The Undermining of Twyla and Frank
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Synopsis
From the author of The Undertaking of Hart and Mercy comes a heartwarming fantasy with a best friends-to-lovers rom com twist set in the delightful demigod and donut-filled world of Tanria.
The entire town of Eternity was shocked when widowed, middle-aged Twyla Banneker partnered up with her neighbor and best friend, Frank Ellis, to join the Tanrian Marshals. Eight years later, Twyla’s rewarding career patrolling the strange land of Tanria remains a welcome change from the domestic grind of mom life, despite the misgivings of her grown children.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) a recent decrease in on-the-job peril has made Twyla and Frank's job a lot safer ... and a lot less exciting. So when they discover the body of one of their fellow marshals near an enormous footprint—and Frank finds himself the inadvertent foster dad to a baby dragon—they are grateful to be back in action.
Soon, the friends wind up ensnared in a nefarious plot that goes far deeper than any lucrative Tanrian mineshaft. But as danger closes in and Twyla and Frank's investigation becomes more complicated, so does their easy friendship. And Twyla starts to realize that her true soul mate might be the person who has lived next door all along...
Release date: July 2, 2024
Publisher: Orbit
Print pages: 448
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The Undermining of Twyla and Frank
Megan Bannen
Twyla Banneker’s unlikely career as a Tanrian Marshal began with a tuna casserole, which is to say, it began with Frank Ellis. She had presented him with the hot dish of starchy comfort the day that his wife left him. At the time, she could not have imagined that the casserole would lead to twelve years of friendship, eight years in law enforcement, and feeling perfectly at ease signing Frank up to run the miniature-equimaris rides with her at the county fair as part of the new Marshals in the Community initiative. Yet here she was, managing a line of over-sugared children and their exhausted parents and grandparents while her partner-cum-best-friend dragged the team around the water tank for four hours.
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” Frank muttered at Twyla after lifting yet another wet, screaming child off the scaly back of a miniature equimaris and handing him off to his mother. Oblivious to the young rider’s shrieks of distress, the little purple water horse kept on swimming around the tank, nipping playfully at the kelp-like tail of the equally petite creature in front of her.
“Chief Maguire said we had to sign up to volunteer at the county fair, and you love equimares.”
“Regular-sized ones. Without children on their backs.”
“But you like kids.”
“I like my kids. Who are fully grown. Other people’s kids?” He shuddered.
“Pfft.” Twyla gave him a dismissive wave before fetching the next round of riders. Years of whipping up cookies for temple bake sales, scrounging up costumes for school theatricals, and leading unruly scout troops had made her an expert at this sort of thing. Her late husband, Doug, used to joke that her middle name should be I’ll Do It. Twyla “I’ll Do It” Banneker. That’s you, he would say with a fond shake of his head.
It’s not like you’re going to do it, she would think but never say aloud.
Frank, on the other hand, was here by her side, doing the thing that no one else wanted to do, gods bless him.
“Saddle up, Little Marshals,” he declared in his deep southern Bushong drawl as he stood next to the sign that read “Little Marshals Miniature Equimaris Rides!”
Several adults in line tilted their heads to ogle Frank over Twyla’s shoulder. Back in the day, when he and his family had moved in next door to her, he’d still had a bit of youthful roundness to his face, and his acne scars had pocked his skin like fresh craters. Now the crow’s feet at the corners of his big brown eyes and the silver streaks in his shoulder-length black hair gave him an air of distinction. Even his old acne scars lent him a certain rugged pulchritude, as the lines of his face had grown firmer over the years. In his twenties and thirties, he had not turned heads; in middle age, he turned many.
Twyla’s appearance, on the other hand, had always been bland and had only grown blander over the years. Her frizzy brown hair had dulled to a color resembling tepid dishwater. The freckles on her face and shoulders and arms and knees had faded into a barely there ruddy constellation across her softening body. The lashes that rimmed her brown eyes had thinned, as had her eyebrows, rendering her face washed out and forgettable. These days, whenever she felt inclined to study her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she cursed her past self, the young woman who had not appreciated her fresh-faced charm in her twenties and thirties.
Once she’d plunked the next eight kids onto eight colorful saddles, she bumped Frank in the hip. “Giddyup, Marshal Ellis.”
“You owe me big time for this, Marshal Banneker.”
“Please. You do it out of love.”
He was reaching for the bridle of the lead equimaris when he stopped, put his hands on his hips, and bowed his head. He didn’t stay that way for more than a few seconds, but it was long enough that the unmoving Little Marshals started to get restless, long enough that one of the miniature equimares blew water bubbles in annoyance, long enough for Twyla to consider panicking in that Oh gods, is he having a heart attack? kind of way.
“Frank?” She put a hand on his arm.
He shook himself. “I’m good,” he told her before tugging on the bridle to lead the miniature equimares around the tank once more.
“Then stop being so grumpy.”
“I am fifty-three years old. That officially makes me a grumpy old fart, doesn’t it?”
Twyla fell into step beside him. “I’m two months older than you. If you’re an old fart, what does that make me?”
“As smooth and mellow as a bottle of fine wine,” he answered without missing a beat.
Twyla could both hear and feel her thighs rubbing together as she walked. “I think you mean ‘full-bodied.’”
“That is a land mine, and I am not going anywhere near it.”
They walked a few paces without needing to fill the conversational void. Frank stared off into the middle distance with his usual slow and steady deliberation before he spoke again. “Will you think less of me if I admit to some ingratitude?”
“As long as it’s not about me.”
“Never.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t you think the job has gotten sort of…” He glanced around furtively and lowered his voice. “Boring?”
“I have to admit, when you convinced me to join the Tanrian Marshals, this is not what I had in mind,” Twyla conceded as she sidestepped a puddle.
Ever since the portals into Tanria were invented twenty-seven years ago, entrepreneurs and adventurers had poured into the former prison of the Old Gods to seek their fortunes. Many of them had been killed by the undead drudges that used to inhabit the place, hence the creation of the Tanrian Marshals. But a year ago, marshal-turned-sheriff-of-Eternity Hart Ralston had miraculously rid Tanria of its undead infestation, making Twyla and Frank’s job much safer.
And less exciting.
“It’s not just the community service stuff,” said Frank. “Even when we’re on patrol in Tanria, I’m bored out of my gourd. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad that the drudges are gone, but all we do these days is bust bird poachers or pimply teenagers sneaking in to bottle up ambrosia.”
One of the miniature equimares gurgled in surprise as a child pulled on its mane, a sound that echoed the alarm bells going off in Twyla’s head. “Are you wanting to retire sooner rather than later?”
“No, no. I’m happy to hold out for a couple more years until Hope’s made it through med school and you’re fully vested.”
It was a relief to hear it, but then Twyla felt guilty for being the reason Frank was sticking with the marshals when he could walk into Chief Alma Maguire’s office today and announce his retirement.
“You don’t have to wait for me.”
“What am I supposed to do in retirement without you?”
“You could get cracking on our master plan—find the property for the equimaris ranch, start building the bed-and-breakfast—and I could catch up in two years.”
“Last lap!” he called to the riders before he looked at Twyla with a face full of warmth. “Nah, darlin’, we’re doing the ranch and the bed-and-breakfast together. I’ll wait. At least busting poachers and pimply adolescents is easy. Your second child is trying to flag you down, by the way.”
Twyla turned and spotted her son Wade in line holding two-year-old Teo while her other grandsons, Manny and Sal, bickered over who would get to ride the miniature equimaris with the glittery pink saddle. Wade motioned her over, nearly dropping Teo in the process.
“Hey, Mom, got a minute?”
“Not really, honey. I’m working.”
“You’re volunteering, actually.”
“Chief Maguire has us on the clock for this.”
Wade pulled Teo’s hands away from his face as the toddler attempted to stick his drool-coated fingers into his father’s mouth. “Okay, but what are you doing after?”
“Going to work, the not-volunteering kind.”
“Well, shit, I guess that means you can’t watch the kids for a bit?”
“Not unless they’ve decided to take up a career in law enforcement. And watch your mouth, will you? There are children all over the place here.”
“Pfft,” he said, the same dismissive sound she had directed at Frank. “As if they haven’t heard it before.”
“Some people’s children haven’t.”
Teo grinned at her and said, “Shit.” Twyla gave her son an I told you so look.
“Hi, Wade,” Frank called as he guided the lead miniature equimaris past them.
“Hi, Frank,” Wade answered with a wave, nearly dropping a squirming Teo again. He turned back to his mother. “Do you have to head straight to Tanria? Can’t you fudge a little and take the kids off my hands for an hour or two?”
“I could, but I’d be defrauding the taxpayers of the Federated Islands of Cadmus, who pay my salary.”
“So you’ll do it?”
Twyla’s right eye twitched. “No.”
“You can take the boys on all the rides. Grandma-grandkids bonding time and all that. It’ll be fun,” Wade pleaded.
Twyla glanced at her son’s two oldest children. Manny stuck his finger up his nose and wiped the results on Sal’s bare arm, shouting, “No givebacks!” Sal shrieked in outrage as Manny darted behind Twyla to use her as a human shield.
“Hey, Twy, do we have a 4-29 on our hands?” Frank asked as he passed by them again.
She shook her head. “It’s fine.”
Wade’s forehead crinkled in confusion. He’d inherited his overbite and brown eyes from Twyla, but his chestnut waves and broad shoulders and, most of all, that befuddled look on his face made it clear that he was Doug Banneker’s son, through and through. “What’s a 4-29?” he asked.
“Tanrian Marshal code. Don’t worry about it.” In fact, it was Twyla-and-Frank code for Do you need me to rescue you from a socially awkward situation? but she wasn’t inclined to tell him that. “Honey, I’d love to help you, but I’m working.”
“But Anita’s volunteering in the crafts tent. How am I supposed to manage the kids all day on my own?”
“I thought she only had a three-hour shift.”
“Same thing.”
“One more lap,” Frank told her as he passed by again, brushing her arm in moral support.
Twyla took a deep, calming breath as Wade begged, “Please, Mom? They wear me down to a nub, but you’re a natural with them.”
Echoes of her late husband drifted around her, this pernicious and lingering Old Gods notion that a uterus somehow endowed one with inherent childcare abilities. She put her hands on her son’s shoulders and assured him, “You’re a big boy. You can handle this, I promise you.”
“End of the line, partners. Happy trails,” Frank announced to a chorus of disappointed groans and only one sob of relief. Twyla gave Wade’s shoulders one last pat of encouragement before helping Frank change out the riders. None of her grandkids got the equimaris with the sparkly pink saddle.
Once the ride was over, a couple of marshals whom Chief Maguire had also coerced into volunteering at the county fair came to relieve Twyla and Frank. Twyla kissed Wade and her grandkids goodbye before heading to the food vendors with her partner for a late lunch. Literally everything on offer was deep-fried and smelled divine, but Twyla forced herself to settle for the least bad-for-her option, which was, sadly, a corn dog. Food in hand, she and Frank walked past the delighted screeching of children on the Flying Dragon swings and sat at a picnic table on the fairgrounds. They were finishing up when Frank crumpled his paper napkin and uttered, “Aw, Salt Sea.”
“What?” Twyla turned in her seat to see Liz Brimsby walking toward them, pie plate in hand.
“Yoo-hoo! Frank!” Liz sang.
“Hi, Liz.” Ever polite, Frank put on a brave face, but several hours of working with small children had diminished his usually bottomless well of patience.
As a general rule, Twyla steered clear of Frank’s romantic life unless he asked for her advice, but she could see plain as day that he wasn’t interested. She chirped “Hi there, Liz” in a feeble attempt to run interference on his behalf.
It didn’t work. Liz glanced at her only long enough to say “Hi” before returning her attention to Frank. “I saw you running the miniature-equimaris rides. I had no idea you were so good with children.”
“Oh yes, Frank loves other people’s children,” Twyla agreed with an irony that sailed over Liz’s head. Frank shot her a look that said What are you doing to me? and Twyla tried, once again, to deflect Liz’s attention. “Do I spy a blue ribbon on your pie?”
Liz dimpled, a gesture somewhat undercut by the fact that she had pink lipstick on her two front teeth. “Yes! But I’m watching my figure, you know, so I thought Frank might like to have it.”
“You’re giving him your pie?” By the time Twyla got to the last word of her question, she could barely contain her mirth. She teared up with the effort of not laughing as Frank murdered her with his eyeballs from across the picnic table.
“My prize-winning pie.”
Clearly making an exit, Frank rose and told her, “Thank you, but I’m afraid we’re heading into Tanria, so…”
Now it was Twyla’s turn to murder Frank with her eyeballs. Whether he wanted to date Liz Brimsby or not was irrelevant in this situation; the woman knew how to bake a good pie.
“What kind is it?” Twyla asked, praying Don’t be gooseberry to the Bride of Fortune.
Liz gave her a flat stare. “Peach. For Frank.”
Twyla nodded innocently, but she knew that any dessert of Frank’s was essentially her dessert, too, no matter who baked it and for what seductive purpose.
“We need to get a move on,” Frank insisted.
Liz leaned flirtatiously over the table as she slid the pie plate across the wooden boards toward Frank. “Stay safe in Tanria. I’ll catch you when you get back.”
Frank uttered a noncommittal sound, and she sauntered away. Twyla was of the opinion that Liz was shaking her hips rather excessively, and was, therefore, uncharitably gratified when the other woman tripped on the uneven ground. But honestly, who wore heels to the county fair?
“Don’t say a word,” Frank warned her as he reluctantly picked up the pie plate.
As if Twyla could resist that kind of temptation.
“Liz Brimsby, huh?”
“I am not dating her.”
Liz turned around long enough to give Frank a coy finger wave. He scratched his eyebrow, pretending that he did not see the gesture.
“Does she know that?” asked Twyla.
“Apparently not, thanks to you.” He headed for the autoduck in the parking lot, leaving Twyla to catch up.
“How is this my fault?”
“Ever since you made me dance with her at the Founders’ Day party, Liz thinks I have a thing for her.”
“I did not make you dance with her.”
“You most certainly did.”
“I would never make you dance with anyone.”
“You would if Liz Brimsby was trying to corner Mercy Birdsall to make her recount the horrors of nearly being killed by a drudge on Main Street.”
A vague memory tickled the back of Twyla’s mind. “Oh wait, this is starting to ring a bell.”
A drudge—one of the reanimated corpses that used to infest Tanria—had, in fact, found its way to Eternity’s Main Street and lunged at Mercy Birdsall last Founders’ Day, and Mercy had been rescued at the last minute by Hart Ralston, the former Tanrian Marshal who was now the town’s sheriff (and Mercy’s fiancé). Everyone and their mother had pestered poor Mercy that night at the party until Twyla and Frank ran interference for her so that she could escape for a bit of fresh air.
Frank treated Twyla to an uncomfortably accurate impression of her from that night. “‘Oh no. Liz Brimsby is heading this way. Ask her to dance, Frank, before she corners Mercy again.’”
By now, they had arrived at Frank’s autoduck, a serviceable four-door model with a maroon-painted body. The duck was a good fifteen years old, but Frank washed and polished it religiously and changed out the tires long before the treads wore out. He unlocked the passenger-side door and opened it for Twyla.
“I guess I did make you dance with her,” she admitted before she slid onto the bench.
She peeked under the foil covering the pie plate as her partner settled in behind the wheel, started up the duck, and drove them toward the road. The divine scent of butter, sugar, and peaches wafted over her. “You could do worse. Liz bakes a mean pastry crust.”
“I do not want to go out with her, Twy.”
“Suit yourself.”
“She won’t leave me alone. She’s like a barnacle, and I’m the hull of the ship.”
“You’re too nice. It’s time to start scraping, sailor.”
She stared at the pie in her lap, her thighs spreading to either side of the plate, and thought, morosely, that Liz wasn’t wrong about watching her figure. If Twyla indulged in a slice, all that butter and flour and sugar were sure to glue themselves to her hips for all eternity.
The pie.
In her lap.
She started to giggle.
“What?” asked Frank.
“She gave you a pie.”
“So?”
“Her award-winning pie.”
“Oh my gods—”
“Don’t you want to eat her pie, Frank?” Twyla cackled without remorse.
“Ugh, Twy, stop it!”
She wiped away a tear of hilarity from the corner of her eye. “What, I can’t make a pie joke?”
“No.” He shook his head with vehemence. “Nooooooooo.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re you. You mop your floors on a regular basis and bring cheesy potatoes to funerals.”
“So because I do housework and cook comfort food, I’m not allowed to make mildly offensive jokes?”
“That sounds about right.”
Twyla batted her eyes at him and imitated Liz. “‘I’m watching my figure, you know, so I thought you might like to have my pie.’ Honestly, why go to the trouble of baking something delicious if you refuse to eat it? A man goes gray, and everyone thinks he’s debonair. A woman gains a few pounds, and she may as well be dead.”
Frank glanced at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, that puts me in mind of a song.”
“Oh no.”
“On the day we wed, you were as sweet as honey,” he sang. The word honey hit the bass notes of his impressively low register.
“No,” Twyla groaned.
“Yes,” Frank groaned back.
“That song is godsawful.”
“Come on, darlin’, you know the words. And you…”
Twyla relented. “And you looked fine in your daddy’s three-piece suit.”
“There she is. Now you’re old and drunk and spending all my money.”
“Now your lying mouth ought to meet the pointy toe of my boot.”
Early in their friendship, they had discovered a mutual tendency to burst into song whenever the lyrics to a particular ditty seemed relevant to the topic of conversation. Considering the fact that most of the records cranked out of the Bushong music scene over the past half century wailed about lost love and bitterness, it was pathetic how close to home some of those songs hit.
Twyla took a breath before belting out the first line of the refrain. “Oh, your ass is draggin’.”
“And your ass is a-saggin’.”
Together, they sang the song’s title, in harmony no less. “But no one else will have me, so I guess you’ll have to do.”
The chalkboard grid outside Chief Alma Maguire’s office at the West Station informed them that Ellis / Banneker were slated to cover the day shift in Sector W-14 for the next ten days, with Herd / Duckers taking the night shift. On the corkboard next to it, someone had tacked a sign-up sheet for educational presentations at local retirement homes, another Marshals in the Community gig.
“Ugh,” Frank grumbled an instant before their boss popped her head out of her office across the hall to ask, “Ellis, Banneker, what’s this I hear about you bringing treats?”
Twyla froze, a statue dedicated to guilt, while Frank surreptitiously dusted flaky crumbs off the front of his blue work shirt.
Maguire narrowed her aquamarine demigod eyes, a pair of ice daggers in her brown face. “Salt Sea, seriously?”
“Pie doesn’t last long in the commissary. You know how it goes, Chief.”
“Humph.” Maguire nodded toward the Marshals in the Community sheet on the corkboard, its blank spaces screaming at them in admonition. “Which one are you signing up for?”
Twyla and Frank caught each other’s eyes in shared reluctance. Frank kicked off their hemming and hawing with a “Well now” that didn’t go any further. Maguire jerked her head, indicating that they should follow her into the office, and they met each other’s eyes again, this time in defeat.
“I’m going to be blunt,” Maguire said as soon as she’d shut the door. She didn’t even invite them to sit. “The Federal Assembly is breathing down our necks. They’re saying that with the drudges gone, we don’t need a force this size. Some are saying that we don’t need the Tanrian Marshals at all.”
“Maybe they should do a few tours busting poachers,” Frank suggested acerbically.
“You don’t have to convince me, but we all need to work together to convince the assembly. Feel free to find some serious criminal activity while you’re on patrol, anything that could justify the taxpayer expense. The North Station got assigned a juicy smuggling case involving the illegal mining of Tanrian iuvenicite, lucky bastards.”
“I thought the Doniphan Iuvenicite Mine had top-notch security,” said Twyla.
“It does. That’s why the case is such a big deal.”
“Who would want a mineral that badly?” asked Frank.
“Tanria’s the only place in the world where you can find iuvenicite. It’s used in beauty products, the sort of stuff that’s supposed to make women of a certain age look younger.”
The old, familiar irritation at the ancient and unending double standard simmered in Twyla’s stomach. “Wouldn’t it be terrible if we let ourselves look our age?”
“Grandmother Wisdom forfend,” agreed Maguire, who, like Twyla, was a woman of a certain age.
“Who’s working the iuvenicite case?” asked Frank.
“Fox and Gomez.”
“I thought Rosie Fox worked out of the East Station,” said Twyla.
“She did, but she lost her seventeenth partner a few weeks ago. Gomez is the only one who’d take her, so now she’s a Northie.”
Frank motioned to the door or, more specifically, to the assignment board beyond it. “Looks like Duckers lost another partner, too. Wasn’t he with Reese? Should have put him with Fox instead of Herd.”
“And have Fox work out of the West Station? Thank you, no. I have enough headaches. And that’s irrelevant. The West Station doesn’t have a juicy iuvenicite case to work, so I’m having to get creative; hence, the Marshals in the Community initiative. You two are respected veterans. The younger ones look up to you, and I need you setting a good example. So let me ask you again: Which retirement home are you planning to educate about the work of the Tanrian Marshals?”
“Wisdom’s Acres?” Twyla cheeped under her boss’s brutal glare.
“Good choice.”
Maguire opened the office door to dismiss them. As they shuffled past her, she asked, “What kind was it?”
“What kind was what?” asked Twyla.
“The pie.”
“Um, peach.” Her answer sounded more like a question than a statement.
Maguire sucked her teeth. “I love peach pie.”
Twyla cringed under the weight of her boss’s disapproval as Frank ushered her away from Maguire’s Ire (as it was known among the Tanrian Marshals of the West Station).
They dutifully signed their names under Wisdom’s Acres before making their way toward the weapons lockers. As they walked down the long hallway, Twyla had Rosie Fox on the brain. Fox was legendary among the marshals, the literal first person to sign up for the force, more than a quarter of a century ago, but Twyla had never met her personally. A lot of demigods, like Fox, joined the Tanrian Marshals—maybe as a way to feel closer to their divine ancestry. But Fox was the only one Twyla knew of who was actually immortal. She was more than a little curious about the woman.
“Do you know Rosie Fox?” Twyla asked Frank.
“Yeah. I used to run into her more often in the early days. She’s… got a big personality.”
“But you like her?”
One corner of Frank’s mouth twitched upward. “I do. She’s impulsive, which gets her into trouble sometimes. A lot of times. But that also makes her a great marshal. Your decision-making processes must work a little differently when you don’t have to consider whether or not something is going to kill you.”
By now, they had reached their destination, and it seemed rude to talk about another marshal where Fern, the registrar on duty, could drink in every word. They checked out their government-issued pistol crossbows and ammunition in short order. Twyla also requested a rapier, and Frank got his usual machete. While Tanria was much safer these days, old habits died hard, and after years of taking out drudges on Tanrian soil, neither Twyla nor Frank was ready to part ways with the weapons that had once separated corpses from the souls that had reanimated them.
After hitting the commissary to stock up on provisions, they headed to the stable to select their mounts. Twyla viewed equimares as merely practical, a means of getting around, so she didn’t fuss about which one she chose. Frank, on the other hand, was far more particular. In his teens and twenties, he had worked on an equimaris ranch on the southern coast of Bushong, and he had the slightly bowed legs to show for it. He was one of the few marshals who was glad to find Saltlicker in one of the troughs. The Bride of Fortune was with him today, because there was Saltlicker in all his vivid violet glory, blowing churlish bubbles in the water.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Frank greeted him.
Saltlicker lifted his huge head out of the water long enough to heave a disgruntled gargle in reply.
Twyla shook her head as she led her docile mare out of the trough. “Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder on this one, Frankie.”
They toweled off the equimares’ scales, saddled up, and ambled to the West Station’s portal into Tanria. Millennia ago, the New Gods had defeated the Old Gods and imprisoned them here on the island of Bushong, inside a churning, impenetrable fog—the Mist. The Old Gods had long ago surrendered to become stars on the altar of the sky, but human beings had first entered Tanria only twenty-seven years ago, with the invention of the portals.
The metal archway, constructed directly into the Mist, emitted a gust of steam as the partners approached.
“Louis, you’re back! How’s the new baby?” Twyla asked the engineer on duty as he adjusted a couple of dials on the portal’s frame.
“Real good! But no one’s sleeping much at my house. You know how it is.”
“That I do, three times over.”
The engineer pulled on the crank, and a mystifying series of cogs and pistons whirred into action. The Mist within the portal’s arch thinned to an opaque curtain, with the silhouette of Tanria’s strange landscape barely visible on the other side. Twyla and Frank urged their mounts through, and in the few seconds it took to cross, the usual oppressive sense of wrongness squeezed Twyla’s head, making her ears ring. She had grown used to the feeling, but it remained a loathsome aspect of an otherwise rewarding career.
Tanria came into focus, the bizarre otherworld of mismatched colors and landscapes and plants and animals, created by bored gods with nothing better to do. The Old Gods were not the gods of creation—the world and all that inhabited it were created by the New Gods—so Tanria looked more like a child’s drawing of mountains and trees and flowers than actual mountains and trees and flowers. She used to marvel at the sight, but after eight years in the marshals, it had lost some of its wonder. Now this was simply the place where she worked.
They rode north-northeast to Sector W-14, where they were assigned for the duration of the ten-day tour. The landscape here was rugged and mountainous, a series of unnervingly triangular peaks known as the Dragon’s Teeth, even though everyone knew the tales about Tanrian dragons were false.
According to legend, the Old Gods had ridden dragons into battle against the New Gods. When Tanria first opened to humanity, many hoped there might be a few left, hanging on to existence inside the Mist, but none had ever been found. That didn’t stop big-game hunters and quack scientists from entering Tanria on a special license from time to time, hoping to be the first to find a Tanrian dragon. It never ceased to baffle Twyla that people would be willing to pay a ludicrous amount of money to go looking for something that clearly didn’t exist and would in all likelihood kill them if it did.
They found Herd and Duckers saddling up for the night shift when they arrived at Sector W-14. Even in the dimness of the stable, the lurid violet of Herd’s ostentatious equimaris-hide boots offended Twyla’s eyes.
“Saltlicker!” cried Duckers when he spotted Twyla and Frank, or, more specifically, when he spotted Frank’s mount. He patted the stallion’s neck and got his hand out of the way as it tried to bite him. “I love this guy.”
Saltlicker gurgled malevolently, and Frank’s face split into an appreciative grin. “I knew I liked you, Duckers.”
Herd’s greeting was less charming. “If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Banneker,” he said as he led his mount out of the shadows of the stable, cackling at t
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” Frank muttered at Twyla after lifting yet another wet, screaming child off the scaly back of a miniature equimaris and handing him off to his mother. Oblivious to the young rider’s shrieks of distress, the little purple water horse kept on swimming around the tank, nipping playfully at the kelp-like tail of the equally petite creature in front of her.
“Chief Maguire said we had to sign up to volunteer at the county fair, and you love equimares.”
“Regular-sized ones. Without children on their backs.”
“But you like kids.”
“I like my kids. Who are fully grown. Other people’s kids?” He shuddered.
“Pfft.” Twyla gave him a dismissive wave before fetching the next round of riders. Years of whipping up cookies for temple bake sales, scrounging up costumes for school theatricals, and leading unruly scout troops had made her an expert at this sort of thing. Her late husband, Doug, used to joke that her middle name should be I’ll Do It. Twyla “I’ll Do It” Banneker. That’s you, he would say with a fond shake of his head.
It’s not like you’re going to do it, she would think but never say aloud.
Frank, on the other hand, was here by her side, doing the thing that no one else wanted to do, gods bless him.
“Saddle up, Little Marshals,” he declared in his deep southern Bushong drawl as he stood next to the sign that read “Little Marshals Miniature Equimaris Rides!”
Several adults in line tilted their heads to ogle Frank over Twyla’s shoulder. Back in the day, when he and his family had moved in next door to her, he’d still had a bit of youthful roundness to his face, and his acne scars had pocked his skin like fresh craters. Now the crow’s feet at the corners of his big brown eyes and the silver streaks in his shoulder-length black hair gave him an air of distinction. Even his old acne scars lent him a certain rugged pulchritude, as the lines of his face had grown firmer over the years. In his twenties and thirties, he had not turned heads; in middle age, he turned many.
Twyla’s appearance, on the other hand, had always been bland and had only grown blander over the years. Her frizzy brown hair had dulled to a color resembling tepid dishwater. The freckles on her face and shoulders and arms and knees had faded into a barely there ruddy constellation across her softening body. The lashes that rimmed her brown eyes had thinned, as had her eyebrows, rendering her face washed out and forgettable. These days, whenever she felt inclined to study her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she cursed her past self, the young woman who had not appreciated her fresh-faced charm in her twenties and thirties.
Once she’d plunked the next eight kids onto eight colorful saddles, she bumped Frank in the hip. “Giddyup, Marshal Ellis.”
“You owe me big time for this, Marshal Banneker.”
“Please. You do it out of love.”
He was reaching for the bridle of the lead equimaris when he stopped, put his hands on his hips, and bowed his head. He didn’t stay that way for more than a few seconds, but it was long enough that the unmoving Little Marshals started to get restless, long enough that one of the miniature equimares blew water bubbles in annoyance, long enough for Twyla to consider panicking in that Oh gods, is he having a heart attack? kind of way.
“Frank?” She put a hand on his arm.
He shook himself. “I’m good,” he told her before tugging on the bridle to lead the miniature equimares around the tank once more.
“Then stop being so grumpy.”
“I am fifty-three years old. That officially makes me a grumpy old fart, doesn’t it?”
Twyla fell into step beside him. “I’m two months older than you. If you’re an old fart, what does that make me?”
“As smooth and mellow as a bottle of fine wine,” he answered without missing a beat.
Twyla could both hear and feel her thighs rubbing together as she walked. “I think you mean ‘full-bodied.’”
“That is a land mine, and I am not going anywhere near it.”
They walked a few paces without needing to fill the conversational void. Frank stared off into the middle distance with his usual slow and steady deliberation before he spoke again. “Will you think less of me if I admit to some ingratitude?”
“As long as it’s not about me.”
“Never.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t you think the job has gotten sort of…” He glanced around furtively and lowered his voice. “Boring?”
“I have to admit, when you convinced me to join the Tanrian Marshals, this is not what I had in mind,” Twyla conceded as she sidestepped a puddle.
Ever since the portals into Tanria were invented twenty-seven years ago, entrepreneurs and adventurers had poured into the former prison of the Old Gods to seek their fortunes. Many of them had been killed by the undead drudges that used to inhabit the place, hence the creation of the Tanrian Marshals. But a year ago, marshal-turned-sheriff-of-Eternity Hart Ralston had miraculously rid Tanria of its undead infestation, making Twyla and Frank’s job much safer.
And less exciting.
“It’s not just the community service stuff,” said Frank. “Even when we’re on patrol in Tanria, I’m bored out of my gourd. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad that the drudges are gone, but all we do these days is bust bird poachers or pimply teenagers sneaking in to bottle up ambrosia.”
One of the miniature equimares gurgled in surprise as a child pulled on its mane, a sound that echoed the alarm bells going off in Twyla’s head. “Are you wanting to retire sooner rather than later?”
“No, no. I’m happy to hold out for a couple more years until Hope’s made it through med school and you’re fully vested.”
It was a relief to hear it, but then Twyla felt guilty for being the reason Frank was sticking with the marshals when he could walk into Chief Alma Maguire’s office today and announce his retirement.
“You don’t have to wait for me.”
“What am I supposed to do in retirement without you?”
“You could get cracking on our master plan—find the property for the equimaris ranch, start building the bed-and-breakfast—and I could catch up in two years.”
“Last lap!” he called to the riders before he looked at Twyla with a face full of warmth. “Nah, darlin’, we’re doing the ranch and the bed-and-breakfast together. I’ll wait. At least busting poachers and pimply adolescents is easy. Your second child is trying to flag you down, by the way.”
Twyla turned and spotted her son Wade in line holding two-year-old Teo while her other grandsons, Manny and Sal, bickered over who would get to ride the miniature equimaris with the glittery pink saddle. Wade motioned her over, nearly dropping Teo in the process.
“Hey, Mom, got a minute?”
“Not really, honey. I’m working.”
“You’re volunteering, actually.”
“Chief Maguire has us on the clock for this.”
Wade pulled Teo’s hands away from his face as the toddler attempted to stick his drool-coated fingers into his father’s mouth. “Okay, but what are you doing after?”
“Going to work, the not-volunteering kind.”
“Well, shit, I guess that means you can’t watch the kids for a bit?”
“Not unless they’ve decided to take up a career in law enforcement. And watch your mouth, will you? There are children all over the place here.”
“Pfft,” he said, the same dismissive sound she had directed at Frank. “As if they haven’t heard it before.”
“Some people’s children haven’t.”
Teo grinned at her and said, “Shit.” Twyla gave her son an I told you so look.
“Hi, Wade,” Frank called as he guided the lead miniature equimaris past them.
“Hi, Frank,” Wade answered with a wave, nearly dropping a squirming Teo again. He turned back to his mother. “Do you have to head straight to Tanria? Can’t you fudge a little and take the kids off my hands for an hour or two?”
“I could, but I’d be defrauding the taxpayers of the Federated Islands of Cadmus, who pay my salary.”
“So you’ll do it?”
Twyla’s right eye twitched. “No.”
“You can take the boys on all the rides. Grandma-grandkids bonding time and all that. It’ll be fun,” Wade pleaded.
Twyla glanced at her son’s two oldest children. Manny stuck his finger up his nose and wiped the results on Sal’s bare arm, shouting, “No givebacks!” Sal shrieked in outrage as Manny darted behind Twyla to use her as a human shield.
“Hey, Twy, do we have a 4-29 on our hands?” Frank asked as he passed by them again.
She shook her head. “It’s fine.”
Wade’s forehead crinkled in confusion. He’d inherited his overbite and brown eyes from Twyla, but his chestnut waves and broad shoulders and, most of all, that befuddled look on his face made it clear that he was Doug Banneker’s son, through and through. “What’s a 4-29?” he asked.
“Tanrian Marshal code. Don’t worry about it.” In fact, it was Twyla-and-Frank code for Do you need me to rescue you from a socially awkward situation? but she wasn’t inclined to tell him that. “Honey, I’d love to help you, but I’m working.”
“But Anita’s volunteering in the crafts tent. How am I supposed to manage the kids all day on my own?”
“I thought she only had a three-hour shift.”
“Same thing.”
“One more lap,” Frank told her as he passed by again, brushing her arm in moral support.
Twyla took a deep, calming breath as Wade begged, “Please, Mom? They wear me down to a nub, but you’re a natural with them.”
Echoes of her late husband drifted around her, this pernicious and lingering Old Gods notion that a uterus somehow endowed one with inherent childcare abilities. She put her hands on her son’s shoulders and assured him, “You’re a big boy. You can handle this, I promise you.”
“End of the line, partners. Happy trails,” Frank announced to a chorus of disappointed groans and only one sob of relief. Twyla gave Wade’s shoulders one last pat of encouragement before helping Frank change out the riders. None of her grandkids got the equimaris with the sparkly pink saddle.
Once the ride was over, a couple of marshals whom Chief Maguire had also coerced into volunteering at the county fair came to relieve Twyla and Frank. Twyla kissed Wade and her grandkids goodbye before heading to the food vendors with her partner for a late lunch. Literally everything on offer was deep-fried and smelled divine, but Twyla forced herself to settle for the least bad-for-her option, which was, sadly, a corn dog. Food in hand, she and Frank walked past the delighted screeching of children on the Flying Dragon swings and sat at a picnic table on the fairgrounds. They were finishing up when Frank crumpled his paper napkin and uttered, “Aw, Salt Sea.”
“What?” Twyla turned in her seat to see Liz Brimsby walking toward them, pie plate in hand.
“Yoo-hoo! Frank!” Liz sang.
“Hi, Liz.” Ever polite, Frank put on a brave face, but several hours of working with small children had diminished his usually bottomless well of patience.
As a general rule, Twyla steered clear of Frank’s romantic life unless he asked for her advice, but she could see plain as day that he wasn’t interested. She chirped “Hi there, Liz” in a feeble attempt to run interference on his behalf.
It didn’t work. Liz glanced at her only long enough to say “Hi” before returning her attention to Frank. “I saw you running the miniature-equimaris rides. I had no idea you were so good with children.”
“Oh yes, Frank loves other people’s children,” Twyla agreed with an irony that sailed over Liz’s head. Frank shot her a look that said What are you doing to me? and Twyla tried, once again, to deflect Liz’s attention. “Do I spy a blue ribbon on your pie?”
Liz dimpled, a gesture somewhat undercut by the fact that she had pink lipstick on her two front teeth. “Yes! But I’m watching my figure, you know, so I thought Frank might like to have it.”
“You’re giving him your pie?” By the time Twyla got to the last word of her question, she could barely contain her mirth. She teared up with the effort of not laughing as Frank murdered her with his eyeballs from across the picnic table.
“My prize-winning pie.”
Clearly making an exit, Frank rose and told her, “Thank you, but I’m afraid we’re heading into Tanria, so…”
Now it was Twyla’s turn to murder Frank with her eyeballs. Whether he wanted to date Liz Brimsby or not was irrelevant in this situation; the woman knew how to bake a good pie.
“What kind is it?” Twyla asked, praying Don’t be gooseberry to the Bride of Fortune.
Liz gave her a flat stare. “Peach. For Frank.”
Twyla nodded innocently, but she knew that any dessert of Frank’s was essentially her dessert, too, no matter who baked it and for what seductive purpose.
“We need to get a move on,” Frank insisted.
Liz leaned flirtatiously over the table as she slid the pie plate across the wooden boards toward Frank. “Stay safe in Tanria. I’ll catch you when you get back.”
Frank uttered a noncommittal sound, and she sauntered away. Twyla was of the opinion that Liz was shaking her hips rather excessively, and was, therefore, uncharitably gratified when the other woman tripped on the uneven ground. But honestly, who wore heels to the county fair?
“Don’t say a word,” Frank warned her as he reluctantly picked up the pie plate.
As if Twyla could resist that kind of temptation.
“Liz Brimsby, huh?”
“I am not dating her.”
Liz turned around long enough to give Frank a coy finger wave. He scratched his eyebrow, pretending that he did not see the gesture.
“Does she know that?” asked Twyla.
“Apparently not, thanks to you.” He headed for the autoduck in the parking lot, leaving Twyla to catch up.
“How is this my fault?”
“Ever since you made me dance with her at the Founders’ Day party, Liz thinks I have a thing for her.”
“I did not make you dance with her.”
“You most certainly did.”
“I would never make you dance with anyone.”
“You would if Liz Brimsby was trying to corner Mercy Birdsall to make her recount the horrors of nearly being killed by a drudge on Main Street.”
A vague memory tickled the back of Twyla’s mind. “Oh wait, this is starting to ring a bell.”
A drudge—one of the reanimated corpses that used to infest Tanria—had, in fact, found its way to Eternity’s Main Street and lunged at Mercy Birdsall last Founders’ Day, and Mercy had been rescued at the last minute by Hart Ralston, the former Tanrian Marshal who was now the town’s sheriff (and Mercy’s fiancé). Everyone and their mother had pestered poor Mercy that night at the party until Twyla and Frank ran interference for her so that she could escape for a bit of fresh air.
Frank treated Twyla to an uncomfortably accurate impression of her from that night. “‘Oh no. Liz Brimsby is heading this way. Ask her to dance, Frank, before she corners Mercy again.’”
By now, they had arrived at Frank’s autoduck, a serviceable four-door model with a maroon-painted body. The duck was a good fifteen years old, but Frank washed and polished it religiously and changed out the tires long before the treads wore out. He unlocked the passenger-side door and opened it for Twyla.
“I guess I did make you dance with her,” she admitted before she slid onto the bench.
She peeked under the foil covering the pie plate as her partner settled in behind the wheel, started up the duck, and drove them toward the road. The divine scent of butter, sugar, and peaches wafted over her. “You could do worse. Liz bakes a mean pastry crust.”
“I do not want to go out with her, Twy.”
“Suit yourself.”
“She won’t leave me alone. She’s like a barnacle, and I’m the hull of the ship.”
“You’re too nice. It’s time to start scraping, sailor.”
She stared at the pie in her lap, her thighs spreading to either side of the plate, and thought, morosely, that Liz wasn’t wrong about watching her figure. If Twyla indulged in a slice, all that butter and flour and sugar were sure to glue themselves to her hips for all eternity.
The pie.
In her lap.
She started to giggle.
“What?” asked Frank.
“She gave you a pie.”
“So?”
“Her award-winning pie.”
“Oh my gods—”
“Don’t you want to eat her pie, Frank?” Twyla cackled without remorse.
“Ugh, Twy, stop it!”
She wiped away a tear of hilarity from the corner of her eye. “What, I can’t make a pie joke?”
“No.” He shook his head with vehemence. “Nooooooooo.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re you. You mop your floors on a regular basis and bring cheesy potatoes to funerals.”
“So because I do housework and cook comfort food, I’m not allowed to make mildly offensive jokes?”
“That sounds about right.”
Twyla batted her eyes at him and imitated Liz. “‘I’m watching my figure, you know, so I thought you might like to have my pie.’ Honestly, why go to the trouble of baking something delicious if you refuse to eat it? A man goes gray, and everyone thinks he’s debonair. A woman gains a few pounds, and she may as well be dead.”
Frank glanced at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, that puts me in mind of a song.”
“Oh no.”
“On the day we wed, you were as sweet as honey,” he sang. The word honey hit the bass notes of his impressively low register.
“No,” Twyla groaned.
“Yes,” Frank groaned back.
“That song is godsawful.”
“Come on, darlin’, you know the words. And you…”
Twyla relented. “And you looked fine in your daddy’s three-piece suit.”
“There she is. Now you’re old and drunk and spending all my money.”
“Now your lying mouth ought to meet the pointy toe of my boot.”
Early in their friendship, they had discovered a mutual tendency to burst into song whenever the lyrics to a particular ditty seemed relevant to the topic of conversation. Considering the fact that most of the records cranked out of the Bushong music scene over the past half century wailed about lost love and bitterness, it was pathetic how close to home some of those songs hit.
Twyla took a breath before belting out the first line of the refrain. “Oh, your ass is draggin’.”
“And your ass is a-saggin’.”
Together, they sang the song’s title, in harmony no less. “But no one else will have me, so I guess you’ll have to do.”
The chalkboard grid outside Chief Alma Maguire’s office at the West Station informed them that Ellis / Banneker were slated to cover the day shift in Sector W-14 for the next ten days, with Herd / Duckers taking the night shift. On the corkboard next to it, someone had tacked a sign-up sheet for educational presentations at local retirement homes, another Marshals in the Community gig.
“Ugh,” Frank grumbled an instant before their boss popped her head out of her office across the hall to ask, “Ellis, Banneker, what’s this I hear about you bringing treats?”
Twyla froze, a statue dedicated to guilt, while Frank surreptitiously dusted flaky crumbs off the front of his blue work shirt.
Maguire narrowed her aquamarine demigod eyes, a pair of ice daggers in her brown face. “Salt Sea, seriously?”
“Pie doesn’t last long in the commissary. You know how it goes, Chief.”
“Humph.” Maguire nodded toward the Marshals in the Community sheet on the corkboard, its blank spaces screaming at them in admonition. “Which one are you signing up for?”
Twyla and Frank caught each other’s eyes in shared reluctance. Frank kicked off their hemming and hawing with a “Well now” that didn’t go any further. Maguire jerked her head, indicating that they should follow her into the office, and they met each other’s eyes again, this time in defeat.
“I’m going to be blunt,” Maguire said as soon as she’d shut the door. She didn’t even invite them to sit. “The Federal Assembly is breathing down our necks. They’re saying that with the drudges gone, we don’t need a force this size. Some are saying that we don’t need the Tanrian Marshals at all.”
“Maybe they should do a few tours busting poachers,” Frank suggested acerbically.
“You don’t have to convince me, but we all need to work together to convince the assembly. Feel free to find some serious criminal activity while you’re on patrol, anything that could justify the taxpayer expense. The North Station got assigned a juicy smuggling case involving the illegal mining of Tanrian iuvenicite, lucky bastards.”
“I thought the Doniphan Iuvenicite Mine had top-notch security,” said Twyla.
“It does. That’s why the case is such a big deal.”
“Who would want a mineral that badly?” asked Frank.
“Tanria’s the only place in the world where you can find iuvenicite. It’s used in beauty products, the sort of stuff that’s supposed to make women of a certain age look younger.”
The old, familiar irritation at the ancient and unending double standard simmered in Twyla’s stomach. “Wouldn’t it be terrible if we let ourselves look our age?”
“Grandmother Wisdom forfend,” agreed Maguire, who, like Twyla, was a woman of a certain age.
“Who’s working the iuvenicite case?” asked Frank.
“Fox and Gomez.”
“I thought Rosie Fox worked out of the East Station,” said Twyla.
“She did, but she lost her seventeenth partner a few weeks ago. Gomez is the only one who’d take her, so now she’s a Northie.”
Frank motioned to the door or, more specifically, to the assignment board beyond it. “Looks like Duckers lost another partner, too. Wasn’t he with Reese? Should have put him with Fox instead of Herd.”
“And have Fox work out of the West Station? Thank you, no. I have enough headaches. And that’s irrelevant. The West Station doesn’t have a juicy iuvenicite case to work, so I’m having to get creative; hence, the Marshals in the Community initiative. You two are respected veterans. The younger ones look up to you, and I need you setting a good example. So let me ask you again: Which retirement home are you planning to educate about the work of the Tanrian Marshals?”
“Wisdom’s Acres?” Twyla cheeped under her boss’s brutal glare.
“Good choice.”
Maguire opened the office door to dismiss them. As they shuffled past her, she asked, “What kind was it?”
“What kind was what?” asked Twyla.
“The pie.”
“Um, peach.” Her answer sounded more like a question than a statement.
Maguire sucked her teeth. “I love peach pie.”
Twyla cringed under the weight of her boss’s disapproval as Frank ushered her away from Maguire’s Ire (as it was known among the Tanrian Marshals of the West Station).
They dutifully signed their names under Wisdom’s Acres before making their way toward the weapons lockers. As they walked down the long hallway, Twyla had Rosie Fox on the brain. Fox was legendary among the marshals, the literal first person to sign up for the force, more than a quarter of a century ago, but Twyla had never met her personally. A lot of demigods, like Fox, joined the Tanrian Marshals—maybe as a way to feel closer to their divine ancestry. But Fox was the only one Twyla knew of who was actually immortal. She was more than a little curious about the woman.
“Do you know Rosie Fox?” Twyla asked Frank.
“Yeah. I used to run into her more often in the early days. She’s… got a big personality.”
“But you like her?”
One corner of Frank’s mouth twitched upward. “I do. She’s impulsive, which gets her into trouble sometimes. A lot of times. But that also makes her a great marshal. Your decision-making processes must work a little differently when you don’t have to consider whether or not something is going to kill you.”
By now, they had reached their destination, and it seemed rude to talk about another marshal where Fern, the registrar on duty, could drink in every word. They checked out their government-issued pistol crossbows and ammunition in short order. Twyla also requested a rapier, and Frank got his usual machete. While Tanria was much safer these days, old habits died hard, and after years of taking out drudges on Tanrian soil, neither Twyla nor Frank was ready to part ways with the weapons that had once separated corpses from the souls that had reanimated them.
After hitting the commissary to stock up on provisions, they headed to the stable to select their mounts. Twyla viewed equimares as merely practical, a means of getting around, so she didn’t fuss about which one she chose. Frank, on the other hand, was far more particular. In his teens and twenties, he had worked on an equimaris ranch on the southern coast of Bushong, and he had the slightly bowed legs to show for it. He was one of the few marshals who was glad to find Saltlicker in one of the troughs. The Bride of Fortune was with him today, because there was Saltlicker in all his vivid violet glory, blowing churlish bubbles in the water.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Frank greeted him.
Saltlicker lifted his huge head out of the water long enough to heave a disgruntled gargle in reply.
Twyla shook her head as she led her docile mare out of the trough. “Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder on this one, Frankie.”
They toweled off the equimares’ scales, saddled up, and ambled to the West Station’s portal into Tanria. Millennia ago, the New Gods had defeated the Old Gods and imprisoned them here on the island of Bushong, inside a churning, impenetrable fog—the Mist. The Old Gods had long ago surrendered to become stars on the altar of the sky, but human beings had first entered Tanria only twenty-seven years ago, with the invention of the portals.
The metal archway, constructed directly into the Mist, emitted a gust of steam as the partners approached.
“Louis, you’re back! How’s the new baby?” Twyla asked the engineer on duty as he adjusted a couple of dials on the portal’s frame.
“Real good! But no one’s sleeping much at my house. You know how it is.”
“That I do, three times over.”
The engineer pulled on the crank, and a mystifying series of cogs and pistons whirred into action. The Mist within the portal’s arch thinned to an opaque curtain, with the silhouette of Tanria’s strange landscape barely visible on the other side. Twyla and Frank urged their mounts through, and in the few seconds it took to cross, the usual oppressive sense of wrongness squeezed Twyla’s head, making her ears ring. She had grown used to the feeling, but it remained a loathsome aspect of an otherwise rewarding career.
Tanria came into focus, the bizarre otherworld of mismatched colors and landscapes and plants and animals, created by bored gods with nothing better to do. The Old Gods were not the gods of creation—the world and all that inhabited it were created by the New Gods—so Tanria looked more like a child’s drawing of mountains and trees and flowers than actual mountains and trees and flowers. She used to marvel at the sight, but after eight years in the marshals, it had lost some of its wonder. Now this was simply the place where she worked.
They rode north-northeast to Sector W-14, where they were assigned for the duration of the ten-day tour. The landscape here was rugged and mountainous, a series of unnervingly triangular peaks known as the Dragon’s Teeth, even though everyone knew the tales about Tanrian dragons were false.
According to legend, the Old Gods had ridden dragons into battle against the New Gods. When Tanria first opened to humanity, many hoped there might be a few left, hanging on to existence inside the Mist, but none had ever been found. That didn’t stop big-game hunters and quack scientists from entering Tanria on a special license from time to time, hoping to be the first to find a Tanrian dragon. It never ceased to baffle Twyla that people would be willing to pay a ludicrous amount of money to go looking for something that clearly didn’t exist and would in all likelihood kill them if it did.
They found Herd and Duckers saddling up for the night shift when they arrived at Sector W-14. Even in the dimness of the stable, the lurid violet of Herd’s ostentatious equimaris-hide boots offended Twyla’s eyes.
“Saltlicker!” cried Duckers when he spotted Twyla and Frank, or, more specifically, when he spotted Frank’s mount. He patted the stallion’s neck and got his hand out of the way as it tried to bite him. “I love this guy.”
Saltlicker gurgled malevolently, and Frank’s face split into an appreciative grin. “I knew I liked you, Duckers.”
Herd’s greeting was less charming. “If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Banneker,” he said as he led his mount out of the shadows of the stable, cackling at t
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The Undermining of Twyla and Frank
Megan Bannen
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