The Last Protector (15 page)

Jape gently closed Scrornuck's mouth. “It's not polite to drool."

Their shopping mission accomplished, they continued their lazy circuit of the Square, pausing from time to time to look into interesting shop windows. As they crossed Staging Street, they had to jump out of the way as a cart whizzed by, pulled by five Cast members and loaded with footwear and furniture, on its way to the Temple altar. Jape whistled softly. “They've been doing this since Sunday?"

"This is just the beginning,” Nalia said. “By the end of the Fortnight, the piles will be twice as high."

"They burn up this much stuff four times a year?"

She nodded. “The Dragon is generous. Rosaiah prays, Spafu provides."

"But what's the point of burning up your furniture?” Scrornuck asked.

She sighed. “You don't know why we do the Sacrifices—do you know anything at all?"

Jape shrugged. “We're not Spafuists."

"Yeah. Okay, here's what they taught us in Temple School: first, since all things come from the Friendly Dragon, offering sacrifices assures they'll keep coming—if we don't sacrifice enough, the stores will have too much unsold merchandise, Spafu will become unhappy, and he'll stop making new stuff."

"If they don't sustain demand,” Jape muttered softly, “there'll be a depression?"

"What?"

"Nothing, just thinking out loud. What was the other reason?"

Grabbing his arm, she led him a few doors down and pointed to a T-shirt on display in a shop window. “See what it says?"

"He who dies with the most toys wins,"
Jape read.
"Book of Spafu, Chapter 14, verse 28."

Nalia nodded. “Everything you sacrifice in this life will be waiting for you in the next. The more you offer, the more you'll have."

"Isn't one pair of shoes enough—even in the afterlife?” Scrornuck asked. One pair was certainly enough for him. “Do you think they'll wear out?” He paused to consider the implications of his question. “If they do, then someday they'll all be worn out and you'll go around the rest of forever barefoot. Or you'll have to steal somebody else's shoes..."

She held a finger to her lips. “I asked that question in school, and I got in a lot of trouble. They sent me to the High Priest. He told me to stop questioning the Sacred Scrolls and made me say the Prayer of the Dragon's Tail a hundred times. Then he sent me to bed without supper."

"An eternity of walking barefoot and stealing shoes?” Scrornuck said. “Sounds like hell to me."

"Hell?” she asked.

"The nasty afterlife, the one for people who did bad things?"

She looked puzzled. “Everybody goes to the same afterlife."

"Really? No judgment, no reward, no punishment?"

"Sure, there's reward—the more stuff you sacrifice, the more you'll have."

"Bloody hell,” he muttered.

"If you don't have a heaven or hell,” Jape said, “what do you mean when you say ‘to hell with this’ or ‘what the hell is that'?"

"What do they mean?” she replied. “It's just a figure of speech. It doesn't have anything to do with religion. Does it mean something different for you?"

"We say the same things, but the words have a religious meaning, too."

She shrugged. “Maybe you should ask a Priest."

"Oh, yeah,” Scrornuck said. “I bet he'd be real helpful."

"Is that a sword in your pocket,” Nalia asked with a giggle, “or are you just happy to see me?"

Scrornuck looked down. Ol’ Red, stashed in a hidden pocket of his surfer jams, was indeed creating a rather suggestive bulge. Blushing slightly, he quickly rearranged things.

Jape stood on the pool's edge. “Last one in is a rotten egg!"

"Here I come!” Scrornuck said, pulling off his shirt.

Nalia gasped. “An unauthorized dragon!” She pointed at the tattoo that covered most of Scrornuck's chest: a fire-spitting dragon, ridden by a skeletal warrior. Flames trailed from the dragon's wings, over his shoulders and across his back, and merged into the flaming-snake tattoo on his right arm.

"A what?” Jape asked.

"This—this isn't proper!” Nalia stammered.

"Why not?"

She pulled her eyes from the tattoo and seemed to regain her composure. “Maybe you guys really are from another world,” she said, nailing Jape and Scrornuck with that how-dumb-can-you-be look. “Everybody knows Spafu is the only Dragon worthy of art—and the art has to be blessed by the Priests and the proper fees paid to the Temple."

"Trademark protection and royalty payments?” Jape mumbled. “Amazing."

"What?” Nalia and Scrornuck both asked together.

"Just thinking out loud again,” Jape replied. “Well, it appears we have a problem."

"No, the lizard-boys have a problem,” Scrornuck said angrily. “We don't.” He clenched his fists. “I'm going for a swim—and I'm not wearing a shirt in the pool!"

"You'll do what you have to do, Mister Saughblade,” Jape said icily. “Nalia, how serious is this?"

Her eyes went back and forth between Jape, the few people around the pool, and the tattoo. Finally she said, “This is a resort, you're guests—even if you're not True Guests—and the rules say guests are to be respected. I think you're okay here. Anywhere else, especially near the Temple, you'd better keep it covered."

Jape thumped the tattoo. “We've lived with worse. Right, Mister Saughblade?"

Scrornuck nodded. “We've been places where the swimsuits are a couple bottle-caps and a string up the butt, and I get arrested for having a tattoo. Go figure."

She was staring again. “They say those things hurt a lot."

"I wasn't exactly there when they did it."

"I asked a tattoo artist that question,” Jape said, “and she said, ‘After an hour or two my wrist gets a little sore, but no, they don't hurt
me
much.'” He drummed a little rim shot on a nearby table.

Picking up on the gag, Scrornuck strummed an air-guitar and sang:

Got a lady tattoo artist, I think she must be insane—

I pay the regular price but she always gives me extra pain!

My dentist is a woman, when I got a tooth to fill,

She don't believe in Novocain, but she sure do love to drill!

I got the blues, I got the blues, I got the blues.

These nasty women leave me sore.

They hurt me and take my money,

But I keep on comin’ back for more.

As he started the second verse, the one about the pain of writing checks to an ex-wife, Nalia shoved him into the pool. “Critics!” he sputtered as he surfaced.

She jumped in and started swimming toward the far end of the pool. “Race you!"

"You're on!"

She was waiting when he surfaced. “Beat you!"

"Yeah, but I swam it under water,” he gasped. He stood and flipped his head back, throwing droplets in a graceful arc. For an instant, he stood beneath a rainbow. Then, with a soggy
splat,
the hair slapped against his back, knocking him forward a half step.

They climbed out and sat on the pool's edge, dangling their feet in the water. Nalia grabbed a handful of his hair and started squeezing it dry. “Ugh, this stuff weighs a ton!"

"Yeah.” He sat for over a minute, letting her squeeze the water from his hair, before he got up the nerve to ask, “Nalia, do you like me?"

She released his hair. “That's a hard question. If I hadn't met you, I'd still be waiting on tables and getting into fights with jerks like Leondo. But you scare me. I'm not used to people being killed around me, and I don't think I want to get used to it.” She looked into his big green eyes. “And this stream crossing thing Jape talks about is a week from Saturday. Even if I'm just pretending to believe, I know he takes it seriously. Saturday comes and goes, life goes on, he'll say ‘Ta-daa! We saved the world,’ and you'll be gone."

"Yeah,” Scrornuck said glumly.

She grinned mischievously. “But what the hell—yeah, I like you. I guess I'll just miss you when you're gone.” She reached beneath his hair and pinched. “And you've still got a nice butt."

Scrornuck looked at her for a second. Then, screaming “Woo-hoo!” at the top of his lungs, he leaped into the air, did a somersault, and came down in a belly-flop that splashed water on people twenty feet away. The landing stung like hell, but he was too happy to notice.

"Even the Cast Quarter joints require shirts and shoes,” Jape warned. He sat at the suite's table, fully dressed and carefully making sure that each hair was in its place.

Scrornuck, meanwhile, slouched on the sofa next to Nalia, wearing only his kilt and a smile. “I've got just the thing,” he said, pulling a wad of cloth from his bag of personal stuff. Nalia giggled and Jape frowned as Scrornuck displayed what could loosely be termed a shirt. Originally black, it was now dull gray, decorated with a faded skull-and-crossbones and the single word “REQUIRED.” Sleeves, collar, and a fair amount of the shirt's body had long ago been torn off, and what remained was more holes than fabric. “You said I have to keep the dragon covered when we're not at the pool,” he said, slipping it on. “This covers the dragon."

"That's about all it covers,” Jape said. “Nalia?"

She chuckled. “Well, technically it's a shirt. And he's a guest. They might let him get away with it."

Jape sighed. “Whatever."

"Hey, what's this?” Nalia pointed to the floor, where a small card made of white parchment had fallen when Scrornuck pulled the shirt from his bag. She picked up the card and stared at it for a moment. “I can't read this."

"Wow, I still have one of these?” Scrornuck muttered as he took the card. “It's been a while...” He translated:

Nalia chuckled. “A dragon-slayer needs a business card?"

"How else does a freelance hero find work? Hey, Jape, do we have time for a story?"

"A short one. Try not to make us late for dinner."

"When have I ever been late for a meal?” Scrornuck pulled a big, spiky brush from his bag and began the long process of untangling his hair. “Okay, this guy walks into a bar..."

Scrornuck washed out a beer mug and thought about what he'd do when his shift ended. Maybe he'd wander around to the customers’ side of the bar and try to exchange some piping for drinks. Perhaps he'd go down the street to that other tavern, where a young lady had taken a fancy to him the previous night. He knew he should search for the answer to the Great Riddle of Life, but his encounter with the Knight was starting to seem like little more than a dream.

A Stranger arrived, average in height and ordinary in appearance, and ordered a light lager in a longneck bottle. It took Scrornuck a moment to realize that while he understood the language spoken by his customer, it was not the local tongue, nor was it the language of his own land. As he washed out another mug, he wondered where he might have heard the Stranger's speech.

About halfway through his beer, the Stranger produced one of the small slips of parchment that Scrornuck had been tacking up around town. “A man who can read this says it's your card. Are you available for a Dangerous Mission?"

"If the price is right."

The Stranger produced several large gold coins—enough that Scrornuck briefly wondered how they fit inside his small purse—and dropped them on the bar. “A retainer, with more to come when the mission is complete. Deal?"

Scrornuck stared at the “retainer.” It was more than he made in a month tending bar—and more was promised? He extended his hand. “You've just found your hero."

About two hours before sunset they headed east, following a narrow trail that rose from the golden prairie into wooded hills. Scrornuck carried a hefty pack containing a little food and the Stranger's rather large collection of gear. As they walked, the Stranger explained that they were to rescue a beautiful woman, held prisoner in a mountaintop tower by a terrible monster. Scrornuck was a sucker for beautiful women in distress, and the more he heard, the faster he walked, at times making it hard for the Stranger to keep up.

They camped a little after sundown, sharing a modest dinner and some wine before retiring. The Stranger slipped into a warm sleeping bag, while Scrornuck removed his kilt and wrapped himself up in its comfortable plaid. The sky was clear and the stars seemed close enough to touch as he dozed off, thinking of the beautiful woman they were going to rescue.

He awoke strangely disoriented. The sun shone through the trees, but it was in entirely the wrong place. His eyes told him it was mid-morning, yet his body insisted it was the middle of the night. Despite the blue sky and bright sun, a chill wind blew wisps of cold fog through the camp. Strangest of all, he was certain he could hear the sound of waves breaking on a beach, though he knew they were many miles from the nearest ocean. Holding his long linen nightshirt against the wind, he walked slowly toward the source of the sound.

A hundred feet from camp, he found himself atop a high cliff, staring down at a cold, blue-green sea that stretched to the horizon. What had happened to the prairie and forest through which he and the Stranger had traveled? He shook his head once, twice, three times—but the scene remained unchanged. Finally, he shrugged and headed back.

As he approached the camp, he heard voices, the Stranger's and two others’ that he didn't recognize. “This is as close as we could get?” one asked.

"It's a good day and a half to the mountain,” the other added.

"Best we can do,” the Stranger said. “Ranger Deanne seems to be safe for now, so we have time."

"But will It stay around?"

"We'll just have to wait and see.” The Stranger spun about suddenly, a broad smile on his face. “Ah, Mister Saughblade, I see you're back! Allow me to make introductions—Mister Wallace, Mister Stuart, I'd like to introduce you to Mister Saughblade, our new freelance hero.” The other two men smiled cordially and got up to shake Scrornuck's hand. “Mister Saughblade has a reputation as a great swordsman. Would you like a demonstration?"