'Well, I don't fancy staying here by myself,' whined Max. 'It's not safe.'
'You'll be all right,' Cornelius assured him. 'Besides, we need you to keep an eye on our equines. Don't let anybody get near them.'
'Oh, and how am I supposed to stop them?' asked Max. 'Say, "Excuse me, Mr Brigand, would you mind awfully leaving those equines alone"? Fat lot of use that would be!'
'You'll think of something,' Sebastian assured him. He reached out and patted Max's head. 'If in doubt, put your head down and charge. It works for most eventualities. And don't worry, we'll be back in a few moments.'
As he said this, a man came flying out of the doorway, to crash face down in the dirt. Gales of raucous laughter spilled out of the tavern. Sebastian swallowed hard and glanced at Cornelius.
'Perhaps we should take Max in with us,' he said.
'Don't be ridiculous! Come on.'
Cornelius marched on and Sebastian reluctantly followed him. They stepped through the open doorway into a fog of pipe smoke and alcohol fumes and stood for a moment looking around. The interior of the tavern was packed with dirty, ragged men, all in various stages of inebriation, all talking and laughing and joking at the tops of their voices. But at the entry of the two strangers, it fell suddenly, shockingly silent; and every pair of eyes in the room turned to look at the newcomers.
It was a bad moment. Sebastian wanted to turn and run but he knew he couldn't do that. Cornelius stood looking coolly around the room, returning the stare of everyone in turn and showing them that he was not intimidated. Then he jerked his head at Sebastian and started towards the bar. In the silence, their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud on the bare wooden floor and it seemed to take them an age to cross the intervening space. But then they were at the counter, which was presided over by a fat, red-faced landlord in a leather jerkin. He was polishing a tankard with a cloth that looked like it had previously been used to mop out a cesspit. He glared at Sebastian.
'You're a brave lad coming in here by yourself,' he observed.
Sebastian was puzzled for a moment but then realized that the man couldn't actually see Cornelius, who was hidden behind the counter.
'He's not by himself,' said Cornelius. He pulled over a vacant chair and clambered up onto it, so that his head and shoulders poked above the counter top.
The landlord nodded. 'A midgeling, eh? Haven't seen one of your kind in here for a long time. The last one we had complained about the quality of the drink.'
Sebastian steeled himself for trouble but Cornelius just smiled.
'Midgelings can be fussy creatures,' he admitted.
'Yes, well, we Brigands don't like being criticized. That's why we drop-kicked him out of the window. Managed to get him clear across the street and into the cattle trough opposite.'
Cornelius allowed himself a wry smile. 'Luckily I'm not a midgeling, but a Golmiran,' he said. 'However, Golmirans can be pretty fussy too, so I had best mind my manners.' He glanced around the room again and the other drinkers averted their eyes and returned to their conversations. The hubbub of voices began to rise back to its former level. 'I am Cornelius Drummel, formerly of the Golmiran army,' he told the landlord. 'This is my good friend Sebastian Darke, jester and adventurer.'
Sebastian glanced at Cornelius in surprise, wondering at what point he had been promoted to the rank of 'adventurer'.
The landlord nodded. 'And I'm Garth Bracegirdle, landlord of the Brigand's Arms. Now, what can I get for you fine gentlemen?'
'We're looking for information,' said Cornelius.
Bracegirdle shook his head. 'In case you hadn't noticed,' he said, 'this is a drinking establishment. I don't give out information to anyone who isn't drinking.'
Cornelius and Sebastian exchanged glances.
'In that case,' said Cornelius, reaching into his pocket and slapping a couple of croats on the counter, 'we'll have two tankards of your finest ale.'
Bracegirdle grinned, revealing a lot of gaps in his teeth. 'That's the spirit,' he said. 'Have, er . . . have either of you tried Brigandian ale before?'
The two shook their heads.
Bracegirdle busied himself filling two tankards, ladling in a murky brew from a huge open barrel that stood on the ground beside him.
'I only ask because it's something of an acquired taste,' he said. 'The locals have a name for it. They call it Swamp Fever. It's brewed to an ancient recipe handed down from father to son for generations. It has a little more "kick" than most ales.'
He set down the tankards on the counter top and Sebastian looked doubtfully at the scummy grey foam that was spilling over the brim. As he watched, something bobbed to the surface – something round and glistening. It was the eyeball of an animal. At least, he hoped it was an animal. Sebastian felt his stomach lurch.
'Hey, lucky you!' said Bracegirdle, slapping him on the shoulder. 'You don't get many of those in a barrel!' He leaned in close. 'Don't tell the others,' he whispered. 'They'll all want one.'
'Now, about that information . . .' said Cornelius.
'No, no, lads, first you must drink! Here's to your health.' Bracegirdle filled a third tankard from the same barrel and, lifting it to his mouth, he indicated that the two strangers should do likewise.
Feeling distinctly nauseous, Sebastian lifted his own tankard, reached into it and picked out the eyeball. He set it down on the counter top. 'I think I'll save that for later,' he said weakly.
'Aye, that's the ticket!' bellowed Bracegirdle. 'Drink up now!'
Sebastian raised the tankard to his lips, took a deep breath and gulped down a mouthful of the brew. At first he was pleasantly surprised by the taste, which wasn't that bad – sweet and strangely satisfying – but then he felt a jolt in his stomach, like he'd just been kicked by a buffalope, and his legs almost went out from under him. He grunted in surprise and had to put his free hand on the bar to steady himself. Glancing at Cornelius, he saw that his friend had almost fallen off his chair.
'Delicious, eh, lads?' grinned Bracegirdle, licking a crescent of foam from his lips. 'And good for the health. I drink ten of these a day!'
'Ten?' echoed Cornelius incredulously. And then added in a deeper voice, 'Yes, that, er . . . seems about right.' He set down his tankard carefully, as though afraid he might drop it. 'Now, about the slave auctions . . .'
'Oh, so you're here for the auctions, eh? Well, you've come to the right place! There's not a more convenient spot in Brigandia. They start first thing tomorrow morning. Have you gentlemen got any lodgings for the night?'
'Er . . . no,' said Sebastian. 'Why, can you recowhere some mend?' He shook his head, marvelling that after just one mouthful of ale he was already feeling drunk. I mean, can you recommend somewhere?'
'Well, normally I'd say right here in the Brigand's Arms, but I just rented out my last room to that gentleman over there.' He pointed to a table across the packed bar, where a huge, heavily muscled man was arm wrestling with a shabby-looking Brigand, the two of them grunting and straining as they tried to force each other's hands down to the table. Eventually the big man prevailed and gave out a bellow of triumph as he did so. 'Lovely room it is too,' continued Bracegirdle. 'Looks right down onto the auction platform. You could have made your bids straight out of the window.'
'Is that a fact?' Cornelius looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he started to climb down from his chair.
'Where are you going?' Sebastian asked him.
'Thought I might try my hand at a bit of arm wrestling,' said Cornelius with a wink. 'You stay here and enjoy your drink.'
'Umm . . . right.' Sebastian picked up his tankard and raised it cautiously to his lips again, but this time he kept his free hand braced on the counter top. When the shock hit him, it was no less savage, but this time he was ready for it.
'He's not serious, is he?' asked Bracegirdle. 'Little fellow like that. That big brute will murder him.'
'Oh, you don't know Corneliush . . . Corneliosh . . . you don't know him,' finished Seb
astian lamely. He glanced over at the table and saw that the manling had climbed up onto the bench opposite the big man. He was offering up his arm, resting his elbow on a upturned tankard in order to make it the same length as that of his opponent. 'You just watch this,' said Sebastian. 'This will amaze you.'
But it was Sebastian who was amazed, because Cornelius only put up a token show of resistance before the big man pushed the back of his tiny hand down to a horizontal position. Sebastian frowned and Bracegirdle laughed.
'Well, that's exactly how I expected it to turn out,' he said. 'Not much of a surprise at all.'
Sebastian opened his mouth to make an excuse but then he heard Cornelius speaking to the big man.
'Well, look,' he said, 'why don't we make it the best of three? And let's make the stakes a little more interesting. You see, my friend and I have nowhere to sleep tonight . . .'
Sebastian smiled. He saw what the little man was up to now. The oldest trick in the book. Make your opponent think you had no chance and they'd agree to bet just about anything.
'Now,' continued Cornelius, 'I understand you have a room right here in this tavern. Why don't you bet that?'
'What?' jeered the big man. 'Against a couple of lousy croats? I don't think so.'
'Well, now, I tell you what. Outside the tavern I've got two fine equines complete with saddles, bridles and loads of supplies; plus a good strong buffalope. Supposing I wagered all those against your room?'
The big man looked around as though he couldn't believe his luck. 'Seriously?' He laughed. 'You've got yourself a deal, shorty!'
Sebastian winced. It probably hadn't been a good idea to call Cornelius that. As he watched, the manling was rolling up one sleeve and looking at the big man with a confident smile.
Sebastian leaned forward over the counter, raised his tankard and winked at Bracegirdle. 'Cheers,' he said. 'Good health! And, er . . . one more thing. What time do you serve breakfast around here?'
CHAPTER 26
AN ALLY
One moment the princess was crying her eyes out. The next, she stopped in surprise as a hand stroked her hair.
'There, there, m' dear, don't take on so. You'll be all right.'
Princess Kerin dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up, cheered by the first kind words she had heard in ages. She found herself looking at a plump, freckle-faced young woman, with ginger hair tied in two bunches and kind, blue eyes. She was dressed in a shapeless sack dress and she was kneeling beside the princess, smiling at her reassuringly. She smelled pretty bad, as did everybody else in the cage. Princess Kerin regarded her warily.
'What do you want?' she asked suspiciously.
T don't want nothing,' said the woman. 'Just to talk, that's all.'
'If you've come to make fun of me—'
'No, I wouldn't do that, miss. Ain't much here to laugh about, not for any of us, I reckon.'
Princess Kerin softened a little. 'I realize you probably think I'm mad,' she said.
'I don't think you're mad,' replied the woman. 'Least ways, no worse than any of the rest of us. If you tell me you're a princess, who am I to say different? I've lived long enough to know that in this world just about anything's possible. Why, my old father, he had this pig back on the farm when I was little and he taught it to sing. I swear he did!'
Princess Kerin felt as though a weight had been lifted from her back. She smiled back at the woman and blinked away the last of her tears. 'What's your name?' she asked.
'I'm Peg,' said the girl. 'Peg o' the Hills, they call me. I'm a shepherdess from the hills of Torin. Or at least I was afore Kasim and his slave-drivers passed through our village.' She sighed. 'I got a family back there, I have. A fine strong man and two lovely children. They was away visiting his ma in the next village when the slavers came – and thank goodness, otherwise most like he'd be dead and my children would be on sale tomorrow alongside me.'
Princess Kerin swallowed nervously. 'We're being sold tomorrow?'
'Oh, aye, miss. It's a big day, there's people comin' from all over the country for the sale. 'Least you won't have too long to wait. I've been stuck in this stink hole for days.'
'It's disgusting!' said Princess Kerin. 'How can people sell other people as though they were cattle?'
Peg looked at her thoughtfully. 'Don't they have slaves in Keladon, miss? That is where you said you came from, ain't it?'
Princess Kerin felt awful. Yes, of course there were slaves in her city, thousands of them: the grand palace had been built through the sweat and tears of such people, but somehow she'd never given the matter any thought before.
'Well, I'll tell you something, Peg. If I ever get back there and take my rightful place on the throne, I'll make sure that slavery is abolished. The rich merchants can start paying people to work for them. Nobody has the right to own another person.'
'Well said, miss. But it ain't gonna help us much.' Peg turned aside and sat down beside the princess on the straw-covered floor. 'You got a husband, have you?' she asked.
'No. Though I'm supposed to be marrying soon. Prince Rolf of Bodengen. Have you heard of him?'
Peg giggled. T should say I have! He's supposed to be very good-looking, ain't he?'
'Hmm. Well, not as good-looking as his paintings make him out to be. To be honest, he doesn't exactly set my heart aflutter . . .'
Peg gave her a sly look. 'Ah, but there's somebody who does, though, ain't there, miss? I can tell by that sparkly look in your eye.'
'Hmm. Yes, there was somebody. To tell you the truth, I'd only known him for a few days and yet there was something about him. Something . . . special.'
'You talk about him as though he's not around any more.'
Princess Kerin nodded, trying to keep her emotions under control. 'I believe he's dead, Peg. Killed by an executioner's axe. And . . . it's all my fault.' She felt herself on the verge of tears again but Peg took her hand and gave it a squeeze.
'Tell me about him,' she said.
'He . . . he was an elfling . . . from the town of Jerabim.'
'Ah, yes, they do say as how the elflings have special powers that mortal men do not. A kind of sixth sense, it is. They're supposed to be able to look at a person and straight away know their true nature.'
'Really?' Princess Kerin felt a terrible twinge of guilt at these words. 'So it's no wonder he saw right through my uncle and his lying words.'
'Your uncle? That would be . . . ?'
'King Septimus of Keladon,' said Princess Kerin bitterly. 'The uncle I trusted for years. The man who arranged to have me taken into slavery so that he could remain upon my throne.'
'Oh, miss, that's terrible!'
The princess gazed at Peg through a misty veil of tears. 'Then you . . . you really do believe me?'
'Yes, I do. I know a mad person when I meet one – and believe me, I've met a good few of them in me time. But you're not one of them – I'd be willing to bet on it. Thing is, how does it help you that one such as I believes?' She gestured at the gloomy crowd of prisoners slumped around the cage. 'We'll never convince this lot; and I don't think none of the guards will listen to your story, neither.'
'Then I can only hope,' said Princess Kerin softly.
'Hope, miss?'
'That somebody knows where I am.'
Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools Page 21
