by Mike Miller
Douglas glowered contemptuously at the command, then slowly drew out his palm with listless enthusiasm. When Baxter reached for the shake, Douglas snatched the hand and squeezed aggressively. He managed to grip Baxter at an odd spot directly over the knuckles, clamping his scaly rough hands tightly so that the larger and more powerful Baxter was rendered defenceless.
Baxter tried to wrest his fingers free, though was determined to not show any outward signs of duress or compromise. Douglas smiled cruelly, his own hand even starting to quiver from exerting so much pressure. While the two battled quietly in this contest, Conrad and Douglas’ Indian companion both exchanged a glance expressing confusion over the awkward duration of the greeting.
Finally, Baxter’s mouth ruptured into a wince, his lips pursing open from the pain. At that display of defeat, Douglas released his vice with a gleeful cackle. “I’m just messing with you,” Douglas guffawed. After another round of chuckles, he said to Conrad, “I like this one.”
Baxter massaged his right hand with his left, though more sore than his crushed knuckles was his wounded pride.
“Here, this is Molor,” Douglas said to Conrad. “He’s my servant.”
“Hardly,” scoffed Molor in a thick though regal accent in a voice deep and smooth. “Pleasure.”
Douglas shook hands with the tall Indian gentlemen, who also added a stiff bow of the head and at the waist for good measure.
“Oh,” said Conrad as he rushed to follow suit with his own shaky bow.
When Molor turned to greet Baxter, Baxter was hesitant should he receive a similarly cold reception from this man too. But to his surprise Baxter instead received a pleasant handshake, possibly even detecting a sly smile under the voluminous layers of beard. When Molor respectfully bowed too, Baxter vigorously shook the man’s hand with an emphatic bow in kind.
“The rest of the help is somewhere else about here, but you don’t need to sully yourselves with their ilk.” Douglas chuckled. “Even you,” he jested with a leer directed to Baxter.
Before Baxter could become riled, Conrad said, “Very well. If we’ve concluded the formalities, then we can discuss everything further in the silence of the road. Let us depart.”
Conrad turned to march towards the door when a hand clamped over his left shoulder. The strength of the clutch even made Conrad wince. “‘Afraid we cannot leave just yet, mate,” Douglas cautioned.
“And why not?” Conrad inquired suspiciously. Baxter leaned in with curiosity as well.
“We need to get the map back,” Conrad said, pointing over his shoulder. The large man who had just bested Douglas in the caroms game was now seated at a corner table. “He’s the burly one in the middle of them dozen other louts bearing a similar sense of fashion and hygiene.”
Realising the grave error that had befallen them, Baxter advanced upon Douglas. “How could you--?”
The sentence was interrupted when a sleek sabre suddenly appeared across Baxter’s throat. The hilt of that weapon was held in the hand of Molor, who calmly instructed, “Civility, please.”
Baxter retreated a half step, but Conrad remained furious. “How in Hades did you manage to lose our map?”
Douglas smirked spitefully. “If you hadn’t interrupted my round of caroms, we would have been rich enough men already even without the venture.”
Conrad was not amused. “Yes, but why not wager some money or your hat, you buffoon?”
Douglas became visibly upset and griped, “Watch your tongue.”
Conrad was unafraid. “Well, how else can I describe what you’ve done?”
In a blink, Douglas became jolly again. “Well, I had already lost everything else. I had them right where I wanted them. It was the long play, damn it! You of all people should know that,” he explained with a dismissive chuckle
Baxter spoke to Molor. “You seem like a reasonable chap. How could you permit this to happen?”
Molor shrugged with unapologetic indifference. “I was making a piss,” he explained.
“Fine,” Conrad said, “Play him again, double or nothing it.”
“With what? Are you daft? I said I lost everything.” Douglas explained. Baxter was privately relieved their own horses and equipment were not mentioned as stakes.
“So what do we do now?” Conrad asked Douglas, which caused Baxter to bristle at the acquiescence of leadership to this moron for strategy.
“Oh, don’t worry, son,” Douglas assured, his eyes fixed on the rival group of bandits. “I’ve always got the plan.”
“What?” asked Conrad.
“We wait till they leave, then knife him in the shadows.” Douglas cackled at his announcement.
“We can’t do that,” Baxter said.
“And why the hell not, wise one?” Douglas replied. “What do you know?”
“Besides the fact we are not cold-blooded murderers, the army’s reinforcements might only be hours behind us,” explained Baxter. “If these brutes stay till sunrise, then we’ll have to survive the brigade they send for us too.”
Molor nodded at the logic. “True.”
“So we need to get the map back now,” Douglas said, stamping his fist into his hand with decisive vigour as if he had spawned the obvious conclusion.
“Fight,” Molor suggested, his hands sliding down to his sides to lightly touch the hilts of each of his swords. The man may have presented himself in a refined fashion of high-caste nobility, but Conrad could recognise a fellow killer from the devious twinkle in his eyes.
The thought of a good fight was tempting to Conrad, but he smothered the bloodlust. “No.” Baxter could tell that both Douglas and Molor were disappointed they could not kill their way to success. “I will win it back,” announced Conrad confidently. “Which one of you yahoos can translate my offer to these good sirs?”
Douglas chuckled. “That’d be Sek over there.” He pointed a crooked finger over at a little man asleep on a table. Huddled under his coat, the man’s eyes were shut so tight that his entire forehead wrinkled in deep, pock-marked grooves. A small trickle of saliva spilled from the corner of his scruffy mouth, which now moaned in nightmarish anguish.
Conrad walked over to the fallen man and cleared his throat. Without any reaction to the noise, Conrad did so again but with a much throatier gusto. Sek mumbled indistinctly and drearily, a relaxed smile parting his lips. Conrad almost felt ashamed to disturb the man, but still proceeded to reluctantly tap the fellow twice on the back shoulder. “Pardon,” he said softly, as if asking for a headmaster’s permission to use the lavatory.
“Come off,” urged Douglas, who pushed past Conrad with one hand and violently slapped the unconscious snoozer with the other.
Bolting upright into a fully erect seat, Sek’s eyes bulged so wide that Baxter could see the entire circumference of the pink-rimmed orbs. He howled in alarm from the assault, and Douglas lessened the force of his blows to softly slap him into silence.
“What you want?” Sek asked while rubbing his red cheek.
“This is my old chum Conrad,” Douglas explained casually to Sek, who was still reeling to affirm his whereabouts, his gaze rolling about the premises in adjustment to reality from dream. “Translate his exact words to those fellows over there.”
“Sure thing,” Sek responded to the instructions, hardly upset to have been beaten awake just a moment previous. “I help you Conrad.” He wobbled a bit in his footing, the results of fatigue, liquor and injury. Baxter moved over to support the little man.
“I’ve got you,” Baxter replied, catching Sek’s arm to stabilise him.
However, the polite show of gratitude troubled Douglas, who immediately wheeled Baxter around by his shoulder to address him. “Don’t speak to them with such kindness,” Douglas informed him with a quiet hiss. “It makes them soft and makes us look weak. Take it from someone who’s been on the mountains for more than an hour.”
“Easy now, Douglas,” said Conrad in defence.
But a raised palm from Baxter halted
any further protest. Baxter explained, “Just because we are currently on the outskirts of civilisation, I see no point in forfeiting cordial decorum.”
Douglas smiled at the remark. “Your vocabulary is most impressive indeed there, sir. But out here, that’s exactly what we need to do. This place smells of shit and piss. It’s a zoo. So we need to remind all the animals who’s in charge, or else they’ll eat you.”
Conrad shoved his way through the two bickering men. “Follow me,” he instructed Sek. They approached the carousing men who had procured their map.
As he approached closer, Conrad began to march with full militaristic pomp. The rhythmic stomping of his boots upon the hard stone floor worked to quiet the crowd as people turned to curiously watch the soldier’s bizarre routine. Marching up to the group, he stopped before their rugged leader and marched in place ceremonially for a few paces to the great delight of the onlookers, who all guffawed at the silly antics.
Conrad stopped and saluted sharply at attention to the rogues’ merry laughter. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he then said politely.
The leader looked confused, so he consulted with some of his cohorts. They all passionately discussed what the Englishman might have said.
“Sek, please,” said Conrad, gesturing to his baffled audience.
Sek stepped forward and shouted a substantial string of words in his exotic tongue, delivered at a volume that made Conrad wince but successfully arrested the men’s attention. Considering the short remark Conrad had uttered, Sek’s lengthy diatribe seemed to take several liberties with the translation. Once Sek had finished speaking, the locals were left with none-too-pleased expressions of muted anger. The group had quit their rabble to face this white intruder of their festivities with solemn scrutiny.
The entire room hushed accordingly in giddy anticipation of this exciting encounter, a match that could prove to be especially fantastic considering the participants. In one corner was this flamboyantly dressed Westerner, a style everyone in attendance was apt to loath. He was matched against a small battery of the loudest, ugliest and biggest thugs in the bar. The malicious bores in attendance had quietly hoped for this rich confrontation and were now exhilarated that it had indeed arrived. Several of the nearest patrons to the showdown scuttled their stools aside to make room. Perhaps they fled in fear of being caught in the forthcoming explosive conflict, though their wide grins would seem to indicate that were simply angling for a better view from the perimeter.
Baxter noticed Molor’s right hand warily caressing the hilt of his sword while his eyes remained fixed upon the opposing parties across the room like a hawk surveying its prey. Baxter decided to likewise cosy his hands towards the firearm tucked into his waist.
Unfazed by the sudden attention as the epicentre of activity, Conrad cheerfully continued. “My associate has lost something of dire importance to us, and I am here to kindly request its return.” Sek supposedly translated the statement faithfully, though Conrad noted that the generally genial tone of his message sounded lost amongst the snarling snaps and gruff delivery. Conrad’s seasoned instincts would not let the distraction faze him, dismissing the differences to culture. “What may I do to get it back?”
The lead ruffian, the one who was previously spotted defeating Douglas at the game of caroms, lifted up what looked like a small, rumpled floor mat. The man chuckled as he stood to proudly display the weathered scroll to the audience, who cheered the trophy with a cacophony of hollering hoots, fervid pounding and heavy stomping which echoed off the stone walls at an intense volume. The crowd made no secret of where their loyalties lay. Douglas seemed rattled and frustrated at the enemy’s jeering, but Molor’s fingers slowed their slide across the white ivory handle on his blade.
Though this thug waved the prized sheet around like a conquering army’s flag, Conrad was at last granted enough opportunity for a good stare at the mysterious object. With a perplexed look of confusion, Conrad started to speak, then paused. He thought for a moment, then addressed Douglas. “That is...?”
“The map,” Douglas explained casually.
Conrad went back to the strange, flimsy sheet, which seemed as thick and coarse as leather in a dark red colour. “You sure?”
“Indeed,” answered Douglas.
“Just out of curiosity, it’s...?”
“Skin.”
When Conrad whirled back to verify the shocking remark, he was equally surprised to hear the tail end of Sek’s translated explanation to the crowd. Upon hearing the mysterious artefact’s origin, they progressed to cheer boisterously. The bald leader in possession of the object marvelled at its newfound magnificence, approving the authenticity of the substance by biting it then nodding in appreciation.
When the map was held aloft to display the trophy, Conrad could clearly see the various lines denoting the particular paths of their journey. Conrad was curious as to how that peculiar design had originated, but instead refocused upon the vital task at hand.
The bald brute gruffly addressed Conrad, which Sek explained as, “He said his men will be happy to kill you.”
“No, nothing that uncivilised. We need not lose lives here today, and I am happy to let you live,” Conrad explained to the man. “Instead of war, I propose a wager.”
Sek relayed the message, and the prospective opponent scratched the whiskers on his chin while contemplating the offer. Eyeing the prized flesh in his hand, he calmly inquired, “What can you wager?” translated Sek.
Maintaining eye contact with his foe, Conrad blindly fished a small pouch from out an inner coat pocket. He carefully unravelled the brown cord allowing for the beige cloth to spill open with a series of small clinks. Conrad rattled the tiny bag about in his palm which emitted a light jingle melodically mesmerising the crowd who all recognised a familiar melody. He showed them a thick gold coin to confirm their suspicions. While the strange map obviously held some high value, there was undeniable worth in the precious purse Conrad just presented.
Douglas slid over to whisper in Conrad’s ear, “What’s your game, Connie? We may well need that to survive.”
“Settle down,” reassured Conrad calmly. Conrad had never bothered to measure the exact count of his possession. It was easiest to count the sum as his entire savings from a career of soldiering and looting. “It shan’t leave my possession.”
The map holder nodded his approval of the stakes and issued a challenge. “He says he is the best caroms player on the mountains, and you would surely lose too,” Sek paraphrased. “So now he inquires what your bet is.” The question voiced the prying interests of every man in the chamber.
“For we Brits, this is one of our favourite games, because it is truly the greatest test of a man’s mettle,” explained Conrad, removing his cap and coat while rolling back his sleeves in preparation. “The experiment scientifically determines which of two men is superior. This little contest we’ll play is dubbed ‘The Mirror.’“
At the last phrase, Sek balked mid-sentence on his explanation. “What is ‘The Mirror?’“
Conrad pursed his lips in consternation, his peppered moustache deforming into a tiny mountain range. “Hmm,” he groaned plaintively, “by the looks of this audience, I should’ve expected that you’d not be familiar with the arts of vanity and hygiene.” A man towards the front row who was wearing a mangled fox around his neck nodded at whatever wisdom the foreigner had just muttered.
“A reflection, imitation, copy,” Conrad rattled off a list similar synonyms, but each failed to penetrate Sek’s confusion. “A follower.” That word resonated, and so Sek translated to the attendees.
“No matter. The name is inconsequential, but the rules are simple. The contest is played thusly,” explained Conrad to the crowd and contender. “I will perform a feat,” Conrad held his left arm up in the air as an example. “And then you must duplicate that same action, immediately and successfully. You must do the same thing.” He lifted Sek’s left arm up in the air. “See? Easy as pie. Five
times,” he held up his open palm for emphasis. “If you cannot copy all five of my feats, I’ll gift you this gold.”
Molor was confused by the rules, and despite his more Western ways, he was still unfamiliar with the contest. But when he saw the faint inkling of hope in Baxter’s face, he felt reassured, though not enough to release the grip on his weapon.
The exact moment Sek had finished explaining the sport to the stoic thug, the thug’s cohorts began to excitedly chatter about the proposition. The rest of the crowd jumped into life, impatient to squander any opportunity to indulge in their favourite vice of gambling. Money began to change hands, sliding around the room like flowing water.
“What are they saying?” Conrad asked Sek.
“They’re saying you’re going to lose,” said Sek. “And lose bad.”
“Good.”
The two watched the thugs chatter while constantly comparing their map against the sack of gold still held in Conrad’s hand. Afraid to be declined, Conrad peeled back the top folds of cloth to reveal more of the shiny coins he had offered as ante.
“They also suspect a trick,” said Sek.
“Balderdash,” replied Conrad while watching the group of men slapping their leader’s muscular arms, trying to usher him into the arena of competition. “Tell them that I’m an old man, and... Just hurl some insults against their manhood.”
Sek was puzzled. “Manhood?”
“Call them scared, little, sissy girls,” Conrad explained.
Sek turned and fired off a series of rapid-fire, unintelligible words. Sek’s vivid fulfilment of the instructions surpassed some unspoken threshold of etiquette, forcing the group of men from their seats, muscles tensed and eyes glowering with anger.
“Good,” said Conrad.
Douglas leaned into Conrad, “You sure we don’t just kill them all?” to which Conrad did not reply.
The bald leader wheeled his arms in a slow circle, cranking his neck to the side while uttering a short, monosyllabic word.
The entire tavern trembled as the crowd erupted in a singular roaring cheer. A miniature quake rattled the foundation when they stomped their feet in celebratory glee.