Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  “Besides,” he continued, “don’t you maids work under contract?” He nodded. “You can’t skip out on that, and I can’t be known to be helping a maid skipping out on her contract. Bad for my reputation. And what’s bad for reputation is doubly bad for an entertainer.”

  “Are you nearly done yet?”

  “Wow,” Gnochi said, shocked at her tone. He furrowed his brows, doing his best to stare into her eyes, hoping that the night darkness would give him an added air of authority. “And yes,” he said, sighing.

  “I’ve resolved my debts with the mistress.”

  “How could you get the money to settle that debt?”

  “I didn’t pay her anything. I explained my situation to the mistress, and she agreed to free me from my contract,” Cleo said.

  “I should’ve let the guards take you in,” Gnochi grumbled. “A jail cell would’ve been good for you.”

  “We both know that you wouldn’t do that. You’re a man of the book, a man of stories and I’ve got a few stories that you might want to hear. If that alone isn’t enough to keep me around, then I’ll offer my company to you, so you aren’t alone on your journey.”

  A grimace painted Gnochi’s face. He dreaded the prospect of dragging her into his battle and his misery, but he also knew that she, being a free person, could go anywhere she wanted. And if she happened to follow him, he would have no say. A sickening thought stirred his bowels. He recalled Jackal warning him about the secrecy of his contract, though with her having already seen his pendant, would it matter if she traveled with him? Would Jackal come after her now? Was she safe?

  He dragged his eyes to her face. Her lips split and she offered a toothy smile. He sighed, then allowed his frown to dissipate from his face. If nothing else, Gnochi mused, he would appreciate having a companion other than his mare with whom he could talk.

  “Checkmate, I suppose,” Gnochi resigned.

  ◆◆◆

  “This is about as good a place as any for us to stop,” Gnochi said, dropping Perogie’s rein and unlatching packs from the saddle. “I’ll get a fire going.”

  Cleo dismounted from Perogie’s back and aimlessly sorted through her pack, not looking for anything in particular, but wanting to appear busy.

  After a few short minutes, a small blaze burned at the foot of a grand maple tree, its leaves still in the process of morphing from their forest-green to an autumnal rust-red. Both Cleo and Gnochi sat within the fire’s reach as it fended off the night’s chill. Perogie stood tethered to a nearby tree. She nibbled on grass below her feet.

  Cleo stared at the man who sat before her, his gaze lost in the heart of the flames. She recalled sneaking out of her room to catch the latter half of Gnochi’s story and the discussions. The joy he appeared to take and ease with which he spoke to the crowd seemed to have abandoned him entirely. She could not recall him having smiled since they started traveling together, a week ago. What conversation he provided was terse and devoid of the passion that lined his words when he spoke with the inn’s patrons. Looking at the grim scowl on his face, it was easy to imagine that the man had never smiled. She knew that he would have put on an act for the audience, but she did not imagine that his entire demeanor would change.

  ◆◆◆

  Gnochi looked up to Cleo, catching her staring. He spoke, though it existed to break the silence and for no other reason. “You hungry?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she replied. “You want anything?”

  Gnochi looked back up from the flames to stare at his companion. He grumbled under his breath, shaking his head.

  Cleo stood, a frown splitting her face. “I’m not your enemy.”

  In response, he rose to his feet, though he wasn’t much taller than she. “What?”

  “We’ve been traveling together a week, and this whole time, you haven’t said three words to me. I’m not your enemy,” she said.

  He forced his eyes up, looking away from the determination that shone behind Cleo’s slate-grey eyes. As he mapped the stars, he wondered if his current circumstances were all a series of cruel jokes on Silentore’s part. When he could justify looking to the stars no more, he dropped his gaze, surveying the nearby underbrush as though he expected the shadowy figure, Jackal, to reappear with his family in tow.

  “Gnochi,” Cleo said, regaining his attention. “Talk to me,” she begged.

  “I’m sorry.” He paused, weighing his words. “You remind me so much of someone dear to my heart, and it’s quite shocking how you mimic her.” Why was his heart clenching up? He saw her frown.

  “Gnochi,” she said, “if you want me to leave, just say so and I will.” She clenched her eyes shut and her lips mouthed some silent incantation.

  Gnochi couldn’t help but think of Pippa. The burden on his heart lessened. “We should probably get some sleep,” he said. She opened her eyes and smiled. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” As he unloaded more essentials from his pack, he looked to her and said, “We should probably start staggering out sleep times out, being this far from Imuny. We are likely to run into people in the same ilk as Rook. For tonight though, we can rely on Perogie to keep watch. She’s never let me down before and we always used to travel just the two of us,” he said, feeling the ghost of a smile touching his face. He settled down on the ground, then mused something over for a moment before lifting the poncho over his head and offering it to Cleo, whose own clothes, still leftover from the inn, looked to provide little protection from the night’s chilly vice. “You can use this as a blanket if you want.” Gnochi stopped talking when he saw that Cleo was quick to pull it over her head and snuggle into the warm wool. “Night,” he offered. Then he stretched out on the ground at the trunk of the maple.

  ◆◆◆

  Cleo sat across the camp from him watching as he edged further away from the fire. Within minutes, he was stirring up the forest with loud snoring. Cleo smiled, then stretched out in an effort to fall asleep, but she kept shivering despite the fire’s warmth and the cozy poncho around her. After nearly an hour of tossing around, Cleo realized that she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, so she crawled over next to Gnochi and laid out, resting her head on his arm. She stared up at the stars, not even noticing that the sleep-chasing chill, had disappeared. Within minutes, she succumbed to fatigue and fell into a restful sleep.

  Chapter 7

  The faint snap of a twig woke Gnochi from his light rest. Traveling alone rarely afforded him the luxury to sleep. His mind would dull to a thrum of dreams—recently nightmares—and his eyes would rest while his ears remained ever-vigilant.

  Despite hearing the snap, Gnochi remained motionless and kept his eyes closed to appear asleep. He even offered a rough imitation of a nasally snore, learning from many years traveling alone that to spring up immediately upon hearing a sign of approach was often to give away the element of surprise. He allowed his body to resume its relaxed grace with the soft grass underneath as he listened for further sounds of approach. He felt his hat, weighted with a few hidden pence, rise and fall from its place on his chest. He could imagine the feather, sewn into its band, fluttering in the light morning breeze. The only sounds he heard were Cleo’s faint snores and the pattering of a squirrel as it danced on the branches of the tree under which they camped the previous night.

  As his body further woke, he became aware of a weight bearing down on his arm. His hand was numb, fingers flexed but he could not feel the dirt underneath. He picked his head off the ground and squinted down his side, surprised to see Cleo’s head resting on his bicep. Her dark locks ushered out in every direction, uncaring of the dirt and leaves scattering the ground. Gnochi could not help, as he propped himself up on his free arm, catching a whiff of her scent. A harsh musk of coal and seawater overpowered the faintest hint of vanilla soap. In her face, still leaden with sleep, Gnochi saw none of the tension that had painted her features over their first week of travel. Instead, he noted how similar her mousy features were to Pippa’s
. Gnochi closed his eyes to hide the image of his niece from his mind. He was about to settle down for another few minutes when Cleo stirred and stretched out her arms, slugging him in the jaw.

  Cleo sat up, her face stricken with horror at what she had done.

  “Well, good morning to you, too,” Gnochi said, sitting up, resting his back against the young oak and massaging his jaw. He noticed her cheeks reddening, a frown now creasing her once unadorned face. “What, am I supposed to apologize for your punching me?” Gnochi asked with a smirk.

  “Well,” she said, her tone reminiscent of Gnochi’s sister, Zelda. “We certainly are not going to make any ground today with your letting us sleep in like alley-cats,”

  Gnochi shook his head, hoping to dislodge the hallucination from his eyes.

  “You were up?” She asked. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  He found himself wondering the same but realized that the reason he was able to sleep so soundly was because the previous night was the first in memory where he wasn’t chased from rest by terrors.

  “We had a long day. We’ve had a long week. I haven’t gotten a full night’s rest since—well, for a while,” Gnochi said, standing and stretching in the cool morning.

  A slight smile tipped Cleo’s lips. “I need to splash water on my face,” she said, pointing toward the stream they’d passed before stopping for the night. “I’ll fetch us some water for breakfast.” Cleo pulled the poncho off her head and tossed it to Gnochi as she stretched in the morning sun’s embrace. “Do you have a clean pot on that pack-mule of yours or do I need to bring soap with me?” She asked, chuckling.

  Perogie, who had since roused from her rest and was munching on grass, perked her head up and glared at Cleo, narrowing her eyes as though saying: Just wait until you try to mount this pack-mule later.

  “I jest, silly girl.”

  Gnochi rifled through one of Perogie’s packs and fished out a small pot. “Not quite the silver that you’re used to, your Highness,” Gnochi said, slipping the sleep-warm poncho over his head and leaning over his knee in a mock bow. He spied Cleo swallow a lump at his comment, her face abandoning its color in an instant. “But on the road, living off the land, we take what we can get. And what I have is iron. Besides,” he said, handing her the pot, “we don’t need to be attracting brigands with frilly, unnecessary baubles.”

  “What makes you say that I’m not accustomed to pewter and iron?” Cleo asked, snatching the pot from Gnochi’s hand.

  “Maybe it’s the giant sapphire around your neck. Unless of course, you stole that too,” Gnochi mused.

  A light lit behind her eyes, her free hand retreating to trace the pendant below her neck. She stared for a while, gazing into the iron pot as though it was an augur’s well. After a moment, she yanked the sapphire necklace from her neck, snapping its delicate clasp and threw it to Gnochi.

  “Put it in the pack. It’s better for me to not be wearing that everywhere, anyway.” Cleo stormed off, her awkward movements shaking the underbrush.

  “Well, I guess I’ll build the fire back up,” Gnochi grumbled. “Yell if you need me.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dad,” she called from afar. “Have it built up before I’m back.” Gnochi got to work lighting some twigs in their makeshift fire pit. The embers from last night’s fire still felt warm. The thought that the previous days’ chill was merely a passing front brought hope which warmed his heart. He noticed that Perogie had resumed munching on the undergrowth of the tree to which she was tethered.

  “How’d you sleep ‘Ogie?” he asked his mare. “Anything untoward come our way as we rested?”

  The nightmare-colored steed forced air through her equally dark nostrils as if to say, I slept fine enough despite the incessant noise of bees colonizing your mouth. You know I would’ve woken you if something unnatural had come by. Not once have you been assaulted by strangers without my due warning, though I am not quite sure if last night qualifies. I don’t recall Pippa ever sleeping on your arm like that. She pawed the dirt and perked her head up looking towards the stream.

  “I know it’s different,” Gnochi said, staring into the flames. “For the longest time, it was only you and me. Then I reconnected with Zelda and Pips. Now this one. Know, Perogie, that you’ll always have a special place in my heart, you shaggy old mare.”

  Perogie whinnied, then her demeanor changed, and she snorted, looking from Gnochi’s face to the stream.

  “She was getting water. Maybe she’s relieving herself.”

  Perogie shook her mane and stomped her feet.

  “Alright, I’ll check on her. Sheesh.” He considered bringing a hunting knife with him, then chastised himself for being an overprotective father. He walked through the trees, following the path to the stream when he saw a torn piece of Cleo’s pants. It was snagged in the brambles off the path.

  As he made to grab the torn cloth, his toe stubbed something hard buried in a pile of leaves: the pot, empty and dry. Gnochi stood and looked toward the clearing and the stream. In the distance, he heard the rushing of the water, but nothing else. He hurried towards the clearing. Upon breaching the edge of the woods, Gnochi saw a person lying down. Two people: a man lying on top of a woman. Cleo. Fire spilled into his arteries as Gnochi hurtled towards the prone shapes.

  The brigand struggled to restrain Cleo’s legs. Gnochi’s approach caused him to halt his heinous act and lift his chest off her. With one arm pinioning her neck to the grassy ground, the attacker’s sole free hand unhitched what appeared to be a knife from his calf. Cleo slammed her hand up into his jaw. He let out a guttural cry and sat up in pain. Distracted by Cleo’s maneuver, the assailant failed to arm himself before Gnochi, head down, plowed his shoulders into the man’s torso. The two flew away from Cleo and tumbled into a damp puddle of grass and mud.

  Gnochi wound his fist back and shot it at the other man’s face. When he pulled his fist back, a trickle of blood oozed down from the man’s nose. If pain emanated from his knuckles, he could not feel it. “You sick pig,” Gnochi spat, pummeling the dazed man. After a minute, Gnochi picked himself up and surveyed his damage. His knuckles were splotched with blood, the skin underneath looked maroon, though all fingers flexed fine. The other man leaned up on all fours and vomited a slush of bile and blood into the grass.

  Gnochi turned and looked at Cleo. She had picked herself from the grass and spit a gag out from her mouth. She rubbed her hands tenderly at her neck where a dark bruise already bloomed in dark hues of purple and brown. She was shaking, her eyes wet and much of her clothes tattered beyond repair. The palest skin shone in between the rips and tears of her grey cotton shirt and pants.

  For a silent moment, he comforted her with soothing eyes. Suddenly she screamed a shrill sound that startled Gnochi, but her warning came a moment too late. A slice of fire scored under his arm on the side of his chest. Blood fell down his shirt in a steady trickle. Gnochi spun around to see the man lifting his head off the muddy bank of the stream with his knife, now bloody, in hand.

  “But that should’ve been your heart,” he stuttered. The sound of his voice made Gnochi gnash his teeth.

  He kicked the man in the face with such a force that the assailant’s head snapped back and sunk into the muddy bank, eyes lolling into the recessed comforts of unconsciousness. Turning his attention back to Cleo, who stood shivering on the sodden grass, he cursed himself.

  He ran to her, pulling the poncho from his head and tucking it over her small ears. Her teeth chattered together as he rubbed the poncho into her arms, then wrapped her in a bear hug to offer warmth. If it was possible for her to shrink any further, Gnochi imagined he felt her retreat from his encompassing touch. He stepped back.

  The poncho, being too big for Cleo’s short stature, fell free below her waist where, on Gnochi, only the longest frill fell as far. “Hope the blood doesn’t bother you, your highness,” he said, though his voice only half supported the joke. Though snuggled into the poncho, she seemed he
sitant to move. He knew that he had to get her before the fire. “May I?” he asked, cognizant of the trauma she had just endured. Cleo nodded. He stepped forward and picked her up, carrying her back to their cook fire.

  “What about him?” Cleo asked, her voice almost inaudible.

  “I’ll come back and take care of him,” Gnochi assured. “You won’t need to worry about him ever again.” Once back in their camp he set her down in front of the fire.

  Perogie looked from Cleo to Gnochi when they came back. Gnochi waved off his know-it-all horse and said to Cleo: “I’ll let you wear my spare clothes for now until we can buy you your own. They’ll be a little big on you though.” He then proceeded to strip his shirt, sticky with blood from his chest revealing the leather armor that prevented him from being gutted when the assailant attacked.

  “Bastard got lucky,” Gnochi remarked. “Had he been more coordinated, he would’ve jammed his knife into one of the iron plates I had specially placed in the leather. Without thinking, he peeled the leather armor from his chest and dropped his pants leaving himself standing solely in his underclothes.

  Cleo grinned at his delayed embarrassment.

  “This wasn’t the way I wanted you to first see me. As you might imagine, I’m not accustomed to traveling with ladies,” Gnochi said, a moment before Perogie snorted. “Other than my beautiful mare,” he amended. “My decorum is a bit lacking,” Gnochi admitted, poking fun at himself.

  “You wear armor that makes you look heavier?” Cleo asked, puzzled.

  “This gut is my second weapon of choice behind my quick wit. It provides me with the ultimate element of surprise. People think I’m bent out of shape when really I just appear that way.”