by Chris Smith
Lost and Found
By K.G. McAbee
Story copyright K.G. McAbee 2014
Cover art: Young Beckie by Arthur Rackham, circa1919; public domain
The Journal in the Jug
The Heiress on the Island
Cabbages and Kings
Tezek: Last Lord of the Three Lands
Lost and Found
A storm was brewing in the west. The road in both directions was empty, the shabby inn the only building the woman in black had seen in hours.
Perhaps, she thought as she paused before its sign swinging from a single rusty hinge—it depicted a hare being swallowed by a snake—perhaps it will be better inside. And perhaps it won't rain tonight after all. And perhaps this is the place I am seeking at last.
And perhaps I am Queen of Byssinia, she finished wryly.
As she cantered into the courtyard, a hostler shambled out from the stables. He fit his surroundings, as ragged as the tumbledown collection of buildings. She tossed the reins to him and arrived at the ground nearly at the same time. The appearance of a customer seemed to startle him as much as her sudden descent from her huge roan.
"I want him well cared for," the woman stated in slow and simple tones. "A good rubdown and a ration of grain, plenty of hay and a dry place."
The hostler nodded, moving his lips as he repeated his instructions in an all but silent mumble that made an accompaniment to their journey into the stables.
"Rubdown...aye...grain...aye...hay..."
As they paced together, the horse seemed to keep time with its hooves as it followed.
The woman strode inside the stable before the others reached them. It was dry, she was glad to see. The only other inhabitants were a couple of ancient dray horses and a donkey.
"Not many visitors tonight?" she asked as she looked about, satisfied with the accommodations for her horse, at least. If her own were no worse...her train of thought was interrupted by an unexpected reply.
"No visitors this night, no, never on this night, no never, never," the hostler mumbled in a just audible tone.
"Why on this night?" she asked, stroking her horse's mane.
The hostler ignored her as he shambled about his duties. She waited for a moment longer, then satisfied that he was to say no more and that his abilities seemed to exceed his intellect, she turned to go inside the inn.
"Have a care, my lady," she heard behind her.
The voice did not belong to the hostler.
The woman didn't look back. She often heard voices, and not all of them came from human throats.
***
The front door of the inn was as battered as an old soldier's shield. It opened into a long dirty room, its black ceiling a testament to age if not hygiene. A low fire told tales to itself in a charred fireplace as tall as her own considerable height. Cracked tables and benches clustered about in untidy groups. A bar to her right was scarred with countless rings, ghosts of vanished tankards.
She approached the bar and banged on it with her fist as she shrugged out of her cloak in the steamy heat. The sound of her fist against the bar echoed throughout the room then withered away, strangled in the stillness. The silence beat against her ears, already attuned to danger by the warning in the stables. She raised her hand to hammer again on the bar.
"May I be of assistance?"
The words, ludicrous in the surroundings, floated almost visibly in the air before she saw who had uttered them.
A cadaverous figure wrapped in tightly bound strips of brown cloth stood behind the bar where seconds before there had been nothing. Then the speaker stepped forward into the light. The strips of cloth mutated into a striped jerkin and ragged breeches. Stains covered the worn material and a nameless miasma of smells rose from it.
"I seek lodgings for the night, innkeeper," the woman said with a grin at her own actions, startled that she could be startled. "And board for my horse."
"That can be arranged," he agreed in sepulchral tones. "We are...not very busy tonight, as you can see," he gave an unnecessary motion around the room, "and will be able to accommodate you and your beast quite well. Will you wish a meal?"
She paused, wondering what a meal in this place would consist of, then accepted his suggestion with a nod.
"And, perhaps, a bed slave?" continued her host.
"I think not. A long and tiring day, you understand."
"Of course," he agreed. "Still, for the warmth alone a bedmate is often useful, and we can provide any sex for your pleasure. Shall I send one up with your meal? Or two, perhaps?"
His eager insistent attitude sounded loud alarms in her head. She remembered the warning she had heard in the stables, but her curiosity had always been stronger than her caution. What would a bed slave from this place be like? She wondered.
"Very well. I would like something warming to eat also. Say, soup or stew. And two bottles of wine—unopened."
"Certainly. And, as for the slave, would you like…?"
"A male, I think, not too short. I am quite tall, as you see. And with a recent bath, if you please." The selection could not be too varied in a place like this. Perhaps he would forget the whole matter.
"It shall be done. Danald!"
If he had not turned to shout, he would have seen the woman's eyes narrow at the name he called.
She opened her mouth to ask if she had heard him correctly, but paused at the entrance of a slave.
The scrawny figure approached from the direction opposite the door, seeming to appear through the wall at the other end of the room. A tall gangly man, little more than a boy dressed in tatters, he shuffled forward with obvious hesitation.
The woman could see his fear in the lines of his body, the expression of his face, the way he held his hands ready to protect himself from a blow. His head drooped and he cast furtive glances at his surroundings as he crept forward.
"Danald, show this lady to our best room—our best, do you understand?" his master commanded.
Danald ducked his head in acquiescence and tensed for the blow he did not doubt was coming. When one did not arrive he seemed shocked and waited for a moment longer, as though reluctant to miss it.
The woman looked him over from pate to toe, then turned to the innkeeper.
"I will take this one for a bed slave, I think."
"But, my lady, he is untrained, fit only for a scullery boy. We can supply far better slaves for your usage if—"
"It doesn't matter what you can supply. I want this one. Bathe him and send him up with my meal. And," she continued, looking over the half-starved frame that huddled before her, "be sure to send up plenty of food. I have a large appetite."
She left a spluttering innkeeper behind her as she seized the arm of her guide and headed for the back of the room, herding him before her. A doorway hid in the shadows opened on to a dusty stairwell.
The two of them mounted the stairs, her hand firm on his arm, until they decamped onto a cramped hallway.
"Where now?" she asked, and he motioned onward. They twisted through hallway after dim hallway.
The inn had not seemed this large from the outside, and her internal alarms were jangling.
At last they reached a large door recessed within a wall. Her guide stood aside to allow her to enter, but she motioned him in first.
The slave stopped just inside the door. The room was barely big enough to contain a bed, a small table with two chairs drawn before a shallow grate and a window recess. There was a fire in the grate and the warmth was comforting. Outside the window, Night pressed his dingy face against the glass.
The slave's gaze was locked on his feet, which the woman saw were unshod and filthy. His hands, only just less dirty, hung loose at his sides.
<
br /> She unbuckled her sword belt and threw it and her saddlebags on the bed. Her traveling cape followed. She stood in serviceable black leathers, with no hint of lace at throat or wrists.
The slave glanced up for a second then back down, as if frightened by even such simple attire in this shabby place.
"What is your name?" asked the woman, turning to face him.
"Danald," he croaked, as if uncertain what such a pleasant tone could mean. His eyes skittered about, seeking perhaps a means of escape.
"An interesting name," said the woman in black. "I have only heard of one other who had it. Who gave it you, your master or your parents?"
"I don't remember," he mumbled, twisting his hands in dismay. "I can't remember much. I'm stupid, you see."
"Are you indeed? Well, go and have your bath and bring our meal, please."
The last word was unfamiliar to him but not unknown. Still he hesitated, the hand twisting increasing.
"What's wrong?" the woman asked, her eyes narrowed.
"You're not going to hurt me, are you?" asked the slave with a plaintive air that cut into her like a knife. "Because, you see," he continued without giving her time to reply, "the last time I was sent to someone's room she hit me and kicked me because I was slow and I didn't like it very much and then my master kicked me and hit me when I told him about it," he finished in a rush.
"I don't think I would like it much, either. I'm surprised you didn't try to run away. I would have. But, I assure you, I have no intention of doing any of that. I shall feed you and put you to bed. Will that be all right?"
He glanced up again from under his eyebrows, to see if she were serious. The expression on her face seemed to satisfy him. He turned to go, reaching the door before something else she had said struck him.
"You did say...feed me?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"Certainly. But I can't until you fetch our meal. Now go."
It was the fastest she had seen him move.
