“Eh? What’s that?” said Sir Tombin.
“It’s the name of this place,” explained Memo. “It means ‘The City of Fear.’”
“Hardly a very auspicious name,” commented Flip.
Samzing gave a little mirthless snort. “Hardly a very auspicious place either.”
Still, they pressed on into The City of Fear. All talk among them died as they looked to either side at the blank-visaged buildings. Sir Tombin had drawn Xaraxeer and nobody thought to ask him why. The golden light of the weapon gave needed comfort.
About a hundred yards down a long dark road and, for the first time, they could hear the sound of other human voices. On the far side of the square was a building whose windows were brightly lit, evidently an inn of some sort. A gray marble statue of a huge and monstrous creature stood in the square’s center and beneath its upcurving, dagger-sharp horns, its cold stone eyes seemed to be staring at Flip.
Flip shuddered.
“Who’s that?” he said to Memo, pointing, and the memorizer translated the question to Cheireanna.
“She says it’s Arkanamon,” announced Memo a few seconds later.
“Then he’s changed a lot since I knew him,” said Samzing drily.
Sir Tombin stamped his feet impatiently. “Let’s see if we can get something to eat and drink at the inn. Perhaps a room for the night as well.”
“What are we going to do for money?” asked Flip.
“Our dead friends had the foresight to provide us with some coinage,” said Sir Tombin. He shrugged guiltily, though because of the armor, Flip was probably the only one able to detect the movement. “I felt bad about taking it,” continued the Frogly Knight, “as if I were a grave robber, but on the other hand, they no longer had use for it and we most certainly did—do.”
“The first drink’s on Casspol then,” said Samzing, grinning. It was clear he had no compunction at all about using the dead men’s dosh.
Flip felt the same way. “About time that tightwad Casspol bought a round of drinks,” he agreed.
There were no ostlers outside the tavern but beside it, squeezed between it and the next building, was a shed where a couple of horses sheltered. Samzing led Snowmane there and helped Cheireanna dismount. Flip thought the wizard would never be able to tear the girl away from the stallion, but finally he managed it.
“We’ll bring you something to eat, don’t worry,” Sir Tombin told the horse.
As they walked to the hostelry’s door, Tombin gave the others their instructions in a soft voice. “Remember, I’m a Shadow Knight and you are my prisoners. You’d better all seem cowed and beaten; you’re terrified of me, remember. Hm, Samzing, I’m rather looking forward to the experience of you showing me a little respect, for once. I’m taking you all to the slave mines or perhaps to the court of Arkanamon for punishment. I shouldn’t think anyone here will dare question me for details, unless there’s another Shadow Knight on the premises by chance, in which case I’ll have to think fast. I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it. Memo, dear fellow, make sure the girl understands all this, if you’d be so good.”
Sir Tombin paused at the door. It looked as if it might fall off its hinges at any moment. Numberless generations of termites had made a good living off this door, while the elements had done their damage as well.
“Are we all clear on the plan?”
The others nodded.
“Yep,” Memo piped in assent.
“Ah,” said Sir Tombin, looking at the bespectacled face. “I think it might be better if you and Flip remained in concealment, in case you attract undue comment from the revelers within. Samzing, old cheese, could you spare your pocket once more for the Mishmashian adventurer?”
Once Flip and Memo had been stowed away out of sight – it seems to have got even smellier in here, thought Flip resentfully as he peered through a thin patch of fabric of Samzing’s robe – Sir Tombin finally sheathed Xaraxeer and swung the inn door open.
The scene inside was hardly one of jollification and junketry. Tables and chairs echoed the battered condition of the door, and the few customers scattered around the large room seemed to be in the same sort of shape as the furniture. Every eye swiveled round to stare suspiciously at the newcomers, then, seeing the armor of a Shadow Knight, they turned swiftly away again.
Sir Tombin rapped his steel-clad fist against the wall to attract attention, as if that were necessary.
“Innkeeper,” he demanded imperiously.
A small man shuffled fawningly from behind the tavern’s lopsided bar. His face showed the signs of breaking up a thousand tavern brawls over the years. His nose had been broken at least twice, his cheeks were a contour map of scars, and a black patch covered one eye. He made a movement with his hands as if he were trying to wash them on his grease-stained apron.
“Greetings, master knight,” he said unctuously. “We are graced indeed by your presence among us this evening. What a rare honor to have a Shadow Knight, a servant of the great Arkanamon, whose name be praised, among us. How may I serve you?”
Flip hardly recognized the cruel voice as Sir Tombin’s when the Frogly Knight spoke from behind the mask of the silver helmet.
“Food. Drink. A room for the night. These scum,” he said, gesturing toward Samzing and Cheireanna, “will need to be in my room with me. I daren’t let them out of my sight. Spies, you know. If you have chains for them I’d be grateful.”
Uh oh, thought Flip. You’re slipping out of the character of a Shadow Knight, Sir Tombin. Shadow Knights don’t ask. They demand.
But the innkeeper didn’t seem to notice that this armored man was surely far too polite to be a minion of the Shadow Master. Instead, he just responded to the harshness of Sir Tombin’s assumed voice.
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.” He eyed Cheireanna with particular interest. “For the slave mines, are they?”
“My business is none of your concern, my good man but, harrumph, yes they are.”
“Would the excellent master think to sell one of them to me?” said the innkeeper, once again making that washing movement with his hands. “It’s a long distance to the slave mines, and surely it would be easier for the master to take one captive there than two.” He gave a repulsive chuckle. “I was thinking of the girl, fine sir. I have need in my humble hostelry for a slave as a … serving wench. Yes, that’s it. A serving wench.”
Sir Tombin fiddled with the hilt of the sword at his belt in a way that made a couple of the inn’s customers dive for shelter behind the furniture.
“I told you, oaf, I am taking these vermin to the mines. Do you challenge my intention?”
The innkeeper’s scrawny adam’s apple bobbled nervously.
“Of course not, your knightship. Just making conversation, like. Just thought you might wish to rid yourself of a part of your burden, and gain a few fine copper coins in the bargain.”
“Silence, before I cut your gizzard into a, harrumph, deck of playing cards. Rather soggy playing cards. Fetch me food and drink, at once.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“And some leavings for these creatures as well.” Sir Tombin half-turned to gaze at his prisoners. Cheireanna did a good job of cringing, but to Samzing it obviously went against the grain. “I’d not wish for them to die of starvation before I claim my recompense for their delivery.”
“No, not at all, sir. How vile do you wish the leavings to be?”
“As vile as you can make ’em, man. Do you have to be told?”
The innkeeper bowed obsequiously. “Certainly, good Shadow Knight. Here at the Sign of the Cross-Eyed Ferret we’re proud of our leavings, sir. Not one of them hasn’t been refused twice by the domesticated animals, sir, ’cepting those the animals accepted the first time through, if you take my meaning.”
“Enough of your idle chatter! Fetch me the food.”
As the innkeeper scuttled away, Sir Tombin sat down at one of the tables. The chair groaned uncertainly beneath his armore
d weight. With the air of a man granting an enormous favour, he gestured to Samzing and Cheireanna that they should seat themselves as well.
“I say, old fellow,” murmured Samzing once it was obvious no one was listening to them, “no need to take this master and slave business too far, is there? I could do with a square meal, and I’m sure my young friend here could as well.”
“Verisimilitude,” responded Sir Tombin in the same low tone. “Keep acting the part, for the sake of goodness. I wouldn’t want to have to start smacking you around because of your dratted impertinence.”
“For the sake of this verisimilitude of yours, you mean?”
“Yes. Now shut up. You could think about cleaning off the table for me. That’s a suitable thing for a slave to be doing, I think. It looks as if the last person here tried a dish of the establishment’s leavings and really, really regretted it.”
Smells it as well, thought Flip as Samzing moved to obey.
“Dang simo ymra,” whispered Cheireanna under cover of the activity.
“She says,” piped Memo, “that she thinks the innkeeper looks evil, devious.”
“Stating the obvious, if you ask me.” Samzing, still huffy about being ordered to perform the menial task, made a point of sweeping some of the glop from the table onto Sir Tombin’s lap, then sniffed when he remembered his friend was covered in armor.
Flip, secure in Samzing’s pocket, was brought close to Sir Tombin’s ear by the swing of the wizard’s robe. “Should we ask if anyone here has seen Perima or Sagandran?” he said.
Sir Tombin gazed around at the rest of the tavern’s clientele. Several of them had slipped quietly out into the darkness since the arrival of the newcomers, obviously not fancying the prospect of sharing space with a Shadow Knight. Depressingly, the two or three men remaining looked even less appetizing than the innkeeper.
“No,” he said shortly.
The host returned to their table bearing a tray with a mug and a plateful of green-tinged bread and worm-eaten cheese.
“Fine leavings indeed,” declared Sir Tombin with every evidence of satisfaction.
“Aha, good master, you jest. Very witty, if I might say so. Very witty indeed. The leavings is on their way, be here as soon as we catch the cow. This is the widely acclaimed Special of the Day, what brings the kitchens here at the Sign of the Cross-Eyed Ferret much praise and repute.”
“It is?”
“Yes, indeed, fine sir,” said the innkeeper proudly. “Only the best for an officer of the Shadow Master. And might I draw the good knight’s attention to the beer in this here mug, which is not only an enchanting little vintage but has been proven efficacious against scorpions, should you find one in your bedding tonight.”
There was a curious hollow sound, like someone hitting a bell with a sponge. Flip realized that Sir Tombin had just gulped inside his armor.
“I have decided I am in a beneficent mood for once,” Sir Tombin said. “These curs may share my repast with me. I am not so hungry as I was. Bring some extra mugfuls of this ale of yours.”
He produced a coin from somewhere and tossed it to the innkeeper, who caught it adroitly, bit it, examined it, and then oiled himself away backward, clucking the occasional grovel in Sir Tombin’s direction. Although Flip was sure the others were as hungry as he was, no one made an immediate move for the food. Samzing tried the beer cautiously, took a sip, made a face, shrugged, and took a longer gulp.
Cheireanna looked back and forward between the wizard’s face and Sir Tombin’s visor. “Suti?”
Memo translated. Sir Tombin gestured incredulously toward the mouldy bread and cheese. “Do go ahead, dear girl, if you think your constitution will stand it.” Her hand darted like lightning.
“Tahasso quamo,” she said thickly through a mass of food.
“She says, ‘What a feast,’” Memo reported. “No comment.”
“The beer’s not so bad though,” drawled Samzing. “It tastes like, well, I’m not going to say exactly what it tastes like in front of a young lady, even one who apparently can’t understand a word I’m saying, but it has a certain, well, afterglow.”
“Can I have some?” said Memo’s small voice from the depths of Samzing’s pocket.
“I don’t see why not.” The wizard dipped his fingertip into the ale, pried his pocket open, and carefully slid the finger down inside.
Flip could just hear tiny licking noises.
Sir Tombin started, as if from profound reflection. “I say, Samzing, dear chappie, just how potent is that brew? Do you honestly think it’s the best of ideas to give it to—?”
His warning came too late. The memorizer might be tiny but, as they discovered, his belches weren’t. Neither was his voice.
“Did you know that the conclusion of the Great Worg Wars took place not three hundred and fifty-eight years ago, as is recorded in many reference books, but a mere three hundred and fifty-seven years ago? Oops. There goes another one. Beg your pardon, I’m sure. Better out than in, I always say. And did you know that the cheese on the hypotenuse is equal to the sunrises in Spectram while it’s still the middle of the night in can’t remember now someplace anyhow? Oh dear, nobody loves me.”
Samzing looked down at the now-empty mug. “Thish shtuff doesh appear to be a bit shtronger than I thought.”
“My muvver would be intereshted in the cheeshe on the hypoten … hypoten … thing.”
Sir Tombin leaned forward urgently and addressed Samzing’s pocket. “For the love of Queen Mirabella, keep your voice down, little chap. You’re drawing attention to us.”
Flip peered around the tavern as best he could and saw that Sir Tombin was right. Everyone was staring at them.
Except the innkeeper. There was no sign at all of the innkeeper. Where could the man have got to? He said he was off to fetch some more beers. Hadn’t he been an awfully long time on this simple errand?
Before Flip could voice these questions, the door of the inn burst open, and into pieces as it slammed against the wall. A gust of cold air rushed in, making the sickly fire flutter in the hearth, and it was immediately followed by four heavily armed soldiers with the innkeeper behind them, still wiping his hands on his apron. The innkeeper gave the companions a sinister smile as the soldiers tramped over to their table.
Sir Tombin’s hand moved furtively toward Xaraxeer.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Shadow Knight,” said the leading soldier. He flicked his hand at the sycophantic figure of the innkeeper. “We have reason to believe that you are not entirely what you seem. An impostor, in short.”
“You will regret this impertinence, man,” said Sir Tombin in a voice designed to freeze blood solid. “Who is your commanding officer?”
The soldier was not to be browbeaten. “Who is yours? Why are you traveling alone with these prisoners? Where is the rest of your company?”
Flip decided that if it came to a brawl, he might be more useful outside Samzing’s pocket than in. Taking advantage of the fact that the soldiers only had eyes for Sir Tombin, he crept over the pocket’s flap and out onto the table. Cheireanna saw what he was doing and, as if reaching for more food, put her arm out to shield him from the soldiers’ view.
“How dare you question the honesty of a Shadow Knight, liege to the great Arkanamon himself?”
“We’re not sure you are a Shadow Knight. I repeat, where is the rest of your company?”
“They’re on the, ah, far side of the mountains,” replied Sir Tombin vaguely. Then, realizing that true Shadow Knights were never vague about anything, he hardened his voice. “I was deputed by my company commander to take these stragglers to the slave mines. Who are you to question my actions?”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed in even greater suspicion. “We’re the local watch,” he said. “How come you don’t know that?”
“Why should I know every piddling little detail of every piddling little peasant settlement?” Now Sir Tombin’s tomes were imperiously stride
nt. The few remaining customers of the Cross-Eyed Ferret, sensing a fight brewing, had made themselves scarce. “We Shadow Knights have more important things to think of. I say to you again, how dare you question me like this? These are dangerous criminals, I tell you, and I must guard them until they’re safely locked away in the mines.”
Samzing chose that moment to treat the soldiers to a lop-sided leer. He looked, Flip decided, about as dangerous as a bowl of blancmange. Somewhat less so, in fact. Bowls of blancmange could be pretty lethal if thrown with sufficient force.
Sir Tombin rose slowly to his feet. Flip, watching from the cover of Cheireanna’s grimy hand, thought he had never seen anyone more intimidating than the armored figure of his friend.
“And you, you callow amateur soldiers, not only question my actions, you interrupt my supper! Now, get out of my sight!”
For the first time, the leading watchman looked hesitant.
“Well,” he began.
But the innkeeper chose that moment to speak up. “I’m telling you, Sergeant Kofoed, the man’s a deserter, a traitor to Arkanamon, blessed be the Shadow Master’s sweet name. He’s stolen a couple of slaves and is planning to sell them hisself and pocket the proceeds, that’s what he’s doing. He tried to sell me that skinny girl for a purpose I hardly dare to guess right here in this very tavern.”
Sir Tombin bristled at the enormity of the lie.
“Why, you—”
Then he lashed out with his right hand. The steel-gloved fist caught Kofoed full in the face, the impact sending the soldier staggering back to crash over and onto one of the inn’s rickety tables.
For a split second, the tableau remained frozen, the three remaining soldiers stunned by the suddenness of what they’d just seen. Then they drew their swords just a moment behind Sir Tombin. Yet again, the glittering blade of the great golden sword, Lightbringer, shone forth.
“Yield!” cried Sir Tombin in a voice that brooked no disobedience.
The soldiers didn’t seem to recognize the tone, because they slowly moved to the attack. The innkeeper dove for cover behind the nearest table.
Three against one. Sir Tombin might be the best swordsman in all of Sagaria, perhaps in the entirety of the three worlds, but even so, the odds weren’t favourable.
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