TALES OF THE BADGER
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Wherein the Badger experiences Melancholy and loses his Mojo, and Prevents a Crime, but finds the Rewards of Justice inadequate.
The strange and arrhythmic strains of bjala harps, the street musician's weapon of choice in the perfumed city of Kopal, wafted through the air and grated on the nerves of the Badger. Years had passed since last his wandering feet had led him to Kopal's labyrinthine streets and curiously scalloped towers, but the absence had done nothing to make the almost nasal whine of the local music any more palatable to his ears. He passed amongst the crowded stalls, packed with a dizzying array of wares which his dwindling purse could not afford, and his mood grew blacker.
The Badger had arrived in the city fully two weeks ago, a welcome respite after fleeing the (formerly) Lost Crypt of the Scarab King. It was not, he reasoned, as if he had intended to destroy the place. Designing a structure to fall to bits when a tiny statue is removed just seemed like poor planning as far as he was concerned. The door wasn't even locked. He couldn't be blamed for taking shelter there. Admittedly, yes, the elaborate carvings around the entrance promising death and eternal torment for trespassers were hints that guests were, perhaps, not wanted, but the Badger had always assumed that such messages were really for other people. In any event, his feet had led him to the place, and, at a more rapid pace, out again.
Still, it had been good to rest for a while. Yet after days of idleness, he remained in the city. His feet pursued no new path. This soon troubled him. Always, his feet were restless, carrying him to strange places and generally keeping him both in fine cardiovascular shape and filling his life with situations of interest. They had never simply been still. What could it mean? Consultations with the resident mystics and soothsayers drained his purse but provided no answers (and indeed, many seemed not to understand the problem). Without the ever-present twitch of his feet, the Badger himself grew restless.
It was a new sensation. Boredom was foreign to the Badger. As ennui overtook him, he became sullen. Was this it? Had his feet finally led him here as his final destination? Surely they would not be so cruel. He assumed his feet knew he hated bjala music, although he could not be certain. He had never asked.
Days passed, and the Badger's melancholy worsened. He knew, objectively, that he could simply leave. But to where? He had no purpose, no goal, and now he had lost whatever force pulled his feet (and, by extension, him) ever onwards to new horizons.
And so the Badger found himself, day after day, aimlessly drifting through the markets of the fragrant City of Veils, slowly drowning in his own bleak mood and the irritating wail of the countless buskers. On this day, however, the Badger's rumination was interrupted when something out of the ordinary caught his attention. As every schoolchild knows, the citizens of Kopal employ an impressive array of scented oils and perfumes as part of their personal hygiene. The man next to him in the crowd, though he had the dusky blue-tinged skin and wore the eye-veiling fez of a high-caste citizen, smelled of cherry blossoms. The Badger, more knowledgeable than a mere schoolchild, recognized every one of the 247 scents typical of Kopal. Cherry blossoms were not one of them, for no such tree could be found in half a continent of the city.
Intrigued for the first time in weeks, the Badger slowed his pace and dropped behind the impostor. Surely, he thought, this gentleman is engaged in some sort of nefarious enterprise. Now, it has been noted on many a prior occasion that the Badger was not himself averse to less-than-legal activities. Nor was the Badger ever notably motivated by civic duty or the well-being of merchants. The Badger's interest came instead from his current boredom and wounded professional pride. What could he be about, he wondered to himself, and how could he have made such an elementary mistake? The Badger trailed the man as he moved through the market, resolving to see what the mysterious stranger was up to and to disturb his plans, whatever they may be. It is the principle of the thing, he told himself.
Not long thereafter, the plan revealed itself. A merchant bearing a heavy bundle of wares, struggling under his burden, collided with the impostor. In the resulting tumble, the impostor's robe was torn, revealing the green silk of its inner lining. The surrounding crowded parted fearfully, an excited murmur spreading outward from the sudden circle of observers. The fez-bearing stranger rose imperiously to his feet, berating the cowering merchant in the florid and metaphorical curses unique to the perfumed city. The merchant kowtowed repeatedly, begging forgiveness and offering the the small chest containing the day's profits to the offended impostor, for as has been recorded many times, high-caste Kopali have the power of life and death over the lower citizenry, and such an offended citizen can easily have a mere merchant put to death on little more than a whim.
As the the impostor reached for the proffered chest, the Badger interposed. "Keep your money," he said. "You have committed no offense." The merchant stared slack-jawed at the sight of this short and oddly-dressed foreigner. The crowd whispered nervously. This was not how things were supposed to work.
"How dare you interfere, you foul-smelling devil," sneered the impostor. "I will have you torn to pieces for your insolence!"
The Badger shook his head and leaned back jauntily on his heels, hands resting casually on the pommels of his twin swords. "It is certainly kind of you to offer, friend, but you'll be doing nothing of the sort. After all, you're not high-caste." A puzzled rumble rippled through the crowd at this self-evidently false statement. "Oh, I admit, you certainly dressed the part. And the makeup is quite good, too," he said, surprising everyone (not the least the impostor) by reaching out casually and wiping his sleeve across the impostor's exposed lower face, leaving a streak of olive skin. "It is a good scam. People see the outfit, they see the station. Keeps them to scared to question it or look too closely. Then you step into the path of some poor fool such as this merchant here, knowing they'll give you anything to placate an angry high-caste." The Badger reached out and fingered the torn robe. "This is good, too, this breakaway stitching. Makes a nice satisfying rip right where everyone can see." The impostor stood frozen, flabbergasted. "But really, cherry blossoms? Does no one do research anymore?" Reaching up, he deftly plucked the fez from the impostor's head, revealing a pair of green almond-shaped eyes that most certainly did not belong to a Kopali of any caste.
As the angry crowd surged forward to express their displeasure with the short-con artist, the Badger extricated himself from the press, followed by the merchant. "Thank you, thank you, kind stranger," the merchant said. "Your keenness has spared me a terrible loss! I must repay you!" Digging into his complex bundle of wares, he said, "I have just the thing! The finest in my shop, and the finest in the city! For you, my savior!" So saying and with a flourish, the merchant produced an ornate bjala harp. With a sickly grin, the Badger accepted the reward. Somewhere in the crowd, a street musician began extemporizing a ballad about the ruckus, and as the tortured sounds that passed for music filled the air, the Badger made himself scarce.
Sometime later, in the shadowed room he had let these past weeks, the Badger sat staring at the harp. It was, he was forced to admit, a fine example of the species, inlaid with amber and strung with what he had to assume was high-quality catgut, however one determined quality in such a material. Without warning, his feet began to quiver, and he stood excitedly, whereupon they immediately began to lead him towards the door. Finally, he thought. I imagine the harp will cover the cost of the room.
A short while later, as his feet carried him west through the Izrai Gate and toward the Great Flats, he looked down at his tireless guides. "In the event you simply must take such a vacation again," he said, "I feel I ought to mention: I hate bjala music."
Wherein the Badger experiences Melancholy and loses his Mojo, and Prevents a Crime, but finds the Rewards of Justice inadequate.
The strange and arrhythmic strains of bjala harps, the street musician's weapon of choice in the perfumed city of Kopal, wafted through the air and grated on the nerves of the Badger. Years had passed since last his wandering feet had led him to Kopal's labyrinthine streets and curiously scalloped towers, but the absence had done nothing to make the almost nasal whine of the local music any more palatable to his ears. He passed amongst the crowded stalls, packed with a dizzying array of wares which his dwindling purse could not afford, and his mood grew blacker.
The Badger had arrived in the city fully two weeks ago, a welcome respite after fleeing the (formerly) Lost Crypt of the Scarab King. It was not, he reasoned, as if he had intended to destroy the place. Designing a structure to fall to bits when a tiny statue is removed just seemed like poor planning as far as he was concerned. The door wasn't even locked. He couldn't be blamed for taking shelter there. Admittedly, yes, the elaborate carvings around the entrance promising death and eternal torment for trespassers were hints that guests were, perhaps, not wanted, but the Badger had always assumed that such messages were really for other people. In any event, his feet had led him to the place, and, at a more rapid pace, out again.
Still, it had been good to rest for a while. Yet after days of idleness, he remained in the city. His feet pursued no new path. This soon troubled him. Always, his feet were restless, carrying him to strange places and generally keeping him both in fine cardiovascular shape and filling his life with situations of interest. They had never simply been still. What could it mean? Consultations with the resident mystics and soothsayers drained his purse but provided no answers (and indeed, many seemed not to understand the problem). Without the ever-present twitch of his feet, the Badger himself grew restless.
It was a new sensation. Boredom was foreign to the Badger. As ennui overtook him, he became sullen. Was this it? Had his feet finally led him here as his final destination? Surely they would not be so cruel. He assumed his feet knew he hated bjala music, although he could not be certain. He had never asked.
Days passed, and the Badger's melancholy worsened. He knew, objectively, that he could simply leave. But to where? He had no purpose, no goal, and now he had lost whatever force pulled his feet (and, by extension, him) ever onwards to new horizons.
And so the Badger found himself, day after day, aimlessly drifting through the markets of the fragrant City of Veils, slowly drowning in his own bleak mood and the irritating wail of the countless buskers. On this day, however, the Badger's rumination was interrupted when something out of the ordinary caught his attention. As every schoolchild knows, the citizens of Kopal employ an impressive array of scented oils and perfumes as part of their personal hygiene. The man next to him in the crowd, though he had the dusky blue-tinged skin and wore the eye-veiling fez of a high-caste citizen, smelled of cherry blossoms. The Badger, more knowledgeable than a mere schoolchild, recognized every one of the 247 scents typical of Kopal. Cherry blossoms were not one of them, for no such tree could be found in half a continent of the city.
Intrigued for the first time in weeks, the Badger slowed his pace and dropped behind the impostor. Surely, he thought, this gentleman is engaged in some sort of nefarious enterprise. Now, it has been noted on many a prior occasion that the Badger was not himself averse to less-than-legal activities. Nor was the Badger ever notably motivated by civic duty or the well-being of merchants. The Badger's interest came instead from his current boredom and wounded professional pride. What could he be about, he wondered to himself, and how could he have made such an elementary mistake? The Badger trailed the man as he moved through the market, resolving to see what the mysterious stranger was up to and to disturb his plans, whatever they may be. It is the principle of the thing, he told himself.
Not long thereafter, the plan revealed itself. A merchant bearing a heavy bundle of wares, struggling under his burden, collided with the impostor. In the resulting tumble, the impostor's robe was torn, revealing the green silk of its inner lining. The surrounding crowded parted fearfully, an excited murmur spreading outward from the sudden circle of observers. The fez-bearing stranger rose imperiously to his feet, berating the cowering merchant in the florid and metaphorical curses unique to the perfumed city. The merchant kowtowed repeatedly, begging forgiveness and offering the the small chest containing the day's profits to the offended impostor, for as has been recorded many times, high-caste Kopali have the power of life and death over the lower citizenry, and such an offended citizen can easily have a mere merchant put to death on little more than a whim.
As the the impostor reached for the proffered chest, the Badger interposed. "Keep your money," he said. "You have committed no offense." The merchant stared slack-jawed at the sight of this short and oddly-dressed foreigner. The crowd whispered nervously. This was not how things were supposed to work.
"How dare you interfere, you foul-smelling devil," sneered the impostor. "I will have you torn to pieces for your insolence!"
The Badger shook his head and leaned back jauntily on his heels, hands resting casually on the pommels of his twin swords. "It is certainly kind of you to offer, friend, but you'll be doing nothing of the sort. After all, you're not high-caste." A puzzled rumble rippled through the crowd at this self-evidently false statement. "Oh, I admit, you certainly dressed the part. And the makeup is quite good, too," he said, surprising everyone (not the least the impostor) by reaching out casually and wiping his sleeve across the impostor's exposed lower face, leaving a streak of olive skin. "It is a good scam. People see the outfit, they see the station. Keeps them to scared to question it or look too closely. Then you step into the path of some poor fool such as this merchant here, knowing they'll give you anything to placate an angry high-caste." The Badger reached out and fingered the torn robe. "This is good, too, this breakaway stitching. Makes a nice satisfying rip right where everyone can see." The impostor stood frozen, flabbergasted. "But really, cherry blossoms? Does no one do research anymore?" Reaching up, he deftly plucked the fez from the impostor's head, revealing a pair of green almond-shaped eyes that most certainly did not belong to a Kopali of any caste.
As the angry crowd surged forward to express their displeasure with the short-con artist, the Badger extricated himself from the press, followed by the merchant. "Thank you, thank you, kind stranger," the merchant said. "Your keenness has spared me a terrible loss! I must repay you!" Digging into his complex bundle of wares, he said, "I have just the thing! The finest in my shop, and the finest in the city! For you, my savior!" So saying and with a flourish, the merchant produced an ornate bjala harp. With a sickly grin, the Badger accepted the reward. Somewhere in the crowd, a street musician began extemporizing a ballad about the ruckus, and as the tortured sounds that passed for music filled the air, the Badger made himself scarce.
Sometime later, in the shadowed room he had let these past weeks, the Badger sat staring at the harp. It was, he was forced to admit, a fine example of the species, inlaid with amber and strung with what he had to assume was high-quality catgut, however one determined quality in such a material. Without warning, his feet began to quiver, and he stood excitedly, whereupon they immediately began to lead him towards the door. Finally, he thought. I imagine the harp will cover the cost of the room.
A short while later, as his feet carried him west through the Izrai Gate and toward the Great Flats, he looked down at his tireless guides. "In the event you simply must take such a vacation again," he said, "I feel I ought to mention: I hate bjala music."