Inti’s Watcher

  Due to all three participating group members having bailed early, Drifters gained zero points, and so lost the contest. Several members of the audience felt this was unfair, if the grumbling murmur which passed through the crowd was anything to go by.

  Sophie also thought it was unfair. They might have come in last regardless, but they could have at least been given a chance.

  Without Grace, the Seabirds had come in seventh. According to the announcer, this was the lowest that group had ever ranked in a water-based contest.

  Stars had been tenth; non-combat contests weren't where they shined. Windward had come in fifth. The top three had been Diamonds, Poisons, and Wasps.

  The review ended, but most people stayed in place. Sophie looked around, wondering what they were waiting for. For a moment she wondered if there would be an announcement about why Peter wasn't standing with them, but then the wall turned orange and cream; Fox’s colors.

  “And now the time has come,” the announcer announced. “The people we found to replace Fox’s old members have agreed to join them! They decided to keep their group name and colors, and a dice roll named Chimeg as their new leader.”

  Four faces appeared in a column on the wall. Chimeg was on top, followed by Mateo, then a very pale woman with dark brown hair, and on the bottom was a tan man with light brown hair.

  “These two people come from northern latitudes,” the announcer explained. “First we have Tanya, from Arkhangelsk, Russia. She’s 20, and has great potential for endurance contests. Next is Jaques, from East Canada, Canada. He is 23, and will probably do well in fights. Both these contestants are used to ice and snow, and should know their way around forests. Moss might finally be getting some competition in that area!”

  There was quiet chatting in the crowd as people discussed this information. Sophie mostly wondered what had been said about them when they’d been brought over.

  “As usual, this week’s competition will be an endurance competition, so no one will meet them until Saturday,” the announcer said. “We won't let you know details until Tuesday, so don't worry when there’s no contest announcement tomorrow.”

  Sophie looked at Marie as the announcer gave their typical farewell.

  “So that’s how it works,” the old pirate said slowly.

  “I am glad more details aren't given without our knowledge,” Razan said.

  “I’m just happy they don't go into detail about how we died,” Sophie decided. “I wouldn't mind a few more things, though. Like what language we speak.”

  Marie shook her head. “No, some things would feel redundant; Razan is Japanese, from Japan, where he speaks Japanese. You’re from England, are English, and speak English. Not something that truly needs to be explained.”

  Razan frowned. “Is Texan a creole form of English which originated in Texas?”

  “Yes,” Marie said immediately.

  Razan nodded as if this explained many things. Sophie didn't believe it was, but she would never contradict Marie.

  At that point Grace came up, nervously fiddling with her hair. “Any news?”

  Marie took her hand and patted it comfortingly. “Aye, Peter woke up just before the review began.”

  “Do you know what he decided to do?” Grace asked.

  “Aye.” Marie stopped at that, and it didn't look like she was planning on saying anything else.

  Sophie glanced around and finally noticed how many people were listening. She reached automatically for Razan’s hand, but something made her stop. Every movement or word she thought of seemed like it could be dangerous somehow. Even breathing felt risky with so many people paying attention to their group.

  Thankfully Rani appeared before she could truly panic. “This was a horrible contest. Let’s order a whole cake and eat it to forget.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea,” Sophie said, linking arms with her friend. She waved to Marie and Grace as they walked away.

  Razan bowed and walked off in another direction.

  “So, how do you think the new people died?” Rani asked. “I bet the man died in a hunting accident. The woman I’ll say accidentally poisoned herself because I have no idea what it could have been.”

  Sophie smiled. “Is this an official wager? Or are we just guessing?”

  Rani giggled. “Let’s make it official. Whoever guesses closest is owed a chocolate cake by the other.”

  “Deal.”

  Razan walked through his bathroom and knocked on Peter’s door. Just before he gave up, the door slid open. He bowed before stepping into Peter’s room.

  “Out of everyone, I never guessed you’d be the first to visit,” Peter said. He was sitting on the box at the end of his bed, arms folded under his old poncho.

  “Captain Marie is keeping everyone away,” Razan reported. He held up a bottle of sake and two cups. “Alcohol?”

  “Lord, yes, please,” the cowboy groaned. “If I’m so dizzy I can barely stand, at least let me be drunk for it.”

  Razan sat on the floor next to the box and properly filled the cups. “Would you like me to make breakfast for Captain Marie tomorrow?” He held up a glass to Peter.

  The cowboy took it and sighed, frowning into the cloudy liquid. “Hadn't even considered that… Yeah, if you don't mind. Health.” After lifting the cup slightly, he drained it in one go. And then jolted, swallowed hard, and wheezed.

  “Dry cup,” Razan said, tossing his cup back as well.

  Peter looked thoughtful for a moment. “Old socks with a hint of sand,” he decided.

  Razan nodded solemnly. “That would be the badly-filtered rice. Higher-quality sake is… expensive. More?”

  “Yes, please.” Peter pushed himself off the box, leaning against it as he settled on the ground. He held his cup out.

  “You say ‘health’ when drinking?” Razan asked, refilling both cups. “Seems contradictory.”

  “I wish you good health,” Peter explained. “To hell with mine.” He took a small sip and savored it for a moment. “Yeah, don't like this one bit. Drinks ain't supposed to be grainy.” He tossed the rest down and held out his cup for more.

  Razan filled it. “To your health,” he said, and finished his second cup.

  Peter smiled. “That’s Spanish. In English it’s ‘cheers’, which is appropriate depending on what type of drunk y’are. What’s it in Japanese?”

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  “Dry cup,” Razan repeated, pouring himself a third shot.

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” Peter decided. “Nice and neutral. Dry cup.” Grinning, he emptied the cup.

  Nop came out of the wall. “I recommend you avoid drinking any more,” she said.

  “Don't worry, two or three more rounds will finish the bottle,” Razan told her, and drained his third cup.

  “Given the amount of alcohol he has already-”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Peter told her, waving dismissively with his left arm. “It’s helping. Can't overthink myself into a panic if I can't think.”

  Nop gave an extremely annoyed sigh and left.

  Razan, meanwhile, was looking over Peter’s arm, now that it was finally out from under the poncho. From his elbow to a third of the way down his forearm was a red cast. After the cast ended there was nothing. Peter noticed him looking and held his arm up, squinting at it.

  “I can still feel my hand,” he said softly. “I keep forgetting it’s gone. Have to see it to remember.”

  Razan refilled their cups, then pulled a bag of shark teeth out of his pocket. “For you. I’ve been told they can be sold for quite a fortune.”

  Peter set his cup down to take the bag. He pulled a tooth out and turned it in his fingers. “Yep, I can see why it did so much damage.” He smiled bitterly, setting the tooth down to pick up his cup. “One stayed in my arm when I bailed. Gonna do something with that one. But thanks; mechanical hands ain't cheap, sounds like, and this’ll help. Dry cup.” He quickly swallowed the sake, then grimaced.

  “Dry cup,” Razan echoed, and dried his cup. “So you will replace it with something?”

  “Yeah. It’ll take a day or so to heal enough I can put anything on, though,” Peter said, holding his cup out for more. “Cast comes off day after tomorrow if I promise to be careful.”

  Razan nodded, emptying the sake bottle. He squinted into it, surprised it was already gone. “I’m certain you will be.”

  “Thanks. Cheer- Naw, the dregs of this stuff is honest grit? Next bottle will have to be tequila; tastes just as bad, don't come with sand. Usually.” He snickered light-headedly, then poured the alcohol into his mouth and chewed.

  “I’ll bring a bottle immediately. But in this, the unfiltered rice shows…” Razan frowned at the tiny pieces of rice settling to the bottom of his cup. “I’m sure there’s some lesson to be learned from this. Health.” He dried the last cup.

  Peter was just finishing a late lunch when he heard a knock on the group’s door. No one else was around, so he took his dishes to the sink before going to check who it was.

  Unfortunately, it was Ebba. “Hello, Peter,” she purred, smiling widely.

  He nodded politely. “Ma’am.”

  “No need to be so formal,” she laughed. “I have something to show you, if you have a moment.”

  “I’m sorry, but you have nothing I want or need,” he said.

  “Yes I do,” she said, sliding past him into the area. “Come.”

  It was an order, not a request. Feeling like he didn't have a choice, he followed the witch. He knew, at least, that if she had anything nefarious planned, Marie would step in and save him.

  She only went to the couch, not to any private room, and sat on one end. Peter sat stiffly on the other end as Ebba kicked her shoes off and put her feet on the space between them.

  “You know how I died, right?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “You… were burned as a witch?”

  “Yes. The lovely townsfolk tied me to a stake and lit a bonfire under me.” She pulled a sock off.

  Peter recoiled, staring at the scarred, deformed stub of a foot which ended in a white porcelain prosthetic. The toes moved, startling him again.

  “If you think that’s bad, you’re going to hate this,” she muttered, pushing a fingernail under a hidden lever.

  Ebba winced as the lever popped up, and the whole thing let out a metallic click. Pulling it away from what was left of her foot showed dots of blood slowly forming. As casually as if it were a pencil, she offered him the prosthetic. Still stunned, Peter took it.

  “Obviously my experiences will be very different from yours, but some things are fairly universal,” she said. “And all the technology is the same. If you want a true comparison, the three who have full hand prosthetics are Cheevin in Parrots, Noura in Dust, and David in Poisons. Those first two tend to keep theirs covered, so don’t worry if you’ve never noticed.”

  Peter slowly turned the foot, not sure what to say or ask first. The outside was porcelain or something similar, but under that everything was made of metal. The inside was covered in a spongy material, with tiny bloodstained needles sticking out.

  He finally decided on, “What are the needles for?”

  “Mostly they attach to tendons and nerve endings, so the toes move when and how I want them to,” she said, pulling off her other sock. If anything, this foot looked worse than the other. She pointed to a spot on what was left of her foot. “See, when I tell it to move, the toe moves.” Her big toe moved, and Peter saw a tendon moving under melted skin. “For me the needles also help anchor the prosthetic in place. Obviously you’ll have a bit more straps and clamps to make sure nothing pulls your hand off, but I just wear socks all the time and am fine.”

  Peter nodded slowly, turning the thing in his hand. “Does it hurt to put on and take off?”

  “The ones that move? Yes,” she answered. “Not a great deal, but it does sting. I have a set that’s articulated but doesn’t attach to any nerves that I wear when these are being cleaned or replaced. Those don't hurt at all. Can't walk quite right in them, though.”

  “In general, does it hurt?”

  Ebba smirked. “Does what hurt?”

  “Does it hurt to have needles in your foot all day long?” he clarified.

  “No,” she said. “It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it’s like… your hat. I’m sure you forget it’s there unless something touches it or it’s mentioned.”

  He lifted his left hand to adjust the hat, and then his mind went briefly blank as he remembered he didn't have a left hand any more.

  “That’ll happen less and less, but it won't ever fully stop,” Ebba told him. “Which is why you need a prosthetic.”

  “Right,” he said, hiding his arm under his poncho. “Does the… It feels like there’s a mosquito bite on my hand. Does that stop?”

  “Prosthetic will help with that, too,” she said. “It’ll give you something to scratch so your brain quits. Most people say there’s pain, though, not itching.”

  He shrugged. “Guess I'm lucky… Have you tried different types? Got any suggestions?”

  “In my opinion,” she said clearly, then shrugged and sat back. “The ones with a casing are best. They’re heavier, but they don't damage as easily. I prefer porcelain, for heat distribution reasons. Metal on its own is very pretty, but it can cook you or give you frostbite if it isn't insulated enough in contests. If we go anywhere freezing, you have to keep the socket warm or you’ll have all kinds of problems unless you’ve got a solid wood prosthetic. You’re going to need some kind of padding to soak up sweat and keep everything comfortable. I like the grey sponge stuff, but my feet don't sweat much, apparently. Even if it feels dry, you really should replace the padding every night or it’ll start to grow things and smell bad. You can add things on to the more expensive prosthetics, and weapons are an option, but I don't recommend that at all because complicated things have more points for failure. The ones with adjustable sockets are best if you plan to gain or lose ten pounds; if you’re good at keeping your weight consistent, don’t bother. What else…”

  Peter finally handed her foot back. “Is there a difference between them in terms of how wet or dirty they can get?”

  “Yes. They can all get damp, but you wouldn't want to go swimming with the more expensive ones,” Ebba said, fitting the prosthetic over her stump. “The more moving parts they have, the more you’ll want to avoid mud. I get mine cleaned after every contest, and haven't had much issue. But again, I always wear socks and shoes over mine; you’ll have a different experience.” She flipped the lever down, wincing slightly as it attached. After a few moments she wiggled her toes and put the sock back on.

  “Can… you walk without those?” he asked, not sure where the line of politeness was.

  “Nope,” she answered, then smiled faintly. “That’s why my floor is covered in nice, soft blankets. Some days I wake up, forget I’m not wearing them, and fall over as soon as I try to take a step. Or I take them off for the night, and then to get anywhere I have to crawl. Very inconvenient.”

  Peter looked at his arm. At least he could still walk, even if getting dressed had become eighty times more difficult. “Are you mad at the people who burned you?”

  “After thirty years? No,” she said. “Even when it was recent, I never really resented them. It was my decisions and actions that got me into that bonfire. Can't blame them for not wanting me around. Your situation, obviously, is very different.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. He frowned, looking at her. “Don't you usually charge for information?”

  Ebba grinned again. “I do, yes. However, I’m not completely heartless. No one in the Diamonds has lost any body part, so Max can't help in this situation. Max also tends to believe if something works for one person, it must work for everyone. Which has led to problems. Instead of risking anyone getting bad information, I give this to you for free.”

  “Well… Thanks. I guess you’re not as bad as I thought you were.”

  “I am, it’s just that Marie has insisted I not try to seduce the other members of her group. If she hadn't, I’d be sitting much closer to you, trying to get you into something you would have to pay for.”

  Peter gave her a flat look, then shook his head. “Grace would kill you.”

  “Murder is prohibited, and I can blackmail her far too easily for her to lay a finger on me,” Ebba shrugged.

  That made him pause. “You can?”

  “Certainly.”

  “With what?”

  The witch leaned forward, an evil gleam in her eye as she cackled. “What would you be willing to trade for that information?”

  Peter got to his feet. “Nothing. Thank you for your help and advice, but it’s time for you to go.”

  “Any time, cowboy,” she laughed, sliding her shoes back on.