Mercadian Masques

Chapter 10

Gerrard stood amid a huge, jeering throng. He'd been washed. His clothes were cleaned and pressed. The rust bands had been scrubbed from his wrists. The cuts and burns and bruises of the Rushwood now lurked beneath a thick coat of powder makeup. A Mercadian coiffeur had trimmed, polished, and set his hair and beard. He had never looked cleaner or more handsome.

Gerrard was not simply a military prisoner. He was a political prize.

"Behold, people of Mercadia!" cried a stout nobleman from a nearby dais. His gold-embroidered robes gleamed against the dark shadow of Mount Mercadia, towering above. His eyes swept the huge crowd that had gathered in the lower market. A sour turn of corpulent lips showed how little he enjoyed speaking the vulgar language of the commoners. "Behold our prisonerLegendary Gerrard, giant killer!"

Boos and hisses came from the throng. The multifarious roar of the marketplace this morning had been stilled when the soldiers had returned with their prize. Now, the warring shouts united in a single purpose-the humiliation of the foreign traitor.

Even if Gerrard could have fought past the two hundred soldiers who hemmed him in, he would have had to battle a crowd of tens of thousands. His obedience was assured not by these hundreds or thousands, though, but by the daggers pressed to the shackled throats of three-Sisay, Takara, and Tahngarth. No, Gerrard would play out this perverse drama today, and his friends would live. Though unfettered, Gerrard was utterly trapped.

"Once, his fame echoed through these walls-the man who had single-handedly slain a thousand giants and two thousand cateran enforcers! So magnificent were his rumored deeds, the chief magistrate graciously provided him Mercadia's finest fighting force-the Fifth Regiment-to lead against his enemies." The nobleman smiled capaciously, his jowls glimmering like the wet pouches of a satisfied frog. "He took the Fifth Regiment to the Rushwood to rescue a friend, a comrade, who is here among us as well." He gestured expansively backward.

A crowd of soldiers parted, allowing a snow-white Jhovall to stalk slowly into the clear space beside Gerrard. Tridents prodded the beast forward. It growled low and nipped at the points that jabbed its haunches.

Aback the beast rode Orim. Just like Gerrard, she had been washed and primped for this public spectacle. Her turban was bleached to shine like a standard. Her hair had been elaborately braided with Cho-Arrim coins. Though she seemed unshackled, hidden chains bound her to the dazzling beast. Orim was a critical figure in the drama- Gerrard's crew member and friend, a convert of the Cho-Arrim, the damsel in distress that the giant killer had ridden to rescue. Her actions were as compelled as Gerrard's. Orim rode the gleaming Jhovall toward Gerrard, but her eyes only watched the daggers that pinned the throats of her friends.

"Orim," Gerrard said. His eyes were slitted against the gleam of the plains. "I'm sorry for all that has happened."

She dropped her gaze from Sisay and the others. Pain, anger, and regret warred on her face. Whatever her true feelings, her part in the play was already scripted. Orim reached up, drew the turban from coin-coifed hair, and flung it at Gerrard's feet.

"Renunciation!" the noble shouted exultantly.

A roaring cheer answered from the crowd.

"Even the woman he rescued renounces the giant killer!" the nobleman cried above the furor.

Soldiers converged on Orim, fastening shackles over her wrists while removing the hidden ones on her ankles. They dragged her from the mount and drove her before their tridents. Dust rose in puffs from her feet as Orim staggered toward Tahngarth and the others.

"And here-do you see?-here are his other proud friends!" the noble said, gesturing toward the shackled crew.

They stood there only until Orim was driven into their midst. Then, impelled by blades, they turned their backs on Gerrard and marched under guard toward the lifts that waited beyond the crowd. In moments, they and their soldiers were within one of the golden cages that would take them to the city above.

"His friends renounce him as well. They turn their backs on the giant killer. But why? What could the Legendary

Gerrard have done that was so horrible?"

In the pause, the question echoed against the mountain's base. It circulated in hisses among the crowd.

Nodding in mock indignation, the nobleman answered his own question. "There, first of all, is the matter of a massacre. The Cho-Arrim are our ancient enemies, yes, but they are still human. Gerrard did not act so. He ordered his troops to slaughter every man, woman, and child in the central villageten thousand of them!"

Not even boos answered that, so deep was the shock. "Even the cateran commander sent among the Fifth Regiment recognized the atrocity. When he tried to stop Gerrard, the giant killer turned his own troops on the caterans. He slew his own forces."

Groans turned to growls and then to roars. Gerrard could only stand in their midst, head held high, eyes glinting darkly.

"For his acts, he and his coconspirators have been arrested, and all will face trial. For their crimes, they lose their freedom. For their atrocities, they lose the great treasure that they had marched to take from the Cho-Arrim. Their loss is our gain. Behold, Mercadians, our new airship, the glorious vessel-Weatherlight!" He flung his hand outward toward a great bulk covered in billowy shrouds.

Soldiers pulled down the obscuring canvas. Tan cloth fell away to reveal the long, sleek hull of Weatherlight. Her broken spar had been repaired, and both airfoils raked batlike back from slender rails. Her hull was sound again, seamless, as though the wood had healed itself. Her engines were still defunct, of course. The ship had to be brought arduously overland by giants with relays of rolling logs. Sweating crews of them stood beside it even now, clutching the vast ropes they had used to haul the ship forward. Some of the less tidy titans still had rubbish hanging from their heels after shoveling a path through the garbage wall. Despite filthy giants, shoving soldiers, and a gawking rabble, Weatherlight was a glorious vision there on the plains.

A cheer that was one part victory and one part avarice burst from the throng. Gerrard felt crushed beneath its omnipresent weight.

"Yes! This ship is now our ship-a defender of Mercadia. And, soon, the magistrate will complete its repairs and will send it out to conquer our foes in woods, and plains, and seas."

It was too much. As the greedy furor rose into the air,

Gerrard went to his knees.

If the Mercadians succeeded, the massacres had only just begun.

For much of Gerrard's humiliation, Sisay had stood with a dagger at her throat. Now, within the golden cage of the lift, the dagger was gone, but shackles remained. So too did the horrible lump of dread. Takara, Tahngarth, and Orim seemed equally stunned by the events of the last days. They were doomed this time. The Mercadians and caterans had orchestrated every aspect of this day.

Almost every aspect…

Sisay's eyes widened in recognition and alarm when a certain goblin magnate arrived. She shook her head slightly, muttering to herself, "What are you up to, Squee?"

He strode imperiously onto the lift. Squee wore the full regalia of a Kyren: manifold robe in maroon with gold piping, double stole, and ermine hems that dragged in the dust. He was shorter and more rumpled than most Kyren, and he struggled to speak the lofty inquisitions that befitted his station. His words were singsong, as though he had rehearsed all night. "Aren't these the brave soldiers dat brought the giant killer from over there in the woods? Aren't these the thirsty guys dat bested a man not bested by the best-by the bestest of the best giantish fellows dat we've got hereabouts in Mercadia… ?" The words dribbled away in uncertainty.

Sisay leaped in, "They sure are! They bested Gerrard and all of us! But do they get any credit?"

"No. What do we get?" wondered the sandy-faced guard captain. He tried to spit some grit from his teeth, but there wasn't enough saliva to bear the grains away. The sputum landed in an ignominious glob on his yellow riding jacket. "We do all the work, and the traitor's the one that gets cleaned up. Is that right?"

"No-" Squee blurted, and then hurriedly turned the response into a question- "no, urn, no drinks have been given ta you guys?" He tried to snap his fingers, though even that act seemed beyond him.

A nearby wine merchant heard, though-a mere boy with a wheelbarrow filled with wineskins. He lifted his face, nodded a head of tousled black hair, and wheeled his wares up beside the goblin. "Yes, Master? Do you wish to purchase a skin of wine?"

"A skin of wine? Do Squee look cheap to you, Atalla?" Squee asked. "Uh, dat is-do Squee look cheap ta you at all, huh?"

"No, Master!" the young man said, bowing obsequiously.

"Will this money purse buy dat whole cartful?" the goblin asked, pulling a bulging sack from his robes. He tossed it to Atalla, and it chinked with a sound like coins-or, perhaps, river stones.

Tucking the bag into his own robes, Atalla cried, "Wine for everyone!"

"Not the prisoners!" the sandy-faced man said greedily, grabbing two skins for himself.

"Why would Squee buy wine for filthy, scummy, stupid, ugly, bad-stinking prisoners?" the goblin asked, giving a big wink to Sisay.

She sneered in order to hide her smile.

"Might I also offer the work of my brush?" Atalla asked, producing a whisk broom and beginning to clean the dust from the guard captain. "That'll be just one copper more per soldier!"

"Ain't these guys worth a brush-off?" the goblin wondered amiably.

The captain squirted raga wine into his mouth, swallowed, and said, "You're going to earn this copper. I got dust everywhere."

Atalla quickly worked over the riding cloak and then coaxed it from the captain's shoulders. "I'll brush off your uniform too. Lift your arms. There. Your belt is really dirty." The whisk worked furiously over the set of keys hanging there. The captain began to look down.

Squee shouted in sudden startlement, "Is this here claptrap cage safe? Can it hoist these real good soldier guys up ta the uppity city? Doesn't dat console there look kind of banged up, like as if it'd been gotten into by somebody dat shouldn'ta gotten into it? Who's s'posed to fix this?"

A woman standing quietly nearby shoved forward. She didn't look very Mercadian-her face was suspiciously lean. Even so, she had greasy hair, grime on her cheeks, and a bit of a paunch beneath, her yellow cloak.

Sisay's secret smile deepened-Hanna was in on this too?

Hanna bowed, her eyes averted toward the toolbox in her hand. "I am assigned to maintain this lift today, Master."

"Will you open dat console ta show me it's all right and not messed up by… guys trying ta… mess up things?" "Saboteurs?" the woman supplied. "Do Squee not know how ta talk?"

"Yes," the mechanic lied. She ducked past the goblin, set her tool case on the floor of the lift, and began working at the console.

Oblivious, the guards gulped their wine.

The boy had moved on from the captain to brush down Sisay. As clouds of dust went up from her shoulder, she whispered, "Surprised to see you, Atalla."

He flashed her a smile. In a wry murmur, he said, "Father told me I could come back to the city as long as I returned with another thousand gold."

"You will if you get us out of this," Sisay pledged. "What's the plan?"

"Drugged wine," Atalla replied. He brushed the shackles on her hands, and they clicked open. "A skeleton key… a rewired lift… Once Gerrard joins us, we'll soar to the city and disappear."

Sisay nodded. "The best place to hide in hundreds of miles-"

"Hey! What'th thith?" the guard captain slurred. "Why're you brushing off the prithoners?"

Atalla blurted, "To keep your hands clean when you grab them."

The captain nodded blearily and took another drink.

Atalla meanwhile moved swiftly to Tahngarth and Takara, intent on "cleaning" their shackles.

A soldier sprawled beside them, overcome by the drugged wine. Others turned on rubbery legs and stared down stupidly at the fallen man. One man tried to lift his comrade, but he fell too. Realization crossed the faces of the others.

"What thort of wine ith thith-?"

A third went down, and a fourth. The slumping soldiers were beginning to attract attention from the crowd nearby.

"I wish Gerrard would get here," Atalla growled as he unlocked Tahngarth's shackles.

"He's not coming," the minotaur rumbled, pointing toward the crowd.

In chains now, Gerrard rode away from the city aback the snow-white Jhovall.

"The prithonerth are loothe!" shouted the guard captain even as he crumpled to the floor of the lift. "They're loothe! Guardth!"

Nearby, an officer heard the slurred call for help. He turned, gestured toward the lift, and barked orders to his contingent. Swords flashed out. Soldiers converged.

"Take us up, Hanna," Sisay shouted. She flung away her shackles, grabbed up a trident from one of the fallen guards, and swung it about, smashing the butt into the face of a new arrival. "Take us up!"

Sudden motion flung down the last of the drugged guards. The lift lurched upward. It pulled free of the ground. Its cage door clanged loose. Soldiers leaped, grabbing onto the gate, but Sisay kicked their hands away. They fell, and in moments, the lift rose out of their reach. It accelerated toward the city above.

"It'th no uthe," the guard captain laughed blearily. "They're going to exthecute your friend." He slowed down to speak more clearly. "They're going to bury him in the wall of garbage."

Tahngarth's eyes slitted. "Not if I can help it." With a roar, he flung himself from the soaring lift.

"No, Tahngarth!" Sisay shouted, extending her hand futilely after him. The lift was higher than he could have realized-a hundred feet and rising. As Sisay watched in horror, Tahngarth plunged toward ground. "Take us back down! Reverse, Hanna! Reverse!"

"I can't!" Hanna shouted. "It's hard wired now!"

"But Tahngarth!" Sisay shouted, staring down as his body shrank to a tiny point. Hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her back from the edge.

"Think of Gerrard!" Takara hissed as air rushed down over them. "If we can find the dump site, can stop them- we can save Gerrard."

Sisay collapsed atop her arms. "Yes. We can do nothing for Tahngarth. Think of Gerrard. Think of Gerrard."

Tahngarth had thought only of Gerrard when he flung himself from that lift. Now, he wished he'd thought of himself-and of basic physics.

Roughly speaking, every ten feet of a fall means another broken bone. This fall would leave Tahngarth with multiple contusions of legs, arms, spine, and skull. Those last two were the bad breaks. The shattered skull seemed almost a certainty since Tahngarth was flipping slowly over as he fell.

The marketplace spread out below him. Spectators crowded on either side of the road where Weatherlight rolled. Giants dragged the ship across logs and toward a huge door that gaped at the base of the mountain.

That was all Tahngarth saw before his face turned toward the spinning wall. Why had he thought of Gerrard? A few month ago, he couldn't stand the man, and now he would die for him?

Tahngarth somersaulted a second time. He glimpsed Gerrard's snow-white Jhovall marching amid a military escort. Gerrard was headed for the rubbish wall, for the section dug out to allow Weatherlight through. He would be buried there, in more rubbish.

Just before flipping to the wall again, Tahngarth saw a silver flash below-Karn? And what did he hold? A canvas tent roof?

Karn ran to the base of the lift shaft and hurled the canvas upward. The cloth's upper edge snagged on a lift bracket. Karn yanked on the lower edge, drawing it into a taut, beautiful, slanting slide.

Tahngarth struck the canvas slide-face first-and shot down the fabric slope. The rug burn on his nose was agony, but it was better than a skull spattering on stone. In whizzing moments, he ran full speed into Karn, who clutched the base of the slide.

There came a terrible chime sound that jarred minotaur and golem, both. The two tumbled to the ground side by side, their ears ringing.

That tone might have been bearable if it weren't accompanied by the roar of hundreds of booted feet converging around them. In moments, Tahngarth and Karn gazed at a ring of tridents and angry faces.

"I could slay twenty of them… before going down…" Tahngarth panted breathlessly.

Karn gave a shuddering sigh. "I couldn't dance with more than three."

Where were Hanna, Orim, and Takara? They talked a big talk about responsibility and all that, but then they get themselves lost. And look who was left holding the bag? Look who got to save the day time and again! Squee, that's who. He'd faced down the cateran enforcer that first day, and he'd been saving Gerrard and the others ever since. Today was a perfect example. He'd played his part perfectly. He'd saved the whole crew. But did anybody talk about Squee, giant killer? And why not? Did anybody ever One of the best-looking bugs in Mercadia scuttled along the gutter. Squee stooped to watch it wobble. The wobblers were the tastiest. They had the most meat under their shells.

"Come on, Squee! It's right up here! No time to waste!" Atalla said, yanking on his arm.

Now, there was an impatient lad-Atalla. Nice, but impatient. He'd also helped the crew escape twice now, which was plenty nice, but he'd gotten paid a thousand gold for it. Did anybody ever offer a thousand gold to Squee for anything in his whole stinking life? Maybe if he got impatient once in a while- "Come on!" Atalla said, bodily dragging Squee from the gutter.

For his part, Squee snatched the bug up and gobbled it down.

Atalla hauled him down a twisted lane to three huge wagons that stood side by side in stalls at the end of the road. Each wagon bore a massive bin brimming full of rubbish. Vegetable peels and hunks of splintered wood formed a slurry with broken plates and raw sewage. Above each of the bins swarmed ecstatic flies. Their tiny bodies jittered against the lemon sky. Just beyond the refuse wagons hung empty air-a drop of almost two miles straight down. Gerrard would be at the bottom of that drop, shackled and waiting to be slain by filth.

"Do you remember what you are supposed to say?" Atalla asked, shaking the goblin. "Do you remember?"

Squee tried to answer, but his mouth was full of bug. Clutching Squee's arm tightly, Atalla approached the giant workers that milled about behind the wagons. "You see, Master Squee? These are the brigands I told you about!" Atalla said dramatically, pointing at the lead giant. "Illegal dumping!"

Gray-faced and massive, the giant jutted his jaw downward and compressed his brow. Beneath putrid locks, his eyes gleamed in confusion. "Illegal dumping? Ain't no such thing!"

"It's new," Squee replied, and then hastily added, "ain't it?" The giant scratched a knobby torso. "We was told to bring this load of crap to this here street and dump it when we seen the flare."

"This-Here Street? This isn't This-Here Street." Atalla shook his head. "This street is That-There Street. Dumping's not allowed on That-There Street."

The giant shook his head, bedeviled. "This here street isn't This-Here Street?"

"No," Atalla affirmed. "This here street is That-There Street." He pointed to an adjacent road. "That there street is This-Here Street."

Gaping, the giant said, "I'll be damned."

"Is it not confusing?" Squee interjected.

"No-it is confusing," the giant replied.

"Don't it get more confusing with lots of street names?"

"I don't know what to say-"

"Don'tcha think we oughta call all streets by one name?"

"Now you're talking!"

"Wasn't Squee talking before?"

"Enough talking!" Atalla interrupted urgently. "By order of Master Squee, move these wagons to This-Here Street and prepare to dump them!"

"This here street, or This-Here-"

"Just do it!"

Gerrard, Tahngarth, and Karn knelt side by side in rubbish. Chains bound their wrists and necks and legs. To either side, a great wall of garbage rose. They would soon be part of that wall. Before and behind them stood whole regiments of men. Above it all, standing cockily atop the wall of filth, was none other than Xcric.

The cateran enforcer carried a crossbow and strolled idly back and forth along the mound. His talons gripped and released the pestilential muck. He relished this moment. As the officer who had captured Gerrard, he was given the honor of presiding over the execution. An execution by muck. It was an honor no Mercadian noble would have wanted.

"And now, we see the man for what he truly is! No giant killer, but rubbish!"

The cateran lifted his crossbow, lit the pitch-tipped quarrel, and fired a flaming shot into the sky. The bolt raced upward, disappearing except for the bright glow of fire it carried. All eyes except the prisoners' followed it upward. In time, even the fire was lost against the lemon sky.

Something else appeared to take its place. Along the rim of the city directly above, three bins of rubbish suddenly tilted. The vile stuff that disgorged from those bins sloughed down in a black and shapeless mass. Three muck-loads became one, spiraling toward ground like a black demon. It dropped straight down, not seeming to move but only to grow slowly larger.

"Won't you look up? Won't you see your coming doom?" hissed the cateran. "Judgment from the sky falls on each of us but once. Do you truly wish to miss the spectacle?"

Whether from the goading or from some impulse of their own, the three condemned men raised their eyes in unison. They saw the black monster of filth rushing down from sky. Faint smiles formed on their faces. Even Karn's jaw seemed to grin.

"Defiant to the last," Xcric growled, staring at his happy prisoners. "Smiles won't save you! Farewell forever, Giant Killer!" The cateran enforcer raised his arm in an angry fist.

And then Xcric was gone, buried under hundreds of tons of filth.