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( the evil horse fic )
Names were thrown about at dinner like so much raw meat to the dogs, names of high- and lowborn alike, latest victims of political byplay lowland, or better yet, scandal. I was amused, hearing banter about my cousins that I'm sure would have turned their hair white under those silly powdered wigs, if only they'd heard. I had occasionally to resist the urge to say, "No, the prince of thus-and-such was not killed at the raid on Fort Aubergine three weeks past, I saw him just last full moon," and the like. Terribly amusing. I could sense my young man was uneasy, yet carefully absorbing any and all information he could hear. I found that I could tell when he was intrigued and when he dismissed things as mere idle-tongued gossip, merely by the shine in his eyes. He was remarkably good at schooling his expression, however, and I don't think that any of the rumormongers knew they were being heard quite so intently. Until the Lady Soltani was mentioned. A lady of wealth and power, the ilk with which my cousins spent many delightfully sordid garden party afternoons. She was reputedly very beautiful; I had never seen her myself. And not a one to skimp on her lovers. All were quite certain that this fabulous lady had surely a record number of paramours, and all of them highborn and goodlooking to boot. The first time her name came up, my apprentice visibly stiffened. I actually thought he would speak, for all the calm exterior he had maintained before. I glared at him, willing him to meet my eyes and realize what an ass he was about to make of himself. He didn't even notice me, though surely I was glaring white-hot holes into his forehead. I kicked him in the shin. He swiveled his head and stared at me, too dumbfounded to look really angry. He honestly hadn't realized he was emoting halfway across the province; his stare-- now beginning to turn irate-- told me that much. Amazing. "Is the stew so bad," I gave him an out, should he discover that he needed one, "That you should look so pained?" He looked sheepish, but only in the slant of his eyebrows. His jaw was set more stubbornly than ever-- insofar as that delicious line of flesh that was his chin could ever really be called such a mulish word as stubborn. He did not take my proffered exit, but rather narrowed his eyes at me. "Forgive me, Master, for looking uncomfortable. Perhaps you could find it in yourself to shift your legs a bit under the table, so that I may have a bit of room?" I hrmphed, but he went on, sliding a leg against mine (which, I might add, was giving him plenty of space beneath that broad oaken trench table), rather suggestively. "Not that I don't care to be close to you, Master..." He let the sentence hang unfinished on his lips, and I had to appreciate the fact that any unwanted attention was now well and truly diverted from his little social faux pas earlier. Indeed, the glances drawn by such a minor slip dimmed in comparison with the looks we were getting now. I moved my knee to shove his leg aside. "Really, boy. At meal table?" He laughed merrily-- I do not think it was faked-- and must have known that he'd gotten me. Thoroughly discomfited. "Can I help it, Master?" The leg was back, moving more slowly now, the fabric of my own leggings so tantalizing against that foreign skin. I downed a swallow of ale, a bit more roughly than I'd intended, and managed an indulgent grin. "Youth," I mumbled between clenched teeth, attempting to sound fond and masterly. Then I attacked my stew with renewed relish. (It was rather wretched stew, as I remember.) His smile was so disarming that I didn't realize till the next time Lady Soltani's name was mentioned that he had-- with devilish effectiveness-- put me off the scent of his curious behavior. It was almost imperceptible the second time, but his eyes flicked nervously to me, just once, and I was alert for any reaction from him. He was absolutely still, as if he knew I was watching. Too still-- he was holding his breath. A newcomer, travel mud still not dry on the edges of his cape, was saying that the Lady Soltani had been... kidnapped? I was aghast, if quietly so. What on earth? Who in this day and age was going to risk anything so messy or complicated as kidnapping? Poison or thin daggers were more than sufficient for silencing, and bribery for getting needed information. But kidnapping? And my young man was holding his breath and trying not to look at me. Fascinating. To my mind, the guilty and irrepressible interest he had in her could mean only one thing. I made a show of refilling his ale cup, spoke words directly into his seashell-curve ear. "You have fine expensive taste in lovers, m'boy. Or did you steal her purse to get her to sleep with you?" He didn't even look at me, just pushed himself violently away from the table and fled up to our room. My mind was awhirl, but to the questioning glances that the innkeeper and his cronies sent my way, I only shrugged and muttered, "Heartburn?" I took my time about getting back to the room. I had only meant to goad the boy, not to drive him so fast to the breaking point, so I thought I owed him his space. And if all my things ran missing, I deserved it. There had been hot desperation in his eyes, wildly looking anywhere but my face... So I lingered over small beer and nuts, pretending never to have heard of princess so-and-such and her silly economic affairs-- though I had had the misfortune of personally being there the Sunday she spent over half her monthly royal stipend on a flock of geese, and enlisted all her beloved relatives as field hands to go procure said animals. Wretched things, geese. And royals too, the lot of us up to our elbows in slimy gooseshit and dusted with downy feathers. Small wonder I was smiling ruefully to myself as I made my way up to my room. Would he be there? Or my clothes, my coin? All that really concerned me was that he couldn't possibly have taken the mattress, and a good crunchy night's sleep was all I sought. Whatever I was expecting, however, I was severely startled to find him crosslegged on the floor, painstakingly polishing my sword. And not the sword I'd had in my saddlebags, either, not the clumsy heavy-handed weapon whose hilt was so old and faded that only the most careful scrutiny would discover the obscure family crest. No, not that sword, but my real sword, the finely crafted one that I'd purchased in the Orient, the light-weight balanced one-- with my coat-of-arms clear as daylight on the catch. The sword that stayed safely away from prying eyes-- with my devil horse at all times. My smile died. But he didn't even acknowledge my entrance, much less leap up and demand to know the meaning of the blade that he was polishing, and polishing so intently his fine brow was laced with creases. Something like-- grief?-- lingered on his features, as he made love to my sword edge with those fingers, till it shone and shone. All I wanted to do was apologize, though I could not tell why. "She was not my lover," he blurted into the stillness, without looking up. Ah, lad, why should that matter? I felt my heart softening, though with the sharp edges of his face I couldn't bring myself to move closer and offer succour. Such grief in that voice... "Ah," I said, trying to sound benevolent and masterly. "But you wished her to be?" Here he did look up, a head-snap so sudden I felt that his eyes must surely have always been boring into my own. I saw words flare and die on his tongue, unspoken accusations and insults and hot angry words, all toward me. But he managed to swallow all of them, speaking flatly. "She is my mother." I had barely three seconds to digest this information when we were interrupted-- neither of us was expecting the innkeeper to burst, without so much as a knock, into the room. "Good my lord, your horse--!" His voice withered and died, as his unfailing beady eyes went straight to my blade, still underneath those meticulously polishing fingers. He choked a little, but he had not been a crossroads innkeeper for nothing-- he knew my weapon just by a glance. Damn nosy man. "The-- the Duke of-- you--" My apprentice did not bat an eyelash, nor did his hand falter along the length of the metal. "I stole it, m'lord." The innkeeper bristled, drawing himself up to his full (inconsiderable) height and puffing out his chest to his full (quite considerable) girth. He advanced on me, wagging an overfed finger. "Sirra, your lad is a pickpocket-- no, worse indeed, a thief-- and I'll not stand for such character in my guests. I know for a fact that the Duke of Delamaine has never set foot in my town, nor graced my inn with his regal presence. And for your boy to have stolen such a weapon from that illustrious personage, he would have to go as far south as the principalities, and I know--" he was not to be stopped, florid faced and in love with his own logic-- "that he must have used treachery, so to divest the good Duke of--" He stopped abruptly, moved a step closer to my lad. He wouldn't get too close, though, for those smooth-moving hands I could tell intimidated him, not to mention the steel, unsheathed and latently poweful on his lap. "You-- you common thief--" he fumed. I put a hand on his shoulder, a lid on his boiling pot. "My apprentice is not a common thief." I saw the boy's eyebrows quiver. "He is a rather uncommon thief, I would say, for I hear the Duke Delamaine is almost seven feet tall and no slouch in a fight." My apprentice's shoulder twitched, but the innkeeper had spun to face me and did not notice. I went on, "Surely any man with sense would admire the man who had been able to take such a mighty person's sword." The innkeeper seemed to consider this. I leaned closer. "And I know there are those who would say that the good Duke has too much of wealth and fine steel, so that any lad brave enough to spread the goods about should be commended." My lad's head came up, eyes dangerous. The innkeeper would have quailed, but that I had a powerful hand on his portly shoulder. That young voice spoke, not looking directly at either of us. "I did not fight him for it," he said without expression. "He was drunk and careless, in the streets alone at night. I stole it so that another man who might respect it less might not have a chance to." The innkeeper wasn't quite sure how to digest that. Nor, for that matter, was I. His tone made the words a thinly-veiled warning. What-- Abruptly, I remembered why the innkeeper had come into the room in the first place. I managed an easy smile for the boy, and said affably, "Such fine words, eh? This, sirra, is why I keep him around. And because, were he not on my side, I would fear he would steal my coin whilst I slept." His were not the only barbed words in that room, I thought, flashing a toothed grin. "Now, good inkeep, did you have a reason for barging in on us, all unannounced?" He fidgeted, as if acutely aware of the monstrosity of his faux pas. Yes, he was housing thieves, but apparently honorable ones, and he had that much more reason not to alienate them and their good will. "Ah, yes, good sir, yes. Your horse-- yes? Well, monstrously unfriendly beast, as I'm sure you're no doubt aware... Well, he knocked out my youngest stable boy; hooves left a mark and all, base of his skull. My other boys--" "Is he all right? The boy, I mean the boy." My stomach was churning. Beast he may have been, but he'd never deliberately injured anyone before. "Don't rightly know," the fat man would not meet my eyes. "Doctor's looking to him now. But, sir, my other boys have tied him up and are making to shoot him. He's all afroth at the mouth. Either go talk them down or kill the animal yourself." He paused, something like hospitality sheening his rheumy eyes. "'Tis your right." I strode angrily out the door. I didn't care who followed me, though perhaps I should have. "Bloody horse," I fumed. I didn't realize that my epithet would prove literal. Poor mad animal, surging against his impromptu rope fetters, eyes rolling crazily. Two boys-- the bigger of them no more than thirteen-- were shouting at him, the fear as evident in their cries as in the righteous anger. He'd hurt their comrade-in-arms, after all. "Boys!" I called, and was grateful for my height and imposing presence because they actually quieted, as I towered over them. "Tell me what happened," I pointed to the older of the two. He cleared his throat, and his young eyes shone with pride that his voice did not wobble as he stated his case. "Sir, we were coming to the stables to feed and bed the horses for the night. Cullen ran ahead, and we heard him laughing--" he looked shy. "At-- at your... horse." "Yes, the beast's certainly laughable. No shame there," I prompted. "We-- we thought that that made the horse angry, because the next thing we heard was an angry horse-noise-- the eye-rolling crazy kind. And Cullen screamed." He bit his lip. "And the blood on the back-- on the back of his head, sir, it looked to be a horseshoe wound. The other boy spoke up, as it looked like his companion had fallen dejectedly silent. "So we saw the horse'd run mad and tied him 'im all up, like, see? You're not as s'posed to let a mad animal walk free." My horse did indeed look crazed, ears flat against the back of his head, skin and muscle twitching spasmodically. A pain and a nuisance he might have been, but he was not homicidal. "I see," I said slowly. "So you think we should kill him, so he's no longer dangerous?" They nodded, not quite meekly. "Well, lads, it seems a sound plan. Will ye allow me a last few moments with the prisoner, good soldiers?" The older one opened his mouth and shut it again. I don't think it had occurred to him that the horse's owner might be his friend, as well. The younger one touched my hand. "Careful, sir." I smiled down at him, as I overheard the other boy hissing something like, "God, the man's seven feet tall and you think he can't stand his own against a horse?" I laughed shortly. "Thanks, boys. Run and see to your fellow. I'll take care of this." They looked infinitely relieved, and scampered off. I don't think it was only that they feared the beast; I don't think they had ever killed anything larger than a streetrat. It made me smile ruefully, that such innocents still existed, and in such an unlikely place. My horse actually calmed a bit at the touch of my hand on his haunches, as if I were the least loathsome, most normal thing to happen to him all evening. I sighed into his mane, and he barely twitched, his eyes not rolling anymore. "If only you could talk, you monster. What's happened tonight to throw you so completely off balance?" He nickered softly, almost gently. I hadn't been wrong that it would be a night of mysteries. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, remembering how inviting that thin stiff bed had looked. But it looked as if tonight were not a night for bed. I found myself hoping that I wouldn't have to kill the poor animal. But if Cullen died, then the innkeeper would be forced to call retribution on my head. And I didn't have the money on me to pay for the death of a child-- not without confessing the namesword was mine for true and promising compensation. I wasn't sure the innkeeper would even believe, now my apprentice had woven such a sure-fingered story for my anonymity. I swallowed a sigh. If I could get them to believe me, perhaps the amazement of having such an illustrious lodger would repay-- No, not the life of a child. The hand on my arm nearly made me jump out of my skin; I hadn't heard anyone approaching (and through the bedded straw of the stable, that was a feat). It was my apprentice, who did not take any notice of my surprise. "The men who hurt the boy would have taken your sword, too. As it was, they got your long saddlebag and spare coin." I had to blink twice before that sank in, but before I could respond he went on, "I only wish I could have prevented all of it. Master." Some of his coolness dissolved and he ran a hand edgily through his hair. "I don't know where you got such a fine sword of a Duke, man. But he must want it back very badly to hurt small children and drug your horse." The laugh escaped me in spite of myself. So the boy thought I was the thief? My mind spun. So why had he spun the story to cast the blame on himself? And while I was thinking on it, why had he told me his mother's name? My horse buckled to one knee. The young man and I eased him to the ground. "Ach, poor beastie," I heard him say, over the rustling straw noises of the reclining animal. We crouched next to him, in a waiting sort of silence. "Did he really attack the boy?" was the inane thing my mouth produced, presented with the thousand whirling questions in my mind. He shook his head. "Hilt of a sword; very similar sort of contact wound. To those who aren't looking. Or those who fear your horse to begin with." I let out a breath, worked a hand through the horse's mane. "Good to know, at least. Good to know." He half-smiled. "And I think more damage would have been done, had your monster not been here. He is a formidable--" My horse interrupted him, whinnying rudely, pushing his nose into the young man's shoulder. As if to say, "No good flattering me, I know better." The horse nuzzled him hard, till he nearly landed on his backside, perched so edgily on the balls of his feet as he was. He clung to the horse's neck to keep his balance. "All right, all right." And he laughed, the son of Soltani did, and with the muted gold lantern light shining in his hair, glinting from the unsmoothed mane of my horse, they looked quite a picture, Hyperion and his sunbound steed. For a moment it didn't occur to me to breathe. I shook it off, though, remembering it was only my damn fool horse and the young man I'd bought dinner for. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except-- except that the sword that hung at his belt was my own true sword, and that his dame was a highborn woman in trouble. Except that he hadn't turned me in to the authorities, with that damning double-edged blade. I swore softly to myself, settling down in the musty smelling stablebedding and leaning lightly against my horse's flank. "Are ye going to keep the blade, lad? It's just a bit long for you, don't you think?" He didn't blink, inclining his head as if I'd asked him the time of day. Or the hour of morning, as it was getting on to be. "I thought to give it back to its rightful owner. The Duke of Delamaine has something of a reputation; I think I'd-- like to meet him." I blew air through my trailing bangs. Somewhere in the course of the evening my hair had come slightly unbound, it was getting tangled around my eyes. "A reputation?" I raised an eyebrow. "Has he? Besides the legendary height and irresponsibility with his personal belongings?" He chuckled. "He's a troublemaker, always stirring discontent and having to hide out from the royals. I think he's kin to them somehow, but he's never in their favor for long. And he obviously has great influence, as your horse here could relate." He patted my horse's nose, and the infuriating animal didn't even have the sense to bite at him. "Though he may be... careless with his weaponry." It stung, as if it had been a direct insult, and some part of me lost patience. "What sort of a man must you think yourself," I said dryly, "a pickpocket in the company of a thief? Hiding in the stables of a narrow borderland town, neither of us with any means to go anywhere? How do you suggest we spend the evening? Would you like me to impress you with the stories of just how I relieved such a great man of his knife?" The young man winced, looked away. "I-- I need his help," he said forcedly, as if he hadn't wanted to admit anything to me. "If I am to find my mother." It was as if it had already been decided for me, and I had to fist my hands in my horse's hair to keep steady. "I will help you find your mother," I said, feeling the words deeply. I do not make promises lightly. He opened his mouth in sardonic retort, ready to dismiss me and my offer of help in less than a word. "IF," I continued, feeling each syllable heavy off my tongue, "you give. me. back. my. sword." Each word I punctuated with a long slow stroke of the horse's mane, and he bridled under the unwanted attention. The young man's eyes widened, very slowly. "And how do I believe you?" he said at last. I shrugged, half to hide the fact that a swinging equine head was trying to chew my arm off. "How do I believe you?" Having spent many an hour in battles of rhetorical questions, I hadn't really expected him to respond. Frustration, maybe, or distrust. Whatever I thought, I did not anticipate him unlacing his tunic and slipping it off his head. "What do you--" I began, trying not to watch the firelight patterns dancing on his skin. "There," he said, turning his back to me, fingers pushing the fabric of my leggings down around his hips. "Along my spine. I keep it hidden." My own spine was less than supportive, this young man divesting himself of clothing so eagerly before me. But I was not so daft with the bloodheat of him that I did not see it-- low on his back, enough so that breeches could easily keep it hidden. The Soltani crest, a starburst sun with an intricate embedded compass rose. I was no stranger to decorative inking, but this was no paint, this was scarred into his skin, a genuine tattoo. The whole emblem could not have been bigger than a fifty-ducat piece, but the brand was detailed and deeply colored. It was fine work, expensive. And, poised between such fine-boned hips, it was indeed a sight to see. I shook my head, as he shrugged back into the tunic and spun round to face me again. "There," he said, as if that left no questions left to be asked. "That proves I am who I say I am. You have to believe me." Though his voice was sure, I could tell his heart was racing, for those nimble thief-fingers were shaking as he tried to relace his shirt. That more than anything inclined me to believe him; his excitability seemed too real to be an act. I moved closer to him, tying his laces for him. It was my shirt, after all, and I have always been a master at rationalization. "So what if I believe you?" I asked, in a fair impression of my usual tone, his young face tilted up at me with arrogant trembling expectation. "That doesn't do us any good if you don't believe me." Which was true, though in actuality I only spoke so to irritate him. He flushed slightly, but with my hands busy at his neck he could not easily back away. "I have no such beautiful scar to mark me as who I claim to be." "Help me find her." He seemed not to notice that my fingers lingered at his collar, his voice and gaze intense. "That is how you can prove yourself to me. A rogue and vagabond would not be able to help me. The Duke of Delamaine could." "Could what? Could succumb to the crazy schemes of a local pickpocket and find himself traipsing across the countryside and back? We haven't the first clue." The lad seemed to have a reply in mind already, but we were interrupted. A boy, too tall for his own legs, cleared his throat, looking down at us with a ragged, bloodied grin. Behind him were the two I'd spoken to, earlier, so I hazarded a guess. "Cullen?" "Aye," he said, bolder than his fellows. "Your horse-- don't much like me." "Are you all right?" I stood, dusting bits of clingy straw from my leggings. "You look a bit worse for the wear." "Fair enough, guv." His crooked smile grew, and a weight lifted from my chest. I'd gained more than enough sudden baggage in the course of an evening; a wounded child was not to be added to my tab. "Innkeep's boxed me ears more'n that. Is just that..." he scuffed his feet, but his mind seemed made up and he thrust out his hand. "There'll be a fee, m'lord, for the handlin' of your beast." The son of Soltani laughed out loud, still sitting beside my horse and petting his ears. "I should think," he coughed, muffling his voice in my horse's neck. "Enterprising chap," I muttered, but hoisted my saddlebags all the same. Seven crescents-- two each, with an extra for Cullen-- made sufficient sparkle in their eyes, and I thought that would be handsome reward enough, for a bruise that might last a few weeks. Enough for a scare, for a devil horse, for their silence on matters of the stable and the mysteries it guarded. I thought I saw my apprentice's eyes narrow at my apparent generosity, perhaps weighing the depth of my purse against the claim of my heritage. The boys scampered off, Cullen with just the hint of a limp, still easily leading the pack. I offered a hand to my apprentice, who stood without taking it. My horse butted against his legs, with more affection than he'd surely ever shown to me, and I had to shake my head. "Devilish interesting this night has turned out to be." On an impulse, I winked. "I look forward to telling the Lady Soltani just how I managed to apprentice her wayward son." Color rose into his cheeks. "I look forward to that conversation as well, Master, if it would mean an explanation of the Duke of Delamaine's arrival at an establishment such as this." "Oh, I'll tell her anything she asks," I chuckled. "Provided I'm all in one piece at the time of our meeting. I've heard quite a bit about her; I daresay she's heard just as many outlandish stories of me." "Scion Deickert." he said, measuringly. There was a question in his eyes that did not travel to his lips; he made no disguise of his curiosity. "Duke of Delamaine." I rolled my eyes at the title, "Yes, yes, last time I heard, anyway. Have you got a name, or should I just call you 'boy'?" "Robiu," he said, the northern accent quite pronounced now. "Robiu Manthei, lord heir Soltani." He was not quite smiling, and I found I quite liked the mischievous light in his eyes. "Though it might be best for you to call me 'boy,' if I am to remain your apprentice?" "Hm." I fitted the reins and bridle onto my horse, contemplating the prospect. It was a notion that I had ever dismissed in the past, having little need for a retainer of any sort. What would my cousins say, me taking on a boy? Then again, when had I started paying particular attention to the opinions of others? Never before had I encountered another willing to share in my adventuring anonymity. To my surprise, the thought was not entirely unappealing, and I could not rid myself of the image of that intricate name-brand on his back. "...I thought you didn't like my horse?" The night was passing into morning, though the sun would not yet rise for another hour or so; my newly-minted apprentice laughed as he helped me load my saddlebags. "I've changed my mind. He's not so bad, I think." (to be continued)back to chapter one
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