by Alex Bledsoe
Opulora led us down more hallways, but different from the way we’d come. I caught Liz’s eye and saw that she realized it, too. I said nothing, but kept my eyes open.
I realized two things almost simultaneously. First, the guards were gone. I don’t know when they vanished, but we were alone with Opulora. Then I caught a whiff of that earlier rank smell, and within moments it was strong enough to make my eyes water.
Something leaped from a side tunnel into the hallway ahead. I say some “thing,” because although it had a vaguely human outline, it was also distorted and twisted: massive arms hanging past its knees; a mouth too wide and filled with yellowed, ragged teeth; and a skull ringed by twisted plaits of dirty hair that fell to its shoulders. It wore simple trousers and a sleeveless tunic, all cut to its gargantuan proportions. When its feet hit the tunnel’s stone floor, I felt the vibration.
I assumed it was male from the scraggly beard that started just below his eyes and seemed to spring from the skin all the way down to his chest. If there had been room for him to stand upright, he might have been seven feet tall. As it was, he blocked our way as effectively as a cave-in.
I backed up a step. I didn’t want to provoke this . . . guy . . . until I knew who or what he was.
I found out the first right away. “Tatterhead!” Opulora scolded. “What are you doing?”
“You let me out,” he said in the deepest voice I’d ever heard. “You summoned me.”
“I did,” she said. “But not to harm our guests.”
He lumbered toward her. His big bare feet slid on the stone, never entirely lifting from the floor. She did not back away.
His huge face was right in hers. His voice was a whisper, but because of his size, it still rumbled through the air. “When you first brought me here, you gave me water with berries in it. You taught me to name the light of the day, and the one of night. You stroked me, and made much of me.”
“And I will again,” she said calmly, “when you prove to me you can be trusted. You have frightened these friends of the king.”
He turned and stared directly at Liz.
“Hi,” she said with a little wave.
A grotesque approximation of a smile spread across his face. It was not the kind of smile you wanted directed at your girlfriend. “Pretty,” he said.
I stepped in front of her. “And taken.”
He cocked his head and looked puzzled. I bet not many people stood up to him, and truthfully I wasn’t real happy with myself for doing it so reflexively. I swear I heard the muscles and tendons in his arms creak as he slowly curled his fingers into fists.
“Tatterhead!” Opulora snapped. “That is unacceptable. It’s why you must stay in your room. I’m taking these friends of the king back to their horses, so stand aside, and mark them as we pass so next time you’ll know to behave. I’ll be back to deal with you later.”
I knew how dogs “marked” things, but all Tatterhead did was lean that huge head toward me and sniff, long and deep, again like a dog taking the scent. He did the same to Liz, a bit too lasciviously for my liking, then skulked backwards into a darkened room. He chuckled—so deep, I felt the air buzzing in my ear.
Opulora closed the connecting door, then said, “I’m sorry.”
“What bridge did you find him under?” I asked.
“Tatterhead is a—” She sought the word. “—project of mine.”
“You made him yourself?” Liz asked dryly.
“He was kept in a cage for years by the peasants who first found him. They thought he was a monster.”
“I can see why,” I said.
She scowled at me. “Yes, for the simple and superstitious, he would be hard to explain. But he’s not a simpleton. He can comprehend language, art, and literature.”
“But not hygiene?” Liz asked.
Opulora ignored the comment. “I’d hoped to civilize him, to show that appearances didn’t always truly represent the soul. It hasn’t gone quite according to plan, though.”
“I don’t know, he’s as civilized as most of my old boyfriends,” Liz said, and we all laughed. But I wondered if the monstrous foundling had anything to do with the death of Gerald’s wife and son.
“This way, please,” Opulora said. “And again, I apologize. Tatterhead is entirely my responsibility, he has nothing to do with King Gerald, so please, when you tell of this, leave the king out of it.”
I nodded, but wasn’t fooled for a moment. She’d ditched the guards and brought us down this hallway because she wanted us to meet this Tatterhead; I couldn’t imagine why, but then again, this was Crazy Jerry’s castle. Hopefully our rapid exit would remove any reason for further concern.
As we left the castle in our now-empty wagon, Liz said, “I need a drink. A real one. Possibly several. In fact, we may not make it out of the tavern to night.”
I laughed. “Why were you so nervous?”
“Why weren’t you? That was Crazy Jerry. He could’ve gone off at any moment. We could’ve ended up locked in his dungeon for the rest of our lives, with no one the wiser. And what was that Tattletale thing?”
“Tatterhead. I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like him.”
“I didn’t know trolls really existed. Then again, I never thought dragons did, either, so I shouldn’t be that surprised, I guess. God, that smell is all over me. Did you see how he looked at me?”
“That’s how I look at you, too,” I said lightly, but it was entirely for her benefit. I still wondered what little drama we’d accidentally walked into the middle of.
“You don’t look like you want to have me for dinner when you do it. And I’m not being metaphorical. Was he even human?”
I shrugged. “That’s covered under my previous answer. But he must be at least partly human. He could talk.” I gazed thoughtfully back at the castle. “There’s something going on underneath everything, that’s for sure. Gerald may be tense, but he didn’t strike me as crazy.”
“What about Opulora? With everything you’ve seen and told me about, all those ghosts and goddesses and shapechangers, are you saying you aren’t afraid she might have real powers? Maybe she does control Gerald. Maybe he doesn’t even know it.”
“I didn’t see sorcery. I saw a loyal member of the court trying to hold down the fort—well, the castle—because no one else was doing it.” And that was true, I got no real sense of menace from either monarch or sorceress. But if I was right, then how did her relationship with Tatterhead fit in?
Liz shook her head. “You’re usually a good judge of people, so I won’t argue with you. But I’m still glad we’re out of there.”
A voice I hadn’t heard in my head for a long time suddenly rang out: If you pick up a viper and it bites you, it’s not the viper’s fault, is it? Who had said that to me, and when? I could almost tease up the memory, but it stayed just out of reach. I said to Liz, “I just trust them to be who they are.”
“That’s good. Because you can trust me to be drunk as fast as I can get there. I’m on vacation now, too.”
Chapter
SEVEN
At the Hearth and Road Inn, we found a table, ordered drinks, and asked to see the menu. Liz downed two tankards before our food arrived. The room was crowded, and the mix of voices, clanking silverware, and sloshing tankards combined in a buzz that let my mind easily wander while we ate.
I’d known only one king well: Dominic of Arentia, Phil’s father. Phil was a king now, too, but when I’d run around with him, he’d been merely the crowd prince. Dominic was a big man with hard muscles, a short beard that turned gray before his hair did, and eyes that could damn near make you wet your pants if he looked at you when he was mad. As a monarch he was ruthless, hewing to the constitution implemented by his grandfather even when common sense dictated otherwise. But he was not a cruel man; he saw consistency as a king’s greatest virtue, whether he was disciplining his son or an errant province. He also maintained the peace, avoiding war even when other kings tried directly to p
rovoke him. He once famously told another king’s regent, “When your lord and master decides he’s an adult, tell him to pick up his room, make his bed, and then contact me with his demands. Until then, he can just rage in his own playpen.”
I’d met other kings since then, of course. If nothing else, wars let you rub elbows with your betters. Some were tyrants, some were jokes. The greatest of them, King Marcus Drake of Grand Bruan, was, of course, tragically killed, sparking a civil war that still raged. Neceda’s King Archibald was ruled by counselors and courtiers, whose often contradictory advice he never questioned. Luckily Neceda was such a small and insignificant country, it caused no larger conflicts. And young, ice-veined Princess Veronica waited patiently in the wings, to seize the throne from her wastrel brother when Archibald finally kicked off.
And now there was King Gerald, Crazy Jerry, who didn’t seem crazy but who did seem unduly influenced by his court sorceress. I couldn’t get his look of deeply hidden but nonetheless present horror and despair out of my mind, because it reminded me of my own. I’d carried that look for years, until some cathartic violence in Boscobel and the arrival of Liz in my life finally drove it out. In my case it was due to the guilt I felt for having indirectly caused the death of Janet, my first love, when we were both teenagers. Did Gerald feel it because of what he’d done to his family?
“What are you thinking about?” Liz said, her words blurring together from the mix of food and alcohol.
“Dead kings and live ones,” I said.
“You’re on vacation. We’re on vacation. You shouldn’t be thinking at all, let alone about serious stuff like that.”
I took a long drink of my own ale. After King Gerald’s, this stuff tasted like varnish, but it still did the trick, as Liz amply illustrated. I said, “Hard to keep from thinking sometimes.”
Before Liz could reply, a loud voice from the corner said, “Part of me says I can’t keep drinking like this. The other part says, ‘Don’t listen to that gentleman, he’s drunk!’ ”
It came from a large, round, scruffy-looking man seated at a small table. He had his bulk wedged into the corner and clearly lorded it over his two equally scruffy companions, who laughed uproariously at his joke.
“Why don’t you try drinking water instead?” one of his companions suggested.
“Oh, I do sometimes, just to surprise my liver!”
The two men laughed again. The mistress of the tavern came over to him and said something I couldn’t hear.
“What?” the fat man exclaimed. “He’s here? Send that old swaggerer to my table!”
The tavern mistress stepped back and wagged a finger at him. “Oh, no, if he swaggers, he’s not coming in here! I have my good name to consider, and I’ll put up with no swaggerers!” She put her fists on her hips, rocked back on her heels, and glared at the fat man.
The fat man, either oblivious of or used to this sort of thing, smiled and patted her on the rump. “He’s no swaggerer, my dear, I promise. He’s totally tame, you can pet him as you would a puppy.”
She did not look convinced, but huffed off to attend to another table. The fat man laughed, and I saw a tall, slender, very rough-looking man peek in the front door and quickly skulk, no swagger in evidence, over to join him.
“Hey,” Liz said. I turned back to her. “You’re looking for clues again, aren’t you?”
She’d caught me. “I have to stay in practice.”
“They have nothing to do with us, sword jockey.” She leaned close. Under the table, she put her hand on my thigh. “I think it’s time to practice some interrogation. Secrets need to be divulged.”
There was no mistaking her implication. “Interrogation can be pretty . . . ruthless, you know.”
“It sure can. If it’s done right.”
“Want to get a room upstairs for the night?”
She grinned. “One with a bolt on the door? I’ll take care of it. You go get some rope from the wagon.”
On my way out the door, I noticed that the alleged swaggerer was conveying urgent information of some sort. The fat man’s expression turned serious, and he heaved his bulk from the chair. He followed me out the door but went the opposite way, in the general direction of the castle.
By the time I got back with the rope, I had to carry Liz up to our room above the tavern, not out of romantic intent but because she was too intoxicated to manage the steps. “There’s only one thing I can’t stand when I’m drunk,” she said as I hoisted her off her feet.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She giggled. “Up.”
This was precisely the third time I’d seen her this drunk; only the hangover I knew she’d have in the morning kept me from teasing her.
I put her on the bed. She snort-laughed and kicked her feet in the air. I managed to get her boots off and stored under the bed before she said, “It’s time to get to the secrets, Mr. Sword Jockey. Where’s the rope?”
“It’s right here. Go get that chair by the wall. And bolt the door.”
Ten minutes later she stood before me, dressed entirely in my clothes, complete with my sword. It accented the confident cock of her hip. My garments were big on her, but they were also very, very sexy. She’d cinched my belt tight at her waist, and my tunic hung off one bare shoulder. Her hair fell loose around her face, and the ale-shine in her eyes matched the playful scowl she gave me. I could see her breasts sway beneath the fabric as she sauntered across the room toward me, my boots sounding loud on the wooden floor. She did a pretty fair imitation of my look-how-tough-I-am swagger as she paced in front of me; I was pretty sure the tavern mistress would disapprove of it, too.
At last Liz said, “All right, you son of a bitch. You have something I want.”
I sat naked in the room’s lone chair, my hands tied behind my back. My part of the game was to keep from responding to her sexiness as long as I could. Certainly, undressed as I was, I couldn’t hide it if she brought me to, ahem, attention. “You think you’re strong enough to get it out of me?” I said. “I’ve resisted a lot worse than you.”
She walked around me, inspecting me closely, almost falling over her feet in my too-big boots. The ale made her face glow with the same look it had during particularly intense lovemaking. The room was also warm now, and I felt sweat run down my chest.
She took out my sword, which seemed huge in the small room, and put the tip against the scar over my heart. I got a little frisson of fear from this; if she tripped again and fell forward, the weapon would go right through me, just like the one that originally left the scar. I doubted I’d be lucky enough to survive such a wound a second time. But under the circumstances, the fear just added to the arousal I fought.
“You’ve got quite a few scars,” she said, still in character. “You must think you’re tough.”
“Tougher than you,” I said, my voice hoarse. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from responding to her.
“Is that right,” she said, and lifted the sword until the tip lifted my chin.
Her nipples raised bumps on the tunic’s fabric. I said, “You think you can make me talk, do your best. Or your worst.”
She smiled slightly. Her breathing was rapid now, and she pulled the sword away. “You might survive my best, sword jockey. But my worst will burn you alive.”
She tossed the sword onto the bed and put one foot on the edge of the chair between my legs. My boots had metal caps in the toes, and I winced a little even though she didn’t actually touch me. She leaned down, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled my head back. “How are you holding out now?” she snarled.
I could smell her ale-scented breath. Her lips had gotten that slightly puffy look that meant she was thoroughly aroused, and my tunic gaped on her enough to show the soft, firm tops of her breasts. I felt the tingles that meant I was about to lose the game. The nice thing was, even if I lost, I still won. But I didn’t want to give in without a real fight. “You can’t get anything out of me, even if you had a bat
talion to do the dragging.”
She drew the knife from my boot and put it against the side of my neck. “I can get sweet red blood. Maybe I’ll just cut you and watch you bleed for a while.”
The blade was cold against my skin. “You’ll never get what you want then.” I fully lost the battle then, and if she’d glanced down, she would’ve seen it.
“Maybe that is what I want,” she said. Her lips were so close to mine, I could sense their movement with the words. “Maybe I want to know I’ve killed you, slowly enough that I can enjoy it. Maybe I want to see the life run out of you.” She flicked her tongue against my upper lip for emphasis.
By now I’d slipped my hands from her knots and slid them under the tunic, touching the silky skin of her waist. “Okay, you win,” I said quietly as I moved my hands higher. “You’ll get everything.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. The knife clattered to the floor. “Ohhhh, yes. I know I will.” She fell slowly to her knees and moved into my arms, her kiss wanton and open as my trousers slid down her legs.
If you pick up a viper and it bites you, it’s not the viper’s fault, is it?
I stared at the ceiling. Noise from the tavern downstairs filtered through. This late, I bet swaggering was inevitable.
Liz lay on her stomach, one bare leg outside the covers, snoring in a drunken, most unladylike way. I smiled. She’d pay for it tomorrow, and it would likely be years before it happened again. Not that she had to be drunk to play our little games.
I turned my head and kissed her shoulder, tasting sweat. The contact made her shift a little and murmur something. Beneath the tangled hair fallen over her face, she smiled.
Who had told me about the viper? And why did it seem to be related to this part of the world? The last time I’d been through here was in the hazy years between first leaving Arentia in disgrace and waking up the only survivor of a massacre, with no memory of how I’d survived. That had sobered me, both literally and emotionally. I abandoned my job as a mercenary and tried several other trades before discovering that, as a sword jockey, I actually had a use for all those skills I’d accumulated that might actually help people.