by Eric Flint
The lawyer coughed discreetly. "Good sir, you have overlooked the matter of my fee."
"What fee?"
"Why, the fee for my professional services."
"Nonsense!" spoke the mage. "I merely asked you for some advice. No mention was made of any fee!"
"But my good sir," said the lawyer, smiling like a pool of oil, "have you forgotten so soon my exposition of the Honorable Judge Greased Hand's enunciation of the principle that ignorance of—"
"Are you a subsidiary of the Consortium?" interrupted Shelyid.
"Why, no," responded Mustelid, nonplussed both by the query and its source.
"Well, then," said Shelyid, "I don't see how you could collect anyway because didn't the Sheriff himself say he didn't care about anybody's problems except the Consortium? Didn't he, master? Didn't he?"
"Why yes," mused Zulkeh, "so he did." Then, to the lawyer: "Odd as it may seem, good sir, my stupid but loyal apprentice has for once stumbled upon a truth. I fear you must forget any receipt of payments for your services, if such they may be called."
The lawyer quivered in indignation, his long whiskers and pointed nose thrusting and twitching about.
"But it's your moral obligation!"
"Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. "What boots this sudden philosophical cowardice? Was it not you yourself who so recently demolished the arguments of that foolish stripling, demonstrating with sureness and clarity that no modern society worthy of the name can tolerate the intrusion of haphazard ethical gestures into the workings of its commercial order?" He shook his head sadly. "Fie upon this apostasy! Again, sir, I bid you good day!" And so speaking, the mage strode out of the room.
But Shelyid hung back, and timidly approached the vibrating chord of outrage that was the lawyer. "Maybe," he ventured, "you should get a job working for the Consortium. I'm sure they must hire a lot—a really, really lot—of lawyers," he piped cheerfully. "And sure, probably they wouldn't let you hang out in saloons, and you'd probably have to work in a big room somewhere filled with thousands of other lawyers, hunched over a desk, and sure, probably they'd make you work a lot of hours and you'd get all stooped over and such, but your posture's lousy anyway and besides, you probably wouldn't have time to worry about your health anyway because you'd be worrying all the time about getting fired, and all. But at least you wouldn't—"
He got no further, for Mustelid squeaked in fury and lunged from his chair, aiming a blow at the dwarf.
Shelyid ducked. "I was only trying to help," he whined, and scurried from the room.
Outside the hotel, he espied his master's figure striding toward the travel depot, and hastened to catch up. Once they arrived, Zulkeh thrust his pile of misshapen ingots at the ticket vendor. "Here is the gold to pay the fine you have levied upon me."
The ticket vendor glanced coldly at the pile of ungeometric gold bars.
"I regret to inform you, sir," stated the ticket vendor in a voice devoid of inflection or discernible tone, "that this is unacceptable. The GGNESWC& etc. can only accept payment in the recognized legal tender of the region, which, in this instance, is the Consortium Ducat."
"I see. And where may I acquire such specie?"
"You may exchange your gold for ducats at the Caravanserai Moneylenders Association, located two doors down the street."
Arriving at the specified location but a few moments later, Zulkeh and Shelyid passed through a door over which was suspended the traditional and time-honored emblem of the moneylender, an iron fist squeezing blood from a stone. Within, the wizard approached the teller's window and laid his eccentric bullion upon the counter.
"I should like to exchange these for Consortium Ducats."
"Certainly, sir," said the teller, flicking the idiosyncratic nuggets onto a scale with a splayed and callused thumb. "That comes to twenty-four hundred ducats." He laid six stacks of coins upon the counter. But just as Zulkeh reached out to pick up the coins, the tellers removed one of the stacks.
"What do you do there?" demanded the mage. "That is my money!"
"You are grotesquely in error," replied the cashier. "There is a sixteen point six seven percent service charge for processing gold which is not tendered in the form of the officially established Consortium Ingot."
Zulkeh opened his mouth to protest, reconsidered, and stormed out.
* * *
Later that night, as our heroes retired to their pallets, the dwarf Shelyid was heard to grumble, "I'll be glad to get out of this place, master."
"Well spoken, gnome. And now to sleep."
PART VIII
In Which, With
Great Horror, We Relate
the Despicable Doings of the
Desperado Sfondrati-Piccolomini
As He Takes It Upon Himself
To Stand Against Custom
in the Baronies.
The Autobiography of Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,
Episode 5: Dirt, Darkness, Droits and Decisions
So it was in such cramped quarters that I awoke later that day. For a moment—quite a long moment, truth be told—I luxuriated in the feel of Gwendolyn's body pressed against my own. Beyond the thicket in which we were hidden, the sun was setting. The reddish glow within the dimness of the thick shrubbery bathed her in soft and glorious color.
I became so engrossed in the artistic possibilities, in addition to the purely sensual aspects of the experience, that I was quite oblivious when Gwendolyn herself awoke. Her head was nestled on my shoulder, her face turned toward me, and I suspect she studied me under lowered lids for some time before she finally spoke.
"I'm not sure whether to be flattered, annoyed, amused—or all three," she murmured. "I've been ogled before, but . . . never like this."
I froze for an instant. But then, feeling the gentle pressure of her hand on my chest and realizing that she was not really offended, I smiled. "My apologies, I suppose. But you are both beautiful in your own right and—" I groped for words. "It would make such a magnificent portrait."
Her initial response was a slight stiffness. But then I felt her hand slide down from my chest and come to rest on my ribs, as if instinct was urging her to caress. The sensation that little movement produced in me was . . . call it intense.
I believe it was for her, also. At least, the chuckle which she emitted seemed strained and forced. "So. What's the title? And I warn you again—no 'leather' or 'form and function' allowed."
My own response was a bit forced, I suspect. "I was thinking more along the lines of Tranquility Where Not Expected."
Her hand on my ribs seemed to tighten a moment, and not with anger. Again, the sensation that movement produced was . . . intense. Then, she sighed.
"It's too bad, it really is. But it still wouldn't work."
A moment later, with the tigerish energy of which she was capable, Gwendolyn was up and wriggling her way out of the thicket. "Come on—we've got to get moving."
I followed, as quickly and obediently as anyone could ask. I admit, the sight of her posterior wriggling its way through the bushes ahead of me was a powerful incentive.
Once in the open, Gwendolyn cast a quick and wary eye over the area. The sun was over the horizon now, but there was still enough light to see by.
"Safe enough," she murmured. "I'd rather wait until midnight, but time is a priority."
A moment later, she was trotting off down a path which could only be called a "country lane" by the most generous definition. "Rutted dirt road" captures more of the reality, understanding that the "ruts" looked to have been made by something other than wheels. Small skids, I imagined.
After a while, once darkness had fallen completely, the little irregularities in the road caused me to trip and stumble several times. The pack I was carrying was not particularly heavy—our food was almost entirely gone, by now—but my special easel was, as always, an awkward thing to carry.
I must have been cursing not entirely under my breath, because I heard Gwendolyn's husky whisper urging me to silence.
Then, in a hiss: "Nobody asked you to bring the stupid thing."
Which was true, of course, but still uncharitable. I believed I muttered as much. Gwendolyn's only response was a low chuckle.
* * *
We traveled through the night, our progress greatly slowed by the absence of any moon beyond a sliver and the rough terrain. The same darkness, of course, provided us with a certain measure of safety. Near dawn, Gwendolyn found another suitable thicket and we made our daytime lair. These quarters were, if anything, even more cramped than the last had been.
"What?" murmured Gwendolyn, with another little low chuckle. "No complaints?"
Feeling her pressed against me down the entire length of my body—amazing how thin leather can seem—I believe I managed to choke out a negative reply.
* * *
The next two days passed in a similar manner. On the evening of the fourth day, a complication arose.
Just as we were preparing to crawl out of our thicket at sundown, we heard the drumming of horse hooves. We shrank back into the thickness of the shrubbery, holding ourselves utterly still. Despite the lush foliage, we were able to see enough of the barren ground beyond to study ensuing events.
Two children burst onto the scene, clambering over a distant stone wall. They were both girls—although it was hard for me to be certain at first, between their filthy garments and the fact that they were so young. Perhaps fourteen and fifteen years old. The long hair and a certain delicacy of the features were the principal determinants of my judgement.
One of the girls spotted our thicket. She grabbed the other by the shoulder and pointed at it. The two of them began racing toward us. Next to me, I heard Gwendolyn hiss softly.
Long before the girls could reach our shelter, however, they were intercepted by a man on horseback coming from somewhere behind and to the left of the thicket we were hidden in. The man atop the beast was even mangier looking than the "horse" itself, dressed in what seemed to be a pastiche of filthy furs and bits of armor. His head was covered by a helmet which would have given my uncle Giotto apoplexy had he seen the design. A "horned helmet" it was, just like the staple of barbarian imagery—except the "horns" were actually some kind of (mangy, what else?) antlers, and the helmet itself was not a single piece but several poorly-beaten flanges of iron tied together (not well) by rawhide. One of the antlers had come loose, and was flopping around on the man's right shoulder.
The girls veered off and tried to make their escape over another stone wall. But before they could get to the wall, one of them—the younger—had been snared by a noose thrown by the horseman. The other girl made a frantic attempt to pry the noose off her companion. But, whatever the captor's other failings, he was clearly an expert at this endeavor. He had his end of the rope snug to the pommel of his saddle, and was backing up his horse in such a way as to keep the noose tight.
Two more horsemen appeared, leaping their mounts over the same low wall from which the girls had first burst onto the scene. I was surprised to see the relative grace with which the horses managed that leap. But then, reflected that in this terrain the ability to leap low walls of stone was probably the single most prized feature in a "warhorse."
The older girl still at liberty took one look at them and gave up her attempts to free her companion. She began running toward the other stone wall. But, after taking not more than seven or eight steps, she desisted. It was obvious enough that the two new horsemen would reach the wall long before she did.
Disconsolately, she turned back and rejoined her trapped companion. Younger sister, I assumed. They were close enough by then that a certain familial resemblance could be seen.
The man who had lassoed the girl was now on the ground. He was making his way along the rope to the captured girl, expertly maintaining the tension. I recognized the skill, of course. I was a maestro in the use of a whip (if I say so myself—more to the point, my uncle Larue says so). And while a whip and a lasso are not the same, the two devices are similar enough that my uncle Larue had spent some time acquainting me with the art of lassoing. In which art, of course, he was superb—as he was with the use of a bola, or, indeed, any weapon involving the same general principles.
As the man drew near the captured girl, her companion began cursing bitterly. Given the surroundings, I was not surprised to hear such brilliant invective and profanity issuing from the lips of a fifteen-year-old girl.
Eventually, the profanity ceased and the girl lapsed into standard language. "T'ain't right!" she shrilled. "It's not my birthday—Lana's neither! And it's not a saints' day!"
The other two horsemen had reached the scene, and were dismounting. One of them, hearing the girl's protest, laughed harshly. "The Baron decides what's 'right,' girl. Advised by his soothsayer, o' course." He pointed to the new moon, whose dim silhouette could be seen above the horizon. The sun had set, by now, but the area was still half-illuminated by its dying glow. "Th' Baron says 'tis only right that droit d'seigneur applies at new moon too, seein' as how the whole business is tied to the lunar cycle and sech."
"T'aint' fair!" shrilled the girl. "T'aint't!" echoed her younger sister.
The man who had spoken advanced and took the older one by the scruff of her tunic. Then, shrugged. "Wha's 'fair' got to do with anytin'? Th' Baron decides what's fair, not you. And he's horny."
"So 're we," chortled the man who had lassoed the younger. He ruffled her hair. "Won't be but a couple o' days, lass. An' y'may as well get used to it anyhow."
Within seconds, the two girls were bundled across two of the saddles and the little party—now remounted—was moseying its way toward a distant hill. Atop the hill, as on all the hills, a castle could be seen. Mangy, of course, insofar as the term "mangy" could be applied to a pile of stone. Until I saw the Baronies, I would have sworn it couldn't.
Once they were out of sight, Gwendolyn nudged me. "Let's go," she hissed. "At least we won't have to be worried about being spotted in this Barony tonight. They'll be busy with the girls."
I had been frozen with shock. The casual callousness of her words jolted me out of my paralysis.
"They're but children!" I snarled. "Bad enough, even if they weren't—but this—!"
She gave me a cold look. Her eyes were black even in daylight. In dusk, in the gloom of the thicket, they were pools of eternal night.
"What?" she snarled back. "Has the precious Ozarine suddenly discovered that 'oppression' is not an abstraction? Not something to be captured in oils?" She gestured angrily at the distant castle. "You think anything which is going to happen there tonight hasn't happened ten thousand times? Isn't happening this very night, for that matter, in other castles? That—and worse?"
She shrugged her big shoulders, like a tigress shrugging off a fly. "It happens," she continued, her voice filled less with anger now than simple contempt. "There's nothing we can do about it. And even if there were—so what? Save two children out of how many? You can't solve these things one at a time, Benvenuti. And meanwhile, your damn Ozar is coming with the Rap Sheet. I have got to get the word out."
She muscled her way past me and crawled out of the thicket. Once in the open, she stood up and glared back down at me. "Move," she commanded. "We can make good time tonight."
I obeyed. But somehow, somewhere, in the short time it took for me to gather up my stuff and make my way out of the thicket, my own decision crystallized. "Decision" is hardly the word. Some things do not have to be weighed in judgement.
"You go," I said, turning on my heels and heading off toward the castle.
"What are you doing, you idiot?"
I turned and grinned at her. I suspected the expression was murderous. I certainly hoped so.
"Providing you with a distraction."
She stared at me. I sighed heavily. "Go, Gwendolyn. We part ways, here. You're the most magnificent woman I ever met—I'm at least half in love with you, and that's easily the most foolish damn thing I've ever done in my life, not that I regret it—bu
t we part ways here. Our loyalties are too different, just as you say. Oppression as such I can ignore, where you cannot. But—"
I made a vague gesture. "I could never paint a girl again. And I'm fond of portraying girls."
I turned away again. Then, a thought came to me, and I twisted my head back to look at her. "How many was it, that your brother strangled alongside the Comte de l'Abbatoir? Twelve knights, as I recall?"
She nodded mutely. I'm quite sure my responding grin was murderous. I certainly hope so.
"Well, I can't hope to match such a feat, of course. But I'll do my best."
A moment later I was striding off, the distant castle serving as my beacon. By now, with the sunset at an end, the castle was nothing more than a jagged shape of darkness against a starry night sky. But 'twas enough, 'twas enough.
* * *
Approaching the castle unobserved was child's play, since the Baron had left no one on watch. And a good thing that was, too, as much noise as I was making trying to clamber "silently" over a stony hill in almost complete darkness. Restraining my curses was even more difficult. By the time I reached the "ramparts," my legs were bruised and I was bleeding from several small cuts. My once-fine Ozarine trousers, never designed for such travel at all, were now not much more than tatters.
Long before I reached the ramparts, however, I was assured by the noise coming from the "castle" that silence was a moot point. As much of a racket as the Baron and his retainers were making, they couldn't have heard a bull hammering down a barn door.
I was relieved, as I drew near, that I was not hearing any girlish screams mixed in with the lot. The noise was that of buffoons at their buffoonery, not atrocities in mid-event. I had little doubt, of course, that such noises would soon be occurring. But I had made good enough time that I was almost certain the "festivities" were still just getting under way. There was this much to be said for the wretched terrain of the Baronies—a man on foot could travel almost as fast as a mounted one.
Once at the outer wall of the castle, I paused and studied it as best I could in the absence of moonlight. I found it difficult not to burst into laughter. I was no soldier myself, but having been raised by a pack of condottiere uncles I was quite familiar with the methods of Ozarine fortification. These were quite absent here. The "curtain wall" was a rickety pile of stones, not too carefully fitted. Mortar was, of course, completely absent. Here and there, a desultory attempt to construct something which might be called a "battlement" could vaguely be seen, outlined against the starblaze. But, for the most part, the wall posed no more challenge to an attacker than climbing a piles of stones.