Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 15: Inform the Subminister the Chief Flayer is Out of Snake Venom. Again

"Entirely a waste of my aid," brooded Michael. He stood in the dark just beyond the fire; somber eyes reflecting dancing flames.

"But entertaining," observed the cat. Sitting far closer to the flames. His angel-white eyes catching no least gleam of firelight.

"Will she live?" asked Barnaby. "Can't I use a second wish so you may cure her?"

"I am no healer," said the ghost. "Quite the opposite. But if she doesn't start spitting blood, and the wound does not turn green, and she does not take a fever, she will live. Till she dies of something else."

"Granted, she might yet kill you," observed the cat.

"She wasn't herself," said Barnaby. Feeling a rare anger. "She's a bard, not a soldier ready to shrug at killing. She'd gone out of her head."

The cat smiled to fire and anger alike. "Heads are not really houses one goes in, goes out, goes in."

"She certainly knows her knife work," mused Michael. "One supposes it a requirement for pretty bards on the road."

Barnaby got up, saying naught. He ladled soup from the kettle into a bowl. Then carried this to the lean-to where Val lay upon a mat of straw and heather.

Her eyes were open, staring at the sky, the sparks rising. As he approached she studied him.

"The miller's son, right?"

Barnaby smiled in relief. "Then you do know me. Hungry? I made soup from things I found."

The woman considered. "No."

"And I found you a new shirt. It's beside you."

"Where is my knife?"

"The kitchen knife?"

"No, my long knife. They took it when they first caught me."

"It's just under your mat. Michael said you'd rest better having it close by."

She reached about, found it. Raising the blade. Barnaby felt a moment's worry. Would she jump up, chase him about? Else wait till he came close, then lunge.

She spied the thought. Gave a sour smile.

"Worried I'll gut you?"

Barnaby considered. Honesty seemed best

"Some."

She nodded. "Smart." She put the knife back under the mat. "Safe enough?"

She lay covered with the blanket. But still looked entirely a girl now. Or woman? Somewhere between.

"They were easygoing at first," she said. Staring upwards, recalling. "Didn't hold grudge for me slicing their leader. He wasn't popular, it seems."

"That'd be the fellow by your horse?"

She nodded. "Poor Destrier. Fell dead with an arrow to the head. Stupid of them. That horse was worth more than I am. But they didn't know rat-shit about proper robbery. They dragged me away, insisting it was nothing personal. Were going to sell me to St. Martia, but promised to leave a knife in my boot so's I could get free of the slavers."

"Would they have?"

She smiled. "No. They were lying. Still, we got on fine. At first. They tied my feet but not my hands, so I could play my harp for them. Brigit's tits, I sang ten thousand songs about sly robbers, clever brigands, stupid sheriffs. They sang right along. The redhead, Marcus, had a decent voice. Then I got careless."

"How so?"

"Over-many high notes. They caught on I wasn't soprano boy, but tenor girl. After that it was all talk of rape in the shadows, no more noble brigands under the green wood."

Barnaby stayed silent, wishing he was at home, sitting by the hearth, staring into the kindly flames.

"The world's a fearful place," he sighed.

"It is that," Val agreed. "Are they all dead?"

Barnaby nodded. "They are now. Two I tried to bandage but it wasn't any good. A boy ran off through the trees."

"Dark skin, light hair, white teeth?"

"Yes."

"That was Bodkin. Glad he got away. He's the one who slipped me the cooking knife."

"That was good of him."

"Quite good, for a thief," Val mused. "But Bodkin didn't really fit in with woodland bandits. More the kind to pick the bishop's pocket at high mass, and then ask for his blessing. Who were you talking to by the fire?"

"A magic cat and a ghost."

Val closed her eyes. "Doesn't surprise me a bit."

This observation surprised Barnaby. "No?"

"No. Was it the ghost who grabbed me as I was about to gut you?"

"Yes. That's Dark Michael."

"Thought there was something funny about him. Was right behind me all on a sudden. His arm about my throat gave chills. I mean, worse than one usually gets from an unexpected arm about one's throat. Didn't see the magic cat."

Barnaby began describing Master Shadow Night-Creep, which required explaining the witches and the pebble-kiss. His words grew tangled as the witches' wood, so he switched to Dark Michael, giving a long description of the poor donkey. At the burial he realized Val did not hear him. She slept, breathing soft but rapid, as though in dreams she ran for her life.

* * *

"If the boy goes to the Borealis Tower, he dies on the steps," observed Master Night-Creep.

"If he goes as is," agreed Dark Michael.

"What, will you first teach him to waggle a sword? Give him soldierly advice on keeping feet dry, eyes and blade sharp? And in a week, he'll walk into the lion's den, returning with the lion's gold tooth?"

"Certainly, I can teach him to fight," said Michael. "As you might instruct in magics. Till then, we must steer him to other pursuits."

"I am his humble, most humble servant, oh ghost," meowed the cat. "Not his master. Whether the boy sets himself to wrestle dragons or climb cursed towers to dance jigs upon the pinnacle, I but follow meekly behind."

Dark Michael laughed; a sound sharp and cold as the crack of ice in far northern places lacking sun's light, sun's hope.

"Do not talk to me of servants. Whether summoned spirit or hired farmgirl in the scullery. They are forever leading their masters by the nose. Exact as cats."

The cat yawned. "This is but a fool's summoning, to aid a fool in a fool's quest. I must return to work fitting a being of my fur and station."

"What? Fetching gold coins for wizards, baby breath for witches? Instructing a wrinkled sorcerer how to concoct potions to make him feel seventy again? Perhaps informing some sub-minister of Hell that the Chief Flayer is out of snake venom?"

The cat growled. "The high and noble path such as I walk, is nothing a deceased butcher-lord can comprehend."

Now Dark Michael yawned, to say what he thought of high and noble paths.

Master Shadow Night-Creep licked a tail-tip. "But speaking entirely hypothetically, when one wishes to turn human feet down a side path, the heart makes excellent distraction. Or the groin, at least."

Ghost and cat met eyes, then turned them towards the lean-to, where Barnaby sat, head down, watching over the sleeping bard.