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

by Connolly, Harry

  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.

  They were silent again for a long time, until Obair said: “I played here as a child. In this house.”

  “Yes, sir?” Altane had no problem envisioning Obair as a child, but he could not imagine him playing.

  “Barlo’s son was my best friend. His daughter…”

  Silence again. Altane could not look at his master. Obair was supposed to bring Altane power and wealth. Instead, he’d let himself be trapped like a hare. If they didn’t find a way out of this, they would be ruined.

  Actually, they would be lucky if they were only ruined. It was more likely they would be hanged. And what was Obair doing about it? Hiding in a servant’s hut, mooning over happier times.

  They sat for over an hour. Altane wanted to search the larder for something to eat but he didn’t. He may have been servant to a fallen man, but he wasn’t a thief. Not yet, anyway.

  He also wanted to stand up, walk out the door and ride away. He was good with a sword. He could hire out as a caravan guard, or board a ship….

  He didn’t do that, either. His master had been tricked—out-maneuvered—as though he was a child. Altane felt nothing but contempt for him now, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand up and walk out of the house. For the life of him, he didn’t understand why.

  It was near midnight when they heard footsteps approaching the house. Obair and Altane bolted from their chairs and drew their sabers. Obair took up a position behind the door, Altane in the kitchen.

  The door swung open. A wiry man of fifty rushed into the room. “Benna!” he called. He saw Altane standing against the wall, cavalry sword in hand. “Where are they?” he asked, his voice harsh. “Please.”

  Obair shut the door. The old man spun around, startled. Obair sheathed his weapon. “Barlo, what happened here?”

  Barlo glared at him. “What have you done with Benna? With my wife?”

  “Nothing. I swear it. The house was empty when I arrived.”

  The little man was not appeased. “Gossip is that you have betrayed your brother and arranged for this… test of his courage—”

  “That’s not true.” Altane blu
rted out.

  “The tale going around the castle is that you dared him in front of the guild heads and caravan leaders, and that you killed a whore in the back room of the silk house because she knew too much—”

  “Do you believe any of that?” Obair asked calmly.

  But the old man still wasn’t finished. “Tonight a man came to me in the castle kitchens, and told me that my family has been taken hostage—”

  Obair stepped toward him. “Who? Describe him.”

  “He was pale, medium height. His left eye was brown and his right one was green.”

  Obair looked at Altane. “Do you know who that is?”

  Altane nearly laughed. Either his master was so near-sighted that he couldn’t see the color of a man’s eyes, or servants were beneath his notice. Furniture. “That’s Laurent’s servant. He’s the one who gave Laurent the golden arrows.”

  “Is this true?” Barlo asked. He sounded like he wanted to believe it.

  “You shouldn’t have to ask,” Obair said, with too little diplomacy. “Why did they take your family?”

  “I’m to prepare the basilisk stones. It’s a very difficult dish. One wrong cut… The last person who attempted it was my grandfather, and he poisoned your great uncle. I have a book that tells me what to do, but…”

  “They want you to ruin the dish,” Altane said. “They want you to poison him intentionally.”

  “My daughter…” Barlo pleaded.

  “They will kill her anyway,” Altane said.

  “My daughter. My wife.”

  Obair nodded. “Do what you think is best. Just give me time, Barlo. Give me until sunup before you make your first cut. That’s all I ask.”

  “Until an hour past sunup. I can wait that long. I think. But don’t ask me to—”

  “Do what you think is best,” Obair said. Altane followed him out the door.

  * * *

  Midnight had already passed by the time Altane and Obair returned to the silk house. They crouched in the bushes at the edge of the meadow. The tables had been put away, but the stage for the musicians still stood. Obair slipped out of the tree line and crouched behind the stage. Altane circled the building, staying close to the trees and out of sight.

  Reconnaissance complete, Altane crept to his master’s hiding place and reported. Two guards stood by the back door with two more by the front. While they considered their next move, a fifth man came out of the back door and walked a circuit of the silk house.

  When he had gone back inside, Obair said: “I taught Laurent that men should patrol in pairs.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t have the numbers.”

  “Laurent can muster dozens of men if he needs to. What he doesn’t have are men he can trust.”

  Altane nodded. Laurent had five men plus the servant with the mismatched eyes, but Obair didn’t even have one. Altane imagined himself standing suddenly and shouting for the guards. His master would be captured or killed, and Laurent would almost certainly reward him. It would be a piddling reward, but more than he was likely to get out of a disgraced middle heir.

  They crouched in the darkness, watching. Altane had plenty of time to wonder exactly how far he was willing to go to get this reward he wanted so much. Could he betray a man he despised? And what if that meant the death of Barlo’s wife and daughter, two women he had never even met? What if it also meant Podor’s death and open strife with the tenants?

  Laurent would do all these things, and blame his own brother for them. Altane wondered what would have happened if he had pledged himself to Laurent instead of Obair. Would he have kidnapped Barlo’s family and cut Snowflake’s throat?

  Altane was a grown man, fully two years past twenty, but he had nothing. No possessions, no loves, no friends, nothing except for a slow-churning resentment and a hunger for wealth. He had never given more than was asked or taken more than he was offered. Would he have done what Laurent’s servant had done?

  He didn’t want to think about that question, or about his answer.

  Hoof beats echoed through the trees. Obair grabbed Altane’s elbow and steered him to the edge of the stage so he could see what was happening.

  A man on horseback rode to the front door. The guards tried to send him away and an argument ensued. The rider’s voice was slurred; he was obviously drunk and angry to find the silk house closed.

  The argument drew the guards from their post at the back door. Altane and Obair unsheathed their swords and sprinted toward it.

  The door was unlocked. Altane shoved it open and Obair followed him inside. A half-dozen women and kitchen servants glanced up as they charged the room. One yelped in fright. Obair hissed. They fell silent.

  Altane barred the door. Before he could wonder if anyone had heard the yelp, footsteps approached from the hall.

  Altane and Obair moved toward the other door, reaching it just as it swung open. Their long cavalry sabers were the wrong weapons for indoor fighting, but at least they had points.

  The fifth guard charged into the room straight onto their blades. Both points entered just below his collarbones. The man’s own sword clattered to the floor.

  He sank to his knees, suddenly as pale as a ghost. “Where are they?” Obair said to him, his voice low and harsh. “Where did you hide them?”

  The guard slumped backwards, sliding off the steel to the floor. His breathing became shallow and pinched, then he died.

  “Damn,” Obair turned to the woman standing beside the table. Altane recognized her; she called herself Century, of all things, and she was Podor’s chosen. Like him, she was tall and broad-shouldered, with clear brown eyes and little ornamentation. While the others gaped at the dead guard in rapt fascination, Century glared at Obair.

  “Where are the two women they brought here?” Obair said. “Where are they keeping them?”

  Century frowned, but did not answer.

  Altane spoke up. “Do you know who they are?” She shook her head. “Wife and daughter to the castle cook.”

  Century closed her eyes and let her shoulders slump. “Did you kill Snowflake?”

  “Of course not,” Obair said with guileless conviction.

  “They’re downstairs,” she said immediately. “In the wine cellar. Laurent is at Holdfort, but he is upstairs with Sapphire.”

  Sapphire was Laurent’s favorite. Obair nodded and wiped the blood from his sword. Altane saw the look on his master’s face and knew what would come next.

  They crept through the sitting room to the front door. The women and kitchen staff followed. Altane waved them back, but that only made them follow at a slightly greater distance. The front door was closed. Obair quietly laid the bar across it.

  The stairs creaked under their feet as they ascended, the women close on Altane’s heel. Century pointed toward a door, then led the women to the far end of the hall. Altane winced at the shuffle of feet and nervous mumbles behind him. At that moment, one of the guards began pounding on the barred doors. So much for a surprise attack. Obair and Altane took positions on either side of doorway, just as they had in the kitchen.

  The bedroom door opened and Laurent’s servant shoved Sapphire through it. Obair wrenched back his sword and caught her with his free hand.

  The man with the mismatched eyes charged out behind her. Altane saw an opening for the man’s throat, but turned his blade at the last moment to parry a thrust at Obair’s belly.

  Steel rang. Obair grunted as the point of the servant’s straight, slender dueling sword dug into his thigh. Sapphire and Obair fell to the floor.

  Altane felt a cold rage blossom inside him. Obair may not have been the most clever man, but he was Altane’s only hope for a better future, and Laurent’s servant had tried to kill him. He attacked again, driving the other servant back toward the door.

  The man gave him the same icy butcher’s stare. That look stole some of Altane’s confidence and fury. The servant thrust at Altane’s belly. Altane barely managed to parry. A follow-up slash
came too near his throat and he almost missed a second thrust.

  The man with the mismatched eyes was good, and he was not fighting with the wrong sword.

  He is going to kill me, Altane thought.

  The servant suddenly shouted in pain and fell to one knee. Obair’s blade was buried in his calf. The servant aimed a thrust at Obair. Altane cut off his sword hand at the wrist.

  Altane kicked him in the chest, shoving him back into the bedroom. The servant fell, his lifeblood pouring onto the floor. He clutched at the bloody stump of his arm, his expression just as stony as it had been in the hall. Altane took off his head in a single cut.

  Out in the hall, Sapphire had crawled into a corner, and Obair had dragged himself against the wall. He wiped the blood from his blade.

  “You!” Altane pointed at Sapphire. “Don’t move.” He pointed at Century, who stood at the front of the crowd. “You, bandage my master’s injury.” Century nodded and left to fetch supplies.

  His voice sounded strong, but Altane felt light-headed. Laurent’s servant would have stuck him in that duel if Obair hadn’t struck from the floor. He had come too close to death and it had stripped him raw. Some part of him was missing; he felt lighter for its absence.

  The pounding grew louder from downstairs.

  Had Laurent’s servant been motivated by loyalty or for his own gain? And why had Altane killed him when he could have had everything he wanted just by turning on his master?

  He could have done it. If he’d known what was going on when the celebration had turned into a mob, he might have done it then. But now, the ambition that would have driven him to murder was gone. He had cut off its hand and its head, and he felt strangely hollow.

  Altane remembered the grief in Barlo’s voice, the way Century’s lip had curled when she asked if Obair had killed Snowflake, the fear on Sapphire’s face as she almost stumbled onto the point of Obair’s sword.

  It occurred to him that he had just killed the man he’d wanted to become. It felt good.

  He heard the front door begin to break.