Artus bowed, but he wasn’t sure how low he was supposed to go in this circumstance, primarily because he’d never really been in this situation before. “All thanks go to El . . . to Lady Elora, here. She rescued me from . . .” He nodded in the direction of the garden.
Elora curtsied. “Cousin.”
Valen bowed. “Cousin.”
The reminder of their relation immediately put Artus on guard—what was the game this time around? More attempts to learn about Tyvian? At least, Artus reasoned, I’m not drunk now.
Valen extended his hand and Artus took it. The grip was overly firm, but Artus tried not to read into it. He looked Artus in the eye, still smiling. “There is an ancient tradition—one those of our circle have participated in for generations. A rite of passage, if you will.”
Artus frowned. “I’m listening.”
Valen snapped his fingers and Ethick produced two buckets of rotten apples he had stashed behind a sofa. “To the stocks!”
Everyone clapped, even Elora.
Artus clapped along, too, but with less gusto. Stock baiting—they were going stock baiting.
Great.
A pillory, sometimes called only “the stocks,” was the standard punishment for petty criminals in Eretheria. A thick plank of wood would have three holes cut—one for the head and one for each hand, small enough so a person couldn’t slip their head through when the thing was closed around them. The feet would also be chained to the heavy stone base, and there the criminal would be left to stand for anywhere from an afternoon to a few days or even a week. Their neck and wrists would grow raw and painful, they’d get terribly thirsty and hungry, their back and legs would cramp up, the sun would burn their face, and then, to top it all off, occasionally young, rich twits would come along and chuck rotten things at them from afar. Artus knew all of this—he had been in the stocks five times by the time Tyvian fished him off the street. Now, it seemed, fate had made him the young rich twit with the rotten apple.
They didn’t need to go far—the closest pillory was no more than a half mile from the gates of the House of Eddon. The procession of young lords and ladies, their swords on their hips and parasols on their shoulders, walked out the front gates and down the cobblestone streets until they were there, arrayed in a half circle, about ten paces from the pillory in question.
The stocks had two people in them. One was an old man with a beard and shock of white hair that stuck out in all directions, like a mane. Artus could smell the feces and alcohol on him from twenty feet away. The other was a boy, perhaps eleven. He was pale and skinny and he was shivering despite the midday sun. A Defender of the Balance stood watch, leaning on his firepike, but if he had any opinion about the troop of people in party clothing who’d just appeared, he kept it to himself.
“Five says the boy lasts longer than the old man,” Ethick said and picked up an apple. He took aim and threw, just missing the old man and causing the apple to explode.
The old man woke up with a start. “Kroth take you, you shits! You piss-hole arse-faced mud goblins! I’ll kill you! I’ll rip your ears off!”
Everyone laughed. Valen picked up an apple and threw it at the boy. He hit the boy on the leg, causing him to whine. “Ow!” he said. “Please, sirs! Leave me be! Just leave me be!”
Valen shook his head and looked at Ethick. “Oh, my friend—this is a bet you’re going to lose.”
Others began to chime in, each taking one side or another of Ethick’s bet, all of them throwing apples. A barrage of rotten fruit exploded on the old man and the boy alike.
Elora picked up an apple and batted her eyes at Artus. “I’ve never done this before. Artus, can I have some help?”
Artus froze. “I . . . uhhh . . . I’ve never done this before either.”
Elora frowned. “Oh. Okay then.” She then made a good throw that hit the boy right in the cheek. He immediately began crying.
Artus watched Elora’s face, to see her reaction. She smiled broadly and clapped her hands. “I hit him! Gods, what a good throw!”
A collective groan came from those who had bet on the boy. “Damn.” Ethick grunted, “That was barely any sport, too.”
Sport?
“Pay up.” Valen held out his hand. “All of you.”
People dug into their purses and slapped their money into Valen’s hand. When he got to Michelle, she had her arms folded. “I didn’t bet.”
Valen scowled. “What do you mean you didn’t bet?”
“I don’t like this, Valen. It’s nasty.”
Valen snorted. “Oh, is that so? Michelle Orly, daughter of Sir Nobody of Nowhere, is dictating propriety to me? That’s rich.” He held out his hand. “Pay up.”
Artus looked over at the pillory. The boy was crying, his eye swelling from Elora’s hit. The drunk was still ranting incoherently, which only seemed to frighten the boy more. His whole, stick-thin body was shivering. Artus knew that kind of cold—knew it deep in his bones. He still remembered it, curled up in that barn in Freegate, right after being robbed for the first time, crying and calling for his mother. His real mother.
“Leave her alone, Valen,” he said. “She didn’t bet, so she doesn’t pay. She ain’t ruining anybody’s time.”
Valen stiffened. “What did you just say?”
Ethick snorted. “He said ‘ain’t.’”
Elora laughed. “Oh, Artus, you have been among the peasantry for too long! It’s too funny!”
Valen pressed an apple into Artus’s hand. “Here. Your turn. How many throws until you can get the old man to beg for mercy? I’m betting six.”
Artus let the apple drop. “I don’t think this is funny, Valen.”
Valen snorted. “Oh, so you’re passing judgement, too, eh? Artus, I don’t think you get it—Michelle over there, she’s a nobody—she’s just always hanging around. You, though—you are going to be a somebody. You need to do this, understand?”
Artus scowled. “Why’s that?”
All sense of joviality melted away from Valen. It was like he had plucked off a mask. “Look, Artus—I’m doing you a favor, here.” He produced a small monocle from a pocket and leaned in close, whispering so the others couldn’t hear. “You see this? It’s a truthlens—sees right through illusions, understand?”
Artus looked at it, a chill spiking through him. A bluff? He wouldn’t dare, would he? That was grounds for a duel. Did they actually want to get in a duel with a future prince?
Valen seemed to read his expression. “Oh yes—I know your little secret, Artus of Eddon. I know what your mother is, what your brother is. I keep secrets for my friends, understand?” He smiled, but it was a cold smile. “But for people who aren’t my friends? Maybe I’m not so discreet. Maybe I’ll tell a few people.”
Duel or no duel, this was too low a blow. Did Tyvian expect him to walk away from this? Artus found himself growling. “You lousy son of a bitch.”
Elora looked horrified. Everyone was quiet.
Michelle picked up an apple. “It’s okay, Valen—I’ll . . . I’ll do it.”
Artus clenched a fist. “The hell you will. Put it down, Michelle.”
Valen looked at her. “No, Michelle—throw it. Just throw it. Show Artus how things work around here.”
Ethick made a mock bow and gestured toward the pillory, his face twisted in a smirk.
Michelle faced the raving old man and the crying boy, her eyes tearing.
“Leave her alone, Valen,” Artus said.
“One of you has got to play.” Valen pointed to the ground. “Don’t like it? Then throw the apple.”
Artus, scowling, picked up an apple. “This what you want?”
Valen grinned, relaxing. “That’s it, Artus—I knew you were all right.”
Artus tested the apple’s heft in his hand, wound up . . .
. . . and threw it straight into Valen’s nose. It exploded in a brown puff of juice and Valen fell, slipping in the mud and going down on his back. “Kroth!” he sputte
red.
Artus bent over him. “How’s it feel, rich boy?”
Valen surged to his feet and lunged at Artus, trying to grab him by the doublet. Artus took one of Valen’s arms and pivoted his momentum into a hip toss that sent Valen sprawling again, this time with his cape up over his head.
“Artus!” Elora shouted. “Stop it! Stop it right now!”
Artus took his eyes off Valen for a second to nod his apologies to Elora. “Elora, I’m sorry, but he was being an arse to Michelle and . . .”
Elora’s face was painted with horror. “So what? Michelle doesn’t matter! She should be thankful we even let her into our company! So should you!”
Valen was up. “You stinking little poser! You lowborn gutter trash!” He advanced on Artus, pulling off his glove. “I’ll make you . . . oof!”
Artus jabbed Valen in the nose and then followed up with an uppercut to his solar plexus which knocked the air out of him. He crumpled to the ground. “Stay down, Valen.”
Ethick jumped on his back, locking his arm around Artus’s throat. This happened to be a move Brana used on him almost every single day, so it was entirely by reflex that he chopped his hand back into Ethick’s groin and then threw him off. Ethick, face green, struggled to rise but Artus, still running on reflex, dropped his heel into the side of the squire’s head. The move tore his breeches, but it put Ethick down for the count.
Elora screamed at an improbable volume, grabbed her skirts, and fled. Artus looked to follow her, but there was Valen again, blood pouring from his broken nose. He had a knife—a slender stiletto, which might have been a terrifying weapon in the hands of somebody talented, like Tyvian, but in Valen’s enraged state, it was more of an insult than anything else. Artus rested in a fighting stance—easier now with his torn pants—and waited for the attack. It was a pretty predictable thrust toward Artus’s body. He blocked the knife and, grabbing Valen’s wrist, pulled his arm into a lock that forced him to drop the blade. He then kicked him in the knee so he stumbled into the mud and kneed him in the chin so he fell over backward again, spitting teeth.
Valen lay on his back, blind with pain, moaning. Ethick lay in a heap, unconscious. Artus wiped off his hands and crouched over Valen. “What part of stay down didn’t you understand, you puffy scrub?”
The other young nobles were frozen in shock for a moment, and then hastily began helping Valen to his feet and picking up Ethick. Artus remained where he was, knowing, deep down, that he’d just made a huge mistake. He hung his head.
“That . . . that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.” He looked up to see Michelle standing in front of him, tears in her eyes. “Your poor breeches! Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”
Artus gaped at her. “I . . . honestly I’ve gotten a lot worse from my brother.”
Michelle clutched his hands to her chest. He could feel her heart beating like a bird’s, rapid and hard. “You’re like a storybook hero. I’ve never seen anything like that! And for me, too! I’m . . . I’m just a nobody! Why did you do it?”
Artus was at a loss for words. He tried to extricate his hands, but could see no polite way of doing so. Michelle was clinging to him. “I just didn’t want that kid to get pelted with apples, is all. Being in the stocks is bad enough, right?”
It was like Artus had pushed some kind of button in Michelle. She wrapped her thin arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. “You are the most amazing man I’ve ever met!”
Then she kissed him. Hard. This time, Artus found he didn’t mind the tongue so much.
But he sure as hell was damned confused.
Lady Hool, ravishing and imposing in her shroud, stood in her own parlor facing a semicircle of powder-wigged, rouge-cheeked peers who fluttered fans and stuck their noses in the air with all the gravity of cavalrymen preparing to charge. Between her and them was Sir Damon, who had both hands up and seemed to be trying to talk everyone down.
This was the scene Artus returned to. He heard it well before he saw it, too. He had left Michelle behind, running at a sprint across the grounds as soon as he had heard the commotion. “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .”
A silver-haired gentlemen Artus recognized as Sir Arving, whose mouth looked as though it had been kicked by a horse and whose beard was stained with blood, stepped forward. “I demand satisfaction!”
“He keeps saying that—I don’t know what he means.” Hool smiled, which Artus knew to be a very dangerous sign in a gnoll, but to everyone else probably looked like advanced mental illness.
“Why don’t we all calm down?” Sir Damon was saying. Nobody seemed to be listening.
Artus’s throat was dry. Coming up to Hool, he said, “He means . . . he means he wants to challenge you to a duel.”
Hool’s eyebrows rose, still grinning. She took a step toward him. “I’ll kill you, you nasty old—”
Artus and Sir Damon interposed themselves physically, grabbing Hool by the shoulders so she didn’t leap across the room and tear out Sir Arving’s throat. The assembled nobility, obviously unaware of the mortal danger Hool posed, merely gave her poisonous looks and exchanged rude gossip behind their fans.
“You are no lady!” Sir Arving’s wife, Lady Sadauer, was fanning herself so fiercely Artus thought she might blow herself away. “You are a violent, brutish creature! We come here as friends, and this is how you treat us? And the countess?”
Hool looked like she might breathe fire. “I am a lady! Your Countess is a mean old hag and you are a liar. You said you would put Brana in a cage!”
Sir Arving lunged at Hool. There was a flurry of movement and Arving wound up on the ground somehow with one of Brana’s heels digging into his hand and another bruise growing on one cheek.
Arving looked up at Brana. “Someone get this imbecile off me, lest he earn himself a challenge, too!”
“Hey!” Artus pointed at Arving. “Back off, pal—you have no idea what kind of trouble you’re getting yourself into!”
Sir Damon grimaced. “Artus, please—let me handle this.”
Hool rolled up her lace sleeves, to the gasps of onlookers. “No, Artus, let me handle this.”
Artus stepped in front of Hool. “No, Hool! You can’t kill him, okay! Don’t!” He then nudged Brana with his elbow. “Hey, let the old guy up, huh?”
Brana released him, and Arving stepped past Sir Damon and threw a glove at Hool’s feet. “You have insulted the honor of my wife, my liege, and myself. You have struck me without provocation. I demand satisfaction on the field of honor. To the death.”
“Good. I’ll kill you right now.” Hool growled at a pitch too low to be entirely human. The nobility took a full step back.
Arving, to his credit, stood firm. “As your status as a lady in Eretheria makes it improper for you to duel a man, I shall expect you to nominate a champion.”
Sir Damon stepped forward. “I shall serve, sir.”
Hool glared at him. “You will not!”
“That is enough!” Velia Hesswyn, the Countess of Davram, was standing in the doorway, her bony arm looped through that of one of her vassals. “Lady Hool, this is quite the most egregious display of dishonorable behavior I have ever witnessed! You must apologize at once!”
The whole assembly either bowed or curtsied, as appropriate. All except Hool, of course.
Hool scowled. “I don’t bow to anyone. Least of all some little old lady.”
Everyone gasped. Even Dame Velia looked shaken. She clutched her escort’s arm, what little color there was in her cheeks draining away. “You forget yourself!”
Hool stared straight at the countess—Artus knew that stare. It was the copper-eyed, unblinking gaze of a born predator. It was how Hool looked at something she was considering eating, and let the potential meal know. If I don’t do something, Artus thought, things are going to get a lot worse.
“I accept on her behalf!” he announced, rising from his bow.
“No!” Hool barked.
“Dammit, Hool!”
Artus snapped, but then blushed again—a slip. “I mean . . . uhhh . . . my lady.”
Sir Arving smiled, showing a new hole in his dental work. “Swords, sir?”
Artus looked at the man—he was a fighter, no mistake. He’d even heard Tyvian mention something about “Ironsides Arving” at some point. No, not swords. “No.”
Arving grunted as though this were a reflection upon Artus’s character. “Choose your weapons, then.”
Artus wanted to say machete, but this man wasn’t some fop who was looking for a cheap point of honor. This was a professional duelist and a man of significant rank—honor wouldn’t be satisfied unless he could come up with something that . . . wait.
Well, it was obvious, really.
He cleared his throat. “I invoke the ancient Illini tradition of t’suul.”
Arving blinked. “What . . . a game?”
“Yeah.” Artus permitted himself a small grin. “To the death.”
Velia Hesswyn nodded, her face grim. “Then it is done. Now, Lady Hool, I and my household will take my leave.”
Hool glowered at her. “You don’t get to leave. I’m kicking you out.”
The mood in the room was thick enough to slice and spread with jam. But they all left, and no further duels were issued. As she passed him on the way out, Michelle grabbed Artus’s hand and squeezed briefly. Before he could figure out what to make of it, she caught up her skirts and ran out. He saw no sign of Elora, Ethick, or Valen.
At last, the House of Eddon stood empty.
Artus slumped into a chair. “You know how Tyvian said no duels?”
Hool said nothing. Again, Brana was the only one smiling. “Yeah!”
Artus shrugged. “I . . . I think I’m in two duels.”
Hool snorted. “Things were simpler when I was allowed to kill people.”
Artus nodded. The gnoll had a point.
Where the hell is Tyvian?
Chapter 19
Truth and Consequences
The Wheel and Serpent was a guilder place. Everywhere Tyvian looked were tables of bearded men with calluses on their hands talking about tinsmithing or alchemy or some other tedious nonsense. Their wine stores were wholly inadequate, but their bread was hearty and their Galaspiner whisky selection was top-notch. So bread and whisky it was.
Dead But Once Page 18
