by Peter David
Stroker looked at me blankly. “Her money?”
“My mother’s earnings! All these years … where are they? She must have banked them with you. Where is it!”
“Your mother gave me squat, boy, ‘side from what I was entitled to. I think she kept it with her, in her mattress.”
Immediately I headed back into the room. I would have pitched my mother’s corpse off the bed to inspect the mattress … except that I quickly found one section had been torn away ‘round the other side. I shoved my hand in, probing … and came away with a single sov that the thief must have missed. That was probably the real reason that he’d killed her. Sitting on the mattress, he must have felt the wealth contained therein, disposed of her, and taken it for himself.
I muttered a string of profanity and stomped back into the main room. “It’s gone! It’s all gone! But if you have a shred of decency …” Then I stopped, remembering who I was talking to.
Stroker snorted once more, like a horse with an allergy, and turned away. Astel led me over into a far corner of the tavern and sat me down. “Don’t you be mentioning that money of yours to anyone,” she whispered. “Not a word of it.” She took my hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. “Your mother was right, Apropos. You do have a destiny; I could always sense that about you. But we both know that if it’s to be found, it’s not going to be in this place. Let’s face it, there’s nothing to hold us here. We can get out, you and me.”
“We?” Things seemed to be moving much faster than I’d anticipated. It was only within the last hour that I’d come to think of Astel as a real, flesh and blood woman rather than simply some individual who had always been there. A woman of passion and fire, and desires all her own, that was Astel. To go from that state of mind to thinking of us as a “we …”
Still, it didn’t seem particularly out of the question. She had awoken my carnal side, had brought me over the threshold into manhood. Already I felt an attachment starting to develop. I couldn’t look upon her without imagining what it would be like to be horizontal with her once more, sampling the amazing heat that the woman seemed to radiate from every pore. “We” didn’t seem such a terrible idea at that, truth to tell.
“Yes, we. Does the notion … repulse you?” she asked. Her voice contained potential for a world of hurt.
“No,” and I smiled, genuinely smiled, which is something I rarely did. “No, it doesn’t repulse me at all.”
“I could use some help here!” Stroker called angrily from behind the bar, and Astel immediately got to her feet and moved behind the bar to start cleaning up and settling down matters for the night. Stroker walked around the bar, carrying a large stein of what was probably mead. He swaggered toward me, and I wondered what he was going to say and do. What charming bon mot was going to tumble from his lips, what new insult or snide remark?
He stood at the edge of the table where I was seated, regarding me for a long moment. And then, to my surprise, he placed the stein in front of me. The froth of the mead swirled around the top. It was the good stuff, not the stuff he watered down, I could tell. And when he spoke, it was without any of the bluff, bluster, and arrogance that I had spent my entire life hearing.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” said Stroker in a low voice. “She deserved better. And she deserves justice.” That was all, and then he turned away. For a moment, just a moment, I thought I caught the smallest amount of moisture starting to form in the corner of his eye.
“Justice from whom?” I asked.
He looked back at me, as if surprised that the question needed to be asked. “The king, y’fool. Who else?” He walked away shaking his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe that such a stupid question needed to be asked.
I had to admit, it made sense. It was known far and wide that King Runcible was quite the adjudicator. People from around the land came to him with disputes to be settled, which seemed a far more reasonable means of handling arguments than resorting to combat. There was a place in his palace known as the Hall of Justice, where he sat once a week and welcomed all comers, the great and the ingrate, attending to their grievances.
I myself had always held such practices in general, and the court of Runcible in particular, in great disdain. Who better had the right? Runcible made a great show of his knights standing for something good and moral, but my very existence on this planet put the lie to that. Runcible’s men were just as violent, just as selfcentered, just as capable of great evil, as were any other individuals who made no pretense of moral posturing. I was a bastard, spawned from a group rape of my mother. It was hardly the sort of origin that was likely to give one a warm, generous feeling toward those who were responsible.
Still … there was something to be said for the notion. Hell, it had been a long time ago. For all I knew, those knights who had participated in the barbaric assault against my mother had been weeded out of Runcible’s court. There was no real way for me to tell. Besides—and here was the aspect that I found most attractive—if Runcible sicced his knights on the Journeyman who had slain my mother, my neck was not on the line. Let his trained brutes deal with the situation. That way I could have my revenge against the cad who had stolen from me, and at the same time do so without having to worry about running into difficulties myself.
No, it was not a half-bad plan at all.
The funerian showed up promptly at dawn, which was fortunate since with the passing of a bit more time, my mother’s poor corpse might have started to get ripe. He was a tall, pale individual, the type who seemed born to the profession. Stroker, who was becoming a fountain of surprises, slipped the funerian a few coins. Not enough to pay for a burial site, but at least sufficient to obtain a right and proper funeral and a solo cremation. There was somehow more dignity to that than watching a body tossed on a pyre with a half a dozen strangers.
The attendance at my mother’s funeral was small. It was in the open air, of course, the funerian’s kiln heated up ahead of time for maximum efficiency. Her body, wrapped in funeral cloths, was eased into the kiln, and the heavy metal door banged shut behind her with such finality that I jumped slightly. Astel was next to me, clutching my arm. Ever since our “bonding,” she had become a bit clingy. That might have caused problems in the long term, but for the moment it was acceptable. Stroker was there as well, plus a handful of regular customers who had come to appreciate Madelyne for her “talents” and her perpetually upbeat manner. The kiln belched out black smoke, which tailed away high into the sky. The funerian performed a fill-in-the-blanks sermon, and when he asked if any individuals wished to speak on her behalf at that time, no one volunteered. I felt I should say something, but I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what. There were things I wished I’d said to her while she was around, but it was a bit late for that. So I maintained my silence rather than risk saying anything foolish.
Astel nudged me in the ribs. I looked at her in annoyance and she inclined her head toward the front of the assemblage. Clearly she wasn’t going to let me off that easily. I sighed heavily and trudged toward the front, accentuating my limp even further as, perhaps, a slight bid for sympathy. I turned to face the people there and, after a moment’s reflection, I said, “Madelyne was my mother, and she had … a vision of what the world should be. And it never really matched up with her dreams. So what I’m going to do is dedicate the rest of my life to fulfilling her vision. Because that’s what she’d want me to do.” I hesitated, then mentally shrugged and said, “Thank you.”
There were actually tears in Astel’s eyes. I couldn’t believe that she had gotten misty-eyed over such a pathetic speech. Someone patted me on the back; to my horror, I had a feeling it was Stroker. This wasn’t the way I needed the world to be. The last thing I required was a brute like Stroker revealing a soft underbelly, or Astel—whom I’d always viewed as being one of the more pragmatic of women—to be a sucker for a few sentimental words.
Not too far off, there was a grove of trees that was part of the oute
rmost ridge of the Elderwoods. I glanced in that direction, and of course … of course … I caught a glimpse of a figure clad in green and brown. Then it vanished into the concealing woods.
We stood there and watched the black smoke belch from the top of the kiln, stray ashes and such fluttering upward. My mother had aspired to so much. Perhaps, wherever she wound up next, she might be closer to whatever it was she was seeking. Some minutes later, the funerian handed me a large urn with her remaining ashes.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.
“Whatever you want,” said the funerian.
I lugged the thing back with me. No one made an offer to help. Maybe they felt it would be something of an insult or some such nonsense. Damned foolish of them. If anyone had asked if they could help, I could gladly have shoved the urn over to them. Astel kept pace with me, and I said, “Any ideas as to what I should do with this?”
“When the time comes, you’ll know,” she said cryptically.
The mood in Stroker’s was somber that night. I sat at a table alone, staring at my mother’s urn, and Stroker walked over to me and sat down. “Look,” he growled, “I never had much use for you. But if you want to stay here, you can. Course, you’ll have to pull your own weight from now on. You’ve always been a lazy little shit …”
“Have I,” I said tonelessly.
“You know it, I know it. So you’ll have to bust your ass from now on to keep room and board. But if you’re willing to do that, then fine.” He paused, and then tapped the base of his neck. “I’ve still got your mark, y’know. Right here. You can barely see it, but it’s there just the same. You were a nasty little creep from the day you were born.”
“A lazy little shit, a nasty little creep. So why keep me around at all?” I looked at him levelly. “Because you want to see me squirm? Because you want to treat me like the shit and creep you think I am? How much do you want to make me grovel just so I have a roof over my head?”
His gaze hardened. “I was trying to be nice. Should’ve realized that was pointless with someone like you.”
“Yes, I guess you should’ve.”
He shoved the chair back with such force that it hit the floor. I’m not sure what else he intended to do, but finally he just shook his head and walked away, leaving me alone. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder then, and knew that it was Astel.
“We’re getting out of here,” I said.
It took us no time at all to gather the few belongings we had, and then I led her to the stables, still hauling my mother’s ashes in the urn. I went to the corner, pulled up the floorboards where I had been secreting my stash for the past years. I actually felt some degree of pride. For so long, I had wanted to pull out the fruits of my “ill-gotten gains” and show them to my mother, or shove them in Stroker’s face whenever he made some disparaging comment about how I would never amount to anything. At least I would be able to show it off to Astel. There was, after all this time, a small fortune in there. Probably far more than my mother had stashed away, since I didn’t have such considerations as food and rent to be deducted from it.
“Astel …” I started to say, ” … come take a look at this …”
I half-turned and barely had time to see the urn in Astel’s hands. She had planted her feet firmly and was twisting at the hip, gripping the urn and swinging it straight at my head. Before it could fully register on me, the urn cracked against my skull. I tumbled backward, hitting the ground heavily. I tasted blood swelling from my mouth, and even though I couldn’t string a coherent thought together, I still managed to pull myself halfway upright just as she whipped the urn around again. This time it hit me with such force that the urn shattered, spewing ash everywhere. Most of it, however, was on me, choking me, stinging my eyes. I coughed violently, trying to clear my lungs.
Through my limited sphere of vision, I saw Astel’s hands grab up the strongbox in which I had taken to keeping my stash. I lunged for it, trying to get out the words “Give it back!” She gave it back to me all right. She slammed me on the back of the head with it, and that was the end of that. Blackness spiraled around me and my head hit the straw. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard Astel say, “I’m sorry, Apropos. This will probably make it even harder for you to trust anyone in the future. Unfortunately, well … I just don’t care.”
And then there was nothing.
That would have been a fortuitous time in my life to have all manner of portentous dreams. To have my departed mother’s shade show up in my imaginings and put forward some useful advice. Or perhaps see visions of things to come. Unfortunately, such was not the case. I saw nothing but darkness, and then eventually there was dampness on my face. That was enough to bring me out of my enforced slumber, although I had no idea how long I’d been out. The dampness was coming from a leak in the ceiling of the stables. I heard rain outside, although it was not remotely as fearsome as it had been the other night.
I hauled myself to my feet. Standing up was always problematic, even on my best days, thanks to my lame leg. But this was even worse, because my head was throbbing and I could feel the world tilting wildly around me. My jaw ached, and when I rubbed my lower face, dried blood came away on my hand.
That bitch.
“That bitch,” I said out loud, as if simply thinking it wasn’t enough. “That damnable bitch.”
Had any of it been real? Our lying together, the emotions that had been stirred … had she done it in order to put me off guard, so that I would lead her straight to my nest egg? For that matter, had she been the one who had stolen the money from my mother, seeing the corpse and figuring she’d have no need of it … and then lay with me to augment her riches? Was she capable of doing such a thing? Well, hell, maybe. The truth is that, even though I had known her my entire life, I didn’t really know her. In fact, I was becoming increasingly certain that I didn’t know anyone, or anything about anyone.
I let out a ragged cough, and then another. My lungs spasmed as the last of the ashes which had gotten in there were propelled out. Other lads my age had complained about having their mothers getting in their hair, but I seriously doubt that any of them had ever meant it quite so literally.
She had left me my staff. Now, wasn’t that a sweet thing of her to have done. The way things were going I was surprised she hadn’t picked the damned thing up and used it to stave in my head once and for all. I bent over, nearly stumbling again, before getting a grip on the staff and using it to steady myself. Then I limped toward the door of the stables, and out. The fact that it was raining was of no consequence to me at all.
I stood out there in the rain, the heavy drops pouring down, and I stretched my arms out and raised my face to the sky. My mother’s ashes were washed off me, although some remained in my clothes, discoloring them permanently. And there, in my fallen state, I laughed. Because it had been all so ridiculous. The cynic had lowered his guard. I had listened to the siren call of lust and love, and for just the briefest of moments, I had surrendered the eternal vigilance that was my credo. Naturally, I had paid for that, paid for it with the loss of all the money I had saved up. Astel could have gone anywhere by that point, in any direction. She had a head start of hours. She’d probably even arranged for a mount, for she had most certainly planned this ahead of time; on horseback, she could be miles away.
She had a head start, she had my money, and I had absolutely nothing except the clothes on my back and a few pathetic possessions in a small bag inside the barn. All that … and the taste of ashes in my mouth. How classically Apropos.
I had no idea what the hell I was going to do. I could seek out the shelter of the Elderwoods, go crawling back to Tacit. But that wasn’t going to happen. I could seek out Stroker’s help, but I doubted he was going to think much beyond the notion that, whatever had happened to me, I deserved it. Who knew, perhaps he was right.
“You have a destiny,” she’d said to me. Perhaps I did, but at that moment, I had no purpose at all. N
o plans, no direction, and nothing in particular to do. Nothing except a burning need for vengeance against those who had done me wrong.
I wiped the soggy ashes from my face, very likely making a bigger mess than before, and decided at that point that I might as well seek vengeance on he who had murdered my mother. That need burned more brightly than wanting redress for the ills that had been done me by Astel. In a way, I was almost grateful to her, for she had driven home to me the remarkably useful lesson that one must never relax, never trust, not for a moment. It had cost me money now, but with any luck, it would save me money in the future. I would trust no one, ever again, and put my needs, wants, and desires ahead of everyone else’s. That was, after all, the way of the world. My aching head was more than sufficient reminder of that.
The wrong that had been done to Madelyne, however, needed avenging. Not only had she been deprived of her life, but also I had been deprived of her company. Much to my surprise, I found that I missed it, and her. Someone had to pay for that. It was not a matter of honor in particular, for I had none to defend. It was simply a matter of the natural order of things. Personal grievances require response.
But I knew that I, alone, could not possibly seek satisfaction from Meander’s Journeyman. Even if I managed to find him, from what I’d heard he would make short work of me, and where would be the point in that? I had been toying with the notion of employing a sword-for-hire, and there were certainly enough of them about. Some bruiser with a huge blade who could act on my behalf while I watched from a safe distance. Such men did not come cheaply, though. Had I the money I’d been stockpiling, it would have been an easy matter. But I was now a pauper, devoid of any funds, and I would never be able to afford such an individual.
No, the idea bandied about earlier seemed to be the way to go. I would go to the court of King Runcible and seek redress of grievances there. I would demand the head of the marked man who had slain my mother, and Runcible would certainly listen to reason and acknowledge the fact that his subjects could not, should not, be treated in such a cavalier fashion. An attack on a freewoman would not be tolerated. Yes, definitely the king would see to that.