Each Life's Quest
part four of five
by volta_arovet
with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions.
Marcello woke to a world that was bright and yellow, partly from the morning's sunshine lighting up the tent, but mostly from the yellow coat that was still clenched in his fist. It was odd-he didn't normally curl up on his side, or hold things while he slept. Then again, he didn't normally spend his time participating in activities like the previous night's.
He stretched his back and winced at the bruising he could feel there. He couldn't quite remember who had been upset-was it Eight or himself? The mind played tricks.
Marcello made his bleary way out of the tent, bringing the coat with him and half-heartedly trying to smooth the wrinkles from it, when he looked up and was struck by what he saw.
It was like any other morning, really. Eight was frying breakfast on the fire, singing a simple, half-remembered song to himself. Munchie was sitting beside him, nibbling a piece of bread. The mouse noticed him and chittered in a way that would be intimidating for anything less than a hand's width in height. Eight gently chided the mouse, laughing all the while, and turned to Marcello to share his smile.
Everything was the same, except that without his coat, the boy was wearing blue, a deep, Templar's blue, and Marcello's chest hurt at the sight.
He wanted to-he didn't want to break that smile, he discovered. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe it would simply be enough to show Angelo this, show him how this boy smiled for him, how the bruises on his thighs were fit to Marcello's fingers, how this boy, the best person in Angelo's life, cared more for Marcello than he did for Angelo. Perhaps. Perhaps that would be enough.
And perhaps he wasn't the sort of man who regretted what he had done, but perhaps he was the sort of man who wished that he could. And he would think more on that, but the morning was growing long, and Eight was waiting.
"How are you faring?" Marcello asked, and Eight colored nicely at the question.
"Better. Thank you," Eight said, and took the coat from him.
"We'll shift our search to the section nearest the beast's last sighting," Marcello directed as he helped himself to breakfast. "No reason not to take advantage of the little hint it left us. If we've no luck there, we can return and finish this section later. If the boy's half as clever as his sister, he should have left us some clue."
Eight smiled at him again, and Marcello found himself hoping that they would not find the beast, or that he would have at least as much time as it would take for the wrinkles to fall out of Eight's yellow coat.
They found the shoe two days later. It was sitting in a pile of debris, and was just the right size for a ten-year-old boy's foot.
"Clever boy," Marcello said, examining the shoe. "See how the back is scuffed? He kicked it off, to give us a path." He tossed it to Eight and got out his map, tracing a line from the village to the shoe. "We know, at the very least, that the beast passed by this way. Probably rested here; I doubt the boy could have done this while the beast was on the move."
"No," Eight said, and his dark eyes were shining in a way Marcello hadn't seen for many days. "It looks like the shoe was washed here by the rain. But if we follow it back..." Eight bolted up the hill, eyes trained on the ground, and Marcello had to struggle to gather his things and follow before the boy was out of sight. The boy was good at tracking, he'd give him that-the line of the leaves and shape of the mud were as road maps to him, so Marcello took it upon himself to check the surroundings for the beast's crossing path.
He held Eight up short when they rounded a hill. There was a battered old shack at its top, and a horse's footprint in the mud at its base. He motioned to Eight to be quiet, and crept carefully up the hill. Eight circled around the other way. It was a touch silly, being so cautious-the shack was only large enough for one, maybe two people, but it was their best lead so far, and Marcello wasn't going to risk it.
There was nothing inside, not a chair, not a footprint, no evidence of anyone staying there ever, never mind in the past few days. There were holes in the walls, and Marcello could see Eight's face through one of them. Rather than being disappointed, the boy was biting his lip, frowning as though deep in thought.
He motioned for Marcello to leave the shack and, once he did, closed the door behind him, raised a fist, and knocked briskly on the door three times.
Marcello gave Eight a look. "What exactly was that supposed to accomplish?"
Eight shrugged sheepishly, and it was then that the entire shack lifted up and a large, yellow beast with a lolling, pink tongue stuck its head out of the hole.
"Well hello there, dearies," it said in a cheerful, motherly voice. "Do forgive my head-were you expected for company?"
Marcello shared a look with Eight and removed his hand from his sword. He bowed modestly. "Yes, thank you, madam."
"Oh! Aren't you the polite one! And so handsome, too." She gave Marcello a winsome wink and descended down the hole. "Please, make yourselves at home; I'm going to go put the kettle on."
They followed the beast down the stairs and settled themselves in a surprisingly homey drawing room. There were flowered curtains on windows that opened to nothing but dirt, lace doilies on the backs of the chairs, and children's toys scattered in the corners of the room.
"A dumbqueen?" Marcello whispered to Eight in disbelief.
Eight shrugged in a manner that said he was philosophically at ease with the idea of her existence, given his contact with dumbkings.
"It looks as though there were children here," Marcello said, eyeing the toys, but had no time to investigate further.
"Here you go, dearies," the dumbqueen said, bustling back with a tray of goodies. She had a pink, lacy apron tied over her enormous bosom. "I brought some biscuits with the chocolate bits. They're my favorite. How do you take your tea?"
"As it is, thank you," Marcello said, taking the proffered cup.
"Sugar, please," Eight said, and held up three fingers to indicate how many lumps. Marcello wept inwardly for the dignity of good, innocent tea so unfairly abused.
"Oh ho, I should have known, you two. Dark and sweet, who couldn't have imagined?" She winked at Marcello again. He truly and sincerely wished she'd stop doing that. Eight ignored Marcello's discomfort and slipped Munchie a bit of biscuit.
"We were just admiring your home-"Marcello began.
The dumbqueen cooed and fluttered and jostled her bosom. "Oh, this messy old place?" she said, clearly flattered.
"Have you any children about?" Marcello asked, and the dumbqueen burst into a flurry of giggles.
"Well, aren't you the forward one!" She giggled again and fanned herself with her paw. "Not that I object to the idea of having them, mind you."
"I only ask because of the toys," Marcello said, motioning to them.
"The what?" The dumbqueen blinked a few times. "Oh yes, for the boy! Dear me, I had clean forgotten about the lad."
"Do you know where he is, ma'am?" Eight asked, leaning forward eagerly.
The dumbqueen placed a finger against her chin to aid the difficult task that was 'thinking.' "Why, he is back with his family now, I should imagine."
"You mean, you didn't kidnap them?" Eight asked.
The dumbqueen drew herself up haughtily-and there was quite a lot of her to draw up. "I should say not! Such a dreadful business, kidnapping. I do not sit idly by when I am told of kidnappers, I tell you this. Why, that boy didn't wait a day between when I heard of his sad predicament and when he was safely in my home."
Marcello's mind raced to parse this statement and came to an uncomfortable realization. "Of course, not, madam," he said smoothly. "My friend was merely making a joke-kidnapping from the kidnappers, you see." He smiled ingratiatingly at the dumbqueen, who seemed mollified.
"Oh! Yes. Of course. Kidnapping from the kidnappers. How very clever!" She gave an unconvincing laugh to show how she truly understood the play on words.
"You must find your work very rewarding," Marcello said, and the dumbqueen brightened at that.
"Oh, yes! You know, those men tried to pay me for my work, and I said to them 'No thank you, the look on their faces when they learn they're going home is thanks enough for me.' I told them that, I did."
"How admirable," Marcello said. "And these men you speak of, do you know who they are?"
The dumbqueen fluttered and fanned herself again. "Do forgive me; I've no head for names. Not that those men stay for more than a few words, truth, never mind stopping for a cuppa. No manners, that lot, though they are doing the Goddess' work, so it's not my place to say, and they do look so dashing in those uniforms."
Marcello did not flinch or choke on his tea, but he did carefully return the cup and biscuit to his plate before he spoke again. Eight, he noticed, was looking particularly blank.
"Uniforms, madam?" Marcello asked. "Do you recall what they look like?" He continued on quickly when he saw the dumbqueen's flustered look. "Color, perhaps?"
"Blue, of some sort?" the dumbqueen guessed. "Yes, a deep blue, and they have these swishing little cloaks that end right above their altogether," she said, and laughed charmingly.
"Yes, I know the men you speak of," Marcello said. He had begun cursing inwardly midway through the conversation, and saw no reason to stop now.
"It's always nice to hear of friends," the dumbqueen said placidly. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Who did you say you were again?"
"We've come to tell you that you're done now," Eight said quickly, before Marcello could speak. "All the-all the boys have been saved. You don't need to rescue any more children." He paused, then said, "Thank you."
"It's over already?" the dumbqueen asked. "Ah, well, it was exciting, but I'm glad the lads are safe."
"We have to go now, but I'll come visit again, when I've the time," Eight said gently, and Marcello was shocked to realize that Eight truly meant it.
"Oh, aren't you two dears!" the dumbqueen cooed.
She didn't let them go until she'd loaded their arms with enough cakes and pasties to last them for days. Marcello tried to convince himself that the sinking feeling in his stomach was the extra chocolate biscuit he'd choked down.
"What do you think?" Marcello asked later, when they had returned to camp.
"She seemed nice," Eight said mildly. He was digging around in one of the boxes they rarely used. A slip of pink tongue peeked out from between his teeth.
"Not the-" Marcello groaned. "Yes, she was lovely. Now, what of the church? Why do they-what do they want with-" He groaned again. "Why is it always the church?"
"I have no idea," Eight said, still busily rummaging through the box.
"You are in a suspiciously good mood," Marcello accused.
"The church took the children, so we can probably get them back," Eight said.
"And what makes you think the church isn't in the habit of disposing of prisoners once they have lost their usefulness?"
Eight spared a moment's notice to grin at Marcello. "You didn't."
"More the fool I," Marcello said. "And you should not use me as the Templar's barometer; I detest waste, while many of the clergy revel in it, and what on earth are you looking for?" Marcello finally snapped.
"Aha!" Eight cheered and pulled out a bundle of red cloth. He held it up proudly, and Marcello felt the entirety of his stomach sink into his shoes.
"You must be joking. Even if you fit the uniform, even if you had the-" Blast it all, the boy had just produced a missionary's ring "-various effects, you might convince them of your legitimacy for all of the ten seconds it took for you to open your mouth. If your peculiar accent weren't enough to warn them off, your ignorance of the protocols would surely be a sign, and why are you still smiling?"
"I'm not the one who'll be wearing this," Eight said simply.
"And what makes you think they won't fire on me at sight were I to approach the abbey?"
Eight shook his head. "Who do you know best at this abbey?"
"Only the abbot and captain of the knights, but they have all seen my face before."
Eight shook his head again. "They all know you as Marcello, the knight and high priest. Could any of them imagine you would return as Francois, the lowly missionary who is looking for a place to rest before he finishes milking the last coin from," Eight pulled a bunnicorn-lined coat from his bag and brandished it at Marcello, "his wealthy and generous foreign patron?"
Marcello's frown deepened.
"Would any of them think you would return to the church, at all?" Eight asked, more softly.
Marcello thought of returning to the church's service, to the site of his greatest failure, and his fingers twitched for his sword, his feet itched to run. "No, they all know I would not return." His voice was surprisingly husky, and he cleared his throat twice.
It was Eight's turn to pause, and the grin faded slowly from his face. "You don't have to go with me."
Marcello scoffed at that. "The abbey is very big on protocols. Like it or not, you can't be rid of me yet." He picked up the ring with the missionary's symbol. It was definitely Angelo's; he recognized the nicks. He wondered where its matching pair was-in Eight's pack, or Angelo's hands still. The bottom of a lake, no doubt. "I'll not be called Francois," he added.
Eight grinned again. "We can think of a better name."
They reached the abbey when the sun was setting and the night bugs had just started to sing. Eight dropped his packs to the ground and started to pull out the materials for their costumes. Marcello placed a hand on his shoulder, and Eight turned at the touch.
"We should wait for tomorrow," Marcello said, and ignored the disappointed look on Eight's face. "They require prior notification or a notarized form to allow passage to the interior sections after dark. Too many encounters with thieves in the night, I'm afraid."
"If you think that's best," Eight said diplomatically.
"No worries, boy," Marcello said, and gave Eight's shoulder a squeeze. "We should have an easy time of it tomorrow; no thief worth his salt would be awake before noon."
Eight's little smile returned at that. Marcello spent the rest of the stolen night trying to ignore the abbey's looming walls and instead make the most of the little time he had.