The Mister Trophy Read Online Free PDF Page B

Trust me on this, Walking Stone. The rich don’t get richer by giving things up easy.”
    Mister Smith’s big owl eyes bored into mine. “Haverlock would fight to keep a bauble, a thing of no worth?”
    “Yep.” I hunted down socks as an excuse to look away.
    “But gold—” he dangled the three chunks of gold he wore around his neck “—this yellow metal—it is worth fighting for? Worth dying for?”
    “It isn’t the metal,” I said. “It’s what it will buy.”
    “Will gold buy you life, my brother?”
    I found a shoe. “It’ll buy roofs that don’t leak and food that doesn’t kill you. And a lot else. Around here, that’ll pass for life. Any day.” I stood. Mama Hog’s bracelet was still on my wrist, and I was tempted to ask Mister Smith if he wouldn’t mind tearing it off.
    A second glance at a meaty Troll-paw and I pulled my shirtsleeve down instead. “I need a bath and a meal,” I said. “What about you gentlemen?”
    “We will bathe in mountain streams ‘ere long,” said Mister Smith. “But a meal—have you sellers of fish, hereabouts?”
    “We do,” I said. “Tell you what—you boys watch my back while I visit the bath house up the street, and I’ll treat you to a wagonload of Brown River catfish. Deal?”
    “Deal,” said Mister Smith. His claws popped out an inch, and his big wet Troll eyes got wider. “Are these, perhaps, large catfish?”
    “Big as my arms,” I said. “Let’s go. Big night ahead.” Last night ahead, said a snarky little voice in the back of my mind.
    We went. The bracelet chafed and pulled hairs.
    As I passed by Mama Hog’s, I smelled something cooking and hoped the kid ate like a Troll.
     
    A wagonload of day-old catfish costs a crown and three jerks. I could have made twice that back by charging admission to the small crowd that watched my Trolls eat by tossing whole, raw catfish straight up and then leaping to gobble them out of the air as they fell.
    “I always wanted to join the circus,” I told the Misters when the catfish and the crowds were gone. We were all stretched out on the grass under an old water-oak in Rannit’s one and only park. Kids were flying devil-faced kites on a green hill across from us. A woman and a manicured poodle-dog got caught in a Troll-belch of catfish fumes and ran off, yipping and shrieking.
    “You should join this circus, then,” said Mister Smith.
    “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “After tonight, maybe I will. If there is an after.”
    “The spirits tell me all will be well,” replied Mister Smith. “They say our goals will all be met.”
    “Spirits ever wrong?” I asked.
    Mister Smith chuckled. “All the time,” he said. “But they mean well.”
    I shut up and watched the grinning devil kites until the sun got fat and sank.
    A chill hit the air. My Troll warriors belched catfish and scratched and sat up, all business.
    “It was fun, gentlemen,” I said. “All of it. But we’ve got work to do.”
    “We have shared a meal, shared a day,” said Mister Chin.
    “We thank you,” said Mister Jones.
    I stood and brushed grass off my butt. “You’re welcome, Walking Stones, the honor was mine,” I said, hoping that would suffice. Their words had the sound of some Walking Stone ritual, but it wasn’t one I knew.
    Mister Smith yawned again and grumbled something, and after I pointed them toward the River we headed out.
    The walk would take us until well after dark.
    We’d be at the waterfront by Curfew.
    And then, we’d see if Mister Smith’s well-meaning spirits had improved their foresight any since the War.
     
    Night fell. Curfew fell. Drizzle fell. We were so close to the Brown River I could smell the cattle-barges through the stench of slaughter houses and paper mills.
    Trolls can shut their nostrils, and hold them shut. I hadn’t known that. They were doing it now, except for Mister Smith, who kept his nose open to sniff for half-dead.
    About half past the tenth bell, the drizzle became