I'm not even going to start on the hows and whys and sorrys. I got stuck matching the story to my own preview. Please ignore it. Second part to come soon, had to split because the page count was getting...yeah.
One thing should be mentioned though: I am not currently watching the new season, I'm waiting with that till I finish the story because I don't want to screw with my character consistency. This story officially departs from the show and will not come back to it.
Enjoy, please, review and don't lose patience with me.
Chapter 9: Goatee & Co, InCrime
"Bright red is blood, and corpses are blue,,..."
Gwaine slithered around the corner, Wynn close beside him. He could hear the sound of his soft boots adding to the rhythm of his own heavy footsteps.
"...the monster is searching, searching for you..."
Step, step, breath, step step, breath, step step, there's another corner, don't slow down. The momentum slammed Gwaine into the wall, his shoulder scraped against the rough stones, the fabric of his tunic tore. Ignore the pain, step step, breath, step step...
"...unending sleep is what it's bringing,..."
Gwaine stumbled, caught himself, continued running. Wynn fell back, drew even, fell back again.
"...when the ghosts rise and midnight is ringing..."
Step step, breath, step step, breath. Behind him Wynn's steps suddenly fell out of pattern. A thud, a yelp, the sound of a body slithering over stone.
"...One, two, three, is what the bell-ringer tolls,..."
Gwaine threw himself around in mid-step. Wynn tried getting back on his feet, lost his balance, toppled over.
"...four, five, six, the monster calls..."
Gwaine grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him up.
"I...I can't," Wynn panted.
"...seven, eight, nine, continues the sound,..."
"Yes, you can!" Gwaine snapped, giving him a hard shove between the shoulder-blades.
"...ten and eleven and twelve end the count..."
They continued running. Step step, breath, push Wynn, step step, breath, another shove, another corner.
"...Your blood is red, your corpses are blue,..."
A dead end. A bloody dead end!
"No! Son of a...Lord Ruler of Mischief, crap! Crap, crapcrapcrap!" Wynn keeled over, gasping for air between curses.
"...ready or not, I'm coming for you!"
And they weren't ready. As if anyone could ever be ready for what was coming. Bloody hell, they were not ready!
/~/
Three days and an infinite amount of curses earlier...
Sir Gwaine, Lovable Rouge, and most recently Knight to Camelot when he couldn't avoid it, propped his elbows on the counter and gave the innkeeper a sign to pour him another drink. All things considered, he was very satisfied with the past seven days. He had successfully lost those stuffy buggers (guards was the proper term) by sending them back on their own, while he was allegedly checking out some rumours. Rumours he intended to check out, all right, rumours about some magnificent ale and pretty tavern wenches. The wenches had turned out so-so, but the ale more than made up for it.
Unfortunately, he could avoid being Knight to Camelot for only so long. This was going to be the last night spent in blissful irresponsibility. Tomorrow, as soon as he got over the hangover he was firmly resolved to acquire, he was getting on his horse and riding back to Camelot.
Arthur would probably give him an earful or two about 'shirking his duties' and acting his age, but it was worth it. Besides, acting his age was advice Arthur should take. Take a look at him, turned twenty-five not too long ago and acting like a man twice his age, spreading honour and responsibility like a disease. Of course, a small, infected, part of Gwaine's mind thought that he couldn't spend all his life taverning – the same part that had pestered him into accepting his accolade, and look what that got him. At some point or other he would have to grow up and admit to himself that Arthur was right.
Gwaine sighed. He was about two or three taverns away from that lamentable point, he felt it in his bones. Times were changing and somehow, Gwaine had already started changing along with them. It had all really started with that stupid brawl. Before meeting that crazy lot, which is to say Merlin, Arthur and Arthur's knightly cronies, Gwaine had been free to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Nobody cared if he caught a knife in the ribs after two or three pints over the recommended amount, except maybe for himself, and about that he wasn't quite so sure at times. But then came Merlin, who kept sticking his nose into everybody's business, and then came Arthur, who kept dragging Gwaine's nose into everybody's business and before the rogue knew it he had friends and with friends came ties and with ties came...well, growing up.
Did he miss those carefree times of wandering about aimlessly, accountable to no one but himself? Definitely.
"But you can't turn back the clock," he muttered glumly.
"Now, see, that's a misconception. You can turn back a clock just fine, but what will you be left with?" Gwaine looked up and into the tanned face of the scrawny boy who had been mopping the floor of the tavern until a couple of moments ago. He put a refilled mug of ale before Gwaine and started applying a very grubby cloth to the counter, though whether he was trying to clean it or just pushing dirt from one place to the other was anybody's guess.
"I'll tell you what," the boy continued, "an expensive clock that is running slow, while time keeps moving on regardless. A waste of perfectly good money, if you ask me, and it'll only get you into trouble."
"But I didn't ask you," Gwaine pointed out. How old was this kid? Fourteen? Fifteen? Definitely not old enough to be dispensing life-wisdoms to people.
"True," said the boy, "but as they say; in giving advice, seek to annoy, not to please. What is more annoying than unasked advice, huh?"
"You've got that saying wrong, mate. It goes: In giving advice, seek to help, not to please," Gwaine said dryly.
"Does it now," said the boy, winking at him. He had a prepossessing face, with a mouth that curved naturally in a light smile. Gwaine propped his head on his hands and nodded.
"It does," he replied, "and seeking to help, I advise you to refrain from sticking your freckled nose into other people's business. It gets you into trouble more than anything." The boy laughed, dark hazel eyes dancing with mischief.
"It's not that freckled, my nose. Fifteen spots in summer, ten in winter. Ah, but you know what else they say about good advice?"
"It is always certain to be ignored?"
"Aye. Clever people, them, aren't they? Uh..." The kid caught the innkeeper's displeased eye and winced, "talking about clever, I think it might be in my best interest to move it along. My employer seems to think I'm harassing his customer."
"And aren't you?"
"Why, how should I know. Am I?" Oh, he was good, Gwaine had to give him that. The kid was a natural charmer, and didn't he know it. Gwaine was ready to bet that those brown curls wouldn't be half as unruly, if the boy didn't instigate it in regular intervals.
Given a two or three more years, he'd turn into one of those guys that have rows of girls squealing over them. Not thanks to their overt masculinity, mind you, this kid was a shrimp, and an underfed one at that. No, this particular brand of charmer used their harm- and defenceless looks to appeal to the tender spots in a woman's heart. Gwaine didn't think that was fair game. How were proper guys like him supposed to compete with the maternal instincts these guys evoked?
"Well, am I? Harassing you, good Sir Customer?" the kid repeated.
"Definitely," muttered Gwaine, trying for a frown while coming up with a grin. The charm was gender-blind in this case. Maybe he was going to leave the kid a small coin or two. Hard work should be rewarded and young talent must always be encouraged.
"My, how perfectly ghastly of me. I shall apologise and remove myself and my harassment," said the boy with another grin. He put on a peaked cap, saluted Gwaine with two fingers against the rim and disappeared through a door into what Gwaine assumed to be the kitchen. The knight shook his head. Kids these days. Now, when he had been that age...
...he'd been exactly the same, minus the shrimp-part, no use pretending otherwise. And in any case, when had Gwaine started thinking like an old person, reminiscing about his bygone youth? He was still young, damn it. For another two taverns at least. He raised his mug and drank to that.
Business in the tavern was going well, but not so well that you lost sight of the people coming and going. Therefore Gwaine looked up when the door swung open and Goatee And Company entered, bringing with them a draft of moist autumn air. The group instantly caught Gwaine's eye, even before they settled down at a table in a dark corner not too far from Gwaine.
If it had only been Goatee, Gwaine wouldn't have given him second look. He was a middle-aged man of average size and stature, his languid face sporting the eponymous hair-growth. He dressed very low-key in a nondescript coat over equally nondescript riding breeches and a grey cotton tunic.
And Company, on the other hand, consisted of two unsavoury types that looked like all of their much needed brains had dissolved into muscle. They had faces that could make a cow's milk turn sour in the udder and both were dressed in shoddy leather vests over bare chests and dangled a truly ridiculous amount of sharp, pointy objects from their belts.
Now, generally, people the size of a minor troll and with arms to go with it have a hard time appearing low-key and therefore most of them don't try. These guys evidently hadn't realised that simple truth yet and tried anyway. Which made them look the very opposite.
It was therefore, and due to the fact that as a rule of thumb, people never adhere to their own advice, that Gwaine discreetly relocated himself and his mug a little closer to them and went about the very knightly business of eavesdropping.
"That rotten son of a lark is wringin' the cockerel," grunted troll-sized And Company Number One – distinguishable from troll-sized And Company Number Two only by his shaved head, for which Gwaine dubbed him Shiny.
"He better not be pettin' any critters on us," grunted And Company Number Two, who had a precarious habit of balancing his chair on the hind legs. Cue Gwaine christening him Humpty Dumpty.
It took only that small part of their conversation for Gwaine to be certain that he was about to learn of activities matching And Company's unsavoury appearances. It had been a while since he had heard Busk, a special brand of cant spoken pretty much exclusively in the inner Ring of Segoncaer, but the vocabulary was very distinctive. If there was one thing Gwaine knew for certain, it was that nothing good ever came out of Escetian thugs meeting up in shady taverns in Camelot. Particularly not after recent events.
"Ain't gonna be no cockerel getting' wrung if he's gone rabid," grunted Shiny. Humpty Dumpty gave a series of response-grunts, though that was probably supposed to be a laugh.
Goatee, for a change, did not grunt, but drawled languidly, "Quit your gobbling, you morons." His choice of words and distinct accent told Gwaine that he wasn't a native at busking. No slum-dweller Gwaine had ever met spoke with that carefully polished stressing. Goatee had grown up well fed, clothed and educated. Interesting company, this. Shiny laughed – or grunted, rather.
"As if any of them herders has bottled the tricking," he said. Goatee paused, then shrugged. Gwaine suppressed a satisfied smile. The whole point of Busk was that its analogous terminology was very hard to understand unless you were a tumbler – which is to say, a native to the slums of Segoncaer. Or unless you had worked as a bodyguard there for a couple of months and had spent a lot of your nights – and days – in various dubious establishments. Which, incidentally, Gwaine had done a couple of years back. He wouldn't dare try busking himself after such a long time, the slang was notorious for double innuendo and a single word could mean the difference between apologising and propositioning, but he had no trouble keeping up with his new friends.
"Anything I can get you, good Sirs?" Gwaine's other new friend, the future womaniser, had darted out of the kitchen and positioned himself in front of Goatee And Company. Goatee looked up at him and shrugged.
"Three of whatever is best," he said, "no, make that four." He nodded at a fourth man, dressed in a grey travelling cloak, approaching the table.
"Four of our famous house-ale it is then," chimed the kid and squeezed past the newcomer. When he passed Gwaine, he pushed up the peak of his cap and raised an eyebrow.
"Nose, business?" he mouthed. Gwaine rolled his eyes.
"You're late," said Goatee when Cloak, as Gwaine decided to name the fourth man, had settled down.
"It turned pants," said Cloak. Which meant that there had been some kind of complication to their business, whatever that was.
"What do you mean?" asked Goatee, "The feeder didn't spot you, did he?"
That was the moment in which Gwaine perked up. 'Feeder' was Busk for 'prince'. Now, being in Camelot and princes not exactly being a dime a dozen, there was really only one person Goatee could be referring to. Arthur.
"What are you taking me for, a dude? Of course the feeder didn't mount me," said Cloak indignantly.
"No, but there was..." He trailed off as their drinks arrived and waited until the boy had scuffled back behind the counter to once again busy himself with his grubby cloth before he continued.
"Like I was saying, he didn't mount me, but there was a raven. And a powerful one, at that." Gwaine's eyebrow rose simultaneously with Goatee's. A sorcerer?
"A raven?" Goatee repeated slowly. Humpty Dumpty and Shiny looked appalled. Cloak nodded.
"I saw him culling six of ours when they tried banging the feeder. With one single trick. Slammed them right into the trees like he was cracking a single ward." Impressive, Gwaine thought. Six men with one single word. Now, he didn't know all that much about magic, but that definitely sounded like 'a powerful one'. Goatee asked the question that was also on Gwaine's mind.
"Why would a raven be protecting the feeder? Camelot's Bull has ordered a flocking on all ravens."
"That isn't all," said Cloak lowering his voice and leaning forward, "he didn't just pumpkin the feeder, he was with him." Humpty Dumpty grunted.
"That's cracking pants without a wrench. There's no way a raven is with Camelot's feeder." Gwaine hated to agree with someone as dumb as Humpty Dumpty, but there was really no way in hell Arthur was travelling with a sorcerer. Cloak sniffed and leaned back.
"Oh, but he is. I stickenem'd them since they left town. He's a bottler to the feeder, they were together the whole time. Lanky leech, black hair, wearing a ridiculous neckerchief."
Gwaine spurted his drink over the bar. Goatee spun around and fixated the knight with his beady black eyes. There was nothing nondescript about those, they spelled bloody murder for anybody who dared eavesdropping.
Gasping for air, Gwaine had the presence of mind to slam his mug down and start yelling slurred curses at the innkeeper and the boy behind the counter, pertaining to the quality of their ale. The very unjustly abused man threw him a poisonous glance while the boy just smirked, but Goatee seemed to buy his drunken act and turned back to his mates. Gwaine chanced missing out on some of the discussion and continued swearing until he was certain that he had reasonably established himself as background-noise.
All the while, his thoughts were racing. He must have misunderstood that. His Busk must be more messed up than he thought. Or they were referring to a different prince, after all. There was no way in hell that Merlin, Prince I-hate-Magic-Arthur's manservant, his harmless, loyal friend Merlin, was a sorcerer. Impossible.And yet...
How many princes other than Arthur were running around Camelot with lanky, dark-haired guys with an odd preference for ridiculous neckerchiefs in tow? And with how many of such neckerchief-sporting guys other than Merlin were those princes friends?
Come to think of it, how many neckerchief-sporting guys had a weird tendency to come out of fights unscathed, even when all odds were against them? How many such neckerchief-sporting guys went to a bridge with their completely non-magical friends, where they were addressed as 'magic and strength' by a weird sword-into-flower-turning dwarf? He had been somewhat distracted at the time, and then he had mostly forgotten about is, but Gwaine certainly wasn't 'magic', which could only mean...
Bloody hell, Merlin was a sorcerer. It all made sense now, all those little incidents which Gwaine had never really wanted to make sense.
On a different note, what was the lunatic thinking, mucking about with magic under Uther's nose? Had he gone completely off the deep end? Had his mother dropped him on the head once too often when he was a child? Did he have a bloody death-wish?
Ah...strike that last question, but still, of all the daft, dumb, utterly moronic ways of getting himself killed, he had to go and hire on as Arthur's manservant?
Well, there were easier ways of getting yourself dead and Gwaine would happily demonstrate several of them to Merlin as soon as he got his scrawny neck between his fingers. For now he would content himself with making sure that nobody beat him to it.
"...makes this a right one hander," Humpty Dumpty was just saying, "nobody told us about no raven. I say we flare it."
"Don't go shock gobbling, ya camp capon. We've got our own raven, remember?" said Shiny. Humpty Dumpty shivered.
"'nother reason to flare it. That feele is bent, I'm tellin' ya. Have ya seen her eyes? It's like ya'll have a right cull if she just looks at ya long enough." Humpty Dumpty pointed at his eyes with two fingers, leaning forward in his toppled chair, which creaked dangerously.
"A right cull, just with them eyes," he repeated, smacking his hand on the table top.
"Then don't look at her, simple as that," said Shiny and started grunting as if he had said something particularly inspired. Humpty Dumpty's mouth pulled into a pout, which looked really ridiculous on someone like him.
"You just wait till she decides to play with you," he said. Shiny stopped grunting and threw a haunted look around the room. Goatee pursed his lips and drummed the top of the table with his fingers.
"What about the feeder?" he asked Cloak.
"Took a pointer."
Gwaine near well spurted his drink all over the counter again. Learning that one of your friends took an arrow and might be dead will do that to you.
"But it wasn't a cull, the raven saw to that. I stickenem'd them for a while, till they burrowed in with some feele."
"A girl?" asked Goatee, frowning. Cloak nodded quickly.
"But it didn't look like she was a bottler to them. Near a right would have left them there to rot, but the raven tricked her round."
"I see," muttered Goatee, "anything else?" Cloak paused and took a sip from his mug. Gwaine on the other hand refrained. He wasn't going to risk spilling his drink again if Cloak came up with another spurt-inducing revelation.
"We-ell," said Cloak slowly, setting down his mug. An impatient muscle twitched in Goatee's jaw.
"About the raven," Cloak continued equally slowly. The muscle in Goatee's jaw twitched again and he looked like he was going to wring his informant's neck if he continued baiting him. Gwaine decided that if it came to that, he would gladly lend a hand or two.
"You see, I heard him tricking with the feele after ring free – trying to tack up, no doubt." Gwaine shook his head with a good measure of amusement. He was ready to bet everything he owned that Merlin had been as far from trying to get under the girl's skirts as Humpty Dumpty and Shiny were from being geniuses. Somebody had forgotten to add 'deceit' to his personality when they made him. Though, considering that he had been practising sorcery right under Arthur's nose for who knows how many years, Gwaine might just have to revise his character-assessment.
"I hope your great information isn't that you watched him filling her cup," growled Goatee.
"Oh, no, no, it never came to that. Not outside anyway, though who knows what they were doing inside, two leeches and a young, healthy feele all alone at night..."
Urgh, that was just disgusting. Somebody had obviously taken Merlin's portion of sleaze and put it into Cloak's mind. Now, there were a couple of rather unflattering things Gwaine was ready to say about Arthur, but he had to be fair where fairness was due. Arthur was about as likely to take advantage of a girl that had helped him out in a pinch – or any kind of girl, really – as Merlin. He had this whole notion of chivalry and propriety going, vastly overrated in Gwaine's opinion, but laudable in its own sadly misguided way. Least of all would Arthur ever engage in such activities with Merlin. Good thing that Gwaine had refrained from drinking, because the mental image was certainly spurt-inducing.
"...anyway," Cloak said quickly, as the muscle in Goatee's jaw cramped permanently, "the feele told the raven that he was, you know," he leaned closer and lowered his voice so that Gwaine had to strain his ears to hear him over the noise in the tavern, "caught up in her web."
"Are you sure about that?" asked Goatee.
"The feele looked like she had bottled what she was tricking about and the raven seemed to agree,"
"She's going to have fun playing with him," said Goatee, nodding contently. "Is that all then?"
"I gave them our present and got out of there," Cloak replied, "I must be a draw or two ahead of them, as the feeder won't be able to make good pace for a while."
"Well, I had hoped that the feeder would be delayed more...but there will be other opportunities before he and his raven reach Hadrot. And if the raven is indeed caught up in her web, he won't be much of a problem. If your information is correct and our present is working properly," said Goatee.
"I can't speak for the present, that's your curtain, but my song is as clear as morning-dew," Cloak replied.
"We'll see about that." Goatee drew out a purse – very well filled, judging by the sound of it – and flung it at Cloak.
"You'll get more if your claims are true. If they aren't..." he smiled very unpleasantly, "I will personally present you as a new toy to her." Cloak shivered, and Gwaine didn't blame him. He had no idea who 'she' was, though he certainly intended to find out, but Goatee's face made it clear that being 'her' toy wasn't something you ever wanted to do.
"I told you everything I've sucked," said Cloak, clutching at the purse hastily. Goatee nodded.
"What about the other thing I asked you to do?" he asked. Cloak rummaged in the depths of his garments and pulled out a gold chain. Fastened to it was a small locket with what seemed to be a ruby embedded in the lid.
"Wasn't a single ward to get it," he said, a whiny note in his voice, and placed it on the table in front of him. Goatee took it and held it up in the air to inspect it. It was beautiful work, Gwaine could see that even from where he was sitting. The chain was but a wisp, gleaming in the light. The locket was about the size of a gold coin, the lid beautifully decorated with complicated engravings. In the middle a ruby threw small red reflexes unto Goatee's hands and the tabletop. The man opened it and an unpleasant smile stretched his lips.
"Yes, this is it. My Lord will be very satisfied," he said, snapping the locket shut.
"Like I said, it wasn't no single ward...I think it merits just a little more-"
"Can I get you anything else, good Sirs?" The kid that liked to distribute unsolicited advice had once again abandoned his grubby cloth and approached the group's table. Goatee looked up at him, eyes narrowed in irritation.
"Do we look like you can get us anything else?" he asked with a growl. The kid recoiled and drew the peak of his cap deeper into his face. A wise decision, Gwaine thought, because he had started to suspect that 'that feele' wasn't the only one who could give you 'a right cull with just them eyes', as Shiny had put it.
"I say," said the kid, a light tremor in his voice, "no bad blood, if you please, good Sir. Just d- just doing my job. This is a tavern, don't you know? Now, see, generally, people come to a tavern to drink an' we pride ourselves on providing the best customer service in these parts." Gutsy, thought Gwaine, but about as smart as practising sorcery in Camelot, if Goatee's face was any indication. Humpty Dumpty rose from his seat and displayed all his troll sized glory to the kid and anybody who was in the vicinity.
"I'm gonna do you a service right across your throat, you camp capon, if you don't spill air right now," he grunted. One of his fingers was about the size of the kid's scrawny arms and those large fingers were currently employed with stroking a particularly sharp and pointy looking knife. The kid took a step back and Gwaine hoped that he had taken the not-so-subtle hint.
The problem with those natural charmers is that from the cradle onward they learn that they can smile and joke their way out of all trouble. Unfortunately, the real world just doesn't work like your nursery. Some, like Gwaine, pick up on that quickly and live a couple more years. Others take a little longer and usually they end up getting a dinner invitation from the worms.
This particular charmer seemed to be dead set on accepting the invitation, for he folded his arms across his chest in a defiant gesture and drew himself up to full size. Which extended just past Humpty Dumpty's elbows.
"I say," he repeated, "I dunno what a camp capon is, but I don't think it's got anything to do with sleepin' rough. I'll tell you what, good Sir,-"
But nobody ever learned just what the kid intended to tell Humpty Dumpty, because Gwaine, who was apparently infected with the dreadful disease called chivalry, took his mug and flung it across the room with full force. It hit the wall and shattered into tiny pieces. All heads turned towards the source of the noise and stared at the ale slowly dripping from the raw stone-wall. Then all heads turned towards the source of the flying mug and stared at Gwaine.
"You rotten bastards!" Gwaine roared in his best imitation of a drunkard. Which was a very good imitation.
"Do you intend to poison me with this pig swill? You!" He toppled forward and grabbed the kid by the scruff of the neck. "Did that hell-hound Elyan pay you for killing me, huh? Did he? What did he pay you?" He gave the kid a violent shake that sent his teeth chattering and silently apologised to Elyan for the slander. His name had been the first that came to mind, right after Arthur's. Whom he thought wise not to mention in front of Goatee And Company.
"What now? Who?" asked the kid, trying to wriggle out of Gwaine's grip. The knight held on firmly and continued shaking and insulting the foolish brat until Humpty Dumpty had decided that the kid was dead whether he did him a service or not and settled down. After that, Gwaine continued to shake and insult him until the innkeeper had shuffled over and taken custody of his young worm-loving employee and sent him off to scrub pots. And after that, Gwaine insulted and threatened the ale, the brat, Elyan, the brat, everything that was not-so-holy, the brat, and the innkeeper. And after that, he found himself having a very inspired conversation with a dung-heap out on the streets.
Now, as a general rule, dung-heaps make for very intense conversation, but they tend to raise a tremendous stink when they find themselves at odds with someone. Gwaine therefore extricated himself as quickly as he could and, after banishing the traces of the encounter from mind and body to the best of his ability, tried to figure out what he should do next.
Getting kicked out of the tavern had not exactly been the smartest move, but it had been unavoidable, lest he fancied having a dead kid on his hands. He just hoped that the innkeeper had plenty of pots. Should the young fool somehow find another way to get himself into trouble, well, Gwaine had done the best he could and thus felt justified in washing his hands off him.
Of course, Gwaine thought, as he put on his jacket, which the innkeeper had had the courtesy to throw out alongside him, he could just leave and pretend he never heard anything. As soon as he had finished thinking that thought, that monster called responsibility reared its ugly head again and with an insolent snarl chased away any such sensible idea.
Well then, sticking his nose into other people's business it was. Gwaine, who despite his roughish life-style and appearance was actually a fairly systematic person, organised his thoughts in form of a mental list. The following questions begged to be answered:
First off; what was Goatee and Company's interest in slowing down Arthur and what were they trying to distract him from? No answer so far.
Secondly; what where the means they planned to employ to accomplish their goal? Unsavoury and most certainly life-threatening, obviously. They seemed to have embraced the possibility of Arthur not surviving their efforts.
Thirdly; what was the 'present' Cloak had given to Arthur and Merlin? No answer to that, either, though Gwaine thought it was safe to say that it wasn't flowers.
And lastly; why where Arthur and Merlin travelling to Hadrot in the first place?
Gwaine sighed. More questions and less answers than he would have liked. What was worse, while he could think of many more questions (like what the hell Merlin meant by practising sorcery), he could think up no answers at all.
Re-entering the tavern was out of the question, as it would draw attention. At least, Gwaine thought absent-mindedly, he'd gotten around paying the bill. Which, considering the anorexic state of his purse, was a good thing.
There was only one option left to him, all things considered: Wait until Goatee and Company had finished their discussion, then follow them in the hopes of being led to the answers he craved.
The sky was heavy with clouds and the night was dark and foggy, which meant he would most likely not be discovered easily. On the other hand, the fog meant that he would have to keep close to the men he was to follow lest he lose them. It was a good thing he had not managed to drink very much, his steps were steady and his mind clear, which was an advantage. If the men had come on foot, that was. If they had horses, there was very little he could do. Hooves could be muffled with cloth, but horses had a bad tendency to make other noises, regardless of their masters' wishes for stealth.
Gwaine pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and retreated into the shadows of an alley opposite the tavern, squinting at the entrance. If they had horses, he'd figure out something else, he told himself. Or better yet, maybe his sense of responsibility would prove to be reasonable and admit that there was really nothing he could do.
An eternity seemed to pass and the water seeping through the soles of his shoes was beginning to turn his toes numb, when the door finally swung open. The first to exit was Cloak. He looked up at the dark sky, muttered a quiet curse and started down the street into the village. Gwaine remained put. From what he understood, Cloak was just a hired hand who had done his part. It was Goatee whom he was really interested in.
A couple of minutes later, the door opened again and the person of interest stepped outside, closely followed by Humpty Dumpty and Shiny, who were quietly grunting amongst each other. Goatee also threw a look at the sky, but he merely shivered and drew his coat closer around him. Then he turned and walked down the street in the direction opposite to the one Cloak had disappeared in; out into the fields surrounding the village. No horses, apparently, Gwaine thought with a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance. He gave the three men a small head-start, then followed.
Their route followed the road for about a quarter of an hour, past a couple of farming sheds and gated meadows. Gwaine allowed himself to fall back a good bit, but regretted that decision soon, when after a bend in the road he discovered that the men had disappeared. He strained his eyes at the darkness and examined his surroundings carefully. There, to his left, he discovered a barely visible path opening up between the high bushes at the road-side. He took it, quickened his pace as much as he could without sounding like an army on the march-through and caught up to his quarry at the outskirts of a small creek.
He needn't have worried about being discovered, Goatee and Company were obviously not expecting anybody trailing them, for they did not turn around even once. Gwaine, on the other hand, found his nerves playing tricks on him. Every twig breaking under his feet, every rustle in the trees were cause for him to jump. Once or twice he could have sworn he heard light footsteps behind him, but when he turned around to scan the path, he discovered no movement except for some branches rocking in the wind.
Further they walked into the night and Gwaine was just beginning to think that they would never reach their destination, whatever that might be, when the trees finally opened up to reveal a house pressed against a formation of rocks. House, he said, though it was much closer to being a fortress and the most outrageous piece of architecture Gwaine had ever seen. Several architects must have been employed in constructing it at the same time, without seeing what the others were doing or showing any regard for the laws of nature, for there was a wide assortment of miss-matched styles and materials that seemed to defy gravity.
Partially it seemed to have been inspired by the Greeks, partially it reminded Gwaine of the descriptions sea-traders had made of the wooden constructions up in the far north. Other parts again, were unlike anything he had ever heard of. The strangest part was the roof of the central wing. In the middle there was a tower which seemed to be all windows, with beams along its length, not straight, but winding their way in between tall, oval windows. The centre-beam exceeded the length of the tower by about half its height and sharpened towards the end. Web-like constructions of beams culminated in two more poles rising into the sky to each side of the tower, so that it seemed like a gigantic skeletal hand was groping for the sky. In between the beams, Gwaine saw windows with nothing behind them but air and rock.
It looked like someone had taken parts of buildings all across the known world, bucketed them about with enthusiasm and then tossed them against the rocks, where they remained as they fell. Gwaine felt his spine crawl as he approached it and a growing reluctance to enter. It didn't seem natural, no matter how you looked at it.
Goatee had reached the iron gate and walked right through it. Humpty Dumpty and Shiny seemed to dislike the building as much as Gwaine did, because the paused briefly before the entrance, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, but they too entered at last and disappeared in the shadows of the pillars.
Gwaine pushed aside all his feelings of discomfort and followed, though he was starting to wonder whether he had lost his mind. He quickly crossed the last two metres separating him from the fence, careful to stay free of the grovel and ducked into the archway, past the gate. The bright light of the torches stung in his eyes and made them water.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp tug at his jacket and whirled around, barely managing to suppress a startled cry. What he saw through a blurry curtain of tears almost had him yelp again, had not his heart leapt into his throat and closed it off.
The fabric of his jacket was caught between the sharp, white teeth of a giant tiger, muscles bulging ready to pounce, eyes gleaming gold in the darkness and its muzzle curled in a savage leer. Gwaine felt himself turn to stone, wondering which of the breaths he hardly dared to take would be his last. Moments passed in which neither animal nor knight-turned-statue moved. The predator was waiting, sitting perfectly still. Too still, Gwaine realised. He blinked away the tears and gave a sigh, feeling very shaky and very silly. It was not him who was a statue, it was the tiger. A very life-like, creepy one, but just a statue nonetheless. The vivid gleam in its eyes was nothing but the reflection of the torches' light.
Gwaine disentangled his jacket with an incredulous shake of his head. Jumpy as a little girl. If any of his fellow knights ever learned about this, they'd laugh themselves silly. He was just about to move along, when a crunching noise in the yard made him stop once again. The crunching grew louder and Gwaine quickly pressed himself into the shadow of the giant tiger. Not a moment too soon – a second later, he heard the familiar grunting voices of Humpty Dumpty and Shiny. One of them, Gwaine could not make out which, was complaining in all the colours Busk phraseology had to offer about having to stand guard-duty on such a rotten night, and the other one was agreeing.
"But-" the complacent one said, "I'd rather do owling than run across that feele. Crooked as her house, I'm tellin' ya, an she'll give ya a right cull."
"Just with them eyes," grunted the other one, "just with them eyes, I'm tellin' ya. Ain't natural, that feele."
"Ain't natural," agreed his companion. Gwaine rolled his eyes. Inspired conversation, that.
As much as he was amused by And Company's inability to produce any original thought, he was annoyed by their presence. There was no getting into that yard through the gate now and he very much doubted that Humpty Dumpty and Shiny had enough brains to comprehend Goatee's plans. To find out which, after all, was his goal.
He scowled at the tiger. If he hadn't spend that much time staring at the grinning stone-monster, he might have gotten across the yard before the guards reached their post. Or, he though, I might have been right in the middle of it with nowhere to hide. No, this way was probably better.
He waited until one of the men started speaking again, then quickly crept away, the sound of his footsteps covered by the large guard's complaints. As soon as he had reached the tree-line, he dove into the shadows and turned around.
His eyes scanned the building. A group of windows to his far left which he knew to have been dark a couple of moments ago were now illuminated. That must be where Goatee had gone. And some woman was inside, someone And Company were obviously afraid off. Their employer, maybe, or at least Goatee's partner? It stood to reason that there would be conversation between them, since she had not been present at the meeting in the tavern. If Gwaine made haste, he might get a report on what had happened after he had been kicked out.
He let his gaze wander down the fence. It was tall and had vicious looking spikes on top. But not far from the illuminated windows there was a tree with sturdy branches that reached well into the yard. If he climbed that, he could get inside without having to deal with the fence at all. Gwaine smirked as he sneaked towards the tree. Posting guards at the entrance, but not cutting down trees right at the fence? Amateurs.
But he wasn't going to complain, he thought as he pulled himself up the lowest branch and proceeded to climb higher, they were making his job that much easier.
In hindsight, the second he thought that, he should have realised that there was no way in hell things would ever be that simple for him and legged it as far and as fast as he could. Of course he didn't do that and of course that was when things went horribly wrong.
When he jumped, he hoped that he would land softly and softly land he did, for the most part. His fall was cushioned by something warm, though his elbow collided very painfully with something hard. There was a loud yelp and two thuds as first his cushion, then he, crashed to the ground in a flailing heap. A string of rough curses followed. For a second, Gwaine thought he had landed right on top of Humpty Dumpty or Shiny, but then he realised that though the voice and the accent were familiar, the voice was too high to belong to either. He fought to disentangle himself from the other person, succeeded – though not without stomaching a kick or two – and peered into the darkness in front of him. His eyes met with a scrawny figure and a mop of tousled dark curls. He didn't need more.
"You!" he hissed, swaying between incredulity and annoyance.
"Aye, me. Ouch," said the damn kid from the tavern, "I think you broke my nose."
"It's your brain that is broken and I had nothing to do with that. Quiet down, for Heaven's sake!"
"Ouch," repeated the kid, though quieter.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Gwaine whispered.
"That's what I should be asking you, Sir. Don't you know it's frightfully bad manners to step on people?" The kid fingered his face and gave a yelp which made Gwaine jump.
"Bloody...keep it down! How was I supposed to know you were loitering about down here?"
"True, I gue-...lice of lies! I'm terribly sorry. Mea culpa. I'll make it up to you, I swear, I just can't...I'm sorry!" he whispered very quickly, jumping up. The next second he had grabbed the branch above his head and swung himself up soundlessly. Gwaine had never seen anybody disappear that quickly.
"What..." he muttered, turning around. Then he saw 'what'. Or rather, 'what' hit him square in the face and knocked out his lights. The last thing he thought before everything went dark was that sticking your nose into other people's business always, always gets you into trouble.
/~/
Okay, so next time (hopefully not next year), Gwaine is sober for real and definitely in trouble...it doesn't get any better from there. Also, a certain somebody talks too much and we just might find out who 'she' is. Or not, I really don't know, I'm ignoring my own previews from now on.