Updated_PerilInTheOldCountry_SamHooker_EbookFormatting_Nook

by Peril in the Old Country (retail) (epub)

  Sloot ducked, dodged, and scampered away from the box as deftly as he could. Only one of the tentacles was more persistent than his instinct for self-preservation and managed to grab him by the ankle.

  “I said don’t let them touch you!”

  “Sorry!” said Sloot. The tentacle hoisted him into the air and waved him around like an insane toddler conducting its first symphony. Sloot was sure that he was supposed to panic at this, but he didn’t; nor did he try curling into a ball, wriggling free, or even grabbing onto any of the furnishings that he was being bounced so inartfully among.

  “This seems about right,” he said. He was probably going to die, and he felt … well, nothing. It was a simple matter of fact, as immutable as gravity having selected “down” as its signature maneuver.

  “Got it!” Nicoleta exclaimed. With one final shower of sparks from her wand, the tentacle that was wagging Sloot popped out of existence.

  Sloot wondered, as he collided with the ground, whether the same thing happened to goblins before they were called to answer breaches of etiquette back home.

  “Sorry about that,” said Nicoleta as she helped Sloot to his feet. “Anything broken?”

  “Only hope, for all time.” Sloot wondered why he’d said it, but not enough to spend any effort pursuing the thought, or ever doing anything else again.

  “Yeah, that’ll wear off soon,” said Nicoleta. “Tentacles of Doom. I thought I’d reset the box already, sorry.”

  “Okay.” Sloot shrugged, though it hardly seemed worth the trouble. He watched as Nicoleta mumbled and waggled her wand at the box. He felt as though he should have been at least marginally curious as to what was going on, but what did it really matter, considering the eventual heat death of the universe in a few trillion years?

  “That’s done it,” said Nicoleta with a satisfied grin and a nod. “Tentacle-free, cross my heart. In you go.”

  “What’s it do? Never mind.” When set against asking scary questions, getting into the box seemed like the lesser hassle, so in he went. Some ancient vestige of self-preservation screamed at him that he normally wouldn’t put himself into a box that had recently been overflowing with Tentacles of Doom, or any sort of tentacles for that matter, but he was beyond listening to that kind of noise now. There wasn’t any point to it.

  The lid was closed, and the absence of tentacles was replaced with an abundance of Sloot. Every bit of Sloot that there was, in fact; that is to say, every instant of Sloot that had ever been was playing out inside the box at once. It was a master class in ingurgitation, and it was giving Sloot a headache.

  “Everything all right in there?” asked Nicoleta.

  “No,” said Sloot. “My youth is directly proportional to my disappointment with my achievements as an adult. Not that it matters. Nothing does.”

  “It sounds like the box is set properly. Cheer up, the dooms should wear off soon.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Try not to talk, it’ll take the box longer to get a good reading.”

  Sloot attempted pondering on his utter disinterest in what that meant but decided it was too boring. Silence it was, then. At least he’d be able to wait for death in peace.

  “I’m sorry to barge in here like this,” came a voice from outside the box.

  “Better than knocking,” said Nicoleta. “You’ve met the door.”

  “Right. Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course. What’s on your mind, Greta?”

  Sloot hadn’t realized that the two of them were friends. Then again, he didn’t tend to understand how friendships between women worked. There didn’t seem to be any sort of spectrum dividing fierce loyalties from blood feuds.

  To be fair, Sloot had few enough friendships of any variety to count them on his fingers without running out. His five-year-old self had been so sure that he’d have made loads of friends when he was really old. In fact, there were very nearly forty Sloots looking to him for an explanation on that score.

  “Nothing interesting, I’m afraid,” said Greta. “That’s the problem. I’m afraid I’m going a bit stir crazy.”

  “Carpathia not to your liking?”

  “Oh, on the contrary! It’s a fascinating place, as far as I can tell from the castle. I like the gargoyles especially.”

  “Why not go out into the city? Vlad’s not keeping you locked away, is she?”

  “Oh no,” answered Greta. “I’m as free to roam as anyone else in Carpathia, she’s told me that on several occasions. I just don’t want to.”

  “You just said you were going stir crazy.”

  “I just miss my shop. You’re lucky, you know … this tower is just amazing! I’ll bet you could spend weeks in here without getting bored.”

  “You’re welcome to come up anytime,” said Nicoleta. “Just don’t touch anything, unless you know exactly what it is. Even then, it could be a faerie masquerading as what you think it is.”

  “Faeries?”

  “Like goblins, only with wings. And without the sense of humor. And they have a flair for the dramatic. Never met a faerie who could let a spotlight go un-stood-in.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with any of this stuff anyway,” said Greta. “The clocks in my shop, on the other hand—I could fiddle with them all day. That’s what I’d be doing right now if I were back at home.”

  Sloot knew a thing or two about intellectual curiosity. In fact, at that very moment, his nine-year-old self was reminding him of the time he’d experimented with the rapid displacement of tablecloths, much to the detriment of his mother’s stemware. That was when he abandoned the pursuit of a career in magic, and had logically moved toward accounting instead.

  “There are clocks here, you know,” said Nicoleta. “I’m sure people would line up at the castle gates if they knew you were repairing clocks. In fact, Vlad might appreciate it if you did.”

  “Ugh, that’s hardly an enticement.” There was a pause. “No, nothing like that, everything’s fine. It’s just that I don’t have anything here that’s my own, you know? It’s like I’m expected to have breakfast with Vlad, then sit around looking pretty until she’s done practicing swords with her dead ancestors, then we have dinner together, and then … well, you know.”

  Nicoleta giggled. Greta blushed, not that Sloot could see it. He was too busy recalling the worst of his crackly-voice-and-acne years.

  “I’m sure that there are other clocks in the castle that could use your attention.”

  “It doesn’t have to be clocks,” said Greta. “I’m just tired of feeling that I’m nothing more than my ability to wear a dress well and grace Her Dominance’s bedchamber.”

  “Both of which you do with aplomb, no doubt,” said Nicoleta with another giggle.

  “Oh, don’t you start, too!”

  “Sorry. You did a great job on the old clock in the square though. I was glad I didn’t have to resort to magic to get it working.”

  “Really?”

  “Magic is great and all, but sometimes it just seems like cheating. That clock’s historic. It was nice to get it running the proper way.”

  “No use romanticizing old clocks to me, wizard. I’m spoken for.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Anyway, if you need any tools that you can’t find here, Myrtle says she’s got a connection in Salzstadt that can smuggle things in.”

  “Myrtle. She’s the one infected with philosophy, isn’t she?”

  “Possessed,” said Nicoleta, “but you’re not far off. Philosophy is technically magic, but it’s the lowest form. Worthless, really. Why are we here?” She said that last bit in a quavering voice usually employed by people who have never spoken with a ghost, trying to sound as if they knew what one would sound like.

  “I’ll think about the clock.”

  They chatted for another hour or s
o. By the time Greta left, Sloot’s case of the dooms had indeed worn off. Once he’d decided that there was, in fact, good in the world, and that he had reasons to go on living, he started to panic over his cramped conditions. If the box were any smaller, he wouldn’t have been lying in it, but rather wearing it.

  He had to keep silent. Nicoleta hadn’t given him any instructions to that effect, but once he’d been unintentionally eavesdropping on their conversation for ten minutes or so, it couldn’t be undone. Be silent, or be some sort of pervert. Those were his choices.

  “All done,” said Nicoleta as she opened the lid.

  “That’s good news. I hope I won’t have to do that again.”

  “Poor dear, I know it’s cramped in there. But no, you won’t. Unless you’re accused of treason, in which case you will.”

  Sloot thought back to the Tentacles of Doom. He shivered. “I’d have a trial to see if I was guilty, I hope.”

  “Of course! That’s what the box is for.”

  “How’s that?”

  “That’s why you were in there,” explained Nicoleta, “to verify your loyalty! You see that sigil on the lid of the box?”

  “There’s a glowing orange squiggly. It looks like two bees fighting over a loaf of bread.”

  “That’s the one. In most cases, it should be blue; however, given your lifetime of indoctrination in Old Country oppression, we figured you’d need to be graded on a curve. Orange is fine.”

  “And if I’d failed?”

  “I don’t want to worry you, but … well, do you remember the tentacles that were in the box before?”

  ***

  Myrtle was avoiding Sloot. He couldn’t say that he blamed her. The skill with which he’d botched their romantic moonlight walk must have left her wondering if he’d taken lessons. A regular person would simply march right up to her and apologize, but that was the sort of thing that required a modicum of courage. Sloot, as it turned out, was utterly bereft of modica.

  Roman chided Sloot for moping about it, and Sloot took offense at the insinuation. He was clearly sulking, after all.

  A sulk differs from a mope largely in terms of decorum. Moping is the favorite pastime of teenagers, especially those who’ve not yet decided what perceived injustice they want to rebel against. It consists primarily of a great deal of sighing, wearing trousers with holes in the knees, and derision toward anything other than the two things they think are cool at the time.

  Sulking, on the other hand, is most commonly undertaken by adults who have come to grips with the fact that they’re not rebelling against anything. Regardless of their mood, they’ve still got to dress nicely, smile at their coworkers, and say “that sounds great” when they’d really like to say “shut your face, or I’ll shut it for you.”

  He went for a walk. Walking often helped to break a sulk, but the only other time he’d gone walking in Ulfhaven thus far had been with Myrtle. He sulked about that until his feet had taken him to the one place they remembered: the gate in front of her house. Panicking, he ran back the way he’d come to avoid discovery, only to realize once he was several blocks away that she’d seen him from the balcony. And made eye contact. And waved at him to come up.

  All the forces of nature seemed to be working together to put Sloot and Myrtle together. Perhaps something in Sloot’s subconscious was suspicious. Why were the forces of nature so interested? Luckily, he possessed a specific blend of smarts and cowardice to ensure he didn’t fall for it.

  The sky was a gloomy grey, very nearly the same shade as the buildings and cobblestone streets of the city. There was a steady drizzle. It was heavy enough to make him wish he’d brought a cloak to keep it off him, but light enough to make him wish the clouds would just open up and get on with it, already. Gargoyles sat on every rooftop, scowling down at him.

  He’d just managed to get his clothes saturated to the point of miserable shivering when he returned to the castle. Just as he started smiling at the prospect of a dry pair of socks, he saw Roman and Nicoleta walking out toward him. Her outfit was a more savage assault on the senses than usual. Roman wasn’t quite as garish but was bundled up in an orange and yellow cloak, waving a pennant to match.

  “Hey, it’s Sloot!” said Roman. “You’re just in time! The Gore Flayers are playing the Boiling Blood, let’s go!”

  “The who, and the what?”

  “Boulderchuck,” Nicoleta replied. “It’s our national sport! You have to come, we’ll buy you a scarf or a rusty axe or something!”

  “Er, thanks,” said Sloot. “I know you’re just trying to cheer me up, but―”

  “Did you need cheering up?” asked Nicoleta.

  “Oh, well probably. But no, thank you.”

  “I mean, isn’t that just the way he looks?” she asked Roman.

  “No,” he answered, “that’s his sulking face. The difference is subtle, but you pick up on it after a while. He sulks a lot.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Nicoleta. “Come to think of it, you do seem more down than usual.”

  “It’s Myrtle,” said Roman. “I told you, remember?”

  “Did you?” asked Sloot. “Thanks for that, no sense keeping secrets or anything.”

  “She outranks you.” Roman jerked a thumb toward Nicoleta. “Besides, you’ll thank me for that later.”

  “Yes you will,” said Nicoleta. “I’m working on something special for you.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t,” said Sloot, who was as fond of surprises as he was of extensive dental work.

  “After the game. It’ll be ready by the time we get back, come on!”

  Sloot had never developed a knack for resisting peer pressure—or charity bell ringers, or marginally persistent salesmen, or the urge to say “what?” in response to “ablitheringidiotsayswhat”—so off to the game he went. It was played in a huge arena encircled with stone benches, on a ruined field of dirt and rock. It was littered with chunks of stone, some of which would require more than one person to lift.

  Two teams of a dozen heavily armored players each took the field, eliciting all manner of cacophony from the stands. People blew horns, shouted, threw entrails, and generally made a spectacle of themselves in anticipation of the carnage to come.

  “They’re not wearing any weapons,” said Sloot.

  “Why would they?” asked Roman. “It’s boulderchuck, they chuck boulders at each other.”

  “Swords might make it more interesting though,” remarked Nicoleta. “Can you imagine?”

  “I’m not sure how,” said Roman. “It’s the most exciting thing I can think of already!”

  “How’s it played?” asked Sloot.

  “I told you. They chuck boulders at each other!”

  As simple as the rules (or rather, “rule”) of boulderchuck were (or rather, “was”), keeping track of the chaos that ensued was anything but. The players mostly went solo, in pairs, or in trios, and set about the task of filling the sky with the assortment of stones available on the field. Blood and teeth flew. Limbs dangled from their sockets at unnatural angles. Screams were met with cheers, “smashing” and “bashing” were considered entirely separate concepts, and Sloot was forced to drink more beer than he’d ever done in a single sitting.

  Roman and Nicoleta were Gore Flayers supporters, as were all of the other fans in orange and yellow on that side of the arena. They cheered when one of the red-on-red Boiling Blood players failed to get out of the path of a flying chunk of rock, and cried “foul!” every time the same thing happened to one of the Gore Flayers.

  Sloot was aware of the concept of fouls from hearing people talk about other sports. They were illegal actions that should have punishments associated with them; unfortunately, the duty of enforcing said punishments was left to people called “referees,” who traditionally had severe vision and hearing impairments. As there were no ref
erees in boulderchuck, it was just something you shouted now and again.

  “The blood’s doing that thing again,” said Nicoleta.

  Roman nodded, his brow furrowed. “I noticed that.”

  Sloot looked down onto the pitch and saw tiny drops of blood floating away from what had been a massive pool of blood only moments ago. The people sitting in front of him had been very excited to be close enough to catch some of the spray from Algernon Snappingbone, left splatter for the Boiling Blood. Their faces were clean again.

  “Has it got anything to do with the bloodless murders back in Salzstadt?” Sloot wondered aloud.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” said Nicoleta. “We’ve got some clerics following the FOUL! Pull out his spine and feed it back to him, Gurm! Woo woo!” she screamed.

  Nicoleta was particularly fond of a Gore Flayer by the name of Gurm Deathcrush. He was a massive brute who would do well in the library if he decided that boulderchuck wasn’t his true calling. His performance in this game made Sloot doubt that very much.

  “I almost hope he doesn’t score anymore,” said Nicoleta, who’d celebrated every one of Gurm’s chucks that found its mark with an impressive show of fireworks. “I’ve only got a couple of volleys left!”

  In the end, Gurm only managed to score one more time. After the judges had counted the number of teeth each team still possessed, the Gore Flayers had narrowly trounced the Boiling Blood, whose doctors were busy with hand tools cutting their irreparably smashed armor away from them. The side of the arena on which they were sitting erupted in applause, fist fights, and a few small fires that forced them to leave through the exit on the far side.

  ***

  Sloot awoke close to noon the following day. He couldn’t remember how he got home, though his violent dry heaving was explanation enough for the fuzzy memory. There was also the matter of his brain having transmuted itself into a fiendish torture implement, the sort that red-robed zealots might use to coerce people into taking lifelong vows of sobriety.

  “Good morning!” shouted Nicoleta, striding into Sloot’s bedroom in the manic fashion of a motivational speaker who still can’t hear you! Sloot screamed feebly and threw his hands over his ears.