8: Interlude

 

I felt sick to my stomach.

The merchant was beaming proudly. His wife sat with downcast eyes, smirking under her lashes.

Young Gwill was doubled over, face in hands. Judging by the heaving of his shoulders, he was being racked by some powerful emotion.

Frieda’s face was expressionless, while the great oaf beside her grinned like a rabid timber wolf.

The dowager had arranged her web of wrinkles into an approving smile; the old soldier looked stunned, as if his sword had melted in the midst of a battle; the maid wept tears of joy. I had not seen her face properly before. She was surprisingly pretty and I might have believed that her fine-drawn features denoted sensitivity and intelligence, were she not now so obviously overwhelmed by all the romantic rubbish.

Vandok had been one of the bloodiest killers in the history of mankind. Compared with Vandok, even his great-grandfather Hannail had been a baby bunny. At least Hannail had sacrificed only animals to Hool.

“That is absurd!” I howled. “That is pigswill! You made that all up!”

The actress looked hurt. “You mean you will swear to the truth of every word you told us before, Master Omar? You really know what thoughts passed through the head of a woman two hundred years ago?”

“A little poetic license is one thing, but—”

“I do not recall,” the dowager said, “that we specified anything about truth? Entertainment was all that we required. Thank you, Mistress Maria, for an inspiring tale. We all enjoyed your story … Didn’t we?”

The minstrel raised his head. Tears streamed from his swollen eyes. “It was an unforgettable performance, my lady,” he croaked.

“As I recall the legends,” the soldier muttered, “White-thorn did gain her revenge in the end, so she must have escaped, surely?”

“Yes,” I snarled. “But I never heard tell of how she escaped.”

“Well, now you did,” the actress said triumphantly.

“It demonstrates—” Gwill sneezed. “—how light may be shed on truth in the most ast—” He sneezed again. “—onishing places.”

“It does indeed,” I said. “In time all veils of ignorance and deceit are stripped away.”

The actress glared as she appraised our threat; her rosebud lips drew back to show sharp little teeth. I smiled, and Gwill tried to, but his nose and eyes were running too hard. There was no way she could ever explain away those tattoos. Quite literally, she must keep her husband in the dark, pleading the modesty of the nunnery, refusing to disrobe with the light on. He would not remain burgomaster of Schlosbelsh very long if it became known that he had married a whore.

Ignorant of our unspoken conversation, he hugged her with a fur-draped arm. “A wonderful story, and beautifully told, my cherub! How about some wine to celebrate your success, my little honeycake? Innkeeper, have you wine?”

Fritz was on his feet in an instant. “Indeed I do, my lord! I have some excellent red from the vineyards of the monks of Abaila, and white from the slopes above Poluppo. Sweet and new, my lord, stored in a cool place.”

Ha! In those northern lands, and especially in remote rural taverns, wine tended to be both very old and very sour, long past its best. Down in Furthlin, the vintners had discovered a way of sealing wine in glass bottles so it would often stay fresh for years, but the secret had not yet found its way anywhere close to the Hunters’ Haunt. The bulge of the merchant’s belly suggested that he was more familiar with beer than wine.

Not to be upstaged, the dowager demanded some fruitcake. Frieda hurried out to attend to that, close on her brother’s heels. I rose and shuffled over to the fireplace to refill my stein from the copper jug. I wanted to inspect the note in my pocket, but I was conscious of many disapproving eyes on me.

The notary favored me with a ferrety scowl as I wandered back to my place beside him. “You are compounding your felony!”

“If I am to die for a dog, then you may see I am suitably punished for this offense afterward.”

“Don’t blame me for your troubles!”

I took a long draught and wondered if I dared wipe my mouth on the sleeve of the doublet I was wearing, or whether I would catch rabies from it. Then I turned my attention to the pedant. He was not a type to excite admiration, the small man who wraps himself in the authority of the law and believes he has thereby achieved majesty. His eyes were restless as flies and as hard to catch, his nose long and coarse, peppered with pox and blackheads, his jowls ten years lower than they should be.

“Why not? You set yourself up as my judge.”

He flushed all the way to his biretta. “I certainly did not! I merely gave my opinion that no secular authority claims jurisdiction here.”

“And therefore the group of you appropriated that authority to yourselves.” I took another gulp. The mulled ale was scalding, hot enough to raise a sweat from my scalp to my toes, but I was disinclined to linger over it.

“The gods judge all men and know all men,” the clerk said stiffly. After a moment he added, “But overt manifestation of their omniscience is rare.”

I noted that the wind was not wailing so loud, that the ferns on the floor no long stirred, the shutters had almost ceased their rattling. Climate in the Grimm Ranges is a matter of hours more than years. The storm might have departed, but snow and cold were still waiting out there.

A heavy tread announced the return of our host, bearing a clay flagon and two small pewter mugs. While the merchant inspected the seal and all eyes were on him, I pulled out the note. The stable key is on the beam above the door, it said. I thrust it back out of sight and drained my stein while Fritz’s back was still turned.

Fair enough. If I was still able to walk when he had done with me, the stable would be a warm sanctuary from the storm. But I would leave tracks. I could not replace the key without leaving the door unlocked behind me, so in the morning he would find me there. It would not work.

I decided I would do better worrying about how I could respond to Marla’s malarkey. At least one person had dropped me a strong hint in the last few minutes.

The merchant pronounced the wine acceptable. The actress’s face twisted when she tasted it, but she agreed it was delicious. The dowager graciously allowed her maid one piece of fruitcake. The fire was stoked again. The audience settled down to listen.

“Have we not had enough of the Land Between the Seas?” the old soldier suggested. “Can you tell us a tale of some other place, Master Omar?”

“Indeed I can, Captain, and I was planning to. Mistress Maria has told us of a gallant rescue. I shall recount a deliverance of another sort. Harken, gentle lords and fair ladies, as I unfold for you the strange Tale of the God Who Would Not Speak.”