THIRTEEN
Tinman
Faos finds me in the Magpie in the middle of a game of Crooks & Aces.
The tavern at this time of night is loud and riotous with a band trying their hardest on the makeshift stage, searching for pockets of air space between the shouting and fighting and laughter.
A fire crackles on the giant stone hearth. The thick wooden mantel above it is tacked full of handmade charms that swing from leather cords, catching the light. They’ve accumulated over the years, nailed there by visitors hoping to ward off the Great and Terrible Curses. Or to beg the gods to return.
It’s all superstition. The curses part. Not the gods.
I’ve seen the gods with my own eyes.
When I was a boy, my mother would take me and my brothers on an annual trek to the Emerald City for the Reaping of the Gods. They would stand, one in each cardinal direction, and replenish the earth with magic. Back then the Yellow Brick Road was a creek that flowed gold with power. Now it’s bricked over and only half as powerful.
It’s been more than twenty years since anyone has seen a god, and there is no more annual reaping. Either they’re dead or they’ve abandoned us, and if they’ve abandoned us, I’m not about to fucking capitulate.
But the curses, those can come out of nowhere. So maybe I can understand the superstition of trying to ward one off.
If mine hadn’t come fromsomeone, instead ofnowhere, I might be inclined to collect stones and sticks and weave them together too.
The front door creaks open and the cold mountain air of the West End steals in, driving out the dry heat. With my sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the chill creeps up my arm, lifting the hair. On my left arm, anyway. My right arm, made of metal and cogs and wires, feels nothing at all.
Faos scans the tavern. Light from the iron lampposts outside rims his folded wings in gold.
The tavern goes quiet.
There is only the sound of the fire now, and the clanking of pots in the kitchen.
The West End may be under the rule of the Witch of the West, but everyone on the ground knows it’s Faos and his winged monkeys you have to be wary of.
Sometimes they are under the witch’s command. Sometimes they are just thirsty for blood.
When his gaze lands on me, I pretend not to have noticed him despite how impossible he is to ignore.
I have a shit hand. I suppose his arrival has come at the best time.
“Tinman,” he calls.
My name sounds like a command in his wild, animal voice. Half the tavern shivers at the sound of it.
“I’m busy, Faos.” I shuffle through my cards again, willing them to be better.
“The witch has called for you.” He crosses the room. People scurry out of his way. He has to turn sidelong in order to maneuver through the tight spaces between tables. He islarge compared to a man, but slight for a winged monkey. He’s easily twice my size with wings folded closed. Wings open, he’s a goddamn nightmare.
Word must have spread to the kitchen because the pots are quiet now too.
One of the cooks pokes her head through the swinging door.
“Unlike you, monkey,” I tell him, “I don’t dance when the witch commands it.”
His nostrils flare. His wings jitter behind him.
Possibly an unnecessary dig, but I’m nothing if not consistent with my audacity. Or stupidity, depending on who you ask.
But Faos and I have an understanding, I think. He doesn’t serve the witch out of the goodness of his heart. And I have no heart to serve with.
We are both beholden to her in a way. She commands him with a golden mask. She pulls my strings by holding my brother hostage.
