Percepliquis

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Cheering. Applause.

  The door opened and Arista stepped inside, then closed it behind her and leaned on it as if she were barricading it with her body. “Where’d they all come from?”

  “Word spread,” Ayers replied, looking self-conscious. “I need to get back to the bar. I can’t leave the mob too long without refreshment.”

  As Ayers exited, Hadrian spotted Mince standing with the other boys just outside the doorway. Hadrian waved them in. All five entered the dining room in single file and stood just inside—afraid to move farther.

  “They came to our room and told us there was food down here, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian. “But we don’t know where to go.”

  “Take a seat at the table,” Hadrian replied.

  All the boys reacted with the same shocked expression, a mixture of fear and wonder.

  “Oh, we aren’t going to have the servants eat with us,” Alric said, causing the boys to halt.

  “There are enough chairs,” Arista pointed out.

  “But honestly, stableboys? Look at them. They’re not just servants; they’re children. There must be somewhere else they can eat.”

  “Actually, if I may…” Hadrian spoke loudly, stood up, and grabbed a hold of Mince, who was attempting to worm his way out of the room. “These young men here,” Hadrian said, pointing to Elbright, Kine, and Brand, “assisted in rousing the people of Aquesta to open the gates for you and your army. And Renwick”—Hadrian pointed at the oldest—“was a tremendous help to me as my squire during the time I pretended to be a knight.”

  “Still am, sir. I don’t care what they say.”

  Hadrian smiled at him. “He also fought in the palace courtyard and was one of the first into the dungeon, if you recall. And this young man here,” he said, holding the squirming boy with both hands, “is Mince. This child, as you call him, has been singled out by the empress herself as being instrumental in the overthrow of Ethelred and Saldur. Without them, it is very likely that your sister, Royce, I, and even the empress would all be dead. Oh, and of course, so would you and Mauvin. Not bad for a stableboy. So for all that they have done, don’t you think they deserve a place at our table?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Alric said quickly, looking a bit ashamed.

  “Sit down,” Hadrian told them, and they each took a seat, smiles across their faces.

  A rotund woman with short, ratty hair and saddlebag cheeks backed into the room from the kitchen, carrying a deep tray of spit-roasted lamb. She wore a gray wool dress and yet another grease-stained apron.

  She approached the table and stopped abruptly, looking at the diners with a disappointed—even irritated—expression. “Missing three,” she said, her high voice reminding Hadrian of a squeaking door.

  “I’ll bring a plate up for Royce. He’s… he’s not feeling well,” Hadrian explained.

  Arista glanced at him. “Is it okay to leave him alone?”

  Hadrian nodded. “I think so. Besides, if he wanted to do something, who’s going to stop him?”

  “Elden will also be staying in his room,” Wyatt mentioned. “He has a thing about crowds.”

  The cook nodded. Her large breasts, outlined by the apron, hung over the edge of the pan, threatening to nudge the steaming lamb. No one else spoke. Finally she asked, “And where’s that scoundrel Degan Gaunt? I can’t imagine him turning down a free meal.”

  “Scoundrel?” Hadrian said, surprised. “I thought he was a hero here in Ratibor.”

  “Hero?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, you know. Local boy who went off to seek his fortune, became a pirate, and returned to lead the liberation movement.”

  The cook laughed, though it was more like a cackle that juggled its way out of her round throat. She put down the tray and began cutting the meat.

  Everyone at the table exchanged glances.

  Wyatt shrugged. “I don’t know his background, but Gaunt was no pirate. That I do know.”

  Again, the cook cackled and this time put a hand to her lips, which turned the laughter inward and caused her shoulders and chest to bounce.

  “Are you going to let us in on the joke?” Alric asked.

  “Oh, well, it’s not my place to be spreading rumors, now is it?” she said, and followed the statement by making a show of biting her lower lip. Her hands slowed in their work and then stopped. She looked up and a huge grin pushed the saddlebags apart.

  “Okay, so it’s this way,” she said, lowering her voice. “I grew up only a few doors down from Gaunt—right there on Degan Street. Did you know that his mother named him Degan because it was the only word she knew how to spell, having seen the street sign for so many years?”

  Now that her mouth was going, so were her hands, and she sliced portions and delivered them to their plates, heedless of the little trails of grease she left. “Anywho, his mother and mine were close and I used to be best friends with his sister, Miranda. She was a joy, but Degan—well, even as a boy he was a demon. We stayed clear of him when we could. He was a pitiful little wretch. He got caught stealing dozens of times, and not because of need. I mean, I don’t agree with theft, but pinching a loaf of bread from Briklin’s Bakery when the old man has his back turned to surprise your mother with on Wintertide is one thing. I ain’t saying it is right, but I overlook something like that.

  “Well, as for Degan, he goes in for stuff like smashing the window on the curio shop so he can have a porcelain rabbit he had his eye on. Thing is, everyone knows he’s a no-good. You can see it in the way shopkeepers watch him or shoo him out the door. They can spot the likes of him a mile away.”

  Just then, Ayers barged in. “Jimmy, get to the cellar and roll out another keg. They’ve already drained the one we pulled up earlier.” The boy put down his pitchers and ran toward the kitchen. Ayers stared at the cook. “You’re not bothering these folks, are you, Bella? Is she bothering any of you?”

  “Not at all,” Arista replied, and all the heads at the table nodded in agreement.

  “Well, keep it that way. She has a way of yammering, she does.”

  Bella blinked her eyes innocently.

  Jimmy appeared, rolling a barrel from the kitchen.

  “How many we got left?” the innkeeper asked.

  “Four.”

  Ayers frowned. “I shoulda ordered more, but who knew…” He pointed at the diners and shrugged. Ayers took control of the barrel and returned to the tavern. Bella waited a moment, staring at the door. Then a grin filled her face and she went on.

  “Now, just ta give you an idea about how bad things got for ole Degan, he even received a visit from the BD telling him to cut it out. Course he don’t and yet somehow managed to avoid punishment. Miranda and I used to talk about how that boy was charmed. But after his mother’s death, he got into some real trouble. Now, I wasn’t there to see it, but rumor is—and it sure seemed like the kinda thing that idiot would do—he got drunk and raped Clara, the candle maker’s daughter. Well, her old man had connections. Not only was he a favorite merchant to the royal chamberlain, but his nephew was in the BD.”

  “BD?” Myron asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “BD—Black Diamond,” Mauvin told him.

  Myron still looked confused.

  “Not a lot of literature on them,” Hadrian said. “The Black Diamond is a very powerful thieves’ guild. They control all the illegal activity in a city, just like a potters’ guild controls the pottery market.”

  The monk nodded. The cook was standing still again, holding a lamb chop between two greasy, stubby fingers, waiting, as if her body could not move unless her mouth was.

  “I’m sorry, please continue,” Myron said. “This is a wonderful story.”

  “Well now,” she went on, dumping the chop onto Myron’s plate so roughly and off center that it nearly flipped over. “I remember there were patrols combing the streets for him. They was angry too, shouting that they was gonna hang him, only they never found ole Degan. Turns
out that a press-gang near the docks caught him that very night. They didn’t know who he was. They just needed hands for a ship and hauled him off to sea. Like I said, the man is charmed.

  “Okay, so this next part I know from reliable folk. Some years later, the ship he was on was attacked by pirates. They done killed the whole crew but somehow ole Degan survived. Who knows how he done it? He probably convinced them pirates he knew where a treasure was buried er sumptin. Anywho, he gets away. Some folks say a storm wrecked the pirate ship, and again he’s the lone survivor. That seems a mite bit lucky for anyone, but for Degan it doesn’t seem so strange. So he ends up in Delgos and gets into trouble again. He’s back to his old tricks, this time stealing from the merchant families at the border villages. He’s going to be executed for sure this time, but then he spins his greatest tale.

  “He says he was only taking the money to finance his dream of freeing the common man from the boot of the aristocracy. Can you believe it? Degan Gaunt, a man of the people? Well, that kinda talk plays real well down that way. Those folks on the peninsula hate the monarchies. They swallow it and, what do you know, not only do they let him go—they give him money for his cause! Well, this just tickles Degan, as you could imagine, and he decides to keep the thing going. He travels all over, giving speeches and getting donations. I heard him once when he was preaching his spiel in Colnora. He was actually pretty good at it—all shouts for liberty and freedom, banging his fist on a podium and working up a sweat. Then a’course he passes the hat. But then—” She stopped talking as she struggled to free a troublesome lamb chop from the rest.

  “But then?” Alric asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “Somehow he goes from being this traveling sideshow to actually running an army—and a successful one at that! That’s just strange. It’s one thing to be—”

  The crowd outside the door began clapping, and a moment later the door to the dining room opened and Degan stepped inside. He had a disapproving sneer on his face.

  “You started serving without me?”

  No one answered and the cook puckered her lips, continuing to dish out the meal in silence. Degan took a seat and waited impatiently for his plate. Everyone stared at him until he glared back, irritated. “What?”

  “This is very good.” Wyatt spoke up, pointing to the lamb on his plate.

  “Thank you,” the cook replied.

  “If it is, it will be the first time this place has served anything eatable,” Gaunt muttered. “Hurry up, woman!”

  The cook, who stood behind him, made a see what I mean? face and dropped a chop on his plate.

  “What time will you folks be getting up?” the cook asked. “You’ll be wanting breakfast, won’t you?”

  “We’ll be leaving early,” Arista said. She caught a look from her brother. “Isn’t that right, Alric?” she added.

  “Yes, yes, ah—dawn, I should think,” he said. “Breakfast should be before that. Something hot, I hope.”

  “Seeing the business you’re bringing him, old Ayers would pay to poach venison if you wanted it. Course he ain’t gonna be too pleased you’re leaving tomorrow. I’m sure he’s hoping you’ll be here a week at least.”

  “We’re in a hurry,” Arista explained.

  Bella looked as if she might say more when the common room door opened again. “Bella, quit bugging them. I don’t pay you to chatter. I have orders for food. I need five stews and a plowman’s meal.”

  “All right, all right!” she bellowed back. She turned to the diners and, with an awkward curtsy, rushed off to the kitchen.

  The room was dark except for the moonlight that entered through the window and the glow of hot coals in the fireplace. Outside, the wind blew snow against the building. Royce could hear the muffled sounds of voices rising through the floorboards as everyone ate dinner. The shift of furniture, the clink of glasses—he had heard it all before.

  Royce’s eyes focused on the street corner outside. He could see the start of the alley between Ingersol’s Leather Shop and a silversmith. It was right there—on that very corner, that exact spot.

  “That’s where I came from.” Royce spoke to the empty room, his words condensing on the window’s glass, making a tiny fog.

  He remembered nights like this—cold, windy nights when it was hard to get to sleep. Most nights he had slept in a barrel packed with straw, but when it was really cold—the kind of cold that killed—he had climbed into barns and squeezed between sheep and cattle. Doing so was dangerous. Farmers listened to their animals, and if they found intruders, they assumed they were stealing.

  Royce had been only eight, maybe ten years old. He had been freezing, his feet and hands numb, his cheeks burning. It was late and he had crawled into the stable on Legends Avenue. The rear stall was blocked off into a makeshift manger for four sheep. They lay curled up as one big wooly bed, their sides rising and falling like breathing pillows. Royce carefully crawled into the middle, feeling their body heat and the soft wool. They bleated at his intrusion, but given the size of the stall, they suffered his presence. In just a few minutes he fell asleep.

  He woke to a farmer with a pitchfork. The farmer jabbed and nearly got Royce in the stomach. Royce rolled, taking the tongs in his shoulder. He screamed and scattered the sheep, which bounced off the walls. In the confusion, Royce escaped into the snow. The hour was late. It was still dark, and blood ran down his arm. He had not yet discovered the sewers and had no place to go. He returned to the barrel on the corner and climbed in, pulling as much straw over him as he could.

  Royce remembered hearing “Ladies of Engenall” played on a fiddle from inside the Gnome. He listened to them all night: people singing, laughing, clinking glasses—all warm, safe, and happy while outside he shivered and cried. His shoulder screamed in pain. The rags he wore hardened as the blood froze. Then it started to snow. He felt the flakes on his face and thought he would die that night. He was so certain that he prayed, and that was the first and last time he had ever asked the gods for help. The memory was so vivid he could almost smell the straw. He recalled lying there shivering, his eyes shut tight as he had whispered aloud to Novron, asking to be saved. He pleaded, reminding the god that he was only a child—a boy—only he knew that was a lie. He was not a boy—boys were human.

  Royce was not human—not entirely. He was a mir, a half-breed, a mongrel.

  He knew Novron would not help him. Novron and his father, Maribor, were the gods of men. Why would they listen to the words of an elf, a hated cur whose own parents had thrown him away as trash? Still, he begged for his life anyway. Because he did not look like an elf, the young Royce reasoned that maybe Novron would not notice.

  Right down there, on that corner, Royce had begged to live.

  He traced a circle on the window with his finger.

  He always remembered it as the worst night of his life—he had been alone, terrified, dying. And he had been so happy the next morning when he was still alive. Starved, shaking from the cold, stiff from sleeping in a ball, shoulder throbbing, but as happy as a person could be.

  Here I am, warm and comfortable in The Laughing Gnome, and I’d give anything to be in that barrel again.

  A board creaked and Myron entered quietly. He hesitated at the door, then slowly crossed the room toward Royce and sat down on the bed near him.

  “I used to sit for hours too,” the monk said, his voice soft, just a tad above a whisper. “I used to remember things… times and places, both good and bad. I would see something that reminded me of my past and wish I could go back. I wished I could be the way I used to be, even if that meant pain. Only I could never find my way around the wall. Do you know what I mean by the wall?”

  Royce refused to answer. Myron did not seem to mind.

  “After the burning of the abbey, I never felt whole again. Half of me was missing—gone—more than half. What was left was lost, like I didn’t know where I was or how to get back.”

  Royce stared. He was breathin
g faster without knowing why.

  “I tried to find a way to go on. I could see familiar traces of the path that was my life, but there was always the wall behind me. Do you know what I mean? First you try and climb, pretending it never happened, but it’s too tall. Then you try to go around, thinking you can fix it, but it is too far. Then, in frustration, you beat on it with your hands, but it does nothing, so you tire and sit down and just stare at it. You stare because you can’t bring yourself to walk away. Walking away means that you’re giving up, abandoning them.

  “There is no way back. There is only forward. It’s impossible to imagine there’s any reason to move ahead, but that isn’t the real reason you give up. The real fear—the terror that keeps you rooted—is that you might be wrong.”

  Royce reeled. It was as if Myron were rifling through his heart, opening sealed closets and exploring locked drawers. Royce gave Myron a withering look. If he were a dog, Royce would be growling, yet Myron seemed not to notice.

  The little monk went on.

  “Instead of passion, you have regret. In place of effort, you are mired in memory. You sink in nothingness and your heart drowns in despair. At times—usually at night—it’s a physical pain, both sharp and dull. The anguish is unbearable.”

  Royce reached out and grabbed Myron by the wrist. He wanted him to stop—needed him to stop.

  “You feel you have no choices. Your love for those who have gone makes you hold tight to their memory and the pain of their loss. You feel to do anything else would be disloyal to them,” Myron went on, placing his free hand on top of Royce’s and patting it gently.

  “While the idea of leaving is at first impossible to contemplate, the question you need to ask is, how would they feel knowing that you are torturing yourself because of them? Is this what they would want? Is that what you would want them to do if the situation was reversed? If you love them, you need to let go of your pain and live your life. To do otherwise is a selfish cruelty.”

  Hadrian opened the door and nearly dropped the plate of lamb. He stepped in hesitantly. “Everything all right here?” he asked.