Stories and novellas: Slingchild

A brief short story

(C) 2023 P. Molnár 
(C) 2023 Knight-Errant Studios 

 

SLINGCHILD

The marketplace was filled with the usual hustle and bustle of Melza. Humans, big and small, beastpeoples. All manner of dwellers.
"Listen 'ere, toadtongue, I've asked you clearly: Do you have a permit for selling wares ?" a patrolman of the City Watch abruptly raised his voice.
He was checking on a newtman who had unrolled his bag at the corner of the street, displaying the various tat and junk he had on offer. The newtman replied something in his lispy-sounding accent.

Mürtli Frodikshin turned his eyes away from the scene. He was standing in front of a market stall offering fresh fish and crayfish. The neighbouring stall was selling bread, buns and pretzels, the other next to it offering various spices and herbs. His colleagues had asked hím to go shopping for ingredients. He preferred shopping for parts used in his favourite technical gadgets, it was far more fun, but a duty was a duty.
"Apologies, young sir..." a female voice addressed him. He turned and noticed a shorter young brunette, just slightly taller than him. "No offence to you, but somehow, you seem familiar to me. Have we met before ?"
He decided to focus on giving his voice a different timbre. Avoid overtly exaggerating it, but shaking off suspicion all the same.
"I'm afraid not. You've surely mistaken me for someone else," he kindly explained.
She returned a brief smile and went on her way.
Humans were simply like that, much of the time. They had trouble telling hedgefolk individuals apart, even their men and women. This was true even about those humans who were truly friendly and perceptive. It was no doubt similar with the martenfolk, newtfolk. maybe even with many of the humans. Varda here, from The Heart of the Jewel, had already met him countless times. That barmaid was an excellent informer for his colleagues and many others. She always overheard or tracked down intriguing hearsay and news. It was interesting that she could at least discern he's of a similar age as her, even though she couldn't recognise him when he changed his voice.

He was next in line. "Hello, I'd like to buy...", he didn't even manage to finish the sentence, as there was a sudden, sharp ringing of metal. He could hear the cry of the watchman, the crowd stirred, and the watchman shouted, annoyed.
Mürtli looked in the same direction as all the others around him. The watchman had lost interest in the newtman. He was frowning at the crowd on the street, he waved his truncheon and cried that the troublemaker show himself.
"My word," remarked Varda from the inn. Mürtli noticed her standing near one of the stands.
Frnnng, clannnng.
Another round pebble had rung against the watchman's helmet. He let out an angry, frustrated shout and started to make his way through the crowd. Some of the locals were laughing heartily at the unexpected spectacle.
Mürtli was ready to fish out the griffin coins to start shopping, but something told him he couldn't leave well enough alone. He turned away from the market stall, and headed for the crossroads of the local streets, with all the commotion. He bypassed the watchman, passed by the small crowds of laughing, bewildered and shouting locals. Though the eyesight of the hedgefolk was average, he scanned the vicinity carefully, wondering if he'd notice someone at the other end of the neighbouring street. And notice he did. A young boy had snuck out from behind a crate, cowering low as he ran from the crate to some other temporary hiding place. The child was cramming something back into its pocket. Mürtli thought he saw just a hint, a tiny glimpse of a leather strap. Sling ?

As if on purpose, the watchman and part of the curious crowd had started to move in the same direction. Mürtli sighed. I hate this. But he had to act fast. He walked over to a local man who had his back turned, and gave him a mild fist-slap on the back. The startled man turned around, but Mürtli was already pointing with his hand at another man standing next to them. A melee errupted, slaps and fists flying in various directions. The already rattled watchman came running, to separate and reprimand the two brawling men. Mürtli was walking away calmly, though at an ever swifter pace. It could use a bit more. His hand felt something in his pocket, he remembered.
His sight wandered over to a nearby stand, with various goodies being baked on a grill over searing hot charcoal. He made sure that no one is standing in front of the stand and the grill at that moment, and that the vendor is restocking supplies nearby. Now or never. In his pocket, he carried a tiny box. He had the habit of using it to store leftover lower-quality samples of the powder mixture used in flashbombs. Now it came in handy. While passing by the grill, he dropped the box inside through the gaps, straight onto the coals. After some ten paces away from the stand, for a brief moment, he quickly covered his ears.
The explosion was small, but the ruckus was really loud and the flash very bright. The locals near the stand yelped, terrified, rubbing their eyes, sticking and turning their fingers inside their earholes. The grill itself had shot through the cloth roofing of the stand, and with a sharp clang, dropped onto the street. The watchman came running, yelling at everyone to stay where they are. His co-workers were arriving as well, running like wild.

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Mürtli walked with a fast pace, determined not to lose sight of the street urchin. He knew this part of the city from memory, every single corner. They weren't far from their secret compound. Along the way, he met familiar faces.
"A mouse in the trap," he addressed a mechanic repairing a steam engine in front of a shop. He received a reply with the classic secret hand gesture. He walked onward. More perceptive people would have noticed that the mechanic gave a subtle nod to a rarach tramp standing nearby, and that man then walked through an arched passageway into the neighbouring building's quad.
Mürtli followed the little boy, who occassionally stopped to rest and look around. He stopped as well, looking elsewhere, striking up short small talk with locals, or even hid from view for a brief while. When he was passing by a beggar, he performed another hand signal. The beggar took off his hat and handed it to the hedger. Then, with trained motions, he discreetly pulled out another hat from his small pack.
Mürtli had already pulled down the brim of the hat to cover his eyes and carefully observed where the boy plans to hide. The boy had found the usual entrances into the underground compound, but they were now all sealed off or obstructed. As if they had never even been there. The pathways suitable for a retreat were thinning down, choices narrowing. They'll leave him with only that one entrance. Ultimately, the urchin had found it, and started to slowly climb inside.
Mürtli quickened his step, he entered a narrow side alley. Pulling a secret little lever, he entered through a hidden doorway. Once it shut, surrounded by gloom, he lay down on a slide and slid down, the spines on his back scraping against the slide with a sweeping sound. After landing on his feet at the bottom of the slide, he walked into one of the underground corridors, looking for the boy.

In a short moment, he saw the child entering the corridor, but not noticing him. It chose one of the doors and entered into a room. He followed the boy quietly. The trap awaits. The boy had entered the first room of their guild's obstacle course, used in novice training.
From another room in the corridor, exited a graying, middle-aged human man. A lankier figure, but his arms were ironside material.
"You ?" Lonaj Pertenet called out, surprised. Mürtli used a hand signal to explain to him that the little mouse had snuck inside. Lonaj wasted no time, and walking swiftly, went down another of the underground corridors. They were setting their mousetrap.
The boy was wandering in the half-light of the obstacle course, nearing a door. He was hoping this is the final room of the course.
The door opened abruptly, his face was brightly illuminated by a lantern. Lonaj grabbed him by the collar, pulled him towards himself and held him in a tight hold.
"What do they call you, rascal ? Don't be alarmed, answer. I haven't addressed you as a goodfornothin' yet, so you're still doing well."
"Bystan, friends call me Bisťo. Many call me simply Kid."
"Oh my, oh my, so many nom de guerre-s," giggled Lonaj. His exposed teeth were irregularly decorated with gaps reminescent of the neglected parts of the city's walls.
A small secret hatch creaked on one of the large crates in the corner of the room. Mürtli left his temporary hiding place and walked over to the boy.
"I saw you being a busy little bee near the marketplace. A skillful slingchild. Why do you shoot at the City Watch ?" asked Mürtli. "Out of mischief ? Or did someone order you to do so ?"
"Yes, a rarach. Or a permon. I dunno. A short gent... Kereloj. He told me he needs to slip past the watchman. I was supposed to distract that guard, lure away his attention. He even payed me. Though not much, but..."
"The notorious one-man outfit, Inger," grinned Mürtli. "Welcome to the Old Ditch Street guild, Bisťo. If thievery would be too beneath you, we're always in search of good scouts and spies. Including ones that can handle a sling. We'd feed and support you well, and give you solid pay. Think of our offer," explained the hedgehogman.
The little boy opened his mouth in astonishment.

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A girl at the other side of the street.
"And who's that ?" asked Mürtli with interest, once they led Bisťo outside through the secret entrance.
"Švira," said Bisťo with a bit of hesitation. "A pal from the street, from our band. We help each other."
"Let her know about our offer as well," chuckled Lonaj and playfully messied Bisťo's hat by hand.
The urchin boy did a mild frown at Lonaj. "Give us time, we'll think it through," he replied.
"If you dare to reveal our guild, things will get really bad, no-good for you," Mürtli reminded him politely.
Little Bisťo nodded in approval and started walking towards his female friend at a swift pace. They exchanged a few words and ran away into the depths of the city streets. Colourful autumn leaves were already falling from some of the trees above their heads, as they passed them by while running through the streets.

By the time of snowfall, they were already living at the guild.

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Copyright

(C) 2023 P. Molnár 
(C) 2023 Knight-Errant Studios 

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Story notes

Told you that Mürtli's a capable character in his own right, and the best bombmaker in the Old Ditch Street Thieves' Guild.

Notice that, though Mürtli continues his role as a non-action member of his thieves' guild (like in a previous story), he's using his knowledge, wits and skills to overcome various challenges he comes across. As many in his guild and other secret thieving organizations in Melza know, you'll often get farther by using brains rather than brawn, and by being cunning, resourceful and thinking-on-the-go, rather than always sticking to a rigid plan. You could argue this was a distraction (the boy distracting the watchman to help conman Inger slip past) versus another distraction (Mürtli provoking a fistfight, creating that small detonation to confuse the police and locals and keep them busy investigating at that place).

Slingchild sounds like a good name for a rock or metal band (or an album by such an imagined band), but I actually thought up the term as an English translation of a real term from the original language of my story. In that language, the title of the story is Práča (with č like English "ch"), an archaic word dating back to the late Middle Ages. It's an archaic term these days, but sometimes pops up here and there, mainly as a historical or old-fashioned expression.

Originally, in the real world, it was apparently a term coined by the soldiers of the Hussite movement in the 15th century, who adopted street urchins into their ranks... and unfortunately, brought them up to be soldiers and mercenaries once they grew old enough. These unfortunate or dubiously fortunate children were often armed with a sling, prak, and were nicknamed práčatá.

In later centuries, the term práča also found a more neutral meaning, when it started being applied to various child rascals using slings or slingshots for their games and petty mischief. Whether homeless children, or even children with families and homes of their own, as slings were obviously a popular toy for a lot of kids. Especially boys, but no doubt also a few girls. This is also the (admittedly, more merrier) context that fits the situation of the various Melzan street urchins or less wealthy children. Again, mainly the boys, but also a fair few girls.  Compare práčatá with words like chlapčatá or dievčatá, with their child-associated suffixes. In singular as well, práča rhymes with chlapča ("little boy") and dievča ("girl", "little girl"), so it is "a child with a sling", or more directly, a "slingchild". Hence the English name of the story, as well as the use of the term in my fantasy setting for little rascals who use slings.

If I have any mental image of Bisťo, the image above comes close. He'd have more early modern era clothing, not necessarily industrial era, but close enough. Also, likely a more conventional sling than a Y-shaped slingshot, but who knows. This real photo here is from some central European town in the early 20th century.

Bystan's name is not read like the "by-" pronunciations in English, but more like in the word bistro. The abbreviation Bisťo has a soft t, pronounced sort of like Bistyo ("y" sounding as in "yes"). His friend Švira's name is pronounced Shvira. Like a lot of the fictional human names in Melza, they're supposed to vaguely evoke central European names, sounding vaguely Slavic, Hungarian or German, reflecting some of the local fictional nationalities the people of the city descend from. There's no Bystan in the real world, only the old-fashioned name Bystrík, and there's also adjectives like bystrý ("swift" or "bright") and bystrina ("swift-stream"). Bisťo is, ironically, similar to the word bisťu, which is a playful, nonsense expletive, used in sentences like Ej, bisťu ! (a dated expletive as mild as English "Ah, drat !" or "Oh, fiddlesticks !"). Švira's name is meant to be more exotic and less reminescent of real world names. Lonaj's equally pseudo-Slavic name can be transcribed as "Lo-nigh", while Pertenet is read simply as you'd read it in English and is supposed to have a Latin language vibe.

Kereloj Laternin Inger, K. L. Inger, is a local smallfolk conman, with loads of pseudonyms. If Bilbo Baggins was the charming fella he is (especially the Martin Freeman portrayal), but also part Arsène Lupin, part Frank Abagnale Jr. You'll see him in plenty of future stories in the setting, especially in Melza and the vicinity. Ironically, Inger's effort to bypass that policeman at the market had indirectly earned those two street urchins a place at the Old Ditch Street Thieves' Guild.

Many of the named characters appearing or mentioned in this story will recur in various future stories, in varying prominence.

Here's PRE what a flashbomb looks like and how it works (though I already gave a hint with the powder in this story and in an earlier story).

Here's why the speech of the newtfolk PRE might sound lisp-y, due to their language and biology. Hope you like a lot of sh, ch, zh, soft l, and other soft consonants. The spoken native language of the newtfolk sounds almost like the flowing, splashing and bubbling of water, a major natural habitat of their amphibious lives.

The pretzels mentioned as being sold at the market are, of course, not the salted snack mini-pretzels you can buy at any grocery store, but the traditional pretzels of large size, similar to some other bread-like pastries, just with their typical tangled shape. Like in this 17th century painting, or in this (Alsace, France) and this (Krakow, Poland) modern example.

And yes, besides fish and related vertebrates, an inland water crustacean like the crayfish (especially the "noble crayfish") was once a popular food, especially in Europe in the pre-industrial era. Some regions even had people raising them in ponds, much like certain economically valuable species of fish (carps, great sturgeon). Crayfish didn't even have the connotation of "poor people's foot", like eating oysters or other clam molluscs had for a very long time. (Ironically, due to pollution since the industrial era, river and lake crayfish are protected these days and not as numerous as previously, so they're no longer considered food, whereas lobster, once considered average seafood at best, is quite popular in the modern day.) That popularity is not different in Aporue. In the Aporuean and Melzan context, a fair few locals buy fresh crayfish every now and then for cooking, though certain groups don't use it as a food for cultural or religious reasons. For example, as a people and faith, the Irim, this world's equivalent of Jews, don't bother with the crayfish because it's simply not considered kosher to eat (and that counts for virtually all crustaceans). They just focus on recipes involving fish with fins and scales, and thankfully, there's a wide variety of those in the rivers and ponds around Melza, as well as in the local markets.

The anthology found under the Stories and novellas tag (Poviedky a novely) is for all kinds of stories within this fictional setting. Very short ones likes this one or short vignettes, as well as more elaborate short stories, or even whole long novellas or shorter novels. The sky is the limit... more or less.