The Prodigal Troll

by Charles Coleman Finlay

  But Portia was nowhere to be seen.

  "Stop gawking," Bran said. "If she is here, she's probably cloistered inside with Lady Culufre-"

  "Which building?"

  "We can't go inside. If she's really here, she'll come out at some point. I'll help you look for her." Bran pointed to a group of women wearing scarlet hoods over their heads, as they walked along a row of tables set out in front of the arches. "The priestesses have consecrated the feast. Let's get something to eat, while we can."

  Uncostumed servants passed back and forth bringing platters of fresh food. The largest crowd gathered there, and Maggot found it unnerving to be jostled, grabbed, spoken to, ignored, and pushed aside in bewildering swiftness, each encounter coming quickly before he could respond to the last.

  "Relax," Bran whispered at his ear. "Unknot your shoulders. And stop jumping."

  "I do not like all these people," Maggot muttered. Someone bumped him, and he jabbed an elbow back. "All this pushing and shoving like wild dogs at a piece of carrion."

  "Our apologies for that inadvertent jostle," Bran told the angry man rubbing his ribs. He dragged Maggot away. "Keep your mouth full of food. Nod at anyone who speaks to you. If we have to we'll move off."

  Maggot had never seen so much food nor smelled such a variety of it: a whole roast bison, to judge from its shape, with a fussy man to carve it; other meats, carved and served at other tables; piles of vegetables, skewered on little sticks and baked; bowls of roasted garlic soaked in oils; green and orange melons, cut in thick sweet strips that made Maggot's mouth water.

  All this and more was served onto a wooden platter that Bran had handed to Maggot. They reached an end table where a servant ladled a sweet plum water into ceramic cups for them. Maggot swallowed his in one gulp and held his cup out for more, but Bran pushed him on.

  "Don't drink it that fast," Bran said. "We need to keep some wits about us yet. And keep your head down."

  "But I don't see her."

  "What kind of bird was she?"

  Maggot didn't know the word for sparrowhawk in Bran's tongue or Sinnglas's-the trolls had no name for it either, since it wasn't nocturnal-so he held his hand in front of his face. "One about this tall," he said, flustered and feeling a little light-headed. "Smells good."

  "I'll be sure to keep my nose open."

  They paced and ate and drank and waited. The waiting came hardest because it was not the calm waiting Maggot knew when hunting or stalking. This waiting took place amid a riot of distractions. Men played stringed instruments and blew on reeds, making sounds like birds or flowing water, only more entrancing. People clapped along. In the central space, groups formed patterns to the rhythm of the music, opening and closing like the buds of flowers. A man tossed balls in circles through the air, then flaming torches. Another walked on legs as long as a mammut was tall.

  Maggot turned his head at every hint of blue or orange, but he didn't see her again. The more people drank the louder they clamored, until the din made him ache. The more he saw, the less human, the more grotesque, the people became. Those dressed as deer, who should have been graceful and fleet, stumbled and staggered under their false horns as if they'd been arrow struck. A man dressed as a stately mammut hopped about like a rabbit squealing. He and Bran stayed constantly on the edges, in the dark, where men and women ducked into niches in the wall or behind columns, bending their faces to one another. A rabbit reached between a bull's legs, parted the gray folds of her skirt, and moaned as she shoved him inside her. But nowhere in the chaos of noise and color did Maggot see his sparrowhawk.

  "Do you see him?" Bran asked.

  "Who?" Maggot said, and followed Bran's nod.

  Someone dressed as a fox-sleek, slender, and deadly-stalked the two of them.

  "It is wrong," Maggot said. "A fox would never dare to hunt either a greycat or a wolf."

  "It may be wrong for other reasons," Bran muttered as he moved away. "I'm going to try to lose him."

  Wolves and tawny panthers roamed in packs, and a group of the former had gathered by the kegs of drink, where they began to howl, a pitiful sound.

  "Stay with me," Maggot said. "There are too many wolves about, and I might mistake someone else for you."

  "You can distinguish me from them easily enough," Bran replied, smiling under the lip of his mask. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he howled. It set the hackles up on Maggot's neck.

  The wolves lifted their heads and called out the names of Crimey and Tubat.

  "That was a mistake," Bran said. "Everyone recognizes Tubat for his size." He answered the others with some quick clowning, then ducked behind some of the serving tables and, with Maggot at his heels, retreated to some shadows cast by a jutting buttress in a stone tower.

  "I don't see her anywhere," Maggot said as they lingered in the shadows.

  "She may not be here," Bran replied. He rubbed his neck. "We can't continue this dodge much longer. The Baron should hear petitions soon, though."

  The noise and bustle had reached a new peak when everything fell silent: the musicians first, and the uncostumed servants, then the crowd. A great shushing was followed by a hush.

  Bran pointed up.

  Maggot didn't need to follow Bran's outstretched arm-the tug in his chest had already pulled his attention to the balcony of the big building, where a woman and a man dressed as lioness and lion looked over the crowd. They wore golden masks that blazed in the torchlight. Green and blue gemstones caught the light and glittered. Polished ivory dagger teeth gleamed at their jaws. Other people milled in the room behind them. Maggot glimpsed blue, perhaps orange. The tug was Portia.

  "Who's that?" he asked.

  "The Baroness and Baron."

  "No, those women behind them." If that's where Portia was, he'd find a way to reach her.

  "The dove on the left is the Baron's lover," Bran answered, leaning his head from side to side to see them. "The bird on the right is the Baroness's lover. They bring them out for show every year at the dance, trying to outdo one another. The Baron is bored with his, or was."

  A slight wind lifted the tented roof in the silence and snapped it back down, producing a collective "Ah!" that rose like a supplication into the night.

  The Baron waved to the crowd, and they all cheered, some clapping their hands, others snapping their fingers. The Baroness stood formally, right hand at her waist, left arm extended, then motioned for them to continue. Cheers followed the pair as they withdrew inside and closed the curtains. The musicians commenced a slower, grander piece of music.

  Bran squeezed Maggot's elbow. "That's the sign that the open court should soon begin. I'm going over to the main gate, to see how they're letting people enter. Stay right here and I'll be back in a moment."

  Maggot watched him go, scanning the crowd around him for any sign of Portia. He did not, in the general noise, with the limited vision caused by his mask, notice the person sneaking up behind him until she spoke.

  "Alone, at last."

  He spun. It was her. The shape of her mouth held a tight smile beneath the sharp curve of the beak. Words twirled in his head like leaves spiraling in the wind.

  "Uh," he said.

  She laughed at him. "So now it's my turn to surprise you. It is you, isn't it? No one else could move like that. One would almost swear that you are a greycat, the way you glide from place to place."

  He found it very hard to breathe.

  "Come on, say something. I know you're not mute. I've seen you talking all night long to Bran. He's unmistakable in that horrible illfitting wolf's costume."

  He wanted to tell her that what he felt for her was so vast it reduced all the mountains of the world to a single pebble small enough to swallow, that he would cast the world into the sun and let it burn if she requested it, that he would descend the deepest cave and return with everlasting darkness for her if she desired that comfort.

  He sniffled, tried to wipe his nose, and bumped his mask off center. "You smell go
od."

  Her eyes twinkled like the sapphires on her mask. "And you no longer stink like a wild beast, the way you did when first we met."

  With his heart pounding in his ears, he pushed back his mask, took her shoulders in his hands, and pressed his mouth against hers, the way he'd seen others do. Her golden beak was sharpened to a point that raked across his jaw, drawing blood.

  She pulled away and he let go. He feared, for a heartbeat, that he'd done something wrong, but she smiled as she wiped her lips lightly with the back of her hand.

  "Well," she said. "That's another small improvement over our first encounter. Speak quickly, and I may let this affront pass unnoticed."

  Language fell away from him like bark off a dead tree. The mask, loose on his head, slipped back down over his face. "I do not know how to say what I want to say."

  "Oh, I think you've said it pretty clearly. Twice now. But come, let's do this properly." She straightened herself. "Name yourself, sir, then name your favor."

  "Maggot," he blurted. Then, remembering, "Claye."

  "Mhaghat?" she said. "A mysterious name, for a mysterious man. And Claye, as clay is simple, although I would not call you a simpleton. Not quite. My name is Portia. What can I do for you, sir?"

  "Come," he said, holding out his hand for hers. Come stay with me forever, is what he wanted to say. "Be with me."

  She slapped his knuckles. "I think not. You'll have to show better manners-and more imagination-than that."

  He pulled his hand back. "Ever since I saw you, nothing mattered more to me than pleasing you."

  The smile faded from her eyes, the amusement from her voice. "Did it now? And the best you could do to show it was wave your tail in my face?"

  He dropped his head. "When I saw that you hunted a lion, I brought it to you," he said softly. "I can do no more until I know what else you want."

  "Ah, you are much too serious for me," she answered. "And I came to the dance seeking amusement and diversion." She waved to someone behind him, and Maggot saw her servant hurry away.

  "I-" he said.

  "I cast divination bones a thousand times," she said quickly, "after that first day when I saw you in my tent, and a thousand times I asked them the same question: would I see you again? A thousand times the answer was yes. And so I've contrived ever since to return to that valley and search for you, but war and all the plots of men confounded me. And here you are, where I never once expected you."

  "So you will go with me?"

  She closed her feathered wings about her and lifted her beak at the balcony above. "Did you see the Baroness?"

  "Yes," Maggot said, not turning to look away lest she disappear again.

  "The Empress in her wisdom has decided that this province must be unified under a single title. I am the vessel into which it will be poured. In time, I shall be the one to stand at that ledge, and welcome the people of the city into my home. My consort will roam the length of the land, gathering riches to distribute."

  Maggot put his hand to chest. "Your consort? That is your mate? I could be him."

  She moved her head slowly from side to side. "That is for the Empress to decide, and she has chosen already for me the Baroness's son."

  Blood from the cut on his cheek dripped onto his hand, leaving a crimson streak across his palm. "You cannot choose for yourself?"

  "I cannot."

  He reached out to touch her. "That is wrong. You should be able to choose your own way."

  "It is how it is. Be glad you're not Acrysy. He has fewer choices, less freedom. It has twisted him." The servant returned with the bundle Maggot had seen her carry in. "Here. I brought this as a gift for the Baron. I was going to present it to him during the reception. Better that I return it to you."

  She reached up, removing his mask. She handed it to her servant and took the bundle in exchange. It was the lion's skin, cured and lined with pine-green silk. The eyes had been replaced with amber gems, and the gold clasp at the neck was adorned by a single shining emerald. She draped it over his shoulders, fastened the clasp, then lifted the hollowed skull and fitted it over his head like a helmet. The great teeth curved down, framing either side of his face.

  "It suits you well," she said, her voice as soft as the touch of her fingertips as they lingered on his chin.

  Maggot slowly raised his hand, gently pushed back her mask, and bent to kiss her again. This time neither one of them stopped for a long time, not until he was breathless and pulled away because he wanted it to continue forever or end at once.

  Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted, when the catcalls of the crowd fell on them. She blushed and tugged the sparrowhawk's fiercer visage over her face.

  "Come with me," he pleaded.

  "I cannot."

  "Will I see you again?"

  She took a step backward, away from him. "Ask the divination bones yourself."

  Like so many other things, he did not even know what they were. He started to follow her when he heard another commotion, men shouting at one another, and then, rising above it, Bran's voiceMaggot twisted at the sound. When he turned back, his sparrowhawk had flown.

  Looking one way and another, seeing no sign of her, he heard Bran's angry voice again, and throwing his hands in the air in despair, he turned to help his friend.

  He knocked men and women aside in his rush through the crowd until he reached an open space outside the castle's door. Bran's arms were pinioned by two guards. His mask was off, and so was the fox's, standing in front of him.

  Acrysy. He held Bran by the throat.

  aggot rushed toward Acrysy as fast as wildfire sweeping down a hillside, grabbed the scruff of his neck, and shook him like grasses in a flame.

  "Demons!" one of the knights exclaimed, letting go of Bran to draw his sword. Maggot picked Acrysy up and threw him at the man, and both went down in a heap. Bran twisted, drawing the other knight's sword and shoving him down all in one smooth motion. He looked at Maggot's robe and blinked.

  Then he shouted, "Let's run!"

  "Yes, yes, yes!" Maggot wanted to run, just as he had the first time he'd fled Portia. If he ran far enough or fast enough, he might outrun the pain that stabbed at his heart.

  Bran swung his sword to scatter the birds and beasts before them. They had rounded the castle wall on their way to the gatehouse bridge when Bran stutter-stepped to a stop and Maggot ran into him.

  Tubat and Crimey, dressed in armor with weapons drawn, were held at bay by the bridge guards. Tubat's cry of "He's inside, I tell you-" changed suddenly to "There he is!"

  When the guards turned to look, Tubat charged past them.

  Tubat swung his weapon and Bran counterattacked. They came together in a single clash of iron, and then fell back a step like two bucks after butting horns.

  "We should have cut your braid off long ago," Tubat said. His face was bruised, his lips swollen.

  Bran laughed at him. "Remember the time when Lord Terrere's men attacked us in the middle of the night and you pissed yourself like a baby?"

  Tubat roared and swung his sword again, but Bran deflected the blow and countered with a strike at Tubat's neck. The big man parried, and the sword skipped off his armored shoulder.

  Crimey and the bridge guards spread out at Tubat's rear, while Acrysy and his two men circled behind Bran and Maggot. Maggot dashed between the men, but toward the wall and not the bridge. Using his momentum, he ran up the stones and jumped for the bracket that held the oil-soaked flaming torch. He caught the metal holder just like he would a branch, hung there while he removed the blazing brand, then dropped to the ground.

  Blood streamed down Bran's left arm, but he attacked the bigger man relentlessly, with one two-handed strike after another. Then Maggot had no chance to notice anything as he thrust the torch at the men attacking Bran's back. When Crimey rallied them, Maggot used his long arm and quick wrist to dash the flames in the other man's face. He screamed, and flailed backward, dropping his sword. Maggot snatche
d it up and bellowed troll-like in his rage, torch in one hand and sword in the other.

  The attackers all paused at the sound of this, and Tubat's shout of triumph dropped into this silence like a stone. Maggot turned. Bran lay on the ground, disarmed, stunned perhaps, and Tubat had his sword drawn back to strike.

  Maggot leapt, hurling the torch at Tubat's chest. The big knight howled in shock, knocking it away in a shower of sparks, and Maggot attacked, striking hard and fast.

  Tubat reeled, backstepping, but parrying so hard the steel vibrated in Maggot's hand. Then he dodged a second blow and lunged forward, swinging his sword at Maggot's head. Maggot twisted away, but the blade clipped the lion's skull and staggered him. When Tubat reversed the arc of his weapon to strike again, Maggot tackled him. The knight bounced off the flagstones, grunting under Maggot's weight. His hand rebounded off the pavement, and his sword flew loose.

  Maggot still held onto his weapon.

  Despite the knight's fists fastened on his costume, Maggot shifted his feet to the ground and levered himself into a crouch. Then, grabbing the knight's braid, he flipped his head against the ground. Blood splattered, and possibly teeth.

  Tubat pawed at him feebly as Maggot used the braid to jerk the knight to his knees. He pulled back his sword to slice through his enemy's neck.

  And stopped before he swung.

  There was an unexpected silence all around him except for the burned man, Crimey, screaming somewhere beyond the wall of masks. Maggot looked up.

  A golden lion stepped out of the crowd: Baron Culufre, not ten feet away. He wore a shirt of golden scales beneath a long robe of lion's fur lined with emerald green. His mask of burnished gold outshone the sun, ivory teeth polished to unblemished white. His arms crossed his chest. Thick gold bands shackled his wrists.

  A group of armed men, knights, formed a semicircle behind the Baron-Sebius was there, as was Acrysy and his men, but they seemed entirely superfluous, like young lions left outside the pride. A sword was belted at the Baron's side. He stood like a man used to wielding it.