Non put his hand on his nose out of habit, then opened his eyes to see where his cart was. ‘Oh, right, I’m not hauling books. I should eat. Fescue to the rescue. What did I dream about?’

  “You dreamed? I thought you were on guard duty, Tycho?” said Non, grabbing some grass.

  “Any falcons around?” Picoid peeked from under the feedbag.

  ‘My dreams … I tried to see a movie with a yacht lady, then got distracted by a candy store. Coronis, anything in my dreams of note? Oh, there’s a box here.’ He turned his head to regard a fancy box.

  “There’s a box to your left with an origami centaur on top,” said Picoid. “I don’t see any falcons.” Picoid flew to perch on a hovering Icosian as Non unfolded and studied the note.

  “Mayor Underhoof, Mom and Dad are leaving Pelion. Not sure why he called Icosian a lacrosse stick. Quid Pro Quo is the nicer Mafia,” said Non. “Swee is back with Middy. What’s in the box?”

  Chyron wondered how the note said all that. “This lawless area provides many unusual drugs. We could make that church in two hours. But first, how are you feeling, brother?”

  “Healthy as a horse,” said Non, his chitchat default. Then yiked at a leech.

  “Yes, I put that there,” said Chyron. “Please, provide for me a genuine answer.”

  Non obliged, pointing out areas that seemed painful or numb. Chyron rewarded him with jabs, salves, staples, stitches and leech removal. “These guys helped this skin patch and got your blood flowing again.” He brushed an area, then looked at the fluff. “You’ve lost more hair than I like. Walk to that tree and back. Remember, cursing suppresses pain, as shown by Stephens-Atkins-Kingston, 2009.”

  Walking didn’t hurt. Non repeated the exercise, feeling at the horseshoes more. He leaned on Icosian to replace a frog gel, then redid the walk thrice, working up a list of aches.

  “Here’s my areas that hurt.” Non put up a screen, which decayed. “I’m glad I’m not a machine.”

  “Left and right supraspinatus? Where Yoke punched you? It’s fine to point. I don’t have all these anatomy terms memorized. Your health hasn’t degraded, fortunately.”

  Non laughed. “Back on Earth, I played Link against a Lynel, a centaur-like creature. Link was almost dead, so he ate ten durian mid-battle to regain full health.” Non ate more fescue. “Trying to upgrade Barbarian armor, I went on a centaur-killing crusade. I’m terrible.”

  “Many games have ecocide. You’d die if you suddenly ate 30 kilos of durian.”

  Non lifted the box. “Do I deliver this?”

  Non sent Picoid to scope out the remote church, near a field with rows of corn. Agave plants surrounded the church itself. Inside, they heard the violin music of Bach’s Chaconne.

  ‘Thanks for the gratuitous info. Do I sound like that?’

  “No need to turn around,” said a voice, followed by the distinctive sound of a shotgun loading a shell. “You may approach our church to speak your peace.”

  Chyron and Non raised their hands as the Shotgun Crow gestured. “We’ll go in,” said Non.

  Inside the modest church, the tall-for-a-crow violinist continued playing, with Picoid perched on a candlestick holder. Behind the altar, a carved wooden anthro crow hung nailed to a cross. The tall crow’s face showed severe burn scars, but wore their outfit impeccably while playing beautifully.

  “You’re injured,” said the violinist. “Recently of complete mind. Did your Earth visit have complications?”

  “I got hit by a train. I’m Non Sequitur the Equitaur.”

  “We don’t use names in this business. You may call me Preacher.” The crow tilted its head into a stained-glass patch of sunlight, showing more of the scars as it stopped playing. “My visit had an apartment fire. My Agent urged me to skip the complete bond. But I endured the smoke and flames to save my mind fully.” Preacher looked directly at Non. “Would you have done the same?”

  Stunned by the question, Non had simultaneous thoughts of “I wasn’t that great,” “He wasn’t worth getting burned alive for,” and “I should be more positive about myself.” Before he could collect himself, the raucous laugh of the crow cut off his thoughts.

  “You’d not suffer mere terrestrial flames for your very soul?” asked the crow in a fiery voice.

  Non took a step back, blinking. Preacher chuckled and put his violin into a black case.

  “You two made the papers. Did you value those millionaires above yourself?”

  “I only knew the train had passengers. That’s all. My injuries weren’t planned. I’m an Agent.”

  “Yet here you are with a mystery box, doing the Devil’s work,” said Preacher.

  “You hold your Earth self in high regard and don’t regret it, so you couldn’t be too bad. I woke up with this box near me and a message from my uncle.”

  “Don’t mention family affiliations or your occupation. You’re poor at this. Head through the door to the kitchen. Forage, if that’s the right term. A wagon due for a two hour ride to the Icy Arm Horse Ranch should arrive shortly. You may hide under bales of hay or trot alongside, so plan accordingly.”

  With Chyron, Non went to the kitchen. Apples, carrots and corn. ‘I miss the CCC cafeteria already.’

  Ten minutes later, while eating carrots, they heard heavy hoof clops.

  “Your ride has arrived, gentle-beings. Go and move the bales,” said Shotgun Crow.

  Outside, the four Percherons, all mares, nickered teasingly to the taurs as they moved bales of hay in the wagon to expose the spot they’d hide in.

  “Mon frère, are we hiding from bad guys, or being delivered to bad guys?”

  “That depends on the trustworthiness of our stepfather. On Earth, he betrayed me three times.”

  “Mayor Underhoof seemed delightful when I last visited our folk,” said Chyron.

  “He’s the funniest, most charming guy I ever met. Everyone likes him.” Non got into the hay bale hiding spot. “Ever play the game Diplomacy? Sometimes it’s fun to see how people betray you.”

  After Chyron knelt beside him, they helped pull hay bales in; then, the wagon was off.

  “What have we gotten ourselves into?” asked Chyron.

  “I have no idea,” said Non. “But I suppose it’s time to use Appraise on the box.”

  “We need to take it apart to find out more. Thank you, Appraise. Got a better name?”

  “Good. So, do we 1. Go over books, 2. Skiver analysis, 3. Appraise practice, 4. Trip planning, 5. To Do list, 6. Tell stories, 7. Fill in Agent forms, 8. Panic or 9. Something else?” enumerated Non.

  “I’m all in favor of panicking. We’re in a firetrap. Someone could shoot a flaming arrow and whoosh: the horses are panicked. Then, as we get some burning bales off so we can stand, one of us passes out from the heat, and the other brother has to make an impossible decision,” said Chyron.

  “Not too hard. We’d be going at horse speed, so just jump forward into a gallop. Slow down the lead, body and wheel horses, then a hard turn to force a tip-over. The wagon on top would put out much of the fire. Then have the horses drag the wagon off me, pull me away from the bales, then prepare to defend against whoever shot at us,” replied Non.

  “That easy? Let’s use appraise to check your recovery more thoroughly,” said Chyron.

  “Check anything you like.”

  On a fully European map, numbers indicated crimes on the multi-decade travel route.

  “A connect-the-dots of death. The only place he visited without crimes was the island of Poland.”

  “Time for a Venn diagram. Appraise, here are suspects in the recent Hercules crimes.”

  A half hour of research along the road concluded that Mayhem avoided contact with Skiver after losing his skin. Non came to a note about knives from Cecrops Chops signed by Algernon.

  “Appraise, did Skiver ever meet Murphy Roths Large?”

  “How do I start this? Long ago, the ancient chimeric Serpent King Cecrops built a palace that became known as the Cecropolis Necropolis of Megalopolis. Like many ancient structures, it was rebuilt and repurposed many times. It’s now a knife factory owned by Algernon, the father of Murphy Roths Large. I’ve delivered water and medical books to it a half dozen times. An orc-human with a stitched face accepted the last delivery.”

  “You believe Murphy is letting Mayhem and others use the estate,” said Picoid.

  “Yes. Also, the funny rhyming name of the place has given me a clue for what’s in the box.”

  “What? Oh, come on,” Picoid spread out his wings. “What did I miss?”

  Non let Picoid read Grassleaf’s letter. “What should I see here, Agent?”

  “The funny rhymes. Measure-treasure, rebonded-absconded, caustic diagnostic lacrosse stick.”

  “Oh, an acrostic. The first words are Many As Your Help Exercise Medusa. The first letters spell MAYHEM,” said Picoid. “You think the box is for Dr. Mayhem.”

  “Yes. And the last letter of each sentence spells out LERNEA. Grassleaf threw me a bone.”

  “Or he set you up, Agent. You have a wordplay susceptibility.”

  “Always a possibility, Picoid.”

  Chyron spoke up. “You two make a charming couple.”

  “Doctor, isn’t regeneration better than this? Swee survived a thermite charge to the chest!”

  “High regen greenskins have a special support network with an organ bank. Surgeons remove the bad and put new parts into the highly modular bodies from afar.”

  “That’s cheating!”

  “Portals and cross-compatible genetics make fast regeneration scientifically realizable.”

  “Why can’t we have… oh, because equine blood types are a mess.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Right. Trolls are extremely cross-compatible. Equines are the exact opposite. I could believe that Mayhem stealing Dad’s eye triggered an immediate rejection.”

  “Why haven’t trolls taken over the world?”

  “The organ banks are limited and portals are expensive. You have a weaker version with Trust Your Gut. While we saved your life, your network found a compatible blood donor.”

  “I see a disadvantage for having a rare race. Are we slowing down?”

  Before anyone could answer, the cart and horses stopped.

  “How might this humble preacher improve thy day, Mr. Maltese?”

  “I need a ride, Preacher. You’re going in the right direction.”

  “Climb aboard then, Maltese. I’ll be glad to have company. This is a lot of falcons you have.”

  “Kniphausen lost a primary feather last night. What is he screeching about? QUIET!”

  “Let me get this straight, Maltese,” said Preacher. “You’re a big falcon, and you control a flock of falcons, but you can’t talk to them?”

  “I can tell them what to do just fine,” said Maltese.

  “Yet you have no interest in what they have to say?”

  “Usually not. Can you talk to birds or not?” asked Maltese.

  “I can talk to crows,” Preacher hedged, before going to some caws. “If I was a falcon, I daresay learning to speak falcon would be high on my priority list.”

  “My friend Flitcraft can talk to birds, but he’s in Eastport. I’ve had more important priorities.”

  “I am sure you have, Maltese. Do you need to bring the full flock with you?”

  “There’s a hunting job we might be useful for. I’m heading in to get details.”

  “A hunting job. If they find your quarry, will they be able to tell you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll hire a bird person if the job is good.”

  “Maltese, I hate to break this to you, but we’re bird people. Have you tried charades with them?”

  “Don’t mock me, Preacher. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Quiet Back There!” Maltese yelled.

  Above them on the bales, the falcons adopted a lower volume grousing.

  “I lost a bet. A big bet. I thought it was a sure thing, but my guy didn’t come through. I had to cover a bond for the Thunderbirds, another sure thing, but I lost it all. I thought I’d be the steward of this region, but Hoopoe outmaneuvered me and now I’m broke.”

  “Hoopoe’s moving up? If only you had a network of spies that kept you apprised.”

  “That would be handy. Quiet! Next one of you that squawks, I’ll be pulling feathers!” yelled Maltese. “Where was I? Yeah. Loyal partner for years and they ended up screwing me.”

  “It’s a tragedy when the big boss doesn’t listen to subordinates.”

  “I know, right? But it has to be the right guys. Since I’m Black, can I say the N-word?”

  “You can say anything you like,” said Preacher.

  “I shouldn’t. But never trusted those guys. My liaison was a Black guy.”

  “We’re Black. You picked an odd character to align with.”

  “Just the feathers are black. CCC messed up. I liked the SR-71 Blackbird. Not this damn Bogart movie. I got into the Air Force, even got to Beale AFB. I hoped to work on Blackbirds, but they got retired. I had to work on Stratotankers from the 50’s. Ugly planes. Then I fell off one and wound up here. I wasn’t Black!”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Maltese had an empire built up for me. CCC said to get a non-Black body, I’d have to be human again and give up all his stuff. I liked being rich. So I put up with being a black bird. But now I’ve lost everything.”

  “I’m sure things will work out.”

  “I hope so. Quiet!”

  “It’s not fair. A couple of days ago, I’m set to buy this whole region. Suddenly, I’ve got nothing. All my accounts, gone! I’m offered this one chance at funds and we get a magnet storm. I can’t even contact Flitcraft to find out what the job is that went to Kniphausen.”

  “Your correspondence goes to a falcon that can’t talk to you?”

  “It works fine when there isn’t a magnet storm,” argued Maltese. “I wasn’t expecting to be stuck out here alone and out of contact.”

  “I’m sure things will work out,” said Preacher.

  Over the next hour, Maltese told more tales of his greatness and unfair failures as Preacher and hidden passengers listened. The falcons brought game to the hay bales and ripped it apart to share. Non winced when blood started dripping on him.

  “Here’s where we part company, Maltese. I’m going to the Icy Arm Horse Ranch. I’ll be turning just up ahead,” said Preacher. “You can get off.”

  “But I’m going to Eastport! You said you were going to Eastport.”

  “I’ve been going to Icy Arm. Your birds have soiled at least four of my bales. If you want to negotiate payment with the owner, please head to the ranch with me.”

  “But I’m going to Eastport. You have to take me.”

  “I’ve been patient with you, Maltese,” said Preacher.

  “Flock, attack Preacher,” said Maltese.

  “Hey! You whipped me! You whipped me! Where’d that gun come from?” screamed Maltese. The wagon jostled as Maltese jumped off. “Attack the crow! Why aren’t you obeying me?”

  The horses continued on, taking a turn, while Maltese yelled from the middle of the road. The falcons flew to the barn at their destination site.

  Preacher laughed raucously as the black falcon’s yells grew distant.

  “A parrot icon gave me falcon Control,” said Preacher. “I have no idea why or how. So I set them all free. Isn’t that something? My apologies for picking Maltese up. He used to be a major player in this area.”

  “Thanks, Preacher. Let us know when it’s safe to get out of here.”

  “You can move the bales, now. Hey, Jim. Sorry about the falcons. Who’s your mechanic?”

  “Gracie? She’s a few properties over.”

  Non managed to stand, helping crows and humans to move the bales. Moving them into the barn, currently a horror movie for hundreds of mice and one woodpecker shivering in a feedbag.

  “Get word to Gracie that Maltese is on the road near us. Maybe still trying to get to Eastport. He’s a former plane mechanic. Ask if she can get him away from here and someplace useful. But he’s dangerous.” Preacher sighed. “Why am I even helping him?”

  “Because you want him far away and gone?” asked Chyron.

  “Yes!” Preacher wrote a note as a young crow stopped in front of him. “Take that to Gracie.”

  Non ensured he had the box before moving bales, helping a human in the barn. “There you go, sir. I put the more soiled bales over here. I didn’t want them mixed in with the… oh, hello, Culpeper. What brings you here to the Icy Arm Horse Ranch?”

  With a casual shake, Culpeper dispatched the hay off his clothing, skillfully realigning his collar with a subtle air of authority. “Agent ??. I spent hours looking over horses and got in some riding time. You won a weekly award for the best ability usage. Division and the discovery of sector fuses. You get this.”

  Culpeper rolled a metal spheroid over the sorting table to Non. “A lacrosse stick option comes later.”

  The words felt magical as Non spoke them aloud: “Disdyakis Triacontahedron.” Tabs appeared on Non’s eyescreen: │? ●. Staff, badge, die. “Bloodfoot mentioned this would have my badge upgrades.” He lifted the gleaming, weighty metal d120. Diameter 63mm, 2kg. Tungsten carbide alloy. It could trackball a cursor on a screen, or hover at one end of his staff. “I appreciate the reward.” Non turned on Information Overload. “How big is this d120 as a sports item? Could I play lacrosse?”

  “Finally, access. Non, leave your Handbook and get brushed down. Do a post magstorm catch-up.”

  The grooms worked in synchrony to brush and clean the brothers, removing loose hair and dirt. The sheen their pelts took seemed show-worthy. Not that he'd be parading around in front of an audience anytime soon, but the care they gave him was no less thorough. Non caught up on messages.

  The equitaurs looked over each other in the dining room, then Chyron noticed a table with the pantomime horse head he wore in Byzantium. “You wore this, mon frère?”

  Non nodded and wrote a note, attaching a picture.

  Culpeper stepped in. “Here’s your Handbook back, Non. I’ve removed the portal lock. Finish that training in Lerna Springs. Ready to go? I have orders for you. I can put you through a portal right now.”

  “Complication, sir,” Non held up the box and note. “My uncle asked me to smuggle this box. I’ve filled out and sent a Justification form. There’s an Enchiridion note that portals can track items. I shouldn’t use your portal to smuggle something.”

  Culpeper shook his head. “I’m reading your justification. So, Mayhem wants the box that Mayor Grassleaf Lettuce Underhoof put into your hands. Approved. He’s part of your assignment, as it happens.”

  “I need to bring in Grassleaf?”

  “By Providence,” Culpeper laughed. “Mercy. No. We want to know what pieces the scoundrel has on the table. I’m mostly here to warn you about a falcon controller named Maltese. Preacher discussed that with me. Anything else I should know about?”

  “The Cecrops Chops knife factory is a likely base for Dr. Mayhem.”

  Culpeper stared at Non for a moment. “You’re serious? What odds would you place on Mayhem being there?” Culpeper moved his compass around the box, examining it.

  “One in six? More if this box heads there. If I may ask, what is the true nature of my Lerna Springs position, sir?”

  “You need a vacation task while you’re recuperating. You’re Lernea’s best-known friend.” Culpeper placed a coin on the box, which glowed momentarily before he put the coin back in his pocket.

  “Am I bait, sir?’

  The volume of Culpeper’s voice rose to indicate his frustration.

  “Of course you’re bait, Agent! You can’t buy lunch without getting involved in something. We can either hide you or watch you. You’re my tricky barrel of sand right now. May as well put you on your home turf.” Culpeper set the box on the dining room table, then slid it to Non.

  “Courier!” called out a voice.

  The rider approached: human, small, courier garb, sharp dresser. The wiry lady vaulted from a lathered gelding and stepped up to Non, holding out a hand. Though the courier weighed little over 40kg, the equitaur felt fear while handing over the box, half watching the exhausted horse getting tended. The courier claimed an examination table with scales and other apparatus.

  With a complex key, the courier opened the box. Inside, within 12 padded notches, glass vials held opaque blue fluid. The courier produced an envelope labeled Greece-bound and a smaller box. After moving two vials to the smaller box, the courier locked both, then took the larger box and vaulted onto a new horse, galloping away immediately. His Division skill indicated Hydra serum in the vials.

  Non opened the letter as Culpeper stepped up behind him. “According to an ability I have, we’re smuggling a component of hydra blood.” Privately, they read the letter.

  “Chyron, do you still want to return to Nessie and Dapper?”

  “Indeed, mon frère, I do aspire to mend those relations. Yet, even under the shadow of our pursuers, I will stand by you if it is your wish. Are you resolute to bootleg for our half-sister’s patriarch?”

  “I feel stupid for doing it, but yes. I release you, Chyron. Keeping you on the front lines of a crime war is wrong. Hopefully, we can catch up more when this is over in a few days.”

  With a gentle hand, Chyron gripped Non's shoulder. “Are you certain? Ah, who am I kidding? I’m relieved. You may take my saddlebags, medicinal supplies, syringe and medications. Would you like my firearm? It is engraved with a labyrinth, and I know your fondness for mazes.”

  Non considered. “Should I swallow my mild gun phobia and take it? Or should I argue my dumb reasons for abstaining? One moment, I’m imagining this argument.”

  “You’re doing one of those mind palace things, brother?” asked Chyron. “Am I winning?”

  “You've won me over. I'll take the gun. But let me offer you something in return. The Appraise ability, I feel, suits you better than me. I have enough head-voices and I have four related skills. I can sense you two work together well. I've learned that clergy can transfer sectors; it's one of the church's mysteries.”

  After exchanging gear, the brothers approached Preacher. “May we borrow a moment of your time? I want to pass on a blessing I've received to my brother.” They both knelt.

  Preacher, the scarred crow, tilted his head. “I'm not sure I've ever done this. There's a ritual to it, usually reserved for the young.” He pressed his feathered hands to the foreheads of the two taurs.

  Non felt the absence as Preacher pulled his hand away.

  “Seems I have the touch after all,” said Preacher. “Are you a religious person?”

  “I died this week. Maybe I should be.”

  “Faith is a journey, not a destination. Even in the darkest of valleys, remember to lift your eyes to the mountaintops. Take each day as a blessing and every breath as a testament to resilience. This life is but a melody, each note echoing into eternity. Sing it well.”

  “I haven’t seen that done in a while,” commented Culpeper. “Chyron, be sparing in your mentions of this blessing. People like Skiver found it valuable. Don’t make yourself a target.”

  Non returned Chyron’s sudden hug as Culpeper opened a portal.

  “Mon frère, our paths diverge. I'll be in Xanthi, not so far away. Rest well and heal. Remember, our bond transcends temporary separations.” Chyron stepped through the gateway and turned to wave.

  “We’re a fraternity for all eternity.”

  Culpeper closed the portal. “Are you ready to head to Eastport, Non?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll need to distribute items and get back into disguise.”

  Culpeper helped Non dress in all the accouterment they’d planned for the ride, ending with the fake horse head, then mounted in the saddle.

  “Now we take matters into our own hands. Hyah!”

  Chaconne — “On one stave, for a small instrument, the man writes a whole world of the deepest thoughts and most powerful feelings. If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind.”