by Allan Cole
There were shocked stares all around.
“I have to get to Galana,” I said. “I have to help them break the siege. Otherwise, none of this will work.”
“All’a us knew this time was comin’, Cap’n Antero,” Pip said. “We jus’ didn’t know it’d come so soon. Like today, so soon.”
“There’s something else,” I said. “I need you to come with me, Pip.”
His first reaction was a grin the size of a giant’s warship. He glanced around at his comrades, fairly lighting the chamber with his smile. I knew what he was thinking. He’d be on the road again, seeing whatever was to be seen. Free of all burdens except the immediate journey.
Ah, Pip. He had the wanderlust as much as any Antero.
Then he frowned as the full implications sunk in. “But, Cap’n,” he said. “Old Pip can’t leave his squints. He’s got his responserbilities to think of. As King Of Thieves.”
“I’ll need the king of knaves more than anything else, Pip,” I said. “Sorcery and knavery. We make a good pair. Come with me for awhile. Get me to Galana. We’ll see which way the stick floats. And then you can return to lead the final fight in Orissa.”
No one said a word or even raised a questioning eyebrow as Pip considered long and hard.
Then he turned to Garla. “Will yer run things ‘til I get back?” he asked.
The handsome beggar gave a slight bow. “It’d be an honor, Pip,” he said. “And don’t worry. I’ll play straight with everyone. See they get their fair share of the loot and glory.”
“Yer better,” Pip growled. “Or yer’ll answer to old Pip.”
Then he looked around at the others.
“Any objections?” he snarled. “If so, speak now. Or shut yer friggin’ yammer fer ever more.”
There were none.
“Well, Cap’n Antero,” Pip said. “Looks like yer got yerself a travelin’ mate.”
Before we left I asked Garla to help me prepare for the journey. I needed a new disguise. My pose as a pensioned Guardswoman would be useless in the war zone surrounding Galana. If anything, it’d make Kato’s and Novari’s forces even more suspicious. Considering that their main opponents included the Maranon Guard and that the siege itself was centered at a former retreat for old Guardswomen.
I was in the market on some business with Pip when our appointment drew near and had to rush to make it on time. Dressed in my pensioner’s rig, I hurried through the market to Cheapside. My mind was on the small details of our planning so I wasn’t paying much attention to anyone I passed.
As I turned onto the main street leading into Cheapside a strange apparition dragged itself out of an alley mouth. It was an old legless man with a wooden plate fastened to his trunk and he was dragging himself along on his fists, which were protected by thick fingerless gloves. He wore soldier’s rags that barely covered horrible seeping wounds on his body. His face was a nightmare of boils and livid scars.
He humped over to me, cackling like an old hen over a fat bug. He stopped, barring my way, and fixed me with a piteous look.
“Give us a copper, sarn’t,” he said. “Help a poor brother in need.” And he held up a beggar’s bowl.
A wave of guilt washed over me. Here I’d been posing as a needy veteran, forgetting that many of my brothers and sisters in arms were true unfortunates. They had no famous name. No one who cared if they lived or died. To most citizens they were a burden they begrudged.
I fished out a handful of coins, with much more silver than copper among them.
“Here yer go, mate,” I said, dumping the coins into the bowl. “Have a good drunk on old Sarn’t Rali.”
The beggar swirled the coins around in the bowl and it made a merry sound.
He peered up at me with rheumy eyes. “It’s a joy to see, dear Captain,” he said, “that your deeds are as generous as your words.”
Then he uncurled himself from the platform, standing taller and taller on two fine legs and making a sweeping motion with his hand, peeling away tortured skin and purulent horrors.
And standing before me was the handsome Master of the Beggar’s Guild.
“Garla!” I said.
He bowed low, doffing a wig of dirty gray locks as if it were a fine hat.
“One and the same, dear Captain,” he said. “One and the same.”
I laughed to be played such a trick. I’d known quite well how the Beggar’s Guild operated. Had seen them in action many times during the past days in all sorts of pitiful costumes. And even if I hadn’t known, I had magical powers to see through that kind of artifice. But I’d still been taken in. The impulse to haul out all those coins had been irresistible.
“I take it,” I said, “that was my first lesson.”
“You take it right, dear Captain,” Garla said. “Now shall we adjourn to my quarters and continue?”
He offered the crook of his arm like a noble swain and his smile was as smooth and charming as Janos Greycloak’s.
I laughed again and slapped his arm away. “Don’t waste your talents with women on me, Garla,” I said. “I’m not so inclined. Flattered, to be sure, that I’ve drawn the interest of such a handsome fellow. But fellows, handsome or not, are not Rali Antero’s drink of preference.”
“Why I knew that, Captain, ” Garla said, most sincere. “And in matters of the flesh we are sexual cousins. For I prefer men as bedmates.”
He offered his arm again. “But can’t a gentleman still be a gentleman to a lady?”
He took me by such surprise that I giggled like a schoolgirl. Then I bobbed a mock curtsy. A pretty clumsy one, to be sure. I had only a dim memory of such things.
I took his arm, saying, “Lead on, kind sir.” Then, “And I hope you have a friggin’ drink wherever it is you’re taking me.”
Garla had more than drink in the underground chambers where the beggars of Orissa reign. There was much light and merry music and laughing and dancing people everywhere. Squealing children raced through the crowd, making the ancient stone chambers seem like a country fair. Everyone was dressed in the brightest costumes, which were festooned with colorful ribbons and scarves and strings of jangling bells.
It was a feast day for the beggars and they’d all shed their cloaks of misery to celebrate. I made sober notice that among them were many true cripples and unfortunates, so not all presented a false front. These people, though, seemed as cheerful as the rest. And were made to feel a part of the festivities.
Garla, who’d stripped off the rest of his rags and exchanged them for a soft silk robe, called them all together to meet me. Like any good leader he was taking advantage of my visit to bolster his people’s morale.
They all seemed pleased to see Rali Antero in the flesh and applauded my brief remarks as if every word were a gem.
I tarried a little longer, drinking with them. Listening to the music, which came from the strangest group of musicians I’d ever seen. They had the usual assortment of instruments - pipes and drums and bells and lutes. But each musician had an animal accompanying him. While the piper played a hooded snake lifted from a basket. The drummer had a dancing dog. The others seemed to favor monkeys, which chittered and pranced and leaped about, performing all sorts of comic antics. We were being entertained, it seemed, by the animal charmers of Orissa. And I couldn’t remember when I’d had such a good time and heard such joyous music.
Finally we retired to Garla’s chambers. They were smaller than Pip’s and sparsely decorated, but with such masculine good taste I was reminded me of my father’s private rooms where all was burnished wood and soft leather. It had the same comfortable smell and I felt immediately at ease.
I sank into a deep leather chair and accepted a cup of light wine.
“I have to ask you this,” I said. “So forgive my curiosity.”
Garla raised a hand before I could go on. “You want to know,” he said, “how such a fellow as me could turn up in such company.”
“To be blunt,” I said, “
it’s obvious you didn’t end up with such manners by aping the nobility. They come too natural to you.”
Garla chortled. The sound was rich and deep. “There’s not much of a mystery to it,” he said. “I’m one of those bastard sons of bastard sons whose fathers were bastards by breeding and strayed into the beds of servant wenches.
“The only difference between me and the others is I saw my father worry at his innards like a dog. He was tormented because he was unfairly denied the company of polite society. Drink put him in the streets. And I begged the price of it for him until he died.”
Garla shrugged eloquently.
“So I found my proper place in life fairly quickly.” He raised his crystal cup. “And prospered.”
“That explains much,” I said.
“If you mean my attitude toward the nobility, whom I despise,” he said, “then you are right on the mark. And I see no hypocrisy in it. I don’t want what they have. I only want what they refuse others. Which is the respect every common man and woman deserves.”
“How high minded of you,” I murmured. Using exactly the same tone and smile Garla’d used when he’d said something similar to me.
Garla laughed, remembering his comment. “Now, that was a wounding blow, dear Captain,” he said. “And a well deserved one at that.”
“Shall we call it equal, then?” I laughed.
Garla winced. “I’m twice wounded now, Captain,” he said. “And I resign from the field.”
We finished our drinks in good cheer and then Garla took me into a small room with a large wardrobe filling most of it. A mirrored dressing table took what was left. It was covered with as many strange pots and vials and jars as a wizard’s bench.
Garla studied me, critical. “What sort of beggar shall we make you, dear Captain?” he mused. “There’s a beggar in all of us, you know.
“Some beg charity, some patience, some beg the gods, some the devils and some beg your pardon when they cut your throat.”
“There’s mercy,” I said. “You left that off your begging list.
“Oh no, dear Captain,” he replied. “If you think there’s mercy in this world you are sadly misinformed.”
While I enjoyed that remark he continued studying me. He said, “What we have to discover,” he said, “is exactly what kind of beggar’s heart beats in the breast of Rali Antero.”
I tried to think of different things but came up blank.
Then Garla suddenly snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!” he said.
He hunched over, lifted a shoulder so it covered part of his face. His other hand snaked out, fingers crooked like claws.
And he said in a high, quavering crone’s voice, “Tell yer fortune, Cap’n? Copper fer yer dreams.”
“A market witch?” I said, aghast.
Garla dropped the role and straightened up. “What better disguise could there be?” he said. “You can travel where you like. From market to market. Begging coin to tell lies people want to hear. It also seems fitting. An Evocator disguised as a market witch.”
“Your attitude is bleeding through again, my friend,” I warned.
Garla snickered. “I have to admit the very idea gives me much pleasure,” he said. “But, truthfully. What better disguise?”
“Fine,” I said. “A witch it is, then.”
Garla nodded and started digging through the wardrobe, looking for proper witchy rags.
“At least you’re not a beggar with a monkey,” he said. “You can take comfort in that.”
“Actually,” I said, “I was thinking of asking you for one.”
“A monkey?” he said. “Whatever for? They’re dirty little beasts always getting into mischief.”
“Then you won’t mind very much,” I said, “if the monkey you give me comes to some harm.”
Garla barked laughter. “Mind?” he said. “I worked with a monkey when I was boy. I hated the thing. Whenever it did something wrong, instead of punishing the animal my master whipped me.”
He shuddered at the memory. “I’ll give you a monkey,” he said. “And good riddance to it. You can send it into the hells for all I care.”
“I’m afraid that’s where the poor thing is bound,” I said. “Or something quite close to it.”
Garla didn’t answer. He was unstoppering a wide-mouthed jar.
He spilled what looked like little black dots on the table. He picked one up on the end of a finger and turned to me, saying:
“Now, hold still. I want to show you how to apply a wart.”
The night before I left for Galana I retired to a dark little room. I’d sent for my horse and the rest of my supplies, some of which I’d used to prepare the spell.
There was a pentagram inscribed on the floor with red chalk. In the center was a square chalked in green.
I placed a rickety cage on the square. In it was a small frightened little monkey with large sorrowful eyes and sharp teeth. It chittered hysterically and gnashed at my fingers as I set the cage down.
“I’m sorry, little brother,” I said. “I’ll do my best to see you come to no harm.”
My promise produced an even more hysterical burst of chittering and gnashing. It leaped about the cage like a mad little thing.
I knew how he felt. I’d had similar promises from an all powerful creature and look what it had gotten me. I fed him some orange slices, which seemed to calm him. But the whole time he ate he stared at me with those huge eyes. I tired to ignore them as I sprinkled the cage with oils and incense.
The monkey stared at me as I chanted:
Clever little beast
With clever little teeth
And clever little hands.
No knot can defy you,
No sorcery can tie you.
Unbind!
That is your command!
Cold flames bloomed up around the cage and the monkey shrieked in fear.
I hardened my heart and thrust out my etherhand, stabbing a golden finger at the cage.
“Unbind!” I shouted.
There was a final squeak and the cage jumped as if struck by wind.
And the monkey was gone.
I used my ethereye to spy him out in the realm I’d sent him to. I peeped this way and that and then saw his small figure scampering across rolling black clouds. He disappeared into a boiling cloudbank. By the squeal of pure pleasure I heard I knew he’d found what I’d sent him for:
Novari’s many-layered spell of confusion.
I heard him chittering as he found the first knot that held the first sorcerous alarm. The chittering became more excited as he dug at it. Clever little teeth helping clever little hands untie first one, then another.
The task would take him many days, perhaps many weeks. In theory the protective spell I’d cloaked him in would keep Novari numbed to what was happening.
And when next I returned to this place I prayed I’d find the monkey well and the way clear.
Pip and I left the next morning, mingling with the crowd coming into the city. As they poured in we inched our way against the flow. And no one seemed to notice that we were gradually going in the opposite direction.
I’d hitched a little dray to the old mare to carry our belongings and I’d piled limp old vegetables on top of our baggage to add to our look of innocent poverty.
Pip and I walked at the horse’s head, whispering encouragement and apologizing for the indignity of the dray. She was a riding horse. A war horse. And didn’t like dragging anything behind her, except, perhaps, an enemy’s body caught in her harness.
Pip wore raggedy breeches and a canvas shirt with a wide belt. I wore a dirty black hooded cloak that covered me from head to toe. Long gray strands of hair escaped the hood and my nose poked out, made into a crooked beak by artfully placed clay. On its tip was a big wart with a few hairs glued onto it for affect. I gripped a sturdy walking stick in my etherhand, which was painted corpse gray with overly long fingernails glued in place.
When we rea
ched the gate where the crowd was thickest and the guards the most overworked, we reversed our course and acted like we were entering rather than leaving.
A big guard loomed up. Suspicious eyes bored into both of us.
I cackled at him and snatched at his hand.
“Tell yer fortune, dearie?” I quavered at him. “Give a poor granny a copper to glim yer palm?”
The guard snatched his hand back. “Keep yer hands off’n me,” he growled. “Dirty old witch.”