Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 5: Like Lips and Loves

Bodkin

Yeah, the vampires were nasty. And yes, they probably wouldn't have stirred if I hadn't opened one of the boxes.

Boxes? They were coffins. They were obviously coffins. Caskets. Not treasure chests. Coffins.

Whatever. Fancy boxes for rich men's bones. Always worth seeing what the noble deceased hoped to take with them to the Fields.

Idiot. Almost got us sent to the Fields.

Calm yourself, oldster. I took a calculated risk. We were fresh and ready, and it made a good test of the map to verify that indeed, indeed, the boxes were deadly.

Bah. Don't pretend you were being clever. You couldn't bear leaving loot behind.

Ooh, you make me sound like some old fellow who spent a lifetime squirreling coins under rocks for the worms to covet.

I never buried a penny, whelp. I spent every coin I ever won on something worth having. Beds and mates and bottles. A horse and a house in Pomona, fountained and gardened to please a prince.

Truly? Didn't think you so sensible.

We were never a miser, boy. A full fifth of all I stole, I gave yearly to beggars in the name of St. Herman.

Ah, buying the patron's favor? But I'm not thinking the sly fellow's smile is so easily won.

No! Not for his smile. For our own. To remind myself, our self, that loot is not the point. Only the deed counts. The defiance of guard and bar, noose and whip, law and propriety. Style and glory are the point. Not weight of pocket change! And so I call you greedy idiot for seeking treasure in a box marked by death. You cannot deceive me. I am you.

Fine. True. I was hoping for glitter. But I wouldn't have done so if it wasn't a reasonable risk. And didn't I help take down the second vampire? Got him fine, in the back with the short sword. Maybe I should give it a name, like Barnaby's Dragontooth.

We once named a long knife taken from the altar of St. Hermaphroditus.

What did you call it?

St. Venus's Penis.

Well, that's just sad.

No, it's mocking. Professionals never name their tools, boy. Nor chat with their horses nor boast in taverns nor trust a smiling stranger. And professionals never ever get greedy during a job.

Fine. It ended well enough. And you saw how well I did on the next floor down. Professional to the core.

No, I closed my eyes. You'd embarrassed me past bearing with the vampires. It was like watching my mirror be an idiot.

Liar. Sure you watched. It was that big round chamber lit by a glowing stone in the ceiling. Thirteen different doors.

Oh, I've seen the map. Fifth door from the right is safe. The others are marked with skulls, excepting the first, fifth and ninth, which have a sun sign.

Which for sure meant treasure. Except they'd been sly. Put a bit of stain on the floor before those two.

Blood, or fire?

Hmm, Black like old blood.

Any on the doors?

No.

Well, lack of splatter makes a good hint that the stains are fake. But not a sure bet.

Yeah, and we argued whether to take the bet. After the vampire battle, Val and Barnaby didn't want to open anything interesting. It required unto Matilda and I to remind all that we'd come for treasure. If the map said 'treasure', the faithful followers of St. Benefact were honor-bound to fill our pockets with his blessings. Cedric agreed, bless 'im, so of course Jewel agreed. That settled that.

You know your friends didn't come for treasure. They came because they were lonely and needed purpose.

Oh, for sure. And myself among them. Seriously, old man. If I didn't have a flock of lost sheep to guide through dangerous alleys, you'd have swallowed me up by now.

I am you, boy.

Nah. You're just who I used to be.

What you are, I once was. What I am, you shall be.

Surely. Unless I catch the ambition to do better. No offense, of course.

I never take offense. Just other things. What waited behind the three safe doors?

Hmm. Matilda opened the first. Nothing jumped out. Was just a closet. Ah, but holding a present for our Silenian. A longbow, relic of St. Artemisia her blessed self.

Ah, truly? Quite valuable.

Yeah, but no good to me. I took it upon my brave self to open the fifth door. Well now, and what did I find?

What?

Oh, you don't want to know.

Probably I don't. If it was anything worth a boast, you'd have bragged of it already.

Well, it was my missing boot. That weird mechanical dog of Barnaby's ran off with it in the night.

And left it in a closet of a deadly chamber of a cursed tower? A strange jest. Beware that beast. It has its own mind, and its own agenda.

I do believe I agree, old man.

What lay behind the ninth door?

Oh. Five bars of silver, near big as bricks and ten times as heavy.

Ha. That's a trap. Something just valuable enough the greedy can't bear to leave behind. But guaranteed to weigh them down later.

I suppose.

No. You didn't put them in your pack, did you? Tell me you aren't so completely an idiot.

Treasure and packs, they're like lips and loves, cocks and coquettes.

Get rid of them.

No. If I leave this tower with an empty pack, you'd mock me for all I left behind. I may have come for the fun and company, but I'm not leaving without heavy pockets.

Then you probably aren't leaving.

That's 'we', you mean. And twixt us, it's easier to carry silver bars in your pack than a sad old man in your head.

Silver weighs plenty. Life's wisdom weighs nothing.

Ah, now, there you're mistaken. The longer I carry you, the more you weigh on me.

You prefer to carry metal bricks than overmuch knowledge of life?

Depends on the knowledge. Were you satisfied with the life you lived? Saints' shit, no. You drank a magic cup to forget it. Same as any tippler in a tavern.

There is no escaping one's self.

Hmm. Well, I'll grant that it can't be easy. But maybe that's why I've come to the tower. To leave you behind. Just a thought.