“And who do you imagine is behind these louts now?”
Bucerius looked astonished at Finn's remark.
“Now how'd I know such a thing? Don't no one care for kings, I thought you be knowin’ that.”
“I suppose so,” Finn said. “That sort of thing goes on, wherever one happens to be.”
Bucerius didn't answer. He listened in silence for a moment, then led Finn down the darkened street. Far ahead, Finn could see a few pale, flickering lights above the high battlements of the palace of King Llowenkeef-Grymm.
Before they had gone too far, Bucerius discovered the shattered remains of a balloon in a small public square. The square was silent as a tomb. Shutters in every house were closed tight. No one, it seemed, dared to risk the streets with the Bowsers about.
Finn waited while the Bullie walked through the wreckage. His clenched fists, the rage barely suppressed upon his stocky features, told Finn what the giant had found.
“Sysconditi. He dealt in gems, which mostly be fakes. Never cared for the fellow, but he be a merchant, same as me.”
Bucerius stared past the crowded block of structures to his right, where a fire glowed against the sky.
“There be another one down over there. It'll take some doing to get to it from here. Not that anyone'll be alive. These louts'll pay dear for this night's work. They know we be traders, an’ not ships of the King. We got no part in the royals’ fight.”
“Could some be bandits, and not assassins as you say? Intent on loot from the goods merchants bring?”
“Could, I reckon. Bowsers, they got to eat regular, eat till they throwin’ up they guts. They need to, I guess they'd be turnin’ to this.”
“I don't know why the King's troops haven't shown up before now,” Finn said. “Or at least the city guards. Why, lawlessness seems to be unchecked in this land.”
Bucerius showed Finn his second curious grin of the night.
“You be new here, human person. There be a lot you don't know ‘bout Heldessia. Things you maybe wish you didn't know ‘fore you get home… “
Finn was near certain it was on the tip of the Bullie's tongue to add if he got home, but he'd kindly held the words back…
Best we be crossin’ here. We going any farther, they'll likely spot us for sure.”
Finn could see his companion was correct. They were closer to the center of the city, now, near a deserted market square, the close-packed houses and shops that hugged the walls of the palace itself. Bucerius wanted to reach the spot where the merchant balloon had burned, but knew they had to take the long way around.
“I be crossing first. Wait till I gets there, you hear? Count a couple times. No Bowsers seem about, you be coming too.”
“Good luck, then.”
Bucerius showed him a scowl. “We be talking ‘bout that before. Human persons not even hearin’ what anybody says. Luck's got nothin’ to do with me running over there. I be getting there or not.”
“Fine. Just in case-”
The Bullie was gone. For a giant, for a creature that easily made three of Finn, he seemed to move remarkably well, swiftly and silently across the cobbled street, vanishing into the dark.
Finn waited. Looked, listened, and counted as well. Taking a breath, he crouched low, staying in shadow as best he could, running quickly toward the spot where the Bullie waited in the narrow alleyway.
You can toss Fortune aside if you will, my fine enormous friend, but I wouldn't mind the Fates looking down and lending me a hand. I wouldn't mind if someone tossed me an amulet now, or cast a simple spell The light was as bright as a small and angry sun, the sound a crack of thunder after that. Finn felt the ball part his hair, heard it sing, heard it whine like a hornet as it struck the wall over his head and showered him with dusty bits of stone.
Luck, chance, instinct or what, made him duck, veer to the right, as the second blinding flare came quickly on the heels of the first.
The missile drilled the empty air, directly where he'd been-that was enough for Finn. He tucked the clock to his chest, went to ground and rolled, felt his hands and knees scrape the rough stone, smelled the foul odors of the street, odors that could trace their families back for years.
The Bullie shouted, somewhere to his left, words Finn couldn't hear. He came to his knees, scrambled to his feet. Heard the yap, heard the bark, heard the irritating howl. Looked up and saw them, not a dozen yards away, big Bowsers, little Bowsers, straw-hatted Bowsers short and tall, five of the brutes in all.
Two carried muskets, old-fashioned arms with barrels flared like silver hunting horns. Heinz-Erlichnok. 47s, Finn guessed, relics of the Love Wars, eighty years past. Old, but awfully good for maiming, laming, tearing off a limb.
The others carried blades, loping ahead, while the gunners charged their weapons again.
All this, Finn perceived in the barest snip of a second. Scarcely time to blink, time enough to spare, time enough to rise, slide his hand in a practiced fashion to his left, grasp the hilt of his sword and take the proper stance.
Or, as it happened, grasp empty air, and wonder if his blade was on the roof of the fellow with the pumpkin-sized head, shattered in the basket, or possibly among the dead and wounded fowl…
SIXTEEN
"This can't be,” Finn shouted, standing his ground, staring at his foes. “Where is it written I shall be shot and skewered by Bowsers in a dark and fetid street? I can't accept this at all!”
“Zhooot ‘im, zhooot ‘im in zuh haid! Zhoot dis perzon ded!”
“No you don't, fellow. I'm not armed, can't you see that? It's simply not the thing to do-”
An ancient weapon blossomed with a tongue of scarlet fire, with a stink of black powder, with a horrible din. For an instant, a dark plume of smoke obscured the Bowsers, sending them into choking fits.
“Valor delayed is courage yet to come,” Finn said, and turned on his heels and ran. “Someone said that, I can't remember who.”
He chose the first alley to his left, praying it went somewhere, anywhere at all. It did, but only to a narrow, twisted maze of sewers, sumps, garbage bins and dumps. Somehow, he'd stumbled on the septic tank of the city, found it all alone, without the aid of a map.
Left, right, it didn't greatly matter. It was nearly pitch-black. He could barely see his hand in front of his face.
“I could smell my way out, if I knew where one odor stopped and the other one began”
Light, a pale reflection off a grimy brick wall. A torch, and the throaty yelp of Finn's foes.
“Zere, zere ‘e izt! Komen vit ze Svord, Zhep!”
“You getz ‘im, Mahx. Izt schmellin’ in zere.”
“You gotz ze Svord. I beze shtayin’ here!”
Finn searched about in the dark, setting the damnable clock aside. Soot, smut, broken bottles and pots. Things he hoped never to touch again. No fine blades, no weapon of any sort. His hand found something round, something short: the broken handle of a shovel or a hoe.
A head appeared out of shadow. Finn could see very little, but the white straw boater floated like an apparition in the dark. The Bowser went down without a sound. The crown of his hat collapsed atop his head, while the brim formed a collar about his neck.
“What a witless thing to do,” Finn said to himself, “blundering in without a torch. Why didn't the idiot wait for his friend?”
No need to hang around for an answer. He scrambled about, looking for the fellow's blade — found it, hefted it in his hand. More like a bludgeon than a blade. Short, heavy, dull as the opera “Bob” Letitia had dragged him to.
Still, a blade for all of that, one step up from a stick.
And, found in the nick of time, as it were, for the Bowser with the torch stepped around the corner, a tall, solemn fellow with droopy jowls, checkered vest, red bow tie, and a blade very much like Finn's.