Chapter 6: Probably Just Art Theft

Recorder Mayton hummed softly to herself as she swept the gatehouse cellar. Down here, only dust and cobwebs disturbed the numerous records of the Abbey's history; when Mayton was done, not even those would invade this precious place.

You see, Mayton, unlike other beasts, enjoyed cleaning. Especially when she was alone. The silence gave her nothing to distract her frequently tumultuous train of thought, as it wandered through strange and scholarly roads. Besides that, the monotonous tasks that would bore other beasts were perfectly suited to occupy her paws; she didn't like to sit still, and actually found it much harder to focus when she did. As a Dibbun she actually went out of her way to cause trouble, just so she could be 'punished' and made to clean pots or sweep the Great Hall or whatever needed to be done. It took quite some time for the Abbey elders to figure out why she kept being a nuisance, and inform her that she could just ask to help clean if she wanted.

As the evening dragged on, she made her way between the numerous shelves; she paused only when her pile became too large, in order to sweep the pile into a cleverly folded baking tray and dump it into a pot. This pot would later be taken out to the woods, for its contents to be distributed in some cave or another. Gradually, she moved to the far end of the room, cleaning every crevice she could fit her broom into, and making the room shine-at least, as much as old sandstone could. Eventually, the months of shed fur and dirt that had accumulated since her last cleaning were all but eradicated.

She collected the remaining pile into her pot, shook off the broom tines, and put away the broom and tray, then moved on to the next task. While her paws were hard at work removing cobwebs and dead spiders, and convincing live spiders that there aren't nearly enough flies down here to justify making webs so why don't you poor little guys move outside, her mind was whirling about the subject of moving water. She had heard of grain-grinding mills that used the flow of a river to turn a wheel; could she do the same in reverse? Could a wheel be made to push water through it? Or, alternatively, could a wheel be made to push something else, like a boat, through the water? It could work, but she would need to power it somehow. Maybe pedals? She'd seen a set of pedals used to drive a lumber saw once; if she could reproduce that, she could make a… well, a pedal-boat. A fairly simplistic name, but it had a certain ring to it.

As she scraped the last cobwebs off her cobweb-cleaning brush (her own invention!), she turned her mind to her next, and most favorite, task: cleaning Martin's armor! The ancient suit of armor, once worn by the legendary Abbey champion Martin in battle against Tsarmina, had been entrusted to the Recorders after its retirement, and left in the gatehouse. After the cellar had been constructed (following a realization that the gatehouse upstairs was simply not large enough for the growing Abbey records), the armor was moved into its own small room, along with Martin's shield.

Mayton practically danced across the room, her mind full of grand adventures and brave heroes. She flung open the doors of the display room, twirled in place, and opened her eyes to a dreadful sight. The room was covered in a fine layer of ash, that clung to every surface. Several of the straps on Martin's ancient armor had been seared; a few segments of the plate metal that composed it had similarly been damaged by whatever fire had visited this room. Worst of all, the legendary shield of Martin the Warrior, wielded by Matthias against Cluny the Scourge, was-

"GONE!" she cried as she raced into the Great Hall, her eyes full of tears. "Oh, Abbess, it's gone," she said, falling to her knees next to Abbess Peony and clutching at her habit. The other beasts in the Great Hall-Ranga, Tyrel, Raspal, and Brenna, to be precise-turned to the spectacle, distracted from their current discussion.

Peony looked down at the young mouse sobbing into her robe, and reached out a paw to comfort her. "There now, Mayton, what is it that's gone?"

"The shield of Martin the Warrior is gone! The legendary shield, one of the great artifacts of this abbey, gone, taken from it's place of rest! Oh Abbess, it's gone, it was stolen!"

Peony lifted Mayton's chin with her paw, and looked her in the eye. "There there, child. You're overthinking things. Are you certain it was stolen?"

Mayton looked down again. "N-no," she stammered. "No, I guess I'm not."

"Indeed. Now, calm down for a few minutes, and describe what happened."

Mayton eased her way onto one of the dining benches, and thought back. "Well, I was cleaning the gatehouse cellar, and getting it presentable. I had just finished cleaning out the cobwebs, and I went to clean Martin's armor. But when I opened up the room, the shield was just… just… GONE!" She burst into tears again.

Peony's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Hmm. Was there anything else, any other evidence of what might have happened?"

"W-well," she said, sniffing back sobs, "there was ash, all over the place. An-and the armor was seared a bit."

Peony's eyes widened slightly, and she turned and looked to the others in the room. A silent conversation seemed to transpire, as the gathered beasts looked at one another. Finally, Peony turned back to Mayton, and placed a paw on her shoulder. "Thank you, child for informing us. We'll look into it immediately."

Tyrel raised his paw. "Yes, Tyrel?" Peony responded.

Tyrel signed, "Go-tell-black-knight-come?"

Peony nodded. "Yes, excellent idea. Right now, we could use all the help we can get."

Tyrel stood up abruptly and saluted, a determined expression on his face. Then Ranga spoke up. "Er, not to insult yer injury or anythin', but wouldn't it be better if someone else went ta fetch him?"

"Tyrel is the fastest beast the Abbey has," Peony countered.

"Well, yeh, but is speed really nec'sarry here? Besides, if he wastes all his extra time tryin' to actually give the message, we ain't really savin' time anyway. I may not be as fast as Ty here, but I don't think Charl speaks in sign."

"Very well; you've made your point. Friar Raspal, would you kindly pack him some food for his journey-yes, Mayton?"

Mayton lowered her paw slowly. "Um… I want to go with Ranga."

Peony raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Why?"

"I just… I just feel like I need to. Like this is something I'm supposed to do."

"Very well then." Peony turned to Raspal. "Looks like you'll need to pack for two."

"Oh, the burdens of a master chef," Raspal quipped. Then, seeing the look on Peony's face, he hastily added, "Hey, I'm not complaining. Food's what I do best." He stood up, then motioned for the two adventurers to follow. "Come on, let's pick you out some vittles."

After the three had left, Peony turned to those still in the Great Hall. "Shall we go inspect the crime scene?"

Tyrel replied with a questioning expression and a single sign: "Sword?"

Peony waved it off. "The sword is not missing; it can take a lower priority for now. The shield should be our main concern at this time."

The three left the room. Across the room from them, on the floor before Martin's tapestry, lay a pile of ash; atop this meager remnant of what was once its display mounting sat Martin's fabled sword, still warm to the touch.

"YOU'RE IN CAHOOTS WITH THE FLITCHAYE?"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't yell," Short Round admonished.

"Still, you-how-what-why?" Abzel stammered.

"Because I'm literally mere meters away from you."

"What? No, why do you know the Flitchaye? They're a bunch of cannibals!"

Short Round stopped in his tracks. The sound of a heavy inhalation came from within his suit, followed by a long, slow breath outward. His free paw meticulously curled each finger inward, clenched tightly into a fist, then released. Finally, he spoke: "The Yalza Flitchaye are not cannibals; that stereotype has been perpetuated far beyond reasonable limits. They are simply withdrawn and mistrustful of strangers, as are many of the Flitchaye tribes." He began walking again.

Abzel broke into a sprint to catch up with Short Round. "That still doesn't explain much! What in the name of flying fur are 'Yowza' Flitchaye?"

Short Round paused, and turned to Abzel. "It seems an explanation is in order." He moved over to a tree, and deposited Edgy's headless corpse in its shade. "Toss me the helmet, would you?" he asked holding out a paw. Abzel, being far smaller, only barely managed to lob the helmet close enough for Short Round to catch. He set the helmet atop the rest of the armor, then sat down next to it. "Alright, where to begin…"

"The Flitchaye, as they are most widely known, are a… conglomerate, so to speak, of different tribes. They are known most prominently for two things: their war cry, for which they are named; and their alchemical abilities, which are the source of the infamous Flitchaye gas. Aside from that, though, the tribes are actually quite varied in actions and customs.

"Now, historically, the Flitchaye tribes have dwelt predominantly in Mossflower; however, their offshoots have spread out across most of the continent. I've seen them as far south as the peninsula beyond Portus Cale, and a good ways into the Pale Desert to the east of here. All of those different branches function in different ways; one of the tribes in northern Mossflower, the Morra tribe, hides underground, under woven mats that blend with the forest floor; another, Tirsa, uses the tightly packed tree canopy to move without being seen from the ground. The marsh tribe Furaya, a ways south of Floret, is particularly notorious for its use of traps and snares in the marsh mud.

"But I'm getting sidetracked. In any case, the Flitchaye are widespread and quite varied. Not only in methods, mind you. Some tribes are indeed cannibalistic, and capture wayward beasts to kill. Others are territorial, driving off, enslaving, or killing intruders on their land. Still others will capture beasts to rob them of valuables. The Yalza are actually quite low-key in this regard; they will attempt to scare off or capture most beasts that enter their lands, but they do not steal from or kill their captives, and they rarely commit to full-scale battles. Quite frequently, those beasts that fall victim to the tribe's gas usage are deposited away from their home, unharmed besides their incapacitation."

Abzel nodded contemplatively. "I get it, I think. Still, why do you even bother with them? If they're so, um, "low-key", why not just leave them be?"

Charlemagne held up two fingers. "Two reasons. One, they're basically on my porch. It takes only a few hours to reach my home from here, even at a slower pace. It's in my best interests to befriend beasts that close to my doorstep.

"Two, the Flitchaye gas. The mixture is a closely-held secret in the tribe, and for obvious reasons. The properties of the gas are a medical anomaly; they are capable of rendering a victim completely unconscious, without any long-term side effects. In addition, the gas works equally well against beasts of all sizes; other methods of incapacitation must be tailored precisely to a beast, based on size class, weight, heart activity, and so on. The medical and tactical applications of such a mixture are astronomical. However, the alchemical formula is only entrusted to those who are considered tribe members."

"Ah, I get it. So you befriended them so you could get your paws on their wonder-gas recipe?"

Charlemagne laughed. "Actually, no. I already knew the recipe by the time my travels led me back to Mossflower. I had learned it from another tribe, on the Southern Peninsula, after befriending them and joining their tribe. In return, I have given my assistance to all Flitchaye tribes that I have met, in honor of our brotherhood."

Abzel muttered, "I'll have to ask you more about those travels, when my head isn't spinning from new information."

Welking, who had up until this point been lagging behind, wandered into the clearing. "Why are we stopped?" he asked.

"I'm giving your fox friend a lesson on the Flitchaye tribes," Short Round replied. He pushed himself to his feet, and collected Edgy's remains. "It would be best if we continued onward now." He turned back to the east, took a few steps, then stopped again. "It occurs to me that I haven't learned your names yet," he said slowly.

"Um… heh. We don't know yours either. Um, I'm Abzel, he's Welking, nice to meet you, Mr..."

"Charlemagne," the knight said with a bow. As he did so, Edgy's helmet slipped off his body and fell to the ground.

Abzel picked up the helmet again. "That's a lot better than the name I gave you earlier, in my head."

Charlemagne cocked his head to the side. "Oh? What might that be?"

Abzel averted her eyes. "Um, Short Round."

Charlemagne lurched backward and gave a roar of genuine, hearty laughter. "Haaahahaha! Oh, heh, I'll have to remember that one! C'mon, let's get moving."

Smack came to his senses on a rather soft mattress, covered in something red. "Ugh…" He caressed his throbbing head and looked around.

The room was definitely well-kept; the immaculately polished birchwood furniture set a beautiful contrast against the clean, blue walls. The faint scent of lavender hung on the air, drifting in from the far window on a refreshing breeze.

No, wait. Smack sniffed his paw. Apparently, he was the source of the lavender scent. Seriously? He didn't smell that bad, did he?

Something stirred on the other side of the room, and caught his attention. Over in the corner, nestled inside a blanket on a well padded chair, was Amity. She yawned widely, rubbing one eye, and looked over at him. "Oh, you're up…" She reached over to the dresser beside her, and grabbed a bell from atop it. It produced a high-pitched chime, sweet and melodious to the ear. Then she unceremoniously dropped it on the floor, rolled over, and pulled her blanket over her ears.

The door opened, and one of the bat-creatures came through. "Morning, hon," she said cheerily, as she set down a tray of breakfast victuals beside his bed. "Alright, we've got pancakes with maple syrup, scrambled rock pigeon eggs-unfertilized, mind you-a berry mix from the farms, and some milk."

Smack picked up a fork, then hesitated. "How… how do I pay for all this?"

The bat-creature waved the question aside. "Oh, don't worry; we're happy to serve! Besides, wouldn't want to tick off your big friend, now would we?"

"You mean… Mako?"

She nodded. "Yep. Big fella came by last night looking for you. We told him about last night's little incident, and that you were resting upstairs, and he seemed satisfied with that."

"Oh." He looked down at the food. Something in him said that this was a debt he couldn't repay easily, and he shouldn't get himself in too deep here. That something was quickly overruled by the scent of fresh pancakes and eggs, and he dug in with zeal.

Thirty minutes later, a fully awake Amity and a jaw-nursing Smack returned to the tavern proper. "Once I can understand, kid, but twice?" Amity was chiding.

"I told you it waf an acfident!" Smack protested.

"And I told you, you should have realized they weren't pitted after the first one!" Amity broke off into a fit of laughter. "Hey, Meer! Hit me!" she said, clambering onto a bar stool.

"Comin' right up," replied Myriad from behind the bar. "Cherry mead good with you?"

Amity snickered. "Heh, topical. Sure!" Leaning over the bar, she added in a rather ineffective whisper, "The kid bit a few cherry pits in his breakfast!"

Myriad made a few quick breaths that resembled laughter. "Well, they were fresh." He reached under the counter, procured a mug, and set it under the tap of one of the large barrels against the back wall. The tap produced a deep red liquid with a fair deal of head. "There you are," he said, setting down the mug in front of her. "What about you?" he asked Smack.

"Eh." Smack looked down at his patchy, pink-stained fur. "Why am I red?"

Amity let out a weak laugh, then grew somber and looked away. Myriad picked up the explanation for her. "Well, Miss Atomic Bomb here got a bit drunk and decided that she didn't like you talking to someone else."

"Miss what-now?"

"Never mind; just an expression. Anyway, in quite the drunken tantrum, she threw a bowl of beetroot soup at you. We did our best to clean it off, but it soaked in pretty deep."

"Clean it off? You mean you gave me a bath?" Smack's voice rose a few notes in panic. "Don't you know what that does to vermin?!"

Myriad laughed. "Ah, relax. That old dissolution thing is just a myth; a little soap never killed anyone. Besides, you needed it more than you realize."

Smack growled at the implied insult. Myriad just held up his paws and grinned slightly. "Forgive a beast for honesty, will ya?"

The sound of music drifted in through the windows. Amity's ears perked. "You hear that, kid? There's a duel! C'mon, you can't miss this!" She grabbed his arm, hopped off of her barstool, and dragged him out the door, leaving her unfinished mead on the counter.

Sorry about the Flitchaye rant. The original scene was pretty cheap; I played the "Welking's amnesia is suddenly patchy" card. The scene was bulky, and stupid, and completely cut off any actual explanation, so I scrapped it and tossed something together that sorta fit with the lore. (In the books, the Flitchaye were north of Redwall. Very big error; can't fix with my "old chapter editing" budget.) EDIT: I've sorely overdrawn on my "old chapter editing" budget at this point, but I had to fix several inconsistencies with my current canon. Back when I wrote this, I had very little idea of where I was going; now that I do, I have to change a lot to get it back on course.