Travellers' Rest (2 page)

“You’re an honest waitress,” Wyrth said.

The girl nodded. “Morlock drags you to hell if you lie. I don’t want to go to hell. So I’m not lying anymore.” Her tone was cool and pragmatic; she had thought the matter through and this was her decision about it.

“Er,” Wyrth said wittily. He was taken aback, and somewhat annoyed to see that Morlock himself was not: the crooked man was used to hearing these wild tales about himself. “Morlock drags liars to hell, does he?”

“Everyone knows that. My mother says so.”

“But—you don’t anticipate death soon, do you? I mean—”

“It can happen to anyone. At any time. Isn’t that true? They can come for you and then you’re gone. So we have to be happy and good while we can. My mother says so.”

“Well. Well. Right she is, of course.”

“Who are
they
?” Morlock asked.

“Shut up, you old fool; you’ll frighten her. Never mind him, Raelio. He doesn’t mean any harm, as a general thing, but you have to practice ignoring him.”

“They come for you from the hills,” the girl explained to Morlock, ignoring Wyrth instead. “And then you’re gone. We have to hope that you are dead. That’s the best we can hope for. That’s what my mother says.”

“And is Morlock one of those who come from the hills?” Morlock asked. (Wyrth had to admit that his interest was perfectly natural.)

“No, silly. They kill you in the hills and then Morlock and the angel fight over your soul. But the angel won’t fight for you if you’re a liar, so then Morlock gets you. My mother says so. Do you want something to drink? I was to start you with drinks and then inveigle you in innocent conversation. I guess I inveigled first, but I don’t know what that means exactly.”

“Inveigled is—it means—Well, anyway, what have you got to drink?”

“We have wine—”

“No wine,” said Wyrth firmly, looking sideways at Morlock.

“—the beer’s not bad; I had some at breakfast—”

“No beer.”

“Well we have a little mead from over the border, but—”

“No mead. Have you got anything but strong drink? Water, or something of that description?”

“Water’s all right, I guess,” the girl said dubiously. “Our well’s a little murky and we have to pay Gar Vindisc to use the stream.”

“Get us some of his good water, my dear; we’ll pay you triple whatever it costs.”

“Her. Her water. Gar Vindisc is one of the Old Women. What do you think ‘gar’ means?”

“If I told you I knew, my dear, I would have some trouble with Morlock right quick.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have thrinnel? I love thrinnel. It’s even better than beer!”

Wyrth didn’t know what thrinnel was so he asked, “Is it strong drink? Can you get drunk on it?”

“No, no. Babies drink it. It’s yummy.”

“Well, if it’s yummy then we must have some. Now we move on to shiftier ground. What do you
think
they’re going to offer us for lunch, Raelio?”

“Anything you want that we’ve got. The da is that excited to have people under the roof again.”

“What’ve you got, then?”

“Shellback brisket, shellback liver, shellback kidneys, shellback steaks and tripe, shellback-tail soup—”

“Shellbacks are those remarkable cattle we saw coming into town?”

“I guess.”

“What is there beside shellback?”

“Might be fish. Dry salted fish, from before winter.”

“Seethe some of that in Gar Vindisc’s good water and bring it to us. Bread, too, as long as you don’t make it from shellbacks.”

“And two shellback steaks,” Morlock added. Wyrth looked at him with a sense of deep betrayal, but Morlock shrugged his crooked shoulders and said, “Might as well see if it’s edible,” and Wyrth had to concede his point.

Raelio fetched them wooden mugs of thick yellowish fluid (“Thrinnel!”) and ran off to carry their order to the back of the house. Both the master maker and his apprentice could now detect the presence of several fires in the house, and anyone with ears could have detected a man and a woman shrieking at each other, with excitement rather than rage, amid the clanking of much cookware. A brief silence prevailed, in the heart of which Raelio could be heard reciting their order. There were some whispered consultations and the clanking resumed, even more purposefully than before, but with less shouting.

“What is this stuff?” Wyrth asked, fearfully peering into his mug. “Pus? Does ‘yummy’ mean what I thought it meant?”

“It’s buttermilk,” said Morlock after sipping some. “Reasonably fresh buttermilk.”

“Buttermilk?” demanded Wyrth, outraged. “And they serve it in a public establishment where anyone might drink it by accident? Civil law must have broken down entirely hereabouts.”

“It’s not so bad. Better than wine. Or beer.”

“Er. Yes.” Wyrth was particularly worried about Morlock getting drunk these days.

“Could you map a four-dimensional image of it onto three dimensions?” Morlock asked.

“A four-dimensional image of a fluid?” Wyrth wondered. Then he realized that lesson time had begun. “Or a fluid in a four-dimensional container? Well, why not? What should I use as a medium?”

“Something particulate. You can use a cementing spell to retain the shape.”

“Yes. If only we had some salt or something. Is there some in your pack?”

“There is a dish of it at your elbow.”

“So there is!”

Someone else entered the front of the hostelry while Wyrth was occupied in his model making.

“Must be a happy day for ourn host,” Wyrth remarked. “Two sets of guests in one day.”

“Eh,” said Morlock, but it was the way he said it.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“Listen.”

Wyrth listened. He couldn’t catch many words, but Sunlar’s voice sounded angry or frightened. The stranger’s voice was low, steady, implacable. A third voice rang out, a woman’s, loud enough for her words to carry to the refectory.

“We’ve done our part!” the woman shrieked. “We gave you our other one! Leave us alone! You said you’d leave us alone. Leave us alone!”

“Morlock,” Wyrth said warningly. “Not our problem.”

But the crooked man was already standing. Wyrth knew the crazy look in those pale gray eyes, and he feared the worst. At least Morlock left his sword hanging on the chair back, Wyrth reflected, which showed he wasn’t intending to kill anybody right away.

Morlock walked back up the refectory hall and into the shadowy entrance hall, Wyrth following reluctantly. The door to the street was standing open and a huge hulking man stood in it. The day was warmish, but his bulk was covered by a full cloak and his flat dull-eyed face showed no suffering from heat. It showed no feeling at all as the stranger said, “I’ve come to take her, that’s all. You know what he says. She is to come with me to the hills.”

Sunlar, Raelio, and an older women that Wyrth guessed must be the girl’s mother were huddled together behind the counter, as if that could protect them from the stranger.

“What is this?” Morlock demanded.

The stranger turned to him. He didn’t seem surprised or even interested in the interruption. He said, “I am to take the girl to the hills. Kyrkylio says so, and I do as he says.”

“That will not be convenient for me,” Morlock said. “The girl is to serve me lunch.”

“The old woman can serve it.”

“She’s cooking it.”

“The old man can serve it.”

“He has other important duties around this busy house.”

“Oh.” The stranger paused, evidently not wishing to be unreasonable. “How long will your lunch take? I can bring her to the hills after you’re done.”

Morlock was usually prepared to be unreasonable, as Wyrth well knew and as the stranger was learning. “I will require lunch tomorrow also,” the crooked man said implacably, “and the next day.”

“How long are you staying here?”

“As far as you’re concerned, forever. Go back to the hills. Tell Kyrkylio that he may not have the girl.”

“He won’t like that.”

Morlock shrugged.

“He gets angry.”

This time Morlock didn’t even bother to shrug.

“I get angry, too,” the stranger said. “You treat me unkindly. I am not used to that.”

“Learn,” Morlock suggested.

“No. I’m done with learning.” The stranger drew a sword from under his voluminous cloak and pointed it at Morlock. “I learned how to cut people open when they are unkind to me. That’s all I need. Now people are kind to me or I cut them open. Which is it for you? What do you say?”

What Morlock said was, “Tyrfing!”

Wyrth dropped to the floor. Morlock’s sword, Tyrfing (its black-and-white blade glittering in the light from the open door to the street), flew over his head and into Morlock’s open hand.

The stranger looked without dismay at the sword that had suddenly come to Morlock’s hand when called. “I see it. You are a sorcerer.”

“I am Morlock Ambrosius,” the crooked man replied.

The man and the woman screamed together and hid their faces. The girl seemed frightened, too, but she kept watching.

“I have a name, too,” the stranger said slyly. “A name that makes people scream, a name they are afraid to say.”

He tossed back his cloak, and Wyrth saw that his frame was not so very large after all. What made him seem bulky was the fact that he had six arms, each of them armed with a sword. “I am Iagiawôn,” the stranger said triumphantly. “Iagiawôn the Many-Handed!” He advanced, spinning the blades as if his wrists were on pivots.

“I told you,” Wyrth shouted at Morlock, “
we should have gone to the next town
!”

“Get them out of here,” Morlock said and retreated a step or two, Tyrfing raised to guard against the rippling hedge of blades.

“That means you!” Wyrth shouted at the family huddling behind the counter. But only the girl seemed to hear him, and she was caught tight in her parents’ double embrace.

Wyrth muttered a brief but sincere curse and dashed across the entryway, sparing a moment to kick at the back of Iagiawôn’s left knee, spoiling his sixfold thrust at Morlock. Unfortunately it did no other harm; the joint had some sort of buglike carapace to protect it. Wyrth half expected one of the six freakishly mobile arms to swing around and stab at him with a sword, but that didn’t happen. When Wyrth realized it wasn’t happening, he knew that was important somehow, but he didn’t have time to think about it.

Wyrth dragged Sunlar and his wife to their feet and pushed them across the floor into the dining hall. “Is there a back door in here?” he asked the wide-eyed girl, there obviously being no point in addressing a sensible question to the sobbing hysterical adults.

“Yes—” the girl began.

“What’s the point?” Sunlar wailed. “Morlock can find us wherever we go! Unless you think Iagiawôn can kill him?”

Wyrth lived on terms of irritable cheerfulness with life, and very few things really made him genuinely angry. But this was one of them.

“You snivelling swill-vendor!” he shouted up at Sunlar’s startled tear-stained face. “Morlock is risking his life out there for you and your family, even though he probably doesn’t remember your names. And you’re in here hoping the monster who came to take your daughter—your
second
daughter as I understand it—you’re hoping he fulfills his wish and cuts Morlock open. Well, don’t worry about it. However the fight works out, you won’t have to worry about Morlock coming after you; all those old stories are lies. Go on; get out of here; run as far and as fast as you can. But remember: every day of your life from now on is the gift of Morlock Ambrosius.”

He turned away from the family and grabbed a heavy drinking mug molded (badly) from pewter. He ran back into the entryway and saw Morlock was continuing a circling retreat, dodging the occasional sixfold thrust.

Wyrth threw the mug as hard as he could at Iagiawôn’s head, hoping it would bash out whatever the insectile thug used for brains. Wyrth was not hampered by any superstitions about fair fighting.

Unfortunately, it did worse than no good. Iagiawôn turned slightly to face the flying mug and caught it in his spinning blades; it shattered like glass. One of the larger chunks bounced off Morlock’s knee and he staggered a bit. Iagiawôn gleefully stabbed at him with his sheaf of blades, but Morlock managed to keep his feet and fend off the blades with a sweeping slash, like a reaper mowing glittering deadly stalks of hay.

“I told you to get them out!” Morlock shouted to Wyrth past his antagonist.

Wyrth hesitated. That meant Morlock thought there was a real likelihood Iagiawôn would win the fight, and Wyrth and the others would be in danger. On the other hand, Wyrth thought he could better Morlock’s odds if he stayed. On the other other hand, Wyrth hadn’t been doing a very good job of helping so far. … How many hands was that?

Hands. Suddenly Wyrth realized the importance of something he had noticed earlier. Iagiawôn had six hands, but he couldn’t use them independently. When he moved them, he moved them all in the same way.

He shouted to Morlock in Dwarvish. “Hwaet! Vakt sorn knektan wyruma thledhan; dal sar aknekt ma kapt!” (
Hey! The bug has six clever hands but just one stupid head!
)

“Yes,” Morlock said. “Get. Them. Out.”

Wyrth was about to say they
were
out when he noticed the innkeeper and his family watching the fight from the doorway just behind him.

“Go,” he said, pushing them back. “Go, get out. It’s life or death for you.”

He led them into the dining hall, each clash of the blades feeling like a thrust through his own heart. But what could he do? If Morlock thought this was worth spending his life on, Wyrth had better make sure it was not for nothing.

There was a clatter that caused him to look over his shoulder. Iagiawôn had leapt up on the counter to rain cuts down at Morlock’s head. The monster must have been confident about the carapace protecting his legs.

But Morlock didn’t attack him directly. The crooked man jumped to one side and shattered the counter itself with a single slash of Tyrfing’s glittering unbreakable blade. Iagiawôn hit the ground rolling on his shoulder—he had a lot of shoulder to roll on—and was almost instantly on his feet.