Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

  “Of course, sir. At all times, sir.” She bobbed again and left, clutching the coin in her fist and clucking happily to herself. Lughor shut the door. It had been an unusual request, apparently, to ask for a meal to be brought to his room, but he couldn’t face being around other people. Not tonight. He would in all probability wind up slaughtering everyone in the place, including that pretty young woman, and in a town as large as Grimswyck, that could only lead to questions.

  He crossed to the table and whipped the cloth from the tray - he recoiled in horror to see her head - Callie’s head - gazing sightlessly from a plate, her eyes boiled white like a fish’s and a codling in her mouth as though she were a suckling pig. Gasping, he looked again.

  There was no head, just a basket of bread rolls and a bowl of navarin. A tankard of ale and a hunk of cheese completed the simple but enticing repast. Lughor closed his eyes. It was the beast that had showed him Callie’s face; it was warning him that it must be allowed out, must have its way.

  He sat on a stool - it was like children’s furniture under his bulk - and tore one of the rolls in half. He dunked it in the stew and, suddenly realising how ravenous he was, wolfed it down. The meal was gone within seconds. He forced himself to slow down and savour the ale. When that was gone, he considered going down to the bar for more or sending for the girl to bring a bottle or ten - No! That would be the surest way to unleash the monstrous side of his nature and nothing would be able to stop it.

  He lay on the bed, as best as he could for his legs hung over the end.

  In the morning, he would go to the palace, whether the goose girl, her father and the damned malgrim showed up or not.

  And he would bring the Duke to account for what happened to his beloved, for was it not his men who had violated her?

  And then, perhaps then, the beast would be sated at last and he would find peace, either in life or death.

  Lughor was past caring which.

  ***

  He had tried once to end it all, to do himself in and have done with it. This was before he was given the pendant. Since then he had been resigned to his lot and had travelled many realms, leaving devastation in his wake. Thousands of lives ruined, hundreds of villages torched. And for what?

  Ask the fox why it kills the chickens.

  No, that wasn’t right. A fox at least would eat its kill, or cache it away for future use. No, a fox makes sense. I don’t.

  I woke up that morning with the strength of two hundred men. My entire dragoon. They were dead but I got their might. Lucky me. And since then I’ve been like an innkeeper trying to prevent a brawl. Except sometimes I am overwhelmed and the dragoon goes on the rampage.

  He rubbed the tiny sword between thumb and forefinger. I could try again, he supposed. Get rid of this thing and then throw myself off a Ptorfian lighthouse.

  The pendant throbbed, as though reading his thoughts.

  He couldn’t sleep. The two hundred were restless.

  Lughor sprang from the bed and shoved every item of furniture against the door. It would not satisfy the two hundred; all it would result in would be a room reduced to toothpicks, a door torn from its hinges and a bar full of blood and bodies.

  And a whole heap of trouble for me.

  Struggling to stay in charge, he crossed the room in three bounds and hurled himself from the window, without pausing to open it first. He dropped into the street, surprising a couple of doxies who had, only moments before, commented that it was a quiet night. He seized each one by an arm and smashed them into each other, bursting them like ripe tomatoes.

  He fled the scene, trying to keep to the backstreets and away from populated areas. A last shred of Lughor drove his body onwards. Must - get - out - of - town... Must-

  But the two hundred engulfed him, like a hungry flood swallowing a drowning man.

  Woe betide anyone who got in their way!

  ***

  Broad opened the ring.

  “What a dump!” opined Shade. “Fortunes have taken a downward turn, I see... What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do nothing,” said Broad. “It’s your fault we’re in a dungeon.”

  “Me?” Shade affected innocence. He floated down to sit beside the dejected youth on the damp and slimy floor.

  “Yes, you. You put the bodies in the bag. Dugger thinks I let them go. And now the Duke has the bag.”

  “You’ve met the Duke! I’m impressed!”

  “That’s not the important part. He’s got the bag.”

  “And how did he get it?”

  “I gave it to him.”

  Shade smirked. He tried to nudge his friend with a barely corporeal elbow. “You gave him the sack. Better than the other way around, eh?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a joke. You know: ha, ha.”

  “You’re mistaken,” said Broad. “He’s got the bag and I’m stuck in here - we’re stuck in here.”

  “Oh, there must be someone nearby...” Shade wafted around the cell. “Next door? I can’t really tell; these walls are too thick.”

  “All right for you,” said Broad. “They haven’t even given me bread and water.”

  “The luxuries you get in prison these days! It’s more like a holiday than punishment.”

  Shade examined the door. It was old wood, reinforced with iron bands and studs. “There’s a keyhole,” he observed.

  “Like I said, all right for you.”

  “You’re not thinking. Where there’s a keyhole there’s someone who has keys...”

  Broad frowned. Shade rolled his eyes.

  “A gaoler! A turnkey! A guard!”

  Broad made a baffled gesture.

  “Let me spell it out. Get the guard to come in. I get to feed and you get the keys. Old-fashioned teamwork!”

  Broad was dubious. “I don’t know; I don’t like to think of-”

  “I’ve got to eat, Broad! And you’ve got to get out of here. Unless you plan on subsisting on every errant rat that finds its way in here, while I dwindle and disappear. Is that what you want?”

  “No!”

  “I don’t know; rats are a delicacy in some realms.”

  “I mean I don’t want you to dangle-”

  “Dwindle!”

  “I don’t want you to die. What should I do?”

  “Do I have to think of everything? Feign illness; make a noise. Attract attention! Improvise!”

  Shade blended into the shadows in the corner. Broad sat puzzled for a minute.

  Then he clutched his belly and began to roll around the floor, howling.

  “Louder,” Shade directed. “More agony and less opera singer.”

  It took a while but eventually, someone came along the narrow corridor; Shade squeezed his head through the keyhole.

  “We’re on!” he whispered, resuming position.

  A key turned in the lock. The guard had to put his shoulder against the door to shove it open. Its lower edge scraped on the floor, squealing like a rat surprised by a hungry inmate. Broad continued to roll and howl, even though his throat was sore.

  “Stop that!” barked the guard. “You’re like a pig in its own shit.”

  As last words go they were not the most eloquent. The guard’s eyes rolled upwards as Shade poured himself into his ear, then they took on the colour of shadow, of smoke. Broad watched fascinated as the man clawed at empty air and then at his own head, before toppling like a felled tree - Broad performed one final roll out of his way.

  Shade emerged, looking fuller, more solid. “Yum,” he licked his fingers. “His name was Bargo. He’s worked here for years but never in all his days has he encountered such a pathetic whelp as - Oh,” he giggled, “I think he meant you.”

  “What now?”

 
; Shade nodded toward Bargo’s belt.

  “I have a belt.”

  “The keys! Honestly, mate, you can be a bit dense at times.”

  Broad approached the body with caution. Shade reminded him the man was dead. He tugged at the keyring, a circle as large as his hand, heavy with angular, rusted keys. “Which one?” he frowned.

  “The door’s already open...”

  “Oh, yes.”

  They stole from the dungeon; Shade floated ahead, peering around corners and beckoning Broad to keep up. They went up flights of stairs and the walls became cleaner and better maintained by degrees, until they came to a door that would let them into open air. It was locked.

  “The keys...” murmured Shade. “Honestly...”

  Broad found the right key on the fifth attempt. He pulled the door open and they stepped through to find themselves in a courtyard at the rear of the palace. Broad hesitated.

  “What are you dithering for now?” wailed Shade. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I don’t know,” Broad looked up at the elegant turrets. “They’ll think I killed that guard.”

  “All the more reason not to stick around. Come on. The sack’s gone. There’s nothing to keep you here.”

  But Broad would not turn from the building. There had been talk of a girl, a damsel in distress. Shade appeared to read his thoughts.

  “Forget it,” he advised. “Let it just be you and me; like it’s always been.”

  He tried to pull Broad’s arm; Broad shrugged him off. “I’m going nowhere. If there’s someone who needs my help...”

  Shade shook his head. Again with the hero bit.

  He gushed back into the ring for a sulk, hoping they would not live to regret it.

  ***

  In her room, Gonda stood by the window. There wasn’t much to see, night having fallen, but she was looking into herself rather than admiring the view. She couldn’t believe it had happened. One minute she was on the run, a hunted fugitive, and the next she was swanking it up in the palace - the actual palace! - eating the finest foods, and wearing the softest silks. It was like something out of a tale; these things don’t happen to normal people. In a cot beside her bed, Tiggy was sleeping - he had refused to be parted from Gonda and looked likely to scream the building down. Carith Drombo, mindful of what the boy was supposed to be, had quickly acquiesced to the goose girl’s suggestion. Tiggy would share her room. It served Carith well: it spared her the need to find someone to care for the child and in turn kept her guests at ease.

  She sat at her dresser, brushing her hair. Milassa was conspicuous by her absence; the maid had kept a low profile since that remark about the sacrifice. I wasn’t even being serious - or perhaps I was. Hey ho.

  There was a knock at the door. Carith swore. It was probably the Duke, sniffing around like he always did around that time. She reminded herself she had to keep him sweet for just a few days more and opened the door.

  “Yes, my dearest darl - Oh!”

  It was not the Duke. Even bathed, shaved, and dressed in finery, the gooseherd succeeded in appearing dishevelled and somehow dirty. The smile froze on Carith’s ruby lips.

  “Ever so sorry, Your Ladyness,” Glenward wrung his hands. “Disturbing you like this.”

  Carith peered over his shoulders, chiefly to see if any of the palace guards were within earshot. “Not at all,” she pouted, her eyes glassy. “Come in, do.”

  Glenward crossed the threshold and Carith shut the door. He looked like a child in trouble at school, she thought. “Is there a problem? Is your accommodation unsatisfactory?”

  “Oh, it’s a lovely room, truly,” Glenward actually tugged his forelock. “I’m ever so grateful.”

  “I’m pleased,” said Carith, although she didn’t look it.

  A moment of awkward silence ensued before she decided enough was enough. “What can I do for you?”

  Glenward’s face clouded. Carith gestured for him to sit. Uncertainly, he did. “This is not easy for me,” he sounded choked. “There is something you have to know.”

  “Go on...”

  “Your Ladyship, have you ever heard of such a thing as a malgrim?”

  Carith pouted. “I’m not sure,” she lied.

  Glenward filled her in. “I’m powerfully sorry, for bringing one into your home. So, I’m asking - and I’ll beg if I have to - for you to let us go, let us all go. And we won’t trouble you any further.”

  “Let you go? You think you are prisoners then?” She laughed but there was no mirth in it.

  “No, but it’s manners, isn’t it? You don’t just leave the palace, just walk out the door.”

  “So it’s politeness that brings you here?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You bring a - a monster under my roof and then you talk about politeness!”

  Glenward looked at his hands. Carith laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Honestly, I am so pleased to have you here. All of you. Monster or not! Your daughter is a charming girl. I am thinking of a position for her. Unless, of course, you need her for your ducks.”

  “Geese, Your Ladyness. And I wouldn’t want to stand in Gonda’s way.”

  “Then it’s settled?” she moved toward the door. “Stay as long as you like! I shall be offended if you don’t.”

  Glenward rose but remained where he was. “No,” he said.

  “No?”

  “Yes: no.”

  “You’re not making sense - Oh, I see what this is all about? You want money! That’s it, isn’t it? How many corons will you accept for your daughter? And for the boy? Or do they come as a package?”

  “Your Ladyness!” Glenward was appalled. “It’s not money I’m after.”

  “Oh? Then you’re going to have to be specific, Mr Gooseman. I may be many things but a mind reader is not one of them.”

  “I want your word.”

  “You can have two. I’m thinking of a couple of juicy ones right now.”

  “I want your word of honour that the malgrim - that you won’t-” he struggled to articulate his wishes, “A malgrim should never be used, Your Ladyness. Nor be suffered to live, come to that. But this one lives and that’s that. It doesn’t know what it is. You must never tell it.”

  “I was right,” she smirked. “They come as a package, your daughter and the boy. Really, Mr Gooseman, you come in here and tell me how I should treat my guests and make all sorts of outlandish claims. It is quite rude.”

  “Rudeness be damned!” Glenward drew a dagger. It was the last mistake he would make. “I want you to swear as a Lady that you will not harm the malgrim.”

  “You dare to pull a knife on me!”

  “For the promise. A promise sealed in blood must not be broken!”

  “Come near me with that thing and you’ll regret it.”

  “Just a prick! In your hand!”

  “Get away from me!”

  Glenward advanced, backing Carith into a corner. “Promise me!” he urged. “Swear.”

  He stopped. She fixed him with her eyes, bottomless wells of blackness. “Swear...” he urged, his throat constricting. He watched in terror as the hand holding the knife turned the blade toward himself. He tried to fight against it, tried to prise his own fingers from the handle with his other hand. He gasped as the point was driven through his eyeball and into his brain.

  He collapsed. Blood flowed onto the rug.

  “Bugger,” she swore.

  Nineteen

  Glenward’s was not the first body Carith Drombo had had to dispose of. She enlisted Milassa, who of course would not say anything, to help her roll up the corpse in the carpet and to carry the resulting parcel through a service door and down a narrow flight of steps. Under the palace a sys
tem of canals took the royal sewage away from the grounds. The late gooseherd was pushed into one of these waterways, there to lie and rot or to be washed away, or both - Carith did not care which.

  Things were very different from the old days. When she had been starting out, she had to deal with the bodies on her own. House fires were always good but there was no way she was going to cause damage even to a portion of the palace for the sake of some smelly old gooseherd. Her first three husbands had been lost to house fires - that was the official story - each conflagration more impressive than the last, for with each successive marriage had come a rise in social standing.

  ***

  The first had been a farmer, rugged and ruddy, and thicker than pig shit. He had met with an accident on their wedding night as soon as the guests had gone home. Carith sold the scorched land as quickly as she could, saying she could not bear to rebuild, the site held too many bad memories for her. And people believed it. Someone bought the farm; everyone bought her story.

  She moved to a town and set her cap at a wealthy merchant, a cloth trader with connections overseas. Her wedding gown was of the finest damask available, inlaid with silver thread and studded with pearls. After the wedding breakfast, the bride declared she had a headache; she was not one for clamour and attention. She managed to hold off the merchant’s advances for a month until, on the eve of a voyage that would take him from home on business for half a year, he forced her into the storeroom and demanded she give him a going-away present, something to remember her by on the long, lonely nights at sea. She brained him with an oil lamp, coating him in flames. The storeroom went up in a flash and, coughing, she staggered out into the street to watch her husband’s business go up in smoke while the neighbours formed a chain, hurling pails of water at the burning building.

  All is not lost, she told the neighbours’ wives who sought to console her. There was still a ship in the harbour, full of goods to trade - the new widow would not starve and it would do her good to travel and get away from the scene of this terrible tragedy.

  At sea, the captain took a shine to her so she kept herself to herself and remained ensconced in her cabin for the duration of the crossing. Before long, the captain found himself unable to resist and knocked insistently at her door, threatening to raise a hullabaloo unless she admitted him at once.