by Ron Miller
“The barons were furious, of course; they wanted Payne’s blood. But there was little they could do. Payne hasn’t pursued his complaints against them, and I think they are afraid he would. What they’d done had been absolutely illegal, of course; and quite a large number of people had died, too, some of them innocent of any connection with the chamberlain. I think that even at the moment of Payne’s sentencing, the barons realized that the victory was more their enemy’s than their own. He was silently blackmailing them as he stood there listening to the chancellors decreeing his exile from Tamlaght.
“Payne’s sentence sent him only as far as one of the islands in the Gulf. He’s not more than two hundred miles from Blavek at this moment. And he’s coming back. I discovered that more or less by accident just a few days ago. I make no apologies for going through my brother’s papers and despatches, they mean more to me than they ever would to him, anyway, even if he cared to look, or can understand them if he did. I found that he’s been in constant communication with Payne since the day Payne left. Some days half a dozen letters would arrive from the coast. These are delivered directly into my brother’s hands, but once I discovered their existence it was easy enough to get hold of them. Although each one exhorts Ferenc to destroy it and all the other communications, he is too stupid or careless, or perhaps sentimental, to do so. Anyway, I found them.
“The upshot of the letters is this: Ferenc has started to plot Payne’s return.
“In the meanwhile, there’s been a victory in the north. Maybe you heard about it? It was small enough; Piers overwhelmed an undermanned, out-of-the-way post that had no particular military importance, but it was a victory nevertheless and the papers are full of it. It’s the first good news in a long time and the people are going crazy. D’you know about all this nonsense? Well, following Payne’s directions, Ferenc is using this victory to gain a lot of public support, who else do you credit for a great victory but the man who is the corporeal representation of your country?
“Using this new popularity, Ferenc has gone to the Church and, Musrum forgive them!, has convinced the priests that Payne’s exile is illegal. They’ll now pressure the Privy Council to overturn their decision and allow Payne to return. What’s worse, he’s trying to force the chancellors, as compensation, to have the barons make full restitution for Payne’s damages. This, of course, would bankrupt most of them, as well as increase Payne’s power a hundredfold over what it’d been before. And that’s assuming the barons wouldn’t simply opt for civil war, which would be the most likely turn of events. What’s worse yet is that while he’s using the Church, through the prince, to further his own ends, Payne is plotting its destruction. He’s insanely covetous of the Church’s wealth and I know he’s devised some plan to loot it after the coronation.
“There’s just one thing that might prevent all this from happening: letting the Privy Council and the barons see the contents of the letters Payne sent to Ferenc.
“I have them. Payne knows I have them. His island’s not far enough away to prevent him from maintaining full control of his Guards and spies, and he has agents everywhere. He knows everything that goes on. As soon as he learns that I has the letters, he sent his Guards orders to prevent me from reaching the chancellors and to recover the letters, at any cost. I barely got out of the palace with my life.
“That’s why I is being chased. There’s no way that Payne’s going to allow me to get those letters to the Council.”
The gypsy poked at the embers in the little stove, awakening the slumbering coals into a few fitful flames.
“I can see that you have has some difficulties, Princess,” he says, finally.
“I’m glad you appreciate that.”
“But they are not difficulties I have not dealt with before, except perhaps on a matter of scale: I certainly have never has an army after me. In spite of this inexperience, perhaps there is something I can do for you. We shall see.”
“I’d appreciate all the help I can get...if it’s a question of a reward...”
“No! No!” he answers with some heat. “That is not something to mention. I will help you, that is all, it is enough.”
“I must get to my cousin Piers as soon as possible.”
“And your friend?”
“Thud? What about him?”
“There is something about him I find very strange.”
“I can’t imagine what,” she answers sarcastically. “But don’t judge him by his looks; he’s all right.”
“Please do not misunderstand me! I can see that he is,” he says without a trace of mockery. Turning to Thud, he asks, “where do you come from, if I may ask?”
“Groontocker and Peen.”
“This is another planet?”
“I don’t know; I just cut stone there.”
“I see! An artisan! And before that?”
“I always cut stone there.”
“You were a child once, were you not? Although I admit I find that very hard to imagine.”
Bronwyn almost protests this slur, but then recalls that the very same doubt once ran through her own mind and with uncharacteristic fairness keeps her mouth shut.
“Sure I was, I was a kid like anyone else. Just a little husky that’s all. I’ve always been kind of husky.”
“Please! No offense meant! Believe me when I say that you are a very admirable man. Who else could have brought the princess here safely? Eh?”
“Well...” Thud is embarrassed by the praise and thinks of mentioning his failure in getting Bronwyn to the destination he has promised her, but thinks better of it. Why spoil such a nice compliment?
“But look here, I am serious, and believe me, I have good reason for asking. What do you recall of your boyhood? Do you remember your parents?”
“No, not exactly. I kind of grew up mostly around the streets.” He fidgeted, not sure how far to open himself to a stranger and vaguely embarrassed. He looks to Bronwyn.
“I’d like to know, too, Thud, so go ahead.”
Thud pulls his bag over to his chair and rummages in it for a moment. He pulls a cloth bundle from it and began unwrapping it. Bronwyn is not surprised when Thud lays the hard rubber case of the tintype on the table. He opens it as reverently as he would an icon, or perhaps it is an icon. The sad, silvery face shimmers up at them.
“Holy Sister of Musrum!” whispers the gypsy. “And this...?”
“I always liked to think she’s my Ma, even if she isn’t, but I really don’t remember too good; it’s long ago. I’ve just always has this picture. I don’t know where it came from, really.”
“What is it?” asks the mystified Bronwyn.
“Nothing, nothing. She...the girl in the picture...just reminds me of some...one. It is of no matter.”
“I’ll not have anyone laughing at him!”
“Oh ho! The princess speaks, eh? No, I would not and do not mock your friend. I will show you why not. Henda, come here.”
The strange little creature came waddling and sniffling to its master. The eyes are very much like a bird’s. Bronwyn had seen their like once in a bird her cousin Piers had caught in a net, its wings hopelessly broken.
“Henda, these are very good people; they are friends of mine and so they are friends of yours, too. Understand me?”
Henda’s bright black beads sparkle first at Bronwyn, then at Thud. The raggedy head nods, uncertainly.
“All right, then, you can take those things off your head.”
The sniffling becomes more violent and Henda shies back from the gypsy, eyes jumping twitchily from girl to giant to gypsy, like fleas. Then a hand appears from the midst of the rags. It is small, smooth and pink. Bronwyn realizes with a jolt that it is a child’s hand. It begins unwinding the long scarf that is wrapped around its face. Then Henda turns and smiles at Bronwyn. And smiles and smiles and smiles.
“Do you see why I do not laugh at your big friend, my Princess?”
“What happened to him?” asks the girl, in a hushed voice.
“There is a band of wicked people, not true gypsies, I thank Musrum, who wander through the villages of Mostaza. They are nothing but beggars, thieves, pickpockets and cutthroats, and much worse, as you will see. They have no art, do you understand? They call themselves Verstummellin. They say that it means ‘the misshapen,’ as though they are describing themselves, their own appearance. But the word really means ‘misshapers.’ It is difficult to translate the difference. I do not know the words. ‘Mutilators’? That is better. They are the Mutilators.
“The name describes not what they look like, but what they do. They do not wish to give in return for the money that they beg: you will not receive from them music, a good medicine, a useful charm, your fortune; no. They are too lazy for that. They sell pity. They do things to their poor children and to children they steal. They set them to wandering through the villages, if they can wander, you understand? People see these babes and say, ‘Oh! What has happened to you, unfortunate one? What has happens to your eyes? What has become of your leg, your arm? Look how the poor thing must walk hunched over, look how it must drag itself through the dirt, look what it must accept my money with instead of hands!’“
The gypsy is quite red and he realizes he has raised his voice.
“Forgive me, please. It is just when I think...Well, the Verstummellin thought it would be amusing to make Henda here smile. They has tried many other things before, with other children, but never something like this. Henda already has a long career before I found him. It is why it is best that the rest of him remain so bundled, you understand? The face is really not so bad. Not like the rest. I do not think he is more than eight years old yet. So they thinks they would make him smile. And now poor Henda smiles and smiles, no matter what he may feel inside. My poor little Henda.”
He cradles the child’s head in his lap. Henda sniffles and drools.
“Now you two,” he continued, allowing the child to replace its raggedy mask, “you are welcome to sleep here. In just a few hours, we will be preparing to leave the city and things will be very busy. You will be coming with us.”
“With you? But how? The Guards’ll be searching everywhere. There’s no place in here we can hide from them. You said yourself they don’t miss a thing.”
“They do not think they miss anything, which is not quite the same thing. You must trust me. We gypsies have much experience at this. I believe that the Guards will abandon the idea of searching the city for you. All that is really necessary for them is to prevent you from leaving, is that not so? They do not actually have to catch you? Yes. I thinks as much. Well, I do not think, then, that they will waste very much more time chasing you through the streets. I think you have only made them angry this night. They will realize this. They will be very wary at the bridges and other places, instead of searching the streets. As long as you are trapped in Blavek, your brother and his friend have little to worry about, no? And after the coronation, what do they care?”
“Then you have a way...?”
“Do not have a mind about it. I will send Henda to wake you. My home is yours tonight.”
And without another word, the gypsy leaves the wagon, Henda following closely behind. The thick wooden slab of a door closes gently behind them.
“Did you see the kid’s face?” asks Thud. “How can somebody do that to a kid? Gave me the creeps, I tell you.”
Bronwyn lowers the iron bar across the door. She returns to where Thud lounges on the built-in bed, and sits beside him, drawing her legs up onto the cushion and resting her chin pensively on her knees.
“Thud, my worthy friend, I think we’re both learning that there’s a lot more about the world than we ever thought possible.”
“What do you think the gypsy meant about my picture? Do you think he can tell my fortune? I’ve never seen a gypsy before, but I heard they can tell people’s fortunes. How do you think they do that?”
He got no answer from the girl, other than the soft purring of her breath. She is fast asleep, her head against Thud’s broad hip, her hair spilling over his lap. Thud sighs. He leans his own head into the corner of the nook; his hand laying gently over Bronwyn’s head, a hand so large it seems to engulf it like a pink starfish devouring a clam. The big fingers gently stroke the hair above her ear and soon he, too, is asleep.
It is still dark when a rap came at the door. Thud, as usual, is instantly awake. Bronwyn is still asleep; her head looks like a russet cat curled in his lap for a nap. He shakes her shoulder,
“Princess? Princess? It’s time to wake up.”
Another light tap at the door. Bronwyn sits up, blinking and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, as Thud goes to the door.
“Yes?” he asks it.
“It is me,” comes the voice of the gypsy, “and Henda. It is time to leave. May we come in?”
Thud throws back the bar and the door swings open. The gypsy and the boy enter, shutting the door quickly behind them.
“Good morning, my friends. I hope that your sleep was pleasant, if unfortunately too brief.”
“Was I even asleep?” asks Bronwyn, who aches in every bone and whose eyes seems filled with powdered glass.
“I hope so. It will be dawn in an hour. We are late in leaving, but none of the others wished to disturb you so soon. Now, however, we must hasten.”
“What do we have to do?”
“Trust us.”
The four exited the caravan. The sky is blushing with the suggestive promise of dawn; the air is crisp and damp. A dozen people are busy in the plaza, puffing white vapor into the cold air; the paper lanterns are gone, the grass has been combs of every scrap of litter, the cooking and campfires has vanished. The iron tripod, its kettle, the folding stools and benches are all gone as though they has never existed; the strips pavilions of the fortuneteller and sideshow have collapsed upon themselves, disappearing like a magician’s card trick. The other gypsies, male, female and young, barely spare Thud and Bronwyn a glance.
“You are lucky, my friends, that the dancing bear died. I did not know about you, Thud Mollockle; you might have presented me with a difficulty, no?”
Thud does not know what the man is talking about and keeps quiet. The gypsy leads the two to a wagon that has large barred openings in its sides. These are normally hidden by a pair of large, hinged panels that are now swung up like wings. It is an animal cage, though presently unoccupied. The frame of the wagon is as floridly decorated as the others. As they approach, a gypsy is harnessing a brace of small, shaggy horses to the wagon tongue. They look at the strangers with sleepy, doleful eyes.
“This was the home of poor Gretl. Ah, how the children loved her, she was so gentle and such a fine dancer. But she was an old bear and three days ago, in the night, she died, just like that. We loved her, old Gretl, but what can we do with a dead bear? She was as big as you, friend Thud. Can we bury her in the plaza? No! How can we do that to such a loyal friend? It is out of the question and no doubt also illegal. So, being a practical people, we sold her. I like to think that Gretl will be feeding many hungry children and keeping them warm with her fine, thick pelt. Also, the money we were paid will be keeping a company of excellent gypsies honest and fat. Would Gretl have asked for more? I see you agree!”
They has circled the empty wagon. The horses had in the meantime been harnessed, as similar animals had been, to all of the other wagons. These are beginning to be pulled into a rough line, guided by gentle flicks from the drivers’ whips and encouraged by lilting words in the gypsies’ musical language. It is apparent that the band is anxious to depart.
“Hottl!” cries their gypsy friend to the driver of the empty bear wagon. “These are our new companions; do you have the coat?”
The man called Hottl gives Thud and Bronwyn a curt look, turns, reaches behind his seat and pulls out what at first the girl thinks is some sort of large, limp animal. It is the biggest fur coat she has ever seen. The driver hands it down to the gypsy leader, who in turn hands it to Thud
.
“Put that on,” he orders.
Thud slips his arms into the sleeves. Bronwyn is amazed: the coat is actually a size too large! What kind of person has it been originally made for? It is shaggy, moth-eaten, balding, mangy and so long that its hem brushes the ground. Bronwyn giggles, a rather startling sound for her to make.
“What’s so funny?” Thud asks.
“Nothing! I’m sorry, but you really do look like a bear!”
Hottl next tosses a furry ball to the gypsy, who hands it to Thud. It is a hat, with long flaps that hang down on either side, like the ears of a spaniel. They hug his head when Thud ties them under his chin.
“Wonderful!” cries the gypsy. “How I wish Gretl are still here to see you!”
“You think it looks good?” asks Thud, straining his neck to see himself.
“Inexpressibly handsome! Now quickly, into the wagon.”
The gypsy unlatches a padlock as large as Thud’s fist and swings open the rear gate of the wagon. Thud clambers in, his broad hips just scraping through in a shower of brown hair. The wagon’s springs groan.
“Stay in the corner, keep your back to the gate; if anyone looks in, growl. Can you growl?”
“Grr,” growls Thud.
“I knew you could! Now,” says the gypsy, closing and relocking the gate, “we will tend to the princess.”
He unties the cords that hold up the wing-like side panels. He lets the cords run through their pulleys and the panels slam shut.
“Thud?” he calls to the interior as he fastens the wings down.
“Grr!”
“Good! Do not do anything until you hear from me or the princess again; understand?”
“Grr!”
“Quickly now,” he says, turning to the girl, “come with me.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks, trotting a step behind. She really hates the way the gypsy insists on ordering her to do things; he is worse than Thud, who at least tacks a “please” onto his requests. She doesn’t take orders; this is a matter she wants very much to call to his attention, since this habit is gradually making her angry. But he is making everything happen too quickly!
