Bad Little Girls Die Horrible Deaths: And Other Tales Of Dark Fantasy

by Harry Connolly

  I hate him.

  Obair snapped his fingers and Altane bowed to him. Obair wanted him to hobble the mules. They had caught a scent that frightened them. Altane obeyed his master. He always obeyed his master.

  Like Altane, Obair was dressed for the wilderness. Whether they were in the most distant part of the Holdings, in the family hall or, as today, just a few days ride from Holdfort, he wore leathers that stank of sweat and the blood of old game. This is the man, Altane thought, not for the first time, who is supposed to reward my service with a tenancy or a caravan.

  Laurent's servant was dressed as if he already had his reward. Next to him, Altane looked like a rabbit poacher.

  Laurent called to his brother. Obair approached, Altane following at his left shoulder.

  "Choose one for me," Laurent said, sweeping his hand above the oilcloth his servant held. Four arrows lay there, each with a barbed tip of solid gold.

  Obair squinted at them without answering. Altane wondered what those arrows were worth. How many embroidered silk vests he could buy if he rode off with them?

  Something in his body language made Laurent's servant look at him. It was the look a butcher gives to a fatted pig, cool and deadly. Altane noticed that one of the servant's eyes was green and the other was brown. Perhaps he had once been two men, now joined together.

  Let them both try me, Altane thought, keeping his hand away from his sword for the moment. One well-placed stroke would ruin that fine green vest.

  Still, something in the man's manner gave him a chill.

  "Brother?" Laurent asked. His tone was cheerful. His smile was broad and his teeth gleaming white. Obair, who was as near-sighted as a mole, knew nothing about archery.

  Obair rubbed his shaved head. If he knew his brother was making fun of him, he didn't show it. "I recommend the straight one."

  Laurent laughed. Obair walked to the crest of the hill ahead. Altane followed. The guards, cart drivers and handlers kept well back.

  Laurent tied back his black oiled curls while his servant strung the bow. Obair had already stopped at the crest of the hill. Laurent and his man joined him.

  Behind them, the grass was a crisp summer green and the oaks rustled in the breeze. Ahead and to the east of them lay a meadow that was blackened as if by a firestorm. The tree trunks were ashy and bare, and the grass had crumbled into black dust. Even the rocks were gray and cracked.

  Farther east, the river was dark, as though a huge, unseen tower cast a shadow across it. At the northern edge of the ruined field, a tumble of rocks rose toward the foot of the mountains.

  There. The beast was sunning itself on a wide flat rock. It was too far away to see clearly, but Altane could make out glints of blue against gleaming black. It appeared to be coiled on itself--

  Obair laid his hand on Altane's chest and pushed him back. Both men looked down. A dandelion half a step away from them suddenly blackened and died, crumbling to dust. The poison was spreading.

  "Baby Boy," Obair said, "Time is short."

  "Nonsense," Laurent answered. "The beast will be within range for hours yet."

  Altane stared at the creature. An arrow might cover the distance, but could Laurent hit it? And what would the beast do if he missed?

  Altane noticed that his master was squinting in the wrong direction. Obair could barely read road signs at the distance of two cavalry lances--he couldn't possibly see the beast itself. Not that he would admit that, of course. As always, Obair would pretend to see. It was Altane's duty to watch and discreetly report. Very discreetly. None of the Holders could afford to acknowledge weakness, no matter how many people knew the truth. The stable hands may have called him Squint-Eye, but they made sure they were out of earshot first.

  He needs me, but he must not depend on me too much. Obair's father, Deed Holder to the lands south of the mountains, had come to rely too much on his servant. He had never released and rewarded him. Altane sometimes saw the old servant bent over the Holder's sickbed, rubbing salve onto his master's swollen joints.

  That won't happen to me. He would not spend the long years of his life tying reins to tree branches and collecting firewood. He would serve well enough to make Obair grateful, but not so well that his master would cling to him. He had already discouraged Obair's initial gestures of comradeship. Better a respectful--and lucrative--distance than servitude without end.

  Assuming his master survived the task ahead of him, of course.

  Laurent selected an arrow and strode to the edge of the poisoned earth. A small crowd of guards and servants stood in their stirrups or on carts to watch. Laurent drew, held as though posing for a portrait, then loosed the arrow.

  Incredibly, it struck home. The beast on the rock spasmed for several minutes, then uncoiled and lay still.

  The men cheered. Altane turned to Obair and widened his eyes to let his master know it was an impressive shot. Obair went to his brother and congratulated him.

  Altane walked down the hill. He untied the ropes holding the canvas sheeting over his master's cart and rolled back the heavy cloth.

  Beneath was a second cart. It was made of oak, but every inch was covered with a thin sheet of hammered gold. Three slender, flexible bands of gold lay across the top. Latched to the side was a brass gaff that had a golden hook at one end and two wide golden grips at the other. Beneath the golden cart was a long chest.

  From the chest, Altane took out a pair of golden shoes and two wide sheets of gold foil.

  Altane knelt before his master. He removed Obair's boots, then slid the metal shoes onto his feet. He then wrapped Obair's shins in gold foil, tucking it into the shoes. He latched the shoes closed.

  Altane didn't dare even to daydream about riding off with this treasure, not with every eye on him. An unguarded thought might make his gaze linger or his hand hesitate, and then they would begin to talk about him.

  "Please move slowly, sir," Altane said. "These hooks are a bit loose."

  "I am not afraid," Obair said. His voice was flat.

  Altane rolled the golden cart onto the road, then gave the handle to his master. Obair pulled it behind him as he walked up the hill. The golden shoes made him waddle. He looked like a child pulling a wagon.

  He should have a more dignified death, Altane thought. He closed his eyes, trying to clear doubt and fear from his mind. His master would be fine.

  But if he wasn't fine--if he died--who would grant Altane his reward?

  Altane followed him up the hill. Obair's stride was careful and steady. The Holder heirs never showed fear.

  Laurent caught his brother's arm. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine." Altane thought there was a malicious glint in the man's eye.

  Obair didn't look away from the poisoned meadow ahead of him. "I'm not afraid." Then he walked onto the blackened earth.

  He did not stagger and fall. He did not clutch at his throat and turn cinder-black. He did not shrivel and collapse into a pile of ash. He took step after careful, measured step toward the dead creature.

  Altane realized he was holding his breath and exhaled loudly. Laurent and his servant glanced at him. The servant smirked.

  Show nothing, he thought. He let his face become slack. All he could do was pretend his whole future wasn't at stake.

  Obair neared the flat rock. With the pole, he dragged the beast onto the cart, then fastened the golden bands over it. He began to walk back.

  The closer he came to the edge of the poisoned earth, the more certain Altane became that a speck of wind-blown dust would brush against Obair's skin. That he would step into a hole and leaf ash would fall into his shoes. That the beast would suddenly wake and spit on him. That his master would die.

  It didn't happen.

  Obair walked out of the meadow and down the hill onto a flat part of the road. He left poisonous black footprints and cart tracks behind him. Stable hands and guards gathered as close as they dared as Obair hooked the little cart to the back of the larger one.

  Th
e beast lay strapped on the cart, head tilted back, mouth open, black tongue lolling. Its wings were feathered in black, silver and blue, and the scales along its serpentine body glistened in the same colors. It looked greasy and venomous.

  And there, between its scaly chicken legs.... Altane felt a surge of nausea. Damnation, he thought it has a cock like a dog's.

  Around Obair's golden shoes, the poison spread slowly outward, blackening the earth and killing the grass. Altane peeled off the foil with a tiny golden hook. Where it struck the ground, the foil turned it black. Altane unlatched his master's shoes. Obair stepped out of them onto unspoiled grass. No one went near the abandoned gold.

  "It will be a year before this part of the Holding recovers." Obair's voice was shaky and he stunk of fear-sweat. Altane did not look at his master's face as he laced up his boots.

  The servants readied the carts and horses for the return trip. Altane carried the shoes and foil to the golden cart.

  Laurent admired the slain creature from a safe distance. "There should be a song about this." He grinned at Obair. "I just slew a basilisk."

  * * *

  Rain had fallen overnight, but the sky was clear by dawn. The archer assigned the last watch over the cart was found dead, his shriveled hand still clutching the gold plate he had tried to peel away.

  The golden cart had been left near the bottom of a hill, where the rain would wash the poisoned ash and basilisk blood away from camp. As they traveled, the cart's wheels no longer turned the earth black, but no one tried to convince themselves it was safe.

  By mid-afternoon of the following day, the company arrived at Laurent's silk house, a brothel just far enough from Crab Bay and Holdfort that Laurent's father could ignore it, but close enough that it was making Laurent rich.

  Podor, the eldest brother and true heir, was waiting for them by the front gate. Seated beside him on a long, low divan were three impeccably dressed women from the house. Altane recognized them from previous visits; each was a favorite of one of the brothers. Behind Podor were caravaners, tenants, guild heads and other local power players anxious to curry favor with the next generation of the Holder family.

  Oak tables and chairs had been set up in the wide, flat field south of the silk house. Roast hens, fresh crackbread, tubs of yellow butter and bowls of early summer brownberries sat untouched on the tabletops. A celebration was about to start.

  The cart was unhitched at the far side of the road and a guard posted to keep people at a safe distance. Partygoers wandered over to look at the creature but no one got close.

  Flute and drum players struck up a jaunty tune. Laurent and Obair were welcomed as heroes.

  Which they were, of course. As the wine jugs were broken open and the crackbread smeared with butter, Laurent's servant told the crowd about his master's amazing shot and Obair's trek across the poisoned earth. When it was over, caravaners called for the story to be repeated, so he told it again. Then again.

  The Holder brothers toasted each other, and Altane was struck by how different they were. Podor was tall and lean, with short-clipped hair and simple, unornamented silk clothes. Laurent was shorter and thick around the waist. His silks were ornate and he wore a jewel on each finger. Last, Obair, the middle child, shaved his head entirely and dressed in animal skins. If they had not been bound by blood and service to their family, Altane doubted they would even speak to each other.

  Before the tale could be told a fourth time, Podor leaped onto the table and led the crowd in a cheer for his brothers. Altane thought Obair's cheer was louder than Laurent's. From the strained smile on Laurent's face, Laurent thought so, too. But what did he expect? He shot a bow from a safe distance, and Obair had risked his life. Few of the Holder's cronies were going to celebrate an archer.

  Three caravaners clapped Laurent on the shoulder and led him toward the wine. They seemed intent on making up for the lack of enthusiasm from the rest of the crowd.

  Podor leaped off the table and took Obair's elbow. "Little Brother, what you have done will be remembered for a long time."

  Obair shrugged. "It was Baby Boy who killed the thing."

  "But you took all the risk. I'll tell father--"

  Altane stopped listening and studied the partygoers around them. To a man, they wore fine silks ornamented with symbols representing the source of their wealth: stalks of wheat and rye for the cropsmen, stars and sails for the ship captains, mountains and wheels for the caravaners. Altane had a wild urge to cudgel one of them and steal their finery, just to wear it once at a party.

  One of the cropsmen looked right through him. Altane was a servant. Invisible.

  He stalked away from the crowd. His leathers stunk and his hands were filthy. He snatched a linen cloth off a windowsill and dunked it into the rain barrel. He scrubbed at his hands, determined to be as clean as any them. Those men at the party had once been like him, or their grandfathers had, at least. Who were they to look at him as if he were a stick of furniture?

  As the second eldest, Obair would be first among all the servants of the Holder once Podor inherited the Deed, but he would still be a servant. If his master resented this, Altane had never seen a sign of it. If anything, Obair seemed glad to be the younger brother. He could wear dirty leathers and ride the countryside year round if he wanted. He didn't care that people wrinkled their noses around him and laughed at his squint behind his back.

  At least, he didn't seem to care. Perhaps that was the secret.

  "I don't want Father's chair!" Obair shouted from somewhere in the crowd. He sounded angry and a little afraid. For one ridiculous moment, Altane thought his master had heard his thoughts.

  Altane stopped scrubbing and went back toward the party. The cropsmen and caravaners were glaring at Obair. Podor was nowhere to be seen. The musicians were quiet. The atmosphere had turned tense. Altane didn't know what had happened, but clearly it was bad.

  "Did you think you could get away with this, brother?" Laurent's voice was quiet, but every man within twenty paces heard him. Several caravaners laid their hands on their swords.

  Altane rushed toward the stables. Behind him, he heard Obair arguing, demanding that Laurent be reasonable.

  In the stables, Altane told a boy to fetch their horses. A group of caravaners at the edge of the crowd scowled at him. Altane laid his hand on his saber and glared back. Any man that got between him and his reward would regret it.

  The boy returned with the horses. Both were still saddled; the stable boy must have been stealing brownberries instead of tending them, and good thing, too. Altane mounted and took the reins of Obair's stallion. He pushed through the crowd toward the front of the silk house. Obair stood at the entrance, pleading with Podor to believe him. Podor's back was turned, and a trio of scowling servants stood between them.

  Altane had no idea how things could have turned so suddenly, but he knew they couldn't stay. "Master!" he shouted. "Master, let's go! You have to fall back."

  Obair looked at the faces around him and realized he was surrounded by enemies. "I can't leave while Podor--"

  A mug flew past his face, splashing purple wine onto his bare scalp. The tension broke. Men shouted curses and threw food and cups. Soon, the knives would come out.

  Obair swung into his saddle. Master and servant rode through the crowd. Obair stared straight ahead, but Altane couldn't afford to be brave. He scanned the crowd as they rode through, watching for drawn weapons. They gained the road before anyone found the courage to bare steel before anyone else.

  What had his master done?

  "This way," Obair said. Altane obeyed. The sounds of the silk house faded as they rode. No one followed.

  By the time they arrived at a tiny house on the far side of Crab Bay, night had fallen. The front garden was struggling in the summer heat, and the house itself seemed to be empty. Obair went inside while Altane saw to the horses.

  When Altane finished, he found his master sitting by a cold hearth. A bowl of onion soup lay
upended on the floor. The latch on the front door had been broken. Whoever lived here had been taken by force hours ago.

  "Master, what happened?" Servants were not supposed to ask such questions, but these were unusual circumstances.

  "It appears that Barlo's family has been kidnapped. He keeps a room in the castle, but his wife and daughter live here. This is worse than I thought."

  Barlo was the head cook at Holdfort. What did he have to do with the incident at the silk house? In fact, what had happened at the silk house? Altane waited, hoping his master would say more.

  Silence. Altane found a chair and sat.

  After some time, Obair said: "Podor makes people love him."

  The pause that followed seemed to invite comment, so Altane did. "They do. Podor draws people to him."

  "The caravaners, landsmen, guild heads, all of them. They invite him to their homes and... It's always been that way for him. But not for me. The tenants have never... They're going to believe I planned this, aren't they?"

  "Planned what, sir?"

  "Snowflake gave Podor a dare. To test his courage."

  Altane wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. Snowflake was the woman Laurent set aside for Obair during his visits to the silk house. She wouldn't dare speak to the Holder's heir, let alone question his courage--it was unthinkable.

  And Podor's courage had already been tested, many times. He had held the Icy Stair at the Battle of Elk's Pass and he'd single-handedly cornered Agoola the Heron on the roof of the Crab Claw Inn. Only an idiot would question his courage.

  "He was praising us," Obair said. "He was praising our courage, saying he wished he could have been at our side. That's when Snowflake told him he could still prove his own courage. By eating the basilisk's stones."

  Altane closed his eyes. This was bad.

  "Of course he couldn't refuse, not in front of that crowd. And somehow, people became convinced that I put Snowflake up to it."

  "Because you're next in line after Podor."

  "As if I wanted to sit in a big chair in the center of Holdfort every damn day."

  Not that he would ever sit in that chair. Not now. Laurent's plan--and no one else could have created it, Laurent's hand in this was clear--was not subtle, but Laurent had friends. He had support. Obair only had the wilderness.