I awoke, feeling refreshed. I had no idea how long I had been asleep, but I felt good – really good – for the first time in what seemed like ages. I felt relaxed and well-rested, but hungry. Really hungry.
I tried to remember what had happened last night, but it was very fuzzy. Fuzzy and pink. I’m pretty sure that Misa and I made love, but couldn’t remember the details. I think it was very good, as I had that loose, smug feeling that comes after a night of really good sex.
I looked around, but Misa was nowhere to be seen. The light from the fountain in the middle of the chamber still blazed – but no Misa.
“Hello?” I said tentatively, then, “HELLO!”
I heard a rapping from the door that led back to the shack. “Hello!” came a muffled voice.
“Who’s there?” I asked. “Misa?”
“Misa’s gone,” said the voice. “This is Dunbarton. You’ll have to open the door from the inside. I do not know how to open the puzzle lock.”
“I’ve got it,” I said. I had seen Misa work the latch yesterday. I opened the door and stepped through the cupboard into the shack. “Where is everyone?” I asked. “Where is Misa?”
Dunbarton gave me a strange look, then blushed and looked away. “She had to leave,” he said. “She said it was important that she talk with Gran right away. My brothers went with her.”
My head still retained a bit of the pink fog from the night before, but it felt strange that Misa had left without saying goodbye. Especially after we had … what, exactly? I’m pretty sure we had made love, but couldn’t be sure. I had been exhausted to start with, and the draught in the pink bottle had not helped provide anything in the way of clarity. “What am I supposed to do?” I said, more to myself than Dunbarton.
“Misa said to take you back to the place where we found you.”
“And then?”
“That was it. I was to take you back to outside of Cassab, and then I was to return to Whipgate.”
“Oh,” I said. “Did she say anything else?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay.” I wondered if I would see her again. I was surprised that the thought of not seeing her again made me feel sad. Turnabout is fair play, studbolt, said a little voice inside of me. This much was true, I realized. Back in Seattle, I’d had plenty of one-night stands where I quite happily went on my drunken, merry way without sparing a thought for my partner of the previous evening. Of course, that had happened to me as well – but I hadn’t really cared. Which was a big part of my problem. I’d gotten what I wanted, and to hell with anyone else. But now, the thought of not seeing Misa again did not sit well – even though she had pretty much roofied me.
And then there was Lady Gieselle. With a start, I realized that I hadn’t even thought of her since I had parted from Rocko. That was hardly a surprise – I’d been exhausted, famished and kidnapped by bandits. Then there was the experience of the cave and then the dragon. No wonder I hadn’t had much time to think of anything else.
Which was surprising, given that I was just about ready to swim back across a river to rescue her. The more I thought about it, the more important it seemed. Cassab was much closer to Fester and Lady Gieselle. I’d lay up in Cassab until early morning, then try to sneak into Duke Noe’s castle. It seemed a sound plan.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We tramped through the trees and hills for a long time. It seemed like a long time – much longer than when we first came to the shack. Undoubtedly, Dunbarton was trying to confuse me so that I couldn’t find my way back to the shack – or to lead others there. He needn’t have bothered; I was completely lost after the first five minutes.
Eventually, we stepped from the brush onto a cart track. “Here we are,” said Dunbarton. He pointed down the path. “Cassab is that way. A five minute walk.”
Dunbarton faded into the woods and I turned and made for Cassab. The track I was on was wide and obviously well-traveled. I guess the path that the Malveens waylaid me on was the back way to the village. This was probably the main route. As if to confirm this, a wagon approached from behind me.
I stood to the side of the track as the cart drew abreast. Then it stopped. On the drivers seat was a fat man with a round, suspicious face. Next to him was a skinny man with a ratlike, even more suspicious face. The round-face man scowled at me until the rat-faced man jabbed his elbow into his ribs. “Oh, uh, hullo, stranger,” said the round-faced man. “Are you traveling to Cassab?”
“Uh, yes,” I said.
“Oh, that’s swell,” said the round-faced man. “We’d be glad to provide you with a ride, as we are also driving to the fine little village of Cassab. Please jump onboard our wagon!”
The rat-face man elbowed the moon-faced man again and the two got into a whispered argument. Something was off with these two, but I wasn’t sure what was going on. Finally, the two came to a conclusion, with the rat-faced man hitting the moon-faced man with his floppy felt cap.
The rat-faced man rose in his seat, bowed slightly and held the felt cap to his chest. “You must excuse my associate’s manners,” he said. “My name is Loomis and my friend here is Bertram.” He hopped from his perch at the front of the wagon. “We are just transporting these kegs of ale and cider to the inn in Cassab. We have room and to spare in the back of the cart, and some nice comfy sacks to ease you on your ride. Allow me.”
He ushered me to the back of the cart and lowered the tailgate. In the back were three large kegs and a pile of burlap sacks that smelled of apples. “Perhaps you would care to sample some of the cider on our ride?” Loomis waved at the largest of the three kegs. “It is fresh and quite refreshing. My old dad made it himself. Old family recipe.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother,” I said, although the memory of the tasty ale at the Malveen’s barracks was close to mind.
“Not at all, not at all!” Loomis leapt onto the wagon and tilted over the large barrel. “I’m always happy to share a little Cassab hospitality with a stranger! We all are, aren’t we, Bertram?”
Betram’s round face popped up over the front of the wagon. “What? Oh. Ayuh, right! What Loomis said!”
Loomis retrieved a wooden mug from a box of bric-a-brac, removed the bung, and poured out a foamy cup of fresh cider. The apple smell hit me, strong and tart. I accepted the mug with a nod and took a long pull. It tasted heavenly. “Wow!” I said. “That’s fantastic!”
“Best in all of Tuckycoppria!” said Loomis. “Now make yourself comfortable and we’ll have you in Cassab in no time.”
“I’m told there’s a good inn in Cassab,” I said. “Where they have good mutton stew.”
“Ah, indeed, the Golden Goat,” said Loomis. “That is where we are to deliver these kegs. Best inn in Cassab. Also, the only inn in Cassab.” He cackled wildly at this witticism, and once again I felt something was off. Well, what’s the worst these two guys could get up to? If push came to shove, I could just run off into the woods and wait for Rocko. I climbed up onto the pile of burlap sacks and soon we were on our way. When Loomis and Bertram weren’t looking, I poured out the rest of the cider. I didn’t really think there was anything wrong with it, but these guys were just a little strange. I could get something to drink at the inn.
The wagon bumped down the road at a moderate pace. Clearings appeared on either side of the track. At first they were small huts with gardens, then larger plots that could rightfully be called farms. Soon the encroaching woods had retreated to groves of trees between the farms. The houses became more clustered together, and soon we were in the center of the village.
It was much smaller than Whipgate, and consisted of small wooden houses clustered around a larger stone house that has a long wooden wing tacked onto it. I sign in the shape of a goat’s head that read The Golden Goat Inne hung in front of the stone building.
“Here we are!” chirped Loomis as he lowered the tailgate. “Just go on in, stranger. Throckmorton in there will set you up with what you need. Now, c’mon, Bertram you great lug, help me roll these barrels in.”
I hopped down from the wagon and walked to the entrance of the Golden Goat. It was going on noontime, and there were at least a dozen patrons at tables around the room and along the bar at the far end. I pushed through the batwing doors and all conversation immediately ceased. Every face was turned towards me, and none of the expressions were friendly. Exactly one second later, everyone turned back away and resumed their conversations as if I didn’t exist.
Very strange.
I stepped to the bar, where a large man with a broad face and curly red hair was wiping down a wooden mug. He regarded me with a scowl, then broke into a broad grin. “Welcome, newcomer – welcome to the Golden Goat!” he boomed. “How may I serve you this day?”
“Ah, yes,” I said uncertainly. “Are you Mr. Throckmorton?”
“I most certainly am! Throckmorton Runyon, at your service. May I offer you a libation?” he waved at a pair of kegs and a dusty shelve with a small cluster of dustier bottles.
“Ale, if it’s fresh.”
Throckmorton looked wounded. “We serve only the finest libations in Kernia, sir! Why, the delivery men have just arrived with a fresh barrel, if that will be fresh enough for you!”
“I did not mean to impugn your fine establishment,” I said. “I’m sure what you have at hand will be more than adequate.”
And it was. It was even better than the ale the Malveens had served me last night. Light, refreshing, and went down easy. “That is very fine, Mr. Throckmorton Runyon,” I said.
“Thank you, sir!” he boomed. “And what might your name be, traveler?”
“I, uh…” My mind spun. I had already used my real name enough – and that name was undoubtedly know to Duke Noe’s men. “My name is Mr., uh, Smith.” I hoped that it was a common name in this time and place. I raked my mind, trying to remember the name of the town Rocko had said to use. “I’m from, um, the village of Corbu.”
“Oh, yes, Corbu Village!” bellowed Throckmorton. “A very fine place, I am told. My wife has a cousin who knows someone who visited there once. Why, what brings you all the way from Corbu Village to our fine Cassab?”
“I have business. In Fester.” I tried to invest the last word with an air of sinister gravity.
Throckmorton’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back slightly. “Oh, yes,” he said, slightly less boomingly. “There’s always serious business there. Yes, indeed.”
I nodded gravely, hoping this would put the interrogation at an end. “I must be there early in the morning. I was told that I could get a good meal and a place to sleep here for a reasonable…”
I stopped, remembering that the Malveens had relieved me of the coins that Rocko had given me. I was flat broke – and couldn’t even pay for the ale I was drinking. What would Throckmorton do when he learned I couldn’t pay him? Make me work in the kitchen? Thrash me? Worse?
I pushed the wooden tankard away from em. “I am sorry, sir, but I cannot pay you. I was waylaid by bandits in the woods. They took my, um, purse.”
“Bandits in the woods, you say?” asked Throckmorton. “Close by to Cassab?”
“Close enough, yes.” I said, nodding.
“And what of these bandits?” asked Throckmorton, cocking his head curiously. “What were they like?” A number of men at nearby tables were taking an interest in our conversation.
I saw no point in glossing over Misa and her brothers. “I came upon a small girl crying on the track,” I said. “At least, she looked like a small girl. I went to see what was wrong, I was surrounded by men with knives.”
“The Peep o’Day Gang!” said Throckmorton. The men at the nearby tables turned and whispered among themselves. We had the attention of the entire room now.
“The Peep o’Day Gang?” I repeated.
“Aye, the roam the roads and trails late at night, catchin’ unwary travelers out late,” said Throckmorton. “They say no one’s safe from them until the peep o’day. The bandits vanish when the sun rises. It’s amazin’ that you’re here to tell the tale. Very few survive an encounter with the Peep o’Day Gang. Usually, their bodies is found in the mornin’, cut up something horrible.”
“Uh, yes, well, I was lucky,” I said. “They grabbed my purse, but before they had a chance to do anything more, a man on a horse came down the track. They scattered into the woods, and so did I.”
Throckmorton nodded. “Aye, the Duke’s men. They’ve been all over the place the last two days, lookin’ for something. Don’t know what, do we boys?”
There were general mutterings of negation and shaking of heads. A large number of men took an intense interest in the view out the window, or of the underside of the roof.
“Anyway,” said Throckmorton. “I understand your plight and am more than happy to open a generous line of credit.” He pushed the half-finished tankard of ale back to me. “Finish your drink, and enjoy the hospitality of the Golden Goat. I am sure that you can settle your affairs with me once you’ve concluded your, ah, business in Fester.”
“In that case, buy a round for the house on me!” I exclaimed. This was met with a robust cheer, and then the serious drinking began.
I didn’t remember when the drinking contest was proposed – I’m sure that I was more than half in the bag to have agreed to it, given the circumstances. But a challenge was a challenge, and I was never – but never – one to back down from a drinking contest. I was, after all, something of a pro-am barfly back in Seattle.
We started with the cider, then graduated to some apple grappa that Throckmorton had on his dusty shelf. After that, the competition fell out to me and two others: a lanky farmer named Jassen and a fat slob called Barko who was evidently the town drunk.
We were halfway through our second bottle of grappa when Jassen abruptly toppled over sideways and puked. Barko and I stared each other in the eye and downed our cups of grappa. Throckmorton, who was refereeing the event, poured out two more. Barko, lifted his, downed it, and snarled, “There, boy, therrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…” His cup was held at port arms.
I squinted blearily at Throckmorton, who shrugged. “…errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…” continued Barko. The cup slipped from his upraised hand and bounced off the bar. Then Barko collapsed in a boneless heap.
“The winnah!” I announced, and downed my last drink of grappa. The Golden Goat erupted with drunken cheers.
If I’d had a lick of sense, I would have ceased imbibing alcohol immediately, downed a half gallon of water and immediately gone to bed. Instead, like the drunken fool I was, I continued drinking the celebratory drinks the remaining patrons of the inn were buying.
I think I had two more cups of ale before I completely passed out. I had a vague recollection of Throckmorton and another man walking me up a flight of stairs. I caught a few disconnected snatches of conversation.
“…keep our guest safe for…”
“…careful. The reward…”
“…next door to the other one…”
“…tomorrow morning will take care of it…”
And then nothing.
I came to with my head pounding – hardly a novel experience. I was still in my clothes, lying on a lumpy mattress in a dark room. There was a window, but it was shuttered, with dim glimmers of light coming through the cracks around the edges. The room was bare, save for a stout wooden chair with a cracked chamber pot underneath. I made ready use of the chamber pot, having run a great deal of alcoholic beverages through my system. When I’d emptied my bladder, I looked around the room. Why had I gotten into a drinking contest? What the hell else had happened. I was gripped with a sudden urge to flee. I’d just take off into the woods, hole up somewhere, and wait for Rocko to find me. It seemed the best course of action. I staggered to the door and turned the knob. It was locked.