Did I mention that sometimes I hated logic?
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Your Highness, to do otherwise would besmirch my honor, and I doubt the king would look kindly upon any knight that abandoned you in such a state.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out as I realized that I could be counted in that princess-abandoning group. It may have been due to no fault of my own, but kings, as a general rule, were not known to be the most reasonable class of people. The power to have people decapitated whenever you were irritated was not conducive to the growth of emotional restraint.
I really needed to find Lucille before I was presented to the king, unless I wanted to push this princess masquerade a lot further than I wanted—which would result in the betrothal to the blond pretty-boy knight who walked me up to the gate.
Despite the temptation to explain everything, I held back. The only leverage I had with this guy was the fact he thought I was royalty. “Sir Forsythe, you may escort me to an inn. But before I return to my father we must—oof.”
My royal pronouncement was cut short by Sir Forsythe scooping me up with one arm, and lifting me like a doll as he mounted his warhorse. We were galloping down the path before I had regained my breath.
It took a minute or two before I could regain my composure enough to speak. I was astride the horse in a terrifyingly unstable sidesaddle position in front of Sir Forsythe. The only thing preventing my slide under the beast’s galloping hooves was Sir Forsythe’s mailed arm clamped around my midsection.
“There are things I need to do before I meet the king,” I half-yelled and half-gasped. Sir Forsythe gave no sign of hearing me. I didn’t repeat myself, because screams of terror didn’t seem to fit with the persona I was attempting to project.
I’ll deal with it when we get to the inn.
CHAPTER 6
The idea of a kingdom, a geographic area under the rule of one particular sovereign, is pretty much a complete fraud. The authority of a king is a fiction beyond the sword point of his retainers, and no kingdom—especially one as poor as Lendowyn—can afford enough armed men to impose the king’s rule beyond a tight little circle around each village. Beyond that circle of influence, the land was wild with monsters both human and otherwise, and the so-called kingdom might as well not exist.
But the kingdom was never the only source of order. Any time a large enough group congregated, for a long enough time, a form of “law” would develop, even if it wasn’t the king’s law. Everything from covens to monasteries, if not under direct protection of the king, would enforce its own sub-kingdom in its immediate area.
Long experience in extra-legal travel had given me an instinct for such things, and that instinct told me that the inn we approached, The Headless Earl, was the heart of one such sub-realm outside the command of King Alfred the Strident. It was obvious to anyone who was familiar with what to look for; the lack of fortifications despite its complete isolation, the horses stabled without so much as a guard present, the fact that dusk had fallen and travelers freely entered and left the wide-open entrance into a well-lit interior. The place was obviously protected, and flew no colors but its own.
Sir Forsythe drew his mount to a halt and said, “Here, Your Highness.” He took his arm away from my midsection, and I found myself involuntarily sliding to the ground. Before I slid all the way, he released the reins and slipped both hands under my armpits to turn my uncontrolled descent into a gentle landing.
I still winced when my feet hit the ground.
He bounded off to land next to me. “We shall find you appropriate lodging here for the night.”
We had become the focus of attention of a group of men gathered by the doorway. The trio reminded me uncomfortably of Eyepatch and his crew, all scars and leather and more knives than any reasonable person would need outside a juggling demonstration. One of them had a long facial scar that bisected his beard and made his gap-toothed smile all the more ominous.
There are two types of outlaw in the world. There were people like me, who traded on skill and stealth and subtlety. The kind of thief who, if things go right, you’d never know had been there until you found your purse or jewelry missing. Then there were those men who walked up to you, clobbered you in the side of the head, and took the boots off your corpse.
I was pretty sure these were the latter.
“Sir Forsythe,” I whispered, “I think this may not be the best place—”
“Nonsense,” he said. “You need shelter, and I will make sure that you have their best room.”
“—it appears to be a haven for outlaws.”
“No harm will come to you. You are under my protection.”
• • •
Did I mention stealth and subtlety? I am afraid I have sinned against the gods of language by mentioning those words in the same breath that named Sir Forsythe the Good. The man was as stealthy as a thunderstorm and as subtle as an incontinent ogre. He strode into the common room of The Headless Earl, drawing the kind of stares you’d expect if I—meaning the princess—walked naked up the gangway onto a prison ship that had just completed an eight-month voyage.
He might have believed he was talking in hushed tones after calling the innkeeper over, but given the sudden silence falling over the ragged clientele, he might as well have been screaming at the man how they needed to provide the best room for the princess, expense no object.
“Of course my good knight.” The innkeeper told him with a voice that made me want to wash my hands. The fact that he kept glancing in my direction and rubbing his own hands didn’t help the impression. “Our best room, guaranteed luxury and proof against any brigands. Follow me.”
The innkeeper waved us upstairs. I followed closely behind Sir Forsythe. If nothing else, I could put his chivalrous bulk between me and any of the disreputable patrons of the inn downstairs.
Paranoia is normal for someone in my profession. But the fact that I currently wore the skin of a nubile young princess had amplified that normal trait into a full-bore panic. And the patrons of this establishment were probably sniffing out that panic like a pack of hungry dogs.
By the time our smarmy innkeeper presented my room, I had decided that I had to make a run for it just for the sake of my own—borrowed—skin. I could slip out of a window once I was alone.
I could . . . if the room wasn’t the innkeep’s “best room” and “proof against any brigands.” I took a step inside and saw immediately that the windows were barred. That was just sinking in as money changed hands behind me and the innkeeper told Sir Forsythe, “The door is solid oak with an unbreakable iron lock, with only one key.”
I turned around to see the innkeeper leaving, hefting a small bag of coins. I could have probably found better use for that money.
Looking at that purse, I realized that I’d missed the perfect opportunity to lighten the knight’s purse. With me pressed against him, and all the galloping on the way here, he never would have known.
“I’m slipping,” I muttered to myself.
“Your Highness?”
“Nothing.”
“I will stand watch outside your door.”
It would have been nice if that had made me feel better.
Sir Forsythe hefted a heavy iron key and walked outside closing the door behind him. I hesitated a moment too long before I said, “Hey, shouldn’t I—”
The door shut and the key turned in the lock.
“—have the key?” I finished. I raised my fist to pound on the door to get my gallant protector to unlock the door and return the key to me, but I had second thoughts. All I would be doing was drawing attention, and while having the door locked on me was irritating, it wasn’t as if I were trapped. I had no doubt that I could pick the lock from this side if need be. Besides, if I was going to slip away from Sir Forsythe and this tavern of ruffians, doing so through the front door wasn’t my first choice, especially with the knight doing guard duty.
I let i
t go, and tried to relax. The room did appear to be secure, and it was appointed fairly well for an inn in the middle of the woods. There were several tapestries along with a bed with clean linens a lot larger than I was used to. There was also a washstand with a fresh pitcher of water . . .
. . . and a mirror.
“Oh, hell,” I whispered, very conscious that I was not speaking in my voice.
It wasn’t that I had forgotten what had happened to me. My body was giving me dozens of alien signals every passing minute. My drop in stature had inflated the world around me so everything seemed half again larger than it ought to be. When I licked my lips, the skin around them felt freakishly smooth. I couldn’t take a breath without reminding myself I had a pair of breasts.
Somehow, my brain had done a valiant rearguard action, preventing any of those sensations from coming to the forefront of my perceptions. Even the increase in paranoia on my part was more me intellectualizing the fact that I was in a situation where a young woman should be nervous than it was any visceral reaction.
So, even though seeing Lucille looking back at me in the mirror shouldn’t have surprised me, the sight was a punch to the gut. I wasn’t me anymore. I stared at the woman in the mirror, and watched her expression go blank, and the color drain from her face until the streaks of dirt looked like gouges in marble. I watched her mouth press into a thin, bloodless line. I watched her small fists clench, and her arms tremble.
I whispered to her, “Stop it.”
I saw tears leaking from her wide staring eyes. I watched them trail across her cheeks and felt them burning my skin.
“Stop it!” I told my reflection. I was in no position to start losing my cool now. I forced my fists open, and my hands shook. I looked away from the mirror and stared at my hands, willing them still. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
I took several deep breaths and told myself to calm down. Things could be so much worse; bad alternatives ranged from being bisected by a set of dragon jaws, becoming a smear of soot like the unlamented Elhared the Unwise, or even failing to awake before Eyepatch and crew had finished their debate.
“All things considered, I’m doing pretty well.”
I looked back into the mirror and the ironic half-smile I saw there just felt weird. It took all the creepy sense of wrongness and added a level of seductiveness that felt even more wrong. I pushed the feelings aside and tried to concentrate on practical matters. I needed to clean myself off, and it started to dawn on me that I hadn’t answered a call of nature since I had awakened. I looked at the mirror, then down at myself.
I bit my lip. I felt my face get hot, and glancing at Lucille’s pensive, embarrassed expression in the mirror didn’t help things.
“Oh, come on,” I berated myself. It wasn’t as if I could avoid disrobing at some point. Besides, it was only fair. I was sure that the princess faced the same issues with my own body . . . Besides, there were several intimate spots that, between dirt and sweat, had begun to itch uncomfortably.
Cleaning up and relieving myself. These were things that needed to happen if I was going to be a conscientious tenant of someone else’s body, right? I sighed and disrobed.
And I don’t think it is possible for me to properly convey exactly how disturbing that whole process was.
Lucille, despite her height, was very attractive, and that attractiveness was not just a product of an elaborate infrastructure of clothing, jewelry, and makeup as it was in a lot of pampered nobility. And, of course, I was a healthy male—in my head, anyway—so seeing her body in such an intimate fashion should have an effect, right?
It did.
But it was the wrong effect.
There are physical consequences for that kind of attraction, but those are the province of the body, not the mind, and the body I wore responded in a way that was completely alien to me. Much more . . . internal.
Then there was the fact that the things I had to do were not attractive at all, and I still felt . . .
Suffice to say I ended the whole process cleaner, but very uneasy.
I dressed again, focusing on the den of thieves below me to avoid thinking about other things. If I was lucky, the bulk of them knew the state of the Lendowyn treasury and realized that theft or kidnapping wouldn’t be very profitable. Then again, I couldn’t help but think a lot of the patrons downstairs didn’t seem particularly bright.
I massed the covers on the oversize bed to resemble someone sleeping, and folded myself into a dark corner of the room farthest from the door and the window. Sitting on the floor, knees drawn to my chin, I felt smaller than I ever had, even as a child.
I told myself it was probably just the princess’s stature.
• • •
I didn’t sleep well.
Between the raging paranoia, and the fact that every time I shifted my weight I felt something that reignited my uneasy unfamiliarity with this body, I kept jerking awake.
About the dozenth time I opened my eyes to the darkened moonlit room, I glimpsed a shadow passing across the wall opposite the window. I glanced at the window, and saw only a clear starry sky. Then I started looking back toward the shadow on the wall, and stopped my gaze when I faced the bed.
The shadow was cast by a person, dressed in black, descending from a hole in the ceiling that had not been there earlier. The intruder moved silently, dangling from a thin rope, sliding down a fraction of an inch, then freezing, all attention on the covered mass on the bed.
I didn’t even have my stick.
As the intruder descended, I mimicked his cautious, halting motion, moving when he did, pushing myself to my feet. I reached for something to use as a weapon, and my hands found the handle of the chamber pot.
The figure pulled out a small vial of something, uncorked it with a thumb, and poured the contents over where the princess’s head should have been. That was my cue to act. With one hand unleashing a potion, the other holding on to the rope, the intruder didn’t have a free arm for defense.
My quarry didn’t realize anything was wrong until I’d jumped up on the bed and was bringing the chamber pot up against the back of his skull. The ceramic bowl shattered, and the contents sprayed against my victim and the wall.
He fell facedown on the bed, still conscious and trying to push himself upright. I dropped the handle and brought both my hands down on the back of his head, forcing his face down into the pillows. The pillows were spattered with filth, but more importantly, they were soaked with the vial of whatever potion this guy had intended to dose the princess with.
I heard the key rattle in the lock. “Your Highness! Are you all right?”
The struggles increased underneath me and I dropped on my knees between the guy’s shoulder blades. “I—” I glanced up at the hole above me, a perfect escape route, “I-I’m using the chamber pot.”
The rattling of the lock ceased immediately. “Oh. Forgive the interruption, Your Highness.” I almost felt guilty at the note of embarrassment I heard in the well-meaning Sir Forsythe’s voice.
But not guilty enough to reconsider my rapidly developing escape plans.
CHAPTER 7
Beneath me, the intruder’s struggles slowed to a stop. I found a dagger on his belt and drew it while still straddling his neck. Then I waited.
I thought there was about a fifty-fifty chance that my would-be thief/kidnapper/assassin had a partner or three, and I didn’t want to be caught by surprise. I waited for a long time in silence, until my friend started to snore. When no one appeared from the hole above, I relaxed a little and finished disarming my visitor, removing two full-size daggers from his belt, a weighted sap, a garrote, and a hideaway throwing knife from the top of his right boot.
Once assured I was better armed than he was, I began to liberate him from his clothing. Despite being somewhat befouled around the collar and shoulders from my attack, he was still dressed better than I was for the situation I found myself in.
The process took some time. Snoring or no
t, I wasn’t about to trust that he would stay unconscious indefinitely. I kept a dagger in one hand while I peeled layers of leather and linen from his upper body. After that unnerving process was done, I sliced strips from the sheets and bound his sprawled arms to the bedposts. Only when he was restrained did I feel safe putting down the weapon and using both hands to pull off his boots and breaches before tying his legs to the bed as well.
My timing was impeccable; I heard his snores stutter to a stop as he sucked in a breath and tried to pull one of his legs free. He began to say something, a drowsy, “Wha?” and I darted over and shoved the remaining strip of torn bedding into his open mouth.
His eyes went wide and he started thrashing and moaning until I grabbed a dagger and placed the blade next to his jaw.
I whispered at him, “Stay quiet or I take more than your clothing.”
The kind of day I’d been having must have leaked into my voice, because my would-be thief/rapist/assassin froze on the spot. I held my knife to his neck while I waited for any response from Sir Forsythe or this guy’s hypothetical partners. No reaction came, and I slowly pulled the knife away.
“Good,” I whispered. “Now behave or I’ll relieve you of the only pouch you have left.” I moved the knife to press the flat against the most sensitive bit of his exposed anatomy. There was a slight gasp and a shudder, but the guy didn’t tempt fate. I was still angry enough to be almost disappointed.
I threw the blanket over his head and proceeded to swap the ragged remnants of my princessly ensemble for his oversize thiefly uniform. All I kept from Lucille’s wardrobe were the undergarments—because my victim’s underwear had been foul even before he’d been clobbered with a chamber pot.
Small as he was, I still had to work to get things to fit me. I doubled up the belt, rolled up sleeves on the linen shirt, did some quick violence on the leather outerwear with a dagger, abandoned the gloves, and doubled up on the bandage thickness on my feet so the boots wouldn’t slide off. Not really optimal, but the weaponry and half-full purse made up for any other shortcomings.
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