by Simon Hawke
"Here, somebody give me a hand," said Brewster. "We'll take him out to get some fresh air."
As Long Bill and McMurphy helped him carry Bloody Bob outside, Mick turned to the others and said, "Not a word about this, you hear?"
"Nickallirium," breathed Silent Fred, so shocked that he actually spoke a complete sentence. "We've just made nickallirium!"
"And Doc doesn't even seem to know!" said Froggy Bruce. "Can it be possible he doesn't truly realize what he's done?"
"Boys," said Mick, grinning as he folded his arms across his chest, "your brigand days are done. No more lurking in the hedgerows, lads. We're all going to be rich."
What sort of a name for a town was Brigand's Roost? Harlan the Peddlar had never even heard of it before. He had never journeyed this far from Pittsburgh before and a part of him was already regretting his decision to embark upon this search for some unique commodity that he could sell. He had traveled far from Bonnie King Billy's domain to the Kingdom of Frank, the smallest, poorest, and most insignificant of the twenty-seven kingdoms, in the hope that somewhere, in this pestilential province, he would find some clever craftsman whose labors had as yet gone undiscovered. It had been a long, tiresome, unpleasant journey and he was tired and dusty from the trip when he pulled his wagon up before the inn with the crudely lettered wooden sign hanging outside that said simply, "One-Eyed Jack's."
It certainly wasn't much of a town, for all its flamboyant name. The shield-shaped wooden sign erected on a pole outside the town had said:
You Are Now Entering The Town Of
BRIGAND'S ROOST
Population Small, But Varied and Vastly Entertaining. Have A Nice Day
The town was nothing but a small cluster of ramshackle, thatch-roofed cottages, a few weathered barns, and an assortment of tumbledown chicken coops, with a narrow, rutted road winding through it. Chickens were wandering freely on the street, if it could even be called a street, and a few ugly, fat, pink-speckled, wild spams were rutting with their rodent snouts among the refuse. A skinny dog ran by, clutching a dead snake in its jaws.
As Harlan's wagon entered the town, drawn by his tired, plodding cart horse, it was encircled by a gaggle of grimy, barefoot, and bedraggled children, who shouted at him and pelted him with dirt clods. This was, of course, the Awful Urchin Gang, whose awfulness was measured by the fact that no one would admit to being their parents, and so they ran wild and unfettered, except occasionally, when one or two of them strayed way out of line and were caught and fettered by the adults of the town.
"Get the hell away from me, you weaselly, egg-sucking, little bastards!" Harlan bellowed at them, which only brought on a rain of dirt clods comparable in its fury and intensity to what the Luftwaffe did to London during the Blitz.
Shielding himself with his arms, Harlan reached behind him into the wagon and pulled out something he always carried with him on his travels, against the possibility of being set upon by thugs and highwaymen. It was a small, cork-stoppered, glass vial, of which he had a number in a felt-lined, wooden case, specially brewed up for him by a Pittsburgh alchemist named Morey. (His magename was actually Morrigan, but he didn't look anything like a Morrigan; he looked more like a Morey.) Hand-lettered on the label of the vial, in Morey's neat little script, were the words, "Elixir of Stench."
Cursing under the rain of dirt clods, Harlan threw the vial at the feet of the Awful Urchin Gang and the glass shattered, releasing what Morey the Alchemist called, "A stench most foul." And foul it was, indeed. It smelled worse than a dozen demons breaking wind. It smelled worse than a unicorn in heat. It smelled worse, even, than roasted spam. It would have stopped a gang of well-armed brigands in their tracks and sent them running for the hills, holding their noses.
It didn't even faze the Awful Urchin Gang.
In desperation, Harlan whipped up his tired horse, which hardly needed the whip after it caught a whiff of the Elixir of Stench, and the beast bolted through the town, outracing the Awful Urchin Gang and almost upsetting the wagon as it galloped round a bend in the road near the center of the town. Harlan swore and pulled back on the reins, bringing it to a halt just outside One-Eyed Jack's Tavern.
"Obnoxious, little, scum-sucking troglodytes," he mumbled as he descended from the wagon.
"I see you met the Awful Urchin Gang," said a dry, slightly raspy voice from above him.
Harlan glanced up and saw Dirty Mary leaning out an open window on the second floor of the inn. "Any of those miserable guttersnipes yours?" he inquired.
"If any of them were, I wouldn't admit it," Dirty Mary replied.
"I bloody well don't blame you," said the peddlar.
"None of them are, though," Dirty Mary said. "The last child I had grew up and ran off to the war."
"What war?"
"I dunno. There's always some war going on somewhere. Anyway, it was a long time ago. I scarcely remember what he looked like. He wasn't worth much, so I can't say as I miss him."
The peddlar grinned. "What's your name, fair damsel?"
Dirty Mary sniffed. "Fair damsel, is it? Faith, and I'm old enough to be your mother. They call me Dirty Mary if it please you, and even if it doesn't please you. 'Tis all the same to me. And you can save your flattery for my fancy girls, but 'tis me you'll have to deal with, so 'twon't be getting you a cheaper price. And there's no haggling, mind."
Harlan threw back his head and laughed. "Far be it from me to go haggling with the likes of you, Mary. But for now, 'tis a meal and a drink or two I'm after, and perhaps a bit of conversation."
"Come in, then, and I'll come down and keep you company. Sure, and there's no charge for that. 'Tis precious little company I get these days."
"What's to protect my goods from yonder horrid little swine I hear approaching?" Harlan asked, hearing the Awful Urchin Gang bellowing as they caught up with him.
"You leave that to me," said Dirty Mary, and as the Awful Urchin Gang came racing around the bend in the road, she gave a gravel-voiced yell loud enough to crack slate. "Eeeeeyow, you urchins!"
They all came screeching to a halt, gazing up at her fearfully.
"You be leaving this good man and his fine wagon alone, or it'll be your ears I'll be boxing for you, each and every one of you, you hear? Now off with you, and find some other mischief!"
Heads down, they shuffled off, dejectedly, and the peddlar looked at Dirty Mary with new respect. "I'm much obliged to you," he said.
"No need for it," said Dirty Mary. "Come on in, then. I'll be seeing you downstairs."
Harlan entered the inn and walked up to the bar. With the exception of a few old people lounging around in the corners, the place was empty, save for the innkeeper behind the bar, One-Eyed Jack himself, who, as it might well be surmised, wore a black leather patch over one eye. One empty eye socket, to be precise.
He'd lost his eye years earlier, in a tavern brawl, and he had purchased a lovely glass one, with a blue iris. It didn't really go with his other eye, which was brown, but he liked the effect. Unfortunately, he got drunk and passed out one night and someone had stolen it right out of his eye socket. He suspected it was one of the brigands, which was a good bet, and had vowed revenge, if he could ever figure out which one it was. (In fact, it had been Saucy Cheryl, one of Dirty Mary's fancy girls. She'd always had a weakness for blue eyes.)
One-Eyed Jack gave Harlan the Peddlar a jaundiced look as he came up to the bar. (It wasn't that One-Eyed Jack was unfriendly; he just happened to suffer from jaundice and that was the only kind of look he could give.)
"What can I get you, stranger?" One-Eyed Jack asked.
"A tankard of mineral water and lime, and a bowl of your finest stew," said Harlan.
"A tankard of what?" said One-Eyed Jack.
"Mineral water and lime," replied the peddlar, with an edge to his voice. He was in no mood to be harassed over his choice of libation.
"Never heard of it," said One-Eyed Jack.
"You never heard of it?" said Harlan.
"That's what I said, 'tain't it? What is it?"
"What is it?"
"I just said that, didn't I?" said One-Eyed Jack.
The peddlar rolled his eyes. "Well... what have you got, then?"
"Peregrine wine," said One-Eyed Jack.
"And?"
"And Mulligan stew."
"No, I mean what else have you got to drink?" said Harlan.
"I've got peregrine wine," said One-Eyed Jack, again.
"That's it?"
"Did you hear me say I had anything else?"
"Well, no, but...."
"Then that's what I've got."
"What's Mulligan stew?"
" "Tis a stew Mulligan makes out back," said One-Eyed Jack.
"What's in it?"
"Dunno. Ask Mulligan."
"Well... where is he?"
"Hey, Mulligan!" bellowed One-Eyed Jack.
"What?" shouted Mulligan from back in the kitchen.
"What's in the stew?" yelled One-Eyed Jack.
There was a long pause.
"I forget," yelled Mulligan.
"Wonderful," said Harlan wryly.
"So what'll it be?" asked One-Eyed Jack.
"Some choice," said the peddlar. "A wine I've never heard of and a mystery stew. World-class establishment you've got here. Do I dare ask what peregrine wine is?"
" 'Tis brewed from the root of the peregrine bush," said One-Eyed Jack. "Good for what ails ya."
"So 'tis like a herbal thing?" said Harlan. "What the hell, I'll try it. And since I'm feeling adventurous, and also starving, I'll try a bowl of the mystery stew. Bring it to that table over there."
He went over to the table he had chosen and a few moments later, Dirty Mary came down to join him. She had spruced herself up a bit, as she didn't often get much company these days. She had put on a nice dress and she didn't look even remotely dirty. No one was sure exactly how she got her name, unless perhaps it had something to do with her chosen occupation, and no one knew how old she was. She wouldn't tell anyone her age, not even One-Eyed Jack, whose memory wasn't what it used to be and who would have forgotten within five minutes of being told, anyway. In any case, she was not in the first flower of her youth. Her petals had certainly seen better days. She spotted Harlan and came over to join him at his table.
"Nice place you've got here," said the peddlar. "Given your wonderful selection, I can't imagine why you're not doing better business."
Dirty Mary shrugged. "Well, Mulligan's stew never tastes the same twice," she said. "Sometimes it's better than others, sometimes even the wild spams won't eat it. But the wine makes up for it."
One-Eyed Jack came over and set down two tankards full of peregrine wine in front of Harlan and Mary. The peddlar sniffed it experimentally.
"Smells like medicine," he said wryly. "Where is everybody? Except for those awful urchins and those old people over there, the whole town appears deserted. Not that there's much of it to begin with."
"Everyone's at Doc's place," said Mary, taking a sip of wine. "Even my fancy girls. He's got them working. My fancy girls, working. Hard to imagine, but there you have it."
"Who's Doc?" asked Harlan, lifting the tankard, but not yet taking a drink.
" 'Tis a mighty sorcerer, Brewster Doc is," said Mary, taking another gulp of brew. "Lives out at the old mill. 'Tis a keep, actually, but there's a mill there, and Doc's been working some powerful wonders out there."
"You don't say?" said Harlan. He took a drink. His eyes bulged out and he gasped for breath as he made a sound like a leaky bellows.
"I imagine you'll be wanting to see for yourself," said Dirty Mary as the peddlar clutched spasmodically at the table. "I'll be heading out that way myself before too long. Shouldn't want to miss the feast. There's feasting every night at Doc's, after the work is done. We used to have some feasting here, every now and then, but lately everybody feasts at Doc's. Jack doesn't mind. Says 'tis less cleaning up for him to do. Still, they tell me business will pick up once word of Doc's wonders starts to spread."
The peddlar was making gasping, wheezing noises as he tried to breathe. Mary simply sat there, sipping her wine, as if it were no more potent than a broth.
"He's made magical dirt remover," she said. "Works like a charm. Used it myself. Foams up nice and pleasant. Makes you look like a horse that's lathered up from being run too hard, but it dissolves the dirt like magic if you scrub a bit." Dirty Mary frowned. "What's that noise outside?"
The sound of a high-pitched, keening wail reached them and started to grow louder. Mary got up and went to the door in time to see the Awful Urchin Gang come fleeing around the bend in the road, with the three brawling brothers, Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh, in hot pursuit on foot, pausing every few steps to pick up some fresh dirt clods and hurl them at the urchins. The urchins ran past the open door of the tavern and turned a short distance down the road to make a stand. Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh were brought to a halt by a fresh fusillade of dirt clods from the urchins. They ducked down behind the peddlar's wagon, picked up some more dirt clods, and returned the fire. They were all having a splendid time.
MacGregor came riding around the bend at a walk, leading the brothers' three horses. He watched the battle for a moment or so, shook his head and rolled his eyes, then dismounted and tied up the horses.
"A pleasant evening to you," he said to Dirty Mary.
"And to you," Mary replied. She jerked her head toward the three brothers. "That lot yours?"
"Aye, sad to say," MacGregor replied as he watched them dart out from behind the wagon, launch a broadside of dirt clods at the urchins, then duck behind the wagon once again, giggling like schoolboys. "You want I should make them stop?"
"Ah, let them have their fun," said Mary. "It appears the urchins may have met their match."
MacGregor frowned. "I wouldn't want the children getting hurt," he said.
"There's more where they came from," Mary replied. She took in his dark, handsome appearance, the crossed bandoliers stuck full of knives, and the Guild badge on his tunic. "You're an assassin?"
"Aye, lady, that I am," said Mac. "But you need fear nothing from me. I am a professional."
"So am I," said Mary. "Come on in and let's talk shop."
MacGregor climbed the three wooden steps up to the tavern entrance and Mary stepped aside to let him in. As was his habit, he quickly cased the place as he came in. "Things appear to be quiet," he said. His gaze fell on the peddlar, choking at his table. "What's wrong with him?"
"Amateur drinker," Mary said simply.
"Really?" said Mac. "I'll try some of whatever he's having."
"Jack! Another tankard!" Mary shouted. "I'm called Dirty Mary."
"Sean MacGregor. They call me Mac the Knife. And those three overgrown boys out there are... well, never mind." He came over to the peddlar's table. "Is the little fellow going to be all right?" he said.
Mary shrugged and took another sip of wine. " 'Tain't killed anyone yet," she said, gazing at her tankard thoughtfully. "Still, there's always a first time."
They sat down together at the table, where Harlan the Peddlar was still trying to find his voice. Or catch his breath. Whichever came first. One-Eyed Jack brought Mac a tankard of peregrine wine. Mac raised the tankard and took an experimental sip. His eyes grew wide and the color drained out of his face.
"S'trewth!" he said, the breath hissing between his teeth as he inhaled sharply. He shook his head to clear it. "This stuff'll pickle your innards! What in thunder is it?"
"Peregrine wine," said Mary, taking another healthy gulp. MacGregor watched with disbelief as it went down her throat without any apparent effect.
"I never even heard of it," said Mac, "which scarcely seems possible. How is it made?"
"Distilled from the root of the peregrine bush," said Mary. " Tis Mick O'Fallon's own special, secret recipie, made more potent by a magical device known as a still."
"Indeed?" said Mac. "And who might this Mick O'Fallon b
e?"
"He's a leprechaun," said Mary. "An armorer, by trade, and a bit of an amateur alchemist. If you want yourself a proper sword, or a fine new knife, then you should go see Mick. You won't find a better craftsman."
"Craftsman?" wheezed Harlan, still trying to recover from his first taste of peregrine wine. "Did you say... craftsman?"
"Aye, and a right fine craftsman he is, too," Mary replied. "You won't find a better blade than Mick O'Fallon's in all the twenty-seven kingdoms."
"Is that so?" said MacGregor. "Well, in that case, I shall have to make a point to seeing his work for myself. Where might one find this Mick O'Fallon?"
"He'll be at Doc's place," Mary said. "They're all at Doc's place all the time, these days. Much to do. Many wonders to perform."
"Wonders? What sort of wonders?" Mac asked.
At that moment, Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh came bursting into the tavern, grinning from ear to ear and pounding each other on the back. "Hey, Mac!" yelled Dugh. "We won! We beat their breeches off 'em!"
"Sent 'em howling in retreat, we did!" said Hugh.
"They went for reinforcements!" Lugh said.
"Have some of this wine, lads," said MacGregor with a smile. "Innkeeper! Three tankards for my boys!"
Jack set three tankards up on the bar and the three brothers made a beeline for them. As one, they lifted the large tankards to their lips and drained them in one gulp.
As one, their three heads snapped up and their eyes bulged out of their sockets.
And, as one, they stiffened and started to keel over backwards.
"Timber!" shouted Mac.
With a resounding crash, the three brothers collapsed full length to the floor, unconscious.
"Innkeeper, we'll be needing rooms for the night," said Mac.
Shannon galloped down the road leading from the keep to Brigand's Roost, her leather quirt slapping at Big Nasty's flanks. But no matter how hard she rode, she couldn't seem to outdistance her anger and frustration.
No man had ever got the better of her, and now Doc had somehow managed to accomplish that very thing, and without any visible effort, to boot. He had virtually all the brigands working at his keep every day, and the few she had left to watch the trails kept complaining that the others at the keep were having all the fun. They hadn't had a decent robbery in weeks.