Mutt

MUTT

by EVAN FULLER

Book I of the Rittenhouse Saga

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any reference to actual persons, entities, or events is coincidental or is used fictitiously and is not intended as a statement of fact.

Text copyright © 2011 Evan Fuller

Cover illustration copyright © 2011 by Daniel Govar

Cover layout and text © 2011 By Evan Fuller and Justin Livi

http://www.evanfuller.net

The year of this book's composition, between the Octobers of 2010 and 2011, was an exceptionally trying time for me. I'd like to thank my friends and family—and particularly a small group of loved ones back home—for your immense support, which means more to me than I may show. This book is for you.

Contents

1. A Good Man In Rittenhouse

2. Il Collegio Classico

3. Estate

4. Coming To

5. The Good Doctor

6. The Way Out

7. Jump

8. Into The Night

9. Bargaining

10. Underwater Again

11. The Price

12. Colors

13. Complications

14. Three Dogs

15. Hunger

16. Fire

17. Reunion

18. Victory

19. A Map Of Rittenhouse

Acknolwedgments

About the author...

Visit http://www.evanfuller.net/muttmap to see a map of New Providence!

1

A Good Man In Rittenhouse

You promised you’d take me to see the king.

The gateman regarded Timothy through narrow eyes. Step back, kid, he said coolly. He put two fingers to Timothy's chest and gave a casual shove that sent the boy reeling. "Now, I said I’d try to get you in with the king. Turns out his majesty is awful bloody busy, and there’s no way I’m putting my pretty neck on the line trying to get you in there."

The gateman loomed over Timothy, his gaunt face all stubble and rigid lines. His gray eyes glinted sharp as shards of glass in the waning light. He raised his left hand to brush aside a tuft of the short matted hair protruding from beneath his filthy knit skullcap; his other arm rested inside his wrecked trench coat, suggesting a hidden weapon. Clearly he thought he could intimidate the child; just as clearly, he had no idea how motivated Timothy was. I already paid you, the boy insisted.

Yeah, well, not enough for this. A favor like you’re asking for requires a bit more compensation. So that was what his sudden hostility was actually about. Timothy spat on the ground in disgust, but he knew he had no power here. He dug through his satchel and found half a dozen batteries inside it. With a rigid hand he offered them to the gateman.

The gateman snatched the batteries away and raised one between two fingers, squinting at it through a single open eye. These are good, right? You better not be trying to shortchange me.

Of course they’re good, Timothy replied indignantly, craning his neck to glare at the man. Just like the last dozen I gave you.

That’s a good thing for you, because I don’t want to show you what happens to mutts who try to cheat the king’s men. The gateman’s greasy fingers fumbled through several of the dozen pockets of his coat; finally, he produced a flashlight from his massive backpack. He unscrewed the top and put two batteries in. The flashlight shone brightly in the gathering dusk.

Good thing for you, the gateman repeated. Yeah, follow me. Timothy whispered a prayer of thanks that the man had chosen two of the working batteries; three of the six were dead. The gateman would be outraged when he discovered that he’d been cheated, but one way or another, Timothy counted on being long gone by then.

He followed the gateman through a labyrinth of alleyways, skipping over chasms where centuries of neglect had left the pavement impassable, until at last they reached a desolate street. Timothy waited for the gateman to lead the way, but instead the man sat down at the roadside. Here we are, he said. If it’s on schedule, the palace should be here within the hour.

The last rays of red sunlight slowly bled out, rendering the sky a deep gray overhead. The gateman muttered and swore in low tones; Timothy waited in silence. After half an hour, a pair of round yellow lights was suddenly visible in the distance. The gateman rose as he saw the lights, and Timothy did the same.

Here she is. A real wonder of the world, gracing your measly eyes. The gateman drew another flashlight from his backpack. Its light was a cool green, and the gateman directed it upward, casting its eerie pall on his own chiseled features. He stood illuminated by the roadside, and the headlights began to slow.

The palace was a massive double-decker coach bus, and it towered over Timothy and the gateman as it groaned to a stop before them, its tired brakes protesting the effort. With the gateman’s formidable height, it took him only a step to reach the bus’s entrance, but Timothy fairly leapt from the curb. He entered to find a host of two dozen people mingling in a dark cabin as soft lights of various colors danced over them. The passengers nearest the door tensed as Timothy and the gateman climbed aboard, but when they recognized the man, they greeted him and returned to their conversations.

The gateman led the way to the back of the bus, where they climbed the staircase to the second level. This floor was different than the first; it was dark at the top of the staircase, but a sea of golden light beckoned from the far end of the cabin. Timothy fell into step, and when the gateman bowed, he did the same. Raise your heads, a smiling voice answered their arrival.

Majesty, this child of yours asked me for an audience. The gateman’s speech was more eloquent in the king’s presence. As Timothy’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the king for the first time. Like Timothy, his breeding was clearly mixed; his wide nose and lips contrasted near-white skin. The deep ridges of his face were surrounded by a mane of dreaded hair, each gray-tinged lock adorned with a different bead or ornament. He was dressed in what only the homeless would call finery: mismatched, flamboyant clothes and necklaces recklessly hewn from scrap metal. He peered back at Timothy with acute interest.

I see, he said. Indeed, you are my child, for I be the father of every starving mouth in New Providence. There was a strange rhythm to his speech that Timothy could not decipher. So, son, what brings you here?

I’m dying, your majesty.

The king laughed softly. Indeed, he said, we all be dying in some way.

Timothy lifted his tattered shirt to reveal the bloody sores that covered his abdomen. The king’s deep hazel eyes widened. I see, he said. You come here for medicine, I presume. How old are you, child?

Fourteen, sir.

I go blind before I see another die so young, the king said, his brow creasing along its ancient lines. We have no medicine for this illness, but I know someone who will help you if he can. It will not be easy to find him, but you will do anything you can, I think.

Timothy nodded. Where can I find this person?

That is the tricky thing, the king said. This man, he live in Rittenhouse.

Rittenhouse? Timothy asked incredulously. If I was allowed into Rittenhouse, I wouldn’t be sick to begin with. Do I look like I have proof of my bloodline?

The king laughed again. If ever I see a mutt, son, you are surely a mutt. His face grew somber. I know this is no easy thing. There be ways into Rittenhouse, ways not many know. They are hard to find, and if you go the wrong way in, they will kill you the moment you get inside. But you keep to the secret way, you follow the directions my gateman give you, and if you lucky, you will find the only kind man in Rittenhouse. He will give you food, medicine, a place to sleep as long as you need it.

What will he want in return? Timothy asked.

He is a good man, the king said. He ask of all only what they can give, and he give what they need, as best he can. When your sickness is gone, he might tell you stay, to help look after the other strays I send him.

The purebloods will tear me apart if they find me in Rittenhouse. Timothy’s voice quivered. Is this the only way you know?

This be the only way there is, the king said. You go to Rittenhouse now, you may die there. But you die here for sure if you don’t go. My gateman, he will lead you as far as he can. After that, you’re on your own.

Thank you, Timothy said with another bow.

I am like my friend in Rittenhouse, the king said. I take from every man what he can give. A healthy man come here, he pays for my council. But you, so young and so close to death, I ask nothing from you but your thanks. I pray you find my friend in time.

The gateman, clearly annoyed by his assignment, dragged Timothy from the palace almost before it had stopped moving. He led the way wordlessly through the overgrown slums of New Providence. By the time they reached their destination, the lights of Rittenhouse shone above them, striking haughtily through the night sky. Here it is, the gateman said, motioning to the mouth of a tunnel and the small pool of filth that lay before it. You’ll be going in through the sewer system. It’s a maze in there and you’ll be swimming through a lot of rich purebloods’ leavings, but once you’re in, you’re less likely to get caught going this way than any other. Here, he grunted, handing Timothy a small map. It had been drawn on a crumpled piece of paper, its original contents too faded to discern. Follow this exactly. A lot of times people get lost going this way and never make it out. They wash up out here weeks later. You have a flashlight?

Timothy nodded.

Good, the gateman said. Whatever happens in there, you follow that map. With a muttered phrase and gesture, the gateman dissolved into ash and was carried away by the wind.

Timothy looked at the mouth of the wretched little tunnel, a circle of pure black amidst the near-black that surrounded it. It looked to him like a hole in the world; in the darkness of night, what might otherwise appear merely repulsive became as foreboding as a den of wild dogs. But the stinging pain of his sores reminded Timothy of his errand’s urgency, and slowly he began his descent.

2

Il Collegio Classico

The sound of his shoes against the floor of the collegio's corridor turned heads. Emery ran faster, ignoring the harassed expressions that followed him. A jagged pang pierced his side. He was going to be late. Emery cursed his negligence. Finally he reached the door of the classroom; he staggered to a halt and almost tripped over himself. The door was already closed, and the maestro had begun his lecture. Damnit.

Breathing heavily, Emery fumbled with an impassive doorknob and entered the lecture hall. …you will hear me say throughout the term that— the maestro turned to address the interruption, smiling brightly when he saw its source. Thank you for joining us today, sir Esposti. Please, he said through a thick Chukwu accent, take a seat.

The ten other students were seated on crimson floor cushions arranged in a half-circle facing the maestro. Emery crossed the classroom and took a seat. This was his second term with Maestro Oburumu; the instructor had been his Gateway tutor when Emery had entered the collegio in the spring. This term's course was on…Emery found himself too flustered to remember the subject. Well, he said to himself, I'll figure it out at some point in the lecture.

Where was I? M. Oburumu asked. He pondered his question for a moment and seemed about to find its answer when another late student stumbled into the room, looking even more embarrassed. At least Emery had the fortune of knowing the instructor. Well, M. Oburumu said, Now that everyone is here, I suppose I'll give another introduction. Welcome to Introductory History of Rittenhouse. I am a Chukwu of the Ibo clan. My people are from a nation called Nigeria. I love Jehovah God, I love my family, and I love to teach. M. Oburumu was just as Emery remembered him from last term: his head was shaven, his smile was perpetual, and he visibly displayed the Unity necklace that indicated his citizenship rather than tucking beneath his shirt like most people did.

A mousy-looking Farsi boy raised a hand. I don't know if it's an appropriate question, he said shyly, but why do the Chukwu divide their circle into clans? None of the other circles have a similar division.

A very good question, sir…?

Bhatt, the boy replied quickly. Amir Bhatt.

M. Oburumu grinned. A very good question, sir Bhatt. And while I'll give you a much more thorough answer in our section on circle formation later in this term, suffice for now to say that it is of paramount importance to remember one's history— his eyes scanned the twelve students in the room —which is why I hope you all are here.

Emery smiled inwardly. M. Oburumu was among the most punishing maestros at the school, and those who fell short of his very high standards would be begging their parents within the week to permit their withdraw from the class. A request, of course, that the esteemed sirs and madams would not grant, for none of them wanted their child to be the one who failed at the rigorous collegio. Emery let his wild dark curls fall down the side of his face, concealing an eye so he could observe his classmates' expressions unnoticed. A Vorteil girl, beautiful as a glacier, seemed to catch his eye and glared back. Carla, he thought her name was. Or Chelsea. Emery was horrible with names. He remembered that her uncle was someone important.

Another key focus of this course that sir Bhatt so astutely brings to our attention, the maestro continued, is that Rittenhouse's four circles are, of course, social constructions, amalgamations of innumerable races that existed before extinction. At one point in time, there was more cultural and ethnic variation between the various groups that now comprise the Farsi people than there is between the Farsi and, say, the Roccetti today. He motioned to Amir and then to Emery for emphasis. Today, these two circles coexist peaceably in Rittenhouse. But before extinction, individual factions of what is now the Farsi race waged war upon each other. Of course, we Chukwu embrace peace and the principals of Unity as much as anyone in Rittenhouse, but we also like to take pride in our traditions. He turned to the boy who had come in after Emery. What clan are you, sir?

The boy's accent was thicker than the maestro's; he murmured something unintelligible. In Modern, please, Carla or Chelsea muttered impatiently. The boy spoke more loudly: Tikar.

The instructor grinned. "Cameroon, then. Cameroon was a great nation, almost as great as Nigeria. That is the joy of knowing one's heritage." Emery found himself smiling again. M. Oburumu liked to toy with his students, but he was a good man, a passionate man.

The maestro's smile continued to shine. I believe, he announced, that I now remember what I was saying before the interruptions. I was speaking on the trouble of discerning Rittenhouse's pre-extinction history with any certainty. 'Extinction' itself is something of a misnomer; whatever caused it, the human species ultimately survived. But nations, cultures, perhaps entire races have been lost to history. You will hear me say throughout the term that there are numerous obstacles to our knowledge of the world before extinction or the causes of the catastrophe that we believe reduced the global population to one ten-thousandth of its previous number. Can anyone name one of these obstacles?

Decay of records, Chelsea said quickly.

The maestro nodded. That's correct, Carla. Emery vowed to remember her name this time. For decades or even centuries after extinction, this region was completely uninhabited. It's worth noting that while some of New Providence's inhabitants are called natives, even they migrated here from communities hundreds of miles inland. Most pre-extinction writings were made on paper, not intended to withstand the passage of time, and we consider ourselves very fortunate when we find even fragments of writing intact. Someone else…

The language barrier, offered the Tikar student.

"Aha. This is one of the greatest challenges we face as historians. As I'm sure you all know, the Modern spoken in Rittenhouse and throughout New Providence is a synthesis of various parts, much like the people who speak it. There are vestiges of pre-extinction English in Modern, and historians such as myself have been able to translate large parts of our recovered works. But these