Authors: Margaret Weis
Ven cast a brief glance over his shoulder.
“More to the right,” Ramone insisted. “She is worth the trouble, I tell you.”
Ven turned his head and finally saw the red-haired woman. She leered at him
and scratched herself.
Ven turned back.
“There, you see, she adores you.” Ramone nodded toward the pewter pot. “Drink
up. Or you will hurt my feelings.”
Ven put the mug to his lips, took a swallow.
Ramone relaxed, sat back in his chair, and crossed
his legs. “I will go on with my story. When the archer made this miraculous
shot, the crowd cheered its head off. The queen herself and all the royal court
came down out of the stands to stare at the target and Her Majesty cried out, ‘Tell
me the name of the man who made that bow. I will commission one thousand for my
archers on the spot.
Ven blinked. He was having difficulty focusing his eyes. Ramone wavered in
his vision, then dwindled, then grew and expanded, and then, amazingly, split
apart. The buzzing of hundreds of bees thrummed in his head. Ven could no
longer feel his hands and when he tried to stand up, he couldn’t find his feet.
He started to speak, his lips had gone numb.
His head was too heavy for his neck to support. He
rested his cheek on the cold table and watched the wall become the ceiling
become the floor until it all swirled together into a green, nausea-tinged
cesspool.
Ramone had poured only a small amount of the opiate into the ale. He was going
to lure the young man from the tavern into the alley and, being naturally lazy,
Ramone didn’t want to have to work any harder than was necessary. He certainly
did not want to have to lug a comatose barbarian around. Ven slumbered. Ramone
sat at his ease in the tavern, drinking a couple of more pots of ale and
waiting for the night to deepen and the streets to empty.
Everyone in the tavern knew or guessed Ramone’s game. None took pity on the
stranger or came to his aid. Life was hard. Their lives were hard. No one took
pity on them or came to their aid. Let the stranger look to himself.
Closing hour came for the Rat and Parrot. The rats that gave the tavern part
of its name slunk off. The parrot, stuffed, regarded Ramone with a dead, glassy
eye. Ramone lifted Ven’s head by the hair and splashed the remainder of his ale
into Ven’s face.
Ven’s eyes opened. Blinking and gasping, he stared about in blank confusion.
Ramone tugged at the young man’s arm.
“You’ve had enough, my friend,” Ramone said loudly. “Time to go. I myself
will escort you. It would be a shame if some unscrupulous person were to rob
you on the way home.”
The bartender grinned and snuffed out the last candle.
Ven tried to stand up, leveraging himself off the table with his hands. He
overbalanced, staggered backward, and knocked over his chair. Ramone slid his
arm around the young man’s waist to support him and, at the same time, locate
the purse.
“This way, my friend. We’re moving toward the door. No, no. That way is the
fire pit. This way is the door. Merciful Mother of God, you are one heavy son
of a bitch!”
Ven shuffled along, leaning on Ramone, so that the thief, who was about half
Ven’s weight, was forced to practically walk on his knees.
Gasping, sweating, and swearing under his breath, Ramone maneuvered Ven out
of the tavern and into the street. Here the thief had to pause for a breather.
Ramone had never worked so hard in his life.
“You had better make this worth my while or I’ll slit your throat for the
trouble you’ve caused me,” he grunted, then staggered halfway across the street
in the wrong direction as Ven lurched into him.
Ramone manhandled the reeling Ven into the alley and dumped him thankfully
into the gutter. Ramone collapsed against a wall.
“You’ve ruined me,” he groaned, nursing a part of himself that was tender. “I’ve
ruptured something. Bastard.”
Ramone kicked Ven a couple of times in the ribs to relieve his feelings.
“Lumbering oaf! Piece of dog turd! Why do you weigh so much? I hope it’s
because of all the money you’re carrying, you load of horse dung.”
Ramone eyed Ven warily. The young man lay on his back in the muck.
Occasionally he would groan and twitch. Satisfied that his victim was not going
to put up a fight, Ramone limped to the end of the alley and peered up and down
the street. Seeing no one, he returned to business. The moon, being about
three-quarters full, was generous with its light. Ramone didn’t really need it.
He did most of his work by feel anyway.
Ramone removed the sword belt and sword, then hiked up the wool tunic the
young man wore, laying bare his stomach and torso. The money bag and the belt
to which it was attached were hidden beneath Ven’s breeches. Ramone seized hold
of the breeches by the drawstring cord that held them around the young man’s
waist and gave them a yank, pulling them down past the groin.
Ramone gasped and staggered backward.
“By the blessed liver of Saint Rhun, did I accidentally drink my own poison?”
He rubbed his eyes, but the astonishing sight did not go away.
From the waist up, the young man was a normal man. Below the waist, he had
the normal appendages of a normal man but that was where the similarity ended.
His thighs glittered blue in the moonlight, sparkled brightly as if encrusted
with sapphires.
“Some sort of fancy stockings?” Ramone asked himself, dazed. “No, no. Don’t
be a dolt.” He struck himself on the head. “This lout is no orange-sniffing
dandy, mincing about in bejeweled hosiery. What is this? What could it be?”
He was about to touch Ven’s buttocks, then had second thoughts.
“Maybe it’s leprosy!” Ramone snatched back his hand.
He considered the fact that he’d seen lepers before now and none of them had
ever glittered.
“It could be some other disease.” Ramone gnawed his lip. “But the young man
is healthy as a horse. I know. I carried him on my back.”
Reaching out his finger, Ramone gingerly poked Yen’s thigh, then scrambled
backward, blessing himself rapidly over and over. “Mother of God!” he breathed.
“He has the skin of a snake!”
Crouching a safe distance from Ven, Ramone regarded the young man
thoughtfully. Ideas fomented in his mental cauldron. Stirring the pot, he
ventured back and, keeping an eye on Ven for signs of waking, yanked off his
boot. Ramone shuddered in horror and shivered in delight.
A beast’s foot. A beast’s foot with three large toes, ending in hideous,
sharp claws, and one smaller claw in back. The foot and the ankle were the same
blue snakeskin as the thigh.
Shaking in excitement, Ramone dragged off Yen’s other boot. Seeing that both
feet were the same, Ramone very nearly burst into tears.
“Our fortune is made, Evelina!” he cried. “We will never work another day in
our lives. Yes, yes, that is all very well,” he said to himself to calm himself
down. “But what do I do now? What to do? Plan. You must have a plan, Ramone, my
wealthy friend.”
His first wild thought was to hoist Ven onto his shoulders and haul him off.
Ramone abandoned that immediately. He would rupture something else. But what to
do with the monster? What if someone else saw him like this? Found him? Stole
him for their own?
Panicked at the thought, Ramone leapt to his feet and dashed out to once
again look up and down the street. Still no one, but the patrols would be by
soon. He dashed back to his prize and frantically slid the boots over the
clawed feet. He pulled up Yen’s breeches, made certain the drawstring was
fastened tightly, and gave the knot a solicitous pat. That solved one problem,
but did not solve the others.
The monster and his father had been talking about leaving the faire
tomorrow. Ramone had to make certain that did not happen.
Gnawing the end of his mustache in frustration, Ramone remembered the money
bag. His mental cauldron boiled over. Drawing his knife from his boot, Ramone
cut loose the pouch and stuffed it beneath his own shirt. He added Yen’s sword
to the night’s take—it would fetch a few pence and sheep had no need for
weapons anyway. Making a quick dash to the local well, Ramone ladled out a
dipperful of water. He carried it carefully back to the alley, and tossed the
chill water into the monster’s face.
Ven coughed and started to sputter his way back to consciousness. Ramone
pricked his ears. He could hear in the distance the slogging march of the night
watch. Often Ramone had cursed that sound. Now he blessed it, calling on all
the saints of heaven to light their path. They would see to it that Ven found
his way back to his tent, where he would remain safe until Ramone had
everything ready.
“Until tomorrow, monster,” Ramone promised, and he
padded softly into the night.
Ven peered around, dazed and groggy. He sat up, lifted an unsteady hand to
his head, which ached and throbbed. As he tried to stand, his stomach lurched.
Ven groaned and vomited.
He lay still a moment to settle his stomach, then staggered to his feet. He
wavered a bit, but with the help of the wall, he managed to stay upright.
Wiping his mouth, he gulped in air, and looked up and down the alley. He was
extremely puzzled as to what he was doing here.
The terrible light of understanding shredded the fog of the opiate. Ven
fumbled beneath his tunic and reached down to his waist to where he’d secreted
the money bag. He gave a bitter curse and lifted up his shirt in the bleak hope
that somehow he’d missed it. He saw, lying at his feet, the leather thong that
had once held the money bag.
Cursing himself for a fool, Ven groaned and slumped
against the wall. Here the city guard found him and, with kindly words that Ven
took very ill, they escorted him safely back to his tent.
“I WILL RECOVER THE MONEY, SAID VEN.
Bellona pressed her lips together. Fearful of saying too much, she ended up
saying nothing. She was angry, deeply angry, not just at the loss of the
money—which for them was a devastating blow—but at the blind stupidity that had
led to it.
Ven saw the anger in her tight-drawn mouth. He could have borne with her
fury, but he saw also, in her dark eyes, dismay, bleak despair. They needed
that money to buy the staples and supplies that would see them through the
winter. The pelts were sold. They had nothing left. A year’s worth of work gone
wanting. A winter of starvation, deprivation.
“I know the man who robbed me,” said Ven. “I’ll find him and drag the money
out of his hide if I have to.”
He left her, walking swiftly down the road that led toward the city.
Bellona watched him go and her gut shriveled. A voice inside her urged her
to call out to him,
We’ll make do. We’ll get by. You’re young. The young
make mistakes.
Her anger argued down the voice that came from the soft, woman’s part of
her. The boy lacked discipline. He had got himself into this mess through his
own foolishness. Let him get himself out. The lesson would do him good and, who
knows, he might actually recover their money.
Ven did not look back, but walked with long and determined strides down the
hill.
Go after him,
urged the voice.
He didn’t even take a weapon.
Bellona snorted and entered the tent, pulling the
flap shut with a sharp and angry snap.
“I will not do it,” Evelina told her father. “And that is final. This
monster might kill me! You don’t care about me, though, do you, Papa? All you
care about is your precious gold. I mean nothing to you.”
“Evelina, my dearest daughter, you know that is not true,” said Ramone in
wheedling tones. “You are the world to me. I would not ask this of you, but,
truly, I can think of no other way.”
Ramone doted on his daughter, and Evelina was fond of him in her spoiled,
petty way. The two were much alike. Both were completely lacking in morals and
both were willing to sell anything—including each other—to gain what they
wanted.
Evelina’s mother had run off with a soldier when the child was six, leaving
father and daughter to fend for themselves. Ramone had fretted over the burden
of a child, but had soon realized that she could not only earn her own way, but
help him earn his. The little girl was pretty and she was clever. She had
realized from an early age that she could wind people, including her father,
around her baby finger. She had imbibed deceit and lies with her mother’s milk
and her father had taught her everything else she needed to know.
“I need a woman of beauty,” continued Ramone, holding out pleading hands. “A
woman with a talent for seduction.”
Evelina sniffed. Sitting on the bed in their shabby lodging, she stared out
the grimy window and pouted.
“Using you was not my idea,” Ramone continued. “If you must blame someone,
blame Glimmershanks. He refuses to take my word—”
At this, Evelina heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes.
“—but insists on viewing the goods for himself before he buys. He came up
with this role especially for you, my dear. You know how much he admires you. .
. .”
Evelina did know. She smiled to herself and deigned to shift her gaze from
the window to her father.
“The plan is quite clever,” Ramone urged, “for it accomplishes two
objectives—it gets the monster alone and out of the city.”
Evelina said nothing. She tapped her foot on the floor.
“The monster is not monstrous to look at, I assure you, Daughter.” Ramone
sidled closer to her, peering through the mass of blond curls to try to see by
her expression what she was thinking.
Evelina averted her head.
“He is quite handsome—” Ramone went on desperately.
“From the waist up,” said Evelina in scathing tones. Rising, she went to
stand before a piece of broken mirror she had found in the street and hung up
on the wall. “It is the waist down that concerns me.”