You may note that I continue to refer to Ellwood Cyrene as a man and use the pronoun he in describing him. This is because I had known him for what seemed to be my entire adult life, which is to say a long time. I had always thought of him as a man and had always treated him in a manly way and he had always treated me in a very manly way, except when he gently brushed aside my hair with his fingertips, or hugged me, or caressed my neck, or kissed me, or stroked my arm, or called my name in a sort of soft, breathy voice. Also because I hate editing. It is a great deal of trouble to go back through an extensive manuscript and replace the word he with the word she, without some type of magical device that could do that for you. More to the point, the larger part of my audience listens to my stories told orally, with is to say by me and in person. Few of my audience members read my adventures, or books, or anything else, or are able to read. None of them care if I say there when I mean their or if I say they’re when I mean there or if I say they’re when I mean biscuit. Besides, I may someday want to write the story of Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Mercenary Warrior Who Ought Not to be a Woman but Secretly Was and I wouldn’t want to tip off the reader to the mystery.
“Wouldn’t the title tip off the reader?” asked Accordia.
“What?”
“Wouldn’t the title Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Mercenary Warrior Who Ought Not to be a Woman but Secretly Was tip off the reader to the ending?”
“How did you know about that?” I queried. “Are you a sorceress, reading my mind?”
“No,” quoth she. “I am a piesmith and I was listening to you. You were talking.”
“Aloud?”
“Is what allowed?”
“Was I talking aloud?”
“How else would you talk?” she asked.
“If one was mute, one would talk silently,” said I.
“Are you a mute?”
“No.”
She rolled her eyes and turning, she made her way back behind the counter and through the doorway into the kitchen. She gave her plump little bottom a shake, no doubt sure that I was watching. I was watching.
I turned back to Ellwood, concerned that he might have overheard my previous spontaneous soliloquy, which is to say what I said before. Once I saw him, I felt secure in the knowledge that he had been paying no attention to me. Ellwood waved his arms and his eyes glanced over at me in desperation, for at that moment Tuki had managed to force her tongue into his mouth.
Chapter Four: Wherein I attempt to bring Ellwood Cyrene’s secret out into the open.
“Tuki, get off!” I shouted as I pried her from my friend.
“I’m trying to get off, Eaglethorpe, but Ellwood is not being very cooperative.”
“Leave him alone,” said I. “Go make another pie.”
She stuck out her tongue and turning, she made her way back behind the counter and through the doorway into the kitchen. She gave her plump little bottom a shake, no doubt sure that I was watching. I wasn’t watching. She’s my cousin.
“Thank you,” said Ellwood, once she had gone. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Most men like kissing Tuki,” I pointed out.
“I couldn’t breathe—yes, that’s it. I couldn’t breathe. If it were not for that, I would have kissed her all day… hard. Hard and in a really manly way, on the mouth. Then I would have um… spanked her. I would have spanked her on her ass. She has a great ass.”
“Yes, she does, I mean I’ve never looked at it,” said I.
“I would kill for an ass like that.”
“What?”
“I would kill for a woman with an ass like that,” said he. “And then I would spank it and bite it. Every day.”
“I see that you found a weapons smith to sharpen your short sword,” I said, noticing the absence of said weapon. Elwood only carried his great sword, his the two daggers kept in his belt, the other dagger he kept up his right sleeve, and the dagger inside his back collar, and the knife in his right boot, and the throwing stars in his left, and the razor he kept in his shirt pocket that I always assumed was for shaving, which is to say I always assumed that the razor was for shaving and not that the pocket was for shaving, although since he always kept his razor in the same pocket one might well say that the pocket was for shaving. I was now forced to assume the razor was just one more weapon.
“I can’t believe that you told me Tuki was dead,” said Ellwood.
“I never did,” said I.
“Yes you did. You said it just a minute ago. Besides that, I’ve had to listen to the story of your family’s violent murder at the hands of vampires, werewolves, goblins, or a drunken bugbear at every inn, tavern, saloon, bar, and pub between here and Lyrria.”
“It was a story,” said I.
“You could have told me the truth.”
“I can’t give away all my secrets,” said I. “Secrets are part of a writer’s trade.”
“You shouldn’t keep secrets from me,” said he.
“Oh? And you would never keep a secret from me? You tell me everything?”
“I would never keep anything from you,” he said, most sincerely.
“Interesting,” quoth I. “What are you planning now, Mr. Ellwood Cyrene, adventuring man.”
“I thought we could visit the shops and spend a bit of our gold,” said he. “There is an antique shop around the corner.”
“That’s a good idea,” said I. “Antique shopping is a very manly activity. First however, I think we should visit one of Illustria’s many fine public bathhouses. We can get cleaned up.”
“Are we that dirty?” he asked.
“Forsooth! We are horrendously dirty. Smelly too, especially you.” I smiled the smile of anticipation, which is to say a regular smile with bits of anticipation in the corners of my lips.
“Well, I suppose that I am very dirty,” said he, “but I would prefer to wait and bathe in my room. I’ve already booked my room. Have you?”
“As you well know, few inns in Illustria have baths, because of the many fine public baths here,” said I. “Besides, the bathhouses of Illustria are where men meet to discuss manly things and to be men, where the town’s business deals are made, and where discourse both public and private are carried on, which is to say talking. It is a place to see and be seen.”
“It doesn’t sound very sanitary,” said he.
“They are very sanitary,” I replied. “Why, they are full of sanitarianism.”
“It means cleanliness,” said he.
“Of course it does,” said I. “There is no other reason you don’t want to go, is there?”
“I can’t think of one right now,” said he.
So putting my hand on his shoulder, I guided Ellwood out of the bakery and through the city streets to the finest bathhouse in town, which ironically sat right in the center of the block on the Avenue of the Unwashed Masses. I paid two silver shillings and we passed through the foyer and into the changing room. A man was waiting next to a large stack of towels.
“You may leave your weapons and clothing here,” said the man. “Here is a towel for each of you. If you need another, a boy will bring it out to you for a farthing.”
“How dare you say such a thing to me!” spat Ellwood, whipping out his dagger, which is to say the dagger from his belt, on the left side. “I will gut you like a carp!”
“Eep!” said the man.
Now I have seen Ellwood Cyrene kill many men. Almost always they were trying to kill him first, so it was completely justified. A few times it was only partially justified. Then there was one time in Theen, when Ellwood killed a man who had barely spoken to him. The fellow was a known wife-beater, but he hadn’t done anything to Ellwood so far as I know, except to ask him to pass the pretzels. I have also seen Ellwood gut carp on more than one occasion, and his technique in this endeavor bore a striking resemblance to the way he had killed several men, including the wife-beater. So when Ellwood said he would gut the man like a carp, I knew not only th
at he could do it, but that he might do it.
“What are you on about?” I queried.
“How dare he say ‘farthing’ to me! As long as there is blood in my veins, I will not stand for such disrespect!”
“I… I…” said the man, his face turning from a ruddy tan to white to a sickly green.
“He didn’t ask for pretzels. He just said it’s a farthing for extra towels.”
“Exactly!” screamed Ellwood, spit flying from his full, shapely lips. “I have killed every man who has ever said ‘farthing’ to me!”
“I’m pretty sure that cannot be true,” said I.
“I would allow a man to say ‘farthing’ and live, if he said it with a smile,” fumed Ellwood. “But I will never stand it said thus!” He pointed his dagger at the man’s nose. “I shall be waiting in the street to kill you, if you’re man enough to come face your death!”
And with that, he stomped out the door. I looked back at the white-faced, shaking man. I was pretty sure he was not man enough to do any such thing.
Chapter Five: Wherein I uncover a plot most foul.
“I don’t need any extra towels,” said I, removing my clothes and weapons and placing them in the space provided.
The changing room had been rather plainly decorated, notwithstanding the fact that the man who worked there had been able to change the color of his face. The first room beyond the changing room was the warm bathing room. It had beautifully painted walls, chiefly painted with pictures of naked women carrying big pots of water and dumping them into bathtubs. In the center of the room was a pool of warm water, fed continuously from a large spout, and not alas, by naked women carrying big pots. Setting my towel aside, I stepped down into the warm water.
The primary purpose of the warm bathing room was to remove the large part of dirt and grime from a body before they got into the rest of the bath. That way the rest of the bath stayed relatively clean. Because of this there was a thick layer of dirt and gunk on the bottom of the pool, though the ever circulating water was clear. As I washed, I noticed a little cloud forming around me, so I grabbed one of the scrub brushes set aside for patron use, as well as a bar of soap, and went to work getting myself scrubbed.
The next room was the steam room. Its walls were decorated with paintings, but it was difficult to make out what they were of, due to the billowing clouds of vapor, which is to say the steam. I joined four other men on a bench, just as a boy poured a bucket of water over the hot rocks directly in front of me. The room grew steamier and steamier until it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. The four men got up and moved to the next room. Leaning my head back against the wall, I relaxed. I relaxed so much that I dozed off.
I started awake, which is to say I woke up with a start. It was even steamier than before and I would have been hard-pressed to see my own hand in front of my face. I certainly couldn’t see anyone else. But I could hear two men talking quietly. They couldn’t have been more than five feet away from me.
“The word is that she’s meeting him tomorrow night. She’ll sneak out of the palace just after nightfall,” said the first voice.
“Where will they meet?” asked the second voice.
“A room at The Tumbling Stone. When she’s on her way back to the palace, we make our move.”
“Why not while they’re meeting?”
“We can’t risk it,” replied the first voice. “He’s too dangerous.”
“She’s dangerous too.”
“Yes, but there will be four of us, with swords and poisoned arrows. We’ll catch her on the way back.”
The two men were already moving away from me during the last two lines of their dialog, which is to say their conversation. I heard the door open and close and then I could hear nothing. I surmised that I was alone in the steam again. Quickly following after them, I found the doorway and opening it, entered into the cool bathing room.
The cool bathing room was enormous. In the center was a large pool of cool clear water, but the area around the pool was larger than the body of water itself. Many lounging chairs were scattered about as well as tables upon which men lay to receive massages, which is to say backrubs. Quite a few men were thus engaged, which is to say they were lying there while boys massaged their backs. Others were in the cold water. Some sat on the lounging chairs, talking business in pairs.
The problem was that there were entirely too many pairs. There was no way to tell which two men might be the two that I had heard. As I stepped down into the… Holy Crap! That water was cold! Despite my discomfort, I kept my eyes open for the least sign which might tip me off to my quarry, which is to say which pair of men were the ones I was looking for.
Climbing out of the water, I clambered up onto one of the tables, keeping my eyes peeled, which is to say watching. A boy came along and poured liniment over my back. Then he began rubbing my shoulders.
“Boy,” said I. “Do you know which was the last pair of men to come out of the steam room before I did?”
“I think it was those two men directly across from us,” said he. “The fat one on the table getting rubbed by Woody and the ugly one talking to him.”
I looked up and they were just as described. The one on the table was indeed fat, so much so that the boy could barely reach everywhere he needed to in order to complete his task, which is to say to rub him. The one standing beside him was indeed ugly, with a long hook nose and a huge wart on his chin with a single large hair sticking out of it, which is to say that it was sticking out of his wart, which was on his chin, so therefore the hair was also sticking out of his chin.
“Have you ever seen… Oh sweet Princess Jholeira! That feels really good! Keep rubbing right there!”
“Yes sir,” said he.
“What is your name boy?”
“It is Lespie, sir.”
“Do you know of the establishment called The Tumbling Stone?”
“I do sir. It is the pub at the end of this very block.”
Who would be leaving the palace in the middle of the night to meet at a Pub? The obvious answer might seem to be Queen Elleena, but there were in fact many, maybe hundreds of women who lived and worked in the palace and might sneak out. And who was the dangerous man that she was supposed to meet? And Oh sweet Sorceress Myolaena Maetar! This boy could give the best backrubs in western Duaron!
He finally stopped what he was doing and I looked up. The men were gone! Leaping up from the table, I walked quickly to the door, because running in the cool bathing room was prohibited. Stepping into the next room, I found a warming bath room. The men weren’t there, and they weren’t back in the changing room to which the warming bath room circuitously led, which is to say in a circle. Not taking the time to gather my clothes or weapons, I rushed out to see if I could see the dastardly pair.
The Avenue of the Unwashed Masses was filled with people going here and there. Most were, perhaps not surprisingly, unwashed masses. But no matter where I looked, I could see neither the fat man, nor the ugly man. Curse Lespie and his magic hands! With a sigh, I turned back toward the bathhouse, almost running into Ellwood Cyrene, who stood in the street idly cleaning his nails with his dagger, which is to say the dagger that normally rests in his belt, on the left side.
“Eaglethorpe,” said he, looking me up and down. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“That water was cold,” said I.
Chapter Six: Wherein Ellwood Cyrene ruins a perfectly good chapter about chicken pie.
I went back to the bathhouse, donning my clothing, which is to say putting it on, and gathering my weapons, which is to say getting them. Ellwood refused to follow me into the building, which was just as well, for the management of the bathhouse reserved the right to refuse service to anyone, and the anyone they wanted to refuse service to was Ellwood Cyrene.
“I have uncovered a plot,” I told him upon returning to where he still stood in the middle of the street. “A plot as foul as any in western Duaron.”
&
nbsp; “Is this your way of telling me you want chicken for lunch?” he asked.
“Foul, not fowl,” said I. “This is important. A young woman, possibly the most important woman in the entire world, is to be killed tomorrow evening unless we can save her.”
“That’s more than twenty four hours away,” said he. “I refuse to perform any heroics, including rescuing damsels in distress, without proper nourishment.”
I had to admit that I was hungry and chickens are succulent. I have eaten many a fine breast of chicken dinner in the great city of Illustria. They are known for the fine quality of their chickens, as Aerithraine is quite possibly the world leader in chicken husbandry—an occupation which is probably not what you think it is. Of course breast of chicken dinners are not the only fine meal to be had in the capital city. One could also find fried chicken, braised chicken, and chicken pot pie.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Ellwood.
“I am thinking about chicken pot pie,” I answered.
“They serve a more than passable chicken pie at The Tumbling Stone up on the corner.”
“Lead on MacDuff,” said I, waving him ahead.
“Still quoting Shakespeare?”
“Never heard of him,” said I. “And nothing can come of nothing.”
“You did it again,” said he.
“Did what?”
“You quoted Shakespeare, the greatest writer in the world.”
“That is the most unkindest cut of all,” said I. “Everyone knows that Eaglethorpe Buxton is the greatest writer in the world. He writes such stuff as dreams are made on.”
“Thank the heavens we’re here,” said Ellwood, waving toward the corner pub.
It was a small establishment taking up the bottom floor of a five story building which leaned precariously over the little alley that poked out beside it. Inside, the tables were packed in so thick that one could scarcely navigate between them, which is to say walk. Ellwood and I picked an empty spot near the back wall, my friend taking the seat against the wall, as he would never leave his back exposed to the doorway or anyone coming in the doorway or anyone who had already come in the doorway and was now walking around or anyone who was already inside and was now sitting and having nothing to do whatsoever with the doorway.
Many Adventures of Eaglethorpe Buxton Page 12