Surely any Bastard’s demon must prefer so potent a soldier.
“What,” jeered Desdemona aloud, “and have to look at your ugly face in every mirror till we found a way to throw you off? The Bastard my Master spare us that!”
“Des, don’t bait them!” yelped Pen, horrified.
Clee blinked in confusion, but held his block. Rusillin’s brawny arms drew back his heavy pike, preparing for a lethal lunge.
Pen set their hair on fire.
Clee dropped his pike and yelled. Rusillin, made of sterner stuff, tried to complete his lunge first, his pike’s hooked blade banging and scraping into the stone wall where Pen had been an instant before.
Every trouser tie, buckle, and toggle on both men’s clothing worked loose at once. Rusillin’s next lunge was much impeded by his trousers falling down around his thighs, catching him up; Pen swore Desdemona giggled. As both men staggered around beating out the flames on their heads and tripping over their clothing, she cried, Make for the water gate!
Pen ran down the ramp, tried to push off the skiff, which didn’t budge, saw Rusillin out of the corner of his eye hopping furiously toward him, and shot through the low archway. The water splashed cold around his ankles, calves, thighs, crotch, aaah! He wailed, “But Des, I can’t swim!” as his next step landed on nothing, and he plunged over into a drop-off as steep and sudden as the castle wall’s rise above him.
That’s all right, said Desdemona smugly. Umelan can. Let her guide you.
Umelan made it known in a violent surge of revulsion that she was not used to waters this cold, nor a body so lean and unbuoyant, but somehow Pen floundered to the surface and began a dog’s paddle out into the growing darkness. He blinked water out of his eyes and swiveled his head, looking for the direction to shore.
Make for the opposite bank, Desdemona advised. Rusillin will be sure to have men out searching the nearer one for you before long.
“I can’t swim that far!” Pen gasped.
If you relax and slow down, you will find that you can.
Pen kept paddling. Gradually, his strokes lengthened, and his trailing legs found a rhythm like a frog’s which, if they did not propel him much, at least did not impede him. His frantic gasping steadied.
Until he heard Clee’s voice, too close behind him: “There he is! I can see his hair in the water.”
Pen turned to find the shadowy silhouette of the skiff putting out from the water gate. Two men, it seemed, could shift its weight where one man could not. The oars creaked and screeched in their locks as Rusillin pulled mightily. Could Rusillin beat Pen down with an oar and drown him? Hook him with a pike, and drag him back to the castle like some long, unwieldy fish?
Now, that wasn’t bright, murmured Desdemona happily. Pen’s body warmed in pulsing waves, in the cold water.
Clee, standing to peer toward Pen, a pike gripped in his hands like a harpoon, swore in surprise as his foot went through the bottom of the boat. He lost his hold on the weapon, which sank, weighted by its big steel blade. The oarlocks worked loose, and the oars skittered along the thwarts; Rusillin cursed. The skiff settled sluggishly.
Over the high castle walls, a voice floated up in a frightened bellow: “Fire! FIRE!” Other voices took up the chorus.
Rusillin looked out into the darkness after his retreating prize, back over his shoulder at his other threatened treasure, and, using one oar as a paddle, began to turn his water-weighted craft around.
“Rusi,” said Clee in an alarmed voice, “I can’t swim either!”
“Then you’d better grab that oar and get to work,” Rusillin snarled. “The other fool will drown in this cold soon enough.”
At that point, it was really redundant for Rusillin’s oar blade to snap off as he dug it into the water.
Very quietly, Pen turned on his back and began paddling in the opposite direction.
The moon was rising over the eastern hills by the time Pen pulled himself up over the rocks, crawled a few paces, and flopped down in some lovely soft mud. He was chilled through and wheezing. He never wanted to move again.
At length, curiosity overcame his torpor, and he made the effort to roll onto his side and peer back across the lake. The sparks and orange glow that had been soaring from the castle like a chimney fire had finally stopped, ah. That was a nice castle, he thought sadly. Too bad.
Rough justice, murmured Desdemona, sounding nearly as exhausted as Pen. If you want the other kind, you shouldn’t draw the attention of the white god.
“Did Ruchia do things like this?”
Not often. She was too astute to let herself be cornered. Desdemona seemed to consider. After the first few lessons.
She added after a little, If you lie here longer, you will perish of the cold, and all my night’s work will be wasted. Also, I do not wish to be stuck in a cow.
Pen pulled himself to a sitting position. “You could have had Clee.”
I’d rather the cow.
“Or Lord Rusillin.” Why had she not chosen Rusillin?
Get up, Pen. Walking us out of here is your work.
Pen climbed to his knees, then to his feet. Then, skirting around a few incurious cattle, to what passed for a road on this steeper eastern shore, more of a rutted farm track. He stared north up the length of the lake, south down it. He bore no risk of getting lost, exactly.
We could go north, Desdemona observed. We could go anywhere. A pause. Except Idau.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever longed to see Idau.” Or even thought about its name on the map, where it appeared as a dot no bigger than Greenwell, some fifty miles west of Martensbridge and just over the border to the lands of the earl palatine. “But all my things are back in Martensbridge. And I never finished the book. And Tigney must be wondering where I am by now. Do you think he really gave Clee leave to take me to the castle?” Could Tigney even have been a conspirator? Uncomfortable thought.
Hah. Tigney might have given you leave to go beyond the town walls—never us.
“You suspected something? Even then?”
Mm. A very noncommittal . . . non-noise. We were sure something interesting must be afoot. We didn’t know what. We could not speak aloud in front of Clee, nor yet silently to you.
“Are all demons this curious? Or did you get that from Ruchia?”
Ruchia and we . . . were a very good match. Unsurprising, since we chose her. Desdemona feigned a yawn. You walk. We’ll nap. Wake us when we arrive.
Pen sighed and started south, boots squelching as he stumbled over the ruts. This night was going to be interminable.
The sky had turned steely, though the sun had not yet chased the moon over the eastern hills, when Pen came again to the Martensbridge town gates. Early market traffic already made them lively. The gate guard scowled at Pen, and began to recite the restrictive town rules about vagabonds.
“I bear a message for Learned Tigney at the Bastard’s Order,” Pen said, picking the not-quite-lie most likely to explain both his appearance and his urgency. “The boat had a mishap. I have traveled all through the night.”