by Dave Duncan
"Of course," the merchant said venomously, "the bird does not talk to anyone but Rosie herself?"
There was a pause. The damp wood that Fritz had brought in earlier fizzed and hissed on the hearth. The hourglass was back on the shelf, forgotten.
The two men stared across at each other in a deepening gloom.
"You are calling me a fool, sir?"
"Not at all."
"A liar, then?"
"I am asking you for an explanation, Captain. I credit you with enough intelligence to want more evidence than we have heard so far."
Tiger nodded, accepting the implied apology but leaving the warning hanging in the smoky air. "Of course I have more. Her ladyship and I had tarried two weeks in Gilderburg. We were intending to move on to your own city of Schlosbelsh the very next day. I had spoken with most of the leading citizens. I had asked a great many questions. Two young men had already come forward claiming to be the missing heir. Another, older man had claimed to be the missing Prince Star-seeker himself. Her ladyship and I discredited all three imposters with no trouble. I had not called upon the margrave of Kraff, as he was not in the city. So if you think that the girl eavesdropped on my conversation, you may discard that theory. It was the first thing that occurred to us."
The merchant opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "Master Tickenpepper?"
The notary coughed. "This is not a conventional legal matter, Burgomaster. Human knowledge has limits. The ultimate judge in the affair will be the god. The precedents …" Roasted by a glare from his client, he cleared his throat hastily and continued. "But a few points might be clarified. For example … Captain, you were certainly not the only person running around the Volkslander this summer asking questions. We had several in Schlosbelsh, and the matter was the talk of the town for weeks."
"I expect it was."
That was partly my doing. I had been the first in the field that spring. I had begun telling the tale in Gilderburg the very day I had my argument with Fritz's dog, and I had continued all summer. My labors had borne no fruit at all. I felt irked that Tiger and the old woman had met with more success than I had, especially as they had been working the homes of the nobility. I had concentrated on alehouses and brothels, whose inhabitants are usually much more knowledgeable and entertaining.
Tickenpepper coughed. "In most cities the servants of the noble families behave like a craft guild. They eavesdrop at table and then chatter among themselves—a footman from one house courting a chambermaid in another, for example. Your claimant mentioned that she ran errands for the cook. She could have picked up the story from kitchen gossip, or in the markets."
Staring directly over Rosie's head, Tiger regarded the little man with cold dislike—which I fully shared, as you know by now. Rosie paid no heed.
"You should not be surprised to learn, counsellor, that such a thought had occurred to us. When the girl displayed knowledge of matters I had not mentioned, such as the likelihood that the prince had abducted his father's god, I did consider the possibility that other inquirers might have revealed more than I had. One should never underestimate gossip and rumor, as I am sure you will agree. Soldiers know that as well as lawyers."
Sarcasm was wasted on the little pen pusher. "You questioned the margrave's seneschal?"
"His housekeeper. She confirmed the girl's good character. She also confirmed that the Verlian matter had been discussed in the servants' hall."
Tickenpepper let that answer lie in full view for moment, as if trying to impress a judge. It was admittedly an important point.
"So the god will not speak to anyone but her?" he went on. "You prepared lists of questions and sent Rosie off alone to put those questions to the god?"
"Of course."
"The replies were convincing?"
The soldier glanced around at the dowager. She had returned to her morose contemplation of the fire, perhaps the only the thing in the room she could see properly. It was puffing eye-watering smoke, which it had not done before.
"In most cases," Tiger said. "There were a few matters the god refused to discuss. There were a couple of odd discrepancies, I admit; but you must realize that the girl's knowledge of the world is limited. She cannot read or write. In some cases she may have misunderstood the question or the god's answer. With those few reservations, she passed our tests with flying colors. She convinced us!"
Almost convinced, I thought. Both he and his employer had doubts they were not admitting.
"May we have an instance?" Tickenpepper inquired mildly.
"We asked her to describe the shrine in which the royal god had lived in the palace at Uthom. She told us: silver and rubies. That is not general information. Only persons very close to the royal family could have known that, but it is correct. That Prince Star-seeker was last reported at Castle Zardon. That, too, is correct, but has never been publicly stated. Did your Schlosbelsh gossip tell of that?"
Tickenpepper glanced across at his client. In the gloom, the merchant was a vague, bloated mass of suspicion. At his side, the actress displayed an expression of polite boredom, but her knuckles showed white in her lap. Gwill was staring stupidly at nothing, almost asleep again. No one spoke.
"We asked her to describe her parents," the soldier continued. "She does not remember them herself. Our inquiries in the household confirmed that she is the daughter of a former cook, a woman who died many years ago, when Rosalind was about four. Few recall her mother and no one admits to knowing anything at all about her father. Rosie asked Verl, and returned with descriptions of Star-seeker and Sweet-rose that we accept as being genuine."
Tickenpepper uttered another little cough, a mannerism that was starting to irritate me. "On what basis? You told us earlier that you were not a native-born Verlian, Captain. May I ask the source of your knowledge of the missing lovers?"
The wind must have shifted. The fire crackled and hissed, and puffed smoke again. Tiger coughed harshly, waving his hand at it.
"Innkeeper! Why cannot we have some light in here? Candles, if you please! I do believe I could use some more mulled ale, too. Perhaps a snack?"
Fritz jumped up like a well-trained dog and headed for the kitchen, bleating apologies.
Frieda rose with more grace. "Bread and cheese, sir?"
Several of us agreed that we were feeling peckish. She followed her brother out.
"Now, Burgomaster," the soldier continued. "I believe it is your turn to answer some questions. What is your interest in the affairs of Verlia?"
"But you did not answer me, Captain. How do you know the truth of the girl's statements?"
"That information is not—"
"Me," the dowager quietly said. "I am Sweet-rose's mother."
The old woman made an effort to rouse herself, peering her filmed eyes across at the merchant with something of her earlier ferocity. "Now do you understand my involvement in this affair? The oracle mentioned a daughter I had given up for dead twenty years ago! Sweet-rose bore a birthmark over her heart, shaped like a rose. That was why she was named Sweet-rose. The god described the mark to Rosalind and she told us. This child is my granddaughter."
That was the most dramatic speech made in that room that night. The merchant went pale in a way I should never have believed possible for one of his florid complexion. So did his wife. I felt as if I had been slugged with a flagstone.
I even wondered, for the first time, if the kitchen maid's story might have some truth in it. But she did not look like Sweet-rose!
No, it was impossible, and the surprising thing was that I thought I could prove it. The audience had come onstage to mingle with the actors. Like an ax turning against its owner, or the bow of Onedar, whose arrows killed the archer, the tale of Verlia had infected its listeners. The old tragedy filled the Hunters' Haunt tonight like the acrid woodsmoke from the fire.
Fritz came hurrying in with two lighted lanterns. The room brightened, revealing bluish haze and watering eyes.
"I think it's t
ime had come to clear the air," I said. "Sweet-rose was a very beautiful and admirable young lady. I find it difficult to imagine her as a cook, although I fancy she would have been capable of doing almost anything to protect a child she loved. What I cannot envision under any circumstances is Star-seeker as a mercenary soldier."
The old woman peered around, trying to make me out. "Master Omar? A while back you claimed to have been in Verlia twenty years ago."
"So I was."
"And were you involved in my daughter's elopement?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ha! I might have guessed! Very well. Tell us about it."
"My version of events will not agree with what we have heard already, my lady."
"I don't expect it to. Carry on."
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21: Omar's Response to the Maid's Tale
I had not planned to return to Verlia so soon. My intent when I signed on with Golden Hamster was to visit the ruins of Algazan, now far fallen from its former glory. But the gods rule the winds, and they sent a truly monstrous storm to fetch me. Tattered and wounded, the bark eventually limped into the harbor of Kylam.
That night, as she lay in safe haven and I in my hammock, I dreamed of Still Waters. In my dream I stood by a ford, where a river ran into Long Lake. I did not know that place, for the road I had traveled with True-valor of Galmish followed the opposite shore. I had not seen the island palace from that side, but I recognized the towers above the trees, outshining the glory of their fall foliage. I knew then that a god was calling me.
A sailor's life palls quickly, anyway. In the morning, when the water tender came alongside, I slipped aboard unseen and skedaddled.
The season was not yet as advanced as it had been in the dream and subsequent nights brought no recurrence of the message, so I concluded that there was no great urgency. I lingered in Kylam for a few weeks, then set off across country in my usual leisurely fashion. It was harvest time, and there was work to be had when all other sources of sustenance failed.
Times were hard in Verlia. I saw too many shuttered windows, weed-infested vineyards, crops pining for reapers, fruit trees in need of pruning. Offers to drink the king's health met with little enthusiasm, and one mention of taxes was enough to ruin an entire evening.
The trouble was Bunia, a kingdom abutting the steppes of the northern provinces. Attempting to extend his realm, Just-blade had bitten off more than enough to chew him up and swallow him. The resulting war had dragged on for years, draining gold and manhood from all Verlia. The people of the Land Between the Seas had never been much interested in the remote grasslands, and this endless struggle was immensely unpopular. As the Blessed Osmosis told the Soothian princes, wars are like love affairs—easy to start, hard to end, and outrageously expensive.
I shunned places I had visited on my previous visit, and no one peered at me as if my face were familiar.
In time the leaves changed, and I drew close to my objective. The dream began to recur, too. Never was I told what was expected of me. I just saw the lake, the river, a glimpse of the palace in the distance. There were stepping-stones there, signs of hearths. Evidently that grassy spot with its fresh running water was a favorite camp for travelers, but I was not informed who would be there to meet me. I was not told whether to expect comedy or tragedy, epic or romance, for the gods stage all of those and more.
For the last few days, I traveled in the company of a group of merchants and their pack train. I extended cheerful conversation in return for a place at their stew-pot and was tolerated with poor grace. The leader of the caravan was a stingy little man named Divine-providence of Nurb—of no consequence now and very little even then. He seemed to believe that the gods had created him for the sole purpose of worrying about the state of his bowels.
It was a sad commentary on King Just-blade's Verlia that so insignificant a party felt the need for a hired guard. He was a foreigner like myself, a professional adventurer, and the only one in the company with any appeal. I could not place his accent, although he called me Omar, not Homer as the natives did. He would admit to no name but Zig, without explaining why his mother would have blighted him so. That he was of high birth was revealed by his skill with horse and sword, his education and manners. He had traveled widely, despite his apparent youth—and who am I to comment on that? He told tales well, laughed readily, and said nothing of his own past, except to drop mocking hints of being banished when he refused the advances of a noble lady.
We reached Long Lake around noon one cool fall day. The hills were glorious in their golden mourning, the water shone as blue as lapis lazuli. I knew by then that Lord Fire-hawk of Kraw had fallen in the war. His sons, whom I had seen playing page for King High-honor, were grown men who had won renown in battle.
We followed the shore and by evening came in sight of Still Waters, at the place I had been shown in my dreams: ford, stepping-stones, old hearths. It was deserted. I suggested that we pitch camp. Zig glanced around approvingly and agreed. Snarly old Divine-providence insisted that we push on for another hour. He was a great one for overtaxing the horses, and we should be very lucky indeed to find a site as good as this.
He was leader. Zig shrugged. I sighed. The gods summon me when they wish an event recorded for mortals' benefit. I am a reliable and truthful witness and do not fail them. This was the place. Here I must wait until my services were required.
I could not easily explain all that, though, so I bade Zig farewell, thanking him for his company. Somewhat less sincerely, I also thanked Divine-providence and his companions for their recent hospitality. Then I sat down on my bedroll and glumly watched my evening meal disappear across the meadow and into the trees.
I had barely unsnarled my line and baited my first hook before I heard hooves returning along the trail, very fast. I silently congratulated my divine employers on their excellent timing.
Out of the trees came a runaway horse, complete with maiden in distress. This is a circumstance that arises often in romances and sometimes even in the true tales I tell. The cure is well known—the hero leaps for the bridle and hauls the brute to a halt. Maiden falls swooning into hero's arms … hand in marriage and half the kingdom follow in due course.
That's in the romances. In real life, of course, that prescription is more likely to cause disaster than stop the horse. The cheekstrap-grabbing maneuver is a great deal easier to describe than execute. I have seen men maimed trying it, and riders killed. The prudent course is to yell at the stupid girl to hang on and let the beast run itself to a standstill, which it will in a few minutes. If she can keep her head out of the branches, she will come to no great harm. Horses are good at running, damn it! Left to itself, a horse will almost never put a foot wrong.
Having said that, I confess that I jumped to my feet and began to run like hell to intercept. Call it a reflex.
Out of the trees behind her came Zig, spurring his mount like a maniac. I remembered that the gods rarely call me to interfere in events, only to witness, and I stopped where I was. Unfortunately, as the woman's horse sensed Zig drawing level with it, it veered in my direction.
Zig grabbed the distressed maiden from her saddle and was overbalanced by the weight—even the most experienced horseman rarely has occasion to practice such a move. I leaped the wrong way and was struck by rescuer and rescuee making an unplanned and hasty descent together. The three of us went down in a heap. One of them, and perhaps both, slammed into my abdomen as the ground leaped up beneath me in a bone-smashing impact.
Zig still had a foot in a stirrup.
Some of the gods' events are very hard to witness clearly. By the time the world had stopped spinning, there were bodies all over the place, including mine.
The gift had risen to her knees. Despite my jangled wits and her bedraggled condition, I registered that I was going to need all my collection of superlatives when I got around to making a story out of this. At that moment I had no breath and suspected I had lost mos
t of my brains, also.
Just call her gorgeous for now.
Zig was also sitting up. Did I mention that he was tall and fair and had muscles in abundance? Broad shoulders, square jaw, et cetera, et cetera?
Verlian national dress is colorful and comfortable, but it does not take well to its wearers being dragged over the grass. The glade was littered with motley.
The two of them stared at each other.
"Are you all right, sir?" she said.
"Aha!" I thought. "A romance!" Then I threw up.
Such was my first sight of Lady Sweet-rose of Kraw. I did not know then who she was, nor the role she was to play in the affairs of Verlia.
Divine-providence of Nurb and his friends arrived on the scene a few minutes later, together with several loudly cursing young men on steaming horses, led by my old friend True-valor of Galmish. He was older, thicker, and pretty much bald when viewed from some angles, but the same imperious True-valor I had known. He was in charge of the lady's escort and spitting fire at having let such a thing happen.
Fortunately I was down at the water, being helped to clean up by some of my merchant friends. I was able to keep myself turned away from True-valor's gaze, and when he sent a trooper to inquire after me, I assured the kid that I had sustained no serious injury and had not been involved in the rescue.
Zig and Lady Sweet-rose had made themselves respectable again, of course. Zig had a broken ankle. Sweet-rose had a most incredible blush. They could not take their eyes off each other.
True-valor soon saw them both mounted and borne off to the palace for proper attention. Divine-providence decided to pitch camp after all, and I curled up in my bedroll to nurse my bruises. Next day we were on the move again, but it was a week before I could stand straight.