"Yeah, Shaddup! Shaddup! Shaddup!”
“Still night, I guess,” Milo dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is it the same night? Wonder how many others they grabbed in from the Tankard?”
“Does it matter?”
Milo peered through the shadows and studied Naile. The big man was a mass of tangled hair, cuts, and bruises. His right eye looked swollen shut. “You okay, Naile?”
"Does it matter?”
"We’re going to get out of here,” Milo repeated.
Naile leaned forward and gave him a cynical look.
“I figure Yevele is looking for us. We told her to meet us at the Tankard. So she’ll eventually find us here and bail us out.”
“With what?”
Milo was silent lor several minutes.
Sounds crept into the cell from the hallway beyond. At least two men were snoring. There was a steady drip of something, rhythmic and annoying. A chittering signaled rats prowling just beyond the cell, and scratching showed they were trying to get inside. After a few moments they gave up and their chittering faded.
“Maybe they do have lawyers somewhere in this city. And maybe we won’t have to pay for one. They had lawyers a long time ago. Shakespeare mentioned them. Medieval people weren’t so backward, you know. And, yes, I know this isn’t a real medieval place. Not a historical one, but — ”
Naile growled louder.
"What?"
“Milo, I am a lawyer.”
Milo sputtered in surprise.
“You? A lawyer?”
“In Brooklyn. Maxwell Stein, Max to my friends. Graduated law school two years back, Harvard no less, and got a job with a good firm in Brooklyn."
“A lawyer."
"Specialize in copyright laws, infringements. That sort of stuff.”
“A lawyer. From Brooklyn. You don’t sound like you’re from New York.’’
‘‘Well, you don’t sound like you’re from Wisconsin.” When Naile said Wisconsin, it came out ‘‘Wis-kaaaaahn-sen,” the nasally way he’d heard a tourist from Milwaukee say it once.
“A lawyer.”
“Well, copyright law isn’t going to help us here. Besides, I don’t know anything about the local laws. What’s legal and illegal. What they can and can’t do with prisoners.” He made a huffing sound and tugged at a clump of something in his beard. “No idea what we’re charged with. But I’d guess destruction of property at the very least.”
“A lawyer, playing the game.”
“Learned to play in college. Still played on the weekends with a couple of clerks from the firm. I was always the fighter. Always. Had no desire to dig through the books and figure out how the wizard spells worked, the duration, effects, stuff like that. Did enough reading with my work.”
Milo slapped his leg. “I never would have figured you for a lawyer.”
“Yeah, well how about you? What did you do before you picked up one of those enchanted miniatures and ended up here? I picked up one that looked just like this.” Naile pointed to himself, then he jangled the bracelet for emphasis. “What did you do?”
Milo glared at him.
"Well, what did you do?” Naile prodded. “Other than eat buttered popcorn at the cineplex and root for the Packers?”
Milo stood again, this time careful to hunch over so he didn’t hit the low ceiling. He shuffled to the small window and looked out, then he tested the door. “It’s none of your business what I did, Naile.”
“But I told you I was a lawyer."
“That was your choice to spill your guts.” He set his legs shoulder-distance apart, crouched, and bunched his muscles. The door budged, but only a little. “1 don't care what any of us did before we landed here. Our past is just that — past. Besides, who knows if we’ll ever get back home. Right now I only care about getting out of this hell-hole.” He strained again, then let the breath hiss out between his teeth. “I’ll tell you what, Naile. I’ll tell you what I didn’t do before I got here. I didn’t drink. Not like I did at that tavern. I didn’t drink myself stupid. Never, ever. And I didn’t get into fistfights, and I didn’t ever spend a day in jail. I just ... I don’t know ... I just let mysell get depressed last night. I just gave in and drank and drank and ate and figured what’s the difference. I figured we were going to get some work and would be able to pay for everything we ate at the tavern, and then get out ol this town. Get some money, new clothes. Lord, a bath! Use some of the money to spread around . . . maybe get a clue to find our way home. Find out if we can get home.” He paused. “Back to Wis-kaaaahn-sen.”
“Door won’t give,” Naile said alter a moment. “I tried it while you were . . . sleeping.”
“Maybe together then.”
Naile grudgingly got up, crouching to avoid the ceiling. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his tunic, scowling to note that very little of the filth from the floor came off. He set his shoulder to the door, and Milo did the same. Together they strained against it. The wood gave a little, the splinters biting into the men’s arms.
“If we do manage to get this door down,” Naile said as he continued to press. “What then?”
Milo eased back from the door, and Naile waited.
“We get it down, we get out of here,” Milo said simply.
“We don’t know if we’re underground, in the belly of some lord’s castle. We don’t know if there are guards, and if there are guards . . . how many and how are they armed. We don’t know what will happen if we get caught again. Maybe they hang prisoners who try to escape. We don’t — ”
“You think too much hke a lawyer, Naile. I need you to think like a burly berserker, not Perry Mason. We’re heroes now. In this world, we’re bold men with . . .”
Naile shook his head, his wild mane of hair whipping at Milo. “We’re not heroes, Milo. Maybe in the game we played, we were heroes. Sitting around a table, rolling dice and writing notes on scraps of paper, righting some great imaginary wrong and rescuing the princess. But here . . . well, heroes don’t get drunk in taverns on ale they can’t pay for. They don’t break the arms of strangers in a brawl. And they don’t end up in a foul, stinking cell waiting for . . . waiting for what? For Yevele to come bail us out with money she doesn’t have?”
It was Milo’s turn to growl. “All right. So we’re not heroes.” He scratched at his head. “We’re adventurers then."
Naile nodded. “I’ll settle for that.”
They set their shoulders against the door again, and Milo made a gagging sound when he realized he stepped in one of the fuzzy clumps.
“On the count of three,” Milo said, after he scraped the muck off his boot. “Ready? And one . . . two — ”
“Visitors!” called a voice from down the hall. “Visitors!”
“Shaddup,” someone from another cell shouted. “Trying to sleep. Shaddup! ”
Milo and Naile stepped back from the door as boot heels click-clacked against the stone floor. Three or four men walking, someone stopping in front of their cell and looking in through the small window. From the narrowed eyes, the pair guessed it was a guard.
“Got visitors for you two,” the guard announced. “So you step back a little more. That’s it. Back.”
Milo was the first to comply. Naile followed after he offered the guard a sneer.
The guard worked the bolt, and then rammed his side against the door to set it back properly on its hinges. Naile and Milo had been close to knocking it free. The guard finally yanked it open, and more light spilled into the small cell.
“Their fine’s pretty steep,” the guard announced to someone behind him. His eyes sparkled merrily now. "A big sack of coins. They’re in here for breaking up a tavern. Put more than one man out, they did. A lot of damage to bodies and furniture. The owner wanted their heads lopped off. But they didn’t kill anyone, so all we could do was lock ’em up for a year or two. "
Milo swallowed hard at that last comment.
“Of course, you can have 'em if you pay the fine.”<
br />
“Already paid, my good fellow.” The voice was unfamiliar, certainly not belonging to Yevele, Wymarc, Deav Dyne, or Ingrge. It had none of the sibilant hiss of Gulth’s voice. “Here is the lord’s letter to release them.” There was the sound of paper unfolding and folding and being stuffed into a pocket. “So let’s see what I’ve bought.”
The man who stepped into the cell’s doorway filled the frame and blotted out the torchlight.
Ludlow Jade
The man who filled the doorway took a step back as the guard brought a torch to hold into the room. The light was so the man could see the two prisoners he’d just arranged bail for. But the light also served to reveal the man.
He was portly and dressed in a heavy brocade tunic that hung to just above his knees. It was green, set off with shiny burgundy thread embroidered to resemble oak leaves, and it was trimmed around the collar, sleeves, and hem with scalloped strips of matching green silk. His leggings were a shade darker green, the hue of wet elm leaves, and they disappeared into calf-high black leather boots that were so reflective they had to be new. He had a thin woolen cloak, the burgundy of the leaves, trimmed in rabbit fur and hanging precisely to the top of his boots. His hat was of the same burgundy material, big and floppy and slouching over his left eye. Despite the damp and the cold, sweat leaked out from his hatband and ran down the right side of his face and neck.
His face was smooth, cherubic like a child’s, unlined and unmarred. But Milo and Naile could tell he was not a young man. Rings of fat hung from his dimpled chin and made it impossible to button the collar of his tunic. The hair that poked out from beneath his hat, and the thick, carefully trimmed eyebrow that could be seen was a wiry salt-and-pepper mix. So at the same time the man looked childlike and distinguished . . . and from the cut and fabric of his clothes considerably well-to-do.
His hands were large, the fingers thick and stubby and adorned with gold rings, some of them set with rubies and emeralds. The nails were manicured, and the skin smooth and the color of ripening peaches. He smelled subtly of musk, difficult to notice with all the offensive odors that permeated the place.
“Yes, those are the two," he pronounced. Even his voice sounded rich, deep and melodious and echoing off the back wall of the small cell. “Just as they were described to me. Big, strong men.”
“I was told it took a dozen guards to lay the hairy one down and tie him. A dozen more to get both of them in here,” the guard said.
“Yes, strong men. I think they’ll do nicely.”
“I want to see.” This voice was thinner, but it had the same musical quality belonging to the portly man. This speaker was a study in contrasts. He was easily half the other’s age, thin and almost emaciated looking the way his cheekbones, knees, and elbows protruded. He wore no hat, his hair a black curly mass that spilled onto his narrow shoulders. There were similarities between the two, as the young man was dressed in a tunic of like style, though the brocade fabric was a deep blue rather than a green, and the boots were made of the same black leather, though they rose to just above his ankles.
“Father, they reek,” the young man continued, his nose wriggling. “They’re filthy, and they’re — ”
The portly man cleared his throat, the sound commanding silence. "They’ll clean up well enough.”
“Excuse me?” Milo set his balled fists against his waist. He stood hunched over, but his head grazed the ceiling. “Who are you, and what does ‘they’ll do nicely’ mean?”
The portly man beamed, and in that instant Naile and Milo recognized him. He was the merchant who came into the Golden Tankard right before the fight broke out.
“I am Ludlow Jade,” he said. “And this is my son Zechial. I’ve just hired the two of you as guards for my wagons. The caravan is leaving within the hour, so you’d best hurry and get yourselves cleaned up. I’ll not have you looking . . He drew his lips forward until they looked puckered. “. . . or smelling like that while you’re in my employ.” Naile bristled and stepped in front of Milo. “Your employ?” It was true they were looking for work, and now it seemed like work had found them. But Naile had wanted the work to be his idea. “How much does this work pay?”
Ludlow Jade threw back his head and laughed, the sound loud and bouncing off the stone and drawing calls and jeers from the prisoners in other cells. He held his stomach and continued to laugh, then he finally came up for air.
“Pay? Why, the wage is your freedom. I paid your fine, which was rather exorbitant. Almost too exorbitant, but I was looking for muscle. And so now you’re indebted to me.”
Milo came closer to the man, careful not to get next to the torch and risk setting his hair on fire. “I thank you for bailing us out. . . Ludlow Jade. But not getting coins for work, that isn’t sitting right. We need money. And we don’t know enough about this work you’re hiring us for, where it’s going to take us, how long it’s going to be for. We have things to do and. ...”
Ludlow Jade laughed again, this time deeply. There was a mix of amusement and a threat in it. “As I said, your wage is your freedom. You can work for me, to work off that debt, or you can rot in this wretched cell for a year or two, and I ’ll go to the lord and get my coins returned. The latter might not be such a bad idea, as I could use the gold for other things. But it's your choice. Just choose quickly, the caravan is leaving soon.”
Naile brushed past Milo, raising his arm to move the torch and force the guard back. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jade,” Naile said. “I’m happy to be in your employ. If you’ve a place for me to . . . clean up ”
"There’s a bathhouse down the street,” the merchant said. "I’ve made arrangements for you to clean up there. ”
Milo waited a moment, then followed Naile. He scrutinized the merchant. “You mentioned guarding your wagons.”
Ludlow Jade beamed again and nodded.
"Our weapons — ”
“Are with my other guards. I made arrangements. Now, about the bathhouse.”
Naile could have passed for another man. He was clean-shaven, his square-set jaw feeling cold without the thick beard covering it. His hair was shorter, too, cut to just below his shoulders and tied at the back of his neck with a leather thong. His furs and skins were gone, as was his pitted helmet. In their place he wore gray woolen trousers belted at the waist with a green sash that matched the color of his wool cap. The dark gray tunic they’d given him was so short it served as a shirt, and this he tucked into the trousers. He wore a green vest over this, too tight to button, and a green wool cloak that dropped to the back of his knees. His boots were the ones he’d been wearing, though they’d been cleaned. One of the merchant’s servants had tried to fit Naile with new black leather boots, but none were large enough. Naile’s two hand axes had been cleaned and oiled and were hanging on a new weapon’s belt. His bone sword was gone, someone having stolen it from the Tankard.
“Acceptable,” Naile pronounced everything. However, it was clear by the gleam in his eyes that it was more than that.
Milo, too, looked different. His dark hair had been cut short, grazing the back of his corded neck and the tops of his ears. His gray woolen trousers matched Naile’s, as did his cloak — evidence they were wearing a uniform of sorts. But Milo had a chainmail shirt instead of a tunic, the links shimmering in the mid-morning sun. It was expensive armor, from the look of it, and it felt heavy. Milo knew it would take some getting used to.
The two were led by Ludlow’s son, Zechial, out the city gates and to a collection of large wagons.
“Need to leave word for Yevele,” Milo said. “Have to find a way to do that.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Naile answered. He tapped Milo on the shoulder and pointed to the largest wagon. Yevele was standing next to it, in a uniform similar to theirs. She, too, wore a chainmail shirt, but it looked like she’d been poured into it, the armor fitting that well. “Looks much better on her.”
Ingrge was there, too, though only the green woolen c
ape marked him as in Ludlow Jade’s employ. The elf wore dark green leggings and a charcoal gray tunic. He had on leather slippers, rather than boots, and his hair was tied back like Naile’s. He had a quiver on his back, filled with arrows, and a long bow slung over his shoulder. A thin-bladed sword hung from a scabbard on his hip.
“This Jade spares no expense,” Milo mused. “He even provided two changes of clothes for each of us.”
Naile increased his pace and was the first to reach the wagons.
Ludlow Jade was waiting for them. He waved his hand to indicate four wagons. They were the most impressive of the two dozen that stretched to the north. Large and covered, one with sides and a roof of wood planks, his wagon had painted green trim and bronze nuggets pounded into the wheel spokes for decoration. Four massive horses, easily fifteen to sixteen hands high, pulled each wagon, their tack of the same shiny black leather as Ludlow’s boots. There were no words on the wagons to indicate Ludlow owned them or what was inside.
“Three times a year,” Ludlow began, “we take a caravan to the northern villages. It’s a lucrative venture, but dangerous, and that’s why I need guards. There are bound to be bandits. Always are. Somehow they know the route, paying informants to tell them when the caravan leaves the city. So we’ve been forced to hire more and better men. And this last trip of the year . . . well, you look formidable enough. There’ll be bandits for sure this last trip. Maybe your appearance will keep them at bay. Weather’s starting to cool. Last chance for us . . . and for the bandits ... to make a good turn of coin.”
Naile looked at the other wagons. Many were open, with crates and barrels piled high. Only a few were plank-covered and boxy, like Ludlow Jade’s largest. One of these had “Korey’s Excellent Elixirs’’ painted garishly on the side. He shivered at the thought of what the mixtures might be made of.
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