The Hunter's Haunt Read online

  "Oh, an excellent suggestion!" the merchant said heartily. "Do you not agree, Goodman Fritz?"

  "The idea has merit, Your Honor. You think, then, that I should flog him before I throw him out?"

  "I strongly recommend you proceed in that order. See, Omar, how your situation improves? We are now down to a mere twenty thalers."

  "Nay!" Fritz was leering again. "You added five for tonight's lodging, and he is not going to get that. So just the original fifteen. Settle now, thief, and then leave."

  "Just fifteen!" the merchant marveled. "Such a trivial amount. Why, my darling fritters that much away in a morning's shopping! Don't you, dear?"

  The actress simpered. "You are so generous to me, my love." She leaned over to cuddle him and place a kiss.

  My back was well roasted now, but I feared to move farther from the fire, lest once I began I might find myself continuing indefinitely. The howling of the storm was even louder than before. The entire building seemed to tremble beneath it, the shadows around the walls gibbered at me. I needed a brilliant preserving inspiration, but my normally quick wits remained stubbornly torpid.

  "And we agreed that fifteen was the value of his cloak and boots," the merchant mused. "So our host can go fetch his horsewhip directly to settle the remaining matter of the dog … Have I overlooked anything, Trader of Tales?"

  "Entertainment," I suggested. "I normally expect compensation when I regale a noble company, and you have certainly been enjoying yourself at my expense."

  His eyes seemed to darken. He pursed his thick lips like slabs of raw steak. "Indeed. Perhaps the price of a stein of ale before you depart would he only fair."

  "I have a suggestion," the dowager announced in her croaky voice. Everyone looked respectfully in her direction.

  "My lady?" the soldier murmured.

  "Is not this Omar reputed to be the finest storyteller in the world?"

  "Others have made that claim, ma'am," I said hurriedly, "but never I."

  The eyes peering at me were like amber in milk. "Do you deny it?"

  "I cannot venture an opinion!" I shifted to ease my back farther from the heat. "I cannot listen to myself narrate in the way I can others. I have no basis for comparison.''

  "Surely audience reaction provides such a comparison? But no matter. I shall certainly not venture up those stairs to an ice-cellar bedroom while this storm lasts. I shall remain here! I expect many of us feel that way."

  "Indeed!" the merchant said thoughtfully, but his hand slid to his companion's thigh. "I suppose this is the warmest place. You propose that Omar be allowed to spin us one of his yarns, milady?"

  She chuckled, a noise like snakes moving in dry leaves. "I propose a contest! After all, we have another professional here with us this evening." The crone pulled a bundle of bony fingers from her muff and aimed one at the minstrel.

  He flinched. "I am in no condition to sing for you tonight, my lady, much as I …" He doubled over in a massive sneeze.

  "No, we do not expect you to sing, troubadour. But if I permit our host to add a stein of mulled ale to my account, could you manage to tell us a story, do you think?"

  He brightened greatly. "Most kind of you, ma'am!"

  She smiled, covering her paucity of teeth with the same shriveled hand. "And then Omar can try to top your tale! The rest of us shall be judges."

  The old hag knew how to brandish rank and authority; no one was going to oppose her very seriously. I decided that perhaps she was not quite as poisonous as she looked. My life expectancy had just increased by a half hour or more.

  "This is a most promising proposition, ma'am," the soldier said. "But the night is young yet. Why do we not extend the contest?"

  She eyed him suspiciously. "What have you in mind, Captain?" I decided that they were acquainted and thus he must be in her hire. I had trouble visualizing a woman of her antiquity on horseback; of the men present, only he could be her coachman.

  "Subject to our host's agreement, ma'am, I suggest that all seven of us tell a story. After each one, the Omar man will be required to better it. We shall vote on each pair."

  "Ah! Spoken like a strategist! And if he fails?"

  "As soon as he fails, then the contest is over. The rest of us can repair to bed, leaving our host free to work out his grief over the dead dog and thereafter evict Omar from the house, as is his right."

  The dowager nodded graciously. "Is that agreeable to you, innkeeper?"

  Only in the crocodile swamps of Darkest Arinba have I ever seen a grin to match the one the big lummox now wore as he thought of all the food and drink he was going to sell that night. "Whether he leaves now or at dawn will matter little, ma'am. These storms often last for days. As long as it is agreed that he must leave."

  "And you accept these terms, Omar?" asked the soldier.

  I could not read the message in his eye, if there was one.

  "Certainly not," I said.

  The shutters wailed. Nine frowns looked down at me.

  Ah, the impetuosity of youth! Fritz was the first to speak. "I think I will dispense with the horsewhip, Captain. Bare hands would be more fitting. I am always reminded of poor Tiny when I hear the crunch of breaking bones." The oaf had no native humor at all; he was just playing up to his betters.

  "Your choice, lad. Omar, have you a counterproposal?''

  I was unworried by the prospect of seven story duels, but I could think of several improvements to the rules, the most obvious being that I should be allowed to depart safely and with a whole skin if I succeeded in besting all of my opponents. However, this happy ending would require that Fritz abandon his blood feud, which meant someone would have to buy him off. Only the merchant and the dowager had that kind of wealth, and neither seemed likely to make such a commitment.

  But the festival surely could be spun out till dawn, and who knew what the gods might send with a new day?

  "I have no quarrel with the contest," I said, "but my journey was hard. I am hungry and thirsty. More important, I am inadequately dressed. To expect me to tell a convincing tale in my present costume is manifestly absurd."

  "Beggars cannot be choosers," Fritz said.

  "And honest men do not gloat!" Frieda declaimed, jumping up at his side.

  He turned to look at her, first in astonishment and then with a flush of anger. She gave him no chance to speak, wagging a finger under his nose. Big woman though she was, she seemed small alongside him.

  "You have very little cause to strut, brother! You were the one who set your dog to guard a man and then armed the man with an ax! I suppose you think it was your cleverness that brought him back here and threw him on your mercy? I say it was the gods' justice. And I say that I will not see a man exhibited undressed. This is a decent house. You go straightaway upstairs and fetch some clothes for him!"

  I had an ally. Indeed, I probably had at least two, for the old soldier had contrived to postpone my execution by several hours.

  Fritz began a protest, but his sister planted both hands on his chest and pushed. She could not have moved him an inch had he put up any serious resistance, but he let himself be urged in the direction of the stair. With an angry growl, he went thumping up the steps.

  Frieda ran around the counter, snatching the lantern from its hook as she went by and disappearing into the kitchen.

  From my lowly place on the floor, I surveyed the audience. The dowager was inscrutable, the soldier quietly amused, the little lady's maid shocked, the mousy notary disapproving. The stringy minstrel had apparently failed to notice the byplay, lost in thought as he worried over the story he would tell. The actress flickered me a hint of a wink and the merchant raised his woolly caterpillar eyebrows in cynical admiration.

  Frieda was the first to return. She came bustling over to me, bearing a wooden platter loaded with white cheese, yellow butter, fat onions, and two thick slabs of her own rye bread, which I remembered well from my previous visit. I sprang up. I did not accept the offering, althoug
h my mouth ached at the sight of it.

  "The gods will repay your kindness, friend," I said, "but I cannot. Nor will I risk being the cause of dissension in this house."

  "Why this sudden repentance? Here—eat fast!"

  But already heavy steps overhead announced that Fritz had begun descending the ladder from the attic. I glanced meaningfully at the dowager. "Her ladyship proposed this encounter and undertook to fortify her champion in advance … were she also to accept responsibility for this wonderful gesture of yours, so that I might enter the lists similarly prepared, then trouble could be averted."

  The old harridan glowered at me. Fritz's legs were coming into view on the stairs before she nodded agreement.

  He reacted with a bull roar of rage when he saw my repast, but was cut short by explanations. He scowled at his sister to show he could guess whose idea it had been. He went off to amend the dowager's bill.

  I donned the serviceable trousers and padded doublet he had brought. Of course they were grotesquely large for me, but the pant legs covered my toes and would keep my feet warm—I could see no chance of having to run anywhere that evening. I turned back the sleeves in cuffs that reached almost to my elbows. I was cumbersome as a turtle, my face disappearing into my collar whenever I tried to sup.

  What matter? Aromatic mulled ale was distributed from the jug on the hob, and several of the others chose to refill their tankards at the same time, which somewhat restored our host's temper. I found a place on the bench next the notary, and proceeded to enjoy my meal as I have rarely enjoyed anything. Frieda resumed her previous place opposite, with Fritz squeezing in beside her. This meant that the two of us were unpleasantly close, our knees almost touching across the gap, but he seemed able to contain his desire for violence. Vengeance is always sweetest in anticipation.

  At last we were all ready and naught could be heard but the banshee wailing of the storm and possibly my immodest crunching of onions.

  "You may begin, minstrel," the dowager said graciously. "And begin by introducing yourself, so we know who you are."

  The minstrel sneezed four times in quick succession and dragged a slimy sleeve across his nose. "My lady," he said in a painful croak, "my name is Gwill, son of the Gwill who was troubadour to the Count of Laila. My father, may the gods cherish his soul, apprenticed me to Rolfo, a minstrel of renown in the Winelands. My master treated me with kindness and schooled me in his craft according to the oath he had sworn my father. He trained me to perform upon the lute and cithern, taught me diverse lays, romances, and ballads. At his behest, I was accepted into the troubadours' guild in Faima. Storytelling is not my usual—"

  "What are you doing in the northern marches?" the crone demanded sharply. From the way she was peering, I realized that her eyesight must be poor. In that light, she would be almost blind.

  The youth's face twisted in a wry smile. "I ventured to the Volkslander in the hope of taking service with some noble lord."

  "And why didn't you?"

  "Alas, ma'am, I was not quite so ready for the big, wide world as I had hoped. The day I reached the free city of Gilderburg, when I was still walking around with my head back, marveling at the fine buildings, I was hailed by an elderly lady. She was bent over on her staff and heavy laden with a bundle. She timorously asked if I would be so kind as to carry it upstairs for her.

  "In the Winelands, young men are expected to extend such courtesies to the elderly, and indeed to all the gentler sex. I shouldered her load gladly and proceeded into the dark alley she indicated. I took about three steps before I awoke lying in the filth with a lump on my head. My assailants had taken my lute, which was most precious to me, having been my father's, and had stripped me of all my money and even my garments, except the few I had left behind at my lodgings. There was no sign of the old woman. I have heard it suggested that her disappearance shows she was one of the gang, and I had fallen into a trap, although even now I find that hard to believe.

  "All my subsequent efforts have failed to recoup my fortunes. Discouraged, and loath to face the winter in these colder climes, I am making my way home again to the Winelands."

  He paused, but no one commented.

  "If it please you, I shall tell you now the Tale of the Land of Many Gods."

  I almost choked on my feast in my efforts not to laugh. He could hardly have made a poorer choice. I did not then realize what had moved him to choose that story, nor where it would lead me that night.

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  3: The Minstrel's Tale

  Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my tale please you. Tonight you have requested a story of me and your whims are my command, but her ladyship did not specify whether my narrative be sad or merry, frivolous or edifying, romantic or bloody. Having regard to my own plaintive health, the inclement disposition of the elements, and the pending sad demise of one of our number, I am moved to relate a tragedy.

  Music is the keel of my craft, yet tonight I must strive to move you without its aid. My voice must walk, not dance. Bear with me, I pray you, as I seek in stumbling fashion to follow the footsteps of a great tale-teller of yore. His name, curiously, was the same as that of one of our present company. Omar, he was called, or Homer in other dialects. The name is common enough, and it may well be that sundry poets and narrators have borne it through the ages, in many lands, among many peoples.

  The particular Omar of whom I speak was renowned as court storyteller for a certain king of Hilgamthar, a land far to the east, and served him well in that capacity for long years.

  It is said that one day, when this Omar was very old and near to death, a certain princess, a granddaughter of the king, came to him as he sat in a garden. With vestments of snowy silk floating about her, with golden tresses shining around her head, she flitted through the trees like a butterfly borne on the summer wind. She was young and beautiful and merry, and her retinue of maidens trooping behind her in a sparkle of rainbow hues were young and merry as herself and many nigh as beautiful.

  Omar was seated on a low wall by a pool of golden carp, under the shade of a willow, in the late afternoon. His beard was white, his countenance sad, and he spoke no word of greeting to the princess, but merely continued to study the play of sunlight on the scales of the fish in the deep waters.

  "Omar!" the royal maid said. "We are bored. We wish you to tell us a story." So saying, she sat down eagerly, cross-legged upon the grass, and all her retinue sat down around her, whispering excitedly at the prospect of hearing a tale from the great teller.

  Omar sighed. "Highness! If you are bored in your youth and the clear light of summer, then how ever will you bear life when you are aged, when the wind is cold and frost blights the bloom? Come not to an old man for tales of what may have been, Princess, but go straightly and enjoy life as it should be—immediate and passionate and precious. Seek out joy and love and merriment, and do not trouble one who can barely remember those." So saying, he returned to contemplation of the golden fish.

  "Omar!" the princess retorted, in a voice she had learned from her mother. "You flaunt a royal command! Tell us a tale, a wondrous tale. Tell us a tale that you have never told before."

  Again the old man sighed. "There is only one tale that I have never told, sweet princess, and it is one I never wish to tell."

  Alas! Now the princess and all her maidens became most exceeding eager to hear the untold tale of Omar, chiding him for letting himself grow so old with yet a tale untold, lest it should be lost forever upon his death. With much importuning, with tears and tantrums and teasing, they at last persuaded the bard to tell them the story. Having extracted their promise that they would then depart and trouble him no more, he began, and he told them the Tale of the Land of Many Gods.

  Far away to the west and long ago lay the Land of Seven Cities. It was known also as the Land Between the Seas, or the Smiling Land, or the Land of Many Gods. Warm oceans washed its shores to east and west. Dense jungle flanked it on the south and stark
white ranges on the north. Three great cities stood along the western coast of the land: Kylam, Jombina, and Lambor. Three lined the east: Damvin, Ilmairg, and Myto. There was also Uthom in the Middle.

  The people of the land were a cheerful and industrious folk, much given to music, dancing, and argument. Their women were skilled at spinning and dyeing and weaving, but spurned tailoring. Both sexes delighted in draping their bodies and limbs in sashes of contrasting hues and patterns. The resulting motley might be as demure or immodest as the wearer chose, and could be swiftly shifted from one to the other as circumstances required.

  Rich and poor, men and women, town and country, the people of the land were renowned for their stubborn self-reliance.

  The sons of cities were doughty sailors, trading to far countries. The sea, they said, made men hardy and tenacious.

  The peasants drew obstinacy from the land itself. It was everywhere hilly. Villages of red-tiled, white-walled cottages nestled within little valleys among orchards and olive groves and smallholdings. Men who work their own humble plots of earth develop ways of thinking that seem quite foreign to the hired laborers of great ranches or paddy fields. Furthermore, the fertile soil was watered by copious rains. Rivers and canals obey the miserly whims of kings, but the gods bestow rain equally on all men. Such profligacy may have helped incite the people of the land to their peculiar notions of equality.

  Obstinate … but the people were frugal and obedient to their gods. Thereby they flourished. Surprisingly, by and large, they flourished in peace. The why of this was long pondered but too late understood.

  A lack of horses was one reason. Sheep grazed the sunlit uplands, mules and bullock flourished on the flats. Horses did poorly. Having few horses, the land had no knights, no cavalry, no castles. Warfare, when it happened, was a clumsy affair of farm boys on foot throwing spears and then walking home to tend the crops again. It brought no profit and little glory, and was generally regarded as very foolish.