The Falcon Always Wings Twice

by Donna Andrews

  And bless their hearts, the tourists began surrounding the stocks, trading jests with Terence. Well, better that than pelting him with rotten fruit, I supposed. Although Terence didn’t seem to regard them with the delight he usually displayed when a crowd was focused on him. Horace had tucked his snake-headed stick within reach, and Terence glanced at it a time or two. Maybe he was expecting the rotten fruit.

  Then Mo Heedles strolled up to the stocks. At times I thought she was wasted as Chief of Police in relatively sedate Riverton. She’d have made an excellent undercover officer. Or a spy. Her face, though perfectly normal and arguably rather attractive, was curiously hard to remember when you were no longer in her presence, and she had an almost uncanny ability to go unnoticed until she deliberately called attention to herself.

  But once she did … Well, Terence probably wasn’t going to enjoy their conversation.

  Satisfied that Terence couldn’t spit without multiple witnesses, I headed back to the forge for my last Friday demonstration.

  The day barreled to its close. During the queen’s address to her loyal subjects (aka the closing ceremonies) Michael and George managed to bring off their duel without Terence, although it was obvious to me that if we fired Terence we’d need to find another arch-villain to stir things up throughout the day. George seemed to take defeat at Michael’s hands philosophically, but I made a mental note to ask Michael if they’d also rehearsed a scene in which he let George win. Surely even someone as self-effacing as George would enjoy having that happen every once in a while.

  And Cordelia announced, to great applause, that the betrothal between Sir Terence and Lady Dianne was off.

  “Whoa,” I overheard one tourist say as he and his friend were slowly making their way to the front gate. “Her Majesty was seriously ticked off at that Terence dude. Do they hang people here in Albion?”

  “I think they behead them,” the friend said.

  “Maybe we should come back tomorrow and see how they pull that off.”

  “‘I’m game,” the friend said. “I never did get back to the place with the turkey legs.”

  They strolled out of earshot, making their plans for a repeat visit.

  “Excellent,” Cordelia said when I repeated their conversation to her. “We do seem to be getting a gratifying number of repeat customers. And attendance was up eleven percent over last Friday. At least something’s going right.”

  She’d had another talk with Terence. I was almost surprised that she didn’t fire him over what he’d done to Tad.

  “I’d like to,” she said. “I know you and Michael feel sorry for him because his girlfriend kicked him out, but he probably did something to deserve it, and I see no sign that he’s too broke to find someplace else to stay. But technically he hasn’t violated any of my ultimatums.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “And I’m feeling less sorry for him by the hour.”

  “He’s on notice,” she said. “Assuming Michael can line up a replacement for next weekend…”

  “So does that mean he’s definitely out after this weekend?” I tried not to sound pleased and failed utterly.

  “If he doesn’t commit any offenses that would justify firing him, we’ll have one more actor in the Game,” she said. “The way things are going, we can afford it. But what do you think the chances are of him keeping his nose clean?”

  “Slim to none.”

  She nodded in agreement.

  We deliberately didn’t broadcast the news of how very much hot water Terence was in. But his term in the stocks hadn’t escaped general notice. Or the fact that Cordelia had had his tent moved to the far end of Camp Anachronism, with Horace’s and Lenny’s tents as a buffer between him and the rest of the campers.

  “And what are we supposed to do if we catch him doing something nefarious?” Horace’s round, normally calm face looked slightly annoyed. “Behead him with our bardiches?”

  “They’re not sharp enough for beheading,” I pointed out. “The most you could manage with the bardiches would be clubbing him to death.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to complain about how dull they are.” He was trying to keep a poker face, but I could tell he was joking. “Seriously—what do you want us to do?”

  “Just keep your eyes open,” I said. “If you catch him doing anything illegal, arrest him, and if you catch him breaking any Faire rules or doing anything Cordelia warned him not to do, make him pack his bags and escort him to his car.”

  “He doesn’t have a car, remember?” Horace said. “He’s always cadging rides and trying to borrow people’s cars.”

  “That’s right.” I felt a little of my sympathy for Terence returning. Not only did he not have a car, he’d brought with him all his worldly possessions, to the great annoyance of whoever had driven him down here—one of the jugglers, if memory served. The dozen or so large, heavy boxes were locked up in Cordelia’s storage room for safekeeping, and I had the sinking feeling that whether we kicked him out now or let him stay till the end of the season, Cordelia would end up arranging to get them back to Terence when he finally found a place where he could take them.

  “I could drive him down to the bus station and see that he leaves town,” Horace suggested.

  “Yeah, that would work,” I agreed. Cordelia would probably consider the cost of shipping his boxes a cheap price to pay for his departure. “But not tonight.”

  “Just as well,” Horace said. “I’d better go. Lenny and I are taking your mother back to Cordelia’s house in town.”

  The three-story Victorian house in which Cordelia had grown up wasn’t actually in town by my definition—it was several miles beyond the edge of Riverton proper—although it was still technically within the town limits. For that matter, so was the craft center itself, thanks to a bit of creative gerrymandering a century ago by one of our ancestors who didn’t trust the surrounding county. Now that Cordelia spent most of her time up at the craft center, she had set up the house as a bed and breakfast, with a widowed cousin as hostess. And she’d reserved one of the nicer rooms for Mother for the whole summer—the air-conditioning was more reliable there, and we quickly realized that Mother wasn’t all that keen on the rather boisterous and largely outdoors social life that occupied the staff after hours.

  “I think your mother will find the whole experience much more pleasant if she can wake up at her own speed and enjoy a nice, quiet cup of tea before she has to deal with all our costumed crazies,” Cordelia had said. I agreed—and the broken foot made it doubly important for her to have a place to get away.

  Dinner, and the usual after-dinner festivities, were merrier than usual, in no small part because we’d banished Terence to his tent. I didn’t quite share in the general merriment, having noticed that Tad and Faulk were also absent. In fact, I was actually relieved to have the owling trip as an excuse to leave the gathering early.

  Several people who’d had a tankard or two of wine or mead became excited at the thought of going owling with us, but their excitement faded when they learned it would mean setting out an hour before sunrise.

  “Did we ever look up what time sunrise will be?” Michael asked while we were getting ready for bed.

  I pulled out my phone and opened the weather program.

  “Ick—five fifty-nine.”

  “So the owling party will take off at four fifty-nine.”

  “I am not taking off at four anything. Let’s round that off to five o’clock. That’s bad enough.”

  “Agreed. How much time will you need to get dressed?”

  I pondered briefly.

  “About one minute.” I stood up and walked over to the closet. “Because I’m going to put on my hiking clothes right now and go to sleep in them. All I’ll need to do is pull on my shoes. Well, shoes and jeans.” It would still be warm overnight.

  “A good idea.” Michael began pulling back on the t-shirt he’d just shed.

  We both made sure our jeans, hiking shoes, and phones wer
e easy to find, and turned in. I tried to think of anything else we’d need and came up blank.

  “I’ve set the alarm clock,” I said. “And the alarm on my phone.”

  “My phone’s set, too. And I’ve texted your dad to ask him to make sure we don’t miss the expedition. He said ‘okay.’”

  “I’ll unlock the door so he can come in and shake us awake if needed.”

  It wouldn’t be the most comfortable night I’d ever spent at Biscuit Mountain, but at least sleeping almost fully dressed would make the morning less painful.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday

  Getting up to go owling was every bit as painful as I’d expected it to be. In fact, more painful. I hadn’t been keen on the notion of setting out an hour before sunrise. But I’d misheard. The expedition wasn’t setting out an hour before sunrise but an hour before first light, which was defined as a full thirty minutes before sunrise. So Michael and I were still fast asleep when Grandfather barged into our room, hauled the covers back, and began shaking my shoulder and shouting at us to rise and shine.

  At least that’s what Dad told us Grandfather had been shouting. All I remembered was being rudely awakened from a vaguely threatening dream by someone grabbing me. I threw a punch at what I thought was an attacker and accidentally gave Grandfather a black eye.

  “You have to admit, he’s a tough old bird,” Michael murmured as we watched Dad check Grandfather out to make sure I hadn’t given him a broken nose or a concussion.

  I nodded. I was relieved that Grandfather seemed to take the black eye in stride—had, in fact, seemed strangely proud of my self-defense abilities. “Damn good right hook,” he said. “Chip off the old block.”

  After all that we managed to take off only ten minutes later than planned. Grandfather led the way, striding ahead with the vigor of a man half his age and at a speed that was hard for the rest of us to match—mainly because the rest of us had enough common sense to at least try looking where we were going so we wouldn’t stumble over too many roots and stones. Rose Noire trotted along right behind Grandfather, trying to light both his way and her own with her LED flashlight, which she kept pointed down at the trail to minimize its effect on nearby wildlife. Luckily Grandfather seemed to have a charmed life and hardly tripped at all. Michael and I trailed along behind Rose Noire, followed by Cordelia, with Dad bringing up the rear, where he could spot anyone who lagged or stumbled, all the while murmuring calming things to his mother when Grandfather got on her nerves.

  I wasn’t sure why Cordelia had insisted on coming along. She could go owling here at Biscuit Mountain anytime—why do it at the start of what was already going to be a long and trying day? Maybe she was determined to show that she was just as invulnerable as Grandfather. And some of her remarks to Dad seemed to suggest that she resented the proprietary air with which Grandfather treated the local owls.

  “Thinks he knows more about my owls than I do,” she muttered at one point. “Hmph.”

  We stumbled as quietly as we could manage along the periphery of the Royal Encampment, the clearing just inside the woods where the several dozen tourists willing to pay for the privilege were camping out in brightly colored replicas of the sort of tents you’d have found at a Renaissance-era tournament. Cordelia only provided the tents themselves and a pair of modern porta-potties camouflaged with thatched roofs to make them look ever-so-slightly like authentic period privies. You’d have had to pay me to occupy one of those tents, but there was actually a waiting list for them, and more than one party showed up complete with what I assumed were replica cots and stools and cooked their meals in cast-iron pots over the fire pit. Clearly Cordelia had tapped into something.

  And who knew? If Dad was right about the wide variety of Strigiform species living in the nearby woods, perhaps predawn owling expeditions could be another tourist offering at Biscuit Mountain. Maybe that was the reason Cordelia had come along—to scope out a new business opportunity.

  Past the Royal Encampment and into the woods. Grandfather shushed us—quite unnecessarily, since the avid birders in the party already knew we needed to keep quiet and listen for owl calls, and Michael and I weren’t really awake enough to talk.

  The sun still hadn’t risen, but even here in the woods the blackness slowly gave way to gray as we hiked, so we could see when Grandfather stopped, held his hand up dramatically, as if signaling us all not to move a muscle, and then nodded in satisfaction when a hooting noise rang out in the distance.

  “Strix varia,” he said.

  “Hoot owl,” Cordelia translated.

  “Also known as a barred owl,” Grandfather added. “Their other vocalizations—”

  “Are something they could hear for themselves if you weren’t talking,” Cordelia snapped.

  Grandfather looked annoyed, but saw the wisdom in what she’d said and contented himself with pointing in the direction the hooting was coming from. Rose Noire flicked off her flashlight, either to avoid startling the owls or to make it easier for us to concentrate on the distant hoots. Then we heard another sound at closer range, although it sounded more like a cross between an owl’s hoot and a horse’s whinny.

  “Screech owl!” Cordelia and Dad whispered in near unison.

  “Megascops asio,” Grandfather added.

  We stood listening to the two owls for a while. Dad, Rose Noire, Cordelia, and Grandfather seemed totally absorbed, and at least momentarily in complete harmony. Michael did his best to stifle an enormous yawn. I leaned against a tree and wondered if it was possible to nap standing up. If we stayed here much longer I was going to have a try. It was peaceful here with everyone just standing around listening to the owls. And while it was still far from light, the dark was gradually growing less intense. My eyes adjusted, and I could at least make out everyone’s silhouette.

  “Was this where you heard the Great Horned Owl?” Grandfather whispered to Dad after a while.

  “No, it was deeper into the woods. A quarter mile in that direction.” He pointed off to our right.

  Grandfather nodded and, after another minute or two of listening, he headed off in the direction Dad had indicated.

  “Be careful of—damn!”

  The silhouette of his head disappeared, and we heard an assortment of crashing, rustling, and thudding noises that seemed to suggest he was rolling downhill through some shrubbery.

  “Dad!” Dad called, as he went bounding to the rescue, producing still more crashing and thudding noises. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Barked my shins a bit.”

  Michael and I followed Dad down the shrub-covered hill and got to Grandfather about the same time he did. Dad dropped to his knees to inspect his father’s shins. Michael turned back to help Rose Noire and Cordelia down the slope. So I got the first good look not just at Grandfather—who seemed fine, except for a spot of blood on one pants leg—but at what he was waving.

  “Who left this here, anyway?” Grandfather complained.

  ‘What is it?” Michael asked, from halfway up the slope

  “A walking stick,” Grandfather replied.

  Yes, and it looked familiar. I took a few steps closer to get a better look.

  “Terence’s walking stick,” I said.

  “The one with the snake?” Michael asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “What in the world is it doing out here?”

  “I was fine until my shin hit that blasted metal snake ornament on the end,” Grandfather complained. “I should give him a piece of my mind, leaving dangerous objects like that lying around where anyone could trip over them.”

  “I have a bad premonition about this,” Rose Noire intoned as she turned on her flashlight again. I wanted to point out that to count as a premonition, you needed to have it sometime before ominous things had begun to occur. But she was making herself useful with the flashlight, so I refrained. After waving the beam around until she found Grandfather with it, she was now holding the light steadily o
n him, which would make Dad’s first aid easier.

  “That’s Terence’s stick all right,” Michael said.

  But while Rose Noire had been waving her flashlight beam around I’d spotted something.

  “Move the light to the right a little,” I said. “Slowly.”

  “I need it to see what I’m doing,” Dad complained.

  “Humor me for a sec,” I said.

  Rose Noire followed my instructions. The beam left Grandfather and traveled slowly over the underbrush until it landed on—

  “There!” I said.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Rose Noire exclaimed.

  Terence was sitting on the ground with his back against a tree and his legs stretched out in front of him. At first I thought he was staring at us, but after a couple of seconds I realized that the glassy immobility of his eyes wasn’t a stare.

  Dad left Grandfather and hurried over to Terence’s side.

  “What in blazes is he doing here?” Grandfather asked.

  “Everyone stay back,” Cordelia said. “I expect this will be a crime scene, so let’s mess it up as little as possible.”

  “You want me to call 911?” Michael asked.

  “Already on it.” I had pulled out my phone as soon as I saw Terence’s blank stare. “You call Horace and tell him to bring Lenny, the Riverton deputy. They’re both down in Camp Anachronism.”

  “Maybe I should just go fetch them,” Michael suggested. “Not sure how else they’ll find their way here.”

  Just then the dispatcher answered. I put my phone on speaker.

  “This is 911—what’s your emergency?”

  “This is Meg Langslow up at the Biscuit Mountain Craft Center.” I was pleased at how calm and efficient I sounded. “Some of us were on a pre-dawn owling expedition in the woods surrounding the center and we found—” I hesitated and glanced over at Dad, who had donned gloves and was checking Terence for signs of life. He looked up and shook his head. “Found a dead body,” I finished.