Flight From Blithmore (21 page)

“That’s
because she knows I’ll win,” Ruther told everyone.

Maggie
watched James for a reaction, then rewarded Henry with a nasty glare for his
chuckle. What if Henry was right and Ruther knew he would win? How could anyone
know if someone would win a tossing game? A second glance at James made up her
mind. “Fine. A kiss—on the cheek only.”

Ruther
grinned at Maggie, but James gave no reaction other than to ask, “That’s your idea
of raising the stakes?”

The
heat spread from Maggie’s neck to her cheeks.

Ruther
shrugged carelessly. “It makes the game more fun, doesn’t it?”

“You
really agree to that, Maggie?” James asked.

Maggie
had to turn away in case her blush grew any more. “It’s just for fun.”

James
accepted her decision. He walked confidently to the line, aimed carefully, and
threw. The blade sank into the tree a little over the carving. Maggie’s heart
dropped.

Henry,
Maggie, Isabelle, and Brandol all made moans of disappointment. James, for
once, seemed upset at himself. Maggie saw Ruther glance at Henry. Henry
answered Ruther with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Ruther’s face
transformed into one of obstinacy. Henry’s head moved back and forth with less
subtlety than before, but Ruther no longer seemed to care. He went to the line
barely trying to hide his grin, flicked the knife, and gave Henry a wink
without even checking to see where it had marked the tree.

“Ruther
wins fifteen to fourteen,” Brandol said. His declaration lacked any enthusiasm.
Without missing a beat, Ruther strutted over to Maggie and presented his cheek.

“Absolutely
not.” Maggie’s answer came as she climbed onto the carriage’s driver seat and
took up the horses’ reins.

“Why
not?” Ruther cried in a hurt voice. “I won a kiss.”

“I
don’t care.”

“Henry,”
he pleaded, “tell your sister to honor her agreement.”

Henry
and Isabelle laughed as they took their seats inside the carriage. “Do you
honestly expect her to kiss you?” Isabelle asked.

“James?”

James
was collecting his knives and stowing them away with care. “I’m the wrong man
to ask.” There was a bitter tone in his voice, but Maggie couldn’t tell if it
was because he’d lost the match or the kiss. She hoped it was the latter.

“This
is entirely dishonorable and no one cares,” Ruther said, now addressing no one
but himself as he trudged to where his horse waited. “No one cares, Ghost.”

His
horse responded with a gentle snort

“Don’t
worry yourself too much, Ruther,” Maggie told him. “I’m certain there will be
plenty of girls in Fenley you can pay to kiss you.”

“An
excellent point, Mags!” Ruther said. “And I also get free drinks.”

Twenty-Six
-

The Friendly Fenley

Two
days after
the throwing match, as the afternoon threatened to give
way to another cloudless evening, James rode at the head of the party into
Fenley. He stayed alert for any sign of soldiers. Despite having the writ of
passage, he knew from experience that things could go wrong at any time, and
therefore he refused to be complacent.

 Isabelle
and Maggie made straightway for the market to build up their supplies. As they
left, Henry watched them ride away with a worried expression.

“Isabelle
looks much better than she did a week ago,” James told him. “She’ll be fine.”

Henry
only grunted.

“She
does, Henry. She has more energy, more color in her face. I’d say she’s nearly
back to normal. Much of that is because of you.” He looked at Henry, trying to
get a response, but Henry wouldn’t respond. The previous night, before
retiring, Henry had voiced his concerns that Isabelle might not be ready to go
into town. It hadn’t gone over well. Isabelle had insisted she felt healthy and
refused to hear anyone—even Henry—tell her she couldn’t go to the market with
Maggie.

“Well,
Ruther,” James said without looking back, “it’s time I made good on our bet.
Where do you want go?”

When
Ruther didn’t respond, James turned around. All he saw was Brandol.

“Ruther?”

The
storyteller was nowhere to be seen.

“Where
did he go?” he asked the journeyman.

Brandol
glanced over his shoulder and then back at James with an apathetic shrug.

“He’ll
turn up,” Henry said as he urged Quicken forward. They found the taverns near
the center of town. James spotted two next to each other and another across the
street.

“Ruther’s
probably visited all of these spots,” he told Henry. “Probably even has a
favorite. Would it be best to let him decide where our gold should be spent?”

“Since
you’re buying the drinks, and Ruther isn’t here, why don’t you pick?”

James
surveyed the signs hanging from the taverns: The Furry Fern, The Friendly
Fenley, and The Fenley Falcon. From the outside, all three seemed to be in
about the same condition with their patched wooden frames, shuttered windows,
and open doors.

“Why
not The Friendly Fenley? Sounds friendly enough.” James scanned the area one
more time for a sign of Ruther. “Where could he have gone so quickly?”

“Ruther
mentioned he’s visited this town several times,” Henry reminded James. “I’ll
bet he saw someone he knows.”

The
Friendly Fenley was busy for a late afternoon. It had all the appearances of a
well-kept establishment with several small crowds scattered inside. The noise
level dropped when they walked in. Most of the customers gave Henry, James, and
Brandol several glances, but James saw no trace of suspicion or malice. The
owner made his way over to them. He had little hair on his head and a full
beard. His apron bore stains from ale and food.

In
a slow husky voice, the owner said, “Welcome to The Friendly Fenley.” One of
his eyes remained permanently fixed to his left while the other roamed over
Henry, James, and Brandol’s faces and clothes. “Name’s Gertrude. Can I take you
to your seats?”

“Yes,
please,” James answered. “We expect a fourth if it suits you.”

“Certainly
it suits me!” Gertrude smiled widely and showed his yellow teeth. “This way.”
He led them to a corner table where only a few feet away sat a group of farmers
discussing the sale of wheat and corn.

“We’ll
wait for the fourth until we start the drinks,” James said.

“As
you have it,” Gertrude said and left them.

“That
is a man, right?” Henry whispered.

James
shrugged.

They
waited five or ten minutes before Ruther entered the tavern. James thought he
looked harried as he paused at the entrance, nodding to two men who raised
their hands in salutes of recognition, but all the while searching the crowd
for Henry and company. He finally caught sight of their waving hands. He walked
quickly over to the table, unusual for the laziest man in the camp.

“Everything
well, Ruther?” Henry asked.

“Fine,
absolutely fine,” came the reply, but James thought Ruther looked a little off.

“Where
did you disappear to?” he asked.

“I
made a friend last time I visited here and promised him I’d drop by. He owns a
shop across the street. Where are the drinks?”

“We
were waiting for you.”

Henry
leaned forward. “Say, have you met the owner here?”

“Gertrude?”
Ruther asked.

“Yes.”

“Yeah,
he’s nice enough—he’ll tell you all about how he built this place with his own
hands if you talk to him too long. And don’t ever let him hear you make fun of
his name.” Ruther drew a finger slowly across his throat and then mimicked
blood copiously flowing from the wound with his hand.

“Gertrude?”
James announced. “We’re ready for drinks.”

“Remember,”
Henry said to everyone, but looked specifically at Ruther, “we don’t want to
attract attention to ourselves.”

Two
hours passed, during which time the four men’s faces grew redder and their
voices louder as the empty mugs on the table accumulated.

“Perturbing,”
Ruther said.

“Fourteen,”
counted the growing crowd of men gathered around their table.

“Disrupting,”
Ruther continued.

“Fifteen,”
came the reply.

“Pestering!”

“Sixteen.”

“Four
more, Ruther!” Henry shouted. “Four more, you can do it!”

“Distracting!”

“Seventeen!”

Ruther
paused to think before speaking his next word. “
Exasperating
!”

“Eighteen!”

“By
Germaine, he’ll do it,” shouted a man holding two mugs in each hand.

“Grrrr
. . . ating!” Ruther slurred gleefully.

“Nineteen.”

“IRKSOME!”
Ruther shouted as he slammed his mug down on the table. Ale sloshed out from
all sides.

“Twenty!”
the men around them cried as copper, silver, and gold coins fell on the table.
“He did it!”

“Ruther
the word wizard!” one old man cried. “Ruther the . . . . ” Before he could
finish his next declaration, he passed out on the floor.

“To
Ruther the knife-tosser!” James roared in a thunderous voice.

“To
Ruther the—the—to . . . Ruther!” Brandol added.

“To
writs of . . . passsssages!” Henry said.

The
four men raised their mugs into the air and clanked them together. Several more
mugs joined them held by unknown hands. More gold changed hands in the crowd as
bets on Ruther’s word-chain were settled.

James
sat back in his chair. Ruther’s eyes closed as he sat up straight, singing out
in a clear baritone, “A woman who bathed in the nude . . . . ”

Most
of the voices died down when they heard Ruther’s first line, the rest quieted
soon after until a hush fell over The Friendly Fenley.

“Saw
the wind blow her clothing a-strewed. Then a man walked along, and unless I’m
quite wrong, you’re expecting this song to be lewd!”

Guffaws
of laughter and praise erupted around the table. “More! More!” they roared.

Ruther
opened one eye at Henry and James to signal them. They both knew the verses
well. Back when they’d been in Mrs. Vestin’s school together, they’d helped
Ruther invent them. Henry began singing. His voice was deeper than Ruther’s,
but not so crisp.

“I
knew a man named Giles. His stench was smelt for miles. He’d bathe and wash in
tomato sauce, but he always smelled like bile.”

The
crowd approved of this one as much as the first. “More!
More
! MORE!”

“Give
them what they want!” Ruther shouted over the noise to James.

“I
stumbled into my friend Kurt. A man who couldn’t pay for dirt. He tried to sell
honey, to make a little money, but he was still so broke it hurt!”

Roars
and cheers followed the verse. Ruther opened his mouth to start the next
limerick when four men dressed in black pants and shirts entered the public
house in a line. The atmosphere changed immediately and the crowd around James’
table dissipated. Each man looked surlier than the one in front of him, and the
last one to enter had a grizzled face shaped like a shrewd tomcat. All four men
were dusty and haggard. Gertrude greeted them by name in a very delicate manner
and escorted them to a table near James.

“Eight
days wasted,” one of the men muttered to the other three when they sat down.

“Not
wasted when we collect the booty,” the one with the tomcat-like face returned
with a growl. “And we will. They’re around.”

James’
mood quickly sobered and he called Gertrude over to the table.

“Who
are those men?” he asked the owner.

“Local
bounty hunters. Been out for days searching for them who attacked the Emperor
of Ne’erak when he was here a few weeks back.”

Brandol
spluttered into his mug and coughed up ale through his mouth and nose. Ruther
patted him on the back several times.

“What’s
the bounty?” James asked.

“Two
hundred gold crowns for the man Henry. Same for his woman. Hundred fifty for
the journeyman with him. Hundred for the siblings.”

James
noticed Brandol’s face drain of color. He exchanged a meaningful look with
Henry and said, “Thank you, Gertrude.”

The
man with the tomcat face leaned back in his chair so he could see James and his
company. “You heard well from Gertrude, young man, but more importantly, who
are you?”

“Who
am I?” James asked. “Or who are we?”

“Both.
Only one outta you I recognize is the drunk-awful storyteller.”

“Speak
for yourself, Kelric,” Ruther drawled into his mug. “Caught any bounty lately?”

“I
wouldn’t put it past you to keep company with criminals, storyteller. Ain’t you
from Richterton?”

“A
cause of concern coming from anyone but you,
bounty hunter
.” Ruther’s
words seemed to come with great effort through his drunken state. He turned to
his friends and jerked his thumb back at the bounty hunters. “When was the last
time you actually caught someone?”

Alarms
clamored like church bells in James’ foggy head. Who knew what Ruther might say
in this state?

“I
could gut you right now, vermin.” Kelric stood and held something in his hand
at his hip. James glanced down and saw a knife so large it made his throwing
knives look like toothpicks. The tomcat in his face was more pronounced than
ever as the hairs on his beard and head bristled in anger.

“Vermin?”
Ruther said, gasping with laughter. “Rodent, pest, flea. I could find these
criminals faster than you.”

“Why
don’t we pay our bill and leave?” Henry interrupted. “Actors aren’t much for
fighting, after all.”

Two
of the men sitting with Kelric howled mightily at Henry’s comment, but Kelric
and another hunter scowled even deeper. Kelric’s eyes stared murderously into
Ruther, increasing James’ sense of urgency. Henry and Brandol stood, but Ruther
waved a hand for them to sit.

“I’ll
prove how fast I can catch these criminals,” Ruther slurred. “Watch this—you
watching me?” Then he grabbed Henry’s wrist and shouted, “Got one right here!”

Brandol’s
face lost every drop of blood remaining in it, and James smacked Ruther in the
back of the head hard enough that Ruther’s forehead clipped his mug and started
to bleed.

“Ouch!”
Ruther cried through his laughter. “Kidding! I was kidding! This man whose
wrist I have . . . his name is—his name . . . is . . . . ”

“Ruther!”
Henry yelled, but Ruther would not listen. James and Brandol grabbed Ruther’s
arms and lifted him from the table. Meanwhile, Ruther continued his babbling.

“I
can’t remember his name, but he could play the part of the . . . Henry . . .
very well. Guess what else, Kelric? We have a writ of passage!” He howled even
harder at this as he pulled out the parchment from his shirt pocket and waved
it like a flag.

Kelric’s
lips curled nastily at Ruther, baring his yellow and brown teeth. “Get this
trash out of here!”

Henry
paid the owner while James and Brandol dragged out Ruther, whose mumblings
became more and more incoherent. By the time they reached Maggie and Isabelle
at the carriage outside of the town’s center, he was sound asleep. James and
Brandol were both too upset to speak about the incident despite Maggie pressing
the issue. When Henry finally told her, she refused to move on with Ruther, and
demanded that he be left behind. Brandol agreed with her, and James offered no
opposition to the idea.