Cobweb Empire (31 page)

Percy put down the tray on a table then
turned to the older woman. But before she could speak, Mistress
Saronne exclaimed to André, “Now go upstairs, boy, right now, you
hear, child? Go up there and wait for me! Hurry, now! Scoot,
scoot!”

And as the boy obeyed, and moved away in his
little measured paces, his feet making small creaks on the stair,
the woman turned to Percy. “Oh, for the love of God, I beg you not
to say anything to anyone, my dear!”

“So you do know that he is not
alive
—”

“Yes, yes, oh, I beg you to hush!” And the
poor woman wrung her hands and then took Percy’s with her own,
clutching them in a moist trembling hold. “However did you know,
girl? Oh, I know not how you discovered it, but please don’t say
anything! Yes, my poor little André fell down a few days ago, and
hit his head against a railing. There was only a little blood, and
I cleaned him all up, right there at the back of his curly sweet
little hair, and after the washing it was all covered up, just as
well as you please! And he looked all fine and rosy, just a little
bit pale, and he went to lie down for a bit, and then he was up and
wouldn’t lie back down ever again. I had no idea about death
stopping yet, so at first I wanted to take him to the apothecary,
and then of course we all learned the truth of the
world. . . .”

Mistress Saronne started to tremble, and
Percy looked at her with compassion.

“And now,” the mother continued, “he does
not sleep. He never sleeps. He sits or stands all night, and plays
with that wooden toy of his. And he does not know.
He
doesn’t know!”

“Oh, I am so very
sorry. . . .”

“Never you fear, my girl, I am glad I have
him now, and it doesn’t matter in the least what he is. He is a
precious good boy. He listens to me, and helps around the tavern,
and serves the customers, and he never says an unkind word to his
old mother or to anyone. It is God’s blessing that I have him with
me for as long as I do—however long that may be.”

The woman let go of Percy’s hands and again
clutched her apron. “So you see, it is so important that no one
knows! Not so much the customers, or the neighbors, but I don’t
want
him
to know! Oh, he mustn’t!”

“But,” Percy said gently, “will he not find
out eventually? And once he does, he will be faced with the truth
no matter now much it may hurt or scare him. He does have the right
to know. . . .”

“But he’s so young! He’s but a baby! He
can’t know about death yet! No, not yet, please!” And Mistress
Saronne broke out into deep heartrending sobs, with snot and tears
distorting her face into a mask of grief, while she bit her
knuckles. “And as for his father, he is gone out of town, and when
he comes back, oh Lord Almighty, at least he will be able to speak
to the boy! It is a miracle, this whole thing is, to have him with
us! But oh—I just cannot tell him—either one of them!”

“Would you like me to speak to André on your
behalf?” asked Percy. “Also, it is a hard thing to say, but now
that no one can die, there is yet a way for the dead to be put to
rest. I am able to do that for André, if you
like. . . .”

“Oh, God, no! Oh, no, no, please, don’t take
him away!” There was panic in the face of the woman.

“I will not take him away without your or
his consent,” Percy replied. “But it may be the right thing to do,
to ask him what he wants. It is not a happy thing for him to be as
he is, neither properly alive nor dead. This is not
real
,
none of it. He will never grow, you know, never get older—”

Mistress Saronne began to sob once more, and
in that moment, there was again a creaking on the stair. And then
André’s little shape came down, and he stood before his mother and
Percy, looking at them both with very intent clear eyes.

“Oh, what are you doing here, André? I told
you to stay upstairs!”

“Why are you crying, Ma?”

“It’s nothing, child, I am—I got onions in
my eye, you know how I cry from all them awful peeled onions!”

“Where are the onions, Ma? I don’t see
any.”

Percy watched their exchange, and then she
turned to the boy very gently and asked: “André, you don’t want to
go upstairs and sleep, do you?”

“I am not sleepy.”

“Would you like to sleep?”

He paused, looking at her, with that same
soft watery intensity that was caused by the connection with her
for which neither she nor the dead had any words.

“Would you like to lie down and go to sleep
at last, André?”

The boy was silent, regarding her. And his
mother, no longer hiding her state, burst into hard weeping
again.

“I can help you go to sleep, André, but only
if you want.”

“Can I have dreams?” he said. “I haven’t had
dreams, not yesterday, not before that.”

“Can you promise him dreams?” the mother
exclaimed in a wild voice, then added, “You’re the one they speak
of, aren’t you? I know you! Oh, I know who you
are!
”

Percy felt her throat closing up, and she
said, “I cannot promise dreams. I—I can only give you rest.”

The boy nodded then, never taking his eyes
off her, and not once looking at his broken hysterical mother.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Then, yes, I want to go to sleep. And I will
dream on my own, all by myself. Help me go to
sleep. . . .”

“
No!”
Mistress Saronne slowly slid
down on the floor, holding herself with her arms wrapped around her
middle. “No, please! Oh, God, no. . . .” Her words
trailed off into incoherent sobs.

“André,” Percy said. “Go and kiss your
mother before you sleep.”

The boy obeyed, and turned, then slowly
lowered himself on his knees before his mother. “I love you, Ma,”
he said. “Good night.”

Mistress Saronne grabbed him in a big messy
embrace, and held him, stroking his curling baby hair, his cool
ivory forehead, his round cheeks with their faint shadow of a
wilted rose. She released him at last, and said, “Go on, now,
go. . . !”

Thus, Percy Ayren took the little boy by the
hand, and together they went upstairs. There she turned down the
quilt of his small bed and helped him crawl inside, and then tucked
the blanket covers around him. His small feeble shadow sentinel
streamed at the side of the bed, delicate like vapor over a warm
milky bowl—waiting.

“Where’s your cavalry man and his
horse?”

And when the boy dug in his pocket and
offered the wooden toy to her, Percy held his fingers briefly, and
then put the soldier figurine up to his chin and along the boy’s
chest, where she lifted it up and down, saying, “see, how he
rides!”

A smile came to André, and he watched the
moving soldier and his horse, as they navigated the hills and
valleys of his chest and blanket.

“Where does the cavalry man ride?” he asked,
settling back against the pillow.

“Oh, he rides on an Adventure! I’ll tell you
a story, André, a story about this very special brave Cavalry Man
and his Horse, as they gallop!”

“What’s the Horse’s name?”

“Well, you’ll have to ask the Horse himself,
but he’s a fine and wondrous Horse, faster than the wind, and I
think he’ll show you his name, once you close your
eyes. . . .”

“I can see it!” André smiled, as his eyelids
came down, with soft pale lashes brushing against his cheeks.

And Percy continued the story.

W
hen she came
downstairs, the mother sat like a stone on a bench in the kitchen.
Percy’s face was immobile, leached of all energy and her eyes were
red-rimmed.

“Is he—”

“He’s gone,” Percy said. “Peace be with
you.”

And as Mistress Saronne rushed upstairs with
a hoarse, rending, guttural sound, Percy came out into the common
room of the tavern, mostly emptied of customers, where the knight
had long since finished eating and was waiting for her, his face
locked in a sober expression. He had left a generous pile of coins
up on the counter.

“My Lord,” Percy said, looking at him and
yet past him. “We need to go now.”

Beltain nodded, rising.

And there was no need to say another
word.

Chapter
15

L
ady Amaryllis
Roulle and Lord Nathan Woult waited for what must have been at
least a whole day and most of the night before the urchin Catrine
returned for them again with a plan for escaping Chidair Keep.

It was long past evening twilight, and an
anxious-faced servant girl had come with their poor meals of
whatever turnip-and-carrot swill concoction the kitchen made that
day, together with a new pitcher of water. And then another servant
came to empty their chamberpot.

Amaryllis, still miraculously elegant
despite her many days without proper ablutions, used a bit of the
fresh water to sprinkle her hands, in an illusion of washing before
a meal, then stirred the fearsome lukewarm gruel in her bowl with
one slim finger and tasted the mushy carrot stew with a
grimace.

“I am afraid they are feeding us whatever
they must feed the pigs,” she observed. “Has it gotten even more
foul, or am I mistaken?”

Nathan dipped his chunk of bread into his
own dish, and then scooped up a large glob and popped it into his
mouth. “Really, my dear, you are far too fastidious. Think not of
what it is, but what it could be! This stuff is not half so bad
now, though it could use a bit of salt and pepper, and—oh, all
right, it could use gravy and wine and the entire contents of a
proper pantry.” Unlike the lady, Lord Woult looked very unkempt,
with his tussled hair, several days’ growth of black beard, and
circles under his eyes. In the near-darkness of their chamber, he
could very well have been taken for a monstrosity.

Amaryllis looked up, barely registering the
sight of him—untrimmed beard and whiskers and his hair standing up
wildly—and shook her head in piteous disdain.

“What?” Nathan said, pausing with his mouth
stuffed full of bread and stew.

“Dear Heaven, but have you looked at
yourself, my dear boy? You appear perfectly horrendous. It’s a good
thing I know there is a handsome man underneath that apish Caliban.
It is also a good thing the moon is not out yet, to illuminate our
woe, or I would be forced to look at you.”

“Hah!” he said, and continued chewing. “It
is not to be helped now, is it? Not all of us can maintain esthetic
decorum while locked up and denied toiletry and cosmetics.”

“Tis too true,” she replied, then sat back
on her cot with resignation and dipped the tip of her finger again
in her stew, scooped up something unspeakable, and brought it up to
her mouth.

“I, for one,” continued Nathan, stuffing his
face, “can certainly use a barber’s blade and comb, and a nice soak
in a rosewater bath, followed by an application of emollient and
powder, all while listening to a dulcet melody played on the harp
and viol. However it is but a cruel poet’s fancy. And to be honest,
I would gladly sport a beard worthy of Bacchus for a fortnight, all
in exchange for a well-done ragout, a platter of
escargots de
Bourgogne
, and a large plump
coq au vin
.”

“The poets always do languish so prettily,”
mused Amaryllis. “Always a drafty attic and sallow cheeks, and
never a stench-filled privy and boils.”

“Dear God, My Lady, let us not speak of
boils! We are quite far removed from boils, just yet. I choose to
hope that we shall never achieve that blessed state wherein one
exudes pus.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh, fie!” Amaryllis uttered a sound
very close to an undignified squeal while her gentleman cellmate
burst out in an ungentlemanly laugh. He then used his last chunk of
bread to wipe the bowl clean and landed the bread in his mouth.

“How can you eat and speak thus in the same
breath?”

“A man learns to make do, my dearest
Amaryllis,” he replied, wiping his mustache with the back of his
hand, then dropped his empty bowl, letting it clatter on the stone
floor. And then he belched.

“Ah! Ah! Lord, but I don’t think I can
endure another moment of this Tartarus!” the lady cried, and turned
away from him, setting aside her own barely touched bowl. “You are
turning insufferable!”

“Oh, come now, do learn to suffer me,
sweets,” he retorted, lying back down on his cot and putting his
hands under his unruly head of hair. “After all, m’dear, you are
the one who brought up
boils
. . . .
Incidentally, do you intend to eat the rest of that?”

In silent indignation, Amaryllis handed him
her portion.

A quarter of an hour later, the servant
returned, together with the usual guard, to take away their
finished dishes. And just moments after their footfalls receded in
the corridor, a soft scratching knock sounded on their door.

Nathan perked up, and Amaryllis turned her
head in apathetic despair. They watched the door and its noises,
until it opened, and there again was the freckled girl by the name
of Catrine.

“Good evening, Your Lordships!” she said,
slipping inside and shutting the door behind her.

“It is a horrid evening,” said Amaryllis,
“but I expect you will make it all better, now that you are here.”
And she rolled her eyes in disdain.

“Really now, girl, we did not think you’d
return,” Nathan said, sitting up. “All hope was dashed and I grew
another fingertip’s width of mustache. It’s been what, a day?”

“Begging all pardon, but I’m so very sorry,
but they put me to work an’ I couldn’t get away, even a minnut. Had
to make ready, Lordships, gathered us a bit of supplies.” Catrine
pulled out a satchel that she had hidden among the folds of her
skirt. Inside was a ball of twine, some needles, a few other small
blades and hand tools, several tallow candle fragments, a flask of
oil, and a small lantern.