by Moore, John
Thursby looked reproachful. “It saddens me to have my word doubted like that, Lieutenant. It denotes a lack of trust between an officer and the men he commands. If you refuse to accept my report of the situation, it will only . . .”
“I was there.”
“Oh. Right. Well, he was big enough for two men. And he fought like six.”
“Where the hell is Muchluck?”
“Don’t know. He was right behind me, then I looked for him, and he was gone.”
“He’s right here.” Muchluck dropped a handful of scraps on the table. The older and heavier of the two guards picked his own mug off the counter and filled it without waiting for the Lieutenant to return his salute.
The Lieutenant leaned forward. “What’s this?”
“Lace.”
“I can see that it is lace, Muchluck. Are you going to explain yourself fully, or are you expecting me to play twenty questions with you?”
“Came off the girl’s dress. She dropped them to leave a trail. I picked them up. That’s what took me so long.”
“Muchluck, I don’t know where this stuff came from, but that girl did not drop anything. She’s tied up, she’s inside a sack, and the sack is tied shut. She is not capable of dropping trail markers.”
Muchluck shrugged. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant”
Scorn glared at him. Muchluck affected not to notice. He set his beer down on a bench, sat himself down beside it, took out his sword, and began wiping it down with an oily rag. Thursby, following his example, did the same thing with both his beer and his sword. The Lieutenant watched them until his own mug was empty. Then he made an impatient sound, pushed his chair back, and went to check on the prisoner.
He waited outside the door for a minute, listening for sounds of movement, before he unlocked it and entered the closet. It was really a storage room, about six feet by four feet. There were no windows. To his satisfaction the sack was not moving. The top was still tied shut. It lay in a hump where he had left it. His suspicions were allayed but did not disappear entirely. Remaining inside the closet, he opened the door and shut it again.
Immediately the sack started moving. Enough light came in under the door to see a slim, pale hand wiggle its way through the small loop of opening in the top of sack. The hand was holding a brass lace pin. The Lieutenant watched in near disbelief as the girl in the sack, showing a truly astonishing amount of dexterity, used the pin to pull apart the knot. The sack opened and a blond head, holding a very angry expression, emerged and looked at him.
Furious, Scorn walked out, slammed the door shut, turned the key in the lock, and stomped back to the mess room. “What the hell did you do back there?” he yelled at Thursby and Muchluck. “You damned idiots grabbed the wrong girl.”
Thursby looked at Muchluck, who calmly sipped from his mug. “We didn’t get the wrong girl, Lieutenant. We’ve been scouting the place out for the last month. He’s got one daughter. There are no female servants. He doesn’t get visitors. That’s her.”
“The Baron’s daughter has long brown hair. That girl is blond.”
Muchluck shrugged. “So she changed it. Women are always doing stuff to their hair. Sometimes you can’t hardly recognize them.”
“Don’t jerk me around, Muchluck. I don’t know who you’ve got in there, but you damn well better get the Baron’s daughter over here before the Count finds out you’ve screwed up.”
Thursby look anxious. Muchluck set his mug down, stood up, buttoned his jacket, and finger combed his hair. He walked past the Lieutenant without looking at him. After a moment, the Lieutenant got up and followed him. Thursby made up a third.
They caught up with Muchluck just as he was unlocking the closet. Gloria was completely out of the sack now, but the closet wasn’t heated, and she had pulled the burlap over her legs for warmth. She was seated against the wall with a tatting spool in her hand. She looked up sullenly. Three men were standing outside the closet door, examining her minutely. Muchluck swept off his hat and bowed from the waist. “Excuse me, miss. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but we could not help remarking on the loveliness of your hair. Would you mind telling me if you’ve changed your color recently?” He gave her his best smile.
The question was so unexpected that Gloria, caught off guard, automatically smiled back. “Why yes. Do you like it? I originally planned to go with Soft Summer Peach, but then I thought no, that’s a bit too brassy, so I decided on . . .”
Her answer was cut off when the Lieutenant reached past Muchluck and slammed the door shut again. He locked it and pocketed the key. “All right, it’s her. Keep watch on this door until the Count is ready for her.”
It was, in fact, several hours before Count Bussard was ready for her, although Gloria did not spend all that time in the closet. Lieutenant Scorn came for her after an hour, grabbed her arm with unnecessary force, and took her upstairs to small alcove with a glassed-in balcony. The room was unheated, but despite the cold, had a table that was set for lunch. A stack of envelopes lay by the single place setting. The Count had been preparing to read his mail. Gloria waited until the Lieutenant left, locking her in, and looked carefully through the glass. They faced the castle’s rear grounds, allowing a fine view of fields and forest. A sheer drop prevented escape through the windows. She shrugged, helped herself to fruit and finger sandwiches, and settled into the chair with the latest broadsheet, brought from the city by special courier.
Count Bussard entered an hour after that, stopped in his tracks, and stared. He was a heavyset man, not exactly fat yet, but starting to show jowls and the beginnings of a double chin. He was of late middle age, old enough for his hair to be completely gray but not yet old enough to stoop. Apparently he was also not the sort to stand on formality, for the first words he spoke to her were, “Who the hell are you?”
Gloria did not answer. She made a gesture to indicate her mouth was full. She was about to speak when the Count turned away and slammed the door in her face, cutting off her words. By now, Gloria was getting used to slamming doors. She picked up the broadsheet again.
Bussard returned in a minute with Scorn. “Of course it’s her,” said the Lieutenant. “I was there, I supervised the job myself, I brought her back on my own horse. We were at the right place, she was the only girl there. She’s the Baron’s daughter.”
“I gave you a complete description, you idiot. How could you get this wrong?”
“Yes, Sire, and she matches the description. Same age, height, weight, figure.”
“The Baron’s daughter has brown hair. Or don’t you notice subtle little details like that? Long brown hair.”
“Chestnut brown,” Gloria contributed helpfully.
“Exactly. Chestnut brown they call it, or some damn thing like that.”
“So she changed it. Come on, Sire, look at her. Anyone can see it’s a cheap dye job.”
“I beg your pardon . . .” Gloria began.
“All right now, young lady,” interrupted the Count. “Who are you and what are you doing in Bornewald? The truth now. I have no time for games.”
“I am the Princess Gloria of Medulla.”
“Of course you are. And I am King Bruno of Omnia. I do not have the patience for this.”
By this time it was becoming clear to the princess that Count Bussard was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. This did not surprise her. Many people are under the misapprehension that those who have amassed wealth or power must have some greater degree of intelligence or skill. Gloria knew many rich and powerful people and had learned that this was not the case. The smart people eventually learn that once you get beyond a certain degree of comfort, more money doesn’t make you happier. They use the money they have to pursue other interests. The people who get really, really rich have no other interests. They are rarely clever, and often quite dull, but they devote all their time and energy to doing one thing. Such was the case with Count Bussard. He started out in life with a lot of property. He had set himself
a goal of acquiring more—all the land in the Valley of Bornewald, and then beyond. He really wasn’t very good at doing anything else.
In fact, it took Gloria a good half hour of explanations, answers to personal questions, descriptions of court life, and plain old name-dropping to convince Count Bussard that she was truly the Princess Gloria. Lieutenant Scorn was even more reluctant than the Count to accept the truth. “But she told me she dyed her hair blond,” he said, after he and Bussard had left the room and locked the princess inside once more. “The Princess Gloria is already blond. Why would a blond girl dye her hair blond?”
“Because it’s the kind of thing that women do.” The Count was frantic. The fact that the Lieutenant disagreed with him convinced Bussard he was right. “Omigod, omigod, omigod. Do you realize the trouble we’re in?”
“No, not really, Sire. You’ve been kidnapping girls for years.”
“No one who counted! They were commoners! But kidnapping a princess of Medulla? King Galloway’s daughter! It means the noose for us all.”
“But we didn’t kidnap her, my Lord. Well, I mean we did, but she was already kidnapped. Baron Wayless kidnapped her.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure he’d be happy to testify in our defense. Who would have thought he’d try something that desperate? Kidnapping? And a princess? I didn’t think he had the guts. Wait a minute, maybe he planned it this way. He must have suspected I’d try to get his daughter, and he pulled a switch. He set me up! I’ll get him for this.”
“We’ll have to let her go, my Lord. Explain that it was a mistake. Apologize.”
“After tying her up and stuffing her in a sack? I’m sure she’ll be in a forgiving mood. Sorry, Princess, we didn’t mean to kidnap you, we meant to kidnap your hostess. I don’t think so. We’ll have to get rid of her.”
“You mean kill her.”
“Yes, yes, kill her, damn it. Bury her in the forest. Or put her in a bag full of rocks and dump it in a lake. Whatever it takes. It’s the safest way. The trail ends with Wayless. Even if they track her to Bornewald, Wayless will get the blame.”
“Yes, Sire. No, wait. It won’t work. People saw us arrive.”
“She was in a sack. No one here knows who she is. No one would believe Wayless or his servants. And it doesn’t matter, because no one from this valley will talk anyway. The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains sees to that.”
Scorn was silent, thinking. “What?” said the Count. Scorn remained silent. “Don’t tell me someone else saw her?”
“There was a man,” the Lieutenant reluctantly conceded. “Not from around here.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know, Sire. He was big. He fought well. A knight, the men think, judging by his style of fighting and the type of sword he carried.”
“Merely a bodyguard. Wayless must have hired someone to protect his daughter.”
“Perhaps, Sire. But if that is really the princess, and she really was kidnapped, the king would have sent knights out to track her down.”
“You have a way of making me feel better, you know that, Scorn?” Count Bussard looked at the solid door that lay between him and Gloria and beat his fist against it in frustration. “All right then. Get my signaling mirror. Meet me on the roof. I’m going to summon the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains.”
Terry, Roland, and Alison tethered their horses to a tree, and stood on a wooded hill looking over Count Bussard’s estate. To the front were orchards and nut trees, then a long expanse of lawn. To the rear was more lawn, then cultivated fields, now bare and fallow, a few ponds, and finally thick groves of trees. A carriage road, lined with holly, led to a cluster of buildings. A purist might have said that the manor house was not quite fortified enough to be called a castle, but it was a very secure house, and Terry was not an architectural purist. He was willing to call it a castle. It had stone walls. Thick, solid doors. Heavy shutters. Black iron railings. Little stickers on the windows announcing that the grounds were patrolled by security guards. It was not the house of a man who was merely concerned about burglars. It was the house of a man who had made a lot of enemies and knew it.
Alison could have just given them directions, but she insisted that she had to take them herself. She wasn’t sure why she said this. She had a lot of reasons, but she was still trying to straighten them out in her mind.
Unlike Gloria, Alison did not have a plan. She did, however, recognize an opportunity when it came along. She hadn’t really been comfortable with her father’s idea. He didn’t have long to live. They both had learned to accept that. But she wanted him to die peacefully in a comfortable bed, with her by his side, and some memorable epigram on his lips. Not dangle at the end of a rope. Now there was a chance that the blame for the kidnapping could be shifted to Count Bussard. Ha! There was a man whose death would solve a lot of problems. Not just for her, not just for her father, but for most of the people in the valley. If Alison was a witness, she could help swing the story her way.
That’s what she told herself. But there was another reason. She just wanted to be close to Roland.
She still was trying to sort out the man in her mind. She had kept her horse close to his while they rode so she could chat with him. Unfortunately, this time around she found herself babbling to him instead of listening. She told him about the inn, and her cooking, and the other girls who worked there, and customers who came in from the valley, and how she thought the inn should be run. He seemed quite willing to listen to her talk, but it was like she couldn’t control her tongue.
She tried to piece facts together. The princess was expecting to be rescued by her boyfriend. And here was a boy to rescue her, right on schedule. But the princess said she didn’t want to marry her fiancé. And Roland seemed to be her fiancé. Something wasn’t right there.
The princess said her boyfriend was a knight. Terry was a knight. Did Gloria say her boyfriend was named Terry? Alison frowned, trying to remember if the princess had ever actually said her boyfriend’s name.
No, that wouldn’t make sense. Her boyfriend and her fiancé wouldn’t be working together. Anyway, she couldn’t believe any girl would choose Sir Terry over Roland. Roland was much better-looking. And he was rich, well dressed, educated, dashing, and elegant. She didn’t see why the princess objected to marrying him at all.
She mulled over the problem some more and decided she had it figured out. Somehow Gloria’s boyfriend had been delayed. Roland and his companion in arms had beaten the boyfriend to the punch. Now they would rescue the princess, who would then have to marry Roland. That was too bad for Gloria, yet somehow Alison could not bring herself to feel sorry for the girl.
Roland was the first to speak. “What do you think?”
Terry had been silent the whole ride, and his face held a grim expression. He hadn’t joined in the conversation between Roland and Alison. Now he answered, “He has his own guard. Not a huge number of them, but they are more than us, and they’re competent. A full staff of servants. A smooth, well-tended lawn, with very little brush to hide behind. Dogs roaming the grounds. Barred windows on the first floor.”
“Which means what?”
“It means it would take a small force of men, a score at least, to assault that castle. We’re not going to force our way in by ourselves.”
Roland nodded. “I’m thinking that our first course of action is alert the local sheriff, or whoever enforces the king’s law around here.”
“Bad news,” said Alison. “Count Bussard is the local justice. He owns the law around here.”
“But if the constabulary knew that he was holding the king’s daughter prisoner? Would they support Count Bussard over the king?”
“The king is far away. The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains is right on that peak.” She aimed her hand at one of the mountains that guarded the pass into Bornewald Valley. Terry and Roland followed her line of sight, to a wicked-looking spire of rock that jutted above the surrounding hills like a shark’s tooth. The
sky had begun to cloud up, but they could locate the sorcerer’s mountain fastness, which hugged the cliffs and no doubt had the kind of view that upscale hotels charge big money to see.
“Who?” Roland said.
“The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. Count Bussard is his running dog lackey.”
“His what?”
“His agent. Bussard handles his local affairs. In exchange the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains uses his abilities to squash anyone who defies the Count. He’s just the sort of greedy imperialist fat cat . . .”
“This is news to me,” interrupted Terry. “What happened to the Old Man of the Mountains?”
“He retired to Silver Oaks three years ago. The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains took over the business.”
“Huh,” said Terry. “I’ve never heard of the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. But then, I didn’t know very much about the Old Man of the Mountains either. No one did. Just that he was mysterious and very powerful.”
“And very wealthy,” added Roland. “We can be sure of that.”
“Why? What do you know about him?”
“Silver Oaks is a very expensive retirement community. Thirty-six holes of golf.”
Roland stopped talking when he realized that Terry wasn’t listening. Instead, the knight looked Roland over with a thoughtful expression. Then he switched his gaze to Alison. Eventually his eyes returned to Roland. “I fought with two of his guards. They know what I look like.”
“Yes?”
“But they haven’t seen you.”
“No.”
Terry looked at Alison again. “You’re uncommonly well-spoken for a girl of your status.”
Alison kept her face expressionless. “Thank you, Sir Terry.”
“And by good fortune, you’re wearing a designer dress. Do you think you can pass yourself off as a gentlewoman for a short time?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“That’s our plan, then.” Terry looked from Roland to Alison and back again. “The two of you are going to walk in the front door.”
“What?” said Roland and Alison, which was the reaction Terry expected although he didn’t think they would synchronize it quite so well.