Bride of the Castle

CHAPTER ELEVEN

He climbed out of the valley and sought the hills.

Bedraggled, starved, he had five days' walk between him and home.

The town was real: it looked too dismal to be anything phantasmagorical. The innkeeper looked him up and down. "What disaster did you escape from?"

"Caught in a man trap in the valley of the Zinites."

"What in the world did you expect to find mucking about down there?"

"A meal."

The innkeeper grunted. "And I suppose that's what you want from me."

"I lost everything, even my sword, Bruce. Do you have any work I can do around the place?"

The innkeeper looked away. "Sorry, no. Have all the help I need." He did a take. "Bruce?"

"I have never begged in my life-"

"Don't start with me, please. Times are hard." He laughed. "When have times not been hard? I wonder. Anyway, I can't feed every sorry derelict who marches in here. Try down at Vinna's place. She's always a soft touch."

"I will. Thank you."

The innkeeper looked him over once again. "There's something familiar about you. Do I know you?"

"I have lodged here."

"Your accent's noble, though you don't look the part. Your name?"

"Rance of Corcindor."

The man sniffed. "Your Lordship. I…"

"It changes nothing. I cannot pay for a meal, much less a room."

The man shrugged. "I wish there was something I could do. But I'm full up."

Rance nodded and turned away.

"Landed nobility doesn't buy much these days," the innkeeper said to his back.

"Neither does land," he answered to no one.

The street was narrow and filthy. A gaggle of urchins ran past him, one child plucking at his sleeve. Manure was piled high in the gutter, and human waste littered the walkway. He picked his way through.

Vinna's tap room was large and smelled of ale and urine. He remembered the place, and its owner. She stood behind the bar, fat, sweaty, good-natured. She had once been pretty.

"You look a sight." She frowned, half-recognizing. "Lord… Rance?"

"I am he."

"I never forget a face. What brings you to Brisolarum?"

"Nothing brought me, and I will bring nothing back."

She eyed him at the level. "They're taking your estate, aren't they?"

"If I don't come up with payment."

"And you went tomb rob-" She blushed and curtsied. "So sorry, milord."

"That is what such activity is called. I won't deny it."

"You took your life in your hands, milord."

"Practically threw it away. But I was desperate, as I am now."

She poured him a brew. "You can sleep out back in the loft. Feed and water the mounts, and there'll be dinner every night. Help me wait tables in here once in a while and you'll have breakfast every morning."

"The gods be kind to you."

The loft above the stable was filthy. He cleaned it out and made an acceptable bed for himself out of sackcloth and straw. He learned that the stable boy, a man of advanced years, had just succumbed to an ague. His luck that Vinna had a position open.

Bad luck, that night, that a killing occurred in the tap room. It was a particularly grisly one. Rance didn't see much. He heard a woman scream, and turned to see a headless corpse topple to the floor. This was particularly bad fortune for Vinna because it was the third incident in less than a month, and the constabulary had threatened to close her down after the second. This, they did, for three days.

"I can't afford to close one day, let alone three," she wailed. "I'll lose the place."

Rance offered to hire himself out to other establishments and bring the proceeds home, but Vinna refused.

"We'll scrape by somehow. I owe the brewmaster, but him I can twirl around my finger." She threw the bar rag into the air. "I can't believe the bad luck. First Graumer dies, and now this." She paled. "Oh, dear. Things always happen in threes, don't they?"

The third thing was the fire in the stable, which started in a pile of dirty packed straw underneath some debris. Rance had been about to undertake a general cleaning of the place-too late. The stable burned to the ground. The only luck was in saving the inn from irreparable damage.

"You can sleep in the attic," Vinna told him. "But-"

"But I should move on."

"Wouldn't hear of it, milord."

"I have been nothing but trouble."

She chewed her lip.

He said, "I'll find something else."

"Where?"

"The next town. I'll be moving on."

"Take this." She held out three coins.

"I couldn't accept."

"I thought you wouldn't. You're truly of noble blood."

"Noble breeding, perhaps. The blood runs thin these days."

The next town was worse, but Rance was tired after three days of travel on foot. On the way he passed several disasters: an accident in which a child was crushed to death beneath the wheels of a fully laden cart; a freak mishap in which a farmer drowned in his own well; a house fire; several maimings involving farm implements.

He was beginning to wonder.

The barkeep shoved a glass of ale at him. "Three copper pieces," he snarled.

Rance stared him down while wiping the spillage away. "My good man, you seem to have some sort of problem."

"I've had a bad day, and I have a jumpy feeling. Your pardon."

"Granted."

The barkeep looked him up and down. "You don't look like you've had a good life."

"It's been spotty."

A crash of thunder punctuated his remark.

The barkeep looked over Rance's shoulder. "It's looked like rain all day. Now it looks like a bad storm."

Rance was about to ask about employment possibilities when he was interrupted by a horrendous lightning display. "Gods," the barkeep breathed. "Did I say bad storm?"

Moments later the flash flood hit. Rance was halfway through his ale when a high wall of water swept through the town.

Later he recalled nothing much but the feeling of being carried away by an unstoppable force. He remembered a few screams, the swirling brownish-gray water, floating debris. There was not much else to remember, and almost nothing remained of the town.

He swam to high ground, sloshed out of the water, lay down, and sank six fathoms into sleep.

Someone was trying to undress him. He threw out his right hand and hit something soft.

He got up and looked at the man writhing on the ground, clutching his throat.

The man regained his voice and croaked, "Bastard! I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet," he answered. "Not quite yet."