Parasite Soul (12 page)

“Jock.” Sasha said tonelessly. She looked pallid and unhealthy in
the warm sunlight. Jock didn’t stir, so she took two steps forward and crushed
the fingers of his right hand beneath her boot.

Yelping, the spindly man leaped to his feet, cradling his injured
digits and staring at Sasha with baffled rage. He was young, not
significantly older than Simon, beardless and mildly androgynous.

“What… Sasha… you
bitch!
” he shrieked, making a grab for
her. Hands clasped behind her back, the girl danced back without any
shift in her expression. Simon, astonished by her behavior, cleared his
throat, attracting Jock’s attention. The anger didn’t fade from Jock’s
dark eyes as he scrutinized the newcomers. “Who the hell are
you?
”

“My name is Aletta,” said Niu. Simon squirmed inwardly,
thinking of the girl they’d abandoned to be devoured by her father, and
wondered what had
possessed
Niu to adopt
that
name. “This
is…”

“Arles,” Simon interrupted. His grandfather’s name.

“They’re looking for passage north. Mother cleared them.”
Sasha said. She didn’t seem anxious to return to her duties and stood,
watching, as Jock studied his would-be passengers critically.

“I’m not doing any runs today,” he scowled, nursing his throbbing
hand. “Your
mother
damn well knows that.”

Niu pulled out her drawstring bag. “How much?”

Jock cocked his head. His eyes glinted.

“Two hundred serrins.”

“That is ridiculous.” Niu forgot her false rasp for a moment.

“Yes, well, there’s a good chance I’m going to have to see a doctor
about a mangled hand.” The glance Jock shot at Sasha was filthy with
poison.

“That is not our problem,” Niu said.

“It is if you want
my
services,” Jock hadn’t taken his eyes
off Sasha. “Aren’t you needed inside?”

“I’m coming with you,” Sasha said. “I need to get out for
bit.”

“Your mother will un… will whip you bloody,” Jock said, then thought
about that. “Not that I’d really mind at present.”

“I can look after myself,” the girl said. Her expression,
still uncannily frozen, suggested nothing, but Simon noted that her jaw had set
in stone.

“You nearly didn’t survive last time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sasha said blandly. “You know perfectly
well I…”

“You know what I mean.” Jock hastily returned his attention to
Niu. “Two hundred serrins, no negotiation. Take it or leave
it. It’s all the same to me.”

“If you will take us all the way to our destination,” Niu said
slowly, “Then I will pay you two hundred serrins.”

“And where’s that?”

Simon started to answer, but Niu held up her hand. “We will
let you know once we’re safely through the valley.”

Jock pursed his lips, considering. “When do you want to
leave?”

“Immediately, if possible.”

Scratching his head, Jock looked from Sasha to his potential
clients. The moment stretched. One of the stabled horses nickered
and nipped at its stablemate with surprisingly sharp teeth. A hawk cried
out plaintively as it wheeled overhead. Just as Simon was beginning to
think Niu’s offer was going to be rejected, Jock came to his conclusion.

“For two hundred serrins,” he said dryly, “It can be arranged.”

As it turned out, Niu didn’t want to leave
immediately
immediately.
She had some coin secreted away and she decided to use some of it to replace
her knife and arm Simon. Sasha wasn’t best pleased that she had to return
to her duties while she was waiting –
Now I’ll have to sneak out,
she
said – but Jock was dismissive of her concerns. His wounded hand played
no small part in his ambivalence.

Simon couldn’t help but wonder why Sasha’s mother kept her on such a
short leash. While young, the girl was almost certainly of age. Was
the mother just overbearing, or was Sasha dangerous? She certainly struck
Simon as being a little unhinged, and privately he hoped her mother would
manage to prevent her from accompanying them.

“Just be back within the hour,” Jock told Niu. “I’ll have the
cart ready shortly. If I have to do this, I don’t want to be waiting
around all day.”

“Exactly how will you get us past the guards?” Simon studied
Jock’s wooden cart and found its security features lacking.

“Subterfuge and misdirection,” Jock answered cryptically. “If you’re
going to market, go on will you? If you’re planning to just stand about,
give me a hand.”

“We will be back,” Niu told him, tugging Simon away.

Rather than cut back through the inn, they followed the road back to
market. It slithered past a gambling den and a brothel, both of which
looked even less reputable than
The Nameless Nymph
, if that were
possible, and ended in a roundabout the only escape from which was an alley so
claustrophobically narrow that Simon’s shoulders nearly brushed the walls.

“So, Jock… do you trust him?” Simon wondered, worried that the
passage was a death trap for unwary tourists. He kept expecting thugs
with crossbows to appear at either end of it, or maybe for someone to pour
boiling oil onto them from above. There was simply no room to maneuver.

Niu considered him with upraised brows. “Of course not.
But I do not know how to pass the northern checkpoint without help.”

“The staff of that place are almost certainly cutthroats.”

“Yes, but if they routinely killed their customers, they would ruin
their reputation.”

Simon hadn’t really thought of underworld types having a
‘reputation’, at least not in the way that honest folk did, but he supposed Niu
was right. All the same, he vowed to be on his guard.

Exiting the alley with some relief, Simon saw that the market was
still bustling, although the people’s focus had changed. A large crowd
was gathering around the newly erected stage and several people of obvious
importance had assembled upon it. Soldiers flanked the platform, and they
seemed to be scanning the square, so Simon hung well back. Niu had no
interest in the proceedings and slipped off to make her purchases; Simon agreed
to meet her behind the inn. Simon found himself sandwiched between a
corpulent, heavy-breathing merchant and an iron-haired woman clad in an
outdated dress of the type his grandmother might have worn, complete with an
unfashionable bustle. This stern anachronism stood stiffly, pretending to
be oblivious to the catty sniping of two young women nearby who were giggling
behind their hands as they critiqued it.

Peering over the shoulder of the man in front of him – damn his
outsized hat – Simon watched as one of the men on stage exchanged a few final
words with his peers and waddled forward, holding out his arms for
silence. Surveying his audience with piggy little eyes, he tugged at his
braided beard. Golden robes cascaded down his torso like a waterfall,
spilling over his swollen stomach and pooling about his feet.

“Good people of Vanyon’s Parade,” he called, acknowledging the
statue of the god looming behind him with a curt nod. “I come bearing
glad tidings.”

“Who are
you
then?” someone shouted. The man’s lips
tightened as he located the heckler with narrowed eyes, but chose not to
dignify the challenge with a response. No doubt he assumed he was of
sufficient importance for the question to be impertinent, but Simon had to
admit that he had no clue as to who the official was, either.

“As you are no doubt aware, our beloved ruler, His Majesty King
Minus, issued a decree that the man who was able to rid our lands of the dragon
which plagued them for so long would win the hand of his beautiful and
accomplished daughter, the Princess Tiera.”

“Nothing new there!” yelled the heckler, but he found no support
amongst his fellow onlookers, most of whom had caught the past tense:
plagued
.
Simon felt resentment welling within; whatever he was about to hear, he knew he
wasn’t going to enjoy it.

“People of Vanyon’s Parade, visitors to this fair town, I am pleased
to announce that the dragon is dead and the princess has announced…” The
official paused to allow the scattered cheers and swelling babble to subside
before continuing. “…has announced her intent to wed the slayer of the
beast, Prince Anton Stallix of the kingdom of Quell. With their union…” Another
uproar, much louder this time, drowned the speaker out. He made
suppressing gestures with his hands, but the crowd would not be silenced.

Quell was a tiny kingdom of minor significance, bordering Cannevish
to the south. It managed to remain unconquered due to topography; a
mountainous region accessible only by a high pass, it had proved an
extraordinarily difficult land to lay siege to. If not for its famous
diamond mines, no one would ever have tried. The pass which so
successfully thwarted invasion acted as a double-edged sword, preventing the
House of Stallix from attempting to expand their own territory.

Uniting the Houses of Stallix and Minus, however, was a savvy
political maneuver. Simon could understand that. Cannevish would
get access to Quell’s diamond mines - and more importantly their military –
strengthening the kingdom’s defenses in the wake of the dragon’s
depredations. Quell, meanwhile, would finally join the outside world; the
gates to this hermit kingdom, passed previously only by selected merchants and
nobles, would swing open at last. Although Cannevish’s other neighbors
would certainly grumble about the alliance, Quell was insignificant enough that
major conflict was unlikely.

While the official tried to quieten the crowd, Simon’s blood slowly
began to boil.

That was my kill,
he seethed.
This
should be my credit, these people should be assembled to see me.
To
step forward and claim as much was certain death, but Simon couldn’t control
his resentment. He shoved the startled woman with the bustle aside and
pushed through the crowd as the official recommenced his speech.

“With their union,” the gold-clad functionary continued, an octave
higher than before. “The kingdom of Cannevish will be strengthened
against the opportunistic.” He raised his hands as several foreigners booed and
yelled. One of the younger soldiers fingered his sword uneasily.
“The heirs of Prince Stallix and Princess Tiera will rule a united kingdom…”

Simon heard little of the rest of the speech. The crowd was
growing restless, their mood turning ugly. News this momentous was bound
to provoke turmoil. The people would learn to accept it, but not
today. He wanted to be away from the square before a twitchy guard or
incensed citizen sparked an outburst of mob violence.

Well,
he thought bitterly as he wove and
elbowed his way toward the perimeter of the square,
it isn’t
everyone
who can say that their greatest, unacknowledged personal triumph has the potential
to throw the kingdom into a state of upheaval.

He caught a few snippets of the official’s continuing announcements
before the man was shouted down and, ringed by guards, beat a hasty retreat
from the stage. The dragon’s head would be displayed in Vingate in three
days’ time, he learned; the Princess would officially announce her engagement
at that time. The rest was a blur. He was so annoyed - at himself,
at Cannevish justice - that he hardly remembered how he made it back to the
Nameless
Nymph’s
stableyard.

Niu was waiting for him. She looked anxious but pleased.
Two strong horses had been harnessed to the cart, which was now full of sacks,
perhaps of grain or flour. Jock was perched atop a nearby fence, legs
swinging idly.

“This is good,” Niu said, pulling her hood back. “Leaving town
should be fairly simple.”

“Yup,” Jock contributed. “The soldiers have their hands full;
they’ll be on alert for trouble with the locals and less inclined to pay
attention to outbound traffic.”

“Good,” said Simon sourly, only half-listening.

Niu opened her cloak. His eyes darting between tantalizing
stretches of bare skin, Simon didn’t understand what she was showing him at
first; was she making some awkward attempt to seduce him? That didn’t
seem in character; Simon didn’t get the impression that she the slightest
attraction to him. He had to remind himself that the people of Jynn were
much less modest; she was showing him something else. With his mind now
set on the correct track, he was able to discern that the kitchen knife was
gone; in its place, a pair of daggers glinted at her hip. Right:
she’d gone to purchase weapons. He couldn’t quite repress a surge
of disappointment.

“I am ready for this, I think,” she said. She pointed at the
back of the cart. “I did not know what you might find agreeable.”

Feeling foolish, Simon moved across to the cart where his gift
awaited and glared at it. She’d bought him a short sword, small and light
enough for Simon to feel mildly insulted. Honestly, it wasn’t
significantly bigger than the daggers she’d selected for herself. Did she
not think he could handle anything larger?

Niu caught his shadowed expression as he turned it this way and
that. He’d played with heavier sticks as a child.

“You did not want to shop with me,” she said defensively. “I
did not know what to choose.”

“I like it,” Simon lied gruffly as he hitched the scabbard to his
belt. “Shall we be on our way?”

“Good idea.” Jock hopped down from the fence and walked briskly
toward them. “Daylight’s wasting. It’s going to be a long trip, so
if your bladders are up to it…”

“I am fine, I think,” Niu said.

“As am I.” Simon thumbed the back of the cart. “But
there’s nowhere to hide. Tell me we aren’t expected to climb into a bag.”

Jock smirked. “Much better.” He beckoned them back
around the back of the cart and squatted there, gesturing underneath it.
“Make yourselves comfortable.”

Simon crouched apprehensively beside the gangly youth and peered
between the wheels. His frown immediately deepened.

“No,” he said firmly, rising.

Jock chuckled. “It’s a smuggling compartment. Not very
roomy, I grant you, but none of those metal-plated halfwits have ever
discovered it. And they never will, unless you do something stupid, like
coughing or sneezing while we’re at the checkpoint. Don’t do that and
we’re free and clear.”

“I’m not climbing in there.” Simon folded his arms. A cold
sweat beaded on his brow at the very thought. He’d always been
claustrophobic, ever since his fifth summer, when his cousin Dannon and his
friends had crammed him headfirst into a hollow log. “It’s a
coffin.”

“
Smuggling compartment
,” Jock repeated. “It’s all the
same to me, mate. I’m not refunding your coin.”

“I will go first,” Niu said anxiously, joining them.

“It’s a death trap, N… Aletta,” Simon corrected himself just in
time. “We’d be at his mercy. He could package us up and take us
straight to the guard, neat as you please.”

“Bad business practice, that.” Jock said casually. “’Sides, I
don’t deal with the law. I’d get my throat cut if I was seen cozying up
to those pigs.”

Simon took a steadying breath. The log. The dragon’s
cave, the wendigo’s lair. He was sick to death of constricted, dark
spaces, and the thought of being trapped beneath the carriage for the many
miles it would take until they passed safely into Northern Cannevish was
decidedly unpleasant. He didn’t remotely trust Jock, but Niu seemed
prepared to go through with this plan, and he was determined to show at least
as much courage as she did.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine.”

Jock clapped him on the shoulder, an unwelcome touch, and reached
under the cart to unlatch a hatch.

“In you go,” he grinned.

Simon balked a moment longer, then, collecting his wits and his
nerve, he crawled under the cart and, squeezing his eyes shut, squirmed into
the hatch. There was very little room to maneuver. He wriggled
along on the floorboards with gritted teeth, his hair and shoulders brushing
the bowed ceiling. All the while, urgently and insistently, his mind
screamed
I’m trapped, I’m trapped, I’m trapped
. He scraped his
left knee as he shuffled forward, fingers questing blindly ahead of him until
at length his entire body was lodged inside the compartment.

Being buried alive
, he thought
miserably, trying to control his trembling.
This is what that would
feel like.
This was where his childish desire to impress Niu had led
him. Entombed here with his fears, he even began to wonder how far he
could trust
her
. Twisting his head to the right, he took a steadying
breath and opened his eyes.