"I'll never become a knight now... we're criminals." It presses its forehead into its Ravi, slowly driving the whole craft lower and lower until its kicking up a cloud of dust. Its boots drag in the sand.
"Chin up, it's no big deal. I've been a criminal plenty of times."
"What?!" It squeaks. It's pageboy haircut is mussed in the front where it's been pressed miserably against the handlebars.
"Did you forget? We're part of the Holy Order of the Round Table. Just pop into a confession booth and emerge free of sin, fresh as a baby's bottom."
"A baby's butt..." it mutters, despondent.
They come upon a ruddy river, littered with refuse. Garbage means civilization, somewhere upstream.
Eventually, the horselike, its rider, and her morose sidecar passenger pass a craftswoman and her husband.
She's hard at work, scorching the innards of a log, and carving away the chars with her adze. Her husband keeps a sharp flint knife, and whittles a long pole for the canoe's future gondolier.
Her squire cringes away from the weapons, but the knight of The Falling Star finds them to be earnest, helpful people. Pagans, of course, but good people nonetheless. The shipwright gives the knight directions to the nearest chapel, for which she thanks them.
"Aotilly..." her squire says, reading from nearby posted signage.
"Aotlitlan", she instructs carefully, "'river place', or more accurately, "'the place with an abundance of canals'. We're in the latin quarter."
"The Latin Quarter of... what?" it asks, curiousity and abundant water seeming to cheer its mood.
"I... don't know. The world, i guess?" That doesn't sit right with her, so she puts it out of mind quickly.
The outskirts keep a few bridges, across which she rides, but soon enough, they ride through Aotlitlan, the city of canals, in earnest.
She silently envies her squire. Its hobby-horse Ravi skids gracefully over the surface of the water, creating only ripples. Ripples lap at her own boots and coat as her horselike wades, belly-deep, in the canals.
"Miss," comes a small voice, irritating in a new way, unlike the murine squeaking she's already grown accustomed to, "What are you doing?"
She looks up to see a local girl, dark hair braided fancifully, and eyebrow quirked.
"Riding," she answers, holding the reins in one hand and her sword above her head in the other. Don't want moisture to rust the blade or dampen the gunpowder.
"Do you want to ride with me?" she smiles, and the knight admires her stylish piercings, the basket of colorful roots and marsh leeks in her little skiff. She holds a long pole to propel her craft in the muddy silt.
The knight, her squire, and the vegetable merchant make idle conversation as they sail. Her horselike stays behind, tied to a post anchoring a number of floating gardens. The squire carries its Ravi over its lap, inert and lifeless as any child's toy. The vassals of The Falling Star have to ride with knees tight to their chest, crammed in among her wares, while the girl stands watchfully at the stern.
The town is bustling, spring in full bloom. Farmers pick flowers or sow seeds among reed-woven gardens, floating on the lake. Corn and pumpkins won't be ready to harvest until the autumn, so there are ample fisherman working with line net and spear.
Huge orange bugs flit through the air and suckle at milkweed and cacti. The knight swats at one when it nears her face, and the vegetable-selling girl smacks her with her pole, hard enough to make her helmet ring. The knight curses, and the squire and girl both snicker.
"Those are monarchs, Sir," the squire offers.
"The only true monarch is Arthur Pendragon, King of Kings," The knight reprimands quickly, and the squire chuckles again.
"Monarch butterflies, Sir. They'll migrate northwards, very soon."
"Where did you learn that?" she scowls, unhappy to be outnumbered on two sides away from solid land.
"I never had any friends, so I spent most of my time in the library," the squire admits shyly.
The girl disembarks at an island, near the center of the city. she waves them off, offering a flask of something dark and sweet.
"Izcatqui," she says.
"Lovely to meet you," the squire responds, "my name is-"
"Not her name," the knight corrects, "she's giving it to us. Thank you kindly, ma'am." The knight tips her hat and pockets the drink. She doesn't have much to offer to she gives her some of the cash jingling in their pockets. Ill-gotten gambling gains, but she doesn't need to know that. She looks at the coins quizzically, but pockets them anyways.
"And anyways, don't share your true name with just anyone. You don't know what kind of magic people work around here."
"Ah," the squire says, chastened. "...maybe we can learn? Just- since we're here? I've never read about this area in any book..." it trails off.
She doesn't know what to say to that, but the look in her eyes must communicate something, because the squire goes stiff, and doesn't make another peep.
"Magic blows, my squire. It fucking sucks. The sooner you learn that, the safer you'll be."
There are stone idols lining the square. Old gods, icons left over from the days of the Olmecs. Statues excavated and displayed here by the Mexica. Nameless pagan spirits, egos long-since perished along with the old empire. Politicians and merchants gather in the square to meet their peers and make bargains.
The icons have all had their faces knocked off by missionaries, and crucifixes have been carved into the remains. The knight nods appreciatively. Trickster daemons have no power here. The chapel must be nearby.
Caught out in the wastes, a pair of criminals would be fair game for any inquisitor or bounty hunter. But here, on holy ground, they're pilgrims arriving at temple, penitent sinners seeking salvation. There's nothing Christ loves more than a penitent sinner, and King Arthur's opinion is much the same. The good book and the legends teach her so, and thus, it must be true.
"Afternoon, Father," she says to the pastor, busy lecturing to a gaggle of locals, "Good to see the next generation gettin' a good education." She tips her helmet.
The priest's right eye glints with the divine spark, and he looks the sorry pair up and down.
"Excuse me children," he says warmly, "That's all I have time for today. Be sure and do your reading for tomorrow. Sister Anne has tamales for you in the kitchen."
When the three have privacy, he frowns. "Nasty curse," he whistles, "and your sins weigh heavy on your soul. Even your poor squire suffers," he adds, "spiritually, I mean."
She shrugs. "Father, don't I know it." She saunters into the chapel.
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