Sir Apropos of Nothing

by Peter David

  Glancing left and right to make sure that no one was paying attention, I followed suit and moments later was also munching on ham between two slices of bread. There was something to be said for the convenience, but I can say with certainty that—as a means of consuming food—it’s never going to catch on.

  It was interesting to watch the guests becoming rowdier as the drink flowed even more freely. I looked around and tried to figure out which one might be the dreaded Warlord Shank. Naturally I sought the largest, most forbidding of them, and there seemed several likely candidates. For a time I became concerned that one of those bruisers, in his cups, would begin to harass Entipy, and we would have a whole mess all over again. But I needn’t have worried; there were lusty wenches aplenty to sate the ardor of even the most drunkenly passionate of men. Next to those panting fillies, Entipy looked like little more than an awkward two-day-old colt.

  And so matters went on for a time, until suddenly there was an ear-shattering flourish of trumpets. At the far end of the hall was another huge set of double doors, similar to those through which we had entered, but bigger, and they had crests with dripping swords upon them. Slowly, ponderously, they swung open, and everyone in the place sank to one knee. For a number of the men, I suspected, that was no great trick; the major difficulty for them had been managing to stay on their feet for as long as they had.

  I could only assume that the man who was entering was the host of this evening’s festivities, but I have to say that the one who came through that entranceway seemed, well—less than impressive. I do not mean by any stretch that he appeared weak or helpless; but certainly he was not the behemoth, the walking engine of destruction, that I would have expected from someone of his rank and reputation. It was most definitely he, though, as shouts of “All hail Shank! All hail the dreaded Warlord Shank!” filled the air, and everyone slapped their fists against their hearts in fealty. Automatically I did the same, and glanced toward Entipy. She did nothing; just stood there with her hands at her sides. I mouthed to her that she should do as the others were doing, but she just stood there. I could have strangled her and I prayed that no one noticed. Fortunately enough, no one did.

  What he lacked in physical stature, he made up for in sheer presence, I have to say that much for him. He was of moderate height, dressed mostly in black. His arms were bare but swathed in tattoos of equally black dragons intertwining ‘round one another. At first glance the arms themselves looked unassuming, but closer inspection revealed corded muscle that indicated considerable strength. He had long black hair and dark, deep-set eyes, partially obscured by an overhanging brow, that seemed to take in everything that was happening in the hall with one sweep. He had a mustache so long that either end dangled significantly below his chin, and sported his arrogance like a newly acquired ermine cape.

  “Greeting … my friends.” He held out the “s” in “friends” in a snake-like, sibilant manner. His voice was low and gravelly, and when he spoke it was in a very deliberate, unhurried manner. It was not a bad way of talking; it indicated that you were so important that everyone had to stand around and wait for you to take your time getting to whatever point it was that you were going to make. “I thank you for coming to join me in my time of celebration.”

  “All hail the nuptials of the dreaded Warlord Shank!” one person called out, and others took up the chant. Shank smiled as he sauntered to a large chair covered in skulls and sat in it. There was another chair next to him, composed of smaller skulls—those of children, by the look of it. I felt the ham and bread heaving in protest in my stomach, repulsed by the notion … and repulsed even further when I noticed that the skulls looked very freshly polished, indicating that the chair was quite new. I couldn’t help but picture helpless children being hauled off somewhere, to be beheaded and skinned for the purpose of adding new furniture to the warlord’s abode. I could practically hear their screams ringing in my ears. Entipy, for her part, remained detached from the entire thing. Sometimes I wondered if she even truly knew where she was, or if she had somehow separated herself from it all just so she could deal with it. If it was the latter, I envied her and wished I could do the same.

  The name “Shank!” had been taken up in a chant, repeated steadily as the warlord smiled in acknowledgment of his popularity. He allowed it to go on for some brief time before putting up his hands and indicating that they’d best calm themselves.

  “Until now,” he continued, “I have sated my legendary lusts in the violation of my victims, with no interest in a wife since my concerns lay elsewhere.” He began to walk the room, and it was only at that point that I noticed the sword strapped to his back. The thing looked huge, with a small skull shape visible at the pommel. At least I certainly hoped it was just a shape, rather than the skull of a child ripped from its mother’s womb at a tender age in order to provide ornamentation for Shank’s blade. “My priority has always been my corps of soldiers. I have trained them, disciplined them, worked them until they were ready to drop and then continued to work them. I have had very little concern for my own time upon this world, for one does not become a warlord and expect to die of old age. Instead, my soldier corps was to be my legacy when my life is done. You all know my motto: Live fast. Die young. And leave a good-looking corps.”

  There were nods of assent from all around, and more reflexive cries of “Hail the Warlord.”

  “However … however!” he called several times to get his voice over the chants, until they died down. “Recently, in my pillaging and plundering … efforts that had met with triumph in all lands except Isteria …” He said that last with enormous disgust, and immediately cries of “Down with King Runcible! Runcible will die! Runcible will fall!” were taken up throughout the hall.

  Entipy was busying herself slipping more meat between two more wedges of bread. The shouts didn’t seem to register on her at all, or at least paled in interest compared to the food.

  “In my pillaging … I met a woman. Not just any woman, mind you … the woman …”

  “A woman who can keep up with your lusts, my lord?” shouted one noble, and there was raucous laughter from all around, whistles and cheers.

  The warlord smirked at that. “She comes close. Do not think that I haven’t tried her out. One doesn’t purchase a Heffer without taking a few rides.”

  More shouts, more guffaws. Apparently a man’s worth in these parts was measured by the size of his “lusts.” Well, it certainly seemed more practical than honor or bravery, and certainly more entertaining during its practice.

  “She is nobility, of course,” he continued, and his smirk widened. “She has pleasured no man before your warlord, for no one has been man enough to seize her interest. Her beauty is unparalleled and, not only that … but I suspect she will provide me the son that even my closest advisors have told me I owe my people as a symbol of our continued success.

  “My fellow lords and ladies … may I present to you … Stela, the Countess of Pince-Nez!” And he swept his arm theatrically toward the door behind him.

  She entered then, and my heart came close to stopping.

  She had on a dress of crushed purple velvet, a glittering necklace that could only be diamond, and an assortment of golden rings and other pricey baubles. She had thick blond hair piled upon her head. She had a lovely smile. She had an ample bosom. And she had all my money in the world.

  It was Astel, the tavern bitch who had nearly caved my head in and spread my mother’s ashes all over me.

  And fate had handed me the opportunity to make an ash out of her in return. Because I was the only person in the room who knew that the warlord’s beloved bride-to-be was nothing more than a fraud. There was no question that I was going to take advantage of this knowledge. The only thing at issue was how I was going to do it.

  Chapter 19

  What’s happened? Something’s happened.” Entipy was looking at me very closely. I have to say, not much slipped past her. She was able to intuit, just by my m
anner, that a new dynamic had been introduced into the mix.

  “Nothing,” I said in a low voice.

  “Don’t lie to me.” There, for just a moment, was that famed sharpness and snappishness that I’d come to associate with her. Her eyes seemed to bore right into me. “Something’s going on. Is it bad?”

  “No. It’s good, actually. It’s very good, providing I play it right. And you’re going to have to trust me to handle this. Understood?”

  “Now listen, squire—”

  I rounded on her then, speaking in a voice that was both soft and yet filled with warning. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t address me that way, even if you’re whispering … even if you’re mouthing it. It’s not enough that the walls have ears; in case you haven’t noticed it, the furniture has bones. And I don’t know about you, but I’ve no intention of being added to them. Now shut up!”

  She looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead she silenced herself. I couldn’t have been more grateful. “Now stay here,” I told her as I made my way around the table. I glanced around, saw a large open bottle of wine, and snatched it. As I did so, I draped a cloth over my arm so as to give an impression that I was a wine server.

  “Where are you going?” she whispered.

  I didn’t respond because I couldn’t think of a reply that might not endanger us. This game had to be played very, very carefully.

  Slowly I made my way across the room. As I did so, I stopped every few feet, smiled, bobbed my head subserviently, and poured refills from the bottle for any guests of the warlord who looked as if they were in danger of becoming remotely sober. The entire time I never took my eyes off Astel. I couldn’t hear anything that anyone was saying to her from where I was, but I could see that she was greatly enjoying herself. She was not standing right by the warlord’s side, but she always remained in range of him. That meant that I was going to have to get very, very close in order to achieve my goal.

  It was not something that I was looking forward to. The nearer I got to the warlord, the more aware I became of just how brutal and vicious he could be. I could see it in his eyes … or rather, I couldn’t, because he had cold, dead eyes, like a shark is reputed to have. The kind that shrivel your soul if they happen to light upon you. The closer I drew, the more I felt as if I were not at a celebration … but a wake. A wake being held for the attendees themselves. Yes, that was it. Everyone around me … was already dead. But no one wanted to acknowledge it. They were too afraid to. So I was surrounded by walking corpses, celebrating their dark god, and no one wanting to admit that they were all damned and doomed. And if I didn’t get out of here, I would be one of them.

  But it didn’t stop me from getting closer still, all the time pouring wine and nodding and acting as if I lived only to bring half-empty mugs up to their proper, filled state of being. Fifteen paces from Astel, then ten, then nine. She still hadn’t noticed me. Why should she? No one notices the help.

  I was taking a tremendous risk. Everything hinged on my catching Astel off-guard, of maintaining the upper hand emotionally. If somehow she gained control of the situation, I was undone. Part of me scolded me, telling me that if I had any brains at all, I would back off this mad adventure. But if I gave it the slightest moment’s thought, I was able to conjure up for myself what it felt like when she sent the urn smashing into my head. I could still taste ash between my teeth and stinging my eyes, still recall the sense of humiliation and frustration as I slumped into unconsciousness, all because of her. I had made peace with myself that I was not brave or honorable, but if I turned away from this, I would never be able to live with myself.

  Eight paces, seven, and she was laughing at something her dead-eyed husband-to-be was saying. Casually, ever so casually, she turned and her gaze took in an assortment of people, including me. I froze exactly where I was, concentrating all my focus upon her, as if I could drive a message into her brain by sheer willpower alone.

  She looked through me and past me. In truth, there was no reason that she should have recognized me immediately. I was older and scruffier than when she’d last seen me, not to mention hundreds of miles away. It wasn’t as if she was scanning the crowd to prepare herself lest Apropos show his face; there was no earthly reason for me to be on her mind at all.

  And yet for all the reasons she had for not recognizing me, I still felt a flicker of doubt. What if … I was wrong? What if this was not Astel? What if she had a previously unknown identical twin, or this woman was simply a look-alike? It could be, after all, that it was my memory that was faulty. That I was so eager to gain a measure of retribution upon Astel that I was ready to see her face damned near anywhere if it meant I might have the opportunity to get back a measure of the pride I’d lost that stormy night long ago.

  At the exact moment that doubts were surfacing, leading me to think that I was mistaken, that was when her head snapped back around and she looked right at me. I had the great good pleasure of watching every bit of blood drain out of her face, her makeup now looking incredibly bright red against the lack of color in her skin.

  I had her, then. I knew I did. I said nothing, did nothing, didn’t even acknowledge her with a nod. I just stared at her, hard, as if I was capable of blasting her brain out the back of her head with the power of my eyes alone.

  Suddenly she started to take a deep breath, and I knew instantly that she was reflexively getting ready to scream. I didn’t act the least bit perturbed. I simply shook my head very slowly, and then nodded with a slight tip of my head in the direction of the doors she’d originally come through.

  Her hand fluttered to her bosom and I was close enough to her to hear her say to Shank, “My … apologies, husband-to-be … I feel unwell.”

  The dreaded Warlord Shank did not seem perturbed by this. “Mayhap you have the child sickness and are already carrying my heir.” It was all the more chilling to hear words of amorous, even loving affect issuing from a face possessing eyes that pitiless.

  “Anything is possible, milord,” she said with a glance in my direction that seemed to indicate that my very presence there was proof of the sentiment. “I would … retire … if that would suit Your Lordship’s pleasure.”

  His face darkened, and I suddenly found myself wondering if he was as hard on fiancées as he was on the serving staff. “It would not. This gathering is for my nobles to meet you. If you depart so early, it will make you seem weak … and, by extension, me as well.”

  “For a brief time, only,” Astel said with more urgency, looking my way surreptitiously. “That is all, my lord. Tell them … tell them whatever you wish. You are their warlord. They will listen to you.”

  Appealing to his overweening instinct was definitely the proper move to make. Shank considered what she said and nodded. “You do look a bit … pallid. Do you need help to get you to your chambers … ?”

  “Oh, I …” And she looked at me even as she addressed Shank. “I think this … server should be able to attend to me.”

  “Server!” barked Shank, and I immediately moved to just in front of him. He focused those dead eyes upon me, and suddenly it was all I could do not to shake violently. I felt as if he was capable of picking apart my brain, plumbing it for its secrets, just with a look. Reflexively I looked down, telling myself that it was a normal thing for a server to do rather than an obvious attempt to cover my fear. Shank paused a moment and an eternal afterlife of my rib cage transformed into a musical instrument flickered through my imagination. He was staring at the staff on which I was leaning. “I have a server who is lame of leg?” he demanded.

  “I am but temporary help, milord,” I said humbly.

  “I had people on my staff who thought they were permanent, who discovered that they likewise were temporary,” he guffawed, prompting similar amused grunts from his associates. I said nothing, merely tried to look humble. Then he continued, “My fiancée has a brief … personal need to which she must needs attend. You seem harmless enough. Perhaps she feels
pity on you. Attend to her.”

  I bobbed my head, still not looking up. “As you command,” I said, and turned to her.

  She spun on her heel and headed for the large double door. I kept close behind her and a moment later the heavy doors swung shut behind us. We were in a huge hallway that seemed to go on forever, and here it was quite cold indeed. Cold as the grave.

  She whirled to face me, her eyes wide. “Pallid” indeed. Her wan face floating in the dimness of the poorly lit hall, she looked positively spectral. “What are you doing here?!” she demanded.

  “Joining the party,” I said mildly. “I heard there was a masquerade: Come as you aren’t. I’ll have to admit, though, that the identity I’ve assumed can’t begin to compare to yours.”

  “You can’t be here …”

  Apparently the reality of my presence had not yet fully registered upon her. I had the advantage and I was going to do everything I could to press it. Telling her that my stumbling upon her was merest happenstance might give her some degree of comfort. So instead I said to her, in a voice that was deep with threat, “Of course I’m here. I’m everywhere you are.”

  Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Wh-what?”

  Laughing coarsely, I said, “Do you believe yourself to have been unobserved all this time? That I did not have eyes everywhere? My dear ‘Countess’ … you may have temporarily managed to fool Shank, but my associates and I are quite a different matter.”

  She almost seemed to have forgotten where she was, and then her vision cleared. “What do you mean?” she managed to say.

  “You made a very serious blunder, Astel. You assumed that because I was out of your sight, you were out of my mind. But you have never strayed far from my thoughts … or my mind. You trusted the wrong people.”