“Sick!” Purna dropped his hand and danced back from him as another volley of bile came up. She grabbed the room’s only furnishing, a chamberpot, and thrust it into his hands. It would have been too little too late, except the ripe contents of the pot summoned forth another devil from his belly. They must have been in here a while, for it to get so full.
Eyes shuttered from the world, icy sweat soaking his clothes, the stink of piss and shit and vomit curling his nose hairs, cooped up in a dingy, dirty cell—it was just like old times, all right. He swooned in place, thought he felt Crumbsnatcher crawling down his tunic but realized it was just a dribble of sick. The sheer abjectness seemed to transport him back over the years, into the last stinghouse he’d stumbled into, and a horrible realization broke way back behind his clenched-shut eyes, in the constipated bowels of his aching skull—none of this was real, not Purna nor the other fops nor Zosia being alive again, it was all just the bitedream of an old junkie. He’d wished away Crumbsnatcher, sure enough, but not to be free of the bugs, never that, but for something even more pathetic… and he almost remembered, could feel the rat’s whiskers on his cheek as it kissed him good-bye, but then Purna intruded on his misery:
“Just… ugh. What’s wrong with you? Are you ill?”
Maroto wiped tears from his cheeks. He told himself they were tears of joy at coming back to sweet, sweet reality after the waking nightmare he’d just suffered, but the sorry truth was he’d been crying before he came to his senses. Purna crouched beside him, put the back of her hand against his forehead, as though that ever did anything at all.
“Better,” he said, because having the shakes and a splitting headache is undeniably better than having the shakes, a splitting headache, and actively vomiting while suffering a spiderbite flashback. He tried to set the chamberpot down gently but ended up just halfheartedly tossing it aside. Stupid numb fingers. “Been better. Been worse. Just give me a second.”
More like a few hundred were eventually required, but at last Maroto was on his feet again. Purna looked skeptical when he told her to scale him, but they never had a chance to see if he could have supported her climb to the ceiling, for at that moment they clearly heard an outer door bang open and voices approaching their cell. Here came the torture. Maroto glumly supposed they wouldn’t be fed first.
“Get ready,” Purna hissed, snatching up the chamberpot. “I get the weapon since I’m smaller.”
“All yours,” said Maroto, wrinkling his nose and creeping to the side of the door. What a way to go—covered in your own puke, near blind from pain, and without so much as a half-arsed plan. He gave it a quick thought, whispered, “They’ll be ready for this, so toss that pot in their eyes. Try to blind ’em before rushing out, or they’ll just cut us down.”
There. Now they had a half-arsed plan, or at least a quarter cheek’s worth. They steadied themselves as they heard a rusty bolt slide, and then the door flew open. This was it.
On the other side were Diggelby, Din, and Hassan, all three falling back in squealing horror as Purna splashed the chamberpot in their faces. Din dropped her crossbow and pawed at her eyes, the weapon going off as it hit the floor and sending a bolt whizzing between Maroto’s thighs to imbed in the back wall. If he were but a little shorter he’d have been a whole lot unhappier.
“Oh balls, sorry!” said Purna, hurrying to help their gagging saviors. Maroto followed her out of the cell, trying not to be sick again himself. Each step was hard-won. Looking past their retching companions, he saw that the repurposed common room of the tavern was empty save for dozens of bedrolls and mounds of equipment, the tables stacked up against one wall. A muted metallic clamor from just outside the tavern indicated that the soldiers had vacated their quarters just in time for some sort of entanglement.
“I told you we should have left them,” Hassan told the recovering pasha and duchess, ripping off his stained lace ruff and throwing it at Purna. “Between his sleeping on watch and her provoking the Imperials when we’d already lost, they’re about as useless as a eunuch at an orgy.”
“I wasn’t asleep, I just don’t hear so good anymore,” said Maroto. “And if you’d ever been to an orgy, son, you’d know eunuchs have a thousand and one uses, if you ask politely. But hey, thanks for busting us loose—how’d you do it?”
“Oh, it was ghastly, ghastly,” said Diggelby, and now that the filth was either wiped off or ground into his already roughed-up finery, Maroto determined the old boy was blanched and quaking from more than the affront of Purna’s attack. His lapdog Prince looked just as scared, shaking in his master’s arms. “I’ve never… And I hope I never again!”
“An old friend of yours paid us a visit,” said Duchess Din as Purna helped her up. “They took us to a Chain temple, to be interviewed by the commander. She wanted to know everything about you, and we were telling her, but then… I can’t say what happened, exactly. Deviltry.”
At the word the entire building trembled, the packed earth floor shivering beneath their feet. Maroto could relate. Most likely a substantial chunk of masonry had been dropped from the castle walls and struck ground somewhere close by, but even as the dust settled and everyone relaxed, he continued to shudder. An old friend. She was here.
“What in the cursed name of the creator is going on out there?” asked Purna, and then the oddness of it struck home—they were just outside the besieged castle, in the shantytown that had grown around its walls like dairy mites crowding on a rind of sheep cheese, so why in all the songs of Samoth would there be fighting here unless…
“They’ve quit the castle,” said Maroto. “The she-wolf’s left her den, bringing the fight to the hounds who ran her to earth.”
“Madness,” said Purna.
“Yep,” said Maroto. “That sounds like her.”
“The scout said she was badly outnumbered, and seeing the camp they brought us through, I believe it,” said Purna. “Why sacrifice her only advantage?”
“Hardly her only advantage,” said Hassan. “That witch—”
“Call her that again and I’ll teach you some manners, Hassan,” said Maroto, pointing a finger at the nobleman. “You’ve worked hard for my respect; don’t be so quick to cast it aside now that you’ve earned it.”
“Her?” said Duchess Din. “The witch we’re talking about is—”
“An old, old friend,” said an all too familiar voice, a hulking figure emerging from a hall that led deeper into the tavern, the enormous pack on his back scraping the top of the doorframe as he entered the room. Beneath the cowl of his yellow robes lurked the withered face of a mummy, the forearms that emerged from the garment revealing impressive sinews bulging just beneath mold-white skin. One enormous hand clutched an oaken staff topped by a carven owl pointing its wing at them, and in the other he casually dangled Maroto’s mace, as though the brass-and-steel killing tool weighed no more than a carpenter’s hammer.
“Oh fuckity fuckers, he followed us,” squeaked Diggelby, crushing his whining dog to his chest. “Look, we don’t even really know the barbarian, so—”
“Get a grip, Digs,” said Din, switching over to Falutin, the Imperial noblecant. As with most dialects of Star slang, Maroto understood them perfectly, and so did the pale monster grinning at him with black gums. “Why would he kill all those Imperials and let us go if he meant Maroto harm?”
“Who…” Purna licked her puffy lips, obviously intimidated despite herself. No shame there, this was one scary motherfucker. “Who is he?”
“One scary motherfucker,” said Maroto, putting every crumb of concentration into keeping his stride steady as he walked across the common room toward the terrible old wizard. “Hoartrap the Touch, as I live and breathe. They said some reeking old goatfucker had busted them loose, but that description was far too charitable for me to suspect it was you.”
“We never said that,” said Hassan. “I swear on my pals’ lives, we never said it!”
“Maroto Devilskinner, the Barbaria
n Without Fear,” said Hoartrap, flicking his wrist and sending Maroto’s mace spinning up into the air. One of its small flanges loudly lodged in a rafter, and the heavy weapon stuck fast in the ceiling. “I’d heard you turned to bugs, so I am relieved to see that was just a euphemism for volunteering your orifices to degenerate nobles. Added any new specimens to your menagerie of exotic genital poxes?”
“Sorry, friend—I know you like lapping up the discharge, but I’ve got nothing for you,” said Maroto, looking square into Hoartrap’s rheumy eyes. There weren’t a lot of folk tall as Hoartrap, let alone who could meet his basilisk gaze, but Maroto wasn’t a lot of folk.
“You look better than I expected,” said Hoartrap, pursing his lips and nodding. “Tell you what, barbarian—for old time’s sake, I’ll let you cradle my balls in your mouth. Something needs to sweeten that awful breath.”
Maroto couldn’t come up with anything dirtier on the spot—he blamed the concussion—so he grabbed the nightmarish geriatric in a bear hug. Hoartrap creeped him out, because Hoartrap creeped everyone out, even his fellow Villains, but rather than keeping him at a distance like the others did, Maroto always just shrugged and got chummy with the wizard. If Hoartrap ever turned on them it wasn’t as though proximity would save anyone; on the contrary, the only hope they’d have was if someone—and someone always meant Maroto—was close enough to lay the fucker out before he could pull one of his tricks. It had never come to that, thank the gods, and then there’d been that time in Emeritus when Maroto had pulled the sorcerer’s fat from the fire and Hoartrap had loudly sworn on all his devils that since he owed Maroto his life, he would never take the barbarian’s. There would be some who might point out that such a promise wasn’t really much recompense, but knowing Hoartrap well as he did, Maroto had been glad to accept the oath.
Now, as the fierce old man returned Maroto’s embrace with equal rib-aching vigor, the barbarian found that what had once been mostly pretext was now genuine affection. Damn if it wasn’t good to see a familiar face, even an ugly one.
“Hoartrap the Touch?” Purna had slunk over while they were talking, and as soon as they broke their hug the girl bowed to the wizard. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.”
“An honor, is it?” Hoartrap raised the snowy branches of his brows. “That’s not the welcome I usually receive when strangers recognize my name. Where did you pick this one up, Maroto, and what lies have you been feeding her?”
“He hasn’t been feeding me anything,” said Purna, but even as Maroto began to nod in approval she went on, causing him to flinch instead. “Much as he’d like to.”
“Ah, I like this one,” said Hoartrap. “I see she takes after you more than those other three. Yes, hallo, I see you trying to sneak away, but believe you me, that’s a bad idea. The fighting’s in the streets, and I’d strongly caution against wandering outside until it’s over.”
“We… we…” Diggelby and the others had frozen in front of the door.
“We’re locking up, so no harried soldiers could flee back in here,” said Din, directing a scornful frown at Diggelby. His belled collar had given them away. Hassan sighed and miserably dropped the heavy slat in place, securing them all inside the tavern.
“That’s as chickenshit a scheme as I ever heard hatched by hero or hen,” said Maroto. “Brace yourselves, we’re going out there to help carry the day for Zosia.”
“They may be chickenshit, dear Maroto, but your scheme is pure poppycock,” said Hoartrap. “You and your assistant here are barely able to stand, and after my civil attempt to parley with the Imperial command went the way of the Sunken Kingdom, I, too, am in need of a bit of sit and sip, not stand and stab.”
“I have to find her,” said Maroto, raising up on his tiptoes to reach the haft of his mace. “I won’t wait another moment.”
The next thing Maroto knew, Hoartrap and Purna were helping him back up to a sitting position. Apparently he still hadn’t shaken off his beating at the hands of the sneaking Imperials. From now on he was going to gag every scout he captured before they had a chance to open their mouths, then leave them tied to a tree—if he hadn’t made that stupid vow he’d just as soon kick in their heads, but when you swear on your devil you have to play by the rules or risk Old Black knew what mischief. There was no lower form of martial life than a scout; professional cowards, better at spying and fleeing than fighting fair.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be here soon enough,” said Hoartrap.
“She sent you to rescue us?” asked Purna. “Queen Zosia?”
“So she’s Queen Zosia to you, is she, girl? Silly old goat that I am, I thought she’d been dead and gone before you were born!”
Purna gave Hoartrap one of her imperious proclamations: “Even if she wasn’t still alive, a queen like Cold Cobalt would keep her crown even in the grave.”
“Oooh, she certainly sounds like you, barbarian, don’t tell me you’ve sired another heir?”
“No, definitely not,” said Maroto. Then, his head clearing by degrees, “Another? Call me an idiot, sorcerer, but don’t call me a father—I’ve been too careful for that, unless the work I paid you to put upon my loins was naught but mummery? In which case I probably have a lot of heirs by now. And you have much to answer for.”
“Trouble not your pretty head,” said Hoartrap. “Like all gods, my works are eternal, so long as belief is strong. And as usual, you answer my questions without my even needing to ask them.”
“And as usual, you answer every question with two or three more,” said Maroto. “So let’s have it straight, for a change, before I lose my patience—Zosia sent you for us? It’s really her?”
“You don’t know?” asked Hoartrap, helping Maroto onto a bench the fops had dragged over from the wall. With a wave and a mutter Hoartrap pulled one of the tables free from the stack and brought it skidding across the floor, kicking up a wake of bedrolls. The nobles squawked and Purna gasped, but Maroto was just happy to have something to brace his arm against.
“Don’t know what, witch?” said Maroto, Hoartrap’s shtick already tiresome. “I warned you about answering one question with another.”
“I was earnestly asking,” said Hoartrap. “I’ve just arrived myself, hot on your trail. I’d heard rumors of the return of the Cobalt Company, of course, everyone has, but assumed you’d caught up with her and seen for yourself. Don’t tell me you were captured by the Imperials before you even reached the castle!”
“We were ambushed,” said Purna. “It was ten against one.”
“He was supposed to be on guard,” said Hassan, he and Diggelby dragging another bench over so they could sit on the far side of the table. Din already had her cards out and was shuffling at the end of the board. “Mighty Maroto let those brigands stroll right into camp and get the drop on us.”
“My hearing’s not what it used to be,” grumbled Maroto. “Caught an arrow in the ear while protecting these ingrates a few months back. So you haven’t seen her either?”
“I was looking for you, as I said, and have been for ages. I did chance upon the pleasant company of some others who were seeking you out along the road, but I gather I’ve made better time than they. Here, you, deal me in—I have no great talent for such games, so pray go easy on me.”
“I’ll sit this one out,” said Purna as the others set up their game, and asked Maroto’s question for him. “Who was looking for him? Friend or foe?”
“Neither? Both? Who can tell?” said Hoartrap, winking at Maroto. “I don’t think I’ll spoil the surprise. They seemed… committed, so I imagine they’ll catch up to you, sooner or later.”
“Devils kiss me for ever missing your company,” said Maroto. “Why were you chasing me down, Hoartrap, what business do we have?”
“We’ll see soon enough. You’ve already answered most of the questions I had for you, so I suggest we just wile away the hours until our Cobalt Commander arrives. Then we’ll both have our minds put to rest on a number of matters.
”
“Arrives?” asked Purna. “Why would she come here, if she’s leading the charge outside?”
“Smart, yeah, just waiting here,” said Maroto. “Whenever we’d won a town, she’d take the troops from tavern to tavern, rolling out barrels and serving the soldiers herself. If it’s her, she’ll come.”
“I’ll roll us out one to start,” said Hassan, moving for the inner door Hoartrap had come through.
“Better let me help,” said Hoartrap, nimbly dancing after him. Maroto couldn’t decide which option was more unsettling, if Hoartrap’s weirdness was cultivated or genuine. “I already settled accounts with the innkeep and his family, so it may be best if I accompany you.”
As soon as the two were gone, the remaining three nobles started in on Maroto.
“Let’s make a run for it,” said Diggelby, and Prince yapped his agreement, maybe, or maybe he just yapped because he was one yappy fucking spaniel.
“Can we trust him?” asked Din.
“Should I cut his throat if I get the chance?” When Maroto swayed backward at Purna’s question, she added, “I’ve heard the songs. You give me the word, and—”
A shriek came from the back of the tavern, and then Hassan staggered out of the door, paler than any foundation could ever lighten a man of his complexion. No one jumped to his aid, though most didn’t have Maroto’s excuse of not wanting to risk any sudden moves.
“What?” said Din, but Hassan just shook his head and wobbled over to the table. Maroto may have been the only one to notice that his tassel-toed slippers left dark wet footprints on the carpet of bedrolls.
“Some help you were,” said Hoartrap when he returned shortly after, a hogshead floating after him. Most wizards kept their tricks in reserve instead of always showing off, but not Hoartrap. A train of mugs bounced through the air after the barrel, and while Purna and Diggelby stared openmouthed at the sight, Din focused all her attention on shuffling the cards. “What are the stakes, then? I only play for real wagers.”
A Crown for Cold Silver Page 26