“You're a sailor, aren't you, darling?” Sweet-rose said.

“You told me. There are fishermen down in the bay. I have gold. We'll buy a boat.”

Zig raised flaxen eyebrows. “An open boat in this weather?”

“If you can, I can, dear. I'll bail.”

I shivered at the prospect, but it made sense. “I can handle a sail,” I growled. “What do we do with True-valor?”

“You take me with you,” True-valor mumbled. “Otherwise I'll be racked and then beheaded.”

Zig grinned and poked him with a boot. “You mean that, prisoner?”

“I swear. I heard. You can trust me.”

“Not at dice, I don't! Your chances will be better if you stay behind, you know.”

“I don't think they will be,” I said. “We're going to have divine protection.”

I showed them what I had found wrapped in a kerchief, tucked inside in the prince's motley—a small white clay dove.

It was not very lifelike or beautiful, just a pottery image of a bird. One eye was a small black stone and the other an empty hole. Its legs and feet were fashioned of twisted wire and it had lost a couple of toes.

That was why the prince had displayed unexpected courage.

That was why he had died saying, “Betrayed!”

In silence, I passed the god to Sweet-rose.

I wiped the royal blood from my hands. I cut True-valor free with his own dagger and returned it to him.

 

 

Then I crept downstairs to discover how many men the prince had brought with him. I expected a small army. I found two more horses, tethered to the rail.

That's the true story, my lords and ladies. Sweet-rose eloped, but not with the prince. He died. That I am sure of.

Verl the god left the land named after her, and perhaps that does explain why Just-blade never sired another heir.

We rode down to the nearest fisherman's cottage and traded him four horses for a half-rotted hulk of a dory and a few supplies. The boat looked as if it would blow apart in the first breath of wind. Even a surly peasant glower could not quite conceal its former owner's rapture at the exchange, but Sweet-rose gave him coins, as well. Let him enjoy his dream!

He would not keep the mounts long when the king's men came around, as soon they must.

The voyage was unpleasant, but not as bad as it might have been. Zig was a competent sailor and there are few rigs I have not handled in my time. Hull and mast and sail all failed us at one time or another, but we improvised and survived. Sweet-rose was a trooper. Trooper True-valor was seasick the whole time.

When we reached Algazan, I was called away to witness a revolution. We split up. I never saw any of them again. Last spring I heard how the oracle had proclaimed a child of Sweet-rose, beyond the Grimm Ranges. Like many others, I came here to find him, or her. I failed.

I can't tell you any more than that.

 

 

22: The Fifth Judgment

 

Fritz had done us proud with candles. The taproom was bright for the first time since I arrived, the flames sparkling back from the weapons hung on the chimney, the dusty bric-a-brac on the shelf, even the sad painted clay eyes in the mounted deer heads, every one followed by a shadowy herd of antlers on the stonework. The wind outside wailed louder than ever, moaning under the eaves, sucking in the chimney.

Halfway through my narrative, the door had begun rattling like a palsied castanet.

Alas, the only happy face I could see in the midst of all the brightness was Frieda's. She was gazing intently down at her hands, not at me, but dimples had appeared in her cheeks; she was certainly pleased about something. Her brother's vexation had increased in proportion. I could not guess what was annoying Fritz, but I would applaud it heartily, whatever it was.

As for the rest of my audience ... The dowager had apparently gone to sleep. I hoped she was merely brooding, because I was banking heavily on her support.

Rosie had her eyes open, but they did not seem to be seeing anything. The porcelain dove and its wrapping still lay on her lap.

Gwill was barely conscious, probably aware of little more than his own misery. I could hear phlegm rattling in his chest.

 

 

Apart from those, the candles revealed only unfriendly glares: the merchant, the actress, the notary, the soldier.

Four out of seven—a majority.

“Claptrap!” the merchant grumbled, folding his arms across the dome of his belly. “You might at least have invented a yarn with some plausibility. That one has more holes in it than a laundry-wife's basket. You must think us all simpletons.” He coughed harshly. “What's wrong with your chimney, landlord?”

Fritz's fists were clenched into mallets. “The wind has changed, your honor. The chimney smokes sometimes when the wind is from the south.” He shot me a glance of hatred.

His sister shot me a wink. “It is good news, sir. Listen!” We listened. Somewhere something was dripping. “The weather here is extremely changeable, but in winter when the south wind blows, it is usually a warm, thawing wind. Our door always rattles then. I won't let Fritz mend it, because I like the sound. It is a promise that spring will return some day, cheerful tidings.”

“The road will be clear?”

“The way back down to Gilderburg, certainly,” Fritz agreed glumly. “The pass ... possibly. But it is not dawn yet. The north wind may return.”

He hoped it would. Even if he turned me out without my boots and cloak, I had a chance now. I should be in the company of other travelers, who might lend me garments for the road. Snow can turn to slush, and then mud, very fast. I smiled blissfully back at him and shook my head to let him know I rested my hopes on more than the temperature. I had no intention of letting the overgrown lout manhandle me or maltreat me any more than he had already.

Meanwhile...

Meanwhile I regarded the merchant. “Some aspect of my tale distresses you, sir? I swear to the truth of every word.”

“You add perjury to your crimes! Counsellor, how would you question such a witness?”

The notary sniggered. “With pleasure, Your Honor!”

“You demolish his fable for us, then, and we shall let our landlord demolish the rest of him.” The fat oaf guffawed at his own wit. The actress shrilled agreement. Fritz bared his teeth with joy.

“Very well.” The notary turned his ferrety face to mine.

“Let us consider the mortals first, Master Omar. What happened to the bodies of the crown prince and his friend?”

I eased back from his rank breath. “I have no idea. We left them lying where they were.”

“And yet for twenty years the prince's death has never been reported? Does not that seem a little strange?”

“Perhaps it does, now that you mention it. He should have been found by now.”

“And you traded four royal horses for a boat? Why did the king's investigators not find those horses in the area and learn of the fugitives who sailed away?”

“I presume the fisherman was careful not to incriminate himself.”

“Would the disappearance of an heir apparent be investigated so perfunctorily?”

 

 

“I am not experienced in assassinations, Counsellor. King Just-blade may have been relieved to be rid of such a son.” I was enjoying myself. My low opinion of the grubby notary was not being raised by his inept cross-examination.

“Even if he is profoundly grateful for the results, a king does not ignore high treason. Would Just-blade not have ransacked the whole area, using interrogation and torture to establish the facts?”

“You are asking me to draw conclusions. I am a witness, not a theorist.”

He pulled a face. “Your description of the god's image does not match the dove that was produced for us tonight.”

“I stand by my testimony.”

“Indeed? But how can the idol you saw have been the royal god? The prince had brought Verl with him. That makes sense, for it explains how he managed to track you down. But then she let him be killed?”

“I told you. He seemed as surprised by that as you are.

Again, I will not speculate—especially about the minds of gods.”

“Then you stole the god! You gave him to the woman. How is it possible to steal a family god away from his family?”

“Same answer.”

“Bah!” roared the merchant, interrupting this farce. “The whole tale is gibberish. You said that the god told Sweet-rose how to escape from the palace. These family gods of Verlia speak only to members of their families! Is that not the case?

Is that not what we have been told many times tonight?”

 

 

“It is conventional belief,” I said with a shrug. “I merely reported the facts because I was asked to.”

We all stole a glance at the dowager, but she had her head down, with her floppy hat hiding her face. She still seemed to be asleep, but I suspected that she was listening. I hoped she was. I was about to need her.

“Not facts!” The big man snorted. “Lies! Lies from start to finish. We have not even mentioned the largest objection of all. If Sweet-rose eloped with a foreigner and not the crown prince, then why has Hool proclaimed her child to be the rightful heir to the throne?”

“I told you,” I said. “I do not theorize upon the minds of gods.”

“Rubbish! Stable scrapings! Captain Tiger, do you not agree?”

The soldier studied me with eyes like flint. “I find the tale hard to credit, yes. The entire realm has believed for twenty years that Prince Star-seeker eloped with the woman he loved because his father the king planned to marry her against her will. To be told that he was murdered instead—and the body left lying where it fell ... this strains belief.”

“Throw the perjurer out! Innkeeper, take him!”

Fritz began to rise.

“Let him be,” the dowager croaked, stirring.

“You believe him?” Tiger shouted. Rosie jumped and looked around nervously.

“Master Omar has told only two lies tonight.”

 

 

“Two?” I exclaimed over the incredulous murmurs.

“Perhaps one tiny fib. White lies like that do not count, my lady. They are merely a social grace.”

“Two.” She peered at me along the row. Her smile was an unexpected grimace of wrinkles and gums. Her eyes shone like pearl in the candlelight. “You named me the greatest beauty in the room.”

“That was simple truth.”

“It was an outrageous exaggeration, even in those days.

But I am grateful.” She chuckled.

“It was true. And the other matter was a trivial gallantry.”

The others exchanged puzzled glances. Fritz uttered an animal growl, as if reaching the end of his self-control.

“No, it was germane to the matter.” The crone's voice was a crunching of dry leaves. “In gratitude for that falsehood, I will now rescue you, Master Omar!”

“I shall be in your debt, ma'am.”

She nodded, painfully easing herself upright in her chair. “I do not see faces as well as I once did, but when I first heard your voice tonight ... It brought back memories. Ah, how it brought back memories! These others may doubt. They squirm and scuttle to avoid unpalatable truths, but I accept, Master Omar, although I may not understand. Very well, listen, all of you. I am Rose-dawn of Kraw, and I was the sinner who caused all the trouble. Long ago, it was ... yet still I pay.”

 

 

 

23: The Dowager's Tale

 

What do you know of gods, who were not born in Verlia?

You hanker after great gods, remote gods. You go to grand temples and pray there in your hundreds, each one believing that his own voice will be heard amid so many. You credit your gods with worldwide powers and do not see that you have shackled them with worldwide responsibilities. You expect your prayers to be heard and your sins overlooked.

You pray to gods of battle for victory without thinking that your enemies invoke them, also. You deafen your gods with conflicting entreaties and wonder why they fail you.

But we? We are satisfied with little gods, our own family gods. We know that their powers are small, but because we ask little of them, they can help us. Because we, their children, are few, they hear us and help us and keep us true.

All my days I have knelt before the same one god, giving him all my love and obedience, safe in the knowledge that I have his love and care always.

Alas that I did not heed his warnings! But that was my folly, not his.

Let me tell you how it is. We honor our gods in our own homes daily, making offerings, praising, worshipping. We live with our gods, and they with us. We ask their advice and seek their blessings on all our undertakings. In Verlia we know more of gods than any of you can ever know. We are brought up with our gods, and by our gods.

 

 

Four times in our lives we make special bondings to our gods, four special sacraments. When a child is born, the parents take it to their god in the presence of all the adults of the family, and the god accepts it and names it. “He is mine!”

the god will say, or “She is mine!” Verlian men do not worry about their wives’ fidelity.

Children grown to adulthood are brought again before the god. They make certain promises and again the god accepts them, speaking to them directly and in their presence for the first time. “You are mine!” Few indeed are those who do not weep when they first hear the voice of their god.

The third sacrament is marriage, when a young man brings his bride, or a young woman her groom, to live in the ancestral home. The god accepts the newcomer, and ever after she or he belongs to that god, also.

And at the end, when the play is done, when we lie adying, then our god is brought to us. We Verlians die in the presence of our gods, knowing that thereafter we shall never be parted.

Verlians trust their gods. We trust them especially to ensure we have descendants—to worship them and to remember us.

I am Rose-dawn of Kraw. Even before I was wed, I was Rose-dawn of Kraw. My father was Leaping-spirit of Kraw, a younger son of Kraw's children of Fairglen, a minor branch of the great clan. In truth my father was only a farmer for his uncle, despite the greatness of his god.

When I was twenty, I was deemed a beauty, but what woman of twenty is not? Vanity is a betrayer.

 

 

When I was twenty I attracted the notice of Fire-hawk of Kraw, the eldest son of Eagle-soar of Kraw, patriarch of our whole clan. I did not think much of Fire-hawk, even then, but I knew he would inherit Still Waters. His wife would be mistress of the fairest palace in Verlia. The prospect turned my head until I was giddy.

Fire-hawk in due course proposed that our fathers arrange for us to be wed. As I was of noble birth, he found me worthy; as I was of humble station, he expected me to be malleable. Anything else he felt was lust. I already had my heart set on a young man. He was named Honest-labor of Swet, and that sums him up very well. I asked my mother's advice, although I did not expect to heed it. She told me to consult the god, so I did.

I went to the chapel and knelt before the tooth of the dragon. I offered a fine swath of silk I had woven, showing autumn vineyards on the hills. I explained my problem.

“What do you see in Honest-labor?” the god asked.

One does not lie to one's god. “His body,” I admitted.

“And what in Fire-hawk?”

“His house.”

The dragon sighed. “The body will decay. He will grow fat and bald, and he is so lusty that I will be hard put to limit you to half a dozen sons, each as bovine as his father. Honest-labor is the better man. Fire-hawk is jealous and domineering. His house will endure, but your delight in it will fade with familiarity. Yet what you really seek there is power and respect, and the joy you find in those will grow greater as your own beauty fades. You must choose the sort of happiness you wish.”

I chose Fire-hawk. That was the first of my sins. At our wedding, he presented me to his god, and of course it was the same god.

“She is mine,” Kraw said, and chuckled. A dragon chuckle sends shivers down the bravest spine. “She was always mine.

Do not provoke her too far, my son.”

At the time I did not understand, and I don't think my husband ever did.

He found rapture in my embrace, and in time I found some in his. I bore him two sons, and they have been a credit to their god. But Fire-hawk was as jealous and domineering as the god had foretold. I gave him no cause for his jealousy and I withstood his anger. When he struck me, I struck him back.

He threatened to whip me. I told him I would enter a brothel and shame him before the entire kingdom. He tried to limit my power to rule the household, which was my right, and I played upon his jealousy, threatening to bear him a legion of bastards. Our life together was never tranquil, but it was seldom dull, either.

In due course, I became mistress of Still Waters, and no woman could ask for a finer domain.

Thereafter he used mistresses and tried to ignore me. But, he had a weakness. He drank too much. When he was in his cups, I would go to him in his room and then he could not resist me. Disgusting, of course, but the price I paid. I used to do it every month or two, just so he could never be certain that any child I might bear was not his. We had the same god, you see. Whosoever might be the father of any child I bore, Kraw would accept it, because I also was his from the beginning. Fire-hawk had not appreciated that problem until after our wedding—I pointed it out to him in one of our first quarrels. The knowledge did nothing to improve his peace of mind, for he was a jealous man.

Yet I remained faithful to him, although he could not believe it.

Until High-honor.

Master Omar described the king for you, and brought him back to life for me. He was everything Fire-hawk was not—jovial, gentle, passionate, good company, forgiving. We were not mad youngsters, but love is not confined to the young.

Indeed, true love is a phenomenon of middle age, for only then can one be sure that what one feels is not all lust.

Passion is a product of love, not its source. Why do the young never see this?

I fell in love with the king, and he with me. Our affair lasted for years, yet in all that time we were intimate only four times. I remember every minute of those encounters.

Fire-hawk suspected, or just assumed, and High-honor dared not provoke a man of his power lest the kingdom be rent by civil war. My husband watched and pried and guarded. Four times!

High-honor brought his court to call on us, and I was surrounded by eyes. We could exchange private words, but only in full view. We were never allowed to be alone together, to do what we both so desperately wanted to do.

I went to Kraw in despair.

 

“An hour!” I begged. “My god, grant me an hour alone with the man I love.”

“I do not grudge you happiness, my child,” the dragon said. “But happiness always has a price. What price will you pay for it in this case?”

Fool that I was! “Anything! Anything at all!”

“Rash! I do not know the price, Rose-dawn, or I would tell you. I do know that this time it may be very high.”

"I will pay it!" I cried.

That is the only time I thought I heard my god weep.

“Fire-hawk also is my child, and I will not cuckold him, much as he deserves it.”

“Will you prevent me?”

“No,” Kraw said softly. “Listen. There is a man called Omar, a trader of tales. Send your most trustworthy aide to Myto, to the Sign of the Bronze Anchor, and he will find him there. Bring him here. Tell High-honor to offer the man a bribe. It must be princely, for this tale-teller is contemptuous of wealth. Only a fabulous gift will impress him. In return for it, he will so bespell his listeners that the two of you may steal away unseen. Even Fire-hawk cannot resist that man's tongue. But if the king stints on the prize, then all will he lost.”

What woman could resist such a challenge? I could require the man I loved to demonstrate how much he valued me.

High-honor rose to the challenge, of course. I felt shamed when I saw the jewel he proposed to squander for my sake.

It was not Verl who organized that deception! Verl was home in Uthom. It was Kraw. Who but the king could have offered Master Omar such a jewel? And who would have required such a price but the mistress of the house herself?

There was Omar's lie. He saw who slipped from the portico that night. High-honor would not have seduced his daughter's companion! Never! It was I, but Omar lied to you tonight to save my shame.

I have never spoken of it before, and now I find I glory in it.

I am eternally grateful to the trader of tales for giving me those precious minutes with the man I loved.

Two weeks later, High-honor died. Nine months later, I bore Sweet-rose.

She was the price, and costly she proved to be.

Oh, how I trembled on her naming day! We could not but invite the senior lords and their ladies from all the innumerable branches of Kraw's family, for such was the custom. They all came, the whole clan. The shrine was so crowded that no one could breathe.

Fire-hawk brought in the babe. He was convinced she was not his. No evidence would have convinced him otherwise, nay, even had he kept me locked in a box to which only he had the key. He laid her before the god.

“She is mine,” Kraw said. “She is Sweet-rose of Kraw.”

“But is she mine?” my husband screamed in front of his assembled guests, a quarter of all the wealth in the kingdom.

Oh, the shame of it!

“You,” the dragon said, “are a turd!”

The laughter almost brought down the ceiling. Not another word would the god speak and never was Fire-hawk allowed to forget it. I went no more to his bed again, nor any man's, for my love was dead.

A few years later, Just-blade came to rule in his own right and rashly began the Bunia war. Fire-hawk was slain early, and my heart rejoiced to be rid of him. My son succeeded, but he was unmarried. He went off with his brother to fight, and I ruled Still Waters alone. Those were the happiest years of my life! I could not help what I felt. Am I so wicked to admit it?

I had my daughter, Sweet-rose. She was much younger than my sons, and a great joy to me. Even as a babe she was beautiful, and her beauty waxed every day. She was willful and headstrong. We raged at each other, but it was for love.

She knew I loved her, even when we fought.

She must have done.

I am sure she did!

And she loved me. We just did not talk of it; we were too much alike in some ways.

Offers of marriage began coming when she was twelve. I postponed all discussion of the matter until she reached fourteen. When that day came, Sweet-rose herself refused to discuss it. Ten years later, the offers were still coming, and she was still refusing them—refusing even to talk about them!

She would not marry while the war was on, she insisted, for she had no wish to be an early widow. All very well, but the promising candidates were falling like icicles in springtime.

Better a dead husband than no husband at all.

Half the young men of the kingdom came a-calling at Still Waters. Sweet-rose had a horse she called Tester. Most of the young men ended in a bush after trying out Tester—it favored a small monkey-puzzle near the aviary. Those who survived unscathed she would take canoeing in summer or skating in winter. She drowned them, terrified them, or froze them. Any superman who escaped those perils, she would invite to fencing practice. She had a foil with a trick button ... One or two almost bled to death. Do you wonder that I was in despair?

Until one day Tester tested her. I don't know what spooked the brute, but I had warned her for years that she was playing with fire when she rode that devil. Skilled as she was, it ran away with her. She was brought home in a very bruised and subdued condition. She remained subdued. It was a month before I realized that we had not had a fight in all that time and therefore she must be avoiding me.

I soon discovered the reason. Master Omar made him out to be a hero, a romantic daredevil. I saw a penniless foreign adventurer who had almost broken my daughter's neck. I did not like him, his accent, his manners, his account of his background, or his obvious hold on my daughter. I disposed of him quite easily, as you heard. With one ankle broken and the other chained, he was not going to be underfoot for a while.

My daughter and I had a fight that was notable even by our standards. I gave her an ultimatum. If she was not betrothed by spring, I would arrange a marriage for her. By law her brother could force the matter, and would if I insisted. Then I packed her off to court. With my sons away and the land in turmoil, I could not leave Still Waters. I told her to write when she had an acceptable offer.

 

 

Her letter arrived one bitter winter day. The king or the crown prince, she said. She had not yet decided between them. The king was an old bore and rumored to be impotent, the prince a degenerate lout, but they were both pursuing her night and day, and didn't they both seem eligible enough?

I don't think she had led them on to spite me. Mad as she was at me, she would not have trailed her coat for either of those two, let alone both. I think it just happened. Whether father or son was first, the hatred between them was enough to provoke their rivalry without Sweet-rose having to do anything at all. I am positive she did not know then why either match was out of the question.

I knew, of course. I screamed for my carriage and was on the road for Uthom within the hour. I told the coachman to leave a trail of dead horses if need be, but to get me to the palace within two days. Even in summer, I had never made that journey in less than five.

In considering my daughter's future, I had overlooked the royal family completely. The crown prince was only a boy, five years younger than she. I had forgot that boys grow up. I knew that the king was likely to remarry. Irrelevant!—or so I assumed, because he was her brother. The crown prince was her nephew. But they didn't know that! Nobody knew that, just the gods and I. Now I must pay the price that Kraw predicted. I was going to be made to seem an adulteress before the entire nation, a slut who slept with men other than her husband. The fact that it was only four times, only four times and only with the king ... Well, it didn't happen. I was saved disgrace.

 

 

Halfway to Uthom, a courier bound for Still Waters recognized my carriage in passing, ran us down, and delivered a second letter from Sweet-rose. I learned that I was too late.

Star-seeker had accosted my daughter in a corridor of the palace and attempted to fondle her, or worse. Literally fleeing from his unwanted attentions, she took refuge behind a convenient door. It was a room she had never seen before, the royal chapel. I knew it. We children of Kraw always pay our respects to Verl when we visit the palace, although now our descent from White-thorn is too remote for him to acknowledge us.

The door would not have been locked, of course, despite the richness of the furnishings. No one can steal from a chapel in Verlia.

Sweet-rose knelt and apologized for intruding. Verl replied.

I suppose he began with “You are mine,” although all gods have their own liturgy. He told Sweet-rose that he had summoned her. He explained the problem. Both king and prince had already consulted him about her and he had forbidden both matches. He had not said why, because gods never explain. Gods become very angry if their commands are ignored. Sweet-rose was one of his, just as much as the men were.

“If a god guards your nasty secret, Mother,” she wrote,

“then who am I to expose you?”

I wish I had kept that letter. Some of the things she wrote were unkind, but they were written in haste. She also said ...

Well, I did not keep it, and I don't remember. She did say she was going to flee the court. She did not say where she was going, but I could guess. She said good-bye.

Fool! She could have kept her penniless foreigner then!

She could have blackmailed me into accepting him and the assembled children of Kraw would have rallied to turn aside the king's anger! Why did she not see that? Why give up so much? Why say good-bye?

Oh, I was a madwoman! My carriage would not manage the byways, so I took off on horseback. Even then I was old—in my sixties—but in the next two days I outrode every man of my escort except one boy. Never say I did not love her! I nearly killed myself on that ride. An hour from Zardon, my horse went lame. I ordered my last guard to dismount and I went on alone. Alone!

I could not have missed you by long, Master Omar.

Embers still glowed in the grate. The two bodies were not yet cold. Two bodies, and only the prince still held a sword? It did not take much wit to guess that there had been other people there if there was only one sword for two dead men. But the crown prince was slain and all the children of Kraw together could not defend Still Waters against a charge of high treason.

Boats never entered my mind. An open boat across the ocean in winter? Ridiculous! Horses and hiding places were all I considered. The king's officers would be at my door within days, I thought, and I racked my brain to recall all the secret rooms and passages. I tried to calculate when Sweet-rose and her adventurer lover would arrive, and by what road ... I was certain she would come home, you see, home to her mother's arms.

I decided I must buy time, muddy the tracks, blur the scent. I dragged the corpses over to the window and let the sea have them. There was too much blood to clean up, so I set the building on fire. Only the roof and the upstairs flooring and the furniture were flammable. The walls remained, and I expect they are there still. The prince's sword was later found among the ashes and identified, but there were no signs of bodies, of course. I never guessed my improvised deception would stand unchallenged for twenty years.

By dawn I was at my manager's door. This was Kraw land, remember, Still Waters land. My men scoured the countryside clean long before the king's ever saw it. We found the horses, Master Tickenpepper! We spirited the old fisherman away, and no one learned of the four fugitives.

Strange how legends grow! Very few people had seen my daughter with Master Omar. More knew of the prince, for he had made himself obnoxious at every stop. The two couples passed by different routes at very similar times. Somehow the reports blended into a myth of two fugitive lovers.

When I learned of the boat, I laughed aloud. I thought it was just a cunning subterfuge to divert pursuit. They would sail along the coast and disembark, would then find fresh horses to bear them to Still Waters. So I thought. I went home, expecting to find them already there. They were not. I waited. As the days passed, I was forced to conclude that they had drowned at sea. My daughter never came back to me. I lost all hope, until earlier this year, when I learned of Hool's oracle.

 

 

 

24: Interlude

 

The hoarse old voice ground away into silence, and there was not a damp eye in the room. Even Gwill's seemed to have dried up momentarily.

Eventually the actress squirmed and said, “A poignant tale!”

The rest of us made hasty agreeing noises.

“I have suffered much for love,” the dowager murmured.

I interpreted Frieda's expression to mean horrible oldbitch! but it may have lost something in the translation. For once the group seemed close to unanimity.

The merchant cleared his throat. “You appear to have a problem, my lady. Your candidate's story does not agree with your own account of events.”

We all looked at Rosie, who did not notice.

The dowager pouted. “Innkeeper? It must be near dawn, is it not?”

Fritz scratched his stubbled chin and heaved himself upright, unfolding his bulk like a horse. “It feels like it, my lady.” He stalked over to a window. Leaning into the embrasure, he cupped his hands around a spy hole in the shutter and peered. “There is light in the east, ma'am.”

“And still thawing?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“If we are to move on this morning, then we should perhaps catch a little sleep. Rosie!”

 

 

Rosie jumped as if someone had dropped hot coals down her neck. “M-m-m-my lady?”

“It is time to go to bed.”

“B-b-bed, my lad-d-dy?”

“Upstairs. Take Verl with you, and remember to sleep next the wall, so there will be room for me.”

The girl sat for a moment, lips moving, working that out.

Then she nodded and quickly stuffed the porcelain pigeon and its wrapping inside the casket. She rose, bobbed a curtsey, and hurried to the stairs.

The minstrel shivered. He stretched, yawning widely. “I think I, too, may...”

I caught his eye and shook my head. I suspected I was going to need Gwill quite shortly. Surprised but always willing, he sank back on the bench without another word, staring at me doubtfully and dabbing at his nose with his sleeve.

“What ever do you mean, Burgomaster?” the dowager said sharply, picking up the earlier conversation.

The merchant screwed down his thick brows. “You saw Star-seeker dead, you say. Yet Rosie claims to be his child.”

“Posthumous, perhaps?”

“And when did that happen? No, no, ma'am! Her father was a mercenary, who died at the siege of Hagenvarch.

Possibly the girl's mother may have romanticized, or the girl herself may, but you quote her as quoting Verl. Your story does not match the god's.”

 

 

“It really does not matter who her father was. She is High-honor's granddaughter. That is why Hool has proclaimed her child to be rightful ruler—not because of Star-seeker at all.”

The fat man's face bulged. “When and where did Star-seeker die? At Zardon or at Hagenvarch? You cannot have it both ways.”

The dowager clenched her lips in silence. She was the sort of person who often did have it both ways, many ways, believing whatever she chose to believe. Even yet she would not face the consequences of her adultery. She wanted the world to believe her daughter had eloped with Star-seeker, although she knew he had died. But then she sighed.

“You have a point. I admit there are discrepancies in Rosie's tale. The soldier father sounds more like that Zig boy than Star-seeker. There are also truths! She knew my name, the name of Sweet-rose's mother. That was not public knowledge. She knew the year of her mother's birth. Other things. Perhaps Hool will explain.”

The merchant grunted scornfully.

I did not like the way Fritz was hovering in the background, where I could not see what he was up to. I did not like the yawns going around.

“It is not unknown for young women to hear voices,” I suggested.

“She is a half-wit!” Johein said, agreeing with me for the first time that night. “She could imagine anything. But how could the voices speak truths?” He glowered at me with a totally unwarranted suspicion.

 

 

“Perhaps that pigeon of hers is a demon? If you believe in gods, you must believe in devils, or evil gods.”

The audience stirred uneasily at the thought of a demon in the house.

“Just a thought,” I added. “She has a terrible stutter, doesn't she?”

“You have another explanation, Master Omar?” the soldier demanded.

My conscience growled at me and I paused to consider the matter. On purely artistic grounds, I was convinced that Rosie was an irrelevancy. She had wandered into the wrong story.

The gods may be cruel or capricious, but they usually do have style. Rosie did not belong in the affairs of Verlia. She was a leaf caught up by a storm and blown out to sea.

“I do not think the girl is lying to you, my lady,” I said.

“But I do not think she is your granddaughter. If I say anything to shake your belief in that, you will not abandon her?”

The old crone crunched up her wrinkles in a scowl. She was unaccustomed to restraint, unwilling to commit herself to anything, even to bind herself with a promise. “Rosie is a great help to me. She is biddable. I need a handmaid to help me dress. My last absconded in Gilderburg with a dairyman.”

When no more came, I said, “Then you will certainly take her back to Still Waters with you, whether she is your granddaughter or not? And even if she is only the deluded simpleton she seems to be, you will see that she finds an honorable living?”

 

 

I thought Lady Rose-dawn was about to tell me to mind my own business, but curiosity won out, as it usually does.

“You need have no fear on that score, Master Omar. I look after my retainers, and always have.” She probably believed that. “Talk away! We may as well see the sunup now. It is your turn to tell us a tale, anyway.”

“I will not presume to try to match your own heartrending story, my lady! But I do have a parable that may be relevant.

You may judge it on its own merits, if you wish.”

The merchant groaned and turned his head to inspect his young wife. She smiled at him unconvincingly. Then he seemed to decide against whatever he had been thinking, and he, too, settled into his chair.

“Go on. What flimflam is coming now?”

“The Tale of Agwash the Horsetrader, of course.”

Nobody reacted except Gwill the minstrel. He blinked at me in surprise and then smiled wanly.

 

 

25: The Tale of Agwash the Horsetrader In the spring of the year, Agwash the horsetrader went down from Morthlan to the plains, as was his wont, to buy stock for the summer fairs. He came to the village of Vanburth, and there to the house of his old friend Nergol, who was also a man wise in the flesh of horses. Nergol embraced Agwash and seated him under the shade of the fig tree that grew before his house, and called for wine and cakes to be brought for his old friend. Then the two of them discoursed at length upon the mercies of the gods, the follies of men, and the obscene proliferation of taxes.

When Agwash was refreshed, Nergol caused sundry ponies to be led forth and displayed before him, saying, “Oh, Agwash, behold! Observe the straightness of their hocks, the gleam of their coats, the excellence of their respiration!” And Nergol praised the horses in this wise, likening them to legendary steeds of yore.

Agwash turned aside his face and lamented. “Cruel are the gods!” he quoth. “They have brought me to hard times in my old age, when even an honest man may no longer earn his bread by honorable trade. They have reduced the price of horses until they sell for less than pomegranates. But worst of all, they have burdened me with years so that I may observe the friends of my youth decayed and stricken with afflictions of the eyes. Is it that you can yet tell day from night, my old companion?”

 

 

Deeming that his friend jested, Nergol slapped his thighs in mirth and then returned to praising the animals he had displayed.

Agwash responded with sadness. “Verily, since coming into the plains, I have not seen a beast worthy to be made into the bindings of books. Every day it grows clearer.” Then he pointed out the signs of worms and the prevalence of colic and bog spavin and sundry other drawbacks that the other had missed.

Nergol called upon his menservants to remove the livestock.

Agwash sighed as his heart were breaking. “Because I am a kindly man and Nergol has been my friend for unnumbered years, I will let folly overrule wisdom in this matter. Yes, I will remove the diseased animals from his field to save him the labor of burying them. And, though my wives would berate me if they heard of this, calling me a sentimental old fool, I will leave him four gold pieces so that my friend may start up in goat herding, or some other line of endeavor more suited to his talents.”

Then Nergol cried out to the gods to witness that Wernok had offered twenty times that much per head for the whole herd, as he needed to improve his blood-line.

Agwash threw himself in the dust, uttering lamentation that his old friend Nergol had so taken leave of his wits as to believe a single word that had passed through the beard of a notorious liar such as Wernok.

And so it went.

 

 

Later, when the shadows began to lengthen, the two of them embraced again tearfully, each vowing that he had beggared himself utterly for the sake of his old friend. Nergol called again for wine for his visitor, and they sat once more under the fig tree and drank toasts to better days ahead.

Then said Nergol, “How sad it is that your business has fallen on such hard times, Agwash! Were you in command of the resources you once had, you might even be able to consider making an offer for Twak, for truly there is no horse under Heaven that can compare with Twak.”

Agwash sighed and agreed that the matter was indeed heartbreaking. And although times were hard, he added, it would be a wonderful experience to see a notable horse again, a steed like those they had known in the days of their youth together. He very much doubted that there could be any such horse, though, and he could not imagine what breeder in the district might own it if there was.

Nergol said, “The virtues of Twak are not readily apparent to the eye—or at least not to mine, although I fancy that my sight is still better than yours, as it always was. As to the breeder, the owner of Twak is a man by the name of Pilo, who can commonly be found in the market at this hour of the day.

Let us go together, and if you do not agree that Twak is the most remarkable horse that you have ever seen, then I shall deed you back that miserable sack of underweight coins you persuaded me in my folly to accept for my herd. Whereas, if I have spoken truly, then you will double the amount.”

Agwash considered the matter for some time, for he was a cautious man, but eventually he agreed to the terms. So the two of them arose and went unto the marketplace. There they found the man Pilo and the horse Twak, within a crowd of onlookers.

Agwash said, “I will admit that I have never seen a horse so spavined and rack-boned, nor one so old and still able to stand up. These, I posit, were not the terms of our wager.”

“They were not. Now take heed and watch.”

Then Nergol handed a silver coin to the man Pilo, and Pilo gave him in return an oatcake, of the sort that could be purchased in the market at thirteen for a copper farthing.

Nergol addressed the horse, saying, “Twak, this is my old friend Agwash. How many sons does he have?”

Twak began to strike the ground with his hoof, and the man Pilo counted out the strokes. Lo! When the count had come to four, Twak ceased.

Nergol gave Twak the oatcake, saying, “Agwash, you have four sons, and you owe me a bag of gold.”

Agwash was much shaken by this, but he was a cautious man, and he pondered the matter for some time, stroking his beard. At last he shook his head in sorrow.

“I would not have believed an old friend would have contrived such a deceit,” he said. “Clearly the man Pilo was advised before times of the answer you would seek. He is holding the horse's bridle, and he gave the horse a signal when it was time to cease striking the ground.”

The man Pilo brought out another oatcake from the pocket of his robe, saying, “I see you are a stranger. Because you have doubts, I shall tether Twak to this post, and I shall let you ask another question without further payment.”

 

 

So he tethered Twak and stood back, while Agwash braced himself to speak to a horse before so many onlookers. He said, “Twak, how many horses did I buy from Nergol this day?”

Twak struck the ground with his hoof fourteen times and stopped.

Nergol said, “Agwash, Twak is the most remarkable horse you have ever seen. You bought fourteen head and you owe me a bag of gold.”

Then was Agwash sore afraid for his gold. But he considered the matter further, and devised that his old friend Nergol might have guessed what question Agwash would ask of Twak, and might by some means have sent word to the man Pilo beforetimes.

“The man Pilo is a remarkable trainer,” he said, reaching for a silver coin. “I shall ask another question, but he must go where the horse cannot see or hear his signal.”

He expected the man Pilo to object to this condition, but he did not. He gave Agwash an oatcake in return for the silver coin, and then went and stood behind the tent of Mougour the basket maker, out of sight of Twak. Now Agwash saw that all the spectators were smiling, and he was even more afraid. He determined to ask something that no one in the village except himself could know, so that no accomplice in the crowd might signal the answer to the horse.

“Twak,” he said, “I tarried three nights in the town of Pulnk on my way here. How many maidens did I embrace in Pulnk?”

 

 

Twak struck the ground four times with his hoof, and all the spectators clapped.

Agwash lamented and tore his beard. “Truly!” he said, “I have never seen so remarkable a horse, and I owe my old friend a bag of gold, may the gods rot his lungs and fill his bowels with worms and sundry arthropods.”

Then Nergol took pity on his distress and spoke to him, saying, “Alas that this horse is beyond price, and the man Pilo will not consider any offer for him. But you, my old friend, are as shrewd a judge of the flesh of horses as I have ever had the misfortune to deal with. I will therefore make this offer to you. It may be that the horse is possessed of a demon. Or it may be that the man Pilo has a secret that would bring great profit to any who might share it. Tarry, then, and observe. If in three days you can tell me how Twak works his wonders, then I shall return both bags of gold to you. But if you cannot, then you shall owe me the same.”

Agwash was sore distressed at the thought of so much gold, but he agreed to the new wager. Straightaway he began to ply the man Pilo with silver coins for the right to ask questions of the horse, and for oatcakes to reward it.

It came to pass that Twak told Agwash how many brothers he had. Twak told him how many pillars stood in the cloister of the palace in Morthlan, the number of beans in a pot, how many were the taverns of Pulnk and the tables in each. Twak stamped once when the right index finger of Agwash was over the scar on his own left arm, although the arm was hidden by a sleeve. Twak told Agwash the month and the day of the month on which his father's father's brother had been born.

 

 

The horse could answer rightly no matter which way it was facing, whether the man Pilo was in sight or not, or even when Twak was inside a tent with no one but Agwash himself.

That was the first day.

On the second day, Agwash spent no more silver coins on oatcakes, but sat on the shady side of tile marketplace and watched the horse Twak. Yet there was little to see, because no one in the village would venture to doubt Twak's skill, and therefore only strangers would pander to its expensive taste for oatcakes. One merchant came to ask how many days he must wait to receive a certain important letter he was expecting, but that question Twak refused to answer, so the man Pilo returned the merchant's silver coin and left the oatcake in his own pocket.

On the third day, in the morning, Agwash went again to the marketplace. There he saw a man leading a fine racing mare. Agwash greeted him in his customary fashion, saying,

“Stranger, will you sell me that hack, for my dogs are hungry and need meat?”

The man sighed and explained that the mare was all the goods he possessed in the world, and a bosom friend, also, and his only source of income, for it would win any race at any odds, but that he might consider parting with the mare if a man was rich enough to offer a suitable price.

Agwash led the man and the mare over to Twak, and paid the man Pilo a silver coin, and said, “Twak, what is the lowest price this man will take for this mare?”

Twak struck the ground seven times and Agwash said to the man, “I offer you seven gold coins for the mare.”

 

 

The man laughed at so small an offer and said, “Verily, at twenty gold coins it would be robbery.”

“Verily it would,” Agwash said, and went away.

Later that day, the man came to where Agwash sat on the shady side of the marketplace and said he would take seventeen coins. Agwash said, “Seven.”

At the end of the day, the man came again. Weeping, he took the seven gold coins, giving the mare to Agwash.

Then Agwash arose and went to the shop of the maker of pots and purchased from him two pots of the best sort, one orange and one red, and both having lids. Now the sun was close to setting, and Nergol came unto Agwash, saying, “Old friend, can you now tell me how the horse Twak works its wonders, or do you owe me two more bags of gold?”

Agwash said unto him, “Surely an old horsetrader can outwit an old horse, so that you, old friend, will have to return to me the two bags I have already lost to you through folly and the weakness of my judgment.”

Thereupon they went together to the horse Twak and the man Pilo, and Agwash bought two oatcakes. Half the people of the town had come, also, to hear if Agwash the horsetrader could explain how Twak worked his wonders, for he was known as a man wise in the flesh of horses.

Then Agwash showed Twak the orange pot, saying, “Twak, how many beans are there in this pot?”

Twak struck the ground four times as the man Pilo counted, and stopped. Agwash said unto Nergol, “Old friend, do you now look in the orange pot and tell me if this horse has spoken true.”

 

 

He did and said, “Verily, there are four beans in this pot, neither more nor less.”

So Agwash gave Twak the first oatcake. Then Agwash showed Twak the red pot and called upon the horse to tell him how many beans were in that pot, also. Twak struck the ground and struck the ground and struck the ground, and the man Pilo called out the count, and when they had reached a hundred, Agwash said to Nergol, “Old friend, do you now look in the red pot and tell us.”

So Nergol looked in the red pot and spoke, saying, “Lo, herein there are but three beans only.” Then Twak stopped striking the ground with his hoof, and the man Pilo returned one silver coin to Agwash because the horse had been unable to tell him how many beans there were in the red pot.

At this, Nergol cried out in lamentation and rent his garments, for he thought he would now have to pay his old friend the two bags of gold that had been wagered. He said,

“Alas! Now you know how the horse performs his wonders.

Tell me then, and I shall deliver unto you the money that was promised, for there is none more honest under Heaven than Nergol.”

But Agwash said to him, “Nay, I know not. I go now to my tents to gather together two bags of gold, although it be all I possess in the world and my children shall surely starve thereby, and I shall bring the gold to you, my old friend.”

Nergol said, “But you have won the wager.” Agwash said,

“Nay, I have lost.” And they argued over who owed whom two bags of gold, while all the people looked on in amazement.

 

 

 

Nergol said, “Thou knowest how the horse works his wonders.”

Agwash said, “I know not. It is true that I have a theory, but it is a mere guess, a supposition, and I may be wrong.

Therefore I have lost and I will pay.”

“Tell me your theory,” said Nergol to him, “and you need not pay.”

Agwash said, “Nay, I will not. I will pay thee, old friend, for I, too, am an honest man.”

Nergol tore his beard. “Tell me your theory,” he said, “and I will pay you the two bags of gold instead, and take none from you.”

“I will not,” Agwash said. “I cannot prove that my theory is the truth, and therefore you would call me a liar. Truly, I will not tell you my theory if you pay me ten bags of gold.”

Nergol cried out as if taken by a great pain, and then said,

“Five.”

Agwash said, “Eight, and no less.”

And so on.

Thus it came to pass, later that night, when the old friends were alone at Agwash's tent where no other might see or hear, that Nergol delivered seven bags of gold and three skins of fine wine to Agwash, and Agwash spake to him, saying-

“This be my theory. The horse Twak, I ween, is an old horse, and has been traded many times from owner to owner, and having seen and heard the trading done about it, has learned how to be a horsetrader itself. For when I asked Twak what money a certain man would accept for a mare, the horse Twak began to strike the ground. When it had counted to seven, it stopped, and it came to pass that the man did take seven gold coins for the mare. Now, none knew the truth of that number aforetimes except the man himself, and he did not tell or signal this information to Twak, because that would have been great folly.

“And when you and I, my old friend, were bargaining over the fourteen worthless beasts that I bought from you, I observed that whenever you came to name a sum that you would accept, you paused. You spoke some words, as ‘I might settle for ...’ or ‘I would take only ...’ and then you would wait until I looked up, yea, until I looked you full in the face, waiting for you to complete the phrase. Now this habit of yours annoyed me greatly, for you learned it from me, myself.”

Nergol said, “So it may be, but I had not thought on it before.”

“Even in thy youth the stench of thy lies nauseated the gods, and you have not repented in your dotage. The reason for this perversion of yours is that you thereby can clearly view my face when you name the number, and thus judge whether I be pleased by the same.”

“The face of Agwash,” Nergol proclaimed, “is like unto the Mountain of White Marble, and none may read upon it what is carven thereon. This is well known throughout all the plains, yea, even unto the River of Crocodiles.”

These words pleased Agwash, but yet he frowned as if they brought him no happiness. “That may be true for the unwashed mass of the people, but it is not true for a wily and unscrupulous rogue such as thee, my old friend. And I think it is not true of the horse Twak. However much a man may seek to hide his feelings so that they do not show on his face or in his bearing, he may reveal himself in small ways that the shrewd observer will note. It may be that neither is truly aware of these signals, and yet they are both sent and received.”

Nergol mused upon this matter and poured more wine for himself and his old friend. “Then explain the two pots that you showed unto Twak, the orange pot that the horse discerned, and the red pot that it could not.”

“Verily it is simple. I knew that there were four beans in the orange pot, for I put them there myself. I had contrived that another's hand placed the beans in the red pot and then shut the lid before returning it to me, so thereby I knew not how many beans were within. There being then no one in Twak's sight who knew the answer, the horse observed no signal that it had reached the correct number, and therefore it did not cease from striking the ground.

“Likewise, it could not tell the merchant when he will receive his letter, for no man knoweth the answer.”

Nergol said, “Truly, thou art the greatest cheat and villain between the city Morthlan and the River of Crocodiles, and thou hast beggared me in my old age.”

The next day Agwash went on his way, taking with him all the horses he had bought and all the gold he had acquired, as well, and was content.

 

 

26: The Sixth Judgment

 

“Rosie is not a horse!” the dowager barked.

I sighed. The bitter old crone was not going to face the truth, no matter what knots she had to tie her mind in.

“No, my lady. She is a drudge. Do you know what drudgery does to people? I can name many great houses where the horses are better treated than the scullery staff.”

The soldier intervened, speaking with quiet authority. It was as if he stepped between two quarreling drunks. “Your parable was amusing, Omar, but how does it fit? What exactly is your argument? The horse you described pawed the ground until it saw that it had pleased the questioner. Then it stopped and received a reward. I have known many very smart horses, but Rosie does not paw the ground.”

“She stutters!” I said. “Tell me if this is how it happens?

You ask her something—the name of her mother's mother, for example. She goes off to ask Verl, or the image she thinks is Verl. Then she comes back and you repeat the question. She is very nervous, she stutters, gabbles ... In the case of her grandmother's name ... What did the margrave's housekeeper say her mother's name was, by the way?”

He shrugged. “They think it was Marsha, but no one is sure after all these years.”

“She believes her own name is Rosalind and her mother's was Sweet-rose, so naturally she might begin with noises like those names. The correct answer is Rose-dawn, so you smile and nod, right? Whenever she makes noises that sound like the answer you want, you show signs of agreement.” I looked around for my own signs of encouragement. “All her life, Rosie has been the lowest of the low. She has had to satisfy a dozen people, all at the same time—every one of them shouting at her to do something and all entitled to strike her.

Of course she has learned how to please people! I don't think she knows she is doing it.”

“Rubbish!” the dowager muttered. No one disagreed.

I had not won much support, obviously.

Gwill yawned. The yawn spread around the room. Dawn was here. Tallow fumes from the candles burdened the air.

We were all feeling the long night. I sensed that more people were thinking of following Rosie upstairs to bed. If I lost my audience, then I should have Fritz to deal with. But there was another riddle left unsolved, and it should be cleared out of the way first. I looked to the merchant, who was yawning harder than any, stretching his thick arms.

“Well, Burgomaster? Have you no story to tell us, to complete the evening?”

He eyed me sourly and then glanced thoughtfully at his wife. Marla looked brighter than anyone, but of course she must be accustomed to long, hard nights in her line of work.

She glowed a coy smile at him. “It does seem late, Johein darling! Why don't we run upstairs and cuddle into bed, mm?”

She fondled the gold chain across his paunch.

He raised his bushy brows in sudden interest. “Sleepy, beloved?”

“Oh, a little. Tired of all this talk.” She stroked his cheek.

 

 

“Ahem!” the soldier said. “Burgomaster, you never did tell us why you had engaged the services of Master Tickenpepper to advise you on the laws of Verlia.”

The merchant pondered a moment, then shrugged his fat shoulders. “Well, I was planning to keep it as a surprise. My dear wife and I are on our honeymoon, you realize.”

Gwill choked. “You take a lawyer along on your honeymoon, sir?”

Fritz and the soldier smothered laughs. Even the dowager made an odd coughing noise.

The fat man glared. “Watch your tongue, minstrel!” He eyed the dowager with equal contempt. “I suppose now is as good a time as any for the truth to come out. I don't know I believe Omar's drivel about the horse, ma'am, but I know that your precious Rosie is not what you think she is.”

“Then pray enlighten us!”

“Darling?” said the actress. She leaned over to kiss him.

“Don't you love me more than that boring Rosie?”

“Later, beloved.”

“Now, darling!”

“Later, I said! I have to tell the seventh story, to solve the mystery.”

“Oo!” Marla squealed, in a sudden change of tactics. “Solve the mystery? That is exciting! What is the surprise, my love?

A surprise for me?”

He patted her knee. “You will be as surprised as anyone, my little chaffinch.” He cleared his throat pompously, frowning around to make sure we were all paying attention. “I am Burgomaster Johein, chief magistrate of Schlosbelsh. By profession, I am an importer. I inherited the business from my father, and built it into one of the largest in the Volkslander. I am rated as the wealthiest man in the city—barring the great landowners, of course, and I know for a fact that not a few of them ... Well, never mind. I have four sons and two daughters still living. My first wife died some years ago. I had been intending to take another, but pressure of business kept me from getting around to it. A serious matter, choosing a wife, you know!”

“My good fortune that you delayed, darling,” the actress said, fanning him with her lashes.

I caught Gwill's eye and hastily looked away. I recalled that steamy, scented parlor in the Velvet Stable in Gilderburg, and the girls dancing on the tables. Then I tried to picture the assembled civic fathers of Schlosbelsh being gracious to the burgomaster's new wife. The mind...

What exactly is boggling, anyway?

 

 

 

27: The Merchant's Tale

 

My attention was drawn to the Verlia affair some months ago, in early summer. I was in my counting house, busy as usual. Wealth never brings relaxation, you know. We work much harder than the poor. And my civic duties take a lot of my time.

I recall that I was in a testy mood. I forget what exactly had upset me—the continuing stupidity of my clerks, I suppose. Most of them don't have the wits of a chicken, and they're constantly getting sick and expecting time off work. I give them two days off every month! That's time enough to be sick.

Anyway, this particular day, I received a very unusual caller. Most of my visitors are other important merchants and guildmasters, you understand, or often members of the nobility come to borrow money. I like to make ’em wait.

When I was informed that there was an elderly nun asking to see me, I was not impressed. I couldn't imagine why a nun would want to see me, other than to beg money for repairs to the nunnery or something. I probably wouldn't have found time for her that day, except there was a weedy young aristocrat in my waiting room, and I knew he was hoping for a sizable loan. I also knew he needed the money very badly.

The longer he had to stew about it, the less he would scream when I told him the terms. Besides, if he saw a woman, and a cleric besides, being received ahead of himself, it would make him realize that the sun didn't rise for him alone, just because he had the hereditary right to pee in a silver pot, or something. So I said to send in the nun first.

She came in leaning on a staff. Her habit was a tawdry, threadbare thing, and I didn't recognize her order—she wasn't from Gilderburg. She was old, and frail, so I told her to take a seat, although I didn't intend for her to stay long.

I went on signing letters. “I am pressed for time this morning, Sister,” I said. “Come to the point quickly, if you please.”

She perched on the extreme edge of the chair and did not seem to know what to do with her stick. She was nervous and twittery. “I apologize for interrupting an important person such as yourself, Burgomaster. I would not impose on you, except the matter is rather urgent. She is due to take her vows in a few weeks.”

Obviously she was a confused old bird.

“Who is?” I said.

“Postulant Marla, Your Honor.”

“And why should I care?”

“You needn't. I mean, I hope you will. Oh, dear! You see, I think she may be important.”

I doubted it at that point, I admit. I decided I would give the hag five minutes to come to the point, or I would toss her out. But as she wandered and maundered, I began to get intrigued. I'm no vagabond yarn-spinner like Omar, so I won't try to repeat the story the way she told it. I'll just give you the bare facts.

My visitor said she was Sister Zauch, from some obscure convent in Luzfraul that I'd never heard of. The hills are full of them. It's cheaper to dump unwanted daughters in a house of nuns than give them a dowry when they grow up. The nuns settle for much less—I know!

But this wasn't anything like that. About twenty years ago, one bad winter's night, a woman had come to the convent door. She was sick—dying in fact—and she had a baby girl with her. The mother duly died. The child was kept on in the nunnery. Nothing unusual about that, really. Luzfraul's on the far side of Gilderburg from Schlosbelsh—this side of Gilderburg, that is—and just where someone coming over the Ranges might take a wrong turn ... I'm getting ahead of myself. At first I was thinking the other way, thinking of going south and finding the passes closed and taking the wrong turn on the way back.

Sister Zauch was already past her five minutes, and I told her to get to the point. She brought out an old letter.

Apparently the sisters had made an effort to identify the dying woman, but not much of an effort. The mother superior had written a letter to the margrave of the district, but for some reason it had never been sent. It had been lying in a drawer for twenty years. Nuns are not normally very businesslike people, of course. Sister Zauch herself had found the letter a few weeks before.

Now the girl was grown up and about to take her vows.

That would be that, of course. But Zauch herself had been required to come to Schlosbelsh on some family business or other, and had brought the girl along as companion. While she was here, she had decided to consult the authorities.

Would I advise her on what ought to be done? If anything.

 

 

Me? What did I know or care about lost aristocratic bastards? But I suppose a burgomaster seems much the same as a margrave to a gang of cloistered elderly females.

Well, a letter was better than an ancient nun's confused blathering. It repeated the story of the dying woman, but it quoted a few words she had raved in her delirium. “Prince”

was one of them, and that caught my attention, of course.

Ravings carry little weight, but there was real evidence, too.

The baby had been wrapped in a blanket of very fine woolen cloth, with a coat of arms stitched in the corner. The letter contained a drawing of this, and it certainly had a genuine look to it, although I don't waste my time on heraldic nonsense.

I began to cross-examine old Sister Zauch. She had nothing more to add. The blanket had been lost, the letter had never been sent. She did not want Postulant Marla to hear anything about our conversation unless she did turn out to be of noble blood—it would upset her. That was understandable.

Of course I was skeptical. I promised the old biddy I would investigate the insignia and send word to her as soon as I learned anything. She was changing her lodgings, she said, so she couldn't give me an address. We agreed she would call on me again in a few days, and that was the end of the interview.

I saw her out. I turned my attention to my other visitors, and almost forgot the whole business. But the next day Master Tickenpepper came calling about some important legal business of mine. I noticed the letter, still lying on my desk, and showed it to him. He agreed that it seemed genuine. I told him to look into it, not really expecting anything of interest to emerge.

Well, as you have all guessed by now, the coat of arms turned out to belong to the royal house of Verlia! That was a considerable surprise, because Verlia is not exactly next door.

I couldn't imagine how the blanket could have come so far. I decided it probably hadn't. The woman herself had stitched the emblem into it, most likely, to honor her baby.

At that time I had heard of Verlia, but that was about all, and I have traveled widely. Very few men in Schlosbelsh would have even known there was such a place, because most have never been as far as Gilderburg in their lives. In the next few days, some odd rumors began to float around.

As burgomaster, I hear the news as soon as anyone does—it is my business to! I stress that point, because it is important.

Sister Zauch spoke to me before anyone else in the city had heard about the missing heir!

I set Master Tickenpepper to work finding out the truth of the matter.

When the old woman returned, I told her that the girl might indeed be important. I asked to meet her.

Sister Zauch was unwell and wanted to return to the convent, but she sent the girl to me. That's when I met Marla.

I was bewitched from the moment I set eyes on her! Such innocence, such unconscious beauty—and very possibly daughter of an old and powerful family! I am not by nature a romantic man, but her situation touched me, I admit. Very soon, I stopped caring who her parents had been. I fell in love!

I proposed. She accepted. We were married.

Yes, I knew there was a remote chance that she might turn out to have an aristocratic background, but it was not a factor in my decision. The chances of ever tracking it down seemed very remote, and the odds of ever proving anything conclusive even slighter. Not many lost heiresses have gods waiting to attest to their identity! I love her for herself alone, and would still love her, no matter how humble her birth. I took her as she was, without dowry or credentials.

It was only later, when Tickenpepper came back with his final report, that I realized that I had unwittingly married a queen.

 

 

28: Interlude

 

“Me?” Marla screamed. “You mean I'm the rightful queen we've been hearing about all night?” Without giving Johein a chance to reply, she hurled herself on him and kissed him fervently.

There is no fool like an old fool, so they say.

I looked around the room. Stunned disbelief would be an understatement. Frieda's eyes were wide, she had her hands over her mouth. Even Fritz's great jaw hung limply. Captain Tiger's hand had instinctively settled on the hilt of his sword.

Gwill, though, was in the early stages of apoplexy. He and I stared at each other. We knew more than the others. We knew Marla could not possibly be what was being claimed for her ... didn't we? Lack of sleep was making me groggy. Could an admittedly shrewd businessman like Johein be deceived on anything so vital to his own well-being?

Could Marla be the lost princess, despite the trade she had plied in Gilderburg?

For a moment nobody dared breathe a word. Then the merchant heaved his ecstatic bride off him and looked around proudly to judge our reactions. It was the soldier who spoke first. His tone was dry as salt, giving away nothing.

“My lady, you appear to have discovered a second granddaughter tonight! And a grandson-in-law!”

The merchant flinched. He and the dowager regarded each other bleakly. What a big happy family that would be!

 

 

“Indeed, ma'am,” he said stiffly. “Behold your true granddaughter, and your queen.”

“I don't believe a word of it!”

“I assure you that the facts are incontestable! The dates fit. The mother superior—the previous mother superior, that is—wrote a detailed, if somewhat windy, account of the matter. She quoted the woman's dying words. I have a transcript of the letter upstairs. Would you doubt such a holy lady? I remind you that this came to my attention before the story was otherwise known in Schlosbelsh. And who in a backwater like Luzfraul could have known the royal insignia of a land so far away?”

Gwill caught my eye, asking me what we should do. I considered the ethics of the matter. I had no especial reason to spoil Marla's fun, or Johein's, either, for that matter. But I felt I had unmasked Rosie rather brutally. I owed it to her to apply the same standards of strict honesty and integrity to everyone present.

Almost everyone, I mean.

True, Mistress Marla had come to my aid a few times that evening, but not willingly. By way of contrast, her husband's tale of Sister Zauch led to the one person who had never faltered in backing me, one who deserved my support much more than she did.

“My turn again?” I did not wait for argument. “A truly stunning narrative, Your Honor! I gravely feel that I have met my match at last, and in the final round of the contest, too!

However, I shall do my best to go down fighting. I can do no better than to recount to you the sad, brief, and salutary tale of Waldgrave Munster.”

 

 

29: Omar's Response to the Merchant's Tale I first met Munster six or seven years ago, down in the Winelands. At that time he was a wild, crazy youth. I ran into him again this summer in Gilderburg. He had changed, of course, but not in the way most men do when they reach maturity. Now he is even wilder and crazier.

You must have heard tell of his brother, the margrave.

There is no richer landowner in the entire Volkslander.

Doubtless you could name several of his royal, saintly, and influential uncles, cousins, and so forth. Their respectability is legendary. Their family tree is primeval, a forest in itself.

Muny is the only black sheep it has ever produced, and he makes up for it being about as black as it is possible to be. He inherited the family good looks, but there the resemblance ends. He commonly begins his day around noon with wine, women, and song, and goes straight downward. His main interests are wenching, dueling, drinking, brawling, cheating at cards, blackening the family name, and soaping staircases, but he dabbles in every other sort of deviltry imaginable, letting no temptation escape.

He is one of the most charming men I have ever met. He flaunts his wealth, dresses superbly, and turns every female eye in the street. I have rarely seen him without a beautiful woman on his arm and a broad grin on his face. He can ride any horse ever foaled. He will drink you under the table and waken you at dawn to propose a steeplechase, being witty and debonair and irresistible. His life is one continuous floating riot.

Let me give you an example. This was when he was in his teens, remember. I was there, but only as a spectator. The hour was late, and all the gold on the table had come to roost in front of Muny, as usual. The rest of the company was drunk and surly, every one of them years older than he and none of them accustomed to losing. He was his invariable jaunty self.

Without warning, he picked out the largest man in the group and openly accused him of cheating. Considering that the man had lost a small fortune in the previous three hours, that was even less probable than it was wise to suggest. He was also a deadly swordsman.

In an instant the man was on his feet, drawing his rapier.

“Bloody young coxcomb! You will lose your tongue for those words.” Onlookers hastily scattered.

Muny rose deliberately and said, "En garde, varlet!”

Then he whipped out his own sword. Where the blade should have been hung a length of silk cord—dangling limply, of course. He stared at it disbelievingly. So did everyone else.

The silence was icy.

Then he said, “Damn! I must have been drinking too much.” The entire room exploded in thunderclaps of laughter and applause.

Only his opponent chose not to see the joke. He snarled and lunged. Muny parried the rapier with the hilt in his hand and whirled the cord like a whip. It snarled the man's rapier; Muny jerked it out of his grasp. I wouldn't have believed it possible had he been stone sober; he must have practiced for days. Then he planted a fist on the man's chin and laid him cold on the floor. He sat down and picked up his cards without a word.

That was when he was about sixteen.

On my first day in Gilderburg, I wandered into the Margrave's Arms, the most expensive, most respectable establishment in the city. Nowhere are necks stiffer or brows higher. The hall was hushed, a sanctuary of thick carpet and polished paneling. The Margrave's Arms is the sort of place that leaves brass spittoons around, and if you miss one, then a servant rushes forward to clean up—very classy, but somewhat stultifying for my taste. I normally avoid luxury on that scale, but I was weary from my long hike. Having a few thalers in my pocket, I fancied a heated bath and a gourmet meal.

A liveried flunky eyed me scathingly and strolled forward to inquire my needs.

A voice from the top of the stairs bellowed, “Omar!” Muny leaped over the banisters, bounced both feet on a thickly padded sofa, and landed in front of me, steady as a house.

The elderly lady who had been sitting on the other end of the sofa was still going up and down in shock. Muny threw his arms around me like a long-lost debtor.

After that, of course, I was perfectly acceptable to the management. Any friend of the margrave's brother was a friend of theirs. Even if Muny later left without paying, his family would cover for him. I was surprised to discover that they had allowed him back across the border but they had.

He ordered the best available room for me, chattered cheerfully at my side all the way there, and demanded wine so we could drink while I soaked in the copper tub.

Later he summoned his current mistress to meet me, sending word that she was to bring along some of his spare clothes. Wrapped in a towel, I was presented to one of the loveliest, most gracious ladies imaginable. I was not surprised. He always had the best. She was being represented as his wife, because the Arms guards its reputation avidly. Even Muny had to observe the proprieties to some extent if he wished to remain there.

Life at once became very hectic for me. I was anxious to track down the missing heir, but Muny's companionship leaves little time for anything else.

About the third day, I came weaving back to my room from an evening's inquiries in haunts of considerably lower reputation. It was just short of dawn. I was still hauling my clothes off when in floated Muny—fresh-shaven, impeccable, grinning as always.

“Omar!” he proclaimed. “Glad to see you're up already!

The river's in spate! I've hired a couple of leaky old tubs for a boat race.”

I dived into bed, clutching the covers as he tried to haul them off me. “I have work to do!” I protested.

He smirked. “Then why spend the night carousing?”

“Not carousing. Telling stories, asking questions, listening.

Investigating.”

“Bah! You're starting at the wrong end! You should speak with priests and nobles, not squelch around in the dregs. Get to them later, if all else fails, if you must. Start with the civic fathers and work down.”

“In my experience, the dregs are not only more interesting and better informed, but much more likely to be of assistance. The civic fathers won't give me the polish off their boots.” Not without a lot of preparatory work, anyway.

Muny said, “Bah!” again. A familiar and worrying glint shone in his eye. “They will listen to me! If I arrange a meeting with the town notables, will you come along on my boat race?”

I consented, agreeable to anything that would gain me a little peace and quiet. It could not have been two hours later when he tipped a carafe of water over my head and announced that it was time to go, everyone was waiting on me.

We smashed one boat in the first rapids—the one I was in, of course. No one drowned, amazingly enough, although most of us were severely bruised. Muny crammed us all into the other and carried on. That one lasted as far as Thunder Falls.

We built a fire to dry out, but the horses arrived earlier than expected. We returned to the Margrave's Arms at a spirited gallop.

I barely had time to make myself presentable. The civic fathers had begun arriving—merchants, nobles, and priests, led by the burgomaster himself. At least thirty men and a few great ladies assembled in the main hall, sat down, and waited to hear their host's pleasure. It does help to be somebody's brother! The hotel staff were jumping around like frogs.

 

 

Muny introduced me and left me to it. Feeling as if I had been beaten by professional torturers for forty days and forty nights without respite, I began to recount the tale of the oracle.

Muny had heard it before, so he wandered off to the side.

He was probably itching for some devilment to occupy him for the next hour. If that was his intention, he succeeded admirably. Now I must rely on his own account, told to me later.

An elderly matron came tottering in, carrying an obviously heavy bag. The entire staff, as I said, had been thrown into a panic by the invasion of wealth and power—not a porter in sight.

Drawn by an infallible instinct for trouble, Muny bowed and said, “May I be of assistance, ma'am?”

The old lady hesitated, looked around helplessly, and then muttered something about finding someone to carry her baggage up to her room.

Muny took it from her without a word and offered his arm.

They went up the stairs together.

When they reached her door, she unlocked it and said,

“Just lay it on the bed, if you would be so kind, young man.”

As Muny was depositing the bundle on the bed, he heard the bolt click. He turned around to see the woman stripping off her clothes. She was then revealed, he assured me, as being at least fifty years younger than he would have thought possible, and a very striking example of nubile female into the bargain.

 

 

Ever willing, he bowed. “Is there any other service I may perform for you, lady?”

She was still in front of the door. “I am about to scream,”

she said calmly. “You forced your way in here and attempted to rape me.”

“I don't remember having that intention, ma'am, but now that you suggest it, I will admit that the idea has merit.”

Knowing Muny, I am certain he remained quite calm, and I expect that his calmness disconcerted her. She must have known he was a member of a powerful and highly respected family. She must have known that all the civic dignitaries of Gilderburg were assembled downstairs—but she had not carried her research far enough. Scandal was never one of the Waldgrave's worries.

“I shall scream!” she repeated. “Your wife—”

“What wife?” Muny must be one of the fastest men alive.

He threw a pillow at her. She deflected it, of course, but then he was on her, muffling her face with another pillow. He dragged her over to the bed and tied her up with strips torn from the sheets. Don't ask me how two hands can achieve that without the victim letting rip. Muny is Muny. Even for him, it must have been quite a tussle.

Whether he did actually carry on and rape her then, he never told me and I did not ask. It would have been no more than her due, but underneath his deviltry, Muny has a curious streak of gallantry. He is wild and violent, but not sadistic. It would have spoiled the joke not to, though, so who knows?

I do know that, down in the hall, I had just reached the climax of my story when Waldgrave Munster came trotting down the stairs with a naked girl over his shoulder, bound and gagged. Lean, elegant, and untroubled, he carried her across the hall to the door, set her down gently on the steps outside, and came back in, wiping his hands.

The assembly of civic notables broke up in a near riot.

Muny and his mistress and I were run out of town. It was weeks before I dared sneak back into Gilderburg to pursue my inquiries in the taverns and brothels.

The last time I saw Waldgrave Munster, he was heading off home to some big family reunion, accompanied by a pet ape he had stolen from a circus.

 

 

 

30: The Last Judgement

 

"What are you implying?" the merchant roared. His face had darkened to about the color of ripe grapes, his knuckles showed white on the arms of his chair. He looked ready to leap at me.

“I'm not implying anything, Your Honor. I report facts and leave implications to my listeners’ imaginations. Oh, by the way, Gwill. You mentioned earlier that you were lured into an alley in Gilderburg...”

Gwill had already thought of that. He was staring very hard at the actress. By now everyone was, of course, but his stare held dangerous overtones.

Marla was a paradigm of composure, hands crossed demurely on her lap. She endured our suspicion with the bravado of the professional she was. One has to admire brass when it is well polished.

“Your voice!” Gwill said. “Your voice! I wondered where I had heard it before! And not just in the Velvet Stable, either!”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, any of you,”

Marla said sedately. She turned to her husband. “Can we go to bed now, dearest?”

“So there wasn't a gang!” Gwill shouted. “Just you! You had a cane! My father's lute!”

The merchant roared, drowning him out. “You are talking about Gilderburg, not Schlosbelsh, both of you! We don't tolerate women like that in my city!”

 

 

 

“Oh?” I said. “Did I mention that the imposter was run out of town at the same time Muny and I were?”

“Lies and slanders!” He was half out of his chair now, crouched like a human bullfrog about to strike with its killer tongue.

“I admit I didn't get a good look at her face, Your Honor.

But I would certainly recognize her tattoos again. I saw them first in the Velvet—”

Johein's face went from purple to pale and then settled into a sickly greenish tinge—an artifact of the candlelight, I suppose. He turned to the actress in sick dismay. "Tattoos?"

She shrugged. “I was saving them for a surprise.”

“You were Sister Zauch? But the heraldry?”

“I looked it up where Tickenpepper did, I expect—in the town-hall library below your office. You really ought to read more, Johein.”

Action! He flailed an arm at her, toppling her back over the bench. She hung on, hauling him with her, chair and all. They hit the floor together in a resounding crash, with roars and screams all round. Vague scraps of insult drifted up from the melee, but I can't recall any that I should care to repeat—

Volkslanderian is rich in invective. Marla was certainly winning that part of the battle. Would a burgomaster even know what such words meant? Johein stopped cursing and began screaming.

It took both Captain Tiger and Fritz to separate the loving couple, lifting Johein bodily. Marla climbed to her feet under her own power, looking furious and rubbing her throat. The merchant was in much worse shape, as if she had used a well-placed knee on him in the tussle. She was a pro; Johein was not Muny.

Gwill set the chair upright, Fritz dumped Johein back into it, where he remained, all curled up and whimpering. Marla glanced around to see what the rest of us were planning. Her look at me almost set my hair on fire.

“My father's lute!” Gwill demanded, moving closer.

Marla simpered. “Sue us. Johein's responsible for all my debts. Isn't he, Ticklepopper baby?”

Tickenpepper looked little pleased, doubtless contemplating the loss of an important client. He licked his lips and said nothing.

The actress shrugged. “Besides, minstrel, I gave you a

‘specially’ good time later, didn't I?”

The notary shuddered. Gwill blushed scarlet and turned away.

Johein moaned. I could not feel sorry for him. Whatever he said, I would never believe that his proposal to the sweet little postulant nun had occurred before he received Tickenpepper's report. He had tried to steal a throne and walked straight into a cesspool.

“Well!” the dowager said, conveying volumes. “Very neatly unmasked, Master Omar! Is it dawn, innkeeper?”

Fritz had moved around behind me and now he slammed up the bar on a shutter. It flew open with a blaze of sunlight and a rush of cold morning air—they do have window glass in the Volkslander, but there is no way to convey it to a place like . Ferns skittered across the floor. The fire's embers smoked, then flamed into life.

 

 

 

The night was over, the tales were told.

Back to reality.

Fritz chuckled throatily. “It is morning! Now I get to settle with Master Omar.”

Now I would have to settle with Fritz. I confess I really hated the prospect, milords, but I could see no other way out.

I addressed my first remarks to Master Tickenpepper, very respectfully.

“You mentioned wergild last night, Counsellor. The sum of fifty thalers was quoted. Is it necessary to pay in coin, or am I permitted to tender something of equal, or even greater, value?”

He blinked his little rodenty eyes at me. “If the injured party is willing to accept payment in kind, a court will not normally object, subject of course to the sovereign power being able to exercise its right to assess a royalty on such settlements, in jurisdictions where such provision applies.”

I decided that meant maybe.

One of Fritz's great paws closed around my neck. His voice rumbled like an approaching avalanche, if an avalanche can sound skeptical. “What exactly are you planning to tender, vagrant?”

As little as possible; as much as needed.

There was no use appealing to the merchant or his wife.

Gwill was well disposed, but penniless. Frieda obviously knew better than to intervene.

“Captain Tiger,” I said, speaking a little faster, “are you going to stand by and let this overgrown savage indulge his bestial instinct for violence?”

 

 

The soldier had remained on his feet by the fire, standing guard over the merchant. He shrugged. “He has justice on his side. You brought your troubles on yourself.”

Fritz began to lift. Vertebrae creaked. I grabbed the bench with both hands.

“Lady Rose-dawn! I have performed many not-inconsiderable services for your family over the years. I now find myself temporarily short of ready cash and therefore presume to cast myself—”

“Take him outside, landlord,” the old hag croaked. “The sight of blood upsets me. Especially first thing in the morning.” She did not even look around. Such ingratitude!

The strain on my neck suggested that Fritz was about to lift me and the bench and Master Tickenpepper all together. I had run out of alternatives.

“Verl!” I squeaked. “Help!”

The pressure eased slightly—or at least stopped increasing—and even the dowager leaned around to peer in my direction.

“You appeal to Rosie's icon?” the soldier growled. “I thought you had discredited that?”

“I appeal to the genuine Verl.” I spoke with deep conviction, a full octave lower than my normal tones—I suppose because my neck was significantly longer than usual.

“My lady, if I deliver your daughter's god to you, will you buy off this homicidal barbarian?”

Fritz snarled and hoisted me clear into the air, tearing my grip from the bench.

 

 

“Wait a minute!” Captain Tiger said. “He has more delays than a child at bedtime! You know where the genuine Verl can be found?”

“Mmm, yeth,” I whispered, having trouble being audible.

Fritz was now squeezing.

“In a vault in some far-off city, of course? Many months away?”

I tried to shake my head and wriggled like a fish.

The soldier frowned in disbelief. “This is positively your last chance, Omar! Produce the idol. Her ladyship will judge whether it is genuine. If it is, then we shall settle your debt for you. If not, then I shall hold our host's doublet for him.”

I croaked and flailed my arms.

“Put him down a moment, Fritz.”

My toes touched the floor and I could breathe. “If you will just look behind you, Captain. On that shelf, presently hidden behind the hourglass? You will find a small white clay dove—not very lifelike or beautiful, just a pottery image of a bird.

One eye ... Yes, that one. Blow the dust off. Now if you will just show it to her lady—”

Doglike, Fritz snarled and shook me. “That has been there for as long as—” He fell silent. Frieda had risen and was staring at both of us. Her fair cheeks were considerably paler than usual.

“It is!” the dowager cried, holding the figurine almost at the end of her nose. “Holy Verl!”

Fritz released me and I flopped like a dropped chemise.

“Fifty thalers for your trinket, landlord?” Captain Tiger inquired dryly.

 

 

“Captain...” Fritz stepped around the bench and went to Frieda, but whether to comfort her, or to be comforted, I could not tell. “It is only an old family keepsake. Of no value at all. Take it and welcome. I don't know what trickery this ragpicker is up to now—”

Alas! I should have left the matter there, but I always take offense at being called a ragpicker.

“It is the genuine Verl, you bone-brained lummox. It proves that Sweet-rose passed this way. Beyond the Grimm Ranges, the oracle said, and this is confirmation. I wish I had known about it this summer, or about the birthmark—”

“Birthmark?” Frieda snapped. “What birthmark?”

Both she and Fritz had been out of the room when that was mentioned. “Heidi has one, but I presume not the correct shape, Captain?”

“No, and totally the wrong location, I understand.” The soldier smiled.

“Well, that concludes the night's business,” I said cheerfully. “As I am now officially a guest, my good man, you may bring me the breakfast menu right away.”

“What birthmark?” Frieda demanded again.

“Also, my own clothes should be dry by now...”

Captain Tiger frowned suspiciously in my direction.

“Sweet-rose bore a birthmark in the shape of a rose, over her heart.”

Oh, how I wished he hadn't mentioned that!

More hindered than helped by his sister's hasty efforts to assist him, Fritz was already unbuttoning his doublet.

 

 

 

31: The Innkeeper's Tale

 

“It's not as if he was a foundling or something!” Frieda was sitting next to me, apparently unconcerned by my arm around her. “It doesn't make any sense!”

Fritz now occupied the chair to the left of the fireplace, the place of honor. His doublet was still open, the red mark just visible under all the chest hair.

Burgomaster Johein had gone limping up to bed, hunched over in pain, a broken, ruined man. The dowager sniffled into a lace handkerchief, being comforted by Captain Tiger. Marla was still on her feet, hovering in the background. Gwill and Tickenpepper sat in bemused silence.

The candles had blown out. With sunlight streaming in through a single window, the room seemed darker than it had in the night. Shadows lurked everywhere. I had the vaguely dizzy feeling that comes from a night without sleep.

“It makes sense to me,” I said. “Although there are a few details missing.”

Frieda had described her parents for us. She had even produced a sketch of them, made by some wandering artist in return for a meal. They had been a handsome couple, but solid Volkslander peasant stock, emphatically not Sweet-rose and Zig.

The clay dove lay in Fritz's great hands. He was staring at it in bewilderment, and so far he had not spoken a word since the dowager knelt to him. If I really tried, I thought I could find a resemblance to Zig there somewhere—something about the mouth, perhaps? With a little more effort, I could even see a likeness to Ven, a much younger Ven than I had ever known—Ven's statues, I mean, of course. Ven died almost two hundred years ago, didn't he?

Then Fritz looked up and scowled at me.

“If this is another of your sleazy tricks, storyteller, then I am going to break your neck and stamp you into the slush.”

“No tricks. I had no intention of deeding you a kingdom in exchange for your flea-bitten mongrel. Have you never heard voices in this room?”

"No, I have not!” The scowl became a furious glare.

“You don't have to shout about it. Sure? Never wondered who kept your inn safe from brigands? Well, you can find out soon enough. Take Verl off where we can't overhear you. She will speak to you, I promise.”

He set his big jaw.

“Humor him,” the soldier said. “We all want to know.”

He rose reluctantly. “Captain, will you see he doesn't steal anything while I am gone?”

“That I will, lad. Sire, I mean.”

Fritz snorted disbelievingly. Still holding the tiny clay bird as if it were an egg, he stamped over to the door. The wind slammed it behind him. His shadow passed the window. For a moment we waited, then we heard his voice rumble in the distance. Nothing else except water dripping from the eaves and the wind in the trees ... or was there a faint cooing of doves, also?

“Still thawing,” I told the silence. “You will try the pass today, Captain?”

 

 

“I suppose so. We should leave as soon as possible, as long as the weather holds.” The soldier looked to Frieda. “But will your brother consent to leave the inn?”

Now there was a startling thought! Might Fritz refuse the summons?

“Depends what the god is telling him right now,” I said. “If you catch a ship from the Winelands ... but you can't get through the passes to Hool before spring, anyway. I don't suppose the kingdom will accept him until he has been authenticated by the oracle.”

Tiger glanced at the dowager and then smiled. “Her ladyship's word will carry weight, I imagine.”

“Kraw will verify him for the families,” she mumbled into her handkerchief.

“That's true, I suppose. And he looks like a king!”

He did? Well, he was certainly big enough—king size.

“He looks marvelous!” the dowager snapped, suddenly more her old self. “A wonderful king, and such a wonderful grandson!”

Poor Fritz.

“But what about the inn?” The soldier turned to Frieda again.

“There's a man in Gilderberg wanted to buy it last year, sir, when our parents ... Master Tickenpepper, could you ...

er, are you going on south, sir, or are you going home again?”

The notary mumbled, flustered.

“He's going home,” Marla interposed. “I'm sure Johein has lost all interest in visiting Holy Hool.” She laughed.

 

 

“So am I!” Gwill said, a gleam in his eye. “Going north, I mean. I need an attorney to lay charges of, er, battery and theft, I suppose. Are you still retained by the burgomaster, Notary, or can you take on another client?”

“I shall need to confirm my status with his honor, Master Gwill. If I cannot act on your behalf myself, I can recommend others who can.”

“An open-and-shut case?”

“No, I wouldn't say that.”

“What he means, Tanglepooper,” Marla said, “is that Johein and I will do anything at all to stop him from going to Schlosbelsh and spreading stories. Isn't that right, minstrel?”

“Something along those lines, mistress.”

Marla laughed. “How much to shut your mouth?”

“Name a figure.”

“That's up to my dear hubby. How about that gold chain he wears?”

Gwill blinked. “I believe that would persuade me to continue my journey south.”

“And stay there?”

“Certainly.”

“I'll go and talk to old Moneybags, then.” She sauntered over to the staircase. “If he proves difficult, I'll show him a tattoo or two.” She went up, sniggering at her own wit.

Gwill and I exchanged pleased grins. Even Frieda and the soldier were amused. Our fat friend had married a lot more than he expected, and he was obviously going to stay married.

Then Fritz's shadow passed the window again.

 

 

He came in with the air of a man who has just suffered a stunning shock. It takes an outstanding liar to fake pallor. It isn't even easy to make your hands shake convincingly, or shuffle across the floor as if you had an invisible sack of meal on your shoulders. Make that two sacks in his case. Three, maybe. So I don't think he was lying in what followed.

He laid the figurine back on the shelf, hesitated, bowed his head to it for a moment. Then he turned around slowly and looked us over. There were tears in his eyes, but that might have been from the wind. His blond coloring made him seem younger than his years; had he not been so huge, he would have looked like a mere boy.

“Omar ... We are more than quits. I withdraw all the things I said.”

“Don't bother, Sire. Most of them were well deserved.”

A satisfying trace of the old Fritzian glare returned. “Very well, I won't. I still want to break your neck, but I'll try not to.

She spoke to me.”

We waited.

He shrugged. “Frieda ... We're not ... I was adopted. They never told me.”

“Or me.” She pulled away from my arm and went to him.

They hugged. He kept her by him and addressed us again.

“I am the son of Siegfried of Holtzenwold and Lady Sweet-rose of Verl.”

“Out with it!” I cried. “What's the story?”

“Sire?” Fritz said menacingly.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty! Sire, of course.”

 

 

“Better! She told me this much: They were coming north to the Volkslander. My father had family here. True-valor was still with them—her loyal servant, his friend. Their party was caught in an avalanche. True-valor fought loose, then he and some of the others began digging. They found the baby, me.

He decided to go for help and take me with him lest I freeze to death in the storm. He reached this inn.”

Frieda: “And Mother took the baby?”

“Yes. And Verl was bundled up with me, of course. There was no help to be had here, no guests in residence. It was the very night you were born. Father would not leave his wife and new child unattended, understandably. True-valor went back alone. He was caught in another avalanche.”

For a while there was only the wind in the trees and the drip of water...

“My daughter died, also?” The dowager's voice was barely a whisper.

Fritz took a moment to answer. “No. She and Siegfried were dug out and went south again with the others. In the spring, they came north by another pass, having given me up for lost.”

“She is still alive?”

“Verl told me to tell you that Sweet-rose found happiness and you are to search no more.”

Holtzenwold was one place I had missed in the summer. I wondered why.

“She had more sons? Daughters?”

“That is all I am permitted to say, my lady!”

 

 

Obviously the god had told Fritz more, much more. He spoke softly, but already he seemed to have taken on some royal authority. The old woman shrank back in her chair and was silent. If Fritz's mother was still alive, with a husband and near-grown children, she would have little desire to drag herself back to the land of her birth. Sweet-rose had always known her own mind, and I could assume that her god knew it equally well.

“I was told to accompany you to Verlia and promised that in the spring, Hool will acknowledge me as rightful king of the realm.” Fritz looked down at his adoptive sister in wonder.

“We must just abandon the inn, dear, I suppose. It seems wrong, but we have a kingdom now.”

“Oh, no!” Frieda pulled free from his arm. “Mother and Father would not approve of that! And besides, suppose Hool rejects you? I shall wait here until I receive an official summons to your coronation.”

“I can't leave you alone here!”

She laughed shakily. “It's my inn, not yours! Your kingdom, not mine.”

“You will always be welcome, and you will always be my sister. Lady Frieda! I shall deed you a royal estate!”

“No, you won't! I shall stay in the background and choose a suitable wife for you. I shall stop you being pestered by all the beautiful gold-digging palace ladies.”

He chuckled. “We'll see about that! Meanwhile, we are still dutiful hosts. We must offer our guests breakfast.”

“Kings don't wait on people!” Frieda said sharply. “You go and pack. Omar will help me, won't you, Omar?”

 

 

I felt a twinge of delight. “I should love to assist you, beloved! My specialty is sautéed haunch of camel with damsons.”

“Can you fry eggs? Come along. Go and pack, your Majesty!”

“What do I have worth packing?” he asked, smiling. The smile was thin, though. Either the sky and all the stars had just fallen on the innkeeper, or he had just embarked on a very large deception.

Later I watched them all depart, standing at the door with my arm around lovely Frieda. I had promised to remain and help her run the inn until we heard from Verlia. Snowy peaks towered over the forested valley, gleaming under a blue sky.

But mountain weather can change in minutes. With any luck, we should be stormbound for weeks at a time, just the two of us. I was looking forward to that.

Burgomaster Johein and Mistress Marla rode away to the north, with Master Tickenpepper following at a respectful distance on his palfrey. I heard Marla's voice lecturing until they were mere specks on the scenery.

Captain Tiger drove the carriage off along the southward trail, bearing Lady Rose-dawn and Rosalind, her maid. With them, also, went a certain clay pigeon and Minstrel Gwill, resplendently bedecked in a chain of solid gold links, plus Fritz of Verl, rightwise born king of Verlia.

When silence returned to the valley, I planted a kiss on Frieda's fair cheek.

“Just think,” I said. “His descendants will rule forever! An awesome conception!”

 

 

“And I suppose you will drop in on them in future centuries and tell them tales of their forbears?”

I frowned at the unseemly shadow of doubt on her lovely face. “Just because I have been around a long time does not mean I shall be around forever.”

“And we have only your word for how long you have been around, haven't we? Do I really want to be friends with a man who is thousands of years old?”

“There is no substitute for experience. Shall I demonstrate?”

“Not just now.” She tried to pull free of my arm, without success.

I nibbled her ear. “I hope Fritz keeps a proper respect for the bird. She is a hard deity to serve. His ancestors, Juss and Ven, learned that, and their mother White-thorn, also. His uncle Star-seeker discovered the truth the hard way. She is a dangerous dove.”

“Apparently. Why would the god have brought such disaster on the royal family?”

“I told you I never speculate on the minds of gods. But perhaps she had made a mistake. Sea-jewel, for example.

Her son Just-blade was a poor king, and Star-seeker seemed fated to be worse. So Verl may have wanted to introduce new blood. Or perhaps she had grown bored, after a century shut up in a palace, and wanted to go adventuring again, as she had with me. She must have enjoyed her vacation in .”

Frieda snorted, a very unattractive sound. “You have answers for everything, don't you?”

 

 

Again I was piqued. “What does that mean?”

“I realize that the dove was hidden behind the hourglass.

You didn't by any chance go snooping this spring, did you?

And find it then?”

“Lady Rose-dawn identified her as the genuine Verl,” I protested, hurt by this lack of confidence. “Do you think I would have wasted my entire summer skulking around the northern marches had I known that what I sought was here at the inn? And there is the birthmark.”

“When you broke into the stable and Fritz caught you at it—he had his shirt off, as I recall?”

“I did not know that birthmarks were important then! I remind you that it was Lady Rose-dawn who brought up the subject of birthmarks. She identified that, too.”

“That old witch can't see her hand in front of her nose.”

“Frieda, my love!” I wailed. “Are you saying that your brother is an imposter? That he was lying when he said the god spoke to him? How can he possibly hope to deceive Holy Hool?”

She sighed. “I don't know! Hool may decide to make the best of it. Even gods have to improvise sometimes, I suppose. Given such an opportunity, Fritz would be a fool not to try it, wouldn't he?”

I sighed at her lack of trust—it was very unbecoming in one so young and innocent. “It has been a very long night, my delicious edelweiss blossom! Why don't we creep upstairs to bed?”

“Bed!?”

 

 

“Why not? The saintly Osmosis of Sooth taught the faithful that there are many kinds of love, and you should always take what you can get.”

“Sisterly affection is my specialty. Omar, the cows have to be milked right away, and you must fetch water from the well so I can do the dishes. There is wood to be chopped, floors to clean, butter to churn, meal to grind, stables to muck out, a pig to be slaughtered, skinned, and dressed, bacon to smoke, chickens to feed, horses to groom, and malt to brew. I need wood and water brought to the copper and the laundry must be hung out.”

I howled until the echoes howled in sympathy. “But by the time I have done a tenth of that, then there will be more guests arriving!”

“A hotelier's work is never done. Why do you think my parents never had time to produce more than one child? Start with the cows.”

There's the story, milords!—the innkeeper's tale. Not an untrue word. That's how I came to . I pray you to observe that our tariff is still quoted in Gilderburg thalers. Now, may I pour you some more of our celebrated mulled ale?

 

 

 

End