The Book of Deacon (5 page)

She dropped herself onto the second chair and
released a sigh of satisfaction. With effort, she pulled her left
foot to her right knee and undid the stiff laces of her boot.
Slowly, she slid the boot from her aching foot for the first time
in days and flexed her toes. The second foot had only just received
the same treatment when she heard a knock at the door that startled
her.

"Who is there?" she asked, getting back to
her feet.

After the all-too-brief rest they had
received, the sore extremities were reluctant to go back to work.
She hobbled painfully as she stowed her things, particularly the
sword, safely behind the bed.

"Your friend from downstairs," answered a
familiar voice.

Myranda took two steps toward the door, but
stopped. She wanted very much to thank him for all of his help.
Unfortunately, it was more than likely that he had come with a
particular form the gratitude should take in mind. In times like
these, kindness was a rarity, but charity was nonexistent.

"I . . . I am a bit tired just now," she
said.

"Tired? Well, I suppose we shall talk
tomorrow then. Enjoy your rest," he said--disappointment in his
voice, but no anger.

Myranda placed her ear to the door to hear
the light retreat of footsteps, followed by the scratch of a key in
a similarly misshapen keyhole. His response was not what she had
expected. There was not a hint of resentment or malice in his voice
after he had been denied entrance to a room for which he had paid.
He did not even try to convince her otherwise. It was contrary to
every lesson she had learned in her years alone and every piece of
advice she had ever received, but Myranda decided that she would
let the man in. She would not allow the bitterness and cynicism
that had infuriated her so in the past guide her own decisions.

She limped to the door and turned the key,
which was still in the lock. The door creaked open and she stuck
her head out to see his darkened form still struggling with the
temperamental lock. He turned his hooded head in her direction.

"I am very sorry; you are welcome to come
inside," she said.

"Nonsense, I would not dare deprive you of a
good night of sleep," he said.

"I insist," she said.

"Well, if I must," he said lightly.

When she had allowed the cloaked stranger
into the room, she shut the door, but left it unlocked. Just in
case his intentions were less than pure, she wanted to be sure that
she could usher him out quickly.

"I am very sorry if I had seemed rude a
moment ago," she said, pulling the second chair out for him.

"Rude?" he said. "Am I to take it that you
are not tired, then?"

"Well, I am, but--" she began.

"Then what is there to warrant apology?" the
stranger asked.

"I should have asked you in. The room is
yours, in all reality. You paid for it," she said.

"You hold the key, the room is yours," he
said, easing himself onto the chair. "Interesting, the fellow sells
wine but has no wine glasses. No matter, it is not the glass but
the contents, eh?"

He placed two tankards on the table while
Myranda found a lamp and managed to light it. She turned to her
guest, who still had his heavy hood pulled entirely forward, hiding
his face far back in its shadow.

"You know, thanks to your generosity, this
room is near enough to the chimney to provide a comfortable
temperature. You do not need the cloak," she said.

"I would just as soon keep it," he said.

"Well . . . that is fine, I suppose," Myranda
said, removing her own cloak and hanging it on the bed post.

The stranger carefully poured out a third of
a tankard of the wine for each of them.

"Here's to you, my dear," he said, bringing
the cup beneath the hood and sipping awkwardly.

After getting a taste, he lowered his glass
to the table, smacking his lips thoughtfully. Myranda sampled it
herself, immediately startled by an intensity closer to brandy than
wine. It was quite a bit stronger than she had expected. As it
dripped down her throat, she felt the fiery heat spread, finally
taking the lingering chill from her insides, just as she hoped it
would.

"Intriguing flavor," her guest commented.

Myranda coughed a bit as the powerful drink
seemed to hollow out her throat.

"It does the job, though," she managed.

"Admirably," he agreed, lifting the cup to
his lips for a second awkward sip.

"Wouldn't it be easier to drink if you pulled
the hood back?" Myranda asked.

"Drinking would be easier, I am sure, but
things would become . . . uncomfortable," he said, tugging his hood
even further forward.

Myranda looked uneasily at her guest. There
was something very unsettling about his rigid refusal to reveal his
face. She sipped at the wine as the darker reasons for such a
desire flooded her head. He might be self-conscious, or perhaps if
he were to reveal his face, he would place her in some kind of
danger due to some dark past that is haunting him.

"Well, since we are here under the pretense
that we are old friends, I think it would be best to learn your
name," he said, breaking the uneasy silence and Myranda's train of
thought.

"Oh, yes, of course. My name is Myranda. And
yours?" she asked.

"Leo. A pleasure to meet you, Myranda," he
answered, putting his hand out for her to shake. She did so
graciously.

"And a pleasure to meet you as well, Leo. I
really cannot thank you enough for helping me. I have yet to meet
another who would have done the same," she said.

"I do not doubt it," he said, a bit of anger
in his voice. "So tell me, how did you come to be in such a
predicament?"

"I had brought a bag of coins with me. It
must have been stolen," she said.

"Where you were sitting, you were asking for
that to happen," he said.

"I know it," she said. "Had I been thinking I
never would have chosen that seat."

A moment of silence passed. Myranda took
another glance at the hood.

"Is it because you are cold?" she asked.

"Pardon?" said the stranger.

"The cloak. Are you cold?" she asked
again.

"Not particularly," he said. "You do not
strike me as a local. Where do you call home?"

"Nowhere, I am sorry to say. I honestly
cannot remember the last time I had spent more than a week or so in
one place," she replied.

"Really? We have something in common, then!"
he said, pleased. "I spend most of my days on the road myself. In
my case it is the nature of my career. Is it likewise with
you?"

"If only. My nomadic nature is strictly by
choice," she said.

"Hmm," he pondered. "You have chosen a life
you hate. You will have to elaborate on that."

"Well, suffice to say that those that I
encounter tend not to be especially fond of those like myself," she
said, immediately worrying that she had said a bit too much.

"Oh? Another common trait," he said.

"Really? Is . . . that why you have got your
face hidden?" she asked.

"Alas, I am found out," he said, throwing his
hands up in mock despair.

Myranda's imagination seized this new fact
and constructed a new set of possibilities. What about his face
could make him an outcast? He may be the victim of some terrible
disease. Worse, he could be a wanted criminal. There were more than
a few outlaws who would find themselves in a cell for life if they
ever showed their faces again. She was even more uneasy now. What
sort of man had she let into this room? Could the kindness have
been nothing but a ruse?

"What sort of man are you?" she said, her
worry showing through. "I must know."

"Now, now, Myranda, fair is fair. If you pull
back your hood, and I will pull back mine," he said. "What are you
hiding?"

"Very well," Myranda sighed. It would seem
tonight would be spent outside again. "I am . . . what you would
call . . . a . . . sympathizer."

She hung her head, awaiting a voice of
disdain. She did not have to wait long.

"A sympathizer!?" he said in a harsh whisper.
"Oh come now! Is that all!?"

"What?" she said, looking up.

"You are a sympathizer. I would hardly place
us in the same boat. Sympathy is nothing!" he said angrily.

"You mean you don't care?" she said, a hint
of a grin coming to her face.

"I have got quite enough worries of my own.
What do I care what side you root for? It hardly seems fair that I
have to show you my face after a measly little confession like
that," he complained.

A full smile lit up Myranda's face and she
let a bit of joy escape in the form of laughter.

"You, Leo, are too good to be true. Generous,
gentlemanly, and understanding," she said.

"Well, let us see if you still think so
highly of me in a few moments," he said, lifting his hands to his
hood.

"Leo, after all you have said and done
tonight, I cannot imagination anything behind that hood that could
keep you and I from being friends," she said.

Leo's leather-gloved hands clutched the edge
of the hood and quickly drew it back. The smile dropped from
Myranda's face. A mixture of fear and revulsion spilled over her.
It was no human that looked back at her. Protruding from the neck
of the cloak was what appeared to be the head of a fox. It was in
proportion to the body, with a deep orange fur covering all but the
muzzle, chin and throat, which had a creamy white color. His eyes
were larger and more expressive than an animal's, brown and the
only remotely human feature. The corner of his mouth was turned up
in a slight smirk as he read her expression.

He twitched a pointed, black-tipped ear as he
pulled a fiery red pony tail from inside the hood. It fell to
nearly his waist, lightening along its length to the same color as
his throat. Myranda couldn't keep a gasp from escaping her
lips.

"Not what you expected, eh?" he asked. "I
told you things would become uncomfortable."

Myranda closed her eyes and reached for the
glass she had put on the table. Leo slid it to her searching
fingers. Grasping it, she gulped down the contents hoping to settle
her churning stomach and rattled nerves. When she lowered the
glass, Leo filled it to the brim, then stood and began gathering up
his ponytail.

Myranda ventured another peek at her
visitor.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Unless I have greatly misread your reaction,
it would seem you do not much relish my presence," he answered as
he tucked the hair inside his cloak and restored the hood.

Now knowing the shape of the face that the
hood had concealed before, Myranda wondered how she had not noticed
earlier. Though a normal hood might conceal him, it would be
perilously close to revealing the tip of his snout, even with the
hood pulled comically far forward. Yet his face seemed to vanish
into inky shadow the instant the hood was pulled into place. Leo
was nearly to the door before she had finished sputtering and
coughing from the powerful wine she had forced down.

"Don't go!" she coughed.

He stopped.

"Please--" Cough, cough. "--sit down, I
should not have reacted so horribly. I was startled," she said.

"Are you sure you do not want me to go?" he
asked, turning to her.

"I insist you stay for a while. Nothing has
changed. I still owe you for all of this, and you have still
treated me with more kindness than anyone I have met in years," she
said.

Leo returned to his seat. "Would you prefer
me to keep the hood up?" he asked.

"I want you to be comfortable," she said.

Leo opened his cloak and removed it, tossing
it to the bed. Now that it was no longer obscured, Myranda finally
got a glimpse of his build. It was lean, bordering on gaunt, but
healthy. His clothes were plain and gray, quite simple and very
worn. He slipped the leather gloves from his hands, revealing a
second pair of black gloves, these composed of his own fur.

"You . . . you are a . . . m--a m--" Myranda
stuttered.

"A malthrope? Indeed. To my knowledge half
fox and half human," he answered.

"I was not sure if it was alright to call you
a m-malthrope," she said, the word sticking in her throat.

"Mmm, I understand. It is not exactly term
for mixed company. Certainly one saved for the end of an argument,"
he said knowingly.

He was right, of course. The term carried the
very most negative of connotations. Speaking it as a child was a
sure way to a sound scolding. Malthropes were the thieves,
murderers, and scoundrels of horror stories told to frighten
children into good behavior. Half man and half some manner of
beast, they were monsters and fiends. The kindness and
consideration Leo had shown could not be farther from what she had
been taught to expect from these creatures.

"I thought there were no more m--no more of
your kind left," she said.

"You are not far from correct. I've more
fingers on my hands than I have memories of others like me. Clearly
we are not the most popular race," he said, his demeanor was
somehow cheerful despite the loneliness and isolation he
described.

"How is it that you have made it for so long
in a world so hostile to your kind?" asked Myranda.

"Well, thanks in no small part to that little
wonder I threw on the bed. I had to spend every coin I had and more
than a year searching for a wizard willing to produce it for me.
With it on, no one can see my face," he said.

"But, how did--" she began.

"Now, now. By this time you should know my
policy. Money has its value, but information the greatest treasure
of all. You must give to receive," Leo said.

Myranda sipped at the wine again. She had
consumed quite a bit of the powerful stuff and done so very
quickly. Her judgment was a bit impaired. Had she her wits about
her, she likely would not have said what she said next.