Queen Violence

Chapter Twenty-Three - Muted Questions

Our new four-armed friend eyed Sharp up and down, then nodded. "You look like the sort," he said.

"What sort?" Sharp asked.

He grinned. "The sort that someone else would send to ask the questions they want to ask."

Well, that was suspiciously close to the truth. I shifted a little on Sharp's shoulder. If I had to launch myself at this man, then I wanted to be ready. But then he chuckled and gestured deeper into the room, past a small bar and a row of store mannequins with extra limbs taped on all wearing garish clothes and traffic cones.

"Go see the Cunt," he said.

Sharp choked. "The what?"

His smile only grew wider. "Just down there, behind the beaded curtains. There's a little old lady. She'll tell you what you want to know. But don't mess around with her. She's earned her title."

"Um, thanks," Sharp said.

"Let's keep an eye on the exit," I said. "We don't want to be caught off guard and hemmed in. And please, remind me to get you a gun at some point. Being unarmed like this might lower these sorts of people's guards, but it's making me feel rather naked."

"You are naked," Sharp hissed.

I smacked her ear for her cheek and to encourage her to refocus on the task at hand.

We crossed the room, the bassy old school rock only getting louder as we walked by a pair of tall speakers where some younger Mutes were hanging out. They were laughing, but not saying anything. At least, not out loud. Their hands were gesturing rapidly and sloppily, almost as if they had a bit of a laissez-faire accent with their signing alone.

The beaded curtains were right where the greeter had said they would be, a small wall of them hanging in the way into a nook. We pushed past them with a tinkle of wood on wood, and immediately there was an electric tingle that ran along my fur. The sound of the music behind us cut off. Not completely, but definitely far more than a simple beaded curtain would warrant.

The room was rather small, the floorspace taken up by several large circular couches and ratty old cushions covered by quilts. A woman lounged on one of those sofas, smoking a cigarette. She tapped the cinders on the end into a yellowed glass bowl, then eyed the two of us. I didn't like the way her look lingered on me.

A second woman, much younger, wearing roughed up leather and old jeans and looking like the picture of a teen at the end of her rope, sat on the very edge of a second couch. "What're you here for?" the teen asked.

"Um," Sharp began. She glanced to the side and gave me a look.

"I'm guessing that this kind lady would appreciate forthrightness. Look at her in the eyes and ask her to tell you what she knows about the cult." Being honest was also being quick, and I felt like this place was crawling with unfamiliar magics.

"Hello, ma'am," Sharp began. She bowed very slightly. "My name is Fasmine Sharp. I'm a courier, mostly. And I was sent here to find out what the Mutes know about the, ah, cult messing around in South Boston."

The old lady took a pull from her cigarette, then let it out as a column of smoke above her. Then she spoke, only it was through tight, almost sporadic gestures of her gnarled, smoke-stained fingers. The cigarette left trails in the wake of her signs.

The teen translated, though I had the impression she was adding her own snark to it. "They're trouble, she says. She also says that you're an idiot if you're trying to get involved. Cults are always a bad deal, and magical ones moreso."

"So there is magic?" Sharp asked. "I think I felt it, when I was close. It was a weird buzzy feeling."

The woman frowned, then nodded and signed some more for her translator. "Yeah, there's magic involved. She wants to know why you're poking your nose into that, and why you're bothering us about it."

The woman shifted on the sofa, and I realized that her legs were far too short for the rest of her body.

"I'm not planning on getting involved, but they did shoot a courier. He lived, and he'll be better, but the cult or whatever they are... they're dangerous. I just want to learn what I can. And if there's stuff you want others to know about them, then I can spread that around for you, at least a little."

The woman stared at Sharp, then snuffed out her cigarette. She pulled out another from the pack with practised ease, lit it with a match, then took a pull, leaving it on the end of her lips as she signed some more.

"She says that that's not a terrible reason for a jumped-up street urchin who doesn't know better," the teenager said. She grinned. "She also called you a dumbass. Anyway, she says that the cult follows a man called... the Grandfather?" The woman nodded after having signed what looked like a series of letters instead of plain words.

"The Grandfather?" Sharp asked. "I remember listening to them a bit. It didn't sound like they were talking about an old man."

The woman signed faster.

"She says that if you were listening, then you're an even bigger idiot than what you look like. You're lucky you didn't get taken in by his words. The man though is the Father, who isn't the Grandfather... obviously."

"Right," Sharp said. "And they're magic?"

"They have magic," the teen corrected. "She says that the cult is a step away from the divine? From God? Something like that. And she says that... hey, old lady, if you want me to translate for you, then stop talking shit."

Sharp leaned back as the two argued back and forth for a moment. The teen grumbled, but continued a moment later.

"The cult has some sort of ritual magic stuff going on. It might not work if you're not already susceptible to their message. If you are, then they'll sound really reasonable, and the more you listen, the weaker you'll be to their pull. It's some fucky ritual magic. The kinda shit they used to use in ads before it became illegal."

"Can we do anything about it?" Sharp asked.

The teen snorted. "Poke your ears out?"

That wasn't exactly a viable solution, but I'd keep it in mind.

"Oh, there's more," the teen said as the old woman signed again. "Ah, yeah, that makes sense. She says that they use gang magic. The kinda shit that a lot of corps and gangs use? It ties all of the members together so that they recognize each other, even when they're zooted outta their minds. It's how orders and stuff are relayed from the bosses down the chain."

"That's terrifying," Sharp said.

"Happens all the time," the teen replied with a shrug. "Anything else you wanna know? I figure you've got half a cig before her patience runs out."

"One last thing," Sharp said. "Are the Mutes enemies of the cult?"

The teen snorted. "We're no one's enemy, unless they try to mess with us."

"I see, um, well, thank you. It was nice meeting you both," Sharp said with another bow. We were almost out of the room when the teen called out to us.

"Wait!"

We turned to find the old lady signing again.

"She says... watch where you go, both of you. You're not strong enough to tackle this kind of thing yet. Old lady, are you talking about the cat?"

Sharp nodded once, then darted out of the room. The moment the beads were behind her, we were hit by a wave of sound. There were more people around, chatting and minding their own. Sharp and I still stood out, but we didn't intend to stay.

She moved for the exit and soon enough we were back in the cooler air outside and Sharp started to retrace her steps back. "Back to work," she said.

"Indeed. We have both much and very little to report to the girls."

"Do you believe the cult stuff? That it's mind control of some sort?" she asked.

"It wouldn't surprise me, and it fits with what we've seen so far, which gives me even fewer reasons to doubt it. Whatever is powering that cult, it won't be just human. There's more to it than that."

"An Eidolon?" Sharp asked.

I considered it. "Let's hope so."

If we were lucky, someone else would step in and take care of things. If we were less lucky, then the cult's influence would spread and we might have to move on earlier than I wanted to. A good assassin never tried to take on more than they could.

***