Prodigal Sons

by Unknown

  For a moment, we were alone. I spoke first.

  “Well, that went smashingly, wouldn’t you say?”

  Phargas grunted, looking for a response but clearly unable to argue the point.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Ilna, it turned out, was the fat woman who did all the cooking for the inn, a great hen-like mountain of flesh and gossip. Vanya, the serving girl, was her niece, and a far prettier sight—since Milikin had taken us in, she’d cast more than one approving glance my way. Phargas and I were given the lowest-rent room behind the common area, and with many a covert nudge were set to work as the new “assistant chefs,” a cover we were careful to maintain. The work was tiring, and truthfully I wouldn’t have expected such devotion to secrecy, except that Ilna’s constantly wagging tongue quickly revealed the source of the caution: His Utmost Lordship, Baron Byrtol Addelworth.

  The hereditary ruler of this and a few other local towns, Byrtol was a man of excessive tastes and equally excessive wealth, by means of which he retained the soldiers that spent their days dicing in the common room. Rather than establishing a manor house, he chose to make his residence among his vassals, moving into a town’s best inn and accepting its hospitality for several months before moving on to the next hamlet. It was this same lord, we learned, who’d had the nameless Pathfinder we’d encountered strung up for looking sideways at a peasant girl he’d had his eye on. And now he’d moved into the Swaddled Otter. A fine pickle indeed—no wonder everyone was on edge.

  Not eager to see if the lord’s ire extended to all members of the Pathfinder Society, Phargas and I were happy to keep our heads down and wait for further instructions. Yet as the days mounted, the mood in the inn slowly darkened. Perhaps it was the presence of Lord Byrtol and his constant appetite, quickly draining the larder and cellars without recompense, but the staff’s smiles grew wooden around us, their faces strained. One night as I snuck out to the kitchen to fetch a midnight snack of my own, I happened to overhear voices, and paused just outside the door.

  “Ten days they’ve been here!” Ilna’s voice was a whispered screech. “Ten days, and all they’ve done is make half-burned cakes not fit for a sow’s wedding! And the little one’s got an eye for Vanya, I know it.”

  Us! They were talking about us!

  “Well, what man in the village doesn’t?” Milikin countered. “And they’re not exactly pastry chefs. If they started right away, it would be too obvious. Give them time.”

  I shifted my weight, attempting to get closer, but the floor squeaked and Milikin’s voice immediately cut off. Figuring discretion was the better part of valor (and when isn’t it?), I retired to my room and told Phargas what I’d heard. Clearly they were waiting for us to make the next move and begin doing whatever work Pathfinders did at their lodges... if only we knew what it was. Unsurprisingly, Phargas was no help at all, leaving the decision to me.

  The next day, I casually let slip to Ilna that I was ready to begin my “work.” Instantly, her dark mood gave way to a smile like the sun, if the sun were a fat-jowled cook. With a wink, she left us alone in the kitchen, saying only that we should come find her if there was anything we needed. With that the door swung closed, and Phargas and I stared at each other across a table covered with flour and the half-formed mounds of our signature cakes.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “Truth be told,” I said, “I was hoping for a bit more than that. But we’re clearly on the right track.” With nothing else to do, I began patting another cake into shape.

  Not five minutes later, a quiet rap at the door brought Vanya, fresh-faced and smiling even wider than her mother. Whereas before she’d had only covert glances for me when Ilna’s back was turned, no such demurity was in evidence now. She bounded across the kitchen and took my hand, pressing herself pleasantly against my side.

  “Is it true?” she asked. “Will you do it tonight?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “Ooh!” Her squeal of excitement cut off abruptly as she realized she was making a commotion, and she continued on in whisper.

  “Thank the gods!” she said. “It’s been hard enough just keeping his dogs from getting their paws all over me, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d want more than cheese and wine.”

  “Sorry?” I asked involuntarily.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, patting my arm. “You got here in plenty of time to save my honor.” She winked. “You know, Milikin and Mother said there was no way the Poisoners’ Guild would send someone all the way from Daggermark, not for what we can pay. But that’s why I sent my letter along—everyone in three towns is desperate to see Byrtol dead, and even assassins aren’t above a little charity, right?”

  “Um, right.”

  She smiled, then rose up on tiptoes to give me a peck on the cheek. Across the room, Phargas’s eyes were wide.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your baking,” she said, and flounced out of the room, pausing only to shush us silently, one finger across grinning lips. Then she was gone.

  Silence reigned in the kitchen for a long moment.

  “Poisoners?” Phargas asked.

  “You know,” I said, “I think we might just have overstayed our welcome.”

  Without further discussion, we immediately began preparing for our departure. There was clearly no way that the locals would let us leave, having just revealed their treason, and so we continued about our cake-baking charade, nodding knowingly to the staff while covertly gathering up what provisions and gear we could secret in our aprons, depositing them in one of the little-used outbuildings under the cover of trips to the privy. At last the sun started to hang low in the sky, and with the inn’s residents busy readying dinner for the soldiers, we quietly took our leave, slipping out the back door and making our way to the shed with our supplies...

  ...where Milikin sat firmly atop the stack of purloined goods, dwarfed by the massive crossbow in his hands. It was so large he had to seat the butt against his chest, but his aim never faltered as he motioned for us to come inside and close the door.

  “So,” he said, keeping the great weapon leveled at my chest. “I shouldn’t be surprised. If you were real members of the Poisoners’ Guild, we wouldn’t have known you were here until the job was done.” He laughed darkly. “Not like you two.”

  “Come now,” said Phargas, stepping forward and spreading his arms wide to show empty hands, “you wouldn’t shoot a humble and unarmed priest of Shelyn, would you?”

  Milikin grunted and switched his aim to Phargas’s forehead. The priest stopped moving.

  “Please,” I pleaded, “I’m sorry for the confusion, but you’re right—we’re not assassins.”

  “Wrong,” Milikin said. Holding the crossbow with one surprisingly strong arm, he withdrew a carving knife from the pile of goods and flung it into the boards at my feet, where it stuck, quivering.

  “You are now.”

  I stared at the knife.

  “Pick it up,” he said, motioning with his head. “It’s too late for poison. You take our noble lord’s meal up to him tonight, and you do what everyone’s expecting you to do. I’ll stay here with this one,” a motion toward Phargas, “to make sure nothing goes wrong. You take care of this, and I’ll give both of you a head start before I go upstairs and discover your horrible crime.”

  “And if not?”

  He patted the stack of goods upon which he sat.

  “Then no one looks unkindly on the noble innkeeper who shoots two ruffians attempting to rob him of his livelihood. Do we have an understanding?”

  I looked to Phargas, who was already nodding, eyes still fixed on the crossbow bolt.

  “Good,” Milikin said. “Now go.”

  Not seeing any alternative, I picked up the knife and hid it in the folds of my apron, then headed back outside.

  I could have slipped off then—and believe me, the thought crossed my mind—but as much as I hated to admit it, Phargas had been useful more
times than not since I began my horrid walkabout. Instead I entered the kitchen in a daze, accepted a covered tray from Ilna, and headed up past the guardsmen on the inn’s stairs.

  The baron’s room took up the whole third story, the staircase ending in a narrow landing. One of the serving boys sat just outside the door, acting as a runner should their patron need anything.

  “I’ve got it from here,” I said, hooking a thumb back down the stairs. “Why don’t you get yourself some grub?” The boy didn’t need to be told twice. In a flash I was alone on the landing. I knocked on the door, and a woman’s voice bid me enter.

  Inside, the lord’s room was lit softly by half a dozen oil lamps and lanterns turned low, hanging on the walls or standing free on poles around the bed. Tapestries depicting rivers and fields had been placed around the room to be visible from the bed, an ornate affair covered in cushions. All in all, it was a warm and inviting scene, if one discounted the room’s resident.

  Baron Byrtol Addelworth was a tremendous man, in all the wrong ways. Hugely corpulent, his flesh flowed from his body into a virtual puddle of fat amid the myriad comforters. Threads of greasy black hair framed a round, chinless face, and both sheets and bedclothes were stained with the leavings of previous meals. In one pudgy hand he clutched a half-gnawed pheasant drumstick. I glanced around briefly for the woman who had admitted me.

  "Not every noble is worthy of the title."

  “Well?” the baron asked, and I realized it had been his voice, high and thin as a prepubescent boy’s. “What have you got for me, then?” He tossed the drumstick into a corner, where it hit the wall with a meaty slap, and stretched forth both hands to receive the platter.

  “Dinner, sir,” I said, stepping to the bedside. “The Swaddled Otter’s best.” I swept the cover from the main course and made a low, elegant bow.

  The knife fell from my apron, landing between us on the sheets.

  We froze. Still bent double, I looked up at the lord, watching his eyes flick from my face to the knife and back again.

  I put on my most disarming smile. That seemed to make up his mind.

  “Imposter!” he roared, knocking away the tray and forcing me to take several steps backward. “Assassin!”

  I stuck out my hands. “Now, lord, I know what this looks like...”

  “Mutinous peasant!” He snatched up the knife. “I’ll skin you myself!”

  Face red with exertion and rage, he hurled his massive bulk from the bed—and straight into one of the standing lanterns, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Out of the bed, he looked even more unwieldy, stumpy arms and legs scrabbling to lift his pallid flesh like a turtle trying to right itself.

  “Sniveling cur!” he wheezed. “You’ll have your limbs stretched for orchestrating this indignity!”

  Then the oil caught. With a soft whump, the fuel from the broken lantern took fire and spread its flaming arms across the floor, lighting the bottoms of two tapestries and filling that corner of the room with crackling flames.

  The baron took one look at the new situation and dropped the knife, redoubling his efforts to pull his ponderous bulk precious inches from the burning oil.

  “Boy!” he said to me. “Get me up! All is forgiven—just get me up!”

  I stared at the scene, the writhing man-larva and the fire which even now was beginning to catch bed sheets and the cords of hanging lanterns, and stepped slowly backward toward the door.

  Soft flesh scrabbled on timber.

  “Please!” he shouted. “Get me up! I am merciful!”

  But then the door was closing, and I was walking quickly down the stairs. At the bottom I nodded to the guardsmen.

  “He’s not to be disturbed,” I said, and made a crude gesture. The men laughed, and I passed on through the kitchen and out the back door, coming quickly to the shed where Milikin and Phargas sat in opposite corners, staring at each other.

  “It’s done,” I said.

  Miliken studied me with narrowed eyes.

  “You look awfully clean,” he said. “Where’s the knife?”

  In answer, the first shouts went up from the inn.

  “Fire!” screamed Ilna, and then other voices joined hers. In an instant, Milikin’s entrepreneurial instincts took over, and he sprang for the door, tossing the crossbow aside.

  Outside, the roof of the inn was already smoking oily black against the sunset, flame licking through the thatching in places. With a scream of pain, Milikin ran for the creek.

  I looked to Phargas. Needing no further cue, we each grabbed up armfuls of supplies and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

  After ten minutes of leaped brambles and ducked branches, we stopped to catch our breath. Back the way we’d come, the smoke was still visible, though the sounds had faded to just the faint and frantic pealing of a church bell.

  “That was close,” Phargas said, leaning against a tree and breathing hard.

  “Agreed,” I puffed, staring down at the cloak full of bread that now made up our sole possessions. Then the sound of the bell reminded me of something.

  “About what you said back there,” I asked. “I thought you were a priest of Desna?”

  Phargas grunted.

  “A man’s faith is a personal thing,” he said, tying up the cloak. “Now shut up and keep running.”

  And we did.

  Chapter Two: Kicking the Habit

  by Richard Pett

  The pig stared at me.

  “We’ll be there soon.” Phargas said, brightly.

  “I hope so. The only part of a pig I’ve ever been this close to before was crackling.” I gazed with disdain at the wagon, which was full of pigs, with two notable exceptions. Well, perhaps only one notable exception.

  “Honestly, you’ve done nothing but complain since we escaped.” That self-satisfied grin again. Once a priest, always a priest. You can’t argue with folks claiming direct conversation with gods.

  “I’d be a lot happier if our escape had taken place in a coach, or private barge—or anything without pigs, for that matter.”

  “Our fellow passengers provide excellent cover, and you’re lucky you escaped the Otter with nothing more than dirty britches and bad company. The gods smile on you and all you can do is moan.”

  “As I recall, the gods’ smiles cost a pretty penny.” I smiled at our host, the silent wagon driver, who grinned back toothlessly at me.

  Drizzle became hail, and by the time we entered a town my mood had moved through depression and on to despair. I grabbed Phargas.

  “I want to get off. Now.”

  “It’s too soon. We haven’t gone anywhere near far enough yet for—”

  “I don’t care! We’re getting off.” I leaped from the wagon and its vile-smelling cargo. “Civilization!” I cried, looking around the place.

  More pigs, some haggish women and scruffy men, and several decrepit buildings stared back.

  “I would curb your celebration,” whispered Phargas. “These petty townships have one thing in common—gossip spreads faster than wildfire. Let’s mingle.”

  A toothless retch with a peg leg and one eye brushed past me. “I’m not mingling with anyone like him,” I whispered to Phargas.

  Suddenly the man gave a yell, clutched his chest, and fell to the ground. I took a polite step back and immediately took charge of the situation.

  “Well, help the poor man, Phargas!” I demanded, turning to address the villagers. “Don’t worry, friends—he’s a priest. Your man will soon be back on his feet again.”

  “Or not,” said Phargas. “He’s dead. See?” There were several nods of agreement. I turned and stared down at the figure, whose face was turning a nasty shade of ochre.

  “He had a bad heart, did old Handsome Jabe,” said one of the peasants.

  Handsome Jabe?

  “Have no fear peasa—people of this township,” I proclaimed solemnly. “I shall celebrate his last moments in my journal.” I waved the wayfinder for the crow
d to see. “Can any of you direct myself and my priest to lodgings suitable for such worthies? A coaching inn perchance, or maybe some fine hostelry, hospice, or roadhouse?”

  “Well, there’s always Old Mucks,” a bearded man said.

  “Mucks.” I said, trying not to step in the name.

  “Over in the town square,” said the man. I suddenly noticed he was a she.

  “Tell me,” I asked, “does it have hot baths?”

  “No.”

  “Fine ales?”

  “No.”

  “Bed warmers, be they fleshy or coppery?”

  “No.”

  “Quaffable wines of some vintage?”

  “No.”

  “Then kindly direct me to some better place of refuge.”

  “There is no better place. Unless you count the nunnery.”

  “Nunnery?” That sounded a bit more promising.

  “Aye, the Nunnery of the Fiercely Virginal Order of Blessed Exoneration,” said the crone, nodding. “Mind you, they wouldn’t make you very welcome, what with you being a man and all. Not with their sworn oath of chastity and violence toward men. They vow to horribly punish any man who dares touch them, think impure thoughts about them, or look at them. They don’t even have candles in the convent—too phallic.”

  “Old Mucks, did you say?” I pushed my way through the crowd waving my wayfinder like a sword.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Old. Muck. The name fit the place perfectly. I starred down at the “stew” I had been served, trying to work out whether a pair of insect legs was part of the recipe. Before I’d made my decision, however, I spied someone who was quite clearly of superior stock approaching the bar, a man of fine attire and manicured nails, quite clearly worthy of speaking to me. I left the bowl and wandered over.

  “Pathfinder Ollix Thareus Lucitrex Kaddar, at your service,” I said to him.

  He stood and bowed. “Sergas, Allmania—”

  His words cut short as he gave a gulp, strained to reach his back, and fell over dead. What noise there was in the tavern suddenly stopped, and we became the center of attention. Phargas was quickly at my side, onion gravy and insect legs dripping down his chin. After a few moments of examining the deceased, he looked up.