Prodigal Sons

by Unknown

  “Bring forth the sisters of Misericord!” she shouted, ringing the bell.

  The word had a startling effect on the older nuns, some of whom began a keening wail. As if waiting just outside the door, a trio of enormous nuns entered, each wielding a spiked club and meat-cleaver.

  “Where is the sinful one?” They yelled in unison.

  Everyone in the room pointed at me.

  I ran.

  Running in an item of clothing designed to cover the entire human body isn’t easy, and I had to rip my veil off so I could see as I went hell-for-leather down the corridors of the nunnery, a trio of doubtlessly divine bruisers behind me. Room after room passed by. I crashed into one sister and knocked her and her bundle of halberds flying. Another, this one carrying boiling tar, was pushed over in my blind dash. I glanced over my shoulder, but while I couldn’t see my pursuers, I could hear them panting and shouting their intentions for parts of my anatomy. I wiped my brow, and my hand brushed my stubbly chin. My mind cast back to the prayers regarding sinful men. What would they do to a man masquerading as a nun? Spying a small door, I instantly made the decision to hide. I dove inside and shut it behind me as quickly and quietly as I could.

  The room was full of silverware. There were silver goblets, silver coins, silver candelabrum, silver swords. And there, seated in the center and smoking an enormous pipe, sat Holy Carbuncle the Reformation. He was handing a silver salver to a trio of other kobolds, who’d emerged from a trapdoor in the floor. As quick as I appeared the three others vanished, their trap door slamming shut behind them. Carbuncle turned to me, startled. Then he took in my predicament and began to smile.

  The door burst open behind me, and I was grabbed from behind by the entering Misericords.

  “I, the blessed second sister of Misericord, do pass judgment upon thee. You shall be taken from this place, smeared with honey, and fed to giant ants. Iomedae!”

  "Not exactly a saint."

  “Sssssstop!” cried Carbuncle, gazing at the trio. “Thisss sssister hasss come to me for ssssalvation. Kneel and be forgiven, sssissster.” The kobold yanked me from the sister’s grasp and onto my knees. “I hear your confessssion. I hear your wordsss that you have been naughty in the worsssst possssible waysss and I forgive you. I ssshall take you under my wing. Be at peace.” He pulled close and whispered in my ear.

  “Or elssse.”

  I nodded.

  “You may depart Misssericord!” Carbuncle shouted.

  The trio paused for a moment, cracking their knuckles, before reluctantly leaving.

  Once they left, we each laid our cards on the table. I told Carbuncle about our flight from the assassins. Carbuncle, it transpired, had been fleeing a freak show when, in mid-run, he’d bumped into a nun and knocked her to the floor at the very moment a failed initiate with permanent disabilities caused by her training had tried to bring the sister down with a heavy crossbow. The saved nun turned out to be the Merciful Sister herself, who decided the kobold was some sort of divine blessing in disguise and taken him in. Carbuncle had been covertly salting away a nest egg for his retirement ever since, with the help of his friends, a secret tunnel, and the nun’s silver.

  “Typical small-time thinking, if you’ll pardon my saying so,” I said, after he’d completed his tale. “Why not take all the silver?”

  “Becaussse the nunsss would catch me and disssembowel me.”

  “But suppose the nuns never found out who did it?”

  Carbuncle’s smile widened as I explained my plan.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Phargas picked up his habit and ran at full pelt toward the waiting coach. I had one sack of stolen silver, and he another.

  “I still don’t know how you did it,” he said, wheezing.

  “It’s my breeding, really. The nuns may be unbelievably violent and pious, but they’re still basically peasants, with a peasant’s wit. Carbuncle was more than amenable once I’d explained my plan.”

  “It’s hard to argue with a head-start and a scapegoat.”

  “Exactly! Kill one of his chums and swap clothes so it looks like Carbuncle is dead, pay your accomplices, and then scarper with the loot, leaving an obvious clue behind—in this case an assassin’s calling card.”

  “Thus leaving all initiates to help search the town,” he finished.

  “With sacks full of weaponry,” I added, shaking the jingling bag.

  Over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Mother Grain, Mistress of Improvised Combat, moving with purpose through the streets, clutching her largest battle-ladle and screaming, “Assassins die!” at the top of her considerable lungs.

  “I wouldn’t want to be in our illustrious opponents’ shoes when they’re caught by the sisterhood,” Phargas observed.

  “Nor me, sister,” I replied. His grin matched my own.

  “Assassins die!” we yelled, and continued toward the waiting coach.

  Chapter Three: Feast of Fools

  by J. C. Hay

  If we’d brought Carbuncle with us, he could have cleaned our boots.” I slogged through the torrents of rain with half the swamp caked to my feet.

  Phargas looked over his shoulder and muttered something both unpriestly and anatomically difficult.

  As we bickered, we rounded the bend into the outskirts of a town. A smattering of stone buildings rose among the wattle and daub of humbler structures. The nearest of these, a three-story structure, blazed a merry warmth from its windows while its signpost—a buxom woman being ravished by a well-endowed devil—promised all manners of entertainment. To my surprise, Phargas stepped up onto the wooden veranda.

  “We’re stopping here?”

  “It’s a tavern, isn’t it?”

  “Among other things, I’d wager.”

  “All the more reason for us to stop. Lost souls in need of my ministry and blessings.” With that, the priest strode through the door.

  I followed him—purely to protect him from the riffraff that harbor in such places, of course—and immediately found myself in the center of a swirling, raucous party. Swags of yellow, red, and black hung over windows and doors. Additional bunting decorated the enormous stairwell that filled the fair side of the hall. Gambling covered half the tables, and shouts of joy and dismay came from all corners.

  A burly maid grabbed me, and I found myself crushed against her ample charms as she shouted an ale-scented “Welcome, traveler!” into my face. Before I could recover enough to respond, she spun me away into the room once more. I found Phargas sitting atop a table, pouring golden mead into an overflowing horn at his feet. He’d already gathered a half-dozen townsfolk around him, and they shouted for further displays of his divine gifts. I noticed he was wearing a jeweled brooch in the shape of a hornet. I made a note to remind him not to dress better than his master.

  “This sort of welcome’s more like it, eh, Phargas? Good to see these peasants know how to treat guests.” A few of the villagers glared, but I waved them off with an egalitarian hand.

  The priest shot me a look that might have cowed a lesser man. “Find your own flock, Pathfinder. Can’t you see I’m presiding over a solemn ceremony?” As punctuation, one of the peasant-women kissed him in a most unchaste manner and took the sloshing horn from his feet.

  I would have taken greater affront, had I not been distracted at that very moment by a beautiful creature, her bosom heaving to escape the confines of her chemise. She trailed a hand across my cheek and turned me to follow her toward a corner of the room. Her whispered welcome clung to her full lips with an understandable reluctance to leave.

  I bowed and stepped close. “Well met, my lovely. And how may I serve you?” I had several ideas, but I wanted to be polite and allow her to make suggestions.

  She pursed her lips, one finger resting against her chin. “Is it true, what the priest said? You’re a Pathfinder?”

  I shifted my cloak until the Glyph of the Open Road was visible. “They don’t just leave these lying on the side of the road,
my dear.”

  She smiled even brighter—a feat I hadn’t thought possible—and threw her arms around my neck with a delighted squeal.

  “I’m so relieved! I need your help, or I will never be free of this place.”

  That sounded unfortunately familiar. I pulled myself back enough to look her in the face. “And why would you want to leave, my dear? We’ve only just arrived.”

  “Not the Demon and Harlot. I mean all of Jedda. You Pathfinders have a reputation for cleverness, and I need you to help me escape my husband.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was get between a possessive husband and his bride. It tended to be the fast path to a stretched neck or a knife between my ribs, but she fixed me with a look so pitiful that I couldn’t help but be drawn in. I begged her to tell me more.

  “He stole me from my family, from the only man I ever loved—a poor village boy with a heart like a well. I could flee, but my husband would surely find me.”

  “And how do I fit in?”

  “You’re a Pathfinder. Surely you could come up with some way to smuggle me out.” I could almost feel the hemp rope about my neck, but before I could decline she leaned in close. “Please? If you can help me, I’d do anything.” A single deep breath threatened to tumble her already well-displayed bosom out completely.

  It was a persuasive argument. “Of course. My duty is clear.”

  She sighed in relief. “I knew you’d help. With Calistria’s Ball tomorrow, we’ve no time to lose. My husband will be distracted, and with everyone in disguise you’ll be able to sneak me away easily.”

  “Calistria’s Ball. Of course!” I hoped my feigned enthusiasm covered up the fact that I knew nothing of whatever backwater celebration we had stumbled into.

  She giggled. “How appropriate that I be freed on the day that celebrates Calistria cuckolding the Lord in Iron. I can’t thank you enough.” Her smile darkened. “I must go, and soon. Look for me tomorrow, cloaked like a swan maiden.”

  “Wait, what’s your name?”

  “Anra,” she whispered, then kissed me on the cheek and ran past me. I turned to follow, but she leapt into the arms of a handsome, neatly bearded man wearing a well-used breastplate and carrying a longsword at his hip. He looked perfectly familiar with the arts of combat, and more than willing to resort to violence if need warranted.

  For all the distaste of her marriage, she certainly put on a good show for his sake, and kissed him with eager passion. I decided to lose myself in the crowd rather than let him spot me.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  I woke in the common room to find Phargas with all his belongings laid out on the table before him, including the silver we’d liberated from the convent. My first assumption was that we had been robbed, and Phargas was taking inventory. I immediately checked my purse and found it lighter than expected.

  “I took the liberty of using your funds to pay for our lodging last night.” Phargas smiled. “Though I negotiated something of a ecclesiastical discount.”

  “So long as the price was fair.” Phargas started to protest, and I waved my hand. “I procured employment for us.”

  He scowled. “I hope it’s something you can do on the road. I’d like to put some more distance between us and the nuns before we try selling this.”

  “It won’t take long. There’s a terribly distressed damsel, desperate to be rescued from her unhappy marriage.” When his scowl deepened, I smiled. “She’ll be very appreciative.”

  “And you think we can rescue her without getting ourselves killed in the process?”

  “Please, these people are peasants. Besides, everyone will be wearing masks today. It’ll be easy.”

  He started repacking his bags, each item placed like a sliding block puzzle until they fit together perfectly. “Masks? For what?”

  “It’s some feast day of Calistria. I figured you knew that.”

  “I can’t keep track of every made-up holiday in every village we come across. Not every festival is endorsed by the church.”

  I nodded. “So, you’ll help me?”

  He shrugged the pack onto his back. “I suppose, so long as it doesn’t take too long.”

  I arranged my cloak and started toward the door. The burly serving girl who had greeted me the night before came running from the kitchen. “You can’t go out without a mask!”

  Phargas stepped between us, his hands spread wide. “We are but poor wanderers, my child. We have no masks to hide our faces from Calistria.”

  The girl blushed and curtsied to the priest, then went behind the bar. She pulled up a heavy wooden box and rummaged through it. “I think we have a few leftover masks from last year’s festival. They’ll be old, but nobody will notice, right?”

  “Of course not.” He took a step forward and she gave an exclamation of success.

  “Here we go!” She held up two masks, one a plain half-face in scarlet, the other a Baby Zora. My heart sank until I realized the priest was grabbing the cherub-cheeked plant-mask instead. I snatched the red mask and tied it around my head before he could change his mind.

  He turned back to face us with the mask in place. “How do I look?”

  "Anra makes a convincing argument."

  The barmaid giggled, and I snickered at the sight of him in the impish familiar’s mask. I recovered as well as I could, and applauded. “You look perfect.”

  He raised a hand in benediction over the maid, and muttered a blessing. Just before we reached the door, he grabbed my elbow. “So how do you plan to find this girl?”

  “I would know her radiance anywhere, no matter how well disguised. Besides, she told me what mask she’d be wearing.” With that, we emerged onto the street.

  For a little-known festival, it seemed half the River Kingdoms had shown up. Crowds thronged the streets, dressed in bright colors and garish masks. Many people were already drunk, despite the early hour. The laughter of a party of revelers pointing at us caused Phargas to drag me into an alley, his angry eyes out of place in the child-like mask.

  “Why are they laughing?”

  “Most people don’t expect to see a grown man wearing a Baby Zora mask. That’s all.”

  “A what? Who in the hells is Zora?”

  I looked at him, completely nonplussed. “Pickle Lily’s familiar?” No recognition dawned in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a Clever Nella show.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I chuckled. “It’s a puppet show. They’re hilarious.” His mood didn’t seem to improve, so I quickly added, “Baby Zora’s a mandrake root. A sorceress’s familiar. We’ve got to get you to a show. It’ll all make sense afterward.”

  “Still, I should choose something less obtrusive.” He touched the side of his mask and uttered a few quick prayers. When he was done the mask twisted itself into a stylized devil. “This should keep the rubes at bay.”

  “Now we all can do as we like,” I muttered. He glared at me, and I shrugged.

  “So is your damsel in distress in one of these Nella masks or something?” He strode past me, headed for the mouth of the alley.

  “Hardly. She said I’d find her in the guise of a swan maiden. That should be easy enough to spot.”

  “Indeed. Is she the one on the corner there? Or the one crossing the street with a man on each arm?”

  I joined him at the mouth of the alley. Sure enough, two different women in swan masks battled for my attention. I studied the street a moment and spotted at least three more, all dressed extravagantly, with white-feather masks and expensive gowns.

  I pointed at the one farthest from us. Flaxen hair fell from behind the mask, and her figure certainly looked right. “There she is. Come on.”

  The damsel turned as I reached her, and I slipped my arm through hers. “Quickly, my dear. We’ve got to get out of here before your husband finds us.”

  She screamed.

  For a moment, the whole festival stopped and looked at us. I relea
sed the woman and tried to stammer an apology, but it was too late. A man wearing a mask of hammered iron strode across the suddenly open space toward us. His hand drifted to the dueling blade at his hip as he growled a challenge.

  “Forgive me, forgive me. It was an honest mistake!” I held up my hands up to show that, not only had I removed them from his ladyfriend, I was also unarmed.

  “It’ll be an honest mistake when I gut you like a river eel, as well.”

  “It’s a feast day, good sirrah. I carry no steel. Besides, for fighters of our respective talents to cross blades requires more space.” The appeal to his ego bought me a few moments. “Do you know the Demon and Harlot?”

  He glanced at the woman quickly, then answered, “I know where it is. I’ve never been inside.”

  “Allow me to grab my blade, and I will meet you in the alley beside that fine establishment. There you can have the retribution you require.”

  He stared at me for a moment before his face split into a cruel smile. “I’ll be waiting. Bring someone to carry your corpse.” I swallowed as he spun on his heel and strode off, his swan maiden close at his heels.

  “So much for keeping a low profile,” Phargas muttered.

  I shrugged. “It was an honest mistake. He just needs some time to cool off.”

  “You can’t randomly accept duels from people.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t accept anything. I told him where to meet me, and said he’d get what he deserved. In this case, that’s time to calm down.”

  “Somehow, I doubt your failure to show will relax him.”

  I sighed. “Oh, fine. Have it your way.” I walked up to a man in a blue doublet wearing a mask that was doubtlessly supposed to be intimidating, but fell short of the mark. “Hey, you!”

  The man turned to face me. “Yeah?”

  “Did you see that guy in the iron mask?”

  “What guy?” He looked at me skeptically.

  “Big guy, dressed in red. Iron mask. He told me to tell you to meet him at the Demon and Harlot.”