The Accidental Highwayman

by Ben Tripp

  Worse yet, they had not arrived unburdened: upon their backs rode red-clad goblings, armed with quivers of javelins slung over their backs. The foremost and chief gobling wore a crested helmet and brandished a blackened scimitar—there was something in his arrogant bearing that reminded me of Captain Sterne.

  “You!” the gobling chief cried, his voice like a cave. “Where are they?”

  I pressed myself in the most craven fashion into the grass, but the monster was not addressing me. The other goblings drew out javelins and readied to throw, but they were all pointed at something ten feet above my head. Fred! I had forgotten him in the general alarum. He must still be on the roof. The goblings clearly did not know one primate from another. I knew I should defend him, but I was too afraid to move.

  “Je suis désolé,” a low, nasal voice replied. “Je ne parle pas anglais.”*

  Despite my terror I was puzzled by the source of the voice. It couldn’t have been Fred, of course. But there wasn’t anyone else. I felt the breath of the monster’s wings blowing across the grass into my face; they stank of cats and wet feathers and rotten meat. Then a third voice entered the conversation, and I feared disaster was upon us all.

  “Great balls of marzipan,” Uncle Cornelius exclaimed, descending from the back of the wagon. I saw his thin bare legs shuffle around to the gobling’s side of the caravan, slippers flapping; then the rest of him, first the bedshirt and then the hussar’s uniform, came into view as he advanced cheerfully toward the wing-riding goblings. He stopped just out of range of the foremost gryphon’s jaws. “You certainly arrived in style.”

  “Where is the Princess?” the gobling chief snarled.

  “Which princess? It has been my pleasure to perform before the crowned heads of France, Italy, Austria, the Ottoman Empire, Russia, Liechtenstein, Spain, Sweden, Belgium, Germany, and some chap from Morocco. In every court, there was a brace of princesses at the very least. I recall fifteen in Spain.”

  Uncle Cornelius did not seem to find anything intimidating in the appearance of the goblings or their mounts; despite my fear, I wondered what he saw when he looked upon them. Did he imagine cavalry on fine horses? Or was everything around him so enriched by phantasms that the genuine article didn’t stand out? The gobling chief seemed to be considering the same question.

  “Do not dissemble, mortal. Our scouts found her scent at your nest of stone. This is your nest of wheels. We smells her. The Princess is here.”

  “You must mean Princess Onahtah. The Iroquois girl from the American colonies. She isn’t really a princess, you know. But if you could smell anybody it would be her. The English food didn’t agree with her, you see,” Uncle Cornelius said. “I don’t know where she’s gotten to, though. Bless my brass binnacle, I haven’t seen her in days.”

  The gryphons were growing increasingly agitated, and the goblings became more and more irritated as the interview wore on. If any one of them made move to throw his javelin, I’d shoot that one. None of the creatures had seen me, nor looked in my direction.

  “Ludovico,” Cornelius said, now addressing the baboon on the roof. “Have you seen the princess? No? Cat got your tongue?”

  “Search the cart!” the chief gobling snarled.

  Two of his companions climbed down—the gryphons clacked their beaks hungrily at them—and advanced on the wagon. I kept the barrel of my pistol trained on them both. It would take but the additional weight of a feather on the trigger, and the hammer would fall. But before they had gotten within arm’s reach of the coachwork, there was a flash of golden light, and the goblings stumbled backward, pawing at their eyes.

  “It’s gold,” one cried. “The thing is covered in real gold!”

  At the sight of these creatures flung back by the gilding upon the wagon, the most improbable thing happened: A plan of future action sprang into my mind, and I knew how we should (with luck) get Morgana to Ireland and preserve the lives of our merry companions, if we but survived this interview.

  The chief of the goblings, meanwhile, raged and swore evil punishments if the others did not breach the interior of the vehicle, but though his underlings came at it four times—the last at a full run—the blaze of gold threw them back. They simply could not endure the reaction to the stuff. The very air around us stank like a Leyden jar full of the mysterious fluid they call electricity.

  “What on earth are your chaps doing?” Uncle Cornelius inquired, after the fourth attempt. The gobling troops were crawling half senseless on the ground by now, level with my eye. I could see the details of their complexions, which resembled the skins of rhinoceroses, composed of overlapping plates of calloused leather. Their eyes were more like nail heads than anything else, and the glimpse I got between their jaws evoked the broken ribs of a carcass rather than teeth in a mouth.

  “You and the Frenchman travel alone?” the chief demanded of Cornelius, when it became clear his troop would not be searching the wagon.

  “It’s just myself and François,” Uncle Cornelius agreed. The old man looked about him, but not up at the ape—I saw with a fresh shock that by François he meant not the baboon, but me. If he called me out, all was lost. By luck he had forgotten where I was, and a moment later the gobling’s interrogation faltered, for a strange fog seemed to blossom in midair among us out of nowhere, as thick as new cream, swirling as it grew. It was icy cold, sucking greedily at the heat of the world.

  From the moment this phenomenon appeared, the chief gobling was evidently frightened. That such monsters could be afraid, I knew from witnessing how they responded to rushing water and gold coins. But this was an altogether new sort of fear. His mission was forgotten. Even the gryphons began to champ and shudder, twisting their long necks about like eels as the vapor spread around them, a phantom’s shroud. The gobling soldiers hurried back to their mounts.

  With much shouting and beating of gryphon skulls with javelin ends, the monsters were persuaded to turn their wings skyward again—but the weird fog coiled about their limbs like serpents, growing in opacity and strength until the entire flying party was swallowed up. It might as well have been wrapped in sailcloth, for not so much as a shadow escaped. I could hear the goblings shouting and the gryphons keening within the miasma for a few moments, and then the cloud that had consumed them shrank inward upon itself. It collapsed into a writhing ball—cannon smoke going backward down an invisible bore—and disappeared into thin air, leaving behind only a scattering of violet sparks. The creatures were gone, consumed by it.

  I crawled from beneath the wagon the instant they were out of view.

  “Who the deuce are you?” said Uncle Cornelius to me. “And why is there an ape on my roof?”

  “I’m Herring of Canterbury.* It’s ape day,” said I, and heartily embraced the old fellow. “You, sir, are magnificent. The flower of our age.”

  The world was growing warm again.

  Lily and Morgana emerged from the wagon. Lily ran straight to her uncle, who looked dazed and ill from his recent adventure. Morgana, I was gratified to see, ran straight to me, although Willum and Gruntle marched across the ground behind her, watching every tree and stone for further attackers. The princess didn’t enfold me in her arms, but took my hands and rewarded me with sparkling eyes and more than half a smile.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “Only worried,” I said, and whistled sharply for Midnight. “If the King knows where we are, and how we travel, then it is but a matter of minutes before the pixies and so forth descend upon us again. We must flee for our lives.”

  “Those were not the king’s goblings,” she said, pressing her fingers to her brow. By the storm clouds that drew across her face I saw that she was contemplating some new hardship.

  “Then to whom do we owe the displeasure?”

  “The scourge of Faerie,” Willum groaned. “Mistress of the Black Planet.”

  “The one-eyed pirate queen what rules the gulfs,” Gruntle wailed, falling to his knees for dramatic eff
ect.

  “The Duchess of the Red Seas,” said Morgana, keeping her voice steady, if a trifle strained. “One and the same. I know not how she learned what road we are on—she may have heard of our escape across the river and connected it with the highly public kidnapping of Mr. Puggle. A simple matter to scout all the likely routes away from that place, if one has a strike of gryphons* at one’s disposal. Even now, Kit, the Duchess may not be certain this is the party she seeks, for the old man gave nothing away. But you are correct. We must leave immediately. My father’s servants will have detected the arrival of the Duchess’s gryphons. They weren’t precisely … subtle.”

  In a trice we were back on the road. Midnight seemed to have forgotten his reluctance to draw the load; it was all I could do to stop him charging off with us at top speed. Man and beast, we wanted as much distance as possible between us and that unholy meeting-place.

  Chapter 20

  THE BEST CONCEALMENT

  WE CAMPED that night in the remotest spot from which we could still get anywhere else. All around was gorse and heather. I chose the place because it was sheltered on one side by a large rock, twice the size of an ordinary house, that overhung the ground sufficiently to create a sort of cave. The rain had stopped, so shelter wasn’t required, but it would make our campfire less visible from the air, and give us something to put our backs against if we were attacked in the dark hours. Near to hand was one of those ancient, eerie constructions of giant stones, like a door lintel; the druids of old must have come to this place, perhaps building their fires in the selfsame location we did.

  * * *

  During the drive I’d taken the reins so that Uncle Cornelius could rest; he was still affected by the afternoon’s adventure. Morgana climbed through the door behind the coachman’s seat and settled primly at my side, careful not to allow so much as a fold of her skirts to touch me. She seemed shy, for a person so accustomed to command. I thought she must feel terribly alone in the world, being altogether in it, but not quite of it. And in such company! An ape, a madman, an acrobat, and an amateur thief were her worldly companions.

  For a span of time she did not speak, and I came to understand that whatever matters weighed upon her mind, she knew not where to begin. So I thought to mention something that weighed upon my own.

  “Morgana, you have magical strengths, do you not?”

  “I do, but they’re untried. I haven’t any idea of their extent, as I have always been discouraged from using them.”

  “But you can do bits of conjuring like Magda?”

  “She taught me what she could before she was banished betwixt the worlds. Little enough. I have nothing one could call skill at it.”

  “If I may advise you, the sooner the better to determine the extent of your powers, and the methods of employing them. The entire time those ghastly gryphon-birds were upon us I was wishing most fervently I’d a caprizel or two to fling at them. We could use another spell-caster, I think.”

  Morgana sighed and wrung her hands in her lap, causing blue sparks to fly from between her fingers. When she saw this, she huffed and sat upon her hands instead.

  “You are right, Kit,” she said. “Power comes from strength. If I am to oppose my father’s might, I shall need to learn the application of what talents slumber within me. Be they great or small.”

  Seeing her spirits sag under the weight of this resolution, I changed the subject to the other matter that most oppressed my mind.

  “Pray tell me of this formidable Duchess,” said I. “If there is a new enemy upon the field, I would know her strengths as well.”

  For a while she said nothing, but rocked with the caravan over the rutted way, her eyes gazing into some remote distance above Midnight’s haunches. Then she found her voice, as if reciting an old tale.

  “In the Faerie world, we have oceans. Not as in this world, filling the low places; ours soar among the spaces between worlds. They are sometimes like rivers, sometimes cliffs, or betimes a great bowl stretching overhead.”

  I had seen something like that in a vision, once. It had been the first moment our eyes met.

  “Unlike here, our waters hold no terror for us,” she continued, “except one. That’s the Duchess of the Red Seas. Magda told me tales of her when I was small. I presume nursemaids tell tales to children here, as well?”

  “Never to me,” said I, truthfully. “Although sometimes the orphan-master told us hot water was soup, which is a tale of a kind. But do go on. I would learn as much as I can about this fearsome creature.”

  Morgana seemed to enjoy the story, once she’d got the rhythm of it. “According to legend long ago, the Duchess was a Faerie royal, like me, but a warrior as well. Those days were troubled, for the War of Stone and Light was raging across our worlds. She was fearless and bold, and won many a battle. But then in her pride she challenged a foe too great for her. He was an ogre, Hrimthur, half son of the Elden People. He slew her army and felled her to the ground, but did not kill her. Instead, for spite, he plucked out her eye and drew out her soul from between her empty lids.”

  “And she survived?” I cried.

  “That was the cruelest part of his revenge: His triumph complete, Hrimthur released the Duchess, neither dead nor alive, and after that she was a wild thing. Without a soul, she could know no home. She could know no happiness. She could not even know who she was. So she took to the seas, where no home is. She took to destruction, which costs much and is worth nothing. And she took the title of Duchess of the Red Seas, which is no name at all.”

  “That sounds—pardon me—but that sounds like a fairy story,” I said.

  “Of course it is,” Morgana replied.

  I realized then that she didn’t know we told our children stories of her people, in much the same way they did theirs. I might explain that some other time, when her mood was less volatile.

  “So your father the King seeks to capture you, and for some reason this Duchess wishes to do the same thing. But I gather she is not in your father’s employ?”

  “No,” said Morgana. “They are enemies. Had the Duchess not been robbed of her soul in defeat, she might herself rule Faerie. She is, according to legend, my great-great-great-great-aunt, sister to Snaremink the First, father of my lineage.”

  “Right. So why does she desire your capture enough to lob a flock of gryphons at us? I’m not much on court intrigues, but she must have a purpose in it.”

  “I know not,” Morgana said, sunk in thought. “She cannot cross between the worlds herself, for to do the ruckins requires a soul. The best she could manage would be a sort of phantom. But she can send her minions after us. It is them we must watch for. If there’s good news in it, it’s that her efforts will surely collide with my father’s, and the two of them may hinder each other to our advantage. It is possible.”

  “What if,” I ventured, having cudgeled my brains for some scrap of wisdom that might improve our situation, or at least impress the princess, “she wishes to capture you for a hostage, because your father has something she wants?”

  “He has nothing she wants,” she said. “He hasn’t got her soul. That’s been lost for a dozen millennia, by your calendar. Anything else she desires, she simply takes, and the Black Planet swallows what’s left over.”

  “I say, Faerie sounds a jolly place,” said I. Morgana didn’t reply, lost in her own thoughts.

  After a time she returned to the present, favored me with her half smile, and said, “Thank you for taking my part in this business. I wanted nothing to do with you, at first. Now I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  So saying, she blushed prettily and went back inside the snug of the wagon, whence I soon heard feminine laughter. Lily had a tonic effect on everyone when she was in good spirits. Morgana’s words had a tonic effect upon me.

  I spent the remaining hours it took to drive us to the remote place examining my recently conceived plan. Nothing Morgana had said dissuaded me from the notion. It was a ter
rible idea, speaking plainly, but it was also the only scheme that made the most of our party’s strengths and the least of its weaknesses.

  There were two keys to the program: the first was our caravan, which had proven impregnable to goblings, although feyín could come and go from it easily enough, as long as they didn’t touch the gold decorations, and Morgana (being a halfsie) wasn’t affected by the metal. That made our humble conveyance a rolling fortress.

  The second key was our unusual assortment of talents.

  * * *

  At sundown, with our encampment made beside the enormous stone, Lily cooked oat porridge from the cupboard, enriched by a rabbit caught by Fred. Gruntle—irritable since his wing had been repaired with paste and parchment—was horrified by this dexterous piece of poaching, and closely inspected the deceased cony to make sure it wasn’t anybody he knew. I was astonished that Fred had been so civilized as to return with his game, rather than eat it “on the hoof,” so to speak; he had nothing to gain by his generosity. But so he did.

  As twilight fell, I saw the baboon and Gruntle contentedly eating ants out of a hill together, so there were no hard feelings between them on the rabbit’s account.

  Meanwhile, I attended to Midnight. His disgust with the situation was palpable. I plied him with grass and oats and a good brushing, and told him how clever and noble and handsome he was.

  Then I took myself apart from the others to study my ex-master’s will by the light of a candle-stump. It wasn’t of any practical use, for we had already strayed beyond its borders, but I was interested to see if the last few drawings upon it matched our recent adventures. Had Magda predicted everything correctly? In addition, I was feeling sentimental, and wished to remember my master by the pen strokes he’d made upon the map.

  The entire drawing had changed.