The Mistress of Illusions

by Michael D. Resnick

  “They ain’t got any here, neither,” said the man at the bar.

  Somehow, thought Raven, this isn’t any more interesting or enlightening that sitting alone in my apartment, staring at a wall. He drained his glass, nodded at the bartender, then walked to the door and out into the street.

  He looked at the sky, hopeful for a sign of impending daylight but seeing none.

  All right, he thought. I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for anyway. Am I glad to be back? Kind of. Nothing wrong with being Alan Quatermain or Fitzwilliam Darcy, though I can think of lots of people I’d rather be than Frankenstein’s monster, if he’s a people at all. He frowned. How can she just tell me she’s the Mistress of Illusions and then vanish?

  He grimaced, reached for a cigarette, suddenly remembered that he didn’t smoke, and increased his pace. There was a drunk sprawled across the sidewalk, and he stepped around, rather than over, him.

  He stopped mid-block, looking back the way he had come, then the direction in which he was going, and finally at the dilapidated buildings that seemed to be surrounding him and closing in upon him.

  “Back off!” he muttered softly enough that no one lingering between the buildings could hear him. “I may not be the Master of Dreams or the Mistress of Illusions, but I’m somebody pretty damned important or I wouldn’t even know them, so keep your distance.”

  There was no response, nor had he really anticipated any.

  He decided he’d experienced enough strangeness for one night, decided to put off seeing Rofocale until tomorrow, increased his pace, walked the last few blocks to his apartment building, opened the front door, climbed the stairs to his apartment, pulled out his key, and unlocked the door. Before he entered, he reached his right hand into his pants pocket and clutched the marble, then let go of it after he’d turned on the lights and convinced himself that the apartment was empty.

  He considered turning on the television, decided that there was nothing that he cared to see two hours before dawn, and considered sitting down with a good book, which required him to walk over to his bookcase and select one.

  He was confronted by short rows of mystery, adventure, and science fiction books, plus a couple of mainstream paperbacks, and even a biography or two.

  So what’ll it be? he asked himself.

  “So what’ll it be?” said a harsh voice.

  Was that me?

  “Damn it, speak up!” said the voice. “I ain’t got all day, Robin!”

  He looked around, but the familiar walls and furnishings of his apartment had vanished. He was in a stone-walled room, with sturdy metal bars on the door and windows. He looked down and saw he was wearing some kind of outfit made of a very coarse cloth that exposed his arms and most of his legs. Standing next to him was a blond man who bore the physique of a defensive end, close to seven feet tall and three hundred pounds, and dressed in much the same manner.

  “I’m asking one last time,” said the voice from the other side of the door, “and if I don’t get an answer, you can do without anything to eat until tomorrow.”

  “We’ll take the goat,” said his companion.

  “Okay,” said the man. “And remember, Little John, you’ve got a cellmate now, so leave the poor bastard a bite or two.”

  Little John cursed at him and spat on the filthy floor.

  “As if we had a choice,” he said to Raven. “We could have goat, or we could have goat.”

  “How long have we been here?” asked Raven.

  Little John stared at him and shook his head. “They really busted your noggin, didn’t they, Robin? I’ve been here maybe three weeks. They just dragged you in four or five hours ago.”

  “Where is ‘here’?” asked Raven.

  “I guess you could call it the Sheriff of Nottingham’s hotel for enemies.” Suddenly Little John smiled. “And he ain’t got no greater enemies than Robin Hood and his Merry Men.”

  12

  Thanks a heap, Rofocale, he thought bitterly. Or was it you, Lisa?

  There were no answering thoughts.

  He examined his surroundings more thoroughly. A snuffed candle was in a rusted holder on the wall. He assumed they lit it at night, but since he’d yet to spend a night here, he didn’t know for sure. There were no beds or cots, just two piles of torn blankets that passed for beds. There was no bathroom, of course, but he noticed that Little John avoided the farthest corner of the cell, and he decided to avoid it as well.

  There was nothing to read, nor anything to eat or drink, not even a pitcher of water.

  He walked over to the door and examined the lock. It looked like it was completely rusted, but when he tried to maneuver the door he found that it was still held firmly in place.

  Finally he sat down on the cracked stone floor and propped his back up against a filthy wall.

  “I could have told you that the cell’s secure,” said Little John, “but being Robin, I knew you’d check it out for yourself.”

  “How did they capture you?” asked Raven.

  “Just clumsy,” said Little John. “You may have noticed that there’s not a decent cook among all the Merry Men, so one night I sneaked into Nottingham, found the baker’s hut, and grabbed a pot filled with roasted pig.” He smiled at the memory of it. “It smelled heavenly, Robin.” Suddenly he frowned. “I was just leaving with it when I tripped over some pans on the floor. Made almost enough clatter to wake all the soldiers we’ve already killed. So I walked out the door and half a dozen of the sheriff’s men were waiting for me.” He grimaced. “I did all right. Killed four of them before replacements arrived, but eventually their sheer weight of numbers overwhelmed me, and I woke up, all torn and bleeding, in this beautiful guest accommodation.”

  “And no one’s tried to rescue you?” asked Raven.

  “I don’t think Friar Tuck and the rest know where I am, or even that I’m still alive,” answered Little John. Suddenly he smiled. “But now you’re missing too, so you can be sure they’ll be sending out search parties.”

  “How well guarded is this place?”

  Little John shrugged. “I don’t even know where it is, let alone how well guarded. My guess is that it’s off the beaten track, since otherwise they’d post a hundred guards with a prisoner like Robin Hood in their possession, and all that would do is tell the Merry Men where to look for you.”

  “I hate to admit it, but that makes sense,” replied Raven. He paused. “So I guess we’ll have to break out on our own.”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” said Little John without much enthusiasm. “Do we tear down the door, break through a wall, or pull all the bars out of the window?”

  “We consider all the possibilities and choose the one most likely to succeed,” answered Raven. “Or least likely to fail, which comes to the same thing.”

  “How are things on the outside?” asked Little John. “I figure I’ve been here a couple of weeks.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Raven. And one that would be impossible for an illiterate medieval outlaw to believe, he added mentally.

  “Ah, well, wherever you were, I hope the sheriff is considerably the poorer for it—either in treasure or men, or, better still, both.”

  “How often do they feed us?” asked Raven.

  “Three meals a day,” said Little John. Suddenly he grinned. “Well, one meal a week, actually, spread over twenty-one servings.”

  “Sounds about right. We got any water, or is that rationed too?”

  “Rationed, no. Filthy, yes,” said Little John, pointing to a rusty bucket just to the left of the prison door.

  “Any other prisoners here?” asked Raven.

  “Almost certainly, though I suspect none of them stay for long. You can hear the screams from what passes f
or the courtyard every morning. I think you and I are the only ones who are here permanently. He’s got information to torture out of us before he kills us.”

  Somehow I intuit that you’re one of the optimists, thought Raven. Now, that’s really depressing.

  Don’t give up hope, said Rofocale’s voice inside his head. Great challenges await you.

  It sounds like one of them will be living to lunchtime, and the greatest will be surviving all the way to next week.

  Adjust your attitude, Eddie. We need you.

  I’m trying, goddamn you!

  Raven was about to shoot another thought across time and space when Little John nudged him with a knee.

  “Company,” he said softly.

  “Oh?”

  “Suddenly we’re the most popular place in town.”

  They could hear the key inserted into the lock, the door squeaked open, and a bruised and bloodied prisoner was shoved into the cell.

  “Welcome to our humble abode,” said Little John. He stared intently at the man. “Do we know you?”

  “Not if you’re Robin Hood and Little John like the guards said,” answered the man. “I’m just a farmer from across the river.”

  “What was your particular crime?”

  “I’ve been supplying meat for the sheriff’s men. Today they came by and demanded my last fifteen pigs.”

  “And you refused?” asked Raven.

  “I only had fourteen. My family had eaten the fifteenth two days ago—so they arrested me.” He shook his head sadly. “I wonder what will become of my wife and children now?”

  “You’ll find out before too long,” said Little John soothingly.

  “How?” asked the distraught farmer.

  Little John jerked a thumb in Raven’s direction. “This is Robin Hood. The Merry Men aren’t going to let him rot here. They’re probably on their way to break him out even as we speak.”

  “You really think so?” said the farmer.

  “You have my word on it,” said Little John, turning to face the farmer, so that only Raven could see his fingers crossed behind his back.

  13

  “All right,” said Raven after he and Little John had made their cellmate as comfortable as possible. “How many guards come by to feed us, or clean us, or whatever they hell they do?”

  “Clean us?” said Little John, throwing back his head and laughing.

  “All right, feed us,” Raven corrected himself.

  “Usually a pair of them, but that’s when I was alone in the cell. We’ll get at least two, probably three or four with you and the farmer here now.” He paused. “And maybe a couple of dozen of them if they’ve figured out who you are.”

  “Let’s assume three or four,” said Raven.

  “Okay, let’s assume,” replied Little John. “None of us has any weapons, none of us has any armor, and my guess is that our new friend here has never killed anything more dangerous than a chicken or a calf.”

  “That’s not so!” snapped the farmer. “Every now and then I slaughter a full-grown cow.”

  “That makes all the difference,” said Little John with a smile.

  “All right,” said Raven. “Three or four, all armed. Any armor?”

  “Not usually,” answered Little John. “After all, they’re the captors and this is their stronghold. And hell, if we actually break out of the cell, we probably have to make our way past a hundred of them before we’re out of the goddamned building.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we come to them,” said Raven. “First things first: We have to get out of the cell.”

  “We’ll be two unarmed men up against four armed warriors,” replied Little John. “I’m open to suggestions. If anyone can get us out of here, it’s you.”

  Selling cut-rate dresses hasn’t exactly prepared me for this, thought Raven wryly.

  “I’m thinking on it.”

  “You’ll come up with something. After all, you’re Robin Hood.”

  “Let’s start by assuming our new friend here isn’t going to be worth anything in a fight.”

  “I’d call that a reasonable assumption,” agreed Little John.

  “Still, there’s no reason why we can’t put him to some use.”

  “How?”

  “Give me your belt,” said Raven, reaching for the rope around his companion’s waist.

  “My pants will fall down!” complained Little John.

  “Come on,” said Raven, staring at Little John’s pants. “You have two more good meals and the damned things will split. They’re not in any danger of falling down.”

  Little John opened his mouth to utter an argument, then suddenly shrugged, unbuckled his belt, and handed it to Raven.

  “Okay,” said Raven, walking to the back wall of the cell. “Help me find something we can hang it on.”

  “What the hell for?” asked Little John.

  “Let’s find it, and then I’ll show you.”

  The two men walked around the farmer and began examining the back wall.

  “Got the remnants of a spike or a nail or something else sharp over here,” said Little John, indicating a spot about seven feet above the floor.

  “Loop the belt over it and see if it’ll hold it,” said Raven.

  Little John did as he was instructed. “It’ll hold if there’s nothing attached to the belt, but it’s not big or strong enough to hold anything much heavier than another belt.”

  “It won’t have to,” said Raven. He turned to the farmer. “You! What’s your name?”

  “Enoch,” replied the farmer.

  “Okay, Enoch. Little John and I will be escaping sometime today. May I assume you’d like to come with us?”

  Enoch nodded his head. “Given the alternative,” he said.

  “Okay,” said Raven. “Go sit against a wall and relax.” He turned to Little John. “You, too.”

  “That’s it?” said Little John. “You’re all through planning our escape?”

  “Unless you know a way to contact Friar Tuck and the rest of the band, that’s it,” said Raven, sitting down near the door, where he hoped he’d be able to hear men approaching.

  They sat in silence for another ten minutes, and then Raven did indeed hear the sound of men approaching. He got to his feet, signaled Enoch to follow him, and walked to where the belt hung from the wall. He quickly removed it, looped it around Enoch’s neck, backed him up to the wall, and managed to tie the end of the belt around the protrusion.

  “As soon as they get here, or close to here, act like you’ve been strangled. Your body can’t go limp because the belt will never hold, but make it look like you’re limp. Close your eyes, let your tongue hang out and your arms hang down.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we hope they’ll be so curious that they all gather around you, however many of them there are, and Little John and I will hopefully grab a sword or two and attack them from behind.”

  “That’s going to take a lot of luck and an equal lot of imagination,” said Little John dubiously.

  “You’ve been here a couple of weeks,” replied Raven. “Have you had a better idea?”

  Little John sighed deeply. “We’ll do it your way.”

  They heard a door open down the corridor.

  “Okay, Enoch,” said Raven softly. “You’re dead. Little John, you’re sleeping at this end of the cell, facing him.” Raven himself sat down with his back against a wall, and the door between himself and Little John.

  It turned out that there were only two armed guards.

  “What in blazes is going on here?” demanded the first to reach the cell.

  “He didn’t like being imprisoned,” said Raven.

  “Should we summon help?” asked the second guard.

  “Why bother?” rep
lied the first. “He’s obviously dead. We’ll get that rope off him and cart him out of here.”

  “Don’t let us stop you,” said Raven as they unlocked the cell door.

  “I heard we had a new one,” said the first guard. “Just watch your tongue or you’ll end up like your friend here, and sooner than you think.”

  The two guards walked over to cut Enoch loose, but he just collapsed in their arms since he wasn’t actually attached to anything. Raven nodded to Little John, and the two of them hurled themselves at the guards from behind.

  Little John’s man fell with a bone-crunching thud!—he was well-built and well-armored, but a hundred pounds lighter than his attacker. Raven’s man stumbled as Raven threw himself upon him, but regained his balance in a few seconds, turned, and faced his antagonist. A grin crossed his lips as he pulled his sword out of its scabbard. “By God, I’ll become famous as the man who killed Robin Hood.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” said Little John, plunging his fallen foe’s sword into the guard who was confronting Raven. The man looked surprised, then frowned, then opened his mouth to say something—but all that came out was blood, and a moment later he collapsed to the floor.

  “Thanks,” said Raven. “Anytime I’m in jail from now on, I hope you’re my cellmate.”

  “Just a second,” said Little John, plunging the sword into the neck of his original foe, who lay unconscious on the floor. “I was in such a hurry to help you, I forgot to kill him.” He shrugged. “Not that he was going to wake up for a few hours.”

  “Okay,” said Raven, stepping out into the corridor and looking in both directions. “Do you know how to get the hell out of here?”

  “Two directions,” replied Little John. “Fifty-fifty chance whatever we choose is the right direction.”

  “I can make it higher than that,” said Enoch, removing the belt.

  “You know something we don’t know?” said Raven. “Good!”

  “I know that there’s a room where they question prisoners, and it’s got half a dozen armed men, because often they take entire families or enemy units.”