Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Uh, honey? Why did we just get a check in the mail from BlueLight Insurance?”

“Oh, I switched to them and saved 15%, just like they said in their ads.”

“Wouldn’t that still mean we were sending them checks? Or auto-bank-withdrawals?”

“Nope! I was already paying $0 with Insuranch, so 15% off of that means they have to send me money.”

“We just switched to Insuranch! Was that some kind of introductory offer?”

“They promised me 15% off of what we were paying with Pharos. Who offered me 15% off what I was paying with RaceCar. Who offered me 15% off what I was paying with Affinitin. And so on! All it takes is a little math, and some careful reading of fine print, and it’s a loophole that can be exploited.”

“Honey, you’re not going to tell me they’re that stupid. They’d have closed that loophole the second someone else tried it.”

“I’m the first. Turns out cutting percentages and fractions from the national math curriculum was a bad idea.”

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The smith led the warrior into his home and set out a stool of him. “Come, sit. I will begin at once.”

Hesitating, the Norseman looked at his host. “It would be easy enough for you to slit my throat while I am vulnerable, and bring our wager to a premature conclusion,” he said.

“Yes, it would,” the blacksmith laughed. “Lucky for you I am an honorable man, no? In any event, I doubt your men would consent to sitting politely, one at a time, for their own slittings.”

“Fair enough. Show me why the name Braidar is sung by warrior-poets with well-tamed locks, then.”

Going to work, the smith found his customer’s hair to be already well-washed and well-kept, as was the custom of the Norse. There was no need for the lengthy washing that normally accompanied his work, so he was able to get straight to braiding.

The process was complex, and soon the smith had a strand of the stranger’s hair in between each of his paired fingers and yet another held in his mouth as he worked. Yet there was not the faintest tug on the Viking’s scalp, nor did the man feel any pain as his locks were gradually woven into an impressive triple braid.

Once the process was over, the blacksmith retrieved a piece of metal he kept for the purpose, one that he had polished to a near-mirror shine and handed it to his guest. The Norseman admired the braids and gave a low whistle.

“It seems, for once, that your reputation is well-deserved, Braidar,” he said. “I have had my hair braided many times, by my own hand and others, and I say to you now that this is the finest.”

“It was my pleasure,” said the smith. “Go in peace, my friend.”

“A moment,” the stranger said, his hand flitting as if my instinct to the blades on his belt. “You must tell me how you learned this art. Who taught you? Who was the master to your apprentice? If there is one of greater skill than you, I must seek them out.”

“I would rather not speak of it,” the smith said with a wistful smile.

“I’m afraid I must insist.” The warrior’s thumb was hooked easily into his sword belt, but the implication was quite clear. “I cannot consider our wager settled otherwise.”

The smith stood, unmoved, with his homemade mirror still in hand.

“Worry not, friend,” the Norseman added. “I have no desire to steal your secrets, nor those of your master. But my curiosity must be sated.”

“Very well,” said the smith. “I will show you. But I must ask that you respect it; I think you will agree that the source of a skill such as this has earned at least that.”

“Of course,” said the warrior. “Lead on.”

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“I am looking for the one they call Braidar.” The warrior, with gear and a tattoo clearly identifying him as a Norseman come south a-viking, took up nearly the whole door to the small smithy.

The smith looked up, squinting. He was a short man, former muscle sagged into fat around his arms and midsection, hands and arms caked with the scars of a metalworker’s life well-wrought. “For what do you seek him?” the man asked.

In answer, the man tossed his head, which was rich with long curls that were well-kempt, well-washed, a feat even more notable given his hearth and home were both a longboat away. “I have to tame this for battle,” he said, “and I do not wish to shave it, for Gurður has already shaven his head and I do not want the men to confuse us.”

“Surely you will be wearing helmets,” said the smith.

“Helmets may be lost,” replied the stranger. “And I would be lying if I said I was not at least a little curious about this man of braids. I have seen his handiwork only second-hand and wish to experience it. People in town say you are the man to ask for all the comings and goings around here.”

“I know this man that is sometimes called Braidar,” the smith said.

“Good,” said the warrior. He put a coin on the smith’s table. “That’s yours if you take me to him.”

“Keep your money,” the smith said. “Braidar does not accept payment for his work.”

“But you do, surely,” replied the Norseman. “A handsome sum for a tout, all you need to is steer me true.”

“Put the money away,” the smith repeated. “I am Braidar, and I would work on your locks for free.”

“You?” Scoffing, the stranger looked the smith up and down, lingering over the man’s bald head. Only the barest wisps remained to show that the older man had ever had hair at all, and even those were close-cropped to avoid sparks and embers.

“Sit, and I will show you a small sample. If it pleases you, I will do the whole; if not, go in peace.”

The warrior’s eyes darted to the smith’s work, a small knife taking shape.

“You think I would so dishonorably kill a man?” the smith said. “While his brothers-in-arms wait on the river, prepared to take this town on his whim? Surely you can see this is a simple camp knife, and the only weapon you’ll find anyone in this hamlet bearing.”

Mulling the idea around in his mouth like a piece of well-braised pork, the warrior nodded. “I agree to your terms, smith, but let us spice the wager, for life is short and glory eternal. If I am satisfied, my men will leave this hamlet and go a-viking elsewhere. If I am not, we will have this place the way we had Kirlea, and the smoke will be seen for leagues around. Deal?”

Looking at the sheathed sword and matching dagger on the man’s belt, the smith nodded. “Sit down then, and we’ll let the wager roll on like honorable men.”

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“Hey,” the employee–Jeff, according to his name tag–snapped his fingers. “If you can hear me, tell me your name.”

“Mortis.”

“Seriously?” Jeff looked at his fellow employee. “Sarah, you ever hear of people raised as zombies taking on new and more heavy metal names?”

“Makes sense, I guess,” she said, loudly popping a blink bubble of gum and sucking it back in. “Who wants to be a zombie called Steve?”

“Look, it’s not a new zombie name,” Mortis said. “I went by it when I was alive, okay?”

“Is that why you got chewed on by a pack of fasties?” Jeff said. “Death wish of something?”

“Zombie-curious?” Sarah said, snapping a fresh bubble.

“What? No! I had kind of a goth phase in high school, and it stuck,” Mortis said. “I go by Mort most of the time.”

“Oh, so you changed like Mortimer to Mortis?” Jeff said. “That’s kind of cool, I guess.”

“No, I decided that William James Miller IV wasn’t doing it for me, and neither was ‘’Billy,’” Mortis said. “Now can you please help me up?”

“I guess that does kinda rule out Junior, being the fourth,” Sarah said.

“Or Trey, or Trip, cuz those mean the third, right?” said Jeff. “What about Chip? You could go by Chip.”

“How about I go by Mortis? My grandpa is Chip, and he’s already outlived me. Now a little help?”

“Okay, okay,” Jeff said. He hauled Mortis into a sitting position. “Thanks to your Z-Surance, we’ve been able to give you the works. Stitched up the bite marks, replaced your blood with preservatives…”

“Given you the wax coating,” Sarah piped in, sticking her tongue out for a fresh bubble pop.

“Yes, the full Lenin as we like to call it,” said Jeff. “With regular maintenance and application of our Anti-Rot Coating (sold separately) your zombie fixed body can last indefinitely.”

“Unless you want to convert,” Sarah added. “Z-Surance doesn’t cover it if you wanna be a skeleton or something.”

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If you can believe it, he already went by Mortis when he became a zombie.

Why? William James Miller IV was a mouthful, to start with. It wasn’t like William James Millers I-III had been any great shakes, passing their boring name on generation after generation as if it was some kind of precious jewel. Plus, there wasn’t much left in the nickname department. William James Miller I had been “Big Bill,” his son had been “Chip,” and then “Trey.” “Quad” didn’t lend itself well, nor did “Lil Jim.”

So after thirteen years as “Billy” he started going by Mortis, or Mort for short, after a character in one of his favorite video games. Trey and Mrs. Miller had assumed it was a phase, but eventually came around to it so long as he stuck to “Mort.” The name, thankfully, outlasted his rather basic goth phase, but it did help with brand recognition when he tried to set himself up as a freelancer in the city after college.

It also somewhat less thankfully predicted his early death at the hands of a horde of fast zombies in an alleyway.

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Compared to conventional artillery, wizard artillery had both major benefits and major drawbacks.

On the one hand, it was much more powerful and versatile, capable of everything from summoning swarms of biting and stinging insects to feast on enemy rations to full-strength lightning bolts that struck with pinpoint accuracy. As long as the wizard artillery crew’s stamina held out, ammunition was not a concern. And it goes without saying that, on occasions when they were forced to defend themselves at close range, wizard artillery crews were more than capable of doing so.

However, the study of magic was expensive and intensely time-consuming. Even in places like Valois, which had an established system of identifying and training gifted magi from a young age, it could take ten to twenty years for a student to be ready for combat. Training accidents tended to be costly, especially given the need for large focusing crystals to give spells the range and power to be useful as artillery. The crystals themselves were delicate but heavy, requiring horse transport, and they were known to explode with arcane energy as well.

For every triumph like that at Murtagh, where massed wizard artillery devastated a force ten times its size, there was a defeat like the one at Edxix, where heavy cavalry charged and broke a wizard artillery battery before turning its focusing crystals on their former users. One veteran was find of saying: “A wizard is worth 100 cavalrymen, but it only takes one cavalryman to kill a wizard. And cavalry is a lot cheaper.”

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“Mr. Washington, no offense, but that’s a terrible mystery,” said Heath. “Give me a better one.”

“I grant you it’s not the kind of New York City mystery you’ll see on the internet,” Josiah said, “but this is a small town and mystery beggars can’t be mystery choosers.”

“You saying there aren’t any?” Heath said.

“Well, you know Richard Street?” Josiah said.

“You mean Snob Hill?” said Heath.

“No, Snob Hill is Richard St., Jefferson St., and Crestview Cove,” Josiah said. “Part of it, maybe, but not the whole thing.”

“What’s the mystery then?” Heath said.

“You ever been up there? Every single house on Richard St., bar none, has a chicken out front. Some sheet metal, some wood, but none of them food. All art.”

“So…?” Heath said.

“So that’s the mystery!” Josiah said. “I call it…”

The Legendary Cock Street of Tecumseh County

“Oh god, Mr. Washington!” Heath cried. “You can’t call it that!”

“Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it? You got a better name for a lineup of boy chickens all on one street?”

“You can call them roosters, maybe?” said Heath.

“Hmm, I guess I could call it, instead…”

The Legendary Roosters of Dick St

“No! That’s even worse! Just…just stop calling it anything!” Heath shuddered. “Why would you even shorten Richard like that? Nobody does that anymore!”

“Well, I’m an old man, so in my day they did,” replied Josiah. “You telling me you don’t want to hear more about the…”

The Legendary Cocks on Dick Street

“You’re just doing that to make me go away,” Heath said. “You know how gross it is for somebody old to say those words.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josiah sniffed. “You don’t even want to speculate what dark powers the rich folks up there are keeping at bay with their row of fake cocks?”

“NO.” Heath said. “That is the worst mystery ever.”

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“Mysteries?” Josiah said. “Yeah, Tecumseh County’s got mysteries. But you’re not gonna like them.”

“Hit me,” Heath said. “I want to hear all about it.”

“You say that,” Josiah laughed, “But I don’t think you’re quite ready for the…”

Mystery Poo Poo Flowers of Tecumseh County

“Wait, the what?” said Heath. “Poo poo flowers?”

“You asked for it, so please keep your arms and legs inside until the mystery has come to a full and complete stop,” snapped Josiah. “But yes, an enduring mystery around here is the legendary…”

Mystery Poo Poo Flowers of Tecumseh County

“Please stop saying it like that,” Heath said, squirming. “Like the outside of a really bad movie theater.”

“Now, you know as well as I do that folks around here walk their dogs but don’t usually clean up the mess,” Josiah continued, ignoring Heath. “So there’s always been dog poo around here and there, landmines for unwary feet. But within the last couple of years, some of them–not all!–have been converted into the…”

Mystery Poo Poo Flowers of Tecumseh County

Heath wrinkled his nose, disgusted. “How?”

“Nobody knows! Folks who have seen them say it looks like somebody came by with a mold and pressed it into the poo, squashing and stretching it into a little flower shape. But no one knows how, or why, or who.”

“All they know is poo,” Heath said, tongue out. “Give me a better mystery, please.”

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BUZZY: And we’re back. For those of you just joining us, this is PlanTalk on MPR, Mississippi Public Radio. MPR: 51st of 50 states in per-capita public broadcasting funding when you count Puerto Rico, DC, or Guam. I’m your host, Horace “Buzzy” Dickens, and you may recall that we’d just received a call when we were forced to do a station break in order to curry favor with our very few advertisers.

JACOB: Am I on?

BUZZY: Yessir, as you can probably tell from the absolutely epic levels of radio feedback we’re getting. You’re on the air with PlanTalk, and I will go ahead and ask you to turn off any radio you have in the background out of respect for our listeners’ eardrums. They have to listen to my voice already; the least we can do is not torture them with any other sounds that are higher on the pain scale.

JACOB: Hi, Buzzy, my name is Jacob Washington, and I have a question about my plants. I’m having a devil of a time getting the goddamn things to grow, and it’s making me real goddamn frustrated.

BUZZY: Hi there Jacob. Don’t be alarmed by that sound; that was the click of dozens, perhaps hundreds of pearls being clutched in unison by our listeners at your language. But it does give me an insight as to what your problem might be.

JACOB: Oh, sorry. It just slipped out.

BUZZY: Perhaps someday soon we’ll be able to afford a tape delay to bleep you, but today is not that day and tomorrow ain’t looking good either. Let me ask you, though, Mr. Washington: do you swear at your plants?

JACOB: I beg your pardon?

BUZZY: Your plants. You mentioned having trouble getting them to grow. Does that frustration find an outlet in cussing?

JACOB: Well, yes. I get pretty frustrated, so I do swear a little.

BUZZY: Do you call them names? Opine on their recent ancestry from common garden weeds, be that real or imagined? Bring up the cuss bus, fully loaded mind you, and open the door shouting ‘end of the line?’

JACOB: Yeah, I guess.

BUZZY: Well, you see, there’s your problem, son. Your average perennial or annual is not going to be suited, temperamentally or otherwise, to the bevy of sailor-talk that your average Mississippian is capable of unloading. For as anyone who has ever lived here can tell you, our famous civility and hospitality is but a thin rind over a gooey center of pure cussedness.

JACOB: Really? Wow. So do I need to tell them that they’re good plants, pretty plants, stuff like that?

BUZZY: Well, are they?

JACOB: No, sir. They are the ugliest things on the goddamned earth, and when they’re not too busy dying they grow thick and ugly in all the wrong places.

BUZZY: Well then, Mr. Washington, to tell them that they are good plants would be a falsehood. The Good Book is pretty clear about the utterance of falsehoods, ain’t it? And, more to the point, plants are smarter than most folks give them credit for. They’ll know you’re lying.

JACOB: What do I do then?

BUZZY: What you need, Mr. Washington, is some shade-loving plants. It seems to be a given, if you don’t mind me extrapolating, that you’re going to heap verbal abuse on anything and everything in your garden. So why not buy some plants that will take the shade you’re throwing, as the kids say, and soaks it up? Why, with the proper shade-loving plants, you could cuss yourself a secret garden where love may one day grow.

JACOB: Oh, that would be nice. What kind of plants?

BUZZY: Well, kudzu is the obvious choice, growing fat as it does off the misery of humans, livestock, and its fellow plants. But it’s not for novice gardeners, so I’d suggest instead some fudgewort, greater effweed, and–if you can find it–some old-growth savanna acaciawood.

JACOB: So, are you making all that up, or…?

BUZZY: I’m afraid it’s time for another station break. You’re listening to PlanTalk on MPR.

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“You are English?” the farmer said.

“No,” Rhys Chwith said. “I am Welsh.”

“Ah,” Jean said. “So why are you here?”

“Because the King of England took my land and marched her men out to fight in his war with the King of France.”

“Ah, we are the same, then,” said Jean. “We serve the Duc d’Anjou, but the King of France makes us fight for him. In my great-great-grandsire’s time, the King of England did the same when he claimed these lands. Half the men in the village are gone to fight as we speak.”

“Half mine as well,” said Rhys. “All those who could shoot a bow, anyhow.”

“So you are from the English army, then? I had heard it was destroyed at Pontvallain. A very great victory, or so they say.”

“I woke up the night after the battle ended,” Rhys said. He indicated his staff. “This is an unstrung English longbow, you see.”

“Ah! Very clever. You might be mistaken for a simple traveler then, no?”

“That’s my hope,” Rhys said. “I’m trying to make my way to Vaas Abbey, where my kinsmen have a garrison. Do you know the way?”

“It is not far, but do you think you can make it? Not every person you meet will be as easygoing as I am, especially if they’re under arms.”

Rhys shrugged. “I have a shortsword, a bow, and fifteen arrows. What could possibly stand in my way?”

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