In the Company of Thieves

by Kage Baker

“Maude, just you go catch your Ralph before he puts the horses away,” said Mrs. Corvey, and Maude went running out crying:

  “Ralph, my love, would you oblige us ever so much? We just need a ride to the village.”

  The tragedy of Lord Basmond’s death set tongues wagging in Little Basmond, but what really scandalized the village was the death of the French count at the hands of his Austrian valet; a crime of passion, apparently, though no one could quite determine how the valet had managed to break all the count’s bones. The local magistrate was secretly grateful when an emissary of the Austrian government showed up with a writ of extradition and took the valet away in chains. More: in a handsome gesture, the Austrians paid to have the count’s corpse shipped back to France.

  Ali Pasha and Prince Nakhimov returned alive to their respective nations, wiser men. Sir George Spiggott returned to his vast estate in Northumberland, where he took to drink and made, in time, a bad end.

  When Lord Basmond’s solicitors looked through his papers and discovered the extent of his debts, they shook their heads sadly. The staff was paid off and dismissed; every stick of furniture was auctioned in an attempt to satisfy the creditors, and when even this proved inadequate, Basmond Park itself was forfeit. Here complications ensued, with the two most importunate creditors wrangling over whose claim took precedence. In the end the case was tied up in chancery for thirty years.

  EIGHTEEN: IN WHICH IT IS SUMMED UP

  “I say, ladies!” Herbertina tilted her chair back and rested her feet on the fender. “Here’s a bit of news; Basmond Hall has collapsed.”

  “How awfully sad,” said Jane, looking up from the pianoforte.

  “Indeed,” said Miss Otley. “It was a historic site of great interest.”

  “It says here it fell in owing to the collapse of several hitherto unsuspected mine shafts beneath the property,” said Herbertina.

  “I don’t doubt it,” remarked Mrs. Corvey, with a shudder. “I’m surprised the place didn’t fall down with us in it.”

  “And soon, no doubt, shall be a moldering and moss-grown mound haunted by the spectres of unquiet Rawdons,” said Lady Beatrice, snipping a thread of scarlet embroidery floss. “Speaking of whom, has there been any word of poor dear Jumbey?”

  “Not officially,” said Mrs. Corvey. “There wouldn’t be, would there? But Mr. Felmouth has intimated that the present Lord Basmond is developing a number of useful items for Fabrication.”

  “Happily, I trust?”

  “As long as he gets his candy floss regular, yes.”

  “Jolly good!” Maude played a few experimental notes on her concertina. “Who’s for a song? Shall we have ‘Begone, Dull Care,’ ladies?”

  MOTHER AEGYPT

  Kage wrote this in a mood of high hilarity, just as surprised as any reader at what her impecunious anti-hero got up to in the course of the plot. On one level, it's a Company story of the evil Labienus and his Plague Cabal, and the Stupid Little People hybrids they use to plot their destruction of humanity. On another level, it's about the endless torment and grief of an immortal who longs to die —and cannot, ever. And on yet a third level, this is Zero Mostel in a Marx Brothers movie. Kage laughed out loud the whole time she was writing it. I hope you do to.

  —K. B.

  Speak sweetly to the Devil, until you’re both over the bridge.

  Transylvanian proverb

  In a country of mad forests and night, there was an open plain, and pitiless sunlight.

  A man dressed as a clown was running for his life across the plain.

  A baked-clay track, the only road for miles, reflected the sun’s heat and made the man sweat as he ran along it. He was staggering a little as he ran, for he had been running a long while and he was fat, and the silken drawers of his clown costume had begun to work their way down his thighs. It was a particularly humiliating costume, too. It made him look like a gigantic dairymaid.

  His tears, of terror and despair, ran down with his sweat and streaked the clown-white, graying his big moustache; the lurid crimson circles on his cheeks had already run, trickling pink down his neck. His straw-stuffed bosom had begun to slip, too, working its way down his dirndl, and now it dropped from beneath his petticoat like a stillbirth. Gasping, he halted to snatch it up, and peered fearfully over his shoulder.

  No sign of his pursuers yet; but they were mounted and must catch up with him soon, on this long straight empty plain. There was no cover anywhere, not so much as a single tree. He ran on, stuffing his bosom back in place, whimpering. Gnats whined in his ears.

  Then, coming over a gentle swell of earth, he beheld a crossroads. There was his salvation!

  A team of slow horses drew two wagons, like the vardas of the Romanies but higher, and narrower, nor were they gaily painted in any way. They were black as the robe of scythe-bearing Death. Only: low, small and ominous, in white paint in curious antiquated letters, they bore the words: MOTHER AEGYPT.

  The man wouldn’t have cared if Death himself held the reins. He aimed himself at the hindmost wagon, drawing on all his remaining strength, and pelted on until he caught up with it.

  For a moment he ran desperate alongside, until he was able to gain the front and haul himself up, over the hitch that joined the two wagons. A moment he poised there, ponderous, watching drops of his sweat fall on hot iron. Then he crawled up to the door of the rear wagon, unbolted it, and fell inside.

  The driver of the wagons, hooded under that glaring sky, was absorbed in a waking dream of a place lost for millennia. Therefore she did not notice that she had taken on a passenger.

  The man lay flat on his back, puffing and blowing, too exhausted to take much note of his surroundings. At last he levered himself up on his elbows, looking about. After a moment he scooted into a sitting position and pulled off the ridiculous lace milkmaid’s cap, with its braids of yellow yarn. Wiping his face with it, he muttered a curse.

  In a perfect world, he reflected, there would have been a chest of clothing in this wagon, through which he might rummage to steal some less conspicuous apparel. There would, at least, have been a pantry with food and drink. But the fates had denied him yet again; this was nobody’s cozy living quarters on wheels. This wagon was clearly used for storage, holding nothing but boxes and bulky objects wrapped in sacking.

  Disgusted, the man dug in the front of his dress and pulled out his bosom. He shook it by his ear and smiled as he heard the clink-clink. The gold rings were still there, some of the loot with which he’d been able to escape.

  The heat within the closed black box was stifling, so he took off all his costume but for the silken drawers. Methodically he began to search through the wagon, opening the boxes and unwrapping the parcels. He began to chuckle.

  He knew stolen goods when he saw them.

  Some of it had clearly been lifted from Turkish merchants and bureaucrats: rolled and tied carpets, tea services edged in gold. But there were painted ikons here too, and family portraits of Russians on wooden panels. Austrian crystal bowls. Chased silver ewers and platters. Painted urns. A whole umbrella-stand of cavalry sabers, some with ornate decoration, some plain and ancient, evident heirlooms. Nothing was small enough to slip into a pocket, even if he had had one, and nothing convenient to convert into ready cash.

  Muttering, he lifted out a saber and drew it from its scabbard.

  As he did so, he heard the sound of galloping hooves. The saber dropped from his suddenly-nerveless fingers. He flattened himself against the door, pointlessly, as the hoofbeats drew near and passed. He heard the shouted questions. He almost—not quite—heard the reply, in a woman’s voice pitched very low. His eyes rolled, searching the room for any possible hiding place. None at all; unless he were to wrap his bulk in a carpet, like Cleopatra.

  Yet the riders passed on, galloped ahead and away. When he realized that he was, for the moment, safe, he collapsed into a sitting position on the floor.

  After a moment of listening to his heart thunder, he pick
ed up the saber again.

  It was night before the wagon halted at last, rumbling over rough ground as it left the road. He was still crouched within, cold and cramped now. Evidently the horses were unhitched, and led down to drink at a stream; he could hear splashing. Dry sticks were broken, a fire was lit. He thought of warmth and food. A light footfall approached, followed by the sound of someone climbing up on the hitch. The man tensed.

  The door opened.

  There, silhouetted against the light of the moon, was a small, pale, spindly looking person with a large head. A wizened child? It peered into the wagon, uncertainty in its big rabbitlike eyes. There was a roll of something—another carpet?—under its arm.

  “Hah!” The man lunged, caught the other by the wrist, hauling him in across the wagon’s threshold. Promptly the other began to scream, and he screamed like a rabbit too, shrill and unhuman. He did not struggle, though; in fact, the man had the unsettling feeling he’d grabbed a ventriloquist’s dummy, limp and insubstantial within its mildewed clothes.

  “Shut your mouth!” the man said, in the most terrifying voice he could muster. “I want two things!”

  But his captive appeared to have fainted. As the man registered this, he also became aware that a woman was standing outside the wagon, seeming to have materialized from nowhere, and she was staring at him.

  “Don’t kill him,” she said, in a flat quiet voice.

  “Uh—I want two things!” the man repeated, holding the saber to his captive’s throat. “Or I’ll kill him, you understand?”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “What do you want?”

  The man blinked, licked his lips. Something about the woman’s matter-of-fact voice disturbed him.

  “I want food, and a suit of clothes!”

  The woman’s gaze did not shift. She was tall, and dark as a shadow, even standing in the full light of the moon, and simply dressed in black.

  “I’ll give you food,” she replied. “But I haven’t any clothing that would fit you.”

  “Then you’d better get me some, hadn’t you?” said the man. He made jabbing motions with the saber. “Or I’ll kill your little...your little...” He tried to imagine what possible relationship the creature under his arm might have with the woman. Husband? Child?

  “Slave,” said the woman. “I can buy you a suit in the next village, but you’ll have to wait until morning. Don’t kill my slave, or I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

  “Oh, you will, will you?” said the man, waving the saber again. “Do you think I believe in Gypsy spells? You’re not dealing with a village simpleton, here!”

  “No,” said the woman, in the same quiet voice. “But I know the police are hunting you. Cut Emil’s throat, and you’ll see how quickly I can make them appear.”

  The man realized it might be a good idea to change strategies. He put his head on one side, grinning at her in what he hoped was a charmingly roguish way.

  “Now, now, no need for things to get nasty,” he said. “After all, we’re in the same trade, aren’t we? I had a good look around in here.” He indicated the interior of the wagon with a jerk of his head. “Nice racket you’ve got, fencing the big stuff. You don’t want me to tell the police about it, while I’m being led away, do you?”

  “No,” said the woman.

  “No, of course not. Let’s be friends!” The man edged forward, dragging his captive—Emil, had she called him?—along. “Barbu Golescu, at your service. And you’d be Madame...?”

  “Amaunet,” she said.

  “Charmed,” said Golescu. “Sure your husband hasn’t a spare pair of trousers he can loan me, Madame Amaunet?”

  “I have no husband,” she replied.

  “Astonishing!” Golescu said, smirking. “Well then, dear madame, what about loaning a blanket until we can find me a suit? I’d hate to offend your modesty.”

  “I’ll get one,” she said, and walked away.

  He stared after her, momentarily disconcerted, and then put down the saber and flexed his hand. Emil remained motionless under his other arm.

  “Don’t you get any ideas, little turnip-head,” muttered Golescu. “Hey! Don’t get any ideas, I said. Are you deaf, eh?”

  He hauled Emil up by his collar and looked at him critically. Emil whimpered and turned his face away. It was a weak face. His head had been shaved at one time, and the hair grown back in scanty and irregular clumps.

  “Maybe you are deaf,” conceded Golescu. “But your black mummy loves you, eh? What a useful thing for me.” He groped about and found a piece of cord that had bound one of the carpets. “Hold still or I’ll wring your wry neck, understand?”

  “You smell bad,” said Emil, in a tiny voice.

  “Bah! You stink like carpet-mold, yourself,” said Golescu, looping the cord about Emil’s wrist. He looped the other end about his own wrist and pulled it snug. “There, so you can’t go running away. We’re going to be friends, you see? You’ll get used to me soon enough.”

  He ventured out on the hitch and dropped to the ground. His legs were unsteady and he attempted to lean on Emil’s shoulder, but the little man collapsed under him like so much cardboard.

  “She doesn’t use you for cutting wood or drawing water much, does she?” muttered Golescu, hitching at his drawers. Amaunet came around the side of the wagon and handed him the blanket, without comment.

  “He’s a flimsy one, your slave,” Golescu told her. “What you need is a man to help with the business, if you’ll pardon my saying so.” He wrapped his vast nakedness in the blanket and grinned at her.

  Amaunet turned and walked away from him.

  “There’s bread and tomatoes by the fire,” she said, over her shoulder.

  Clutching the blanket around him with one hand and dragging Emil with the other, Golescu made his way to the fire. Amaunet was sitting perfectly still, watching the flames dance, and only glanced up at them as they approached.

  “That’s better,” said Golescu, settling himself down and reaching for the loaf of bread. He tore off a hunk, sopped it in the saucepan of stewed tomatoes and ate ravenously. Emil, still bound to his wrist and pulled back and forth when he moved, had gone as limp and unresponsive as a straw figure.

  “So,” said Golescu, through a full mouth, “no husband. Are you sure you don’t need help? I’m not talking of bedroom matters, madame, you understand; perish the thought. I’m talking about security. So many thieves and murderers in this wicked old world! Now, by an astounding coincidence, I need a way to get as far as I can from the Danube, and you are headed north. Let’s be partners for the time being, what do you say?”

  Amaunet’s lip curled. Contempt? But it might have been a smile.

  “Since you mention it,” she said, “Emil’s no good at speaking to people. I don’t care to deal with them, much, myself. The police said you were with a circus; do you know how to get exhibition permits from petty clerks?”

  “Of course I do,” said Golescu, with a dismissive gesture. “The term you’re looking for is advance man. Rely on me.”

  “Good.” Amaunet turned her gaze back to the fire. “I can’t pay you, but I’ll lie for you. You’ll have room and board.”

  “And a suit of clothes,” he reminded her.

  She shrugged, in an affirmative kind of way.

  “It’s settled, then,” said Golescu, leaning back. “What business are we in? Officially, I mean?”

  “I tell people their futures,” said Amaunet.

  “Ah! But you don’t look like a Gypsy.”

  “I’m not a Gypsy,” she said, perhaps a little wearily. “I’m from Egypt.”

  “Just so,” he said, laying his finger beside his nose. “The mystic wisdom of the mysterious east, eh? Handed down to you from the ancient pharaohs. Very good, madame, that’s the way to impress the peasants.”

  “You know a lot of big words, for a clown,” said Amaunet. Golescu winced, and discreetly lifted a corner of the blanket to scrub at his greasep
aint.

  “I am obviously not a real clown, madame,” he protested. “I am a victim of circumstances, calumny and political intrigue. If I could tell you my full story, you’d weep for me.”

  She grinned, a brief white grin so startling in her dark, still face that he nearly screamed.

  “I doubt it,” was all she said.

  He kept Emil bound to him that night, reasoning that he couldn’t completely trust Amaunet until he had a pair of trousers. Golescu made himself comfortable on the hard floor of the wagon by using the little man as a sort of bolster, and though Emil made plaintive noises now and then and did in fact smell quite a lot like moldy carpet, it was nothing that couldn’t be ignored by a determined sleeper.

  Only once Golescu woke in the darkness. Someone was singing, out there in the night; a woman was singing, full-throated under the white moon. There was such throbbing melancholy in her voice Golescu felt tears stinging his eyes; yet there was an indefinable menace too, in the harsh and unknown syllables of her lament. It might have been a lioness out there, on the prowl. He thought briefly of opening the door to see if she wanted comforting, but the idea sent inexplicable chills down his spine. He snorted, rolled on his back and slept again.

  Golescu woke when the wagons lurched back into motion, and stared around through the dissipating fog of vaguely lewd dreams. Sunlight was streaming in through cracks in the plank walls. Though his dreams receded, certain sensations remained. He sat upright with a grunt of outrage and looked over his own shoulder at Emil, who had plastered himself against Golescu’s backside.

  “Hey!” Golescu hauled Emil out. “What are you, a filthy sodomite? You think because I wear silk, I’m some kind of Turkish fancy boy?”

  Emil whimpered and hid his face in his hands. “The sun,” he whispered.

  “Yes, it’s daylight! You’re scared of the sun?” demanded Golescu.

  “Sun hurts,” said Emil.

  “Don’t be stupid, it can’t hurt you,” said Golescu. “See?” He thrust Emil’s hand into the nearest wavering stripe of sunlight. Emil made rabbity noises again, turning his face away and squeezing his eyes shut, as though he expected his hand to blister and smoke.