Chapter 2 – The Stretch
Had Cragsport changed, or had she changed? Both, Sonata admitted to herself, as she and Fellfang made their way across the dark and relatively quiet city to the Stretch, an old graveyard four times as long as it was wide, tucked against the northeast wall of the city. One thing was certain, however. Davido was right: things had changed. The change made Sonata anxious; the change made her sad.
Nothing felt right.
The graveyard was still there, of course, right where she had left it. Right where she had left Uncle Galo, in fact, wrapped in a rug, stiff, rigid, and buried many feet deep. Adriana’s Breath was thin tonight. That was fortunate, for it allowed her to see the lay of the land, so to speak, to seek out that place where her uncle lay. Luckier still, there was no one standing guard. Perhaps the fool was off on a piss or smoke break. Either way, she and Fellfang easily slipped through the wide bars of the gate, and once inside, disappeared among the old, weathered headstones.
In all the years she had lived in Cragsport, the Stretch had never changed, had never even received one official corpse and burial ceremony, due to its tough, rocky ground. It was the resting place of the rich ancients, many claimed, active during the time of the Leal Emperors. But now, Sonata saw the ground disheveled not just where she thought she had placed Uncle Galo, but in many other places as well. Things had changed, indeed. The riots that Davido had talked about must have forced Cragsport officials to use whatever ground they could to bury the dead.
Sonata’s heart sank. Was he there? No, there? Where was he? She could not see any appreciable difference from one plot to the next anymore. It all blurred together, as if the entire graveyard had been tilled. “Find him, boy,” she said to Fellfang. “Find Uncle Galo.” Fellfang’s ears perked up at the name of his master. It had been a long while since Sonata had said his name aloud. “Find him, boy. Find him!”
Fellfang poked his large black snout into the fresh dirt. He sniffed, jumped to another grave, sniffed again, and over and over as Sonata continued to give him encouragement. He was excited; she could tell. The idea of seeing his master after so long was too much for him. She had to calm him down with soft rubs to his back as his sniffing turned into whimpers, and whimpers turned into growling, turned into barking. “Shhh . . . calm, boy. Quiet, or they’ll hear us.”
Sonata did not know who “they” were exactly, but Fellfang’s noises echoed through the darkness. She was about to pull him back. Then he paused at one grave. He fell silent, sniffed the ground, and began to dig.
She fetched a shovel from a pile of picks and staves by the guard shed. She fell beside the bullmastiff who had already dug a hole large enough for her to lay in comfortably. It was a scary notion, the thought of lying in a grave. Over the past several months, there had been many times where she should have been killed, so many times where she thought her end had come. But it hadn’t. Now here she was, digging up a man who had lain in a hole just like this one for far longer than he had deserved. Sonata made a mental note to ask her uncle how lying in the ground had felt once he was free from his petrification.
Her shovel tip struck a rock. No, not a rock. Petre Olavo’s skull, the old man who had helped her dig the grave in the first place. Or, rather, a part of his skull, for the ground of the Stretch was so rocky, so dry, that there were few bugs, insects, and other little nasties that would feed on the flesh. Part of Olavo’s face still remained, black and mangled, yes, but otherwise, recognizable. Sonata blanched and shuddered at the dry smell of decay that now wafted up from the remaining bits of Olavo’s corpse. But that didn’t stop her. For if Petre was still here, then Uncle Galo lay just below.
But Sonata dug and dug, and Fellfang dug and dug beside her. Nothing . . . nothing save for dry, torn scraps of the carpet that she had wrapped Uncle Galo in on the night that he had almost died. She jumped into the hole, tossed the shovel aside, grabbed Olavo’s corpse, and tore him out of the ground. She then fell to her knees and dug with her hands, not caring about the smell, the tiny rocks, the dirt, anything. She dug until her fingers bled, until Fellfang had stopped digging and had instead turned his attention to her. He licked her sweaty face, whimpered as she began to cry, and tried to push her aside with his broad snout, his powerful neck. She would not budge. He’s got to be here, Sonata said over and over to herself as the hole grew deeper and her fear and anger grew stronger. He’s got to be here.
But he was not, and no amount of digging would change the truth.
Uncle Borshen Galo was gone.
Sonata screamed, and the Stretch erupted in a shower of rock, sand, bone, and rotting corpses.
✽✽✽
When Sacudente do Mundo had finally subsided, Sonata was many streets away. She was like a drunkard sometimes afterwards, finding herself in places that she did not remember going to. She could hear whistles and shouting, mumbled words of panicked Night Guardsmen who passed the mouth of the alley in which she was lying. They were headed to the Stretch, or, what was left of it. She rubbed her face, closed her eyes, and prayed to Santa Dominica, the Goddess of Home and Hearth, prayed for all the bodies she had just desecrated with her anger, anger that she could control sometimes, but not always. Discovering that Uncle Galo was no longer buried must have been too much for her to take; that, coupled with all the changes that she saw and felt in the city. Madam Carla, gone. Uncle Galo, gone. So few citizens on the streets. Curfews. Burnings. Fear. Anger. It was too much, too soon.
Fellfang lay sleeping at her side, snoring, his big snout on her lap. Sonata smiled, so thankful to have him there with her in these trying times, for there had been a time when they had not gotten along. That seemed so long ago, but in truth, it really wasn’t. Things had changed so quickly for her, and now Sonata felt alone. She had no one, save for Fellfang, of course, and the masks. No matter what happened to her, no matter how violent Sacudente do Mundo presented itself, those masks were always at her side now.
Sonata fought the urge to pull the masks out of her satchel and look at them. They called to her, something that happened with increased regularity these days. That, too, scared her, for it meant that they were still active, that there were still dragons inside them, and if they once again fell into the wrong hands. . . .
She pushed away the thought, stood, and walked out of the alley. Now that the Night Guard was distracted with the crater in the middle of the Stretch, Sonata felt emboldened to walk unimpeded in the dim lamplight of the Cragsport night.
What to do next? She wondered. Obviously, she had to find her uncle. Was he still in the city? If it were any other wizard, probably so. But Borshen Galo was reviled everywhere in Mirada, even in Pontaboro, the southern province from which she had just returned. Damn the Gods, but she and her uncle could have passed each other in the night as she and Fellfang had made their way through the Divide and the Chance to get home. He could be anywhere by now.
“We need some sleep, boy,” she whispered to Fellfang as he walked beside her. She tickled his head. “And food.”
They crossed Brilliano Street and walked casually toward Rua Vendedor. For all the unbridled power that Sacudente do Mundo gave her, it didn’t keep her from having to rest and to eat. Maybe her father was an immortal, but her mother had been quite human, and there was no getting around the truth: Sonata was mortal, as far as it went. Food and sleep were required.
She first considered breaking into Madam Carla’s and finding a safe corner in which to sleep. But the dreadful memory of staying there the night before she had escaped Nathyn Sombrio and the Night Guard overruled her decision. No, best thing to do was to act as normally as possible, to act as if nothing was wrong and she was just a normal citizen in need of a bed, some drink, and some bread.
They entered the Purloined Goat, the Cabra Roubada, on Rua Vendedor, a small tavern with a few patrons scattered among its six round tables. Sonata approached the bar. The sight of Fellfang piqued the attention of the tavern keeper.
“We don’t serve mutts in here, young lady,” the man said. He was a big fellow with a long, mangled back beard. Sonata was unimpressed.
“My four-legged friend does not require a drink by the mug, nor do I,” she said, dropping a small bag of coins onto the bar in front of him. “Rent us a room for three days, give me a loaf of bread and a jug of your finest, and we’ll be out of your way, Conrado.”
“Do I know you?” the man squinted as if to get a better look at Sonata’s face, partially obscured by a line of shadow cutting across her chin.
Play it cool, girl. “No, but I’ve heard of you. And I’ve heard that you’re a decent fellow, once you get past the overgrown beard, blunt disposition, and foul breath.”
A few of the patrons chuckled behind her. Conrado looked at them with daggers, sniffed, and replied, “A smart mouth, are you?” Sonata could tell that he wanted to say more, but the bag of coins on the bar was too tempting. He took it and counted through the moedas inside. He fished out half of them, put them in his pocket, and tossed the bag back to her. He turned and picked up the registry and laid it flat in front of her. “Sign in . . . please.”
Sonata started to write “Lise” and then scratched it out. She could not use her alias anymore, at least not in Cragsport, if the Night Guard was looking for a girl with that name. Nor could she use her own. So, she used a name from her past.
“Maria Galo, eh? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Sonata nodded. Her mother’s name. The name of the strongest and the most beautiful woman Sonata had ever known. You should remember, you simple son of a bitch. She worked for you for three months. But who remembered such things, right?
Conrado motioned up the dark stairs to his left. “Up the stairs, first door on the right. I’ll have bread and wine sent up.”
The room was small. An unlit lantern sat on the windowsill. There was a tiny round table in the far corner next to the bed. The bed itself was nothing more than a weak wooden frame and a lumpy feather-filled mattress. But it felt like heaven to Sonata, as she fell onto it and closed her eyes. She didn’t even bother to remove the sword harness on her back. Chefe and Freira felt terribly uncomfortable underneath her, but she endured the discomfort. She closed her eyes and slept. The bread and wine were delivered a few minutes later. Sonata called to them to leave it outside the door.
When she awoke, she took the bread and wine, ate half the loaf and tossed the other half to Fellfang. She downed the wine in three gulps, wiped her mouth clean, and left the empty bottle on the round table. She then lay back down, but this time, she did not sleep.
Despite the sleep and food, she had a headache. She often did after Sacudente do Mundo. It would go away eventually, she knew. They always did, leaving her with the same questions for which there seemed no answers.
What are these powers I have?
Who was my father?
What will become of me?
For a brief moment near Rosa Blanca, as she was killing Nathyn Sombrio and his men, the purpose of her powers seemed clear. For that brief moment, she had understanding. Now, several months past the event, the purpose of Sacudente do Mundo was, at best, confusing, and she certainly did not have control of it. Who her father was . . . well, she hoped Uncle Galo would tell her, for surely he knew. He had never spoken of the man—the being—that had gotten her mother, his sister, pregnant. Perhaps he honestly did not know, for despite his powers and skills as a wizard, he was, like her, mortal, and all mortal men had limitations. Uncle Galo could not divine the future any more than she could, so he had no better sense of what would become of her with these powers than she did. But she was a Galo. Her mother was Maria Galo. Her uncle, Borshen Galo. Even if he knew nothing, she had to find him, and save him if possible.
Sonata climbed out of the bed and picked up her satchel. She took the masks out and looked at them, one in each hand. They were beautiful. They had been through a lot since she had acquired them, and yet, their surfaces were clean, smooth, and unmarked, as if they had just been forged. Who had forged them originally? That, too, was a question she’d like answered. Perhaps Uncle Galo knew that as well, but then, Guilherme Cavaco had not known anything about the masks either, save for their inherent evil, and he was pretty damned smart for an old wizard.
She took them and placed them next to her head, one on each side like large ears. In the faint glow of moonlight cast through the window, she looked at herself. She smiled, and even chuckled. She looked silly, like a big-eared bat or mouse. She kept looking, but in a few minutes, the image was not so silly, not so foolish. The masks felt good in her hands, felt warm pressed against her head, as if they belonged there. The moonlight shone well across the smooth surfaces of the masks and Sonata noticed that, like the metal in the masks, the moonlight shone across her face as if it had changed, stiffened, and smoothed.
She tucked the masks back into the satchel, shook her head, and tried focusing her mind. She looked out the window at the darkness of Cragsport, saw hundreds of tiny lights from windows spread across the city, all the way to that part of the city wall known as the Jaw, where she and Fellfang had jumped to escape Nathyn Sombrio, oh those many nights ago. The horizon beyond was beginning to glow white. The sun would rise soon, and she would see Cragsport in the light of day for the first time in months.
Then, she and Fellfang would venture out again and visit the tall tower that now rose out of the darkness like a dragon’s rotted tooth.
“There,” she whispered to Fellfang as she pointed towards that tower. “That’s where we will begin to search for Uncle Galo.”