by Eric Flint
I kept my mouth shut, shut, shut, shut. Greyboar, of course, slurped down the toast and so did Jenny and Angela.
Then the Cat continued: "I think you should definitely take up the Abbess' invitation."
I groaned. Silently, I think. I'm not sure, because the minute the Cat made that announcement Jenny and Angela were chattering like magpies wanting to know what it was about. As soon as they found out, they immediately joined in with the Cat pushing the silly idea on Greyboar. I squawked and protested, but it was no use. Greyboar caved in right away. I swear, the man was an absolute patsy in the hands of women!
Then, naturally—I saw this coming a mile away—Jenny and Angela wanted to go along. The Cat said she couldn't herself, on account of looking for Schrödinger, but she thought it was a great idea. Then, naturally, Greyboar caved in again.
Then, naturally, Jenny and Angela wanted to travel to the Abbey on horseback. Fastest way to get there, they said. But at least here Greyboar put his foot down.
"Not a chance," he said. "First of all, you girls have never ridden a horse in your lives. Second, the critters always get surly, having to carry me. And Ignace doesn't see eye to eye with the beasts, either. They take one look at him and figure why should they take orders from this character who isn't much bigger than a lump of sugar." (I resented that, even though it was true.) "So we'll hire a coach. A big one. What the hell? The Abbess said she'd pay the travel expenses."
A big one, I thought sourly. Translation: expensive.
But I didn't say anything. Although my tone was probably surly when I said I'd go out and rent one. The one bright spot in the whole thing was that I figured I could hire Oscar and his gang to drive the great thing. Sure, they were all a bunch of kids, who usually hauled people around in their home-built rickshaws. But even at his age—eleven, he was then—Oscar was as good as a professional teamster.
The following day, around lunchtime, I went out looking for Oscar. I found him in the stable where he and his boys usually hang out, not far from The Trough.
And discovered that my "bright spot" had become a conflagration.
* * *
I'd always known Hrundig was probably as strong as a bull. But "knowing" in the abstract is one thing. Having your arms clamped to your chest and his iron-bar forearm ready to crush your throat is something else entirely.
I think I may have gurgled. Not sure. My vision was getting blurry and I could barely see anything in the dark interior of the stable. Just enough to see Olga Frissault and her daughters huddling fearfully in one of the stalls. Oscar and his lads were huddling in another. They didn't look fearful. They looked terrified.
I heard a grunt behind me, and the pressure left my chest and throat. "Sorry, Ignace," Hrundig muttered. "Didn't realize it was you."
I took a couple of steps forward, gasping for breath. "Who'd you think it was?" I complained, massaging my throat. "How many red-headed, freckled footpads are there, less than five feet tall?" I suspect my tone was, ah, peevish.
By now, Hrundig had padded around to stand in front of me. He had that thin, merciless grin on his face.
"None, that I know of. But there's probably a thousand informers in the city fit your description. Close enough, anyway."
My eyes flicked back and forth from him to the Frissault women. I didn't understand anything of what was happening, mind you. But I am:
1. Not stupid.
2. Pessimistic.
3. A student of the wise man. Among whose saws, of
course, is the classic: "Never try to think of the worst
thing that could happen. It's bound to be worse than
that anyway."
"No," I groaned. My mind raced like wild horses, trying to think of the worst. "Olga and the girls are Joeist heretics, fleeing from the Inquisition."
Hrundig grinned. "Dead on the money. But it's worse than that, Ignace. They were found out and arrested two weeks ago. Judge Jeffreys set their bail at two hundred thousand quid, no doubt on the assumption that nobody could come up with that kind of money. I wracked my brains trying to figure out a way to spring them, but it was impossible. You know what the Durance Pile is like. Take an army to break into it."
My mind raced like the wind, trying to think of the worst. "Somebody figured out a way to do it. You? Must have robbed the Royal Treasury."
Hrundig shook his head again. "Worse. Benvenuti came up with the bail money. Got them out yesterday before Jeffreys got wind of what was happening, and turned them over to me."
My mind raced like a hurricane, trying to think of the worst. "He defrauded a noble client," I croaked. "The Queen herself."
Hrundig's grin widened. "Worse. He defrauded the Church. Cardinal Megatherio in particular, but the whole Church is in a frenzy because he—ah! Never mind the details."
My mind raced like a meteor, trying to think of the worst. "He's on the run. All the forces of Church and State are out looking for him. And the Frissaults too."
The headshake was inevitable. "Worse. They already caught him. He led them a merry chase, but he figured he could draw the pursuit away from me and Olga and the girls long enough for us to find a hiding place. Which he did. But now he's in the hands of the Inquisition."
My mind raced like—like—
Hrundig laughed. "Relax, Ignace! You take the wise man too seriously. Benvenuti won't be spilling his guts yet. He told me he was sure he could hold out for at least a day before he started lying. Another day before they untangled his lies, and another before he'd have to spill the truth. Which gives me two days to figure out a way to get Olga and the girls out of town. I'll have to leave too, of course. No way to keep my involvement a secret."
He moved his eyes away from me, and looked over at Oscar and his friends. "I brought us here because I knew Oscar and the boys could be trusted. And since it's a stable, maybe we could jury-rig some way to get us out of town without being spotted."
His smile was no longer in evidence. "It's not looking good, though. None of the vehicles in this claptrap place are anywhere big enough. Not for all of us. But I'm hoping I might still get the girls out. Olga and I will take our chances."
I started choking. Hrundig cocked a quizzical eye.
"The hell I take the wise man too seriously!" I snarled. Then, feeling lightheaded, I squatted down, crossed my arms over my chest, and glared at the straw-strewn dirt of the stable floor.
" 'Never try to think of the worst thing that could happen,' " I mimicked in a mutter. " 'It's bound to be worse than that anyway.' "
The worst!
"What's your problem?" demanded Hrundig.
"It's not fair!" I exclaimed. "I never asked for any damned—"
I bit it off. What was the point? Sighing heavily, I came back up to my feet. "Never you worry, Hrundig. I'll get you out of here."
I crooked a finger at Oscar and the boys. "Come on, lads. I'll need you to pick out the right one."
Not fair!
Chapter 11.
Not Fair!
We left early the next morning.
The worst of it was having Jenny and Angela hugging me the whole time, like the world's most wonderful teddy bear. Well. Okay, that part wasn't bad. It was that I knew Hrundig would be able to hear all the gibbering nonsense they were babbling.
No way he couldn't, after all. He and the Frissault women were hidden in the fake compartment which Oscar and the boys had jury-rigged in the largest coach we'd been able to find. Right under the seat where Jenny and Angela and I were perched. With every single trunk and valise we'd been able to buy, filled with every piece of clothing we owned and a lot more we'd bought and all of Jenny and Angela's seamstress supplies. Even the cavernous interior of that coach was packed to the gills. In order to search the whole thing, the porkers would have to work like coolies.
I'd never hear the end of it! I could see Hrundig's cold grin already, and hear the derision. Hero, is it? Man of their dreams, no less!
"Don't get any ideas," I sna
rled, for maybe the hundredth time. "This is just an exception!"
"Our hero," whispered Jenny, kissing my cheek. "Man of our dreams," murmured Angela, running her fingers through my hair.
I glared at Greyboar, sprawled on the opposite seat. He returned my glare with what you could call an insouciant shrug, if the term "insouciant" can be applied to someone with shoulders like a buffalo.
Insult was added to injury. "What the hell, Ignace?" he drawled. "It's entropy, that's all."
* * *
Truth to tell, the lunatic escapade went off pretty much without a hitch. There was a spot of trouble at the Northwest Gate. By then, the authorities in the whole city were on a rampage, and even the lazy guards at the gate were on what passed for an "alert." So they stopped the coach and started making noises about a search.
Not much of a hassle, really. Greyboar climbed out of the coach and explained to the guards—there were six of them—that he was really in a bad mood that morning, on account of how his breakfast hadn't agreed with him, and that if they didn't open the gate in five seconds he was going to turn them into Queen's Guard au gratin. He shredded their pikes by way of illustration.
The guards made the deadline. On our way through, Greyboar leaned his head out of the window and suggested that the guards might find it healthy to forget the incident. His suggestion was accompanied with the whole recipe for purée d'imbécile officieux. But it's a short and simple recipe. I'm sure the guards had no trouble remembering all of it.
It was a nice outing, actually, at least for the first day. I'm not normally the type who enjoys the great outdoors, as I believe I've mentioned. Smell of the wildflowers, all that rot. My idea of a proper backpacking expedition is struggling my way from one smoke-filled room into another, hauling a full pot of ale.
But still, it was nice. Autumn had arrived, and the leaves were turning color. And, if nothing else, outwitting the authorities always put me in a good mood.
Quite a nice inn where we spent the night, too. Very comfortable lodgings, and the ale was surprisingly good. Not up to Trough standards, of course, but I've led a rough life, learned to survive in the wilderness. And once we saw how lazy the innkeeper was, we realized we'd be able to smuggle Hrundig and the Frissault family into our rooms, so they'd even be able to get a good night's rest.
The next morning we set out for the Abbey. Since we would soon be entering Joe's Favorite Woods, we had to find a guide. Whatever their skills as teamsters, Oscar and his partners were city kids. They'd get lost in a cornfield, much less a primeval forest. But it didn't take me long to find a local peasant who was willing to ride along and show us the way.
By midafternoon, we were well into Joe's Favorite Woods. I was wondering if the peasant would squawk at that, since Joe's Favorite Woods had been declared forbidden territory by the Queen. Violation of whose edict is a crime punishable by etc., etc., etc., etc.
But it soon became clear that the Queen's edict didn't seem to faze the native folk any. Our peasant guide never blinked an eye when I told him our destination. And, along the way, I saw many a local lad in the forests with bow in hand. Made sense, of course—who was going to stop them from poaching the Queen's game? Game wardens had been banned, too.
The only problem with the whole trip came at the end. Late in the afternoon, when—by my estimate—we weren't but a few miles from the Abbey, our guide ordered Oscar to stop the coach. Greyboar and I climbed out to see what the problem was.
"This is as far as you can go," he pronounced. "Across that little bridge"—he pointed to a span over a small creek, just a few yards ahead—"and you're on Abbey land. Can't take a coach on Abbey land."
Greyboar frowned. "What's the problem? You've already broken the Queen's writ, coming this far."
The guide sneered. "Piss on the Queen's writ." He thought a moment, added: "Piss on the Queen." He thought a moment more, added: "Piss on the whole Royal Family."
"Then what's the problem?" I asked.
"It's the horses," explained the guide. "They'll bolt if you try to get them to cross the bridge. On account of the snarl scent."
"Snarls?" This came from me. I've met a snarl close up, I have. And while the great monster was pleasant enough, once the wizard's apprentice quieted her down, it was still one of those experiences you'd like to keep in the "once in a lifetime" category.
"Sure, snarls," said the peasant. "The Abbey's land is packed with 'em. Forest snarls, to boot. They don't never bother the local lads, mind you, as long as they keep their poaching off the Abbey's land. But woe betide the man who crosses that line!" Here he launched into a long and gruesome tale regarding the various fatal mishaps encountered by local yokels over the years who'd made the mistake of trying to fill their larder on the Abbey's land.
"O' course," he concluded, "the snarls got a little sloppy about enforcing the rule, after the Seventh Cavaliers went in. And after the Third Royal Regiment—well! For a few weeks there, you could poach anywhere to your heart's content. Skin a deer right under a snarl's great snout, you could, the monsters were so fat they couldna hardly walk. But they've slimmed down since, and the rule's been back in place for years."
"What about us?" I demanded. "How are we supposed to get to the Abbey, mobbed by forest snarls?"
"Oh, you won't be bothered, long as you stay on the road. Lots of local folks been up to the Abbey, over the years. They make most of what they need for themselves, do the Sisters of Tranquility, but still and all, there's always the odd tidbit now and then. But whenever we make a delivery, it's always got to be on foot. Horses'll panic as soon as they cross the bridge. Mules and ox teams, too."
Well, there was nothing for it. I paid the guide and he ambled off, back down the road. As soon as he was out of sight, we gave Hrundig the signal. After he and the Frissaults climbed out of their hiding place, we started unloading the luggage we'd actually need for our stay at the Abbey. Most of the stuff we left with Oscar and his friends. I also gave them enough money to buy whatever food supplies they'd need while they waited for us to return. I wasn't even my usual tightfisted self about it.
That done, we set off toward the Abbey. Within a minute or two, we'd crossed the bridge and were into the heart of the forest.
Not happy, I wasn't. Not happy at all. The road wasn't bad, actually, for a dirt road. But still and all, it was a two-hour hike. And I believe I've made my sentiments regarding this sort of mindless exercise clear enough.
But the worst of it was the snarls. Sure, and you didn't really see them much. Masters of camouflage, your snarls. It's amazing, really, you'd never think creatures of their size could keep themselves so invisible. But they can, except for the odd glimpse of a vague motion, a rustle in the woods, and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on. Lots and lots of rustles, there were.
"How can they survive, as many as all that?" demanded Greyboar.
"Probably starving by now," opined Hrundig. It was a thought I wished he'd kept to himself, especially after the sun went down. It was incredible, the number of snarls there must have been in that forest. You could see dozens of pairs of their great eyes, shining in the dark. Looking at us.
Olga and her daughters stayed very close to Hrundig and Greyboar the whole way. For their part, Jenny and Angela were walking huddled against me, their arms wrapped around my waist. I enjoyed the closeness, of course. But, to be honest, I enjoyed their newfound trepidation even more.
Adventure—ha!
I would have made a sarcastic remark or two. But Jenny told me if I made a sarcastic remark or two that she'd bite my ear off (or two) and Angela muttered sullen phrases about the relationship between discretion and valor and I decided to forgo the pleasure.
You can believe me, I was never so happy in my life as I was when we spotted the lights of the Abbey up ahead. I would have broken into a run, but I was determined to maintain my dignity in front of the womenfolk, cost me what it would.
At least we weren't kept waiting out th
ere in the dark. I had just started to rap on the great door to the Abbey—rapped very, very firmly, I did, you can be sure of it—when it opened wide. Before us stood a Sister of Tranquility.
I was startled by her appearance. Of course, I knew that the Abbess Hildegard advocated a most unorthodox theology. But I'd never really given much thought to the ins and outs of it. Theology's not really my forte, don't you know?
Not that the Sister's clothing wasn't eminently proper, mind you. They aren't given to Dionysian deviations, the Sisters of Tranquility. Their theology was, I soon discovered, offensive to the Ecclesiarchy in much more fundamental ways. It's just that I'd had a mental image in my head, on the way to the Abbey, of what the Sisters would look like. You know. Withered, dried-up faces, pale as ghosts (what little you could see of them under the great black robes), severe frowns, lips tight as a banker's heart, you know, the usual.
So I hadn't expected this very attractive, very cheerful middle-aged woman, dressed in a snug green outfit that looked like a combined jacket and pants. Wearing a garland on her head, which didn't begin to cover the long sun-bleached light brown hair. And I certainly hadn't expected the dimples.
"May I help you?" she asked pleasantly.
Greyboar replied, "I'm Greyboar. I believe I'm supposed to meet with the Abbess Hildegard."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the Sister. "She'll be delighted to see you. We really hadn't expected you for another day or so."
Greyboar started to make a fumbling explanation for the presence of the others in our party, but the Sister was already striding away.
"Just follow me," she commanded. "The Abbess is in the salon with the composers." Greyboar and I looked at each other, shrugged, and did as we were told. The others came after us, with Hrundig closing the door. A very casual setup, they seemed to have here!
The Sister led the way through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. Big place, the Abbey. Quite well lit, and very—how can I put it?—well, sort of much more spacious and airylike than I'd expected. Not at all the gloomy, cramped quarters I'd always imagined an Abbey would look like, on the occasions I'd thought about the subject in the past. On the rare occasions I'd thought about it. Well, the one or two occasions when the thought of what an Abbey would look like had crossed my mind. For maybe the odd second or two.