by Peter David
The reason I hesitated to directly confront and challenge Meander was quite simple: The man was wide as two trees and carried a gleaming sword that was the size of a small horse. If we had crossed blades, he could have carved me up like a holiday goose without expending any effort. I knew in my heart that my mother would not have rested any easier even if I had slain her slayer; so certainly there would be significantly less solace if I had wound up resting in pieces.
Even so …
Even so …
It gnawed at me. It bothered me. And further, it bothered me that it bothered me.
The triggering event may indeed have been my parting of the ways with Sharee. I should have been pleased to be quit of her. Keeping company with magic users is always an ill-advised activity. Yet I had hooked up with Sharee … had felt drawn to her, even had dreams about her which I was certain she had somehow planted in my sleeping mind (although naturally she denied any knowledge of it).
Probably what I found most attractive about Sharee was that she had no expectations of me. My mother, the king, the queen, the knights, Entipy, all of them anticipated that I would, or could, or should behave in a particular manner and accomplish certain things. My full time occupation for much of my life, I felt, had been confounding expectations others placed upon me, usually out of the sheer perversity of my fundamental nature. But Sharee attached no particular significance to me. Indeed, she seemed to spend most of her time making veiled insults. At the same time that she taunted and berated me, she also obviously enjoyed my company, which led me to conclude that she possessed that same spiritual perversity that I myself had.
So here was a woman who expected nothing of me, wanted nothing of me … and I had let her down. She had never built me up into anything whatsoever, and yet I had come crashing down in her eyes nevertheless.
How in hell, you may wonder, do you possibly let down someone who had no expectations of you at all? Well, now you understand my quandary. I spent many nights stewing over that little paradox, I can tell you, and as day rolled into night and back into day, and as year turned into year, I came no closer to solving it.
I had always prided myself on my selfishness, on my self-centeredness. It was an uncertain and constantly shifting world in which I lived, one that I had oftentimes manipulated in a most masterful fashion. I had managed to survive through boundless confidence, finding endless means by which to dodge trouble, watching out for my own best interests at all times, and not giving a damn what anyone thought of me. Yet this poxy bitch Sharee had introduced the seeds of doubt and concern, and such things could well prove fatal to someone like me.
I did not want to aspire to anything other than living a long life, making money, and dying peacefully of old age in my bed. The moment I gave the concerns and expectations of others precedence over my own, I could potentially be walking down the dark and dismal road of heroism. I had trod it before, albeit in sideways fashion, when I had usurped Tacit’s role in what was clearly a grand adventure that the fates had designed for him. But to my credit (or, I suppose, lack thereof), there had been nothing heroic in the way I had gone about it, and my reasons had been suitably base and vile. So on that score my conscience was clear. Well … better to say that my lack of conscience was clear.
But … gods, the rage and hurt that had been in Sharee’s face. It was even more profound, of greater depth than that which had been expressed by just about anyone in my life.
I wondered if she had put some sort of “guilt” spell upon me, but even I knew her skills did not lie in that direction. No, this was coming from within me, and I disliked the notion that there was anything within me. It was disconcerting. I had always been proud of my fundamental lack of depth. If I didn’t lack depth … then who was I?
I really, truly started thinking about the future beyond the simple parameters of would I live through it? I found myself staring at the confines of Bugger Hall and thinking dangerous thoughts such as, Is this all there is? Aren’t there great things I might be accomplishing? Could there possibly be someone, somewhere, whose life I could improve? Or destroy? Either way. At least it would be an accomplishment. Something, any something, is better than nothing. And I should know, being Apropos of Nothing.
But if I overreached myself, if I strove to be more than I was, I could very well wind up with nothing, including my life. More than anything, I wanted to survive … if for no other reason than I wanted to give as few people as possible the satisfaction of outliving me.
And so I pushed thoughts of the future out of my mind … until the evening when the future intruded upon me in a most calamitous manner.
It happened thus:
I would love to be able to tell you that there were all manner of signs and portents, giving me fair warning that my comfortable-if-pensive life was about to change dramatically. But the truth of the matter is that in most cases, such scene-setting is performed purely in hindsight. One may have, on any given day, vague concerns that something is going to go wrong. But then the day passes in a manner not dissimilar from any other day, and by the next morning the previous day’s concerns are long forgotten. However, on the day upon which misfortune does occur, people can always be heard to mutter, “I knew it! I knew something was going amiss today! I knew it the moment the cow didn’t give milk or the cock crowed early or I heard the sound of a child crying in the distance.”
I, after spending a lifetime of pretending, am endeavoring to craft these recollections as truthfully as possible, and so I disclose to you that I was utterly blindsided. I did not see it coming at all. In retrospect, even if I had, I don’t know that there would have been all that much that I could have done about it.
But I will tell you, again truthfully, that the moment the stranger came in, I had a misgiving about him.
We were in the dead of winter, that gloomy time that seems to stretch out unto infinity, when the summer months are long forgotten and the promise of spring a paltry and absurd notion. Customers tend to become more sullen around that time of year, and I found myself in the position of having to break up more fights than I would have liked to. It wasn’t that I was concerned whether my customers split their respective skulls open or not. But I didn’t need them bleeding all over the place or wrecking my furniture. Some tavern or hall owners hired brutes to calm things down. The problem with hiring brutes was that they usually wanted unlimited drinking privileges. As a result, either they drank themselves into a stupor and became functionally useless, or else they wound up starting as many fights as they stopped.
I opted for a two-pronged approach. First and foremost, I had a good eye for potential troublemakers, and if I spotted difficulty in the making, I would slip sleeping herbs into whatever they were drinking. I don’t care how belligerent a man is; if he’s unconscious, he can’t cause much trouble. Second, for those occasions when things developed too quickly, I kept a crossbow behind the bar. I’d practiced with it over the months and become a fairly mean shot. If you needed an archer to man some parapets and try to hold off an invading army by targeting running soldiers at sixty yards, my skills would prove woefully inadequate. But give me a man standing with his back to me about ten paces away, and I could dispatch him with alacrity.
As I was saying, during this particular time of the year, I tended to scrutinize my customers even more carefully than usual, to intercept difficulties before they began. And when the stranger entered, whatever alarms that were present within my head, developed by long practice, began to sound.
By appearance, the stranger did not seem much to be concerned about. Not a young man, but of indeterminate age, he wore a full beard with gray encroaching upon the chin. He was cloaked and hooded, but was making no endeavor to hide his identity, for he pushed the hood back upon entering, to reveal a shiny pate so reflective that I fancied I would have been able to see my face in it if I gazed upon it long enough. More than that, however, he had a very nervous manner about him. He seemed tentative, uncertain. If I had to su
mmarize him in one sentence, I would say that he came across as someone for whom the very act of living held untold terrors, and he continued doing so only out of some vague sense of obligation (although obligation to whom, I could not begin to guess.)
The hall was crowded that evening, as it was many of them, and yet the stranger glided through the throng without coming into contact with anyone. This was a bit of a relief, since casual brushings were the main cause of unexpected fights breaking out (“You touched me!” “I did no such thing.” “Are you calling me a liar!?” And then, of course, festivities would commence). The stranger, however, not only kept to himself, but it was as if he was living within a world crafted solely for his own needs. I decided in very short order that he was either the most pitiable, or the most dangerous man that had ever set foot in my place.
There was an unoccupied table at the farthest end of the main room. It was not particularly popular since it was as far away from the fire as could possibly be, and there was also a stiff draft coming through, originating from a source that I had yet to locate despite extensive endeavors to do so. Yet he was drawn to that spot as if the cold and he were bosom companions. Once seated, he simply sat there, staring off into space. One of the wenches came over and chatted with him for a few moments. I gestured her over as she walked away from him, and when she came over to me, I said, “What did he want?”
“He said ‘Ale, and keep it coming,’ ” she told me. “Thick, broad accent he has. I’d peg him as being from the far western lands.”
This last was of no interest at all, but I nodded as if this made all the difference in the world to me. Then I asked, “Are you sure he has money to pay?”
She nodded. “He jangled a purse at me when I asked. I heard sovs clinking within right enough.”
I hadn’t taken my gaze from him. He was definitely an odd duck. Even my regulars, as in their cups as they were, sensed it. It was as if he drained energy from the room, or at least in his own little corner of it. They glanced at him with a mixture of annoyance and mild belligerence, but no one wanted to initiate problems with him, and so he was left alone. His presence, however, did serve to shut things down early. For the first time that I could recall in quite a while, most of the place had emptied out well before midnight.
Yet there the stranger remained. He seemed to me almost sadness incarnate, as if he was mourning not only for those things which he had lost, but those which he knew he was going to lose and was helpless to avoid it.
His boots were well worn; he had walked a great deal, obviously not having the money for a steed. His cloak, which obscured whatever he was wearing beneath, was rather threadbare. I could see places where holes were developing within. The wench, as had been her instruction, kept bringing him ale after ale. He did not down it or toss it back. Instead he drank very slowly and very steadily, as if pacing himself. I began to wonder if he was waiting for someone to show up … or, even more ominously, for something to happen.
Finally Bugger Hall was empty save for myself, the two wenches, and the stranger. “Mr. Poe,” one of the wenches said in a low voice, “that one … he’s beginning to make me nervous.”
“Only beginning to?” I asked with dry irony. “I haven’t liked the look of him from the moment I saw him.” I scratched my chin thoughtfully, and then said, “Call it an evening, girls. I’ll attend to this fellow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Poe,” they both echoed, and I could see their relief. They both obviously wanted to put some distance between themselves and this odd stranger. I couldn’t blame them; I wouldn’t have minded doing the same thing. But I didn’t have that option. It was my place, after all. Furthermore, I was beginning to have a few suspicions. What if this fellow had shown up specifically looking for me? What if he was waiting for everyone to clear out so that he could approach me with some sort of offer?
For that matter, what if he wanted no witnesses so he could endeavor to dispatch me? Heaven knew I had enough enemies who would not hesitate to get rid of me, if they knew where I was and when I would be alone. The namesake of Bugger Hall was certainly one, and there were many others besides. I had tried to keep a low profile. I had let my beard grow out to a full, shaggy length, so much so that my face was practically hidden behind whiskers. When I walked about the tavern, I favored a simpler, unadorned cane instead of the elaborately carved walking staff. I was not necessarily the most inconspicuous of people, but even so I could minimize my exposure.
The wenches departed, bundling themselves against the cold and wishing me a good night. That left the hall empty save for me … and my guest. The fire was beginning to burn lower. He didn’t seem to notice or care. Nor had he budged from his chair in the corner, even though more hospitable tables in the hall had opened up.
I started to walk toward him then, but stopped and went behind the bar. I pulled out the crossbow, which was already nocked. There were two arrows loaded in, each of the two triggers permitting the bolts to be fired individually. Setting aside my casual cane, I pulled out my more formidable walking staff. One could not be too careful. Still, I did not wish to appear as if I was attacking him, so instead I just walked casually toward him. I swung the crossbow easily in one hand, making no threatening move with it, but also making it quite obvious that I was prepared to do far more with it than just hold it.
He did not so much as afford me a glance. I stopped about two feet away and waited for him to say something. He did not oblige me.
So I sat down across from him at the table, while very casually—but noticeably—placing the crossbow loudly between us. There was nothing the least bit subtle about my message. But his lips simply thinned in amusement. Perhaps he found me funny … or ludicrous. I suppose, in some ways, I really couldn’t blame him. Finally I said, “I’m getting ready to close up now. Are you departing or—?”
“Do you have rooms for let?” he inquired. His voice was rich and deep, but also possessed of that same pervasive melancholy.
“Yessss,” I admitted slowly. “However, they are not free. They will require payment … in advance. Ten sovs.”
“Ah.” He sounded a bit sad to hear that, but it was sadness twinged with amusement. “A fair, if slightly exorbitant sum. However, I am confronted with a bit of a problem.”
“That being … ?”
He looked at me full for the first time. There was a world of hurt in his eyes … as if he had seen things that were simply far too much for him to cope with. “I do not have the money for it, I fear. Not in advance … not at all.”
Slowly what he was saying began to sink in.
“Are you saying … you are totally without funds?” When he nodded, I began to do some quick mental calculations as to just how much he owed me for the ale, and most definitely did not like the figures I was coming up with. “But … but my wench … she said you had a purse full of …”
He reached into the folds of his cloak. My hand strayed toward the trigger of the crossbow just in case he tried something. But he merely pulled out what was presumably the purse he had showed the wench. He tossed it over to me with a casual flip of his wrist. I caught it, felt it, and instantly knew that the wench had been had. “Chain-mail links,” I said in annoyance.
He nodded, smiling wanly.
I let out a sigh of exasperation as I gently put the crossbow down on the floor, before I yielded to the temptation to use it—not in self-defense—but in a fit of pique. “So you have no way of paying for the … for however much you’ve had to drink.”
“I did not say that,” the stranger replied, sounding enigmatic.
Shifting in my chair, I asked, “So … you do have money, then?”
“Oh, no, no,” and he chuckled as if the very idea was ridiculous. It was odd. For all that he’d been drinking, I couldn’t smell any alcohol on his breath. “No, I don’t have two sovs to rub together. But,” and he glanced left and right as if worried that he was being watched, “I can tell you that there’s more than one way to pay for
something.”
“I only know of the one, and it involves something jingling that isn’t small pieces of armor.”
He took no note of the sarcasm in my tone. “I can give you … information.”
I wasn’t certain I liked the sound of that. I began to wonder if he wasn’t some sort of a herald of trouble. Perhaps one of the many people who wouldn’t mind seeing my shoulders lonesome for my head was putting out feelers, trying to locate me, and this fellow knew of one of those attempts. “What sort of information?” I asked. “Who are you, anyway?”
“No names. Names have power.”
I groaned, crossed my arms upon the table, and my head sagged down upon them. “You’re a weaver of some sort, aren’t you,” I said, knowing the answer even before I asked.
“Of a sort. How did you—?”
“Because all you magic users are alike. You make a tremendous show of not telling anyone your true names, because ‘true names have power.’ How many times have I heard that old wheeze?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, sounding a bit perplexed.
I lifted my head and fixed an annoyed glare upon him. “It was a rhetorical question, you idiot.”
“Ah. Sorry for the confusion,” he said apologetically.
For a moment I wrestled with the notion of listening to what he had to say, as opposed to writing off the cost of the ale and just throwing the old fool bodily from my place. I certainly had no intention of having him stay to work off his debt. Like attracts like, and the last thing I wanted was to keep a magic user around for an extended period of time so that others of his ilk might show up and wreak havoc. More out of morbid curiosity than anything else, though, I asked, “And what sort of information would you have for me, then?”
“If I tell you, will my account be settled? I do not like to leave accounts unsettled, particularly at this time of my life.”
