Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (27 page)

THE CELL WAS DARK AND DANK, WITH
the small window inset in the upper portion of the wall doing nothing to clear out the air and make it remotely breathable. There was straw scattered on the floor for no purpose that Thomas could imagine. It certainly did nothing to lessen the stink of the place. Nevertheless, Poxy seemed rather enamored of it, and she actually pushed a large clump of it together with her paws to fashion a nest for herself.

Poxy was situated directly between the two of them, with her chin resting on her paws and her eyes closed. James was seated on the far side of the cell from Thomas, although “far side” might have been a generous description. The cell couldn't have been more than eight feet from one side to the other. With Poxy stretched out at full length, James and Thomas had to keep their legs curled up in order to avoid kicking her.

They said nothing to each other for a long, long time.

Finally, it was Thomas who spoke first.

“You waited until the
dog
was threatened?” He seemed to be having trouble processing it. “
That's
where your priorities were?”

James shrugged.

“Seriously, James”—and Thomas cautiously stretched his right leg to one side in order to loosen it up—“they're going to chop the girl's hand off, and you say nothing . . .”

“I didn't say nothing. I said a lot of things, and all of them were true, and just because you disagreed with them doesn't make them nothing.”

“. . . and then you stand by when that sergeant was going to kill me ...”

“I wanted to give you a chance to defend yourself, although frankly it was stupid that you went after him in the first place.”

“But the moment the dog was threatened,
that
was when you jumped in?”

“They were going to shoot an unarmed dog,” James said defensively. “That was just wrong.”

Thomas didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that. “James, for crying out loud! Where are your priorities? They were going to butcher that girl—!”

“Actions have consequences,” James shot back, “and I don't ask anyone to intervene when I make mistakes. I take what's coming to me and oh, by the way, so do you.”

“And if the dog hadn't been there? If Poxy hadn't been threatened, would you have left me to my fate as well?”

“Of course not.” James sounded hurt. “If I hadn't been able to talk him out of it . . . if I'd had to draw on him . . . then that's what I would have done. I would have stepped in. You're my friend, for pity's sake. We're in this together.”

“So you're not defending a principle, really. Just the person.”

“I suppose so, yes. But I'm actually okay with that.”

“Well, I'm defending the principle, James. Something is either dead right or dead wrong.”

James made a scoffing noise. “You know why tales of adventure and heroism are printed in black ink on white paper, Thomas? It's because it's only there, in such fables, that the world is black-and-white. In the real world, it's all about shades of gray.”

Silence then resumed between the two of them. With a deep and frustrated sigh, Thomas tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to drift to sleep. He floated in and out of consciousness for a time, and at one point he turned and was startled to see that James was no longer sitting on the other side of the cell. He had come over to Thomas's side and was sitting about two feet away, leaning against the wall just as Thomas was. Thomas stared at him in confusion.

Gazing fixedly in front of him and not looking at Thomas at all, James said, “I'll say this, though. The way you took on that sergeant . . . that was bloody brilliant.”

“Really.” Thomas was confused by the praise. “Because a little while ago, you said it was frankly stupid.”

“It can be both. Probably some of the greatest acts of bravery in the history of mankind were the stupidest as well.”

“I suppose.”

“I mean”—and James turned to look at him—“were you scared? The man's a professional soldier. Did you really think you'd be a match for him?”

“I wasn't really thinking, actually,” Thomas admitted. “My blood was pumping and there was a sort of pounding in my head and my knees were shaking ...”

“They were not.”

“You couldn't see it?”

James shook his head. “Not in the least little bit. You looked absolutely sure-footed, and cool as ice. I'd never have guessed.”

“Was the sword steady? I was sure my hand was trembling as well.”

“Rock steady. I'd never have guessed. And you had him going, I can tell you that.”

“Nah. He was just toying with me. He could have done me at any time.”

“That”—and he pointed at Thomas—“is a load of crap. I was watching him, watching his eyes. There were a few times when he was really worried. He would have this confident look, but then I'd see the confidence shake, just a little. I can read people, remember. I know what's going through their minds, and more than once, he was starting to wonder if he'd taken on more than he knew.” Then James grunted softly. “All over a matter of principle to defend a sneak thief. Amazing.”

“Well, what about what
you
did? That was amazing as well,” said Thomas.

“What are you talking about? I didn't do anything.”

“Oh, come on!” Thomas said firmly. “The way you looked at that man, the way you talked to him. It was like you were giving him no choice except to say what you wanted him to say. You talked to him like . . . I don't know, you were a king or something, commanding immediate respect and obedience.”

James laughed. “You don't know what you're on about.”

“I sure do. I know what I saw and what I heard. Here was a man with a sword and a gun, backed up by his troops, to say nothing of a crowd of people looking on who could have jumped in if they were so inclined . . . and you, with your hands empty, took control of the situation completely away from him. He had no idea what to say or do except whatever you told him to do.”

“I startled him, nothing more. And amused him. It meant nothing.”

“No, you imposed your will on him is what you did.” Thomas contemplated him for a moment, as if truly seeing him for the first time in his life. “You know who did that?”

“Don't start.”

“Spellcasters.”

James rolled his eyes. “I told you not to start.”

“I am totally serious, James.”

“Yes, I know you are. That's what's so annoying. I'm not a spellcaster just because I managed to convince a sergeant to throw us into gaol. If I was really some sort of spellbinder, I would have convinced him to let us go completely.”

“And if I were a truly great swordsman, I would have been able to defeat him,” Thomas said with growing eagerness. “For two guys who haven't had any training, we've been able to pull off quite a lot.”

“Again: We're in gaol.”

“But at least we're still alive. That's got to count for something. Who knows what we'd be able to do if we'd been able to spend a few years in a Guild Hall, honing our talents and reaching our full potential? You might be tossing around blasts of lightning with a wave of your hand, and I might be able to take on an army of men single-handedly.”

With a heavy sigh, James said, “Those days are past, Thomas. You know it, I know it, and all the ‘what-ifs' in the world aren't going to change that.”

“James . . . the only thing that has
ever
changed
anything
in the world is ‘what-ifs.' Without those, we'd all still be rooting around in swamps, primitive and afraid of terrifying creatures lurking just beyond the perimeter of the campfires.”

“Yeah, well . . . all things considered, maybe we'd be better off back in the swamps.”

Poxy, who had appeared to be dozing, suddenly lifted her head as if she was anticipating something. Moments later, they heard a noise at the door, the sound of a bolt being slid back, and the door opening with a loud creak. Torchlight filtered in from the hallway, and a pair of guards dressed in the same manner as the sergeant had been were standing there waiting for them. They had their guns unholstered and, even though they were not aiming them at Thomas and James, the unspoken message was clear:
Make any sort of move against us, and we will blow your brains out.
The mute warning, once sent, was readily received. Thomas and James got to their feet, keeping their hands visible and at their sides. Poxy growled low in her throat, and James patted her on the head and quietly urged her to settle down.

“Come with us, if you please,” one of the guards said.

“And if we don't please?” James said automatically. Thomas glanced heavenward.

The guards gave no answer. That alone was a response.

Turning to Thomas, James said with false joviality, “I don't think we're actually being given a choice here.”

“I could kill you where you stand,” offered one of the guards. He actually sounded rather keen to do it, no doubt because attending to corpses was someone else's problem, and he'd be relieved of the odious duty of dealing with the prisoners.

“That's okay,” Thomas said quickly, before James could utter another of his dubious witticisms and get them both killed. “I think we'll come with you.”

“As you wish.” The guard sounded vaguely disappointed. His companion just looked bored.

Thomas toyed with the notion of trying to overwhelm the guards and flee the gaol. As quickly as he contemplated it, however, he set it aside. They'd been told that Sutcliff was someplace that could lead them to balverines and was also the residence of the mysterious Mr. Kreel. That being the case, becoming fugitives would hardly serve their cause. They needed to face down the magistrate, present to them what Thomas considered the rightness of their actions, and then hope for the best. He was fully aware that matters might not exactly turn out the way that he was hoping, and having to fight their way out could wind up being the only option. Best, though, to let things play out before embarking upon that last-ditch scenario.

They were brought up a twisting flight of steps, with Poxy leading the way, James behind her, and Thomas behind him, with the two guards bringing up the rear. Ahead of them, at the top of the stairs, was a heavy door that was open wide, with another guard standing next to it, holding it open and glowering down at them. He looked especially suspicious of the dog. Thomas was starting to wonder if people suspected that Poxy was, in fact, the brains of the group. Considering the number of times that he and James seemed to fall headlong into danger, he was starting to wonder that himself.

They emerged from the door and were let out into a narrow courtyard with the open entrance to another building at the opposite side. More guards were lining the path on either side. Thomas recognized a couple of them from the squad that had originally arrested them. Not for the first time did he wonder to where the girl had been taken away. It would be coldly amusing if, once she had been separated from them, her right hand had been summarily chopped off, and she'd been sent on her way. That scenario tended to render all of their own actions as somewhat moot.

He discovered in short order that that was not the case. They were escorted into a room that was too large to be an office but too small to be a true court. There was an oversized desk at the far end, and a seating area off to the side that was crammed with onlookers. Thomas wondered if they were others who were waiting to be summoned before the magistrate, but then James and he were brought forward and made to stand several feet in front of the desk, at a respectful distance. More guards were standing to either side of the desk, clearly to act as a buffer should anyone have thoughts about attacking the magistrate. Certainly, that wasn't an option since their weapons had been taken from them upon their arrest. Still, Thomas found that he rather liked the notion that he and James were considered so dangerous that, even unarmed, they were treated as if they were capable of inflicting catastrophic harm.

The fact that they were the only ones brought forward told Thomas that the onlookers were just that: an audience who was there primarily to be afforded some entertainment. No doubt they were hoping for a good legally mandated thrashing or maiming or even—one could only dream!—a hanging. It was Thomas's sincerest hope to be able to disappoint the lot of them, the bloody vultures.

There were two doors to the front of the chamber: one to the right and another directly behind the desk. The door to the right opened, and through it came his old friend, the sergeant, pushing ahead of him the young thief who had gotten them into all this trouble in the first place. She had a face so bereft of expression that Thomas had to think even James would have been daunted playing poker with her. Her hands were firmly bound behind her back, and she was wearing her hood up so that her face was almost invisible within. She deliberately dragged her heels, and the sergeant pushed her from behind, nearly causing her to stumble. He grabbed her by the back of her tunic and yanked her upright.