by Peter David
The girl had not been in the least bit startled. Rather, she stared down at the sergeant with a sort of indifference, as if the abrupt taking of a human life was of no consequence to her. Then she looked back to the magistrate, and said, “I would appreciate it, Magistrate, if someone unbound my hands. My wrists are starting to chafe.”
“Do as she says!” the magistrate ordered. The soldiers had scarcely had time to process the fact that their sergeant was dead when one of them moved forward to release the girl’s wrists. Then the magistrate turned back to Thomas and James and stared at them as if not quite certain what to make of them. This was someone whose entire world was carefully constructed in such a way that he knew all the components of it intimately and was able to control all of them. At least that was how Thomas saw it. But it was clear that he was utterly bewildered as far as the two of them were concerned. Settling for the simplest means of dealing with the situation, he pointed at them with one bony finger, and said, “Take them back to their cell. Do nothing to injure them. Nothing.”
SO IT WAS THAT JAMES AND THOMAS FOUND themselves right back where they had been scarcely an hour earlier. As if they had never left, Poxy contentedly lay down, rested her head on her paws once more, and settled back to sleep.
“What the hell just happened?” said James.
Thomas shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
James gently thumped his head back against the wall. “I can’t believe that I actually thought I’d imposed my will on that . . . that gargoyle. What the hell was I thinking?”
“I’ll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that here you were talking about me being brave? Suffering cats, James! At least I was holding a sword when I made my stand!” He laughed, incredulous. “Shouting at the guard, facing off against the magistrate. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And it would have been the last thing you’d ever seen if it hadn’t been for . . . I don’t know what that was! That girl! The magistrate looked ready to piss himself! Who the hell was she?”
“Well,” Thomas said thoughtfully, “she obviously knew the magistrate, and he knew her, and she knew he was going to know her.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted.
“Okay, well, that was useful.”
“Whoever she was, though, I have a feeling we’re going to find out. He told them not to harm us, remember. Obviously ...”
“There’s something about this that’s obvious?”
Thomas nodded. “He’s not sure of our relation to the girl and doesn’t want to do anything that’s going to upset her.”
“I’m not sure of our relation to her either, so at least we’re on the same page in that respect.”
They talked for a time longer, batting around theories, none of which were provable or even particularly convincing. Eventually, just as before, Poxy suddenly hopped to her feet and turned to face the door. Her body was tense, as if she were bracing for another possible battle.
Then they heard the voice of one of the guards saying, “This is the one, my laird. They’re in here.”
“Thank you. You’re free to go.” The voice was deep and confident and slightly lilting, and there was a slight burr to the words that sounded foreign to Thomas and James. Moments later, they heard a key turning in the lock, and the door swung open.
A man stepped into view. He was tall, close to six feet, with thick brown hair that had touches of gray in the wide sideburns. He was dressed entirely in gray, the only contrast being his voluminous cloak, which was of thick white fur. Even though there was no breeze whatsoever in the dank cell area, the fur seemed to be riffling, as if it had a life all its own. Poxy actually whimpered slightly and backed up, taking refuge behind James and peering out from between his legs.
“Greetings, my young fellows,” he said in his booming voice. “You’ve created quite the stir in Sutcliff. My good friend, the magistrate, had a great deal to say about it.”
James wanted to say defiantly that if the magistrate was a good friend to this man, then clearly this man could not be any friend to them. But he decided to keep his mouth shut since the last thing they needed was his exacerbating the situation.
Thomas instead spoke up, and said neutrally, “I’m sure he did. Did he tell you that you could send the guard away and talk to us?”
The man laughed at that, his upper body shaking as if that were the funniest thing that he had ever heard. When he recovered himself, he said, “No, no, fellow. I am not one who has to ask leave of the magistrate. He has his uses, certainly, and he does a superb job of keeping order in Lower Sutcliff. But I don’t have to ask his leave for anything.”
“Who are you?” said Thomas.
He bowed slightly, and said, “Laird Ethan Kreel, at your service.” And even as the last name sank in, he continued, “Or maybe I should say that you have been at my service?” He turned to his right, and said firmly, “I believe you have something to say, young lady?”
He pulled someone into view then from where she had been standing off to the side. It was the young thief. She looked severely chastened by his presence but nevertheless managed to summon a touch of her previous defiance. “Thank you for saving me from getting my hand chopped off,” she said, while managing not to sound the least bit grateful at all. Indeed, she sounded more like she resented their intervention, as if unwilling to acknowledge, even after all that had happened, she was at all in their debt.
Her petulant tone was not lost on the laird. “You’ll have to excuse my daughter. She has a mind of her own, which is a tragic inconvenience when it comes to women, don’t you think?”
His daughter? The thought went through both their minds.
“Now, then.” And Laird Kreel clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “Let’s get you out of his hellhole. You will come and be guests in my manse as a thanks for the service you provided us in saving my daughter from that foolish sergeant, who apparently was unable to recognize nobility when it was standing right in front of him.”
“May I ask, my laird ...” Thomas began.
“Oh, ‘Kreel’ will suffice. I do not tend to stand on ceremony.”
“Okay, then . . . Kreel ... I was wondering if you were the same Kreel who had been seeking participants for a balverine expedition?”
“The very same, yes. Why?” And he seemed to regard them with new interest. “Are you keen to join us? You’re certainly brave enough, that much you have made clear.”
“I would be keen, yes. We both would be,” said Thomas, indicating himself and James. “But do you have any experience hunting them? Have you ever actually, you know . . . seen one?”
“Seen one?” Again Kreel laughed, and he indicated the white cape he wore over his broad shoulders. “Where do you think this came from, fellows? The pelt of a frost balverine, this is. Killed and skinned the bastard myself on expedition to the far northern wastelands. I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”
“He’ll be more than happy,” said the girl ruefully. “In fact, if you want to shut him up, you can pretty much forget about it.”
“Quiet, Sabrina,” he ordered her. “You’ve indulged your disrespectful tongue enough for one outing, I should think. So, fellows”—and he turned back to them—“this meeting would seem to be serendipitous for all of us.”
“I could not agree more,” said Thomas.
At which point Sabrina actually smiled at Thomas.
For some reason, despite their imprisonment, their nonexistent trial, and the summary execution of the sergeant who had threatened them, James found that moment—Sabrina smiling—to be the single-most-disconcerting thing he’d encountered in the past day.
Chapter 13
“WELL ,” SAID JAMES, NODDING IN SATISFACTION, “this is certainly a step up from our previous quarters.”
That was something of an understatement. The guest room that they had been accorded in the mansion of Ethan Kreel was pos
itively vast in comparison to the cell, with ornate furniture and two oversized beds. James flopped back on one of them and let out a contented sigh. “I swear, this is so incredible, I could sink into it, fall asleep, and never wake up.”
“You realize that never waking up would be a bad thing, don’t you?” Thomas pointed out.
“Oh. Right. I guess so.”
There was a thick rug in the middle of the room, and Poxy took up residence on it. Even she looked contented.
“I don’t suppose he’d let us move in here,” James said hopefully and only half-joking. “I mean . . . the size of this place! It’s epic, Thomas! Epic!”
Thomas certainly couldn’t disagree with that. The mansion was almost more castle than mansion. Three stories tall, designed in an “E” shape, constructed entirely of stone, with a combination of gothic gables and three towering spires, one at either end and one directly over the main entrance. They had passed other homes on the way, each of them similarly grand, but this was easily the most prominent in the area.
The guest rooms were on the third floor, which was the only one to have any corridors; on the bottom two floors, one room simply led into another and another, each more grand than the one before it. James felt as if being there had a dizzying effect on him, as if he were climbing a mountain, and the air was becoming increasingly rarefied.
James continued to lie stretched out on the bed, and then he looked at Thomas, who was leaning against one of the walls, looking thoughtful. “You know, there are actually some nice chairs here,” James pointed out. “You could actually, you know, sit.”
“Why was Kreel going around to different towns trying to enlist people for a balverine expedition? I’m just not sure I get it. I’d figured, from what I’d heard, that he was trying to get the money together to finance it. But you’ve seen this place. Obviously, he doesn’t need the money ...”
“Obviously, I do not.”
They were both startled by the sound of Kreel’s voice. He was standing at the doorway, dressed casually, looking amused.
“You have a very soft footfall, sir. Not to mention an unnerving habit of hanging about doorways,” said Thomas.
“When one is a tracker, one is accustomed to being able to move with a light tread,” said Kreel. “As for doorways ...” And with a shrug, he stepped into the room. “Now . . . as you noted, I obviously have no need of money. Whoever told you I was soliciting customers for a hunt apparently got their facts wrong. I was instead offering to hire people to act as servants on an expedition. They may have heard that money was involved and simply misunderstood.”
“That does make a bit more sense,” Thomas said guardedly.
“Of course it does. A journey such as this entails a great deal of equipment, ranging from tents to specialized weaponry such as silver bullets or silver daggers. If I’m on my own, of course, I’m perfectly capable of attending to my own needs. But several well-to-do individuals will be joining this excursion, and they are unaccustomed to having to carry so much as their own handbag.” He shook his head and had a pitying expression, as if he could not fathom the sort of people who would require such aid. “In any event, I am pleased to say that my endeavors to that end were successful. I’ve acquired eight servants to join us. I assume, since you’ve come a long way on your own, that you will not need anyone to attend to you.”
James was about to state that, in point of fact, he was Thomas’s servant and that attending to Thomas was his job, but Thomas said quickly, “No, of course not. We can do fine on our own.”
“I suspected as much,” said Kreel. “And I, as I mentioned, am self-sufficient. So eight servants for the three individuals who will be accompanying us should be enough, don’t you think?” Thomas and James nodded. “Excellent, then. Dinner, by the way, will be served within the next few minutes, so feel free to come down and meet the others in our sojourn tomorrow.”
“How did they come to join the group?”
“Oh, word gets around,” said Kreel. “I’ve taken others on such expeditions, and they tell their friends, who contact me and ask if they can likewise participate. That’s the thing about the nobility, you see. One person hears about it, and the next thing you know, they all wish to be involved. You’ll meet them.”
“I’m not sure we’ll fit in,” said James. “We’re not exactly titled individuals.”
“Say that you are. They will not know. Tell them whatever you wish.”
Thomas was surprised by the notion. “They won’t believe us.”
“Of course they will. You are in the home of a rich man. What else would you be but the sons of rich men, sent to spend time with me and learn the skills of hunting and tracking.”
“Yeah, well”—and Thomas plucked at his clothing, extremely worn from their time on the road and in harsh elements—“we don’t exactly have the outfits to carry that off.”
“Of course you do.”
As if on cue, a servant came in, pushing a rack of clothing. The boys looked at it in surprise. As near as they could tell, it would all readily fit them.
“You were expecting to have guests of our general size and shape who would require clothing?” said James.
“Expect?” He chuckled. “You will find as you go through life, Thomas, that the wise man expects nothing but anticipates everything. By the way, you gentlemen are quite sure you do not wish separate quarters?”
“No, this will more than do,” said Thomas.
“It is, of course, none of my business, but are the two of you . . . ?” And he looked from one to the other with a raised eyebrow.
Thomas didn’t understand, but James did, and very quickly he said, “No! No, it’s not like that at all.”
At which point Thomas did comprehend, and he seconded James’s assertion. “It’s just that, we have been traveling together for so long now, and watching each other’s back ...”
“I totally understand,” said Kreel. “Would that I had a traveling companion on whom I could count so thoroughly. Very well, then. I will see you later this evening.”
He turned then and left the room, leaving the boys to sort through the clothing and be extremely impressed by what they saw.
THE ASSEMBLAGE IN THE VAST DINING ROOM was indeed a most regal one. Neither Thomas nor James had ever been to a king’s court, and this was probably as close to one as they were going to get. There was an elaborate spread upon a vast table that included fresh-roasted mutton, potatoes that smelled remarkably sweet, cooked squab, sumptuous green beans, delectable cheeses, and much more. Wine flowed freely, and the combination of the food and the lofty company was more than enough to make the entire thing one of the headiest experiences the boys had ever had.
Thomas and James met the three highly placed individuals who were slated to be in the hunting party on the morrow. The first was Roland Shaw, Duke of Entwhistle, a cheery fellow with a ruddy complexion who was positively ebullient about the prospect of seeing “something mythic.”
The second was introduced as Dean Simon Carter, the headmaster of a noted school of higher learning called the Hale Academy. Dean Carter was not yet nobility himself, but he was a widely respected academician at a school noted for catering to the youth of all the most highly placed families, and it was expected that he would receive his own title within the next year. Of all the people intending to hunt balverines, Carter seemed the least likely: an older man, slightly stooped, with bushy eyebrows and a strained manner as if he were uncomfortable outside a room filled with books. Perhaps, Thomas reasoned, Carter was deliberately undertaking the adventures as a means of expanding his horizons.
The third participant was Lady Molly Newsome. She was the most unusual of the crew. She had apparently been married to one Laird Peter Newsome, himself quite an adventurer who had demanded in a wife a woman who could keep up with him. Not only had Molly met that expectation, she had in fact exceeded it. They had been inseparable for a number of escapades, and it was during a mountain-climbing expediti
on that an unexpected rock-slide had caught his lairdship off guard and swept him off a cliff, much to the screaming horror of his now-widowed wife. Molly Newsome had sworn that she would maintain the adventurous lifestyle that she and her husband had embraced and live every moment to the fullest. She certainly seemed every inch the adventurer: a tall, robust woman with red hair piled atop her head, twinkling eyes filled with merriment, and a voice like a trumpet.
They displayed some mild interest in Thomas and James, readily accepting Kreel’s explanation for their presence. They were far more interested in conversing with each other, though.
Also present at the dinner were the eight servants Kreel had recruited for the hunt. It was unusual for servants to be allowed to eat at the same table as nobility, but Kreel was egalitarian in his attitudes. “We will all be sharing the same hazards of the hunt,” he informed the assemblage, “and therefore it is only appropriate that we become accustomed to each other’s company in more relaxed circumstances.”
Because they didn’t have to pretend to be more than they were, James found himself more comfortable interacting with the servants than with the nobility. Seated next to him at the table was a rather curious fellow whose name was apparently Bell . . . “apparently” since he was speaking with such a thick and unfamiliar accent that it took James a while to be confident in understanding what he was saying. He had a mane of hair that made him look more lion than man, and he was tall and muscular and seemed extremely impressed to be in the company that he was.
