A. Hartley - Will Power

Renthrette dived, rolled, and came up with her dagger. In about the same instant, Gaspar seized a long knife from his tunic and slashed at the air to keep her at bay. I, not realizing that Gaspar’s lethal spinning toy was out of commission, had dropped to the floor with a gasp of panic, which was quickly succeeded by a squawk of pain as I landed awkwardly on my elbow. Gaspar, perceiving this as an indication of attack, wheeled to faced me. As he did so, Renthrette lunged meticulously with her dagger, low and hard, held it for a moment, and then drew it out, bloody. Gaspar stood paralyzed and his eyes showed first shock, then pain, then nothing. He fell heavily forward.

The sentry was already dead. Whatever Gaspar’s other virtues, he hadn’t lied about the speed of his venom.

“Shouldn’t we be moving?” said Renthrette, wiping her knife clean. She was breathing heavier than normal, but otherwise she might have been suggesting that we leave a rather dull party.

“What?” I gasped, hardly able to speak.

“Don’t we have a job to do?” she demanded, her blue eyes transferring from the now-spotless dagger to my face with a hint of impatience.

“Can I have a moment to recover?” I sputtered, irritably. It had been intended as a rhetorical question, but Renthrette had never quite learned to spot them.

“Why?” she demanded. “We aren’t hurt.”

“I am!” I riposted. “Still. And someone just tried to kill us!”

“Tried,” she said, “and failed. So let’s go.”

“Where to?”

“You tell me,” she answered, “it’s your show.”

My show . I considered that, uncertain which was worse: the fact that I was indeed responsible for getting the Stehnites into the city, or the fact that Renthrette considered such an operation, a mission not so much audacious in its daring as suicidal, to be a “show.” Tough call.

“We’d better move quickly,” said Renthrette. “If Gaspar was one of the Pale Claw assassins you mentioned, then who knows who will be after us now.”

“They’ll all be after us once they find his body,” I said, “Pale Claw or not. What was Gaspar?”

“Chief Justice,” said Renthrette, bleakly.

“I thought it was something like that. Whether Sorrail and the king shared his politics seems rather immaterial, don’t you think? I wasn’t especially appreciated to begin with, and with the murder of one of their chief ministers under my belt I think we can rest assured that my popularity has entered a decline. Well, I don’t intend to wait around for them to find us.”

“Good,” said Renthrette. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Do you have that oil lamp with you?”

“Always,” she said, as if I’d asked her if the sun was strictly a daytime thing.

We considered hiding Gaspar’s body to buy us some time, but we couldn’t conceal both Gaspar and the sentry under the small half-bed, and that was the only piece of furniture in the room. We considered locking them together as if they had killed each other, but they were too heavy, and I doubted it would help. Finally, we did what we did best: we ran.

There had been no point in my bringing either weapon or disguise into the city since the guards would confiscate them, so I was in the intriguing position of being totally recognizable and unable to defend myself. Renthrette may, for the moment, go where she pleased, but my unwelcome and beaten face would certainly excite inquiry. I didn’t know what would be best: to walk brazenly down the palace’s long echoing corridors, to skulk in the shadows, or just to sprint until my lungs exploded.

Renthrette led with a brisk walking pace that looked like she was going somewhere, and I scuttered behind in a kind of jog that looked like nothing of the kind. We passed a sentry getting a dressing down from his corporal for a dirty tunic. As we got clear, Renthrette muttered out of the side of her mouth, “Where are we going?”

“To the wine cellars.”

She almost broke stride and shot me a look that challenged me to say anything about feeling like a drink. Instead, she said, “The fair folk don’t drink wine.”

“I know,” I said, “but the Stehnites did.”

“Stehnites?”

“Goblins.”

“Right. So what do we call the ‘fair folk’?”

“I told you,” I said. “The Arak Drül. That’s what the er. . Stehnites call them. Deadly Dull, might be a good translation.”

“And where are these cellars?”

“Under the kitchen that serves the main banqueting hall.”

“That’s right by the main garrison,” Renthrette exclaimed.

“Yes. Keep walking.”

“It’s where the palace guardhouse is and where the king’s elite troops live.”

“Yes.”

“We have as much chance of getting out of there alive as we do of walking on water.”

“About that: yes,” I agreed. “And it looks like we’re about to get our feet wet.”

A company of six soldiers and an officer had just rounded the corner and clearly intended to speak to us. “Lady Renthrette,” began the officer, “where are you taking Mr. Hawthorne?”

Renthrette looked at me blankly and opened her mouth like a large carp.

“I was hungry,” I inserted. “After a hard day of getting lumps kicked out of me by your worthy men, one gets a little peckish.”

“So I was taking him to the kitchens,” said Renthrette, throwing the carp back.

“I’m sure something could have been ordered for Mr. Hawthorne in his room,” said the officer.

“I’d just as soon stretch my legs,” I said weakly.

“I mean,” said the officer with a labored earnestness, “that though you are presently our. . guest, you should probably stay in your room until we get express word from Sorrail or one of the other duty officers.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “The moment I’ve eaten, I’ll go right back to my room and stay there.”

“No, sir,” began the officer, “I’m afraid. .”

“Now you listen to me,” I snapped, raising my voice, “I’ve had just about as much of this as I can stand. I came here as a witness to aid your army and was set upon by your thugs. Now all I ask is something to offset my hunger and rebuild the strength your troops knocked out of me.”

“Even so,” said the officer, a little sheepishly, “I really must insist that. .”

“Mr. Hawthorne has a rare blood disorder,” said Renthrette, to everyone’s surprise. “He must eat on the hour, or he is likely to collapse.”

I nearly did. My mouth fell open and I began to burble something, but she kept going:

“His feeding time is long overdue, and the only way to keep him awake is to keep him moving. Come on, William, stir yourself up and down a little.”

I gave her a wide-eyed look. She stared at me and said, “You must keep your blood flowing, William. Keep those legs moving.”

She slapped at my thighs and, in slow disbelief, I began to hop lightly from one foot to the other as she seemed to be suggesting.

“That’s right,” she commended. “A little higher. Now,” she said to the soldiers, “I promise I’ll take him back as soon as he is fed, all right?”

The officer hesitated and glanced awkwardly at his men. I continued to dance about, executing some bizarre form of jig, while trying to look as if this was perfectly normal. I flicked my heels up behind me, now humming to give myself something to cavort to. The soldier watched me for another moment and then nodded silently. We set off immediately down the passage, Renthrette marching swiftly, I reeling off some lunatic country dance.

As soon as we were round the corner I began walking normally. I growled at Renthrette, “And what the hell was that supposed to be?”

“I thought that was rather good,” she remarked, without looking at me. “You know, inventive.” She shot me a sly smile and I frowned at her.