by Peter David
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“I’m sorry, but that really just wouldn’t work for me. For one thing, I typically look good in hats, and horns would make head apparel problematic.”
“To say the least.”
“So”—and James rubbed his hands together briskly—“to Sutcliff, then?”
“Unless there is someplace that you would rather go.”
“Any number of them. But Sutcliff would seem to be the place. Especially since we now have a name to ask for.”
“You mean Kreel,” said Thomas. “A man who claims to hunt balverines regularly.”
“It would seem to make him the perfect guide.”
“Yes. Which is enough to worry me,” said Thomas, “since I’ve discovered that most things in life that seem perfect tend to be anything but. Still, he would give us—at the very least—a starting point.” He glanced around. “Where is the Poxy Cur?”
“Oh, she’ll probably show up in a few minutes.” James, now standing, brushed off the dirt from himself. “You know how kids are. They don’t like to hang around and see their parents fighting.”
Thomas laughed at that and clapped James on the shoulder. Then, in all seriousness, he said, “I would be lost without you, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” said James with an indifferent toss of his head. “I just wanted to make certain that you knew.”
“I FIND THAT VERY HARD TO BELIEVE.”
The storyteller stops and regards me with polite confusion. “What’s that, Majesty?”
“That business with horns and flies and such. I mean, the thing with the glow is hard enough to swallow, but now I’m supposed to accept that negative decisions cause a demonic aspect to manifest? Honestly, how could that be possible?”
“Since you are asking, Your Majesty,” the storyteller replies, “I should think that you would know that as well as anyone. How many times have you encountered individuals about whom you could make judgments based purely upon their appearances? A modest maiden, perhaps? Or a barbarian warrior? Does not a thief telegraph his intentions with his shifty nature? Or a swaggering brute his predisposition toward violence?”
“That is all true enough,” I say, “but it is hardly the same thing as claiming that one’s choices cause physical changes—”
“Can you not discern a glutton by his more-than-ample physique? The laborer by the quality of his hands? The dandy by the softness of his?”
“Again, there are exceptions, certainly ...”
“No exceptions,” the storyteller says with conviction. “Who we are, what we are, the type of person we are . . . all these things are discernible in a hundred different manners to one who is observant. It is all a matter of degrees. And Heroes are like other men and women, only more so. They are held to a far higher standard and thus operate on a grander scale than mere mortals. So if people look upon a Hero who is positively aligned, does it not make sense that they would perceive him as the essence of goodness? And by the same token, if his actions are negatively aligned, then such would be visible even to the naked eye of the most common of commoners. Certainly, horns and gleaming red eyes would be far in excess of the physical changes one would see in an ordinary, life-size individual, but Heroes . . . they are much larger than life. So naturally the manner in which their decisions impact on them would be larger-than-life as well, as least as far as observers are concerned.”
I give that explanation some thought and find myself nodding slowly. “I admit that that makes a certain degree of sense. Very well, then, storyteller: I accept your explanation, at least for now. So”—and I gesture lazily—“you may proceed with your tale if you are of a mind to. As I recall, the lads had managed to salvage their relationship when it was teetering on the brink of total destruction, am I correct?”
“You are indeed, Majesty. Were you concerned that they would not be able to do so? That there would be an irreparable rift between them?”
“I was worried that might be the case and was hoping it would not be,” I admit. “The lads are well matched in temperament and deserve to bring this quest to a successful conclusion united.”
“Why do you believe that the quest will in fact be concluded successfully at all? You do not know that of a certainty.”
“That is true,” I say, “but it seemed a safe assumption.”
“Assumptions are never, by definition, safe. Quests do fail, Majesty. Heroes do fall short of their goals. Many even die in the attempt.”
“That is true, but who tells such stories? The fact that the story of Thomas and James is sufficient to warrant repetition by one such as you would seem to assure that it was fulfilled. What other reason would a storyteller have for describing their adventures?”
“A cautionary tale, perhaps. The mere telling of a story does not guarantee a happy ending. A tale of young love can end tragically in the deaths of the two lovers, their romance forever denied, at least in this world. That does not make the story any less potent.”
“But these are not two young lovers of whom we speak. These are two friends upon an adventure. What purpose to tell their story if not to bask in their triumph?”
“To remind others,” says the storyteller, “of the high price of failure.”
I consider that, and then say, with a touch of worry, “Well, now, that is a consideration that is genuinely going to fester within me.” I draw my great cloak around me even more tightly, for it seems to be getting colder still, and we have been outside far longer than I had anticipated when I first came out here. “Very well, then. Speak of these matters with no assurance of the outcome, and I shall hope for the best.”
“As you wish, Majesty.” And he leans back, his gaze drifting inward as if he is seeing the matters playing out before his inner eye. “James, as it turned out, was quite correct; Poxy rejoined them before they had traveled half a mile. She simply emerged from the woods as if she had not departed, her tail wagging eagerly in greeting. Together, the three of them retraced their steps and then kept on the road headed east. Every so often they would affirm from passersby that they were indeed heading toward Sutcliff, and the response would always be a ready confirmation. A few suggested that there were other destinations that might be more interesting and—to use their term—more modern. ‘Modern’ was, of course, a relative term, since much of the countryside was primitive by the standards of Albion to which James and Thomas were accustomed. But Sutcliff, by all accounts, was primitive even by the standards of Blackridge. There were no factories pumping out smoke, no great machine shops pounding out manufacturing. More than that, though, was the architecture of the place. The buildings were made of crumbling stone, with gargoyles mounted atop in eternal crouches that made it seem for all the world as if they were ready to leap upon unsuspecting visitors. Some claimed that Sutcliff was a haven for all things uncanny, that hollow men haunted the cemeteries, and banshees drifted through the streets late at night. None of these were the boys able to verify personally; on the other hand, they weren’t really trying all that hard since these were not creatures that they had any desire to encounter.
“Sutcliff itself was curiously divided, and in a manner appropriate to its name. The two sections were referred to as the Uppers and the Lowers. That was reflected along economic lines rightly enough—the working class, the farmers, the tradesmen, all resided in Lower Sutcliff, while the rich, the well-to-do, and the powerful were in far grander homes . . . ‘grander’ being a relative term ... in Upper Sutcliff. But it was also a part of the geographic construction of the terrain. Lower Sutcliff was a vast valley that bumped up against the waters, while Upper Sutcliff was a hillside community that stretched around into—appropriately to the town’s name—a towering cliff side. Residents on the highest peaks of Sutcliff could gaze down upon the residents of the valley, watching them in the way that eagles could look down upon ants and be amused at the way they scurried about their business.
“And in their travels, in addition to
asking about the town, Thomas and James would every so often ask if anyone knew the name of Kreel. No one claimed to have firsthand knowledge of him, and some of them were doubtless speaking the truth. But others appeared to be lying, for they would suddenly refuse to meet Thomas’s gaze, or they would hurriedly remember an appointment and be on their way down the road. No fools were Thomas and James. They were easily able to discern the falsehoods uttered by those they encountered, and it was obvious that these people had no desire to dwell on the mysterious Kreel or even mention his name if it could be helped.
“They arrived in Sutcliff and continued in much the way they had until that point, hoping that fate would turn in their favor.
“As it happened, it both did and did not ...”
Chapter 11
THE MARKETPLACE IN LOWER SUTCLIFF was bustling, a mass of humanity on a bright morning that was the first display of pleasant weather in a week, which was probably the reason for the copious number of people there. James and Thomas were drinking in the atmosphere, both figuratively and literally since there were shopkeepers there from local brew houses who were more than happy to sell samples of their wares.
It reminded James, in a wistful sort of way, of his home, except this was somewhat cleaner, a difference that he was inclined to chalk up to the relative lack of industrialization. For one thing, the air was far cleaner. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had actually enjoyed breathing. He would take deep lungfuls of air into his chest and swore that he could taste the difference between what he was experiencing and what he had grown up with.
Moreover, city services were dedicated toward keeping the streets themselves as clean as possible, with a surprising number of people whose job apparently consisted of running around with brushes and scoops to make sure that all animal offal was cleaned up from the streets. For once James didn’t have to watch where he was going lest he step into gifts left behind from horses. He wasn’t noticing any dogs in the area, which made him wonder if the same superstitiousness from Blackridge was in force here in Sutcliff. However, people weren’t glaring at him as he walked along with Poxy at his heel; in fact, they didn’t seem to notice them at all, which was just fine with James.
The smell of cooking sausages caught his nostrils and drew him over to a stand, Poxy following eagerly. Her mouth was practically watering. The man behind the grill noticed the dog and, instead of trying to chase her away, pulled out an uncooked sausage from behind his counter and flipped it to her. She caught it on the fly and immediately gulped it down with such eagerness that the man, laughing, tossed her two more just to watch her excitement.
“How much for—?” said James, indicating the third sausage that Poxy was just in the process of gulping down.
“Buy something for yourself, and we’ll call those bonuses,” he said.
This naturally endeared the man immediately to James and he pulled his purse loose from his belt and dug in generously. He had become so sick of the barely adequate food that they’d been eating at inns, combined with whatever they’d manage to catch themselves while traveling through forests, that this came as a pleasant change of pace. He wound up buying three, whereas, if not for the man’s generosity with Poxy, he likely would have bought only one, maybe two. Relooping his purse around his belt, he tasted the first cooked sausage so fast that he wound up burning his tongue and proceeded more slowly with the second one.
Before he could eat the third, however, he felt someone bump into him.
Typically in such an encounter, the person doing the bumping would offer some sort of apology, occasionally earnest, sometimes perfunctory, and maybe even desultory. The one who had bumped into James, however, did none of those. Moreover it was done with enough force that James was convinced that it was deliberate.
Some sixth sense warned him, and immediately his hand went to where his purse was. Except, in this case, it was more accurate to say that it went to where his purse had been, for it was no longer there.
“Son of a bitch!” shouted James, and he whirled, just in time to catch a quick glimpse of the person who had bumped into him—a small form in a gray cloak—moving hastily through the crowd, trying to put distance between them. “Stop him!” he shouted, and instantly he was in pursuit.
It was everything he could do to keep the thief in sight. The little cretin kept dodging this way and that, trying to insinuate himself between people who were going about their business and were utterly unaware that a sneak thief and cutpurse was trying to employ them as a means of escape.
James continued to shout “Stop him!” but no one made any move to impede the thief. Instead, they looked around in confusion, as if unsure what was being asked of them.
Then Poxy started barking furiously, and that was sufficient to get the crowd to part where James’s cries had been insufficient. Suddenly, magically, James had a straight avenue right toward the sneak thief. Poxy sprinted ahead of him, covering the distance more efficiently courtesy of her four legs compared to his paltry two.
The thief darted to the right, trying to get away, but Poxy had his scent now, and people continued to scatter in order to get out of her way. Poxy caught up just in time to snag the trailing end of the thief’s cape, and she seized it in her jaws. It yanked the thief to a halt, a strangled cry coming from him. He grabbed at the collar of his cape, trying to untie the bindings and free himself from it so that he could keep going. Apparently, they were tightly knotted, or else the thief was just nervous, because he fumbled with them for a few seconds that wound up costing him dearly. For it was sufficient time for James to catch up with him and slam into him, knocking him to the ground. The cape tore out of Poxy’s mouth, leaving her with a mouthful of material.
James struggled furiously with the thief, who was trying to squirm free from his grasp. It was like trying to wrestle with an eel; three times did the thief nearly squirm free. Opting to go for a wrestling hold in order to immobilize him, James shoved his arms under the thief’s armpits, brought them around, and clamped his hands across the thief’s chest.
They grabbed on to two round, unaccountably soft projections from the front of the thief’s chest.
He was so startled at realizing that he was grasping two handfuls of female breast that it was enough for him to relax his guard for half a second. That was all that was required for the thief to drive an elbow into his mouth, splitting his lip. It knocked James off her back and onto his own. She stumbled to her feet then and started to run forward, and might well have gotten away except Thomas stepped into view, sword in his hand and the blade aimed directly at the base of the thief’s throat. The two of them had separated so that they could work the crowd more efficiently in their attempts to try to locate someone who knew the mysterious Kreel. But James’s shouts for help had brought him running, and now he was blocking the thief’s direct line of escape. “Don’t move,” Thomas advised.
Poxy was now at his side, offering similarly growling warning. The thief ignored the advice, turning to try and run back the way she had come, but James was back on his feet and blocking her path.
“Give it back,” said James, his hand outstretched.
The young girl was glaring at him with the most stunning green eyes he’d ever seen. Her hair, now visible because her hood had been pulled back, was fiery red, but her bearing and the upthrust tilt of her chin gave her something of a mannish look. “Give what back?”
“Don’t try to bluff it through, missy,” James warned her.
“Bluff what through, you sick bastard? You jumped on me, were groping me ...”
“You stole my money!”
“I don’t think so. You,” she said preemptively to Thomas, “with the pigsticker. Sheathe it and get out of my way. If you do, then I’m just willing to forget all this.”
By now the confrontation had drawn a sizable crowd. James was starting to get uncomfortable as he realized that what the onlookers were faced with was two strangers threatening a young woman who was claimi
ng that she had been manhandled. If it came down to who the mob was going to side with, he wasn’t thrilled with the odds coming down in his favor.
Suddenly, there was a bellowing shout of, “Make way! Make way for the magistrate’s men! What’s all this, then? What’s all this?” James let out a sigh of relief because now the authorities had made their presence known. That relief lasted for exactly as long as it took him to realize that they, too, might well side with the young woman over the two out-of-town men.
The crowd separated, allowing four uniformed men to make their way through. They were armed with both swords and pistols, and their long blue coats with braid on the shoulders were very impressive-looking. Whoever this magistrate was, he certainly liked to keep his men well attired. The tallest of them, with furrowed brow and bristling beard, strode forward, and when he spoke, it was instantly obvious that he had been the one shouting up until that point. “So what’s going on here?”
Before James could get a word out, the girl stepped forward, brazen as anything, and pointed accusingly at him. “He grabbed me and groped me and tried to steal my purse as well.” And she had the unmitigated gall to hold up James’s own money purse. The small brown leather sack, much smaller and less full than the one he’d lost at sea, dangled from her hand, tauntingly. “Fortunately, he never got near it.”
“She’s lying,” James said heatedly. “She took it from me. I was the one chasing her. My friend will vouch for me.” And he pointed at Thomas.
“Of course; he’s his friend. His partner in crime,” the girl said defiantly. “He and his animal blocked my path so that I’d be forced to stop, and then the one from behind came in to try and grab it. Grab my hard-earned money!”
James’s heart was sinking as he saw how the people in the crowd were glaring at him, nor did the officers seem particularly sympathetic to him. He had to admire the young woman’s technique: She had to be about his age, but she was as masterful an actress as a female twice her age. She had even managed to acquire a slight tremble in her voice, as if she were so shaken that she was striving not to burst into tears in the face of these horrible youths who had teamed up to rob her.
