Wallachia Town Tavern
Evening
Around the time when the last of the sunlight would have been departing from the fragrant summer air (if a single ray had fallen on the countryside that day), the Wallachia Officers of the Guard barked for a fourth round of beers. Sitting comfortably at the bar, Trevor, McDonald, and Goriyas waxed nostalgically about past crimes in the city. The others had found women to pursue, and left the three of them to their own devices.
Montoya was at one of the Watch Me tables, engaged in flirtatious conversation with a plump red-headed woman, who had the most amazingly large breasts he had ever seen in his forty-two years of existence. While he had indulged in the company of several mistresses during his marriage, Sonja was never far from his thoughts, and he often regretted his clandestine affairs, although he was fairly sure his wife had knowledge of a few of them. Sonja Delgado-Montoya was fiercely intelligent, perhaps even more than her husband knew.
"I have the honor of calling myself Constable Belmont's first lieutenant and advisor," Montoya bragged with pride. He couldn't quite recall this young lady's name, but most of the women of the city had only the vaguest notion of the identities of the men they shared beds with. "What I'm not so honored to call myself is Nanny of the Wallachia Guards."
The woman laughed heartily, and that was wonderful, because her chest bounced and heaved so forcefully that he was actually expecting her to come tumbling out of her blouse like melons from a merchant's cart. And now, as he raised his mug of ale to his lips (How many is this now? he asked himself. Six? Eight? Tentwentythirty?), he remembered her name. Pettie, it was. Her father was Hash Renfrew, the skilled town blacksmith. A man he dealt with on a weekly basis.
"Nanny of the Wallachia Guards?!" she replied in utter disbelief. Her laughter tapered off into a sly grin. "Are ye tellin me none o' yer comrades can fend fer 'emselves?"
"Of course not," Montoya responded with an equally knowing smile, "if they're cleaning the cells or stabling the hosses."
"You're goin' to have to treat me so very special if you don' want yer Cap'n to hear that." She leaned forward and suddenly he felt her hand between his legs, touching and exploring. "Ye can show me somethin special, hmm?"
As Montoya assured her that yes, he could do that very easily, that would be his pleasure, the bartender, a rather sallow man named Avery, approached the Constable's group. He waited for Trevor to finish telling a joke and stood with his arms crossed, sizing them up as he spoke.
"I wa'ant present at that murder trial you had there, Chief," he informed them gruffly. His hair, which was a steely silver, stood up in wild patches like jungle undergrowth. Cold blue eyes slid over each of them in turn, seeming to search for something. A sign of fear, perhaps. When none of the three responded, he fixed his gaze on Trevor. "Caught a glimpse o' the crowd you had out there, though. Sick goddamn lot, all of em." He shook his head in disbelief. "A woman came through here bellerin about the Devil leavin his body. Said she saw it right 'fore her eyes, she did."
"If you're trying to insinuate that this was some sort of recreational event, I assure you that it was not." Trevor met his stare unflinchingly. He had confronted this man several times before (had arrested him twice, as a matter of fact) and knew he was not a threat. Avery was a jealous old landowner, who held nothing but contempt for the youthful and the joyful. Unable to find a woman to share a house with, he lived in the upstairs of the tavern, leading a pitiful existence among the drunks of Wallachia and travelers who happened by while on the road to warmer places.
Avery started to reply, but Trevor held up a hand. "I'm not finished, sir. You think this was a ploy to increase commerce? Not at all. Our city is the only colony sizable enough to host a crowd numbering nearly a thousand. You might also do well to remember that the foreign merchants are the only thing keeping this pitiful watering hole from becoming our new holding area for criminals." Goriyas laughed and nodded his head emphatically. He had nine beer steins lined up in front of him like a toymaker's dolls. He swayed often and had to grab Trevor's shoulder for support.
The bartender seemed about to reply with something scathing, then simply grunted. "If you weren't the blasted Chief, I'd have twelve men in 'ere to show you what's what." He moved off to the opposite end of the bar and leaned on the counter, sulking.
"You hear that son of a whore?" McDonald asked plaintively. "He just done threatened you, Trevor! He can't do that! Why-"
"Think not of it," Trevor muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "He hasn't a boy with a stick to threaten us. Are you going to let me buy you a beer, Elton?"
McDonald snorted. "Y'know I ain't a drinker. Drinkin's for fools."
"Then fools we will be, then!" Goriyas shouted, and slammed his stein on the counter. "Lord bless us!"
Avery ignored them and sauntered over to the Watch Me tables. "Anyone else buyin 'fore I go roll a smoke?"
Montoya rose to his feet shakily. He had a raging erection, and it made a noticeable protrusion in his dungarees. "An ale for me and some brew for the honey," he announced, stumbling against Pettie. He leaned in close to her ear. "I'm going to go inspect our friend's outhouse hospitalities," he whispered confidentially. "You just keep that fine arse put right-" he hiccupped, and they both laughed drunkenly. "Stay right there!"
The layout of Soobie's Tavern was very simplistic. A straight aisle from the front batwing doors went past the bar and various tables to the back, where a T intersection led to either the card games (left) or the supply rooms (right). Avery worked hard at making it clear that patrons were not allowed in the storage area, which was often mistaken for a latrine. As Montoya passed this junction, he saw Helzer with his brother and a couple of young-looking girls. He swept by Trevor and the other two (McDonald was explaining about the time he and a deceased officer named Max Steck had arrested a group of gypsies for vandalizing crops, only to discover it had been a donkey from Aljiba that had somehow gotten lost) with a curt nod and elbowed open the front doors.
The air was crisp and smelled of rain. Montoya loved that smell. It reminded him of his childhood, when he had lived on a small plantation. His parents had been servants, and he had begun working with his hands when he was six. He rounded the front corner of the building and saw a group of men standing around the outhouse, laughing and pounding on the walls of the latrine. They had somehow rotated the structure so that the door was pinned against the stone wall dividing the tavern's property from the neighboring farm. As Montoya watched, a section of the roof fell to the ground and a familiar-looking villager poked his head out. He yelled and cursed his friends, some of whom were so overwhelmed with hysterical laughter that they had simply collapsed in a drunken stupor.
Well, can't be waiting on those yokels, he thought to himself, and untied his stained workpants. He leaned his forehead against the rough wood siding of the tavern, suddenly feeling tired. It took a moment for the flow to get going, but it was worth the effort.
Why aren't you at home with your wife? He looked around suddenly, as if someone had spoken it in his ear. He resumed his leaning position and sighed gruffly. Please, leave it alone, he pleaded. It's been a long day. Hell, it's been a long month.
His conscience wasn't through with him, though. So what are you going to do? Take that woman down the street, share a room with her for the night? Or maybe you'll just need it for an hour. Then you can go home and explain to Sonja how you had to clean up the Square, deliver the reports to the Council, and rescue a baby from the evil Irish bandits. Or maybe you can-
The voice of guilt droned on and on, hammering away at his mind. He snorted and spat into the dry, rain-starved grass (although from the looks of the sky, it wasn't going to go hungry for much longer- maybe a few more minutes). She's had a few men of her own, remember, he countered, but without conviction. He didn't know that for sure; in fact, he had good reason to believe she had been absolutely faithful to him throughout their marriage.
Still undecided, but more torn than ever between his choices, he put the hogleg (Chamberlain's word) away and started to walk back to the entrance. Halfway back, he stopped, a smile surfacing slowly on his face. His eyes stared at the front wall of the butcher shop across the road, seeing nothing. A great realization had occurred to him, and in his fully inebriated state, it was exaggerated to the point where it nearly overloaded his mental switchboard. Moments of introspect were a rarity for Montoya; any of the Wallachia deputies would have told you that.
He could go back to Sonja right now, at this very moment. There was no need to even return inside the bar; he had all of his possessions on his person. It would be the start of a new man. He would tell his wife how much he loved her, and tomorrow he would take her to the Garrishes', down the narrow lane from them. Sonja loved Calbrena Garrish's cooking immensely; would have been happy to live on it permanently. And there would be flowers…
His mind returned to Pettie Renfrew, waiting for him in the tavern with her large hazel eyes and her even larger breasts, which seemed to somehow relentlessly tug at his attention. He grunted and his fists curled in a sudden flash of anger. What business did she have, tempting him with her body (which was probably festered with disease)? What gave her the right to make him betray the woman he loved? Hell, why did any of the women he'd had during his marriage feel it was their place to lead him, use him, and threaten the very stability of his family? His ugly face contorted into a mask of rage that was almost sublime in its purity.
"Stupid, feckless tramp!" he whispered, plodding along the dirt road in the direction of home. He was passing the grocer's and the structure that served as City Hall (a fire of questionable origin had burned the building itself to the ground less than a month ago), and the tall Catholic Church of Sister Mary Immaculata loomed ahead on the right, like a soldier defying the gathering army of thunderheads. It was going to start raining any second now (shitting potatoes, as his father Eldred Montoya had been fond of saying), and here he would be, soaked to the skin and still almost five wheels from his ranch.
"Whore of Babylon!" he cried, his voice rising. He threw his fist into the air like a spectator at a political rally. His speech slurred more than ever. "Slutty cooze! Trifling bitch!" He spat every derogatory name for a woman he could muster to mind. It was all her fault. Why did God allow the existence of women such as she?
Passing the makeshift councilman's building, he stopped abruptly. His fist fell to his side, striking his thigh with a muffled thump. Jaw hanging agape like the serfs and slaves that visited King Seldon's glass palace for the first time, he stared ahead, eyes narrowed to decrease the blurring of his vision.
A hooded figure stood against the northern wall of the church, his back to Montoya. In his hand he held a piece of chalk or ash, and he was writing with it on the stone surface of the temple. None of this seemed suspicious to Montoya at first; he simply assumed it was a monk from the convent. Perhaps he even knew the man.
As he drew closer (he had quieted and was now intent on getting a look at the man's face; Sonja and Pettie were the furthest things from his mind), he realized that something was amiss. Several somethings, in fact. The cloaked figure wore blocky hunter's boots, not the sandals of a Catholic monk. And the color of the robe was wrong… it was a dark gray, resembling the clothing of a shepard or a yeoman. The traditional monk's cloak was brown.
The last detail (it was so obvious he had completely missed it at first) socked home with the force of a lead ball fired from a musket. This man was defacing property; not just private or government property, but church property. And oh yes, oh friends and neighbors, that was definitely enough motivation for Rikuo Vlastes Montoya. This gentleman, be he bard, nobleman, or peasant, would be spending tonight in the filthiest cell he could find, and most of tomorrow in the stocks.
"Hey," Montoya called. He had intended for it to come out sounding indignant, but he was still so taken aback by the fact that someone had dared to vandalize a church (and not just any church- Sister Mary's was so large it could be rightfully considered a cathedral) that it ended up sounding confused, even questioning. "Stop that, you! I'm an Officer of the Guard!" That came out better.
The figure turned, and Montoya had just enough time to register that it was a woman (and not anyone from Wallachia) before she turned and was off running, her feet kicking up small bursts of dirt. Her robe billowed out behind her in a cloud, and as she ran, picking up speed, it caught on a board protruding from the badly broken fence on the edge of the church's land. The cloak, which was tied around her neck, pulled taut, and she was jerked to a stop. Montoya could hear her small grunt of surprise.
That was all he needed to snap him out of his trance. He broke into a lurching, drunken sprint, hoping that she wouldn't free herself before he could reach her. That sure had been pretty funny, though, the way she had clumsily trapped herself. If she hadn't been so tragically foolish that she couldn't keep out of her own way, he might have gone on staring in utter disbelief as she fled across the plains, cresting the small hill on the horizon and eventually disappearing. He laughed harshly, more an articulation of frustration than humor, and picked up speed.
She saw his approach and decided that the robe was expendable. Pulling the knot free from her throat, she left it draped over the fenceboards like a piece of wash and wheeled around in the direction of escape.
"No, you shan't!" Montoya yelled, and lunged at her with his shoulder out, as it was recommended to tackle criminals. He caught her almost perfectly; in retrospect he wasn't entirely sure she had been really trying to escape. He threw his arms around her in an embrace that would have seemed romantic under other circumstances. She was lifted off the ground and they fell to earth with a bone-breaking thud, sliding almost ten feet. Montoya distinctly heard a brittle snap; something had separated in her shoulder, he was sure of it.
The woman gave a startled gasp of pain and began writhing on the ground. He used this opportunity to roll off of her and looked for something to tie her up with. He glanced behind himself quickly. It had suddenly occurred to him that she might not be alone. As a matter of fact, vandals and harriers never traveled by themselves. That was just the way it was. The immediate area seemed deserted, however, so he turned back to get a look at his detainee's face.
She was a woman, all right, but utterly unlike any woman he had ever seen before. Her eyes were brown and muddy, like his, and she had a thin, cruel-looking mouth that was, at the moment, twisted into a grimace of pain. Her lips were pale and purple. She had beautiful blonde hair that looked like it would have reached to her shoulders (as it was spread out behind her head in a fan, he couldn't really tell for sure). All of this seemed relatively normal. But there was something about her face that bothered him. It was smooth, unlined, devoid of any wrinkles or texture whatsoever. Even as her mouth moved in silent groans of pain, as her eyes squinted shut and a single tear rolled from the corner of one, no creases or lines appeared on her countenance. It was strange. It reminded Montoya of a scarecrow, or a golem. She looked less like a real person and more like someone who had been sketched by a particularly unskilled artist.
"Who are you?" he asked, running his tongue over his lips. They, along with his whole mouth, were very dry, and he didn't know if that was from running or just the excessive amount of ale. "I demand your name, traveler. Should you cooperate without resistance, I may spare you from an extended sentence."
The woman finally opened her eyes. The brown depths surveyed Montoya, seeming to analyze him. She raised one of her small hands, as if she were waving hello. He knelt in front of her expectantly.
"Pnung," she said in a flat, monotone voice, and at once Montoya felt an immense pain bolt its way through his back. It seemed to twist through his spinal cord like a rope around a tree; at any moment it felt as if he would simply break in two. He collapsed to the dry ground, his breath coming in harsh, startled gasps. And although it seemed impossible, the pain was increasing. He hadn't the strength to scream to begin with, but now he could barely summon breath into his lungs. If it didn't let up soon, he would simply die of suffocation.
DIE! his mind yammered aimlessly. The pain drove out all thought and reason, reducing him to a jerking figure in the dirt and dust, rendering him helpless as an infant. I WANT TO DIE! DIE! DIE! PLEASE!! And even that was lost as the pain rose to a shattering crescendo. Spit dribbled down his chin and snot blew from his nostrils in small bursts. His eyes stared hugely into the sky, not even noticing the first drops of precipitation that fell onto his face, and as his body continued to spasm, they began to fill with rain. His head, wet from sweat to begin with, was slowly becoming covered with dust as he rolled from side to side.
The pain finally began to subside after two more eternal minutes. He had begun grinding his remaining teeth with such force that, had the agony not retreated, they could very possibly have been reduced to powder. His seizure gradually ended itself, and he lay there, staring up into the clouds, his breath returning in a slow but steady hitching. Some dim part of his mind urged him to get up and see if the woman had taken to her heels, but he didn't have the energy to lift his head.
What just happened to me? he asked himself. What did she do? Did she hit me with some kind of branding iron? He tried to raise an arm to wipe the rain and tears from his eyes, but was unable. The thought that she could very well have shot him with a musket and he could be laying here bleeding to death came to mind, but immediately following that came another, far more disturbing possibility.
Magic.
Montoya's vivid imagination was adored by his wife and two children; he often applied it to his work, as well. In instances like this, though, he had found it could work just as well against him. The very notion of a wizard (or witch, in this case) running around the foothills of Wallachia and scribbling designs on walls was not only unbelievably stupid, but also fairly amusing.
Magic. Magic. Magicmagicmagic. Say the word enough and it would lose its cohesiveness. He wanted to make it meaningless, make it nonsense, make it nothing.
He closed his eyes and tried to get his brain to calm itself. His mind was a small boat caught in a whirlpool. The woman, who was she? Where had she come from? And, most important of all (at least at the moment), what had she done to him? And on the heels of that, what would Sonja do when he failed to return home?
That guilt-ridden part of him (weren't concerned about that ten minutes ago were you ricky no sir) tried to reemerge, but he fought it back easily. He knew he should tell Trevor about the woman immediately. In fact, they should probably get a search party formed and patrol the drawers. But he didn't think he would. From the way he was feeling at this moment, he thought he just might head straight home and sleep through the entire farming season.
But he still couldn't move.
"What in hell's name?!" he asked the looming sky. The clouds were bloated and pregnant with rain. As if in reply, the shower became a downpour, and he suddenly realized he would soon be laying in a puddle of mud, like a sow enjoying a relaxing afternoon. But his condition was improving, he realized. He hadn't been able to talk a few minutes ago. Now he tried to move his hand and his fingers clenched, open and closed, open and closed, as if he could draw strength from the rain-smelling air itself.
I want to roll a fag, he thought glumly. Then he remembered that his papers and bag of tobacco were in his breast pocket, which was soaked through. This did absolutely nothing to improve his mood, which was as stormy as the heavens above.
The wind, which had been fairly passive throughout the evening, picked up suddenly. Something light, perhaps a sheaf of parchment, fluttered over him and settled on his face. He stared up at the sky, uncomprehending. It was suddenly pitch black. What was going on here?
He realized what had happened, and poked his tongue out, feeling the texture of the material. It was cloth, and soaked with rain and mud. Having nowhere to spit, he swallowed it back with a grunt of disgust. To take his mind off of it, he tried his arm again and found he could bend it a little at the elbow.
Movement was returning slowly, like the sand of an hourglass. His legs were still useless, though, and he knew if he didn't get moving soon he would probably be hosting a bad case of pneumonia. He remembered his neighbor's daughter had succumbed to that less than three years ago, when there had been an epidemic that had claimed nearly a dozen lives.
Montoya tilted his head, putting his ear to the muddy ground. Was that rumbling he heard? Possibly the rumbling of an approaching chariot or stagecoach? Of course! What else would it be? What more could possibly go wrong on this night for him? The execution had been a day at the market compared to the rest of his evening.
He suddenly realized how funny he must look. He was laying in the dirt (only now it was an absolute mudpit and could not be called anything else), a ragged bit of cloth on his face (which he knew- absolutely knew- had been used as a sweatrag or a handkerchief by a wanderer or a monk), drunk as a lord and unable to move. He laughed, softly at first, then building into a near-hysterical scream, jerking his head so much that the cloth fell to the side of his head with a splash. His mouth hung open as he released his mirth, and wind-driven rain swished in, slightly stinging his face. And why not laugh like the village idiot for a while? It might be his last chance in this world. The rumble had grown stronger, much closer now, and he imagined how he would look, sprawled in the middle of Great Deacon's Road like a child awake too late on All Hollow's Eve. The driver would likely not even pause. Who would complain about another dead vagrant?
The approaching noise became deafening, and over it Montoya could hear the cracking of a whip and the ninnying of horses. He craned his neck to his right, a grin of pain etched to his face, and saw with relief that it wouldn't run him down; it would pass nearly fifteen paces behind him. That was good. He could almost sit up by now (his damn legs were still being unresponsive), and he would be bound for a warm fire and his wife's arms as soon as he could handle the journey. And he would tell her everything, editing neither his bravery nor his pure foolishness. She would listen raptly, he knew. Unlike most couples in Wallachia city, Rikuo and Sonja talked often and laughed a lot together. Trevor Belmont and his wife, however, were not so lucky.
The rumbling filled the world. He couldn't think; the clank and groan of the wheels, the yelling and laughing of men and women, and the hoofbeats of the horses blended together in a cacophony that drilled into his brain like an icepick. He heard the carriage (it was actually a wagon without a top, and it was full of gypsies) pull up behind him. The driver shouted at the horses and they stopped, the overpowering noise falling almost completely silent, except for an occasional remark from one of the crowd in the wagonbed.
"Who's there?!" Montoya cried. He finally was able to sit up. His back crackled like the poppers during the Festival of Wide Earth. He turned and looked up at the driver. His legs were still unwilling to cooperate. He was starting to get seriously worried. He caught a glimpse of the cloth scrap that had been clinging to his face. He didn't know for sure, but he could almost swear he saw writing on it. Could the vandal have left that in a panic?
The gypsies were looking at him expectantly. Their expressions ranged from amused to concerned.
"Hile, fellow countrymen," Montoya greeted at last, tapping his throat with his index and middle fingers. It was a rather formal address, reserved primarily for individuals of authority and, in this case, those that were asked for a favor. It conveyed respect, courtesy, and, above all, the promise of honorable intentions.
"Hile, Guard o' the Watch," responded the driver. He was an older man with a rough, dirt-choked voice. He was wearing normal village attire, Montoya saw. Nothing that would make you think he was a gypsy. It was only his monocle that gave him away. None of the permanent residents of the villages used them anymore. It hung at his chest, penduluming back and forth as he spoke. "Are you in need of a ride? We're traveling south. You don't look like you're in proper condition for such a jaunt." He chuckled, a single exhalation that revealed his large, horse-like teeth.
"I would be indebted to you if you could take me," Montoya said in a rush. He was tripping over his words in desperation. He wanted to hurry and get going. The rain pounded down with unending strength. He was suddenly freezing. Snow never came to Wallachia, and he was not used to such low temperatures. "I just left the bar to walk home, you see… and I was attacked by a highwayman. He…" He paused, realizing he'd assigned the woman a male position without being aware of it. "He overpowered me quite easily. I'm afraid I haven't the strength to walk."
The driver nodded, his lower lip curled in apparent anger. "Those homeless, thieving curds! We can't sleep without someone on lookout. Gina! Vargas! Help him!"
A muscular, olive-complexioned man and an equally large woman in a serape jumped out of the wagon. Wordlessly, the man lifted him onto his shoulder like a giant alcoholic baby.
"Hold on," Montoya said suddenly. He gestured to the woman named Gina. "There's a scrap of cloth in the puddle over there. See it?"
"Yes. Is it yours?"
"Yeah, I wrote something on it." She handed it to him and, yes, there was writing on the scrap. Not a lot, but enough to pique his interest. There were simple letters and designs across the cloth, some of which looked vaguely familiar. Vargas set him down gently on a small pile of hay in the wagon. He thanked the man and put the scrap in his soggy rear pocket. Surely one of the monks or City Council members would know what those runic-looking letters meant. He was sure the woman had dropped it (possibly from her cloak) and that it would lead to her capture.
The driver cracked his whip and yelled to the horses, and they were moving, slowly at first, but picking up speed so gradually that it was nearly unnoticeable. Montoya leaned his head back against the wooden side of the wagon and closed his eyes. A grateful sigh escaped from his lips.
"What's it like being a Guard, mister?"
Montoya opened his eyes again (oh but he just wanted to sleep) and saw a small boy looking at him admiringly. The child had large, innocent brown eyes and wavy black hair. He was slightly pudgy, and he fidgeted with his hands constantly. Montoya thought he was one of the cutest things he had ever seen.
"It's difficult," Montoya replied after a moment. He smiled, the numerous gaps in his teeth making him look like a world-beaten hillbilly. "Every day is different. Sometimes we arrest bandits. Or murderers. Sometimes we help deputies from other towns." He coughed and cleared his throat, which ached horribly. "Oh yeah, sometimes we hunt dragons." He said this last as if it were a minor inconvenience, like the reports after an arrest.
"Real dragons?" the boy asked in awe. "You hunt them?"
"Got to protect the village." He tipped a wink at a smiling, moon-faced woman who appeared to be his mother.
The boy squirmed, making himself comfortable. "What else do you do?!"
"A lot, my young friend. Want to hear a story?"
They rolled on under the soft moonlight and the lashing downpour. It had not occurred to Montoya that what the woman had written on the wall could be even more important than the message on the cloth. Just behind the general store they were passing walked the nervous, insane Gabriel Sheridan, who waited for the coming of his Master with mixed feelings of expectation and icy fear.