Century returned and knelt beside Obair, wrapping clean linen around the wound in his thigh. “I can pack it in honey,” she said.
Altane heard the guards shouting below. They were inside the building.
“I wanted to question Laurent’s servant,” Obair said. His tone was sharp.
Altane picked up the dead man’s dueling sword and moved to the top of the stairs. The hilt was slick with blood but there was no time to clean it. “I would have thought you’d be used to disappointment by now, master.”
The guards spotted him. As they charged up the stairs, they roared, trying to intimidate him.
“There’s no one left to pay you!” Altane shouted at them, but they couldn’t hear. He kicked a small table down the stairs. The first man, a paunchy youth with a bright strawberry birthmark on his face, tripped and struck his mouth on the edge of a step. The man behind him stumbled over him and fell.
Altane stepped onto the second man’s sword and stabbed him through the back of his hand. He screamed. Another tried to climb forward into the fight. Altane feinted toward him. Trying to dodge, the man leaned too far over the rail and fell to the floor below.
Their charge broken, the men stopped shouting.
“There’s no one left to pay you,” Altane said again. The men looked at the sword in his hand. They knew where he’d gotten it. They backed down the stairs and left the building.
The man who fell over the rail did not move. He had not fallen far, but he had landed badly.
Altane went back to Obair and the others. “Is there a carriage here?” A young girl dressed as a stable hand nodded. “Ready it.”
Altane recovered a set of keys from the pocket of the green vest on Laurent’s dead servant, then wiped his bloody hands on the silk vest.
He gave the keys to a frightened young woman and told her to free the prisoners in the basement. From his spot on the floor, Obair said they were to be fed and given the chance to wash as well.
Sapphire cautiously approached the servant’s corpse then kicked him in the crotch with all her strength. She began kicking and stomping on him.
The other women followed her into the room and did the same. Within seconds, Sapphire had been jostled out of the way. The other women crowded around the body, stomping and kicking it with savage joy.
Sapphire squeezed out of the room. Altane expected to see tears in her eyes, but all he saw was hatred.
“I didn’t know,” Sapphire said. “I didn’t know they’d kill Snowflake afterward.”
“That’s because you’re a damned fool,” Century said in a low, tight voice. “We all are.”
Altane knelt beside his master. “This wound is not serious, sir. We’ll take the crock of honey with us and I’ll rebandage you on the way to Holdfort. Century and Sapphire will come, too. Dawn is not upon us yet.”
Obair stared at him. “Where is Altane, my servant?”
I cut his head off, Altane wanted to say, but he held his tongue and helped his master to his feet. They heard voices from below. Altane was about to meet Barlo’s family.
* * *
The guard posts were held by Laurent’s men. Sapphire and Century, riding on top of the carriage, smiled at them. The gates swung open.
In the courtyard, Altane helped his master and Barlo’s family from the carriage. Obair shouted Barlo’s name. Now that they were inside Holdfort, they did not have to sneak like thieves. Still, guards and servants scowled and muttered in the doorways. Obair’s private guard was nowhere in sight.
Barlo burst through the kitchen doors and ran across the dusty courtyard. He wept as he embraced his wife and daughter. They wept with him.
Century and Sapphire saw a pair of the Deed Holder’s counselors and hurried toward them. Within moments the women were leading the old men to the great hall, deep in conversation.
Obair stared up at a balcony in the east tower. Laurent stood there watching, a blank expression on his face. After a moment, he went inside.
Barlo and his family clutched at Obair’s hand and thanked him profusely. There were tears in their eyes. Obair accepted their thanks and slipped away as graciously as he could manage. He took a handful of gold coins from his pack and started across the courtyard.
“Have you started preparing the beast?” Altane said.
“Not yet,” Barlo said. “It’s time, though.”
“Sir,” Altane said. Obair turned back to them. “Sir, order your youngest ram slaughtered for a feast.”
“Why?”
“To celebrate your brother’s bravery and good Barlo’s expertise.”
Obair’s voice was low. “And if Barlo fails?” Altane stared at him, his expression blank. Show no fear. Obair finally nodded. He limped toward the blacksmith, gold coins jingling in his hands.
Altane grabbed Barlo’s sleeve and pulled him away from the others. “Come with me. We will slaughter a feasting ram together. Your staff can prepare it while you prepare the venom cock’s stones alone.”
An hour later, Altane stood beside Obair in the Holder’s family hall, waiting for Podor and the feast to start. The tables were full of somber caravaners and tenants. Several had brought bodyguards, and for some reason they’d been allowed to keep their weapons.
Laurent was not there. The kitchens were buzzing with third-hand versions of Century and Sapphire’s story. It was said that Podor believed the women, but others were unconvinced.
Altane was sure his master did not care in the least, but what if the true heir died? Laurent could not sit in the chair now, and Obair would be dogged by rumors for the rest of his life. Eventually, there would be open revolt and a mad rush among the families of caravaners and cropsmen to petition the Lord of Wind and Clay for the Deed. It would be open war.
Podor arrived and took a seat at the center of the long table. His father’s seat. The assembled men watched with closed expressions.
Finally, Barlo emerged with the venom stones on a gold platter. Every man in the room watched him set them before Podor. Sitting on it were two small, shriveled, blackened nuggets of meat. They looked like pieces of coal.
Obair lifted an empty chair. It scraped against the stone floor, breaking the silence. He carried it across the room, set it opposite Podor’s seat and sat across from him.
Podor took out a slender golden skewer. Obair did the same. Podor gazed at his younger brother for a moment, seeming almost as though he might smile. Without a word to each other, they each skewered a nugget and lifted it.
They did not hesitate. The brothers popped the food into their mouths at the same time.
Their faces contorted. Obair made a low, choking noise. Podor leaped from his chair.
“That was awful!”
Obair stood. He and Podor clasped hands. They swallowed and their sour expressions twisted into smiles.
They had survived.
A cheer rang out in the hall. More food was brought out and the celebration began.
Altane went to the captain of the guard and berated him for allowing armed men inside the family hall. The captain swore he had acted on Laurent’s orders and cleared them immediately.
Barlo was brought before the crowd and toasted. A song was sung in his honor, and two lithe dancers twirled around him to much roaring and lewd laughter. Barlo stared at the floor and waited for permission to go.
Altane turned his back on them and walked out of the hall. Maybe he would be one of them someday, but today he wore riding leathers and lived at the edges of the holding, serving his master as his master served another.
He asked the stable master to bring his horse and the oldest dray they had. It was a pitiable thing, but it would do. Altane lead it toward the kitchens.
The golden cart and its venomous cargo sat in the corner of the courtyard. A single push could send it through the garbage chute into the river below, but Altane had a better idea.
He hitched the horse to the cart. “One last burden for you,” he said as he stroked its neck.
>
The kitchen door opened. Barlo emerged alone. “I’m glad you’re taking that away. None of the boys will throw out scraps.”
Barlo went behind the beast. He drew out a long knife with a golden handle and gently cut the basilisk between its legs. “Just in case someone thinks to check,” he said. He tossed the blade onto the cart.
“Thank you,” Altane said.
“Thank you,” Barlo said, “for returning my family. What can you do with a thing like this?”
“There’s an inlet about six days up the coast that’s choked with tangle grass. Some 20 years ago, a Kolchin merchant was put off that no one wanted to buy his hats and he threw some seeds into the riverbank. Now, no one can go near without being dragged into the water and drowned.”
“You’re going to poison the inlet?”
“The venom will clear away in a year or year and a half. Then the creatures that belong there will return.”
“Including the people,” Barlo said. “It sounds dangerous. Shouldn’t you wait for your master?”
“We both have too much to do.”
Altane led the dray through the courtyard and into the still morning.
Cargo Johnny
Man
Lives.
In the sunlit world of what he believes to be.
Reality.
BUT…
–– –- ––
He is on his way to feed Amy’s damn cat when the tree jumps out in front of his car, pretty much. The accident is Amy’s fault and she owes him a phone call, minimum. He struts on over to her place. Cargo Johnny doesn’t walk. Cargo Johnny doesn’t let the world know when he’s been hurt, either.
He lets himself into Amy’s condo. The shutters are closed up tight, and the stale air stinks of cat. Johnny picks up her land line to call one of his ladies—maybe even his wife. There’s no dial tone. Her phone doesn’t work any better than his cell. No sweat, though. Cargo Johnny doesn’t lose his cool when faced with a conspiracy of telecommunications.
He can’t open the windows to let in fresh air—they’re stuck. He can’t open the shutter to let in fresh light—they’re on the other side of the windows. He pushes the damn cat aside with his foot on the way to the bathroom mirror.
Cargo Johnny doesn’t kick cats. He pushes them, sometimes with his feet. No kicking. At least not when said cat’s owner is such a dynamo in the sack.
He can’t see a bruise on his forehead. It throbs like he cracked open his melon, but nothing shows. Cargo Johnny doesn’t shrink from the obvious; obviously, wrecking his carriage gave him a bone bruise or something.
The damn cat rubs against his leg, forcing him to push it again. Johnny searches the kitchen cupboards for its food. If Amy hadn’t asked him to feed it, he’d be at the bar already. If Amy had asked after he’d unloaded his freight, he would have said no. But she didn’t, and Cargo Johnny doesn’t go back on his word. Even when it costs him his high-rider.
No food anywhere. What does Amy expect him to do, buy the stuff, too? He feeds the lady, the lady feeds the beast, in every possible way. Hell, there isn’t any human food here, either. Not even a dusty pack of soy sauce.
Fine. He’ll pop over to Ralph’s and be back in twenty. When Amy comes back from New York, she’ll be grateful to him, in every possible way.
The front door won’t open. It’s stuck, like it’s nailed shut. He strains at it until sweat runs down his face. He throws the locks back and forth, back and forth. He kicks at it (not pushing with his foot, no siree). He even pounds with his fists and shouts, in a manly way, for a neighbor to help him.
No one does. How is Cargo Johnny going to get to the bar?
The damn cat rubs against his ankle again, and Johnny feels a sudden sharp nip.
Damn! Tiny droplets of blood spatter onto Amy’s white carpet. The damn cat begins to lick at them. Johnny lunges for it, but it darts behind the sofa.
Johnny checks his clothes. His ankle is slashed, and he has bled onto his sock, shoe and cuff. Cargo Johnny doesn’t go to the bar in funky clothes, and his wife raises a stink if he goes home to change before a lady hunt.
Time to settle up with the beast. He yanks the sofa away from the wall and sees the damn cat’s white tail vanish under the end table. He reaches for it.
It leaps at his hand and bites. Johnny yelps in a voice way too much like a little girl’s and jumps back. The pad of his pinky fingertip has been torn off, and now he’s bleeding like a punctured box of Franzia.
He holds his arm away from his body and drips the blood safely on the carpet and furniture. This shirt cost fifty dollars. He rushes to the kitchen and knots a dish towel around his finger.
Cargo Johnny doesn’t play games. He grips his pen knife between his teeth and hefts a skillet. With his injured hand, he knocks over the end table, skillet held high.
No cat.
Something small suddenly lands on his back between his shoulder blades. Tiny hooks tear through his fifty dollar shirt and dig into his skin. Johnny reaches back and, just as his hand passes below his ear, feels tiny claws tearing through his knuckle.
Johnny spins, shaking the cat off his back. Before it hits the ground, the skillet connects like a tennis forehand, which he will now pretend was his plan all along. The pan rings like a bell and the cat flies against the door. Johnny lunges at it, throwing his 170 pounds against the beast’s eight. He hoots like a primate when he drives the knife home. Cargo Johnny carries freight.
He has the funny feeling that, now that the cat is dead, the door will open. It doesn’t. He pounds on it and shouts for help again. Still no answer. Cargo Johnny doesn’t shrink from the obvious. The building is empty. He’ll try again in a hour.
But his watch is broken, thanks to the reckless tree. And Amy doesn’t seem to own any clocks.
Father-sir taught him how to skin an animal and Amy has one of those rotisserie ovens. “Set it and forget it,” right?
He turns on the TV, but there’s a problem with the cable. Every channel is showing reruns of The Donnie and Marie Show.
By the time the little beast is cooked, Johnny’s starving. There’s no silverware except the pen knife (did she take her knives and forks to the convention?) and the water is shut off. He can’t do anything but slip on barbecue gloves and grab the beast. It smells like roast pork but gamier, and the flesh is exactly the way he likes it: crispy on the outside and juicy as hell. He lifts it to his watering mouth and bites into it.
The cat suddenly yowls and twists out of his hands. Johnny leaps out of his chair and screams long and high. The skinned, roasted cat walks across the top of the dining room table as if taking stock of the room. It looks at him with burned-out sockets.
“I have bad news for you, Johnny,” the cat says.
Cargo Johnny doesn’t hallucinate. Cargo Johnny doesn’t hallucinate. Cargo Johnny doesn’t hallucinate.
The cat leaps at him. Johnny back pedals, bumping his foot against the sofa and falling. He strikes the back of his head on the end table and then, darkness.
Johnny slowly realizes he’s looking at slanting rays of light beaming through the shutters. The light hasn’t changed its angle, so he must have been out a minute or two, tops.
He sits up. His left hand and forearm have been stripped to the bone. He has only a few bloody rags of flesh hanging below his elbow. His left thigh looks like a mole has tried to burrow into it, and his freight…
His freight has been torn out.
The cat backs away from him, hissing. It has grown bigger, and it does not have brown, roasted flesh anymore. It has hairless tanned skin much like his own. There, on its left shoulder, is a tattoo identical to the Theta Chi tat Johnny has… used to have on his left wrist. Where the cat once had a forepaw, it now has a well-manicured left hand. And Johnny can see, pressing against the cat’s belly, that it’s carrying his freight.
Did he mention the cat’s bigger?
The cat reaches out with its new hand and grabs his pen knife off the
carpet.
Johnny kicks at the beast and struggles to his feet. His arm and leg tingle slightly, but the bone bruise on his forehead is killing him. Stupid tree. If he hadn’t slammed his head against the windshield he wouldn’t be in this damn mess.
The cat retreats behind the sofa, hissing. Johnny’s glad. He isn’t ready to fight yet.
Johnny staggers into the bathroom. He tries to shout for help but his throat is parched and he can only make a strangled sound. That demon cat is out there, wearing his flesh. He has to do something. He has to catch the beast and take his flesh back, even if he has to do it with his teeth. Time to put Father-sir’s hunting lessons to the test.
His head throbs as he steps out of the bathroom. Weirdly, the dim light sneaking through the shutters flickers like a bonfire, as though the place across the street is burning down.. Not that it matters. He can’t imagine how he got into this situation, but Cargo Johnny doesn’t shrink from the obvious.
The Yellow Mark
This is probably the oldest story in the collection, written many years ago for an Clark Ashton Smith tribute anthology. Ii received a very nice personal rejection and had been sitting on my hard drive ever since—until I revised the hell out of it for this collection.
–– –- ––
“Oh, father, must we stop in this city? I am sure it will be no better than the others.”
Tunj eased his horse closer to the carriage. “Do not scowl, Perdama, my sprite. You will wrinkle your delicate brow.” He leaned toward her, stretching in his saddle to adjust her parasol, but his arms were too short and his belly to broad to reach. He wiggled his fingers instead, and Perdama tilted her silk parasol to shade her porcelain throat.
“You are too sweet to be so pessimistic, my pixie. Keep an open mind; one never knows where one might find a hidden treasure. And no scowling!”
The train of horses topped a hill and there, sprawled below them, lay the walls of Zul-Bha-Sair. The stones were of the same pale red as the sand, and to Tunj it seemed that only the sharp-edged shadows of the cornices and the square roofs against the dull white sky suggested there was more than sand and pebble there at all.
Bad Little Girls Die Horrible Deaths: And Other Tales of Dark Fantasy Page 14
