Book 1 Chapter 12: Hugo's Gambit

The top floor of the Bumble Bar was a sanctuary in the pre-dawn quiet, a vast, open space usually reserved for the elite. Now, it was illuminated by the warm, coiled lamps that lined the polished stone walls, casting soft glows on the four figures seated around a large, round table. Hugo Swin-Bumble sat at its head, a steaming cup of lumina tea before him. Across from him sat Alexis Thirst, the old merchant, a new, tentative pride etched on his weathered face. Beside Alexis was Nemean, the bar's silent, impeccably groomed bartender, his unblinking gaze fixed on the steam rising from his cup. The other two, Elara, a sharp-eyed textile merchant known for her keen ear on the docks, and Joric, a burly foreman from the city's main steamworks, whose gruff exterior hid a network of contacts among the labourers, completed the small circle. Ares, the bar's owner, moved among them, his colossal frame surprisingly gentle as he refilled cups and offered a platter of sweet pastries.

Hugo scanned each face in turn, his mind ticking through their known strengths, their connections, their value. Alexis Thirst: Integrity, deep roots in old Dustfall. Nemean: Discretion, eyes and ears in the city's nightlife and its underbelly. Elara: Trade routes, whispers from the docks. Joric: Industrial intelligence, the pulse of the working class. This was his Inner Circle, the foundation of The Hugo Corp's true power.

Hugo took a slow sip of his tea, its warmth a familiar comfort. He set the cup down, a faint clink echoing in the quiet room. A subtle smile touched his lips, no longer playful, but filled with a quiet sense of purpose.

"Gentlemen, and Elara," Hugo began, his voice low and clear, commanding immediate attention. "Let us start this meeting by welcoming our newest member, Alexis."

Alexis offered a humble, grateful nod, his gaze meeting each person around the table. Joric gave a gruff but warm grunt of welcome, Elara offered a knowing smile, and even Nemean gave a subtle, respectful inclination of his head.

"Now that formalities are observed," Hugo continued, his expression sharpening into a focused intensity. "Let's turn to our agenda. First, the bounty posters."

Elara spoke first, her voice sharp with a hint of exasperation. "The city's plastered with them. And of course, the claims have started. Already heard of three 'sightings' this morning alone. A baker's boy whose dough rose too fast, a stable hand who managed to lift a heavy barrel he normally struggles with... pure nonsense."

Joric grunted. "My men at the steamworks are seeing it too. Fakers, trying to cash in. Causes chaos, slows down production. The general consensus within our network is not to take in any information regarding these bounties. It's all likely false, a waste of resources."

Hugo nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Agreed. Disregard all bounty claims unless confirmed by multiple, unimpeachable sources. Next, the exiled one."

Nemean, the bartender, took over, his voice flat and precise. "Captured near the Western Gate this morning. Name: Orrin Bale. Age: forty-seven. From the fishing village of Acrewood. Power: Ox Strength." Nemean’s gaze met Hugo’s. "His entire family line possesses the same ability, sir. His father, grandfather, all known for their unnatural strength. Orrin's was observed when he single-handedly tried to move a toppled carriage full of goods. He was subsequently banished from Dustfall at the public hearing this afternoon." Nemean concluded his report, then took a sip of his tea, his face as impassive as ever.

Hugo's gaze then fell upon Elara. "Elara," he prompted, his voice low, "your sources within the President's building... what have they gleaned?"

Elara straightened, her sharp eyes hardening. "The whispers from inside the tower are grave, Master Hugo. They concern the outsider at The Copper Cactus." Her voice dropped to a near whisper, ensuring only their table could hear. "The President has ordered that Motley Swin will be publicly tested for powers in four days. If he is found to be tainted, he will be publicly executed." The final words hung heavy in the air, cold and definitive.

Hugo’s gaze immediately shifted to Alexis Thirst. "Alexis," he said, his voice low and serious, "you are the oldest here, with the longest memory of this city. Has anything like this ever happened before in Dustfall, to your knowledge? An adult, publicly tested for powers, and then... executed?"

Alexis took his time, his ancient eyes distant, sifting through decades of Dustfall’s history. Finally, he shook his head slowly. "No. Never. Tests are done daily for newborns, certainly, to protect the populace. But no one over the age of twenty has ever been tested. Not formally. And a public execution..." His voice dropped to a low, rough murmur, laced with disgust. "It is barbaric."

Hugo's lips thinned. "Indeed. And that brings us to the core of this matter. Would anyone have any idea why the President would want a public display of this?"

Joric, the foreman, grunted, leaning forward. "My men talk. They say the President wants to show strength after the recent Solarian attack. To prove he's still in control. Two outsiders in a week, one stealing food, another suspected... It's making people uneasy. This is about making an example. Reminding everyone that his laws are absolute, and his city is pure."

Hugo nodded slowly, his gaze distant, eyes losing focus as he recalled the scene from that morning. "I was there at The Copper Cactus yesterday," he murmured, almost to himself, "when Captain Hipgrave delivered the news. Or rather, the accusation." His eyes sharpened, locking onto the table, replaying the scene in his mind. "Zeb went straight for him, a look on his face I haven't seen in years. He bypassed Tash, bypassed the regulars. His focus was entirely on Motley. There was something... intense in his scrutiny, as if he knew, or suspected, something deeper."

The memory flickered into sharp focus. Hugo sat on a stool near the gleaming coffee machine, a cup of lumina tea warming his hands. The morning bustle had quieted, leaving only a handful of patrons, all seemingly oblivious to the silent drama unfolding by the entrance. Zeb Hipgrave stood over Motley, his presence immense, a monolith of authority and raw power. He looked every inch the Captain of the Guard, powerful, almost able to physically look down on Motley, who seemed to cower, broom still clutched in his hand, almost using it as a shield. Motley's shoulders were hunched, his gaze averted, his posture communicating complete submission.

Zeb's hand, slow and deliberate, slid into his uniform jacket. He produced a tightly rolled scroll, tied with a thin scarlet ribbon, and lifted it high in the air. It was a calculated gesture, a silent flourish, ensuring every eye in the cafe, every passing citizen glimpsing through the window, saw the official document. It was a show, designed for public consumption. He held it out, presenting it to Motley.

Motley’s hand slowly reached out, his fingers trembling, to take the scroll. As his fingers brushed the parchment, Zeb’s voice, sharp and cold, sliced through the quiet. "By the order of the President himself, you, Motley Swin, are to be tested in five days, as you are suspected of being a tainted one. The testing will happen on the public stage, before all of Dustfall."

Hugo's eyes refocused on the faces around his meeting table. The silence in the Bumble Bar's private room was profound, punctuated only by the soft clinking of Ares refilling a cup.

Hugo composed himself, taking a slow breath. "Is there anything else to discuss?" he asked, his gaze sweeping across his Inner Circle.

One by one, they looked around at each other, then back at Hugo, each giving a quiet shake of their head or a soft, "No, Master Hugo."

Hugo pushed back his chair, the leather creaking softly. "Thank you for coming, everyone. See you all this time next week."

They all stood, chairs scraping lightly on the stone floor, and began shaking hands, murmuring quiet farewells. Some immediately turned to each other, starting their hushed conversations about the market, new shipments, or the ominous news they had just shared.

Hugo, however, bypassed the lingering chatter. He moved directly to the private exit, his mind already racing. Four days. The President’s decree, the public test, and the execution. He was fully aware of the severity, far more than Tash could be. He had to tell her everything. She needed to know the true peril Motley was in, the depth of the President's ruthlessness. There was no time to lose. He descended the stairs, his boots echoing his urgency, the rhythmic thrum of the main bar below now a distant, muffled beat, his thoughts consumed by the grim message he carried to The Copper Cactus.

Back in The Copper Cactus, the silence was heavy, oppressive. The cafe was spotless, every table gleaming, every mug in its place, the steam machine's gentle hiss the only sound breaking the stillness. It was already mid-morning, past the usual rush, and not a single customer had stepped through the front door. Tash sat at one of the neat tables, polishing a tin mug with a practiced, almost furious energy. She suspected word had gotten out about Zeb's little "act" yesterday, his public display of suspicion. No one wanted to be associated with a place, no matter how well-known or how good the coffee, that was suspected of harboring a power user. It didn't matter how meticulously clean her cafe was, how much love she poured into her food, or how many mornings she'd helped her regulars start right. Fear won people's hearts.

Tash let out a long, slow sigh, the sound echoing in the space. Her gaze drifted across the room, past the shining counter, and settled on Motley. He sat at another table, staring into his coffee, his expression distant. "You okay?" she asked, her voice low.

Motley looked up at Tash, then back down to his coffee, the bitter aroma doing little to calm the knot in his stomach. "I'm sorry," he mumbled out, his voice heavy.

Tash walked over to him, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite him. "It's not your fault. Zeb could have handled it a lot better." She watched him for a few seconds, the silence stretching. "What would you like to do?"

"About?" Motley asked, confused.

"About the test," Tash clarified, her gaze steady. "We both know you'll be positive as a power user. You'll be forced to leave. And I feel you've healed up a lot."

"I am feeling a lot better," Motley admitted, looking at his hands, then flexing his arms. "I still have a headache now and then, but no memories have resurfaced."

"Will you be okay?" he asked, "I mean, will you get any backlash for fostering a 'tainted'?" His voice suddenly hard, the word "tainted" laced with venom as he spoke it.

"They can't prove that I already knew," Tash responded, a hint of genuine cheer entering her voice as she envisioned her cafe bustling again. "And business will bounce back eventually. I'll be fine, Motley. Focus on yourself for once."

"I guess I do have four more days to work something out," Motley said, taking a slow sip from his coffee. He looked at Tash, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "I really can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me, Tash."

Tash slapped him lightly on the shoulder, a familiar gesture that conveyed both affection and a desire to move on. She stood up. "Stop thanking me. You've earned your stay here."

The cheerful ring of the doorbell caught Tash's immediate attention, filling her body with a sudden surge of energy. A customer! she thought, her eyes brightening. Motley stood up just as Hugo walked into the cafe, his usual smirk gracing his lips. He gave Tash a quick, acknowledging nod, then his gaze softened as he turned to Motley, offering a silent nod of greeting there, too.

Tash, already racing around to the coffee machine, called out, "Good morning, Hugo! Your usual?"

"Coffee, please," Hugo replied, walking directly to the counter and settling onto one of the stools.

Motley walked up to him. "How are you this morning?" he asked.

Hugo turned to face him, his small smile still present. "I am good, thank you." He glanced around, confirming they were the only ones in the cafe, then looked back at Motley. "I see that Zeb's display left a mark."

"He is an asshole," Tash muttered from behind the coffee machine, making Hugo chuckle softly.

Hugo's gaze fixed on Motley for a few moments, his expression becoming more serious. Motley noticed the intense scrutiny and felt his eyes narrow slightly in response.

"I have some information that I feel you should know," Hugo said, his voice dropping slightly.

Motley, understanding the unspoken implication of a potential cost, replied, "You know I don't have much I can offer you."

"Can you add it to my tab?" Tash interjected, her voice firm, as she placed a steaming mug in front of Hugo on the bench.

Hugo's smirk returned, a familiar twinkle in his eyes, but he didn't take them off Motley. "I knew you would say that." He then let out a soft sigh, picked up his mug, and stood from the stool. "Can we all sit at a table, please? I feel it would be best."

A slight concern flickered across Motley's face, but as he saw Tash's expression, the concern deepened, turning into a cold knot of dread.

Tash's stomach clenched. This can't be good. She moved towards the table, her steps heavy, the clinking of the glasses on the counter the only sound in the now empty cafe. Hugo and Motley were already seated. After going to the front door and locking it with a definitive click, she made her way across the room and took the third seat. I've seen that look in his eyes only a few times, and nothing good ever came out of his mouth following it, she thought, a cold premonition settling in her gut.

"Does it have to do with Zeb?" Tash inquired, her voice hushed.

Hugo slightly nodded, his playful smirk entirely gone, replaced by a grim set to his lips. "I have strong suspicions that if Motley goes through with the testing, and he is found positive..." He paused, and Tash's heart sank, a cold dread seeping through her veins. "...Motley will be publicly executed as a public statement to all power users."

The room went dead quiet. Goosebumps erupted over Tash's entire body, prickling her skin. She stared at Hugo, then slowly turned to Motley. The flat, uncomprehending look on his face made her blood run cold. She reached across the table, her hand trembling slightly as she found his. His fingers were warm, and surprisingly still. "Motley," Tash finally forced out, the word a painful croak past the knot in her throat. He was unmoving, paralyzed, a statue carved from disbelief.

"I... I'll just have to leave before they do the testing... right?" Motley asked, his voice a strained whisper, his gaze fixed on Hugo.

Hugo's face was grim. "I don't know, Motley. This has never happened before. An adult publicly tested, then executed? It's unprecedented."

Tash kept her eyes on Motley, seeing his mind churn, already searching for solutions. "Is there a village where the President's influence doesn't reach?" he asked, a desperate hope in his voice.

"I can look into it—" Hugo began, turning to Tash.

"Of course, whatever it will cost," Tash interjected, her hand still clutching Motley's, her voice firm.

Hugo shook his head, a somber expression on his face. "From the top of my head... No, there is not. He runs our whole nation of Faph. But I will find out more and come back tomorrow." He took a slow sip of his coffee, the silence stretching between them.

"Is there any place I can go outside of Faph?" Motley asked, his gaze earnest.

Hugo's usual smirk returned, a faint, almost pitying curve of his lips. "I knew you would ask that." He gently placed his mug back on the table. "As you know, I work with truths, with facts. Any information I've ever gotten from outside of Faph is skewed, nonsense, rumors. I personally don't know anyone who has left Faph and returned. I can't risk my reputation, my business, on anything I share about the outside."

Hugo's words hung in the air, a stark, definitive boundary drawn around their world. No escape from Faph. Motley's shoulders slumped. Tash's grip tightened on his hand under the table, a silent reassurance. The gloom of their situation seemed to settle over them, thick and suffocating.

Then, Hugo let out a soft, almost conspiratorial chuckle. "Well, that's a cheerful thought for a Tuesday morning, isn't it?" he quipped, a familiar playful glint returning to his eyes. He leaned forward, plucking a vibrant emerald snake fruit from the woven bowl. "Speaking of the impossible, did Tash ever tell you how she nearly burned down the entire market district trying to sterilize a batch of bandages with a steam lamp?"

Tash gasped, pulling her hand away from Motley to swat playfully at Hugo. "Hugo! That was one time! And the bandages were perfectly sterile!"

Motley, surprised by the sudden shift in tone, found himself smiling. The tension that had coiled around his gut began to loosen.

The conversation flowed then, weaving from the grim to the absurd, their voices filling the quiet cafe. Hugo, in his element, launched into a tale of a particularly stubborn customs official he once had to "negotiate" with, implying a cascade of petty regulations and mysteriously delayed shipments until the official mysteriously developed an allergy to the scent of imported spices. Tash countered with stories from her cafe, the bizarre requests from regulars, or the time a steam-pipe burst behind the counter, drenching her in coffee grounds on the busiest morning of the year. Motley, initially quiet, found himself chuckling more freely, his smile becoming less strained. He listened intently, soaking in the details of their lives, finding a strange comfort in their shared normalcy, however brief.

As dusk moved to midday and Tash moved to prepare another round of coffees, the rhythmic hiss of the machine a comforting backdrop, Motley and Hugo continued. Hugo was recounting a legend about the "Whispering Wells" of the desert, where traders claimed the very air carried the lost secrets of ancient caravans. Motley, sipping the warm, familiar coffee, found himself sharing a small anecdote from his week working at the cafe – a peculiar customer who insisted on stirring his coffee exactly thirteen times, or the way old Joric the smith always managed to subtly try and get extra sugar when Tash wasn't looking. Hugo listened, his eyes sharp with interest, a knowing grin spreading across his face as Motley described the baker's precise grumbling about the morning's chill. Hugo recognized them all.

Tash, returning with their refilled mugs, watched them, a profound sense of contentment settling over her. To see Motley smile, to hear his quiet laughter, to see him engaged, listening to Hugo’s tall tales and sharing his observations from work—it warmed her more than any coffee. She was happy that he had a friend, someone as powerful and as shrewd as Hugo. She knew Hugo was loyal, especially when his word was given. Seeing them like this, two unlikely companions now bound by shared secrets and a growing camaraderie, Tash felt a quiet confidence bloom in her heart for Motley's future. Whatever came next, he wouldn't be facing it alone.

Tash and Motley moved through The Copper Cactus, their actions a familiar rhythm of closing. Motley swept the last dust motes from the floor, neatly stacked the chairs onto tables. Across the cafe, Tash silenced the hissing coffee machine, its brass still warm. She stored the remaining pastries and half-full jars of juice, a faint worry nagging at her. Maybe turning it into juice will make the fruit last longer? She mused, eyeing the tender emerald snake fruit. Business had been nonexistent today; Hugo had been their only visitor. She saw Motley disappear into the back room, likely heading for the trauma room. Tash then walked to the front door, pulling it firmly shut, the bell jingling a final, mournful chime, and flipped the sign to 'Closed.'

She stepped into the back room. The trauma room was dim, lit only by the faint light filtering from the corridor. She found Motley lying on the bed, utterly still. In his hands, he was flicking the dull silver coin, over and over, catching the faint light as it spun. The soft thwick as it rotated, then the slight clink as it landed back in his palm, was the only sound. His gaze was fixed on it, lost in thought.

Tash walked into the back room and joined Motley in the trauma room. She found him lying on the bed with the coin in his hands, flicking it over and over.

Tash decided to join him and sat on the bed beside him. Motley flicked the coin up in the air, high, rotating fast.

"We should make a plan," Tash stated, her voice holding a sudden, unexpected demand. The abruptness of it clearly shocked Motley; the coin, mid-rotation, fell and landed with a soft clink on his forehead.

Tash laughed, a soft, amused sound. Motley sat up, rubbing his forehead. "That was mean," he grumbled, though a faint smile touched his lips.

"We both know you're a power user," Tash continued, her tone more serious, "and I suspect Hugo does as well, based on how he delivered the news to you. Am I right?"

Motley was quiet for a second, then let out a sigh. "Yeah, he does. I'm happy he knows."

Tash smiled slightly. "You trust him, right?"

"Yeah," Motley confirmed, meeting her gaze.

"I think you should leave soon," Tash said, her voice dropping to a low, firm tone. "I can give you some supplies to help you survive the desert."

"Should I go back to Solara?" Motley asked, the name feeling foreign on his tongue, yet familiar in his mind.

Tash's eyebrows rose, a flicker of surprise. "Solara? Walking there will take you at least three weeks."

"That's the only place I know of," Motley admitted, a hint of frustration in his voice.

"We can talk about that part of your journey tomorrow when Hugo comes back," Tash decided. "For now, we should focus on how you'll get out of here."

Silence settled between them for a bit, both lost in thought.

"I'm not a prisoner, right? Can't I just walk out?" Motley asked, confusion in his voice.

"I was thinking that," Tash replied. "If you leave now, before the testing, it will look like you're escaping from being tested, implying you have a power, and they might come after you."

"I guess," Motley conceded, the reality of his situation sinking in. "I could slip out at night without being seen."

That could work, Tash thought, a spark of an old memory igniting. She cast her mind back to her childhood, to endless nights playing hide-and-seek with Zeb, finding ways to sneak past the guards, through cracks in the city's defences, just to explore the desert under the twin moons. "I know just the place," she said, a small, knowing smile spreading across her face.