I was trapped! The rotten citizens of Cassab had set me up, and now I was going to be turned over to Duke Noe’s men. In retrospect, they had me set up from the moment the cart came up behind me. Now that I thought of it, Loomis and Bertram had never even delivered their shipment to the Golden Goat. They had probably gone bucketing off to Fester to alert Anlar Ellas while Throckmorton was getting me drunk.
While you were getting yourself drunk, I thought. True enough – they hadn’t had to pour any booze down my throat; I had done that voluntarily. I was going to have to rethink my policy on drinking contests. Of course, I never balked at one – drinking was one of the very few things I was good at. And this wasn’t the first time that a drinking contest had gotten me in trouble: once, after a game of Century Club in college, I had attempted to bust out the rear window of a cop car with a brick. I was too drunk to aim straight, but the cop saw me try and I only just barely managed to escape by swimming across a creek and hiding in the bushes on the other side. That was bad, but this was worse. Now I was going straight to a torture dungeon. Again.
I felt a strange lump in my boot. Something had been shoved into the side of my right boot. Certainly, it hadn’t been there yesterday – I would have noticed it during the long walk. Maybe after I’d gotten my swerve on – anything was possible then.
I reached in and pulled out a stalk of bamboo that was about as big around as my thumb. It was four inches long and had a cork in one end. I removed the cork and sniffed. It took a moment for me to place the cloying sweet/tangy aroma: it was just like the aphrodisiac that Misa had given me the night before. I dipped my pinky in and tasted. Yes, it had the same eye-watering candy flavor. Who had slipped this in my boot? And why? It certainly wasn’t going to help me now.
I scanned the room, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. The mostly-full chamber pot had some ballistic potential, but it was mighty gross. Besides, it was pretty chintzy and would probably do nothing more to my captor other than piss him off – quite literally. I hefted the chair, but it was too heavy to be wielded as a weapon, and too sturdily built to bust up into smaller pieces.
I examined the shutters. They had been nailed into place. There was a small gap at the top of the two shutters met. I hauled over the monster chair, stood on it and managed to get my fingers behind the shutters. I gave them a few stout pulls, and I thought I felt the nails giving way, a hair.
I was about to give it a serious yank when I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. I jumped down from the chair and lay down in the bed. I sat up, as if just awakened, as Throckmorton came into the room. He was carrying a tray with a pitcher and two wooden mugs, which he put on the table.
“Rise and shine, Mr. Gray,” boomed Throckmorton. “Or was it Mr. Smith?”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said, holding my head. “I don’t remember.”
“Well, the Duke’s men say they’re lookin’ for a man named Scott Gray, and the description matches you. So, we’ll just wait for the Duke’s men to come get you, and I’ll get the reward.”
“Just let me go,” I moaned, not really feigning. “I’m not Scott Gray, I’m John Smith. Just let me crawl off somewhere and die.”
“Nothing doing, we’ll get fifty gildens for you, dear heart. And maybe a bonus for the funny man.”
“The funny man?”
“Yar, the funny little man we caught creepin’ ‘round here last night. Weird little fella with a big nose. Don’t say much – mainly ‘cos we got him bound and gagged in a shed out back. You’da got the same treatment, ‘ceptin’ you did such a good job last night. I’ve never seen anyone could out-drink ol’ Barko.”
“I’ve had lots of practice,” I said.
“Would you care for a hair o’ the dog this mornin’?” asked Throckmorton. “ To celebrate yer fine victory in that most gentlemanly of sports: getting shite-faced drunk.”
More booze was the last thing I wanted this morning – what I really wanted was a fistful of Tylenol and a bottle of Fiji water. However, this seemed a good opportunity to use my mysterious gift. That potion was an aphrodisiac, yes – but it was also a powerful sedative. If I could dose Throckmorton’s drink, maybe it would slow him down enough for me to make an escape.
“By all means,” I said. “If I am to be your captive, then I may at least drown my sorrow.”
“Oh, ‘captive’ sounds a little harsh,” said the innkeeper as he poured a mug of beer. I watched to see if he’d pour one for himself. “Let’s just say you’re a ‘guest,’ at least until the Dark Duke’s men arrive.”
He handed me the mug and poured one for himself. I sat on the edge of the bed and took the mug and had a small sip. My stomach hitched but settled. I leaned over and held my head in my hands and moaned, while slyly slipping the bamboo tube from my boot. I thumbed the cork from the tube and used my leg to shield my movements from Throckmorton. I dumped the contents of the tube into my beer and shoved the tube back into my boot.
“Well,” I said, getting unsteadily to my feet, “if I am to be a guest, I may as well be a well-oiled one. Cheers!”
We raised our wooden mugs and drank. I only swallowed a tiny bit and allowed the rest to slide back into the mug unobserved. Throckmorton took a huge belt of his own.
“I must say…” I began, then abruptly cut my eyes to the corner of the room. “Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “Did you see that?”
“What?”
“That giant rat! Holy shit, that thing was bigger than a terrier! What kind of dump are you running here?”
Throckmorton furrowed his brow. I had clearly hit him in his vanity. “Where?” he demanded.
“It ran under the bed.”
“Hrrmph.” He put his mug on the table, got down on his hands and knees and peered under the bed. I switched mugs and stepped back from the table.
“I don’t see no rat,” said Throckmorton.
“It was right there!” I replied. “And huge!”
“Bollypocky,” said Throckmorton. “You’ll be sein’ pink golgats next.”
“The sooner, the better,” I said. “Hey, let’s race.” I hefted the mug. “Betcha I can beat you.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Throckmorton. He turned up the mug with the potion in it. I took a very slender sip from my mug, watching my adversary over the rim. He finished quickly and slammed the mug down.
“Ah, you beat me,” I said. I wondered how long it would take for the drug to kick in. It seemed that it went to work on me very quickly last night, but there was no telling how it would work on Throckmorton. He could have a high tolerance level (very likely) or just had a big meal.
“Well, that’s not very much fun,” said Throckmorton. “I guess I’ll go get us some more.” He picked up the pitcher and headed to the door.
“A fine idea, my most hospitable host,” I said. I hoped that he’d be fuzzy-headed enough to forget to lock the door when he left. He wasn’t, but I didn’t mind. Maybe the potion would kick in while he was away and he’d fall asleep or get distracted. I shoved the monster chair back by the shutters to see if I could yank them open.
The key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. The potion had definitely kicked in – but not in the way that I had hoped. Throckmorton stood saying in the doorway. In his hand he held his breeches – and there was an enormous bulge in his drawers.
“You got a purty mouth, boy,” he slurred. His eyes were glazed and a streamer of droll spooled out from his slack lower lip.
I knew I had to act fast, or I’d be squealing like a pig. There was only one thing to do. “You want some of this?” I said, stepping towards him.
“Yuh-huh.”
“Hear you go!” Inwardly cringing, I grabbed the bulge in his shorts as hard as I could and twisted it as far as it would go. Which turned out to be quite far, before Throckmorton toppled over sideways and began to make strained huffing noises. I grabbed the breeches from his hand and shoved one leg into his mouth. He would be out of commission for a few minutes at least. I sprang to the shutters and gave them a monumental yank. The nails groaned, held, then slowly gave way. Then they quickly gave way and flew open. Even better, they opened on the roof of the lower tavern area.
In the distance I could hear many hoofbeats pounding up the road. Most likely the Duke’s men – I didn’t have a moment to lose. I looked back at Throckmorton. His eyes were bulging out and he rocked gently from side to side, making tiny whimpering noises from behind the wadded-up pants leg.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” I said, then slipped out the window. I scooted to the edge of the low roof and dropped off. The hoofbeats were louder now. I ran around the back of the Golden Goat, which opened onto a dense patch of woods. There were three small sheds back there. I wondered if Rocko was in ne of them. I didn’t have time to find out – if I stuck around any longer, we’d both be cooked.
I lit off into the woods as fast as I could. When I was about twenty yards in, I could hear a clamor behind me. Either my escape had been discovered or the Duke’s goons had arrived. I wanted to just keep running, but I couldn’t just leave Rocko behind. He wouldn’t have done that to me.
I thought about what Rocko had said about travelling unnoticed – that people rarely looked past the ends of their noses and almost always never looked up. Fortunately, I was a tree-climbing champ. When I was a little kid, there was a huge pine in a vacant lot that we were expressly forbidden from climbing. Legend had it that this kid named Webby Schultz had climbed all the way to the top, then fallen out and broke his neck. Naturally, I was drawn to it like a magnet. I never climbed all the way to the top, but there were plenty of times I climbed high enough that it would have given my mother a heart attack if she ever found out – which fortunately never happened.
I doubled back towards the inn, despite every instinct screaming at me to run away from the danger. Up ahead, I saw what I was looking for: a hoary old sycamore that was large and solid. I shinned up the first ten feet like a monkey going up a pole. I reached the lowest branch and shot up the tree. About forty feet up, I found a broad branch that wasn’t too uncomfortable to sit on. There was a leaf-mosaic view of the back of the Golden Goat and a bit of the side of the courtyard.
Men fanned out through the woods and around the houses on the other side of the road. If they had tracker dogs, I was in trouble, but I didn’t hear any barking. The search went on for nearly an hour, but none of the searchers even got near to my sycamore. Eventually, they all reconverged in the courtyard. A smaller group of men came around the back and went to one of the sheds. They were led by a tall, skinny man with pale hair – a figure that could only be Anlar Ellas. Two of the men went into the shed and emerged dragging a large burlap sack. The burlap rippled as something inside struggled. Rocko! Ellas kicked the bag, and the struggling subsided, slightly. The men dragged the bag to the courtyard. After some delay and fussing, the men saddled up and returned they way they came. After the hoofbeats faded, I climbed down and very cautiously began to follow.
Part 12