For
the remainder of the afternoon and on into the night, Jaysh Denbauk sat on the
floor of the old king’s anteroom and dreamed about escape. It was entirely too
much dreaming for such a simple goal, but for the time being—while he was being
comforted by this roomful of whining teary-eyed saps—dreaming was all he
could do.
He had already performed the necessary
preparations for his escape—having made his clandestine visit to the good
general’s bedchambers while pretending to relieving himself in the privy—so now
the anticipation of his freedom was all but killing him. If only these gloomy
masses would leave the anteroom for a moment, he could put his crafty machinations
into action.
Teach you, I reckon, said the voice
of his woman-friend in his head, even though Jaysh could hear the voice of his real
woman-friend talking to Iman on his right. Teach you to stand around
peerin out winduhs an’ fearin fer your life when yeh ought be runnin fer the
hills.
And the woodsman, with his head sagging
between his shoulders and his eyes locked on the floor, couldn’t have agreed
more.
He didn’t know if it was his lack of sleep
or vine or nourishment—or a combination of all three—but he’d had another spell
after closing the shutters to the old king’s chamber. He’d pressed the wooden
edges flush against the sill, flicked the little brass latch back into place,
and the next he knew he was lying on the hardwood floor of the chamber and
wondering how he had gotten there.
It didn’t seem like much time had
passed—he could still remember everything before he’d fallen, and the lighting
about the shuttered appeared the same—but the brevity of the spell did not make
him feel any better. The fact was he’d fallen unconscious again and, in the
process, lost any chance he had of escaping the castle.
The part that really irked him was how
close he’d been to landing on the old king’s bed. Because had he managed to cover
the four paces to the bed and blackout on the old king’s mattress, the chubby
chambermaid who’d peaked in on him at the sound of his collapse would have
believed him asleep instead of unconscious.
As it were, the hefty handmaid found him
crumpled on the floor. At which point, she came in on the run, her plump face
flushed and her flabby jowls agape. Jaysh remembered rolling over on his side at
the sound of the door, peering up into the yawning cavity of the woman’s middle-aged
mouth, and then wincing as she let loose with a wildcat yell that threatened to
leave him deaf.
“He’s down!” she’d screamed. “He’s—THE
KING’S DOWN! He’s gone down again!”
After that, the whole of the castle had
poured inside the chamber, servants and guards, advisers and acquaintances,
certainly more people than could be easily evaded, or at least more people than
could be evaded by a simple woodsman who was used to doing his evading before
the predators arrived.
That fat old woman, Jaysh thought,
even though he knew it wasn’t entirely her fault. No one had made him
collapsed on the floor. No one had held a crossbow on him and insisted that his
knees go weak and his head go fuzzy. Ge’down, You! Jaysh heard the imaginary
attacker barking in his ear. Ge’down on that floor an’ start quaverin like a
sissy!
Under normal circumstances, that ridiculous
image would have brought a smile to his bearded lips. It was just the sort of
ludicrous thing his dear friend Iman would have said back in the days of their
youth when life had been ludicrous. But as it were, Jaysh was no longer
young, and life, it seemed, was no longer ludicrous. Life—at least judging by
the weepy-eyed faces gathered in his room—had become a very melancholy place,
indeed.
But not fer long, he thought,
stroking his cat-thing that was curled on his lap. Y’all better soak up your
mis’ry now, I tell yeh, cause come midnight, this here felluh’s gone.
He shifted his gaze from the polished
floor to the purring cat-thing. If not for Zeph, Jaysh wasn’t sure he’d have
been able to bide his time. His head was down and his cheek was bulging—his
back was pushed so far into the corner that the plaster was cracking around his
shoulders—but even so, the muttering voices were there, scrabbling down his
ears and needling at his brain.
Jaysh’s only escape came from his
yellow-eyed companion, from the steady purr of her sides against his gut and from
the soft fluff of her fur against his palms. Jaysh didn’t know how she’d
managed, but the nimble little minx had somehow escaped the trampling
feet on the Hill and had somehow scaled the walls of the castle,
sneaking in through the window where Jaysh had passed out and then slinking
unseen to his lap.
He supposed she could have used the
chamber door with the rest of the overexcited horde—slipping in between their
ankles as they came racing in to check their king—but Jaysh doubted it. The
door to the hall had not opened once since the original horde entered the room,
and Jaysh did not believe Zeph would have abstained from his lap for that
duration of time.
What was more, had the chamber door opened
so much as a crack during that span of time, Jaysh would have known. He
had his head down, purposefully directed away from the others, but he’d been
listening for the sound of that rectangular exit all evening long, praying to
any gods that might be listening to blast it wide on its hinges and loose him
from this misery-loving mob. But in lieu of such a miraculous explosion, it
seemed that the gods had sent Jaysh’s precious friend instead. If they could
not control the minds of these moping visitors and risk violating the tenants
of free will, they could at least send him the means to cope.
And so Jaysh had coped, focusing on the
tingle of the vine and the hum of his companion and biding his time until
nightfall came. All around him, Jaysh could hear the sniffles and groans of the
sorrowful room—Oh, just look at him, just look how hard he’s taking this,
the poor fellow—but as he ran his fingers along the rumpled tissue of
Zeph’s back, these noises did not plague him as they once had, and neither did
the awful looks of pity which, to the woodsman, were the visual equivalent of a
farrier’s file raked across his teeth.
The advisers were the first to leave,
departing the little room shortly after nightfall and ambling their way to the
roundtable, the room in which they’d originally held council before the old
king fell ill and could not leave his bed. Not that Jaysh cared, but apparently
there’d been an incident at Westpost the day before the old king passed and the
council could no longer ignore the consequences. Jaysh knew this because each
adviser had come to him individually—save for the stooped man in the gray
sleeping attire—and explained how they meant no disrespect to his father or his
passing, but that the incident at Westpost was one which required their
immediate attention.
Jaysh was also forced to listen as each
adviser made indelicate hints that it was the woodsman’s duty as king to be
present at such council meetings and that they looked forward to serving with
him just as soon as he recovered from his debilitating grief, which they
hoped was soon (hint, hint).
Jaysh nodded to each of them in turn, his
hand ever-gliding over the cat-thing’s puckered scars, and he tried his
absolute hardest to look as grief-struck and debilitated as possible.
Next
to go was his woman-friend, the person whom Jaysh thought would be the first
to leave and, as it turned out, only missed by moments. It was almost like she knew
she’d be the first as well and, therefore, was forced to stand around and
make chit-chat with the good captain until someone else made the first move.
In fact, thinking back on the moment,
Jaysh was almost sure he could feel her eyes on him as the advisers gave their
final condolences. He couldn’t be positive, but it seemed like the hall door
hadn’t completely closed before she was skipping across the room and asking him
how he was and what he needed.
Like the night before, Jaysh told her that
he was fine, just a little tired maybe. And like the night before, Gariel had
studied him carefully and told him that he did look a little worn out
and could probably do with some rest, especially after all the fainting spells.
But yeh know I doan’ have to go out
tonight, baby, she told him, finishing each of her statements with this endearing
qualifier. To which Jaysh would nod that he knew—boy, did he ever—and then give
her his blessing to go, watching as she scurried out the doors and made her way
to the Wound, eager to drink the drinks that, by now, her body craved like
water.
Not
long after that, Jaysh heard the voice of his little brother excusing himself
from the room. It wasn’t clear, but Jaysh thought he caught the words appreciate
and companionship in this farewell speech, then something about little
brother needing a walk to clear his head, maybe a walk over to the nearest
temple to pray for his father and the state of the kingdom.
And when Iman—the only person left in the
room at this point—informed little brother that the temples had lain empty for
the past several ages and that Brine would likely be attacked by rats, Brine
told them he’d heard about the rats and would be on guard.
After that, little brother had wandered
over to Jaysh and said something about repairing the past and shoring up
relationships, but to be honest Jaysh really wasn’t paying attention and the part
that had slipped through was Brine’s decision to stay on as adviser.
Well, good luck with that, Jaysh
thought, nodding to the man in the ponytail as his mouth said, “Ah’right then.”
And when little brother said he’d try and find Jaysh in the morning so they
could catch up, Jaysh had said, “Ah’right then,” and thought, Does he need
som’un to walk im to the door?
But as the second, ah’right
then, lit the air, the disciple seemed satisfied with the exchange and, for
the man who looked nothing like his brother, a personal escort to the hall did
not prove necessary. For the other man
in the room—the one who looked nothing like Jaysh’s friend—the woodsman thought
an armed escort might be required.
Jaysh could see the good captain closing
in on him from the corner of one eye, the duplicitous imposter once again trying
on those melancholy expressions which did not fit. He hadn’t begun trying his
phony phrases yet—his lips still twisting in an uncharacteristic sneer—but how
long could that last? How long could old big-mouth, even a look-a-like
big-mouth, keep that big trap shut?
Not long, Jaysh thought, scratching
Zeph on the tattered folds of skin that had once been ears. Won’t be long
now an’ ole big-mouth will get bored, ferget all about what happened today, an’
then start with that mouth’a his. An’ he’ll do it cause he’s the only one who
ain’t got the sense to know I’m supposed to be to upset, the only one who doan’
know reg’ler people ain’t suppose to go out to the Wound an’ celebrate after
the old king dies.
And Jaysh wasn’t wrong. The
good captain lasted until…oh, about the ten-count maybe, perhaps the fifteen
count. It was hard to say after the ten-count since Jaysh struggled with
numbers beyond the ten digits on his hands, but he knew he’d barely begun to
dread the long-haired prowler before the man was standing over him, his soft-skinned
boots toe-to-toe with Jaysh’s moccasins.
Jaysh didn’t dare look up, not if he
didn’t want to go crazy from staring into that unnatural look of remorse
stretched on the good captain’s face. He kept his eyes on the man’s
yellow-brown boots as he listened to Iman ask how he was feeling and what he
was thinking and, of course, whether or not he felt like going out to Wound and
having a good time.
A good time…
Jaysh lifted his eyes just long enough to
glance at the door in the back of the room. He’d have rather been skinned alive
and rolled in sea salt than to go back inside that room, but he gave the
ornately-trimmed door a curt nod and told his dear old friend that he needed to
catch up on some much needed shuteye.
The stunned look on Iman’s face told him that
the captain didn’t understand the concept of much needed shuteye. For a
man who’d grown accustomed to long nights of drinking and catting around, Iman
struggled to relate with anyone who didn’t catch a few winks in the Wound or
the Nest or wherever it was they passed, and then have a powernap later that
afternoon. He’d also learned to be skeptical of those who claimed to need more.
Knowing this, Jaysh has kept his eyes on
the carefully-brushed boots and told Iman to go on without him, claiming that
he was upset over the old king’s passing and that he didn’t much feel like
going out and being around people. And Iman—who’d watched Jaysh spend the last
ten ages of his life avoiding his father like the plague and steering clear of
the castle in general—had said, Really?
It was then that Jaysh knew he was not
going to be shed of this social parasite until he showed him the secret thing
hidden in his shirt, the thing he had swiped from the general’s quarters when
he had supposedly relieving himself in the outhouse behind the gardens.
He knew that showing the secret item to
ole big-mouth might make matters worse for him down the road, like when Iman started
drinking and running his mouth and word of what Jaysh had stolen spread through
the city like wildfire through a dry prairie. But by that time, Jaysh hoped to
be so far gone from this nightmare landscape that the search parties they sent
would never find him.
And if’n I doan’ show him now, Jaysh
thought, thinking about the thing in his shirt and how he had no idea how to
read it, it’ll jus be som’un else latter, som’un in the next town over who
yeh doan’ know an’ who might steer yeh wrong.
At the worst possible time,
the pedantic general’s prophecy regarding Jaysh’s neglected studies had finally
come true. During the woodsman’s formative ages and on into adulthood, Serit
Branmore was fond of warning Jaysh and Iman that skipping their lessons would
one day impair the quantity and quality of their lives.
Of course, after each of these long and
boring lectures, Jaysh had assumed that Serit was simply upset he’d wasted his own
life on books and was blowing off steam. But now, as Jaysh thought about the
key to his freedom tucked inside his shirt, and the ability to read the key
absent from his mind, it seemed that there might have been some truth to the old
man’s warning.
Jaysh remembered tearing the special item from
his shirt as he hid in the privy—he didn’t really have to go, but he thought he
better make a good show of it, and what better place to inspect his stolen
cargo—only to realize the special item was covered in arcane symbols.
Jaysh recognized the nine symbols of his name
scrawled across the top of the carefully folded pages—referring not to the
woodsman, but to the kingdom in which he lived—and then he saw the rest of the
drawings and shapes littering the parchment.
It wasn’t so much the drawings and shapes
that threw him for a loop as it was the symbols explaining the drawings
and shapes, symbols telling him what the drawings were and, more importantly, where
the drawings were. To Jaysh, it looked as though a worm had wriggled itself in
ink and then gone flailing across the page.
But ole big-mouth’ll know, he
thought, reaching a hand over the cat-thing and into his shirt. Ole
big-mouth knows bout these things. Jaysh knew that, like himself, the captain
had skipped just as many lessons from their elementary studies. But unlike himself,
the captain had gone on to pursue a career where reading and writing were
everyday tasks.
Jaysh lifted his eyes to the captain and
held the stolen goods at arm’s length. Iman frowned at the goods, but
adventurous to the end, he took it in hand and unfolded it, raising it up until
all Jaysh could see was the creased expanse of the secret item and the
captain’s fingers gripping the sides, turning it one way and then the other.
When the parchment and fingers finally
ceased to move, Jaysh tensed for what was to come. He just knew that when the
section of parchment was lowered, he’d see the man who did and did not look
like his friend, the one who wore the same clothes and hair as his friend, but
who acted nothing like him. And when
the barrier of paper and scrawl finally did come down, Jaysh saw that he was
right. The not-friend was there, staring at him, the same haunted look he’d
seen in the forest.
The not-friend asked where Jaysh had found
the item and Jaysh told him, explaining how he’d assured the chambermaid he
felt much better and would rather visit the privy on his own, and how she’d
grudgingly said yes to his request, and how Jaysh had then bolted down three
flights of stairs to the main floor. Once there, he’d remembered that he had no
idea where Serit dormed and had to ask for directions from a hand servant washing
the walls, but the hand servant had answered him, as any loyal subject would,
and Jaysh had carried out his theft.
After listening carefully to the tale, the
not-friend glanced down at the parchment in his hands and stared at it like a dead
rat he’d fished from the gutter. Then, after a time, he turned his dreadful
gaze back to Jaysh and said, “Why are you showing me this?”
Jaysh, who was starting to doubt that his
dear old not-friend was going to sympathize, went ahead and confessed his plans,
explaining that his only hindrance was interpreting the strange markings on the
parchment. He needed someone he could trust to interpret them for him.
The not-friend lowered his head to the
parchment and Jaysh knew in that moment that this man who wore Iman’s clothes
and hair was not going to help him, not while his dark brown eyes were darting
from one end of the parchment to the other, frantic, disbelieving, looking for
some form of escape. Jaysh swallowed hard and wished he hadn’t shown the
not-friend the special item, wished very badly that he’d kept the special item
in his shirt because now, it seemed, he would not get it back and, honestly, he
had no idea where he’d find another.
The not-friend, without focusing his eyes
or breaking his unsettling stare, began to fold the parchment into halves and
fourths and then into fractions of which Jaysh knew very little. He handed it
back to the woodsman, again without looking at him, and told him what the
strange markings had said and, amazingly enough, how to read them the next time
he was stuck.
Jaysh slipped the secret thing back in his
shirt and thanked the good captain, watching as the good captain nodded
sluggishly and turned for the door, trudging into the shallow light of the corridor
and vanishing to the right.
Jaysh stared after him for a very long
time, studying the empty doorway and vacant hall and wondering why he felt so
poorly about disappointing someone who acted nothing like his real-friend. But
understand it or not, he did feel poorly, very poorly, indeed.
Oh well, he thought. I
still got my Zeph.
He lowered his head to see if he’d
disturbed the cat-thing in his arms and found that he had not. Zeph remained
coiled and prone and ceaselessly purring. Taking this as a sign, Jaysh slipped
from the anteroom and made his way down the stairs. At the ground floor, he cut
through the servant quarters and out the kitchen doors. Then, once in the
gardens, he slipped to the shadows of the trees and made his way north.
In his arms, the cat-thing slumbered, even
as Jaysh paused at Harvestgate and worried over the first and only sentries he
would meet along the way. They were standing on the inside of the wicket gate
and surveying the torch lit areas to either side...or at least it looked
like they were surveying the torch lit areas. After crawling in closer, Jaysh
saw that the pair of watchmen were yawning and blinking and literally falling
asleep on their feet. But with three-fourths of the castle watch deployed to
Westpost and the remaining fourth worn down by endless shifts and countless
duties, he guessed he wasn’t surprised.
Zeph wasn’t surprised either…or awake.
After slipping past the guards, Jaysh
crept into the alleyways bordering Gillenmare
street Harvest Road
Seeing this, Jaysh wondered if maybe that
was the cause of Zeph’s intense slumber, if maybe she were exhausted from the
emotional strain of the day’s events. But regardless of the cause, the results
were undeniable. The cat-thing remained inert for the whole of their transit,
even as Jaysh came to the dirt path of Lake Road and veered west, and even as
he met the trial in the weeds and followed it to the south. In his arms, the
cat-thing slumbered on, undisturbed as Jaysh came to the slope of the Hill and
ascended to its peak, unprovoked as he slipped between the fencing and went
tripping across the headstones, and uninterrupted as he came to the tiny stone
cherub along the interior path and laid himself down beneath her gaze.
It was not until sometime in the middle of
the night—when her perpetual purring vanish from his chest and when her flaccid
body turn as rigid as a stone—that the woodsman’s pet came awake.
Groggy and sore, Jaysh lifted his head.
Zeph was staring at the archway to the
east, both yellow eyes blazing with fury.
