And then the contests began. Mountaineers strove to climb a cliff near the edge of town; it was clearly visible from the market square, and each wore a piece of colored cloth pinned to his back, so that everyone could cheer his favorite. The first to the top was promised a purse of coins. Then there was a contest for lumberjacks; several large tree boles were brought into the square, and men vied to determine who might chop through one quickest. A quilting bee was next; Sidney was asked to act as one of the judges for this contest, her gender apparently being sufficient qualification, but managed to decline the honor. There was an ale-quaffing contest—Kraki won that one—and a display of wolves' pelts, on which the barony apparently paid a bounty, with a bonus going to the hunter who had killed the largest number of the beasts.
The needlepoint display was next; each contestant brought out her (or in one case, his) best work of the previous year. They were mounted on easels put up before the platform, and the judges—all women, by their dress the wives of prosperous townsmen—strolled up and down, examining them. Bertram stood nervously by his own offering, talking occasionally to the crowd, who seemed to think that the heir's choice of hobby was a marvelous joke. Broderick scowled blackly, no doubt believing the whole affair a blot on the family escutcheon, raising unnecessary questions about Bertram's manliness.
Sidney was faintly charmed at blond Bertram's nervousness; as the baron's son, surely he was guaranteed a place at the finish? "He's very handsome, isn't he?" she said, loudly enough that Timaeus heard her.
The wizard, who had been puffing on his pipe, took it out of his mouth. "What?" he said. "I mean, really. Bertram? Handsome? Bertram, handsome? I say . . ."
Sidney gave him a faint smile.
Bertram had been a good judge of his chances; he took second prize. Mistress Mabel appeared, leaning on her snake-knobbed cane. It occurred to Sidney that the old woman looked more tired, in the light of day, than she had in her shop; there were dark circles under her eyes, and she stifled a yawn as she hobbled painfully up to collect her own prize, a small purse. Sidney hoped for some word from Mabel, but she passed Sidney's place without a glance.
The needlepoint competition was followed by a dowsing contest. Then there was a ball game, one new to Sidney. It was evidently a free-for-all, with no teams, in which the player who ended a period of time in the ball's possession was considered the victor. There were several injuries in the course of that one.
When the herald declared that the archery contest was about to begin, Sir Broderick sprang up with a gleeful smile. "At last!" cried he. A servant handed him his bow and a quiver of arrows, and he leapt off the platform to take his place with the other contestants.
Captain Blentz and his men cleared an aisle down the center of the square, along the path of the main road. The road beyond the end of the square was cleared likewise, so that an errant shaft would not injure anyone. A target was judge's voice shouted out, a little fainter now with distance, "A burr!" And there was almost a sigh through the crowd.
Woodsley stood forth and almost negligently fired. "A burr!" again came the shout, and there were murmurs of approbation. Broderick was blank-faced, but by the redness of his ears, bursting with rage. The other two bowmen took their shots, but one hit only the inner ring, while the other, perhaps rattled at having come so far in the competition, missed the target entirely.
Again the target was moved back, another ten ells. Again Broderick toed up to the line, drew his shaft, held it, released—"Inner ring," came the shout. Broderick's mouth compressed to a thin line; but he might win still, if Woodsley's shot was no better.
Woodsley stood forth. He was less certain this time, holding his hood at an angle to gauge the wind before drawing, holding the arrow by his ear for a long moment before releasing—
"A burr!" came the shout.
There was a murmur of awe through the crowd—and then all eyes went to Broderick, to see how he would react. He wore a tight smile, but put out his hand to Woodsley genially enough, saying, "Well shot, Master Woodsley. You have a keen eye indeed. I would see the face of the man who has bested me."
Woodsley put a hesitant hand to his hood, but said, "Sir—I would not— I—"
Barely containing a snarl, Broderick reached out and flipped back the hood of green.
There was a rumble of thunder; only Sidney seemed to notice.
Beneath the hood was close-cropped red hair—
"Beatrice!" shouted a voice from the crowd. "Beatrice of the Band!" And there was instant confusion.
It was she, Sidney saw, breasts strapped down, clothing baggy enough to hide her form. She was running downthat long cobblestone street now, toward the gate at the far end of town, the road already cleared of obstruction for use as a firing range. Broderick watched her flee, but only for an instant before calmly drawing an arrow from the quiver at his back, setting the string of his bow in its notch, pulling back the string, aiming at Beatrice's back—
"Uncle! No!" shouted Bertram, leaping off the platform and running for the archers' station. But before he could reach his uncle, a burly, bearded man in peasant garb darted from the crowd and hurtled shoulder first into Broderick, sending the shot wild and knocking the nobleman to the ground.
The first fat drops of rain spattered on dusty cobbles. Men and women ran to and fro in the crowd, as others of the Band made their presence known and ran off likewise down the street, urging defiance on the crowd. Bertram reached Broderick in time to help his uncle to his feet. "Blentz!" Broderick was screaming. "After them, Blentz!"—and indeed, the captain was running after the Bandsmen, sword in hand, puffing badly. With him ran a half dozen soldiers, looking as if the last thing they wanted to do was catch up with the bandits and be forced to fight them on more or less equal terms. Without horses—all the horses were back at the castle, save only Baron Barthold's palfrey—the guardsmen's chances of catching Beatrice and the Band were slim.
Men, women, and children were scurrying for cover, whether from the danger posed by naked blades or the discomfort of falling rain it was hard to say. The chef de cuisine was dancing with rage, berating his soul-chefs and maidservants: "The pastry! By damn, save the pastry! The rain will ruin it!" But the castle staff was in an uproar, too, goggling after the bandits, running about in insensible panic.
"Should we do something, do you think?" said Jasper.
"I vant to kill someone," said Kraki, who had his sword out and was looking wildly around, "but who?"
"Precisely," said Timaeus, looking unhappily into the rainy sky. "Why do Broderick any favors? Or those bandits, either."
"Bunch of foolsh, that'sh what I'm hooked up with," said Vincianus. "Don't have the shenshe to come out of the rain." He began a ritual chant.
"Put that thing away," Nick said disgustedly to Kraki. "You'll only get it rusty."
Kraki looked at him a little guiltily, then sheathed his weapon.
"Vic has a point," said Timaeus. "Why don't we go—"
Thunder crashed. Everyone jumped"Vies gone," said Sidney.
"Ah," said Timaeus. "Teleported back to the castle, I suppose. Not a bad notion—"
"Don't you dare!" said Sidney. Timaeus's own teleport spell left a fireball at his place of departure; unpleasant for those left behind, albeit useful when leaving someone you didn't particularly like.
Broderick was still running about and giving orders, but Bertram had seemingly disappeared into the crowd.
"Look," said Nick. "I don't see any percentage in staying here. Why don't we head back to the castle?"
"Righto," said Jasper. "Let's." He floated off the platform, followed in more conventional fashion by Nick and Sidney.
"Nnnnn-nnnnn!" said Barthold, still seated in his chair, his gray mustache drooping with wetness.
"Good heavens," said Timaeus. "Mustn't forget the baron. Here, give me a hand. Can you walk, my lord?"
"Nnnn," said Barthold.
"Drat," said Timaeus. "Is the palfrey still about?"
&nbs
p; "Ran off," said Nick.
"Never mind," said Kraki, who picked Barthold up, jumped off the platform, and began to stride toward the castle.
It occurred to Sidney that she still had an errand to run.
V
Timaeus dripped water onto the slate flags of the Great Hall. His red hair was plastered to his skull, his beard dewed with droplets. Garments sucked wetly against his skin. "Damnation," he fulminated miserably, "this castle is normally overrun with servants; where the devil are they when a man needs them?"
"Scurrying about town, I'd guess," said Nick, shucking his soaked jacket and draping it across a chair, "looking for bandits or hiding from them." He was red-faced and exuberant.
"Servants?" said Jasper, whizzing gaily about. If he was affected by the storm, it didn't show. "Timaeus, old man, you are a fire mage, after all; surely you don't need a servant to start a blaze." Logs and kindling were already laid in the fireplace; all that was needed was a spark.
Timaeus muttered something, then waved his hands a bit and said a Word; a bolt of flame shot across the room, blasting into the hearth. Logs went tumbling like skittles, but when they had settled down, the fire was positively raging.
"How is it that you're not soaked?" said Timaeus nastily. "Bloody green pipsqueak." He went to bask before the fire, standing almost to the flames; his hose began to give off steam.
"Umbrella," said Jasper.
Timaeus eyeballed the speck of light, which was settling into an armchair. Umbrella? Timaeus hadn't seen an umbrella. But then, he never saw much of Jasper in any event.
"Vhat's his problem?" asked Kraki, dropping Baron Barthold into another armchair.
"Fire mage," said Jasper in good humor. "Can't stand the wet, any of them. Magical opposites, you know."
"Hallo, hallo, all," said Bertram, breezing into the hall. "Timaeus, old man; did you ever see such a goddess?"
"Mm?" inquired Timaeus, shaking each limb in turn, in an effort to dislodge drops of water.
"I mean to say, what a creature! What an exquisite creature. And what cheek! To beard old Uncle Broderick in his own den, as it were! I say, there's the woman for me."
Timaeus stared at Bertram openmouthed. "Surely you can't be—"
"Oh, I know, I know, chaps; I'm dreadfully sorry. I suppose you're all pining for that xanthous beauty yourselves, that gloriously—"
"I say, Sir Bertram, old bean," said Jasper. "What the devil are you babbling about?"
"What?" said Bertram, thunderstruck. "You mean to say, you weren't as poleaxed as I?"
Kraki wandered over to the sideboard and thoughtfully fetched a full decanter of Moothlayan whisky for Baron Barthold, who held it uncertainly in one shaky hand. Normally, a servant poured two fingers for him when he wanted a drink; but Kraki had different ideas about the proper way to quaff strong drink, ideas he was demonstrating with a magnum of ancient Dzorzian sherry. He chugged it down like water.
Nick sat on the stones before the hearth, back to the blaze, cleaning his fingernails with a dirk and smiling faintly at Bertram. Nick fancied himself an expert in—if not affairs of the heart, at least affairs of the flesh. In his judgment, Bertram had about as much chance with Beatrice as a dachshund with a St. Bernard. Nick was beginning to wonder whether he himself might have an opportunity ...
"I see not," said Bertram wonderingly. "Hard to imagine. How could you not instantly have fallen for that veritable fount of pulchritude, the beauteous and valiant—"
"All right, all right, for goodness' sake," said Timaeus irritably. "We appreciate the immediacy of your lovestruck state. Now do shut up and let us dry out, there's a good chap."
There was an awkward silence.
"Look here, young Bertram," said Jasper. "It's all very well to have fallen in love, but what do you plan to do about it?"
"Err—well, yes," said Bertram, digging for earwax. "I had given it a modicum of thought. You see, Beatrice is a bandit, after all, in rebellion against the lawful rule of her rightful sovran; and whatever meritorious characteristics Uncle Brod possesses, a willingness to forgive and forget is not among them. I take it, therefore, I must woo and win her, presenting the old relative with a fait accompli."
Everyone mulled over this for a moment; light flashed from the windows, followed momentarily by the crash of thunder. It was pouring still, out there.
"I shall—I shall need your help, of course," said Bertram uncertainly. "I'm afraid I am not, ah, altogether; ah, a sophisticate in these matters of the heart."
Timaeus snorted, and fumbled for his pipe.
"Well well well," said Jasper, his voice thick with emotion. "Of course you shall have our help, my lad. Of course we shall do everything in our power to see that a successful conclusion is brought to the love between you and the beauteous Beatrice."
"We will?" said Nick.
"Are you daft?" demanded Timaeus.
"Silence!" Jasper thundered. "Of course we shall! Are we not heroes? What else does our duty demand? Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori, as the poet says."
Kraki contemplated this as Bertram babbled thanks and Timaeus boiled. He didn't understand the fancy talk, but as he understood it, heroism involved slaying your foes, building pyramids with their skulls, and hearing the lamentations of their women, preferably as you had your merry way with said women. He didn't quite see where love came into it; but Jasper usually knew what he was doing, and it certainly sounded more interesting than lolling about the castle and swilling the local liquor, which seemed to be the alternative on offer.
"If you think for one minute," Timaeus declared, his pipe at a determined angle, "that I intend to charge off into the raging storm in the cause of some fatuous infatuation, than you're as feebleminded as Bertram here."
Nick said nothing; the prospect of seeing Beatrice again was increasingly appealing, and whatever Jasper thought, Bertram did not strike him as much of a rival.
"I say," said Bertram, shocked.
"I go," said Kraki.
"Good man," said Jasper. "And Timaeus, I must say, I am shocked; to deny your plain duty—"
"Duty? You old fool," shouted Timaeus, "our duty is to get the damned statue of Stantius to Arst-Kara-Morn, not to run off to help the chinless wonder, here, with his love life—"
"I say!" said Bertram. "That's quite—"
"First," said Jasper freezingly, "I would ask you to keepyour voice down. And if you must shout, you might consider refraining from bellowing our deepest secrets to the winds, especially when you well know that our host is far from friendly."
"What? Nonsense, nonsense, I have only the most amicable—"
"Not you, Sir Bertram. Second, I must say, Timaeus, I am deeply wounded at your cold, hardhearted attitude. It is indicative, I should think to say, of the callous modern outlook; here we have a young man smitten with a beauteous maid, a maid the mortal enemy of his uncle, star-crossed lovers—"
Timaeus snorted. "If I recall correctly, when the subject of Bertram was mentioned, Beatrice's comment was `That twit.' This hardly sounds like the passionate cooing of the enraptured lover."
"She said what?" said Bertram.
"Listen to me, dammit!" shouted Jasper. He sighed heavily before continuing. "How to put it? A maid the mortal enemy of the young man's uncle. An uncle who—well, forgive me, young Bertram—an uncle who has designs on our own possessions. Not to mention our lives."
Bertram blinked. "How do you—"
"Yes, dreadful man," said Timaeus. "And so?"
"And so. If we are to leave the castle safely, with our possessions, we must either neutralize Uncle Broderick, or hoodwink him in some way, yes? And how better to do so than to enlist the aid of the young heir and his blushing bride-to-be?"
"I have a hard time imagining Beatrice of the Band as a blushing bride-to-be," said Nick, who had spent a considerable amount of time imagining Beatrice in a number of different roles, none of them involving a standing position.
"I have better plan," sa
id Kraki. "Vhy not kill all the soldiers in castle? Then ve leave."
"I like Kraki's plan better," grumbled Timaeus. "Omnia vincit amor, eh? You're really going to put your faith in that old saw?"
"Bah, d' Asperge," said Jasper roughly. "Where's your sense of adventure? Of romance?"
"Taking a long and pleasant rest before the fire with a snifter of brandy," said Timaeus.
Jasper snorted. "Let's go, shall we, Bertram? We'll obviously get nothing out of this insensitive clod." He lifted from the armchair and headed toward the door.
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