The screaming people nearly overwhelmed Buddy’s sensitive ears.
The marshal accepted a large golden trophy from a lean young woman standing to his left. He held it up before the crowd, so that it glinted blindingly in the sunlight. “I now present to the captain of the SS Bray, registered owner of the winning donkey, this trophy, in recognition of your part in the conditioning and training of such a magnificent specimen.”
The grand marshal reached the trophy out toward Captain Cass.
Tight-lipped, she accepted it, but not before glancing down at Harry.
Wait, what does that mean? Conditioning and training? I mean, I guess I practiced … is that what that means?
The captain thanked the marshal before passing the trophy to Redbeard, whose eyes were huge as saucers as he stared at his reflection in the shiny gold surface. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen the man look so happy.
The marshal left the microphone and leaned in to heartily shake the captain’s hand. “You may collect your winnings at the palace at the conclusion of the parade.”
“Thank you,” Captain Cass replied, with a sideways glance at Redbeard.
The marshal returned to the microphone, holding out his hands to quiet the crowd. After several long moments, the crowd complied.
“Good people, please join us in a celebratory parade to the palace!”
The raucous crowd erupted into cheers once more, waving their scarves and banners in the air.
Harry couldn’t help but feel elated. Even with the soreness in Buddy’s hooves, this was the best day ever.
The grand marshal stepped down from the podium and gave Harry a pat on the neck before sweeping an arm out toward the truck. “If you all will climb aboard, the parade can commence!”
They did so, Harry gratefully laying down once more as soon as he could. His muscles were starting to feel a little sore from the exertion of the race, and his feet hadn’t stopped throbbing.
The truck revved up and started to move slowly forward, easing through the crowd, which reluctantly parted to let it through. The people pressed in close around the sides of the truck, reaching out their hands in attempts to touch Harold.
He let them, enjoying the attention.
They muttered awed words of appreciation in many languages, and some of them seemed to be praying.
Harry hoped the doctor would be able to fix him up after the parade. This experience of hardly being able to walk or stand was hardly convenient. Especially now that he was so famous.
How could he tend to all of his adoring fans if he could hardly stand up?
Captain Cass was less appreciative of the attention, her hand dropping down toward the pistol on her hip whenever any of the outstretched hands got too close to her person.
Spiner scanned the crowd with a tablet, and a distressed Kitt pressed herself between the captain and Redbeard.
Redbeard, on the other hand, seemed oblivious, cradling the trophy in his lap and staring at it.
A robed man stumbled alongside the truck. “What is your donkey’s name?” he asked.
“Harold,” the captain answered, before Harry had a chance to respond.
“Harold,” the man repeated, and then he repeated it over and over again to the people around him, who then repeated it to the people around them, until Harry heard his name rippling back through the far reaches of the crowd.
His ears perked.
“Harold!” the chant began. “Harold! Harold! Harold!”
He blinked, stunned at the display of people chanting his name. They should be chanting your name too, Buddy.
The chant grew louder, stronger. The truck crawled through the streets of Irrakeen, swarms of people chanting his name the entire way. And the grand marshal trotted before the truck upon a massive white horse, yelling again and again to “make room for the champion donkey of Irrakeen!”
Harry wished this moment could last forever.
22
“Wha’!?” Redbeard roared. “Wha’ the blazes is tha’ supposed to mean!?”
Harry startled at Redbeard’s outburst. He’d been nearly dozing on the back of the parked truck, the steady strokes of soft brushes along his neck and back lulling him into a relaxed trance.
He looked out between the arms of the white-robed men who surrounded him to see his crew standing with a small, nervous man bedecked in an embroidered tunic and pants.
The man wore gold sandals and bowed deeply in Redbeard’s direction. “I am sorry, good sir, but he had all the proper credentials!”
Behind him, a palace rose high into the gathering twilight, the golden roofs of its multiple spires a dull copper in the fading sunlight. The sultan’s palace, according to the grand marshal.
Redbeard was still holding the trophy, its large bulk seeming inconsequential as he tucked it beneath an arm and took a step toward the small man, who scrambled backward with a squawk.
Captain Cass stopped the big pirate’s advance, placing a restraining hand on his arm. “What do you mean, the proper credentials?”
The small man wrung his hands together. “I mean, good lady, he presented valid identification as a member of your crew!”
Harry cocked his head at this information, his eyes darting from the nervous man to the captain, to Redbeard, to Spiner, and lastly to Kitt, whose tail lashed in irritation. Aside from Node, who was still aboard the Bray, the pirate crew was all here.
This was the part where the pirates were supposed to be collecting their winnings. From this very man. But, it seemed that something had gone wrong. Very wrong, to judge by the reactions of his companions.
Harry wondered if he should do something, but he was still so tired from the race. And his feet hurt. And the brushing felt sooo good. He’d never been brushed before…
“It was a man?” the captain asked.
“Yes, of course!”
“Wha’ did tha swine look like?” Redbeard bellowed. “I’ll hunt ‘im down and break ‘im in half!”
The much smaller man wrung his hands even tighter, with an audible gulp. “Well, good sir, he … he had dark hair. Fell over his face a bit, nearly to his eyes. And fair skin, like yourself. About this tall,” he held up a hand near Redbeard’s shoulder, level with the captain.
Harry frowned. That didn’t sound like anyone he knew from the SS Bray.
Redbeard spat curses.
The grand marshal was with them, too, a proper mean face darkening his expression as he held his hands on his hips. He seemed nearly as upset about this development as the pirates.
Spiner lifted a hand. “Captain, if I may, based upon the description and present circumstances, I can only conclude that the individual in question must be … Djerke.”
“My thought as well,” the captain agreed.
“I’ll rip tha’ bastard’s arms clean off,” growled Redbeard, who had begun pacing in a tight circle.
White-robed men scattered to avoid his path.
Harry had no idea who they were talking about. “Who’s Jerk?”
The rest of his crew startled at his question and turned around in surprise, as if they’d almost forgotten he was still there.
The robed men brushing Harry murmured to themselves—possibly because they’d never been around a talking donkey before—but they continued with their careful ministrations.
“A dead man walkin’, tha’s who!” Redbeard snarled.
“He’s one of us,” Kitt offered. Her yellow eyes were narrowed to slits, and the fur around her neck stood on end. “He was one of us. Right up until he went and stole our winnings.”
“What?” Harry couldn’t believe it. Who would steal from his own crew? “Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s a jerk,” the captain muttered. She heaved a sigh. “He must have followed us here, and we never even noticed.”
“In a cloaked ship, Captain?” Kitt asked.
Spiner stiffened and stared off into space. “Ah, of course. That would explain...” His unfocus
ed gaze sharpened, and he looked abruptly to the captain. “Captain! You don’t think…”
But she was already looking angrier than Harry had ever seen her. “He’s our tail,” she growled through clenched teeth. “He’s working for the bloody Feds!”
Now it was Harry’s turn to stare wide-eyed at his crew. The spy! So the spy was never even aboard the SS Bray…
Redbeard spat on the ground, almost striking the foot of an alarmed-looking grand marshal. Then he uttered a long string of profanities, hardly pausing to draw breath.
The robed men around them watched with wide eyes, waiting to see what they would do next.
“Feds?” the grand marshal squawked, glancing worriedly to the palace steward. “Did you say Feds? Are you all in some sort of trouble we should know about…?”
“Course not!” Redbeard hastily replied.
“Just a little misunderstanding,” Captain Cass assured the marshal. She shook her head and let out a little growl, beginning to pace. “I always knew there was something slimy about him…” Her right hand went to the pistol at her hip, fingers tapping at it restlessly. “But who dares violate the pirate code so completely? He must be out of his mind!”
“Pirates?” muttered the man in gold sandals to the grand marshal.
The captain turned and caught his enlarged eyes. “Don’t worry. It’s a colloquial term where we come from…”
“Ah, but of course,” replied the grand marshal, hefting an eyebrow at his men.
Captain Cass faced Redbeard, and Harry gulped at the look on her face. “Djerke is a thief and a traitor,” she hissed. Her fingers tightened around the grip of her weapon. “And as his captain, I hereby sentence him to face pirate justice for his crimes. When we catch up to him, you leave him to me. Understand?” Her eyes went to every other member of her crew, who nodded gravely in agreement, even Harry.
Harry gulped again, feeling scared for this Jerk fellow. Captain Cass looked really pissed.
Abruptly, she turned to the palace steward, who flinched as her glare fell upon him. “You,” she said. “How long ago did this man come by? How long since he left with our money?”
“Not too long,” the man insisted, backing away slowly. “He left maybe thirty Galactic Standard minutes before you arrived.”
“Arrr, we still have time to get ‘im!” Redbeard stared hard at the captain.
“Thirty minutes,” she repeated. She gave the truck a speculative look. “How quickly can we get back to the docks?”
The grand marshal stepped forward, glancing about nervously. “Dear Captain, please forgive our error. If only you’d updated your crew manifest…”
Captain Cass waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. Forget it. Mind if we borrow the truck?”
The grand marshal glanced around at his men, eyes wide, then shrugged. “Sure, why not.”
The pirates moved hastily toward the vehicle.
Harry peered over the edge of it. “Oh, yes! Are we going to go catch the spy now?”
“Ah ah ah,” the grand marshal chided, suddenly running up alongside the back of the truck, next to Harry. “I’m afraid you’re still required for the, uh, final ceremony.”
“But—”
“‘Arry,” Redbeard called out, “it’s better if you be stayin’ ‘ere. This ain’t gonna be pretty.”
A stabbing pang of alarm ran down his spine. Surely his new tribe wasn’t going to abandon him already?
The captain paused before climbing into the vehicle and looked up at him. “Harold, don’t worry. We’ll be back for you when it’s all over.”
The grand marshal bit his lip, then nodded. “Of course. Don’t worry, my champion. We’ll take excellent care of you while your friends are gone.”
Spiner stepped up beside the grand marshal. “See, Harry? There’s nothing to worry about. One more ceremony and then you can relax while we deal with Djerke.”
The grand marshal snapped his fingers, and several robed men approached the truck with a litter. Two of the larger men jumped onto the back of the truck and went to wrap their arms around Harry, who promptly yelped in surprise.
“It’s okay,” said the grand marshal. “They’re going to help you off the truck. Try to relax.”
Harry bit back a sigh and let the handlers lift him and place him on the litter, a soft, cushioned platform carried by two poles laid across the shoulders of several people. It was going to be a shame to miss out on all the adventure of tracking down the spy. Hopefully, his friends would also be able to retrieve the prize money.
Meanwhile, he supposed being tended to by all of these nice men in robes wouldn’t be all that bad.
Would it?
23
The ornate palace interior was quite the spectacle for any mortal being to behold, let alone a lone donkey from the planet Cern.
“This is amazing,” Harry blurted. “You built this with your hands?”
The grand marshal led the way down a long corridor, followed by Harry on his litter, carried by a new small retinue of garbed humans.
Whereas the people outside had donned robes of white, these new attendants wore sheer, ankle-length emerald sheets. Lengthy wraps the color of lavender lay over their shoulders and snaked down and around the waists of their wearers.
“Make way,” boomed the grand marshal, “make way for our champion ... the Ass That Runs.”
Golden-oak wooden doors lined the clay corridor, with pairs of men—similarly garbed in emerald sheets—standing at attention outside each.
The men carrying Harry murmured, reciting the words back in Harry’s direction. “Our champion. The Ass That Runs.”
“Wow,” said Harry. “You guys sure know how to make a donkey feel welcome.”
The party emerged into a rectangular, musty-smelling chamber. The room was crowded with furniture—chairs, couches, desks, and other things.
Harry was so taken with the furniture that he almost failed to notice the large swaths of throw rugs.
“Oh, uh, those almost look like fur,” Harry commented, wide-eyed, as his gaze swept the room.
The grand marshal inclined his head, his lips settling into a thin smile.
“And, oh!” Harry took in the walls and the still objects hanging absurdly into thin air. “Is it normal for donkeys to hang out here?”
He rolled off the litter, almost taking out one of the men carrying it. With a small apology, he clambered to his feet and approached the nearest wall, craning his head up to inspect one. It didn’t react.
“Uh, hello there, I’m Harold. Friends call me Harry.” He paused and looked back at the grand marshal. “Why isn’t he answering? Is he hard of hearing?”
The grand marshal tilted his head to the side. “You might say that.” He gestured with his hands at two of the nearest men in the party. “Come, let us not get distracted, my champion.”
The men stepped up to Harry, flanking him on both sides. One of them leaned inward. “You’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted later,” he said. “Come along now.”
Harry peered up at the man, then back to the grand marshal, whose smile was more menacing than friendly. “Is everything okay? You guys don’t look very happy.”
The grand marshal took a step closer. “Oh, we’re quite thrilled to have you. You are The Ass That Runs. You run so that we don’t have to.”
“Huh?” Harry chewed on the cryptic phrase, turning it about in his head. “Does that mean you have sore feet, too?”
“Come along, now. Enough chit-chat.” The grand marshal’s expression was decidedly mean-faced. He glanced up at the men flanking Harry. “Let’s get on with it, before his companions get back.”
Harry looked back and forth between the grand marshal and his entourage. “Wait a minute. What’s going on? I thought there was a final ceremony?”
The grand marshal smirked. “Oh, there is, yes. It’s very final.”
Harry didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. He glanced around. The men flanking him steppe
d closer, now definitely appearing quite menacing.
Buddy, I think it’s time to run, one more time. Okay?
His host got the message. He bolted back in the direction they’d come from, narrowly avoiding grasping hands. They made it as far as the first rug, where Buddy’s front hoof slipped as soon as it made contact. He collapsed in an undignified heap.
Harry looked up only to find that he was surrounded.
The grand marshal loomed over him, shaking his head. “Ah, see boys, behold The Ass That Runs.”
“The Ass That Runs,” the men repeated again.
Harry no longer felt flattered.
“This is why we make sure our champion is in such poor shape,” the grand marshal said. “It would be a shame if you were to escape, now, wouldn’t it?”
This time it wasn’t just Harry’s hooves hurting that made him balk. It was the terrifying change in attitude from his attendants, now surrounding him closely and ensuring he had no further opportunities for escape.
It didn’t help that the deeper he was led into the palace, the darker the corridors seemed to get. The lamps along the walls were spaced further and further apart, with long stretches of dimness between.
And, the group had now been joined by four more green and lavender swathed men, only these four held staffs tipped with blades.
Very sharp-looking blades, which they pointed in his direction whenever he hesitated to take another step.
Harry grudgingly kept moving forward, if only to keep from being pricked. His ears laid back and his head hung low as he limped along.
He thought back to his tick tribe on Cern, who had been taught that they were the chosen of the Gods. If these humans were gods, they were decidedly not nice. Being among “the chosen” was overrated.
What’s going to happen to us, Buddy? This doesn’t look good. Why did we let the captain and the others leave without us?!
The further he went into the sultan’s palace, the more trapped he felt.
Even if they come back now, how will they find us in here?
Escape seemed impossible. The palace corridors were like a maze. His entourage watched him closely. And, there were spears with sharp points involved.
Of Donkeys, Gods, and Space Pirates Page 19
