by Robert Evert
“What does that mean? ‘Forgo’?”
“It means you w-wouldn’t have to pay any taxes,” Edmund declared.
“No taxes?” many people said eagerly.
The boy reached for the announcement. “Let me see that.”
Edmund slapped his hand.
“Why would they just be giving land away?” somebody hollered. “Sounds like a trick!”
The majority of the crowd murmured in agreement.
Yes, explain to them how you got everybody in Rood killed and that twenty thousand goblins are still roaming around the nearby mountains.
“Ah!” Edmund raised his finger theatrically to buy himself some time. “Because … because …” Then an idea occurred to him. “Because there are so few men there! Most of them died in the last Goblin War, and the new lord of the region needs men—big, strong, able-bodied men who will rescue the beautiful women of the north and work the land!”
The murmuring grew more energetic.
From somewhere within the mob, Pond yelled, “I heard that the women there have really big bosoms!”
A great laugh went up.
“I think I heard that, too,” somebody near the middle of the crowd said. “Don’t they all have red hair?”
They turned to Edmund, who was caught thinking of Molly’s auburn hair and buxom chest.
“What? What, red? Yes … yes, some. Many. Many have blonde hair, too. Brown and black as well. They are beautiful beyond compare, and I can see that many of the women here must have Highland blood coursing through their veins.”
A middle-aged woman standing by her husband blushed.
“If they’re so beautiful and the land is so good,” a tall man called out, “why aren’t you going there?”
“I am!” Edmund shouted back. “And I’m going to beat you all there so I can have my pick of the wealthiest women of the lot!”
More laughter erupted.
“But how do you get there?” somebody yelled. “Where is this Rood?”
“I’m going to follow the River Bygwen north. That’s the route I’m taking.” Edmund stepped off the box. “It’ll take me about two months or so, but the journey is as easy as putting one foot in front of the other, as they say. Plus, I want to become rich!”
“So you’re really going?” two men said in unison.
“Can I join your group?” a third asked.
Edmund hooted.
“Look at me,” he said, gesturing to his gaunt face and missing eye. Even with new clothing, he still looked haggard. “The last thing I want is other men going with me. Why, you younger lads will win the hearts of the northern women before they even look at me! No, sir. I’m going now, and I’m going alone so I can b-beat you all to the punch!”
Tucking the announcement into his pocket, Edmund strode away quickly. With a subtle glance at Pond, he inclined his head up the street.
Pond winked.
Some of the men called for him to wait, but Edmund kept walking, leaving the crowd to boil in its anticipation and excitement.
“They have really big bosoms?” Edmund said doubtfully after he met up with Pond. Even a block away from the notice boards, they could still hear the buzz of the crowd.
“Arable lands?” Pond chuckled. “You may know books, but I know sales. You can’t use all those big words of yours; it scares them. None of those people knew what ‘arable’ meant. Trust me.”
“True.”
“Plus, men like that only want two things: an easy way to make a good living and a beautiful woman in their beds.”
Edmund thought about what he wanted out of life.
“Anyhow,” Pond went on. “What you did back there was very kind. You surprised even me.”
“Maybe. Those men will probably go all the way up to Rood and then come back to kill me when they don’t get their free land.”
Pretty soon everybody will be wanting to kill you. You should’ve just kept to yourself.
Pond smiled at him.
“What?” Edmund asked, annoyed.
“You’re beginning to heal. It’ll take time, but eventually you’ll be okay and you’ll finally be able to move on from Molly.”
“Nonsense. I … I just want Rood to be rebuilt, that’s all. But they’ll need food first. Hopefully a few of those men will go up north and begin farming.”
Pond’s grin didn’t go away.
Ignoring him, Edmund examined the storefronts, peering into their windows as they walked past.
“Do I really have to go to this get-together?” he asked. “I mean, what’s the point? I’m not interested in meeting a bunch of old spinsters whose sole purpose in life is to marry a wealthy man.”
“We’re doing this,” Pond replied, “because you were asked by a very influential person in this region, and going will help us blend in. Besides, I like it here. It reminds me of home. Maybe we can settle down and buy a business. I walked around this morning while you were fastened to your bedroom floor. There are several suitable building sites available, and nobody in town sells books, so we could have the market to ourselves.”
Edmund began to protest, but Pond cut him off.
“You’re going,” he said. “And that’s that!”
Going to this get-together or being stuck in the goblin pits …
I don’t know which is worse!
Chapter Eight
Bathed in soft blue starlight and the red glow of sputtering lanterns hung overhead from posts, Pond examined the early evening sky with satisfaction as he ambled along the brick street.
“It’s going to rain in a couple days,” he said.
Stomping next to him, Edmund grunted, several packages under each arm.
“There’s nothing like showers by the sea,” Pond went on, and he sniffed the salty air. “It’s very cleansing.”
Again Edmund grunted.
Pond began to whistle; each high-pitched note sliced into Edmund’s throbbing head.
Still fighting off the remnants of his angry hangover, Edmund snapped, “Why did we have to buy so much? It’ll take them three days to deliver everything!”
The warm coastal winds shifted, sending Pond’s neatly groomed hair fluttering over his shoulders. He let the breeze caress his contented face.
“We got what we got because: one, we found some really good deals; two, you want to blend in, so you need regular clothes that’ll make you look like everybody else around town; and three, you need something nice so you don’t look like a vagabond when you go to Baroness Melody’s dinner.”
Edmund’s soul deflated.
“Do I really have to go?”
“Absolutely. I won’t take no for an answer, and neither will the Baroness.”
“Wonderful.”
“Plus, chances are your little monster will eat at least one of these outfits. We’ll need a spare or two, just in case.”
Edmund wavered midstride. “Oh no! Becky!”
Becky had fallen fast asleep in their suite after chasing squirrels and brightly colored fish all afternoon. But that was hours ago. Heaven only knew what destruction she had wrought since she had woken up.
“We’d better get back before Becky eats everything.” Edmund quickened his pace despite his complaining head.
“I tell you, things would be a lot easier if we just found her a nice home on some tiny deserted island far from here.”
“Pond …”
“I know, I know.” Pond sighed. “You like dogs.”
They sidestepped a young couple walking slowly in front of them.
“She’ll get better,” Edmund said, turning up a street that headed out of town. “She’s still only a puppy.”
Pond snorted.
“A puppy? More like a small horse! The way she’s growing, I wouldn’t be surprised if she becomes as big as one soon. Then she’ll really be a handful!”
“Trust me, having a b-b-big … having a big dog will come in hand—”
At the other end of the town square,
people hollered, many of the raised voices belonging to children. Edmund’s pace slowed as he tried to see what has happening.
“What’s over there?” he said to Pond, tipping his chin toward the swelling crowd.
Pond shrugged.
“The pillories, I think. Perhaps they’re in use. Where’re you going? What about the little monster?”
“They’re probably flogging a suspected magic user, trying to make him confess.”
Damn this fear of magic. When will people just let us be?
Edmund stomped across the green park in the town center, beyond which a group of children taunted somebody, cursing and using language one wouldn’t expect even from drunken sailors. Some of them threw rocks, squealing with delight.
“Give me a second,” Edmund said to Pond. “I just want to see what’s happening.”
“All right,” Pond replied. “But it’s your turn to clean up the little brown piles Becky keeps leaving everywhere. I did it this morning!”
On a raised platform at the other end of the town square stood a row of pillories, all empty but for the center one, which contained an enormous bald man in his late teens or early twenties, his wrists, ankles, and huge neck encased in the wooden apparatus. Children skipped around him, kicked his sizable rear end, and smeared manure in his face as they chanted: “Fatty! Fatty! Stupid fatty moron!”
Bent forward at a painfully uncomfortable angle, the fat man simply stared ahead, past half-lidded eyes that were rather close together and much too small for his fleshy face. He neither flinched nor protested.
He doesn’t look like a magic user.
What? Do you think all magic users are short and stutter? Don’t get involved. There’s nothing you can do.
An amused constable stood at the far end of the platform.
“What’re you going to do?” Pond asked as Edmund pushed through the crowd.
Don’t get involved!
A rock hit the fat man’s face. A cheer erupted as blood started to trickle from a small gash above his eye.
Edmund stormed up to the chuckling constable.
“Why are you doing this?” he demanded. “He’s a person, just like any of us! Why are you treating him this way?”
The obese man had been whipped; ripples of fat on his bare back had been sliced open, and blood oozed through a half-dozen slashes. Given the visible scars, this evidently hadn’t been his first offense.
“Fatty Moron?” the constable replied. “His usual. There’s no cure for him, I’m afraid. Somebody should put him out of his misery and ours as—”
“Yes, yes. But what did he do to deserve this?”
The constable stared down at him, evidently trying to determine whether Edmund was important enough to use such an aggressive tone with an enforcer of the law.
“He was convicted of theft,” the constable said, eyes narrowing. “Who’re you, sir? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
See! He’s not a magic user. He’s simply a common thief. Don’t get involved. Nothing good will come from you getting involved.
He still needs our help.
Don’t—!
“What did he steal?”
“Sir.” The constable stepped from the platform. Even on level ground, he stood a good eight inches over Edmund. “Perhaps you are new to this region but as constable here, I am accustomed to having my questions answered first.”
An older boy kicked the fat man in the face. Another great cheer went up.
Blood flowed from the prisoner’s nose, mixing with the manure they had smeared across his mouth. Yet through it all, the young man in the pillory continued to stare dully in front of him.
Control your anger. You don’t know what the situation is.
Nobody should be treated like this!
“M-m-my, my name is Mr. Edmund,” Edmund said, trying to unclench his teeth. “I am presently a guest of Baroness Melody, though my colleague, Mr. Pond, and I are contemplating relocating here permanently. Now, if you would be so kind, please tell me, what exactly did this poor fellow do to deserve this torture? What did he steal?”
The constable regarded Edmund, and then Pond.
“And what is it that you and your colleague do, Mr. Edmund?”
Be calm. Don’t do anything stupid.
“Our positions are such that we don’t require a trade,” Edmund replied.
The constable took a deep breath, an understanding dawning in his cold expression.
“Very well.” He stepped back a pace. “If you wish to know, Fatty Moron was caught stealing food. He couldn’t pay restitution, so—”
“So you, you tortured him?”
The constable’s lips tightened into a forced smile. He bowed slightly.
“Your words, sir. This is the law of our land. If it displeases you, perhaps you and your colleague should consider relocating to a city whose laws better suit your tastes.”
“So am I correct to assume that if the merchant was reimbursed for his losses, this young man would be set free?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fumbling with his many packages, Edmund searched his pockets. “How much does he owe?”
“Eighty-five silver pieces.”
“Eighty-five silver pieces! What the hell did he eat?”
Edmund continued to pat his empty pockets. He glanced at Pond, who shrugged and inclined his head toward the packages in their arms.
“He ate seven sea bass and drank a quarter keg of ale,” the constable said. A more genuine smile crept across his lips as he watched Edmund turn a trouser pocket inside out. “He has been charged for the entire keg since he stuck his head in the barrel. It couldn’t be sold with his crud in it.”
Edmund felt something inside his vest pocket. He reached in and pulled out the wedding ring from the troll’s lair. Its grape-sized diamond shimmered in the starlight.
Don’t! Molly would—
“This is worth more than eighty-five silver pieces,” he said, pushing the ring into the astonished constable’s hands. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Breathless, the constable replied, “Well, I’m no expert in such things, but I would guess that you are correct, sir.”
“Then this is what I want you to do. Take this ring and in the morning sell it to anybody you like. Get whatever you think it’s worth. From that money, give eighty-five silver pieces to the merchant. You can keep the rest for yourself.”
The constable looked up, startled. “I couldn’t!”
You’re making a big mistake.
“Now,” Edmund said, “let this poor fellow go.”
The constable fingered the ring, examining its clear diamond and silver band.
“It’s worth about nine hundred gold pieces,” Pond told him. “Just so you know what to expect. I wouldn’t accept anything less than eight hundred fifty if I were you.”
The constable mouthed “nine hundred gold.” Doubt washed over his face.
“It isn’t stolen, is it?”
“Would somebody give a stolen ring like this to an officer of the law?” Edmund asked in disgust. “Look at it! It’s one of a kind. It could be easily identified. Now let the poor fellow go.”
Like a burglar preparing to exit the scene of a crime, the constable surveyed the crowd around the pillories.
“Very well.” He slipped the ring into his pocket. “But Fatty Moron is now under your care; he’s your ward and responsibility.”
“Fine! Fine!” Edmund said. “Just let the poor fellow go.”
Despite the children’s disappointed whines, the constable unlocked the pillory and opened the hinged boards.
The thief didn’t move. Bloody manure slid from his face.
The constable smacked him across the top of his head.
“Get out, Fatty Moron. And get out of my sight. You’re none of my concern any longer. These gentlemen will be dealing with you from now on.”
Fatty Moron’s head lifted a bit, his tiny black eyes drifting over in
Edmund’s direction.
“Come on, moron! Get going or I’ll—” The constable cocked his hand back.
Edmund seized his arm before another blow could fall.
“If you strike him again,” he said, “you’ll have me to answer to.”
Even the taunting children fell quiet.
“Sir!” The constable’s voice thinned to its breaking point. “I’m an enforcer of the law!”
“I don’t care.”
For a moment they stared at each other, Edmund’s fingers tightening around the constable’s forearm. The constable turned away first.
“Get going, Fatty Moron,” he repeated as Edmund released him. “Get out of my sight!”
Fatty Moron pulled his wrists and ankles out of the restraints, his great pear-shaped body unfolding like a concertina, and straightened as best he could with a still-bleeding back. Even hunched over, his bald head loomed over everybody.
Holy cow! He’s bigger than Tiny Turd!
And probably just as dangerous.
“What’s your name?” Edmund asked the giant.
The children around them giggled.
“It’s Fatty Moron!” sang a little girl in pigtails. “Fatty, Fatty Moron!”
Fatty Moron’s sad gaze sunk to the ground.
“That’s okay,” Edmund said. “You can tell me. We’re friends.”
The constable laughed. “He can’t answer you.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause he’s a moron. He doesn’t talk; he just grunts.” A look of pleasure grew in the constable’s eyes. “But he’s your problem now.”
Terrific! What’re you going to do with him?
I can’t just let him go about his way. Without a job, he’ll be in the stockades, or worse, when he steals more food to feed himself. He probably doesn’t even have a home.
Neither do you.
“I’m Pond,” Pond said, extending an open hand to Fatty Moron.
Fatty Moron looked sidelong at it then stared blankly at the ground again.
Parading around them, the children began to chant: “Fatty Moron! Fatty, Fatty Moron!”
