't what you wanted, but despite my respect for you, I do have a duty to the rest of the council."

And once more, the Long Walker's man pulls through. Good man and frankly what I had gathered from the rest of the pomp and circumstance. I would like to buy him a drink at some point, but that would require me to know who he is underneath the cloth. Now that I think about it, that must be a fun time, getting situated for this. The sheet goes wall to wall, so I imagine they all have to crawl underneath, blindly fumbling for the right seat. And there's always the one that doesn't get it right and then it's a whole thing of who should go where. Fun, it all seems so fun.

"Burrowmaiden Verlaine," says the one under Greaycrow, "The Weavers have spoken. We require addition time to consider the Threads' will, make them intertwined so the tapestry does not unravel. You will have the answer to your request in one week. Thank you and may the path always be clear."

As one, they all bow as deep as their thrones allow. I give a slight tilt of my head, a little bit more to Long Walker's lot, and turn on my heel. I wait until I'm on the other side of the door to let my body go slack. A decent part of me just wants to collapse on the cold tile. That would probably feel good. And help with the headache forming behind my eyes. But that would be a little too uncouth. So, instead, I decide that I would like to be drunk.

---

I do not immediately get drunk as soon as the thought comes to me. I have to go out and get drunk somewhere with drinks and there are no drinks in the hall just beyond the doors to the Weaver's audience chamber. The attendants struggle to close the door as the bunched-up fabric catches in the gaps. With practiced ease, they smooth the wrinkles and piles into something level and easy and the doors slam shut once more. I take a moment to look at the engraved metal. Same figures, same faces etched and carved and sculpted from the cloth. Some take the transformation easier than others. Soddal's curves lose the flow and bounce but gains a shadow and sheen that's not entirely unpleasant. Vermil benefits the most. Metal is his hair, his nature, his essence.

My particular bastard sits on a corner, gazing at no one in particular, nothing in particular, same long-stemmed pipe in hand. I do not see his face underneath the brim of his hat. The ears still poke down the back of his neck. The clothes are wrong though. Too tight, too well cut, too unsullied and crisp. He needs to look hungover and proud of that fact. Frankly so do I and the men standing on either side of the door are starting to stare back at me. So, I turn around and keep moving through the gilded halls.

Corners and turns and all sorts of winding things that turn me around and keep me moving forward. I miss my hammer. It's still not in my hand as I turn and twist and shift. It needs to be there and it's not and my hand feels simply empty, grasping at nothing. Gold, everything is golden and glittering and wonderfully bright. All of the gold turns to thread in the ceiling, turning into the blankets and curtains and tapestries and textile. They flutter in the breeze of the open windows. So much weight hung in the air, supporting everything else, many from one. And none of that weight is in my hammer. That's in some closet over there on the ground floor.

One flight and then another and then one more, slowly making the earth come to me. Granite flecked with the same gold dust eclipsing the white rock, polished to a mirror sheen. The people are just as bright and glowing, decked in color cloth. I see a flash of rose pink mixed with green every so often that says another one who walks with Warren is in the crowd. Technically, I should be wearing the same. I am not. Rough off-white cotton and brown leather. Too plain for anything here. But no one stops me and tells me to be something different than what I am. I do like the colors though. I really should invest in something a little livelier and upbeat. Maybe not pink, but I'd settle for a deep green at least. I let my eyes wander to the floor. It's so shiny I can see up the various ladies' dresses. Nobody else seems to pay that detail of the world much mind.

The man at the desk gives me my hammer with minimal fuss. A decent show to make sure that I'm the person I say I am, but the glare I give him makes a decent case to my identity. It finds the straps and settles down nice and quiet, hanging at my hip and swaying with my steps. It should never leave that special place. Always there, always by my side. It feels so much better. Everything's lined up as it should be and I am calm once again.

The sun burns overhead in the midday heat. Summer, too much summer for my liking. Only spring. There should only be spring in the world. Maybe some of fall if I want a change of pace. No summer and definitely no winter. It smells like rain at least. It should break sometime in the night by my guess. With any luck, I'll wake up tomorrow to the sound of raindrops and rolling thunder, holding Annette and being held by Amaru. And we'll have breakfast together and complain about the world and the council and the Weavers. It will probably be a good time. I hope it's a good time.

The streets are just as crowded as the halls. More so, even. Bodies pressed and shifting, a sea of faces seen and forgotten in an instant. It all falls away, into the cracks of memories. A Kurhk, a gargan, two sylvi and a handful of hellions all manage to stick for a moment before they too fade into nothing but a general sense of body and space. I do not like the cities. I do not like the press of bodies all around me, moving and shifting and colliding. It's simply too much, too much noise and rattle and din. I can't hear myself think through it all.

I don't know where Amaru and Annette wandered off to. She said something about buying new strings for her not lyre thing, maybe having it tuned and refurbished if she could swing it. Amaru needed clothes unfortunately. The ones provided by his previous mistress didn't seem to be adequate for more civilized company. I thought they were perfectly acceptable, but then again, I'm not exactly qualified to say what is civilized or acceptable. Still, the less clothes Amaru wears, the better off the world is in my opinion. The less clothes we all wear, the better. It's too damn hot for anyone to keep the thoughts straight and even. And I am still not drunk. Something else that doesn't make the world a good a place as it could be. Naked and drunk all the time, that's what the world needs. Better than clothed and sober.

The crowd moves away from one spot in particular, a rock in the stream. And like all blocks in a river, it accumulates the things better left behind. People start collecting there, slowly growing the tumor into the path and choking the flow till it stops. I hear someone laughing. Someone else mutters some dark curse against the world and its people. And through it all, there is sobbing, deep choking, sputtering sobs that stall in the chest. I push aside the collected debris. I still need something to drink and the people blocking the way are not making that particularly easy for me.

I grip my hammer as I part the last line. One of my fingers cracks and the blood in my veins boils and throbs. Three people, kids really, are kicking a beggar. I can't see much of what he was supposed to look like from the flurry of limbs battering into him. I assume he looks like a beggar at least. But the kids, the kids look much too fine to be doing something so crass. Two boys and a girl, one Kurhk, two hellions. I don't know what makes me madder, the cruelty for cruelty's sake or the collected gawking apathy of the crowd. I take a deep, deep breath, tainted with the heat of the summer.

"Scum," spits the Kurhk boy.

"Worthless," hisses the deep red hellion.

The pink one just laughs.

"You shouldn't do that," I say.

As one ball of condensed arrogant rage, they turn. I finally get a good glimpse of the man. Bloody and bleeding, huddled and hunched, bruises already forming on his skin. Nose is definitely broken, and I don't like the way his arm bends. He shifts his body as much as he can, huddling up against the wall of buildings. Smells like a bakery with good honey cakes. I should probably get one once this is over. Makes a good walking snack and it's been a while since I've had anything sweeter than nectar sucked from flower buds. Or Annette.

"And who are you," says the Kurhk. Puffing himself up all the way, he actually manages to eclipse me. The hellion boy does the same, with the horn. Not sure if that counts.

"Doesn't matter. Just keep moving. Don't and I'll shove my boot so far up your ass you'll be able to taste the road."

The pink one snickers, and I decide she's my favorite. She sways a little and links arms with the red one.

"We're just doing our civic duty," says the red one, "This gentleman here was behind on his taxes. We all pay our fair share to this wonderful city of ours. Naturally, we got a little upset when we found him. If we took it too far, we apologize. But we only had the best of intentions."

"You're kicking a beggar because it gets you off."

"Bullshit," says the Kurhk, "My father pays out the nose to your asinine Loom. And you just let this scum sit outside good places of business, free of charge. We at least contribute something. Not like this pathetic little worm."

"So, you're a businessman's brat right? Tell me, how do you get a profit?"

"Make your income greater than your expenses."

"In my opinion, that man there is smarter than all of you. What's his expenses? Zero? Everything he makes is profit. It's not a big profit, but it's the same equation. You're the ones that keep spending shit."

"He's just sitting there hoping for handouts like a parasite. That's not an honorable way to live."

"Neither is whatever the hell you're doing. And parasites do what they're supposed to do."

"Sucking every bit of money they can? Wishing that some big fat beast comes along so they can drink their fill? Dreaming of the day some knight in shining armor comes along and saves his life? It's pathetic. Worthless. My father worked for everything he got. Not like this piece of shit."

"It works. It got me involved. Now leave him alone, or you'll find that I'm a lot harder to put down than a parasite."

"You're really going to take this from some rabbit whore, Milton?" says the pink one. She's no longer my favorite. That honor goes to red. Terrible moustache though. Not thick enough to be anything refined, just that terrible scruff that looks like dirt across his lip. The Kurhk juts out his lower lip, showing large flat teeth. He puts up his hands. Formally, stiff, but at least he knows not to tuck in his thumbs. That's an easy way to get something broken.

But he rushes. He runs with his hands up and looks like a godsdamn fool doing it. I have a nice moment to myself though, taking in the scent of fresh bread. I really am going to have to get something from there, assuming they'll let me in and carry on with my business. Maybe that's what their father runs, although I doubt it. Baking tends to be a humbling practice that gets passed down to the sons and these three missed all of that completely.

I raise my knee right into his gut. I don't even put much of my own strength into it. His speed, his weight, his force does most of the work for me. A hawked-up ball of phlegm lands on my thigh as his eyes bug out and pop. With languid ease, I snake my arm around his neck. Soft, doughy, but covering a dense layer of muscle. I'm somewhat surprised. The boy cares a little bit about the strength he could wield with his own two fists. But it's overwhelmingly clear it was never actually honed and tempered without a cool towel and a hot meal waiting from him the moment he was done for the day.

Feeling rather lazy myself, I let his weight carry us both down to the street. His head hits like a bass drum made of kindle. The crack echoes up and into the reigning silence. A sigh and a heave and I am back on my feet. My traveling companion is not. He's all tuckered out, lying on the stone, completely still.

I turn towards red and pink, fear wide in their eyes. I loosely grip my hammer. I'm not going to draw on an unarmed kid, but it makes me feel better, and whatever conclusions red and pink may come to, well, that's on them and their powers of deduction. The pink one with her white horn curling up back over her skull looks terrified. So does the red, with his black little nub. Whatever they see me as I stand before them is monstrous. And they finally see clearly.

They have at least enough compassion in them to pick up their mutual friend and carry him off. Stronger than they look at least, if they can move that fast with that shared weight. My glare finds the crowd, one by one, and it breaks them. They move once more, finding their own business to attend, or another side show to gawk at that I am not breaking up.