by Peter David
“I don’t permit it,” she said.
“I don’t care,” I replied, suddenly feeling drained.
She opened her mouth, then closed it, considering. “If … I let you reside in here as my bodyguard … you will not—”
“Try something untoward?” I guffawed at the notion. “Highness, with all respect … I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot staff.”
She was silent for a moment, and then said, “Oh.” That’s all. Just “Oh.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
Chapter 17
I have never so desperately wanted to take joy in another person’s misfortune before, and I have never been so miserably thwarted as I was during those long months at the Forest’s Edge Inn.
Most of my time was spent washing dishes or doing relatively benign menial work. For some strange reason, Marie actually seemed to take a liking to me, which I found disconcerting enough. But her dislike for Entipy only intensified and, I have to say, it certainly wasn’t because of anything that Entipy was doing. In fact, it might have been because of what Entipy wasn’t doing. To be specific, she wasn’t complaining.
The princess, for all her … princessiness … was also apparently something of a realist. I had expected, as had Marie apparently, that day after day Entipy would find something new to complain about. That she would lash out at customers, or snarl at them or in some way do something that would wind up getting her kicked out into the nearest snowbank. We were, however, both destined to be disappointed. Marie bore down on Entipy, working her as hard as she could.
And Entipy said nothing.
I don’t mean that she didn’t complain, or was reticent. I mean that, from daylight to nightfall, she didn’t speak. She would move from customer to customer and take orders without comment. She was able to write the orders down to keep track of them, which made her something of a curiosity considering that most tavern wenches depended upon their memory and repeating the orders back to get it in their heads.
And it’s not as if the men were gentle with her. They would shout at her, or speak in “gentle” tones laced with the crudest words and suggestions they could come up with. They would slap her on the backside, pinch her on the cheek, haul her onto their laps as if she were a child’s plaything, and laugh as she struggled free.
All through it, she spoke not a word.
I watched all this, and every so often she would glance my way, but I couldn’t quite tell if she was genuinely seeing me or not. It was as if she had withdrawn into herself. Either that or she reasoned—probably quite correctly—that if she traded words with them, matters might escalate. As it was, assorted customers would invariably find it a challenge to get her to say something, and then become irritated when their endeavors met with lack of success. Sometimes they became surly or belligerent over it, but invariably they’d just grow bored and mutter amongst themselves.
Entipy’s muteness annoyed Marie no end. “You’re supposed to make the customers feel at home! That way they’ll drink more,” Marie had told her one time.
It wasn’t as if Entipy never spoke. On rare occasions she voiced her opinions, and this was one of those times. “Engaging me in small talk takes up time,” Entipy had replied in a monotone, speaking as a woman already dead. “By eliminating that wasted time, it leaves them only to occupy themselves by drinking.” I overheard that particular conversation, and had to admit that she had a valid enough point.
Still …
… it disturbed me. It disturbed me because I had no idea what was going through her head. That should be enough to be of concern to just about any man who valued keeping his skin intact.
She did not speak to me. I think she was disappointed in me. Either that or she was disappointed that Tacit had not yet mysteriously arrived to rescue her from the life of drudgery. In any event, she looked to me less and less as time went on, until the cuffs and abuse she received at the hands of the customers didn’t prompt her even to glance momentarily in my direction. She had given up any hope, apparently, that I would be of any use to her as a protector. Part of me was relieved in this. Part of me … wasn’t.
Marie worked her all the harder, extending her hours and paying us as minimally as possible, and even taking out an unfair percentage from our wages to accommodate the lodgings she had provided and the food we ate. Considering our “lodgings” consisted of a half-empty storage closet, and the food we ate was invariably either leftovers or food of insufficient quality to sell to the guests, the money being apportioned from us was definitely not on par with what we were receiving.
And Entipy continued to bear up under it. I kept wondering if she was like a volcano, momentarily corked. Such efforts are naturally stopgap, and will blow sky high given sufficient time and provocation. I hoped I would not be around when the blowup finally occurred.
Every night we shared that cramped room. I would always wrap myself in a blanket so as not to risk coming into any sort of physical contact with Her Worship. And, suspecting I knew what form her vengeance would take, I always said the exact same thing before going to sleep:
“Thank you for not burning the pub down.”
She never said anything. Night after night, month after month, not a word.
The princess became thinner, and I would have thought that such a thing would have made her look nearly skeletal. But I was wrong. Her chin became sharply rounded, her cheekbones more angular. And through it all, she continued to carry herself with something that I can only call quiet dignity.
I did not want to admire her. Absolutely did not. And I certainly didn’t want to pity her. I wanted to feel nothing about her or for her. Unfortunately, the world does not always act in a manner consistent with one’s plans for it.
Matters came to an unexpected turn one night that was particularly bitter cold, although the calendar claimed that the winter was approaching its end. It was the usual raucous crowd in the tavern, and there was one man in particular who seemed to be more annoying than anyone else. He was a burly man with an eyepatch. Indeed, when he’d first walked in, I’d had a momentary flash of panic when I saw the patch because I thought it was Tacit, but an instant later I relaxed as the rest of the bruiser followed his head into the pub. His name, so I heard people shout in greeting, was “Ripper,” although I presume that to be his nickname. He had a large, curved blade hanging from his belt, which seemed to indicate that he took the name rather seriously.
I saw Marie stiffen when he came in, and that alone should have tipped me there was going to be trouble, since Marie was normally the unflappable sort. Ripper was a trapper; I could tell because of the mountain of furs he had tucked over one shoulder that he was likely taking to sell somewhere. Trappers have that certain arrogance that is usually possessed by those who are self-congratulatory about making a living outsmarting creatures with brains the size of walnuts. He swaggered to the middle of the room, flopped down at a table with men of a similar ilk, and ordered up ale in a loud voice.
Entipy, as was her custom, remained silent. She was new to Ripper, though, and he seemed hell-bent on getting a response out of her. He cajoled, he laughed, he poked and prodded, and Entipy took it all. Every so often she would glower at him, but nothing beyond that. Ripper became more and more impatient with her, but whereas others had simply gotten bored, he became even more abusive. He groped at her, fondled her, tried to get her to yelp or curse or do something. Still she was closemouthed. It was as if she didn’t trust herself to speak; that if she opened her mouth, she knew that something would come tumbling out of it that would tag her for who she was, and result in an extremely unpleasant series of events.
I was washing a skillet back in the kitchen, a big, heavy iron pan. But as the noises became louder and louder, I peered through the door and watched the scene unfolding. I watched him try to grab a fistful of her breast and, when she turned away too quickly for him to succeed, he grabbed her ass through her dress. She shoved his hand away, and even Marie
seemed put out with him as she shouted, “Ripper!”
“No interest in keeping customers happy?” he called out.
And all I could think of was that this was the kind of lout who had harassed my mother all those years. I had witnessed men treating her in such a manner for so long that in my childhood innocence I had thought of it as normal, even acceptable. But I felt the rage starting to build in me, the sense of possessiveness. Perhaps it was motivated by the outraged child I harbored in my bosom, or perhaps the months of being stuck in this place had simply driven me mad with cabin fever. But a brute like this one had taken Madelyne from me, the only person who’d ever really cared about me. The only thing that was genuinely “mine.” Entipy was quite a different animal. She wasn’t mine, nor did I want her, because I didn’t trust for a second the dark brain that dwelt behind those darker eyes. She was mine, though, in the sense that she represented my ticket to fame and riches, provided I could get her back to her father, the king, in one piece.
Was I worried that Ripper would kill her, as a ruffian had taken Madelyne’s life? I wasn’t sure. I knew that it could lead down that path if left unchecked. And besides … he was starting to aggravate the hell out of me. This thuggery, this loutishness … I’d seen it for so long, tolerated it for so long, and my tolerance level was dwindling.
And then Ripper grabbed the hem of Entipy’s skirt, raised it, and shoved his hand right up it. Involuntary as it might have been, it got him what he’d been seeking: a yelp of protest from the girl as he groped with his rough hands around her privates.
I didn’t give myself time to think it through, because if I did, the odds were that I would have thought better of it. I strode (well, limped briskly) from the kitchen, the skillet at my side. Ripper didn’t see me coming, because he was distracted, and I instantly saw why. Entipy had whirled to face him, her lips constricted in a rictus of fury, and her fingers curved into what could only be described as claws. She was clearly ready to leap at him and tear the skin off his face. Had I just been emerging from the kitchen at that point, I probably would have stopped and watched her go at him, placing even odds on her. But I was too caught up in the fever pitch of the moment to think rationally.
I pushed through the laughing throng, blood pounding so loudly in my ears that I barely heard any of it, and just before Entipy made her move, I grabbed Ripper’s eyepatch from behind and shoved it. The patch slid over his good eye, leaving him momentarily blinded.
Ripper let out a startled yell, his head snapping around instinctively. There was a blackened hole where an eye had once resided. He reached up to clear the patch from his good eye so that he could see what was going on, and I swung the skillet as hard as I could. The bottom of the skillet slammed into his face, and I heard a satisfying crunch of bone. The skillet made a “clonging” sound as if it were metal striking metal. I drew the skillet back only far enough to get enough of an arc, and I saw blood fountaining down his confused face, and then I hit him again. And again. And again. I didn’t give him so much as a moment to compose himself or launch a counterattack. I must have been some sight. My red hair, grown long and uncut, my red beard having grown in somewhat dark since I’d stopped shaving, my eyes wild and furious, seeing the abuses heaped upon my mother and my helplessness to stop them, all incarnated in this one oaf whom I was pummeling with a kitchen utensil.
Ripper tumbled off his chair, tried to sit up, and I hit him as hard as I humanly could on the back of the head. He had never managed to get the eyepatch clear, so I have no idea whether his eye rolled up into the top of his head. But he slumped forward, unmoving.
There was a stunned silence in the bar. I didn’t so much as glance in Entipy’s direction as I reached down, grabbed Ripper firmly by the back of his shirt, and dragged him toward the door. It goes to show how stupid I was: I didn’t care just then what Marie did, or whether she threw us out into the snow. For one moment, one fleeting moment, I had some measure of satisfaction in my life, and it felt damned good.
I threw open the door. Cold air blasted in so forcefully that the still-stunned patrons shivered and huddled against it, and then I sent Ripper’s unconscious body rolling off into the snow. I shoved the door closed, which was no mean feat considering the force of the wind pushing against it. I took a few steps forward and saw Marie standing behind the bar, watching me impassively. I looked in Entipy’s direction to see what she was doing, but she was just standing there, silent as the tomb, inscrutable. Her fingers were still curled into claws.
The door suddenly burst open and Ripper was there, in the doorway, bruises already swelling on his face. He had his curved blade in his hand, and I mentally cursed myself for not having taken it off him when I’d had the chance. I faced him, not moving from where I stood. Of course I didn’t move; the thunderous rush of energy that had prompted me to intercede in the first place had deserted me, and now I was rooted to the spot in absolute terror.
“You little bastard!” howled Ripper, not knowing how apt the description was. A skillet wasn’t going to do me a bit of good against an infuriated brute with a blade. I braced myself, wondering in an oblique manner what it was going to feel like to be gutted like a fish, and then a crossbow bolt thudded into the door, not half an inch from Ripper’s head. He froze and turned toward the bar.
Marie was standing there, cradling a crossbow as if she’d been born with one. There was another bolt already loaded into it. “Leave, Ripper,” she said quietly. “You’re banned for six months. If I see you come in here again, I don’t miss again. Clear?”
He stared at her sullenly, like a great animal knowing that it was caught. Then, without a further word, he turned and walked back out into the snow, pulling the door shut behind him.
No one said anything for a time. We simply stood there in a frozen tableau, and then Marie said, “Apropos … may I speak to you, please.” She lowered the crossbow, storing it behind the bar where apparently she kept it for times of emergency, and headed into the kitchen. I followed her, still clutching the skillet, listening to a rising buzz of voices as the remaining patrons talked among themselves, casting glances toward me as I passed them. I looked in Entipy’s direction, but she was looking away from me. All the while I was silently berating myself. I had acted on foolish impulse and it was going to cost us. Not only were we going to lose our lodgings, but Ripper would likely be out there in the snow waiting for us. We were going to be dead before the next sunrise, all because I had forgotten my credo and thrust myself into harm’s way. Well, if I was so stupid as to do that, maybe I deserved what was coming.
I stepped into the kitchen. Marie was waiting for me. She pulled me forward and kissed me on the cheek. I gaped at her.
“Ripper used to be my husband,” she said. “He dumped me with this bar and a mountain of debt and went off to be a trapper and dally with young and good-looking wenches … which I used to be one of, believe it or not. Thank you for rearranging his face. He deserved it.”
“You’re … you’re welcome,” I said in surprise. I couldn’t quite believe it. I kept waiting for some sort of follow-up that would bring my momentary sense of elation crashing down.
What she said next didn’t do that at all. “How would you like to earn some serious money?” she said. “Beyond the pittance I can afford to pay you.”
My first impulse was to point out that the reason it was a pittance was because she kept extracting sizable portions of it, but for once my brain outraced my tongue. Instead I said, “Will it be enough to pay a commweaver?”
“Probably not, but it will bring you a lot closer.”
“Will I have to kill anyone?”
She laughed coarsely at that. “No. No, it’s a serving job, actually. Helping to cater a rather lush banquet being sponsored by one of the nobility. They’re a bit short on staff help, you see, and the word’s gone out to all tavern and pub owners in a thirty-mile radius to send whatever help they can. Job pays nine sovs a head. If both you and your woman go, tha
t’s eighteen. It’ll leave me shorthanded for an evening, but I can manage. It’s the least I can do,” and she half-smiled, “just for the joy of seeing Ripper’s nose mashed somewhere into the back of his head.”
I couldn’t believe it was happening. Genuine luck was being tossed my way. I, who was the foremost advocate of the philosophy that no good deed goes unpunished, was actually benefiting from stepping in to help someone else, even though my motives were purely for my self-satisfaction. “All right … all right, definitely, yes,” I said. “Definitely, I’m in. When and where is it, and what’s the occasion?”
“It’s a week from Sunday, at the castle of the dreaded Warlord Shank.”
I felt my throat close up. “It … is?”
“Yes. It appears our beloved Warlord is preparing to take himself a bride, and he is throwing a gathering for all the local nobles to introduce her. The Countess of Pince-Nez, I think her name is.”
“How … nice,” I managed to say. “Although I’m … a bit surprised. You’d think that someone of the, uhm, warlord’s stature … wouldn’t be wanting for staff.”
“Well, he does have a tendency to kill those whom he finds wanting, so he can be a little shorthanded at times.”
“We can’t pass it up,” said Entipy.
We had retired for the night to the wretched little storage room that we shared, and I was staring at her, goggle-eyed, in the dimness. “Are you insane?” I demanded, and then reminded myself that I knew the answer to that one already. “Walk straight into the den of our enemy?”
“My father’s enemy, not mine,” she reminded him. “He doesn’t know me, or you. We’ll be perfectly safe. And the money is too good to pass up. Eighteen sovs is almost halfway to a duke.”
“I don’t care if it’s almost halfway to a king. The risk is—”
“The risk is minimal,” Entipy said, “and worth it. I’m going. Whether you go or not is entirely your own affair. But consider that there’s an element of risk the longer we stay here. The sooner we get back home, the better, and eighteen sovs will get us there sooner than later.”
