A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist

by Ron Miller

  Still, there is some rebellious part of her brain that has not cared for the emotional dependency she is developing. Are you really that weak? it asks. Would you really fall to pieces if you were separated from your precious duke for any length of time? And, the really nagging question: are you really prepared to sacrifice the individuality you have always vaunted in exchange for the security the duke offers? A security, the rebellious node points out, that takes the form of exactly the kind of life you have spurned back in Blavek?

  She doesn’t know. The personnel of the castle, to say nothing of the people of the town and country, look upon the two lovers with compassionate and bemused glances, for they, too, are very fond of their duke. They are glad to foresee the possibility of the young man’s domestication and highly approve of the sorrel-haired princess whose intelligent and serious mien have so impressed them that they easily forgive the excesses of her amour. Wherever the couple go, had they been aware of their surroundings, they would have seen and been charmed by the genially amused, adoring and familial smiles and friendly compliments strewn upon their path like rose petals.

  The duke had, of course, instigated a full-scale investigation of the bombing, but with little immediate result. It is clearly evident that the infernal machine had been smuggled onto the castle grounds by a bogus workman (or a bona fide workman who had been bribed or coerced into doing the deed). This would have been easy enough since the men repairing the wall had been constantly coming and going for days, carrying all manner of materials in and out, none of which are ever inspected or questioned. What is more than a little disturbing is the realization that a common laborer, however easy it would have been for him to have smuggled a bomb onto the palace grounds, would never have had the opportunity to place that same bomb within the palace proper . . . and certainly not in the princess’s room. There had to have been connivance. But with whom?

  It is a difficult matter for the duke; there are no castle personnel whom he thinks he cannot trust, yet it is apparent that some one of them had abetted the attempted murder of the princess. He interviews them all, a painful process, since most have been employed by the duke’s family for many years. Some in fact have spent their entire lives in the service of the Strelsaus, as had one or more generations before them. To even suggest that their loyalty might be in question is an undeserved and unearned insult. Nevertheless, someone is guilty; notwithstanding, everyone appeared innocent.

  “What are the chances of finding the workman who brought the bomb in?” Bronwyn asks.

  “Slim, probably,” replies the duke.

  “Well, then, I had an idea concerning that. If it are one of the regular workmen, then you’d be right; there’d be about as much chance of finding the guilty party as there is of finding out who put the bomb in my room. But what if it aren’t one of the regular workers?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, all the men are laborers from the town, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they’re probably to be trusted no less than anyone working permanently here in the castle. It’s clear to me there’s no regular employee of the castle nor citizen of Lesser Piotr who would betray their duke. Their affection for you is just too obvious.”

  “Oh, you exaggerate!”

  “No, it’s true.”

  “Well, I know they like me, but . . .”

  “They’d worship the ground you walk on if the bishop would allow them.”

  “Oh . . . “

  “The point is, I don’t think anyone from Diamandis or Lesser Piotr is the culprit.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Obviously someone from outside.”

  “Well, obviously. I meant, do you have any specific ideas? It’s been pretty clear all along that your brother or Lord Roelt is ultimately behind this outrage. . . it’s their agent I’d like to find.”

  “Diamandis Antica is only a few miles from here, why couldn’t the villain have come from there? Payne or Praxx could have sent or hired someone . . . in fact, I think all of us have forgotten about Praxx being here when I arrived.”

  “But he didn’t know for certain you are coming, or that you did finally arrive. Besides, he left Lesser Piotr the day you got here.”

  “How certain are you of that?”

  “Fairly certain, at least. There didn’t seem to be any point at the time in making an issue of it.”

  “And I’ve been wondering; why would Praxx have come here anyway, of all places? And why did he come personally? He would have done either only if he’d been absolutely certain that I is going to be here.”

  “How could he’ve possibly known that? You told me yourself you came here completely by chance.”

  “I know, I know. But he found out somehow. And if he is certain I is coming to Diamandis, then there would be no way he would abandon his interest so easily.”

  “You think Praxx is still here, then?”

  “I don’t know. I would suspect that he’s not far, while on the other hand I don’t think he trusts Payne enough to leave him alone in Blavek for very long. But he could’ve left agents here.”

  “There are no strangers here in Diamandis, other than you, Thud and the baron. They would have been noticed immediately.”

  “That’s why I thought of Diamandis Antica. There’re always foreigners there, from the ships; no one pays them any attention.”

  “And, you know, I believe that’s where my foreman hired most of his heavy laborers.”

  “There it is, then. At least one of the men working on the wall is an agent of General Praxx. I think we need to talk to your foreman.”

  “You don’t think he . . .”

  “No, no, of course not. But he might have some clues for us.”

  The foreman is summoned and soon appears. He is a badger-like man in his mid-fifties who, while obviously a martinet with his laborers, is all fawning obsequiousness in the presence of the duke and princess. He twists his cloth cap in his grubby, hairy hands until it resembles a greasy rope while drops of oil and small insects are wrung from it.

  “How might my humbleness be of service to his Lordship and her Highness?” His gravelly voice tries to whine, but unsuccessfully. It is a terrible sound.

  “How many men did you hire to restore the wall?” asks the duke.

  “Just twenty men, your Lordship, sir, not countin’ the big fellow, Mr. Mollockle, her gracious Highness the princess’s friend, your Lordship, sir.”

  “Do the same men show up every day?” asks Bronwyn.

  “Oh, yes, your Highness, if they know what’s good for ‘em, if her Highness will forgive me for talkin’ so rough-like.”

  “And how many showed up today?”

  “Well, your Highness, nineteen, not countin’ your friend Mr. Mollockle.”

  “Only nineteen? Are there twenty yesterday?”

  “No, your Highness, there hasn’t been but nineteen since the day of the explosion, if your Highness will forgive me for referrin’ to that unfortunate incident, in case it are somethin’ your Highness finds personally offensive and would rather forget.”

  “Is it the same man who’s been missing since then?”

  “Now that your Lordship mentions it, it has.”

  “What’s his name?” asks Bronwyn.

  “If your Excellencies will forgive me for a moment, 1 have a list right here,” he whines as he fumbles in his pockets. His clothes look as though a rake and hoe would be more appropriate instruments with which to search them. And, in fact, they do indeed look as though they had already been raked and hoed.

  The foreman discovers a limp piece of paper so greasy as to be transparent. It is scrawled all over with thick, black crayon lines.

  “Here it is, your Worshipfulnesses. Let me see . . . Poomar Transplagnareen, Bulno Wun DaDa, Porkalla Tommassaari . . . Ah! here he is: Ugler Pataskala. He ain’t shown up for work since that unfortunate day.”

  “Since the day of the explosion?”

  �
��Yes, ma’m, your Highness, beggin’ your pardon for my obliquity.”

  “Where is this Pataskala from?”

  “Well, your Highness, I found ‘im in Antica, like the others . . . you get your cheapest labor there, you know . . . but I think that he come off one o’ the ships that is in then.”

  “You don’t know which one?”

  “No, sir, I’m right sorry I don’t, if your Ladyshipness will forgive my dreadful awful ignorance.”

  “Are any of the ships from Tamlaght, do you remember?” asks the princess.

  “Well, your Highness, ma’m, I’m not sure I recollect, but I seem t’ think that at least one was.”

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “Not exactly, your Highness sir, just that he is very short and strong, with real long arms, like a monkey.”

  “That’s all you can remember?”

  “I’m awful dreadfully sorry, your Excellencies!”

  “It’s all right. You’ve been very helpful. You may return to your work now.”

  “Thank you, your Lordship! Thank you your Highness! Thank you! Thank you!” And the man exits, backwards, bowing all the way, bumping into the furniture until he finally finds the door.

  “All right,” says Bronwyn, with finality. “I’ll be off for Diamandis Antica in the morning.”

  “No, you’re not,” countered the duke with equal finality.

  “What do you mean, ‘No, you’re not’?”

  “Just what it sounds like. The idea of you leading an army is ludicrous enough, but I simply forbid you to do anything as foolish as looking for this man.”

  “You think I’m foolish, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Good.”

  “You haven’t the slightest idea of the danger you might be in; you treat this whole thing as though it are some big game. I’ll send someone out first thing in the morning. If this Pataskala person’s to be found, we’ll find him. In the meantime, you’re to stay here in the castle. That’s final.”

  “Final? It’s not final until I say it is. You’ve no right to order me to do anything.”

  “I most certainly do! You agreed to be my wife and that gives me some responsibilities concerning you.”

  “You can labor under all the responsibilities you want, but I’m not bound by them.”

  “If you want to be my wife, then you should start acting like one!”

  “Oh? And exactly how would that be?”

  “For one thing, and I’ve been trying to get this through your head for days now, you’ve got to learn to be aware of the image you present. There are certain things you can and should do, and certain things you must not.”

  “And this is one of them?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “And if I do what I want anyway?”

  “Then I think we really ought to reconsider our decision concerning marriage.”

  “What about your promises to me?”

  “Which promises?”

  “You promised to find me an army.”

  “I gives you my word,” he says, haughtily. “I intend to keep it.”

  “Whether I marry you or not?”

  “There are no conditions attached to my promise. Musrum help me.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning, hours before dawn, Bronwyn sets out for Diamandis Antica. She takes Thud with her partly out of habit, partly out of the need for his companionship and partly for the protection he offers. She does not look upon this latter need in the same way she detests Mathias’s protectiveness. In a sense, she regards Thud as a kind of weapon in himself, and taking him with her is not significantly different from taking a loaded revolver, which she has also done. She has no illusions about where she is going and knows perfectly well that she will be confronting some extremely hard-boiled individuals, none of whom, even the most sympathetic or disinterested, will be particularly impressed by her social status. Thud, she knows, in the anticipated circumstances, would be her superior in immediate intimidation. Anyone might easily ignore her requests for information, but only the silliest would refuse Thud’s.

  She wears black leather breeches, high boots and jacket. She has pulled her hair back from her face, emphasizing its lean boniness, and slung her pistol openly from her hips. All of this in aid of looking as serious, formidable and unfeminine as possible . . . as much for the effect it would have on herself as it might on anyone she would meet.

  Only three or four miles separate Diamandis from its elder namesake, now relegated to a few dozen shabby buildings facing the decaying waterfront. Bronwyn helps herself to a small carriage from Mathias’ stables and even at a carefully discreet pace she finds herself in Diamandis Antica in less than an hour, with the first blush of dawn pinking the sky behind her. The distant sea is as black as slate. The road dips sharply into the village, which is virtually at sea level. The shore must shelve gently because the long piers have to run far out into the water before there is enough depth for a ship to dock. At the moment there are only two steamers; bright lights and noise indicate that cargo is either being unshipped or laden. Further out is the low-slung silhouette of a big steam yacht. Scarcely a generation earlier, Diamandis Antica (or simply Diamandis, as it was then known) had been one of the busiest seaports on the north coast. Now most of its fine buildings are abandoned, dismantled or converted into warehouses, alehouses or whorehouses. Where there had once been an anchorage filled with shipping, there are now only two rusty freighters. And a steam yacht.

  Diamandis Antica evidently never sleeps; nearly every window is a bright yellow rectangle beyond which shadows shift, laugh and shout. There appear to be only three sorts of buildings in the village: warehouses (vast, black bulks near the wharfs), rooming houses and taverns . . . of which the latter are the majority.

  Thud had slept all the way from Diamandis and Bronwyn now awakens him as she slips down from the vehicle.

  “Where are we?” he asks as she ties the horse to a convenient post.

  “Diamandis Antica.”

  “This is where he is?”

  “The man who brought the bomb into the castle?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s still here. All we can do is start looking.”

  Deciding to be systematic about the search, she begins with the tavern or inn nearest her. The door is open, spilling a bridge of sallow light across the dark street. She strides in, as she usually does anywhere, as though she were the owner, and plants herself just inside the door, legs apart, arms akimbo. She makes little impression; there may have been a perceptible decline in the noise and perhaps a dozen eyes may have swung reflexively in her direction; perhaps not. This vaguely disappoints her. However, there are more immediately interesting occupations than the probably fruitless ogling of a rather tough-looking woman in mannish clothes. When Thud follows her into the room a moment later, however, the attention he receives would have been perceptible to the stone-cold drunk, of which there are not a few, trying to force their wandering eyes to point in the same direction as everyone else’s.

  A grotesquely fat man flows around the end of the bar and approaches, wiping his hands on a filthy towel. She notices that he seems to be constantly oozing a beige scum. He resembles more closely than anything an aspic that has some hours yet to go before completely congealing .

  “Is there something I can help the, ah, lady with?” he gurgles, his black eyes drifting slightly in the jelly of his face, like a pair of capers.

  “I’m looking for a man named Ugler Pataskala.”

  “Pataskala? Pataskala . . .” he ruminates, stroking his chin, his fingers leaving shallow ruts in the soft wattles that slowly flow smooth again. “Pataskala . . . that’s a pretty common name, you know.”

  “Do you know him or not? Does he come here?”

  “Well,” he answers, his beady eyes veiling, “I don�
�t know if I could correctly answer that question.”

  “Could you answer it if my friend here asks?”

  “Oh. Well, yes, actually, some recollection does seem to come to me now. I may’ve run across such a man . . . but everyone comes in here sooner or later.”

  “Short man? With long arms like a monkey?”

  “Perhaps. Maybe. All I can tell you is I’ve heard the name. Even if your friend asks.”

  Bronwyn raised her voice. “Anyone here know an Ugler Pataskala?”

  Her only answer is a vague murmuring. Few faces pay her any attention. She is losing her audience. If some sailor is having difficulties with his woman, it is no concern of theirs; they are far more interested in inciting diverting difficulties of their own.

  “I’ll pay!”

  “Who wants to know?” comes a voice from the smoke-filled hinterland.

  “I do.”

  Something like a big rat emerges from the blue haze and goes directly to the bar. It looks over its shoulder at the princess and says, “Buy me a drink.”

  Bronwyn takes Thud by the elbow and draws his tiny ear down toward her mouth. “Find someplace to sit and have a beer or something, but sit where you can see the whole room.”

  “Sure ,” he replies, seeing nothing wrong with beer for a predawn breakfast.

  Bronwyn joins the creature who has beckoned her. Around them the noise and activity began anew; she is no longer of any interest. The creature beside her barely reached the level of the bar. Its body is pear-shaped and is dressed in a costume that is more or less nautical in origin. The legs are short and bowed, the arms thin. The face is dominated by a vast nose that is both wide and long, protruding like a cone from the tiny, spherical head. There is virtually no chin and almost no lower jaw so that the entire semicircle of upper teeth is visible. The incisors are as broad and long as spatulas. The eyes are as brightly intelligent as . . . well, as a rat’s. “Thanks,” it says as it sucked from the vast mug Bronwyn had bought it. It put the half-empty vessel onto the bar and wiped the foam from its mouth. “My name’s Ratski. First Mate Omar Ratski,” he says in a hoarse, squeaky voice, thus probably settling the matter of his sex, if not the question of species. Bronwyn is moderately successful in choking back a snort of derisive laughter while replying.