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A highwayman is shot dead by the King's militiamen. Why is he still among the living? |
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CROSSINGS “The Highwayman came riding, riding, riding, the highwayman came riding up to the old inn door.” (Loreena McKennitt) Malvius Trent surveyed the inn, back to front, side to side. It was habit, what he did, checking out faces, movements, each tick of the clock. He did this each time, to make sure everything was in its proper place, and that nothing untoward or subtle was happening. He did this each time because he was what they called a ‘sharp’ man, one who lived by his wits and the speed of his sword, or his draw. He did this each time because he was not yet a wanted man and had no bounty on his head. Yet. Though he was not a good man, though he had taken numerous lives in a number of places, though he traveled with the roughest band of ruffians known perhaps to the entire of mankind, he was smart enough to know how to avoid becoming a wanted man. He’d kept his men that way too. They followed his orders, and somehow, they all came through undiscovered…. each time. He let his eyes linger a moment on the woman at the bar, noticing that many others were doing the same. Annie was an attractive woman even in the simple white blouse and riding leathers. She still looked like the day he’d first met her, though her once fair skin had tanned to a golden hue and the long raven hair that she’d once worn loose and wild, was forever caught up at the nape and tied with the red velvet ribbon he’d gifted her with years ago. Those had been good times, the best even. Then, he’d thought to spirit her away from her drudgery at the inn, start a new life away from the road, raise a few kids perhaps. He shook his head sadly and ran his fingers about the rim of the mug. Those dreams had been dashed and in a way that left a chasm between he and Annie that might never be breached. Though she tried to appear the same, she had changed, slowly, irrevocably, until she was no more than a well disguised stranger to him. Recently she had begun to call herself ‘Bloody Annie’, making the men address her as such. Most of them agreed to her silly request, and made it a secret joke between them. It made Malvius wince to hear it, though and he found no fun in it. The woman had never even scratched another to begin with, and the word hinted at a violence not in tune with the woman he once knew. At times, he was beginning to think she was becoming a stranger even to herself. Bowman thought he should keep a close eye on her. Malvius shrugged. Bowman had his own thoughts about the wisdom of bringing a woman along on the road. He thought perhaps Ann had kept some things in side too long, long enough that they’d festered and soured her. “Keep your thoughts, Bowman,” Malvius muttered aloud. “I’ll not abandon her, ever again.” Still, at times like this, when she set herself aloof, disdaining even his conversation, he thought there might be some credence to Bowman’s observations. Another shrug, and he forced his attention to his reconnaissance again, the niggling feeling still haunting him. Satisfied that the common room was free of threat, he took up the mug of ale. Just as quickly, he set it down. A bit of amber liquid and foam sloshed over the rim. He put his hands flat on the splintery table top, his eyes once more on the room. Something was about to happen. He sensed it, before he actually saw Bloody Annie come to her feet at the long bar on the far side of the room. Just after, he heard the grizzled man beside her guffaw. Malvius scowled. This would come to no good. Still, he let it play out. The men had been niggling at Annie’s nerves for most of the evening, either ogling her full breasts or trying to get a pinch at her ass. Barflies maybe. Drunk, certainly. Fools? Oh yes. Malvius slowly pushed his chair away from the table, his fingers falling on the butt of his pistol. “Bloody Annie, is it?” The drunk turned about in his stool to face the entire of the crowded inn. “She says her name is Bloody Annie,” he bawled, swinging his spilling ale from side to side. “Does she think she’s some kind o’ pirate or somethin’ so far from sea?” He winked and looked pointedly at her crotch. “Or do it mean she’s on the rag and not touchable for any man?” Malvius Trent shook his head and put a hand to his brow. When he looked again, Annie had weapon in hand. She seemed harmless enough as she removed the thin blade she used to pick her nails. Malvius relaxed a bit. She appeared to do just that, her eyes never leaving the task. Good. She’d let the blowhard have his few words, ignore him, do the wise thing. His fingers loosed their hold a bit on the pistol, and he eyed the mug again. “A smart man wouldn’t talk to a lady like that.” He groaned. Her voice should have been inaudible across the wide room, but the entire of the inn seemed to go quiet at the same time. People, so oblivious to most of the obvious in the world, seemed to have some kind of sixth sense when it came to violence. They abhorred it verbally in public, but when it came right down to it, they all hungered for a good blood spilling – so long as it wasn’t their own that was going to be spent. The drunk was too far gone in his cups to make good sense of the situation. “What?” He shifted in his seat so that he faced the crowd. “Now you gonna go and prick me with that apple peeler?” Though Annie seemed to be ignoring the oaf completely, Malvius found himself thinking he might just saunter over there and defuse the situation. No need to cause a stir in a small back woods town when everyone needed a rest. Annie wasn’t a violent woman as a rule, and smart as well. She’d know that starting a brawl with even the lowest of the low, might draw attention to their merry little band, get their faces on the wants. After all, they’d been very busy lately, and the law was becoming interested. Worse, he could still feel it, that certain tell-tale vibration in the air. Malvius Trent didn’t settle back and pick up his mug just yet. The good moment passed. It might have extended into a minute and then into minutes and perhaps even an hour. It might have been, except for the fact that the oaf somehow got the idea that her silence made Annie fair game for his advances. Malvius sighed and pushed the mug away when the fool reached over and put a finger on her. Now, to his credit, it wasn’t much of a touch, no. It wasn’t as if the barfly reached out to cup a handful of breast or shove his hand down her bodice. He didn’t handle her roughly, or grab onto her. In fact, his finger barely touched a single bright red curl that had come loose of the tail at her neck. “Oh not tonight.” Malvius Trent pushed away from the table and headed for the door. He hoped she’d catch his meaning and follow, as was the rule. He didn’t see, but he heard enough to know what he would have seen had he bothered to look. “Apple peeler?” Annie’s soft voice cut through the silence. “Sharp enough to cut pig flesh, tough as it might be.” Trent heard, rather than saw, the blade flick out. Annie was a quick girl, though he’d never seen her draw blood, he’d seen her fake bravado and roughness around the men to keep them in check. But this time was different. ‘snick, snick’ The soft sound of steel slicing meat boomed in the room as sharp as a hammer meeting metal at the forge. Malvius didn’t have to look to know that the blade had found its mark. “Gods, Annie, no,” he rasped when the dying man hit the floor with a solid thud. Trent heard, rather than saw, the brief moment between life and death when all falls even more silent than the room had at first. He’d heard the tell-tale gurgle, the whistle as the knife passed across the jugular and then severed the wind pipe. The fool must have really pissed her off. He only picked up his pace when the room came to life. It was like that, always. The moment of horror that all had been secretly anticipating, came to a climax and quickly passed as they stood frozen in longing for it. Then, it was all springing into action. Previously content to be bystanders and onlookers, they now took offense at the fact that someone had finally given them the thrill they’d been craving. He kept a steady pace until he was outside. Without looking back, in no hurry, he sauntered to his horse. He rode out of town, Annie at his side. The townsfolk, filled with indignation but not a fire arm between them, raised their fists, rakes and shovels into the night sky, and cursed them. When they made camp, Trent made for the fire, and took several deep swigs of the brandy he’d picked up on his way out of the inn. It was awhile before she joined him. “Pissed, are you?” “That would be a slight understatement, Ann.” “The ass screwed with me.” “Did he now, Ann?” “The way I saw it, he did.” “The way they see it, you’re a murderer, and they saw that we were together as well. Our faces will be on Wants on both sides of the river.” Trent finally drew his gaze from the fire and put it on her. “All of that,” he put out a finger and twirled it about the one red curl, “for this.” “It was enough for me,” she replied. “I was feeling off tonight, and he just got on my last nerve.” “I see.” Trent’s eyes were back on the fire, watching the flames lick and devour the dry wood. “No man puts a hand on me,” she continued. “No man touches me, ever.” “I did, just now.” His voice was lazy, like he was about to fall asleep. Just as he knew Annie, when she’d go off, she knew him as well. She let the silence spin out, let him cool awhile. She took up the bottle and took a deep pull, setting it gently beside him after. “You were the only one whose touch I ever wanted,” she said softly. “But you or no one else will ever touch me again.” “I just did.” He repeated, but his voice was safe, stronger now. She chuckled, deep and throaty. “I’ll give you this one,” she said. “But never again. You’ve seen the last of my fair skin,” she considered, “and I’ll wager you’ll not touch even one hair on my head after now.” “Wouldn’t want to get my throat snicked for it, would I?” He saw the hurt on her face, but turned his own away. Instead of saying more, of chastising her or calling her on the stupidity of what she’d done, he stood and dusted the road off his long coat. “Now we should get back to the others in the morning. For now, I’m getting a little sleep. You’re first watch.” After he’d fallen into slumber, she watched him, her eyes soft. Ann remembered the good times, all of them, one by one. She sorted through the memories quickly, for there weren’t many. The one bright and shining moment was when she’d made the acquaintance of Malvius Trent. That moment didn’t last long, and it had ended sadly, but it was a bright shining moment after all. She remembered it, cherished it. When the sun was breaking over the horizon, she tucked it away and began to break camp. When he woke, Annie grumbled that he’d slept the night and not taken his watch. Malvius Trent argued that if she’d awoken him to actually take his watch, he might have obliged. They saddled the horses, mounted, and rode off towards the mountain pass to meet the others who waited for them there. Sharps was the first to see them as they crested the rise. Bowman at his side, the two were preparing for a little hunting to pass the time. Bowman had already strung the bow and put exactly three arrows into the quiver. No more than three, and three was the limit. He seemed never to need more. Whether that game walked on two legs or ran on four, it was all the same. Once the arrows ran out, he often swore to the others, if he hadn’t made a kill with each one, he’d stand and take the next volley of whatever came. He always knew which man to take out, which one would make the others fold so that the rest of the crew could pick them off. In that, he was a genius. Some said he was a devil, or had made a pact with one. Some said he’d learned his craft from a dark place where such magics were taught to those few who sold their souls. No one ever had the guts to ask outright of the man, so the rumors remained just that, and none were ever proven to be true. Remy Bowman was an enigma, but one the others were grateful to have along, no matter if he had dark associations. In the end, weren’t they all doomed for the fires of hell for the deeds they’d committed in life? Still and all, no one had ever seen him waste a single arrow, not in the years since they’d signed on with Malvius Trent. They all hit the mark, and precisely. Some of the men wagered on the day his eye might blur or his hand go unsteady. So far, no one had been paid. “We’ll have to wait to see what Malvius wants afore we get some game. Should’ve started out earlier when I said, saved ourself the blah blah blathering, the fawning over each other that makes me want to empty my stomach.” He spit on the dusty road. “I agree with my old mates in my sailing days,” he said, squinting at the two approaching riders, “women’re bad luck anytime you take ‘em on to do a man’s work.” Bowman gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Let me see, then. I can’t recall a day when you did a shard of work, let alone a woman’s task.” He sighed. “Ann carries her weight, and I’ll say that much for her.” “Ah, you’d love to bed ‘er, you would, and she is a fine piece of flesh at that.” “Take that up with Malvius.” Bowman grinned and set the bow lovingly against a nearby stump. “I would, if I were you.” “Don’t want her enough to be killed today for it.” Sharps grunted, ran the whet stone one last time over the already razor edged blade and tossed it in the dust near the fire. “From the looks of the way they’re trailing dust, he’s gonna want to move out sooner than later.” Bowman seemed unconcerned, flicking his eyes from the two approaching riders back to Sharps. “Why do you bother to lavish all that love and attention on the damned blade, when you treat it so badly?” Bowman nodded to the discarded weapon, half buried in dust and cold fire ash. “Little Sharp ain’t damaged by a bit of shabby treatment,” was the reply. Besides, who thinks to look for a blade in the dirt when they come upon you all cozied up near the fire at night?” He winked. “She’s all ready for my hand, and too bad for who thinks to sneak up on a poor fella taking some heat in the cold, cold night.” “I don’t think Trent and Ann are exactly sneaking up on you, and sun’s been up for hours now.” Bowman settled himself on the log and eyed the two, who seemed to be in a bit of a hurry at that. Sharps might be right. He had an inkling there might be bad news. He could feel the tension even from so far. “Can never tell, can you,” Sharps spit into the fire. “Never know when some fool’s gonna turn on you.” He winked at Bowman, and settled a wad of chew between his cheek and gums. He nodded toward the approaching riders. “Why, look at Annie for instance.” He shook his head. “Sad ain’t it, her own father ratting her out to the Militia, so they could lay a trap for poor, love sick Trent.” “Gold’s a jealous lover at that,” Bowman agreed, nodding. ‘The gold and the glory, those things will take you to task worse than the comeliest of women.” He thought about it for a moment. “Strange though, since he seemed to dote on her, trying so hard to get her married off to any man with a hint of nobility to his name.” He considered. “The Trents are blue bloods even if their son went renegade.” “Yep, his pa disowned him alright, and there’s the rub, ain’t it?” Sharps spit. “She took up with all the wrong type of what you call ‘blueblood’, a rebel turned thief, tossed out on his ear by his old man for,” he thought about it for a moment, “well, if I’m sayin, for taking up with the likes of you.” When Bowman didn’t reply, Sharps barreled on. “And when her pa found out who she was sneakin’ out to meet at night, he cut his losses and sold her like an old mule to the highest bidder – that bein’ the Militia.” Sharps laughed, gristly and raw. “I heard once he found her out, he couldn’t report Trent fast enough. Locked his own girl up in the inn’s keg room, so she wouldn’t make a break for it before he got back with the Militiamen.” He clucked his tongue. “After what happened, it’s a wonder she didn’t go stark crazy, bein’ badly handled by three or four of ‘em, then strung up for bait, so they could ambush her lover.” He ruminated on it a moment. “Musta’ been a rotten deal, tied up by the window and gagged, to be made to watch your man bein’ gunned down like that.” Bowman’s jaw tightened and the tell-tale tick appeared, the one that said he was about to become very upset. He didn’t intend to speak, but the words issued on their own accord it seemed. “Worse, while they tried to beat her into giving Trent up, and used her however they wanted, the old man went about serving drinks downstairs as if it was just another balmy evening.” He closed his eyes. “One day he’ll get his due. I’ll see to it myself if he manages to live much longer.” Sharps cocked his head to the side. “I’ll give the girl that. No matter how they beat her, what they did, it wasn’t her that gave ol’ Trent up.” “No small chance that he’d come courting that night, when he’d wrapped up the last job he was ever going to pull before coming to take her away, give up the road and start a new life in the city.” Bowman looked up at the sky and then at the riders who were tethering their horses a short ways off. “You know, I wasn’t there that night, but I heard that the she’d been strapped with a rifle just beneath one breast, and gagged so she couldn’t scream, so that Trent would see her there in the moonlight from far off and think she was just waiting for him.” Sharps grunted. “Yeah, they wanted to speed ‘im up, dull them sharp senses by puttin’ that pretty picture in the window to distract him.” He sighed. “Old eager love walked right into their trap on the road he did, right into it.” “Might be the first time he took a step without calculating the odds or the danger.” Bowman laughed, but there was no cheer in it. “That one time cost him everything, woman and all.” Sharp looked toward the horizon. “You could say that, yeah. Guy goes and puts hisself out there for a lass, and that’s what it gets ‘im… near dead and with nothin’ to show by way of thanks.” He clucked. “Tsk, don’t know how she was afore, but the lass is sure a vinegary bitch with a sharp tongue now, and as time goes on, she wears thinner and thinner.” He spit another brown gob of tobacco and watched it dance across the dusty road. “Personal like? I think she’s gonna blow one day, I do, and I hope it don’t get us all killed when she does.” Bowman bent and plucked a parched length of long grass, putting it between his lips, but held his silence. Malvius and Ann were nearby now, but had stopped and were engaged in earnest conversation. “You know? “ Sharps was on a roll. “I wasn’t ridin with Malvius then, but I heard that fella Old Gun got hold of their shot up bodies, and the creepy codger spirited them off somewheres.” He chewed his tobacco thoughtfully. “Y’know, I’m thinking here that Trent rode into an ambush of around ten trained militia men all armed with shot and bayonets. I heard that he was so riddled with holes, all his blood was on the ground beneath him, flowing like a red river into the gutter. And, when her fucking old man ran and hid, when old Gun went upstairs, he found Ann much the same way, bled out white, a big hole straight through her chest.” Sharps considered, his head nodding back and forth. It made the grizzled highwayman look for a moment like an innocent shaggy pup. “Huh, never thought of that afore really, and there’s not a soul alive who seen the killings,” he paused, “excepting for Old Gun and that’s if you can find the bastard. Them militiamen disappeared right after that, and since everybody was a hidin’ from gunshot, they was the only ones who was eyewitness.” He spit again, the gob sizzling in the fire. “Besides that the two of ‘em should be pretty dead, there sure ain’t nothin’ wrong with that wench’s chest. Any man who ever looked that way would tell you as much.” He shrugged. ‘Ah well, the both of ‘em are in the here and now after all, eh? And that gives weight to the healing talents of Old Gun, or else to the fact that tongues waggle and tall tales are spun.” “And that’s something curious as well.” Bowman had his eyes fixed on the two riders. “What ever happened to Old Gun?” “Just faded away, I guess,” Sharps answered. “I never knew the man, only heard what happened, from Trent.” “Yes,” Bowman said, his voice far away, “from Trent.” “I wonder what happened to Ann’s old man, that’s what I wonder more. Thought the two of them might track him down by now and get on with pay back.” “I agree that I don’t know why he hasn’t got what’s coming to him by now.” Though Bowman was a learned man who once walked among the educated and well heeled, he put out his hand and splayed his fingers as if counting on them. “Been five years, and neither of them have even mentioned the bastard.” “Might be five hundred more, before I’ll be the one to bring up the topic.” Sharps motioned to the others to break camp, and joined Bowman as he walked toward Malvius and Ann. It proved, for the most part, to be a quiet evening. Too quiet. The men watched from either side of the fire, as Trent and Ann, who usually made some sort of conversation, stared idly into the flames. Trent had a bottle in hand, and two empties lay on the ground near his feet. Ann had begun to stitch at a piece of fabric earlier, but it now lay forgotten in her lap. The men mumbled between themselves. Even the usual strained camaraderie between the two was gone, and tension was strung taut as a hangman’s noose. It was no secret that there was an animosity buried deep, but it never had come so close to the surface. The men waited for it to erupt. As the night spun on, one by one the men took to their tents or sleeping bags, until Banksy and Sharps were the only two left, besides the former lovers. Sharps was in it for the money. He’d bet Banksy earlier on that Annie would be the first to go off, but Sharps insisted that it would be the usually calm and contained Trent. As for Banksy, it seemed the fool never had a need for sleep. Long into the night and sometimes through and into daybreak, he’d pace the camp perimeter, scanning the night for gods knew what. A few times in the beginning, Bowman had nearly taken him out. He’d stray so far from the camp that when watches changed, Bowman saw his shadow and almost shot him through. Banksy, by profession, was a poisoner. His forays could be explained away by the fact that certain herbs, both medicinal or the killing kind like the moonflower, only bloomed at night. Still and all, that kind of prowling might be the death of him, with Bowman’s aim always true. “Nearly dawn, and they’re still not speakin’” Banksy spoke a moment too soon. Annie sighed and put down her fabric. “Think I’ll turn in, then.” Trent nodded, nothing more. Ann stood, stretched and put her hands to the small of her back. “Moon’s nearly full.” “Yep.” She left him there, and took to her tent. “Well, I win.” Sharps put out his hand, waiting for the gold to fill it. “Like hell you did,” Banksy slapped it away. “We had a bet on who would blow first, and that thing didn’t happen, now, did it?” “She was the first one to talk, now pay up.” “The bet weren’t on who was gonna give a kiss first,” Banksy growled, “but who’d throw the first punch as it were.” “Ah piss on that,” Sharps wanted his money. He’d spent the last of his take at the inn. Banksy had already shrugged off the bet and moved on. “Know what I heard once?” “Well, guess since I ain’t getting my money, I might as well know that your hearin ain’t affected,” Sharps said. “And since we wasted all our night for nothin’ at all, I might as well listen to you jaw on about somethin’ til dawn.” “You know that music case he carries about with him, the one he keeps hid in his tent, ‘neath that bundle of rags in the corner?” “I heard him warn that addle brained boy, McKenn away from it a time or two.” Sharps couldn’t really understand why Malvius had taken on his woman, but the half-wit boy was always throwing one of his crazy shiver fits at the most inopportune of times. “Well, what about it?” “Inside’s a violin, in case you don’t know what makes music for the upper crusts, the hoity toity in society.” Sharps sighed and rolled his eyes. “Now, I don’t know he keeps it, cause I don’t go nowhere near his tent,” his eyes narrowed, “and if I’m sayin’, neither should you. If you wanna keep them hands longer, you shouldn’t be snoopin’ around where you don’t belong.” “Eh,” Banksy shrugged. “You wanna hear a tale or what?” “Might as well hear. Wasn’t me who went where I should be smarter than to go.” “Well, I been already, and if I can say, though I can’t get it open, but by the weight of it, seems like there’s something more than that inside.” A large grin split his face. “You know? I just feel it.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, why keep an old violin hid away in a camp full of thieves like us?” “Exactly idiot.” Sharp hissed through his teeth. “If it’s worth anything, we’d be the last ones he’s show it around to.” “Well,” Banksy ignored him, “I just got the feeling it’s something, well, more interesting.” “Nothin is more interestin’ than gold,” Sharps though about it. “What is it?” “Well, once when I was in Half Moon,” Banksy began, but Sharps interrupted. “That’s where Annie’s from, where the two of ‘em got shot down.” Banksy put up a hand. “Do you wanna’ hear this or what? First light’s gonna be here.” Sharps fell silent. “Well, I was havin’ a drink, passin’ through, before I hooked up with Trent, and I hear this Militiaman fellow tellin’ a tale to a pretty lass.” “Well, if it was a tale to a lass,” Sharps chuckled, “then it was just a bedtime story, the bedtime bein’ what the militiaman got after the entertaining fairytale.” “Shuttup.” “Okay.” “To boil it down,” Banksy whispered, the two of them still eyeing Trent who seemed to be dozing off after the third bottle, “there ain’t no music in that case, but death.” Though he tried not to show emotion, Sharps couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from going wide. “Yer pullin’ my leg now, ain’t you?” “Nope.” Banks put up the for-swear sign with his two fingers. “I ain’t.” “I heard that there’s some kind of magic,” he leaned in close and with a flick of his gaze at Trent, “some kind of Orien witch magic.” There was a sharp intake of breath, and Sharps’ eyes grew wider. “No say!” “Why, I hear that there might be some kind of weapon in there, somethin’ from before a long time ago, somethin’ that not just any man can use, that can take out twenty, thirty men or more at one go.” He grinned. “Or, might be a magical charm that keeps a man alive even if, well, “his eyes shifted quickly to Trent and then back and he nervously licked his lips, “even someon’ like Malvius, run through so many times with bayonet, shot up so bad that this guy said there was bits o’ him on the road.” He took a deep breath, this time not wanting to look at Malvius, perhaps for fear he’d somehow heard. Sharps eyes narrowed. “You expectin’ me to believe,” he said, “there’s a mortar shell or worse in that little itty bitty case?” He laughed a bit too loud, but Trent didn’t blink an eye. “Ah, I just see how a cannon might fit in such a thing.” He shook his head from side to side. “You think I’d be idiot enough to believe that tale? Ass, take up my time with somethin’ more convincin’ you prattlin’ fool. To take out a band of twenty or more, you’d have to have cannon fire, and that’s that.” He spit. “A weapon from the... what did you say,” he rolled his eyes, “from before a long time ago or from a place like the Orien, what’s mostly hearsay at that?” He spit at the fire and it protested with a sizzle. “What’s more, if ol’ Malvius were dead, he’d be in the ground six foot or shallow, I don’t know, but what I do know is that it’s all hearsay.” He poked a hard finger into his friend’s chest. “Dead man walking? Ha! There ain’t nothin’ in that case but a music instrument, and that worth not enough gold to risk Malvius on my trail lookin’ for blood.” He shook his head sadly from side to side. “Why, you gotta think I was born yesterday – and magic.” He laughed louder, though Banksy tried to shush him. “You gotta think I was born yesterday, hatched from a egg and turned into a man by fairy dust.” Banksy waited for silence and looked to the nodding Trent. “One way to find out, since I know where he hides it,” he nodded behind him. “You’re crazy two ways, now.” Sharps put up his hands as if warding off the devil. “Yep, that’s how I wanna die, with my hands inside a music case and fondlin’ a violin.” His eyes narrowed again. “You settin’ me up?” “I’ll do the touchin’,” Banks explained, “you do the lookin’ and we’ll see what’s in there. If we’re caught,” “If we’re caught, we’re both dead men right on the spot too.” Banksy was like a little boy, so curious and ignorant about life, that he would risk all for a look. His whole face lit up with the anticipation of discovering the truth of the story he’d heard. In the end it was infectious and Sharps went along with his plan. In the end, just as the sky began to lighten, it was how they found that addle brained McKenn – in the tent with the case open before him, and the violin held close to his chest as if it were a new born babe. Backs to the tent flap, they didn’t realize they weren’t alone. “Break that violin and I’ll kill you on the spot.” Sharps was thinking that’s exactly what he’d told Banksy, but it wasn’t any of the four men who answered. “It’d be the first man you ever killed on the spot,” Ann said softly, “at least from what I’ve seen.” Inadvertently, perhaps Ann’s appearance had saved their lives, and both men looked toward her gratefully for interrupting. “I’m leaving,” she said. Trent looked from the men to the woman holding the tent flaps back. “Going into town?” “No, leaving,” she said. “I already asked who’d like to go with me, and who’d like to stay.” She made a tight smile. “Nearly an even split.” The men felt a reprieve as the two left the tent. Banksy took the instrument gently from McKenn, who seemed to be in one of those trances that came before a full blown fit. He placed it tenderly in the velvet lined case, and clipped the gold latches shut. No need to have the boy go into a mouth foaming furor and break it. That wouldn’t bode well for any of them. Outside, Malvius faced Ann, his hands gently on her shoulders. “Ann. What’s this?” “Been doing a lot of thinking of late.” She said it matter of fact, like she’d thought about it for longer than that. Though McKenn continued to stare at the closed case, Sharps and Banksy came to their feet and eavesdropped. This was a break no one would ever have taken a bet on. Malvius Trent and Ann Tremayne had been together since they’d recruited the bunch. It was a given that they’d run the gang together, that they’d all stay together. “I can’t really forgive you,” Ann said soft, then seemed to realize they weren’t alone. She cleared her throat. “You and I have differences on how to go about things.” “And how is that?” He threw up his hands. “Whatever, Ann. I can’t stop you.” Instead of looking at her, meeting her head on, Trent chose to return to the tent. He glared in turn at each of the men and bent over the case. After ensuring himself that the contents were indeed intact, he carefully refastened the latches and ran his hands over the smooth leather. “I’m talking to you, Malvius Trent.” She’d followed him inside and when he looked up, he saw that only McKenn remained. The other two were smarter than that. He sighed and stood. “I’m listening, Ann.” “I’m leaving I said.” “Go on, then, and take whoever will go with you and be done with it.” But neither moved and his voice softened. “What is it Ann?” “You were late, Malvius Trent, and it cost me dearly.” “Late?” He was clearly confused. “That night,” she looked away, at the fabric of the tent, at the case, at the dirt, anywhere but directly at him. “You were late, a whole day late. You said Tuesday, but it was Wednesday when you showed.” She wrapped her hands, one about the other, and twisted them like a child fretting over the broken pieces of her mother’s finest porcelain. Trent had no words. He suddenly knew. Her voice had fallen to a whisper. “If you’d been there Tuesday, we’d have been gone a full day before they put up the wanted poster, before the militiamen rode into town.” Did she sob outright? Afterwards, after that day, Trent never could remember quite clearly if she did. “You were late and I paid, you paid,” she said soft, “you, who never was late before, had to be late that day.” He remembered why, but did it really matter now? No, he told himself. It did not. It did not matter why he was late. It was too quiet in the small tent. Somewhere he could hear a solitary song bird breaking the silence that comes before dawn. Somewhere he could hear the men laughing and arguing outside, probably over who would go and who would stay. Somewhere, it mattered what spun out. Inside the tent, nothing mattered, not for that brief moment in time. “I’m going,” Ann said. There were no goodbyes. Malvius remained inside, frozen and without a thought in his empty mind, until he heard them ride out. By the sound of it, he gauged when his mind started to work again, she’d taken about half. He let it be silent for a while after. He let it be until the sound of the remaining men’s voices died down and he knew they were waiting for him to come out. He let it be quiet so he could put it all right in his mind. In the end, with nothing right in his head, he opened the tent flaps, strode out, and began to survey the damage. Out of twenty, eight had chosen to stay. But they were the best eight men after all, even if you counted McKenn, whose childlike mind only sharpened when it came to stealing. Then, the boy was a machine, a genius at the art. He was glad, inwardly overjoyed, that Bowman had chosen to remain. Friendship aside, the sniper was invaluable. Trent made him his right hand, as vacancy created with Ann’s leaving. Though he’d preferred to call her partner, she’d told him that she’d never be his partner in anything. Right hand was good enough. She said she’d had enough of his kind of ‘partnering’, and they’d left it at that. For how long had she been planning to go? When his greatly thinned band of men road out shortly after, he made sure it was in the exact opposite direction that Ann had taken. She’d gone the way of Milton, a dirty town filled with dead beats and rabblers, men and women who’d do anything for a gold. They were the best of the cut throats, though, and had honed the craft of killing sharp and true. She’d pay a small fortune to hire them on, but they’d serve her well. If nothing else, they were loyal to a man, once paid their wage. Ann had now made a kill, and would seek out those who shared her penchant for blood shed it seemed.” “Why’d she go, after all this time?” If Bowman was an ace with the bow, he was outspoken and straightforward to a fault as well. So then, it was good he was quick and true with a bow. There had been times his mouth had gotten the better of his mind and Trent watched as he’d strike dead center in the forehead on a busy town thoroughfare, from a few feet away. The archer was fast with nocking an arrow, quicker with the drawing of it, and true to his mark – always. Still, Trent wished he’d not asked. Now, he’d have to answer him something. “Don’t know.” “Yes, yes you do.” The horses kept pace with one another, clip clop down the dusty road towards the ferry. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get to the crossing?” They’d decided to make for FailsWorthy, take the ferry across to Maybrent. Leave the whole of KingsCross to Ann, to anyone else who’d want it. True, MayBrent law was tighter, the penalties for theft harder, hanging and stoning being the preferred methods of dispatch. A good whipping, and nearly to death, were the payback for the wrong word to the nobles there. Worse, it seemed witch hunting had chosen that fertile ground for superstition to rear its ugly head again. Judicial priests seemed to be surfacing in MayBrent proper, fostering favor with the local heirarchy. But Trent had to put Ann behind him, far behind, and crossing to Maybrent put the river between them. It was like a severing. The river would cut their ties clean, like the severing of a limb. “I’m thinking,” Trent said. “Of going back after Annie?” Bowman seemed a little too eager to return, but then, hadn’t it been Annie who’d cared for him after the one time in his life he’d been badly wounded? Malvius sometimes thought that if things were different, if he hadn’t taken a fancy to the fair Ann, she might be with Remy Bowman instead. “Nope. You’ve known me long enough. I’m not chasing after her. I’ve never gone backwards, and I won’t now.” “What then?” “I’m thinking that if we’re heading across the river, you might add a few more arrows to that quiver,” he paused, “or might want to reconsider coming along.” He made a smirk he didn’t quite feel. He didn’t feel like smiling at all. In fact, he felt grim. “It’s Maybrent Territory after all.” Bowman laughed. “Maybrent, KingsCross, The Maw of Hell, my fingers pull the gut just the same in all. My hands and my eyes don’t know the difference.” “Okay then.” “Why’d she go?” Pesky man maybe wasn’t the best choice for right hand after all. “She was tired of seeing you put your hands over the fire for the men’s entertainment, tired of smelling flesh burn after dinner. Tired of watching your fire eating trick, the one that leaves your mouth blistered for days, tired of salving and bandaging and looking after your self-inflicted, festering and seeping wounds.” “Hey, you know that isn’t true, not a bit.” Still, Bowman seemed to try and digest the thought that it might be true. “You know, I don’t feel pain and nothing’s ever been that serious. I always recover. I know my limits.” Trent looked sideways at him, thankful that he’d been able to steer the conversation from Annie’s leaving, if only a little. “Do you now?” He looked toward a stand of pine in the distance, a place where the dirt pack was turning to white sand. “We already nearing the crossing?” He asked. “Can’t be.” He knew damned well it was only the beaches near the StillFelt Ocean. The finger of land they were traveling would soon be Ocean on three sides, and at the end they’d find the FailsWorthy Crossing, the ferry to Maybrent. “I’m thinking you know it’s not.” Bowman said. “A mapmaker’s son doesn’t often go remiss on the lay of the land. “You thinking I’m not to ask about Annie?” “That’s what I’m thinking, and might I give you points on perception,” Trent did grin seriously at Bowman, for the first time that day. “even if it’s taken you all this time to realize it.” “I’m thinking.” Bowman looked out over the pines, to the endless ocean beyond. “What?” Trent geared himself up for yet another round about Ann, despite Bowman acknowledging that he realized Trent didn’t want to hear about her. “Why is it that everything is named in two syllables around here?” He mused on it. “StillFelt Ocean. Maybrent. KingsCross.” He rubbed his chin. “And why in hell is a spit of land stuck into the ocean called Failsworthy?” “Because people are caught up with twos,” Trent said. “People like to be connected, and someone thought hell, two syllables are lucky and that will make us all alike in some way. We’ll all be like one happy family if we join together with two syllable town names.” “Liar.” The two men laughed, but fell silent again at about the same time. “If the port and landing there are filled with Maybrent soldiers, we’ll soon know why, won’t we?” “I hear they keep that crossing tighter than a drum in order to weed out folk like us.” Bowman reined his horse up and Trent did the same. “What’s the plan because soon we’ll be right in the thick of Maybrent Militia, filling out endless papers on the docks. They’ll take their time deciding who’s fit to cross into their beloved stinking cesspool of progress and technology.” He wrinkled his nose. “The last time I set foot in that place, the air was so thick with factory smoke, you could spread it on bread. Nothing but ‘progress’ there. They ran the farmers off their land long ago and that’s good because old man MayBrent poisoned the soil long ago with factory run off.” He fixed his eyes on Trent. “Sure you want to go that route? You might not want to move West, but we could go south or north.” He thought about it. “There are options other than attempting to pass these rabble off as gentry or minstrels or the like. There’s lots of easy pickings in the south. The gold mines are flourishing I hear. Now, northward, we can ….” “Too many wild animals south, both on two legs and four,” Trent answered. “In the north…” “too many memories, I know.” “I was going to say that there’s too many people who know me there,” he said and left it at that. “Right.” “We cross.” He grinned. “Besides, I like a good challenge, and I happen to be in the mood for one.” Bowman nodded. “Good enough reason as any. I’ll tell the men.” Bowman pulled his mount around and headed back toward the eight who followed. Two days of sandy spit, of bright sun beating down, and a realization that no one came prepared with enough water, brought the bunch to the edge of the port town. On the outskirts, they made camp for the last time in KingsCross. From that distance, through his glass, Trent surveyed the harbor. Two Maybrent Official ships, three cargo vessels and one ferry. Before the ferry, there stood a contingent of MayBrent guard. Trent smiled. One of them he knew. One of them might not like to have it out to all and sundry that he had once ridden with this bad bunch. “For once, something is going right,” he said to himself. “This will be goodbye Annie,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder. He’d ridden especially slow to that point, half expecting she’d come to her senses, think it over, and return. Now he knew. There’d be no returning, no reunion, happy, business or otherwise. Sighing, he closed the spyglass, snapped the cap, and placed it inside his pack. Signaling to Bowman, he prepared to tell him they’d have no trouble crossing after all. The next night they rode into FailsWorthy. He sat in the inn and surveyed his men that night, he and Bowman. Without Bowman counted, there were seven. Seven out of twenty odd in all, with Annie taking the most. He didn’t know why that was, and cared less. He drank deep, waiting for his guest to arrive. He’d sent a note to his former riding partner, and knew he wouldn’t have to risk being arrested. He was safe in the knowledge that a man with a dark past wouldn’t care to have his newly shining reputation as a Maybrent Militiaman tarnished. He waited and surveyed his crew. Banksy was the master thief, but he took a lot of looking after so he wouldn’t give them away or get them into trouble. He liked a good fist fight, and that would call attention to a band of men who liked to stay in the shadows as a rule. Sharps. Quick with a blade, but untrustworthy, a man who needed watched always as well. If the gold was right, he’d be the best bet for turncoat. Still, he’d had Bowman’s back on a number of occasions, and so far had been true to the bunch. He hadn’t ridden with Annie after all, maybe because he and Banksy might still like to sneak around in his tent nosing into his violin. A slow smile seeped onto his lips then faded. What else was he left with? Ann had truly taken the cream of the crop after that. Brigands mostly, common street thieves and muggers to the man. The boy, McKenn Frieze, might be a possibility, with his quick fingers and his quicker wit. He might have gone with Ann as well, except for the fact that it was Malvius Trent that brought him in. He’d not intended to take on a green boy who had a tendancy to seizure up and foam at the mouth, but he had come upon him being accosted in an alleyway by some beastly men intending to have their bestial way with the lad. Indebtedness, gratitude. Those were the reasons the boy stayed. Across the room and removed from the others, he sat head down and way into his cups. He had become a handsome young man, fair haired and pretty, except for the ragged scar across his chin, where the knife had cut before Trent stepped in that night four years ago. He was mostly a silent type and Malvius felt much kinship in that. He liked the silence as well, except he thought maybe McKenn wasn’t silent by nature. He thought maybe the boy held a deep secret inside. Whatever the secret, the boy kept it close to him. It burned him down, though. Malvius surmised that if McKenn didn’t come to terms, soon enough it would eat him from inside out. Not that Malvius was overly concerned for the youth. What troubled him was that McKenn might take a few innocents and a few of his own men with him when he blew. Well, he’d have to make do with his current crew, at least until they crossed the strait and onto MayBrent holdings. The could recruit once he got that lay of the land. His men seemed to be controlling themselves, doing as they were told, clothed not in the leathers of highwaymen, but in those of ordinary travelers. They were keeping in a tight group and talking low, all other than McKenn, who had now passed out on the table. It was nice to be clean, he thought. It was nice to be bathed and shaved, the grizzled dirt and beard of the road gone. The feel of a nicely cut, soft suede jacket suited him as well, the long sleeved shirt’s white lace peeking out of the cuffs. It was good to have polish on his boots, instead of the road filth and dung left by various creatures of the wilds. Good to be in a tavern instead of a drenched tent that let in too much wind and retained barely enough heat. Once, he had all those things. The finer accoutrements of life were once his by birthright. Had he stayed… The inn suddenly was too hot, the air too close, the laughter too loud, the smoke too thick. Nearly knocking his mug over, the contents sloshing onto the pitted table, Malvius Trent headed for the outside, someplace he could once again take a good, deep breath. Once in the fresh air and relative quiet, he convinced himself that it was just the need to take an account of the ferry and of the men who would be checking their papers as they boarded. He had plenty of time before his appointment with the militiaman, whom he had known in a previous incarnation as Sly Gent. Good old Gent seemed to have had a change of heart about the road, and gone clean. Malvius smiled. They had parted on bad terms and here and now, the rotten deserter was going to do a favor for the man he perhaps hated most of all. But that was later. Malvius strolled down the dock and onto the pier in the gathering fog. He passed two militiamen who nodded at him politely, one of them even tipping his cap at him. There were no questions for a gentleman taking a stroll at night, only sweet greetings and a reminder to take care for the ruffians that often frequented the docks. He went all the way to the end of the pier, past cargo and a few sea men lounging about on crates and taking a smoke, past some loading a large sea going vessel in the only other occupied slip. By the time he arrived at the very end, the fog had eliminated all behind him, save for the sounds. The clip clip of high heels announced her. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine preceded the swish of silk and lace. He didn’t turn. “Why Melody, whatever brings you to a classless port town such as this?” She laughed. There was a time he hadn’t been able to resist the throaty, sultry laugh, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, her fingers dancing on his skin. “Why Malvius Trent,” her touch fell light on his shoulder, “is this a ghost truly, an apparition from my past?” Another laugh, softer now, sadder, maybe. He didn’t turn. “Hardly a ghost, Melody.” “From what I hear, Malvius, you are quite the ghost.” A pause. “And for that matter, where is the ever lovely Ann? She was always your preferred companion, was she not? Your secret tryst so far from home.” A longer pause. “But from what I hear, Malvius, she should rightfully be your companion in death now.” He heard her turn about, making a show of examining the docks. “No, I don’t see her.” He heard, rather than saw, her smile. “Well then come now.” Her hand brushed his cheek. “Come to my suite and have a drink, regale me with tales of mystery and the secrets of resurrection. I’m bored and the damnable ferry doesn’t depart until morning.” “I’ve business.” “Then after?” It might not be wise to refuse, knowing Melody’s influence. He would have to appease her curiosity, and in return, he might ask a favor or two of her in the future. He saw no harm in meeting after his discussion with the newly reformed Sly Gent. “I see no harm in it.” He turned now, and was nearly swept away by her once more, just as he had been so many years before. She had hardly changed, and one could say that time had been so much more than kind to her. Still the strawberry curls tumbling down over ivory shoulders barely exposed. Still the cupid lips, the perfect almond jade eyes. Not a line on her face, not a single indication that time had drained her of any vitality. “You’re looking well, Malvius,” she grinned, “now that I’ve a chance to actually see more than your back.” “I should be done with my business in an hour or so,” he said. “Will that be too late to…” She put a hand on his arm. “It will never be too late for us, Malvius.” And then she was off down the pier, after having pressed a card into his hand. He put it to his nose, took in the soft scent of jasmine and sandalwood that clung to the paper. “Moorwood.” If it was good enough for the likes of Melody MayBrent, then it would either be some sort of estate house or upper crust inn. Most likely, he’d find it on the outskirts of the smog filled town, somewhere the sea air might wash away the filth. “Only the best I imagine.” It led him to wonder why a highbrow would be taking a stroll on the docks so late at night. Then again, the lady was a rebel and negligent when it came to simple caution and good sense. Pocketing the card, he returned to the inn, satisfied to find a nervous, fidgeting Sly Gent waiting at a private back table. Sighing, Malvius hailed his guest, strolled over to the table and sat down. An hour after, and Malvius left the inn. He watched as Gent faded into the night in the opposite direction. Having had the stable boy bring his horse around, he went to keep a more savory appointment. He’d been correct in assuming that he would find Melody at only the best of locales. rode out of town and toward the only mansion he remembered seeing on the way in. She may have been formally disinherited by her Father, but in the city state named after her family, she was still recognized for her birthright. The finest came free any man or woman who bore that name and it entitled her to the finest wherever she traveled. Malvius was certain the old man was still paying her bills, and that some time before he passed he’d make sure Melody came into everything. He had no other heirs and surely didn’t want the government to swoop down and appropriate his fortune. They sat in a private room on the sprawling estate, before a blazing fire. They sipped sherry in the wee hours of the morning, sipping sherry. After exchanging formalities, there seemed to be little to say, both silent in anticipation of the other breaking that silence first. Malvius felt it was a sign of respect to allow a woman to speak first, while with Melody’s family it was understood that men took the lead in everything. It was one reason she’d rebelled, but certainly not the only one. They’d both finished a second sherry, settled back in twin wing backed chairs, the fire cheerily crackling. The air he was accustomed to when inside, that of stale ale, cooking smoke and the odor of unwashed skin and body odor, was absent. In its place, the aroma of hickory, sandalwood and amber, the latter barely there but insistent, relaxed him so that he wanted to let his guard down, close his eyes, and get some much needed rest. In fact, he did begin to doze. “Fine, Malvius,” her voice was curt and snappish. Melody MayBrent was not one who favored being ignored for any reason. “Before you nod off, I’ll launch this discussion.” “Discussion?” He drawled, only half opening his eyes. “Why, I assumed your invitation to be nothing more than an opportunity to renew a long absent friendship.” “Don’t let the sherry go to your head, Malvius.” She was lecturing now, a trait that always made him wince. “You never held your liquor too well, and I see you’ve made little progress in mastering that particular ‘skill’.” She leaned forward, as if she suddenly caught a chill and needed to be closer to the blaze. “And do not mistake that any meeting we might have tonight or in the future to be tinged with any traces of our former ‘friendship’.” “I don’t, and won’t.” He was curious to be sure. “Why then, the midnight walk on the docks to find me?” “You give yourself too much importance, Malvius,” she cooed. “I was not looking for you at all, just happened upon what amounts to a piece of discarded luggage as I went about other, more important business.” He waved his arms indicating the entire of the lush suite. “If not for bedding, then, why ever would such a privileged woman of class invite a scoundrel like me to your private rooms?” He smiled. “Why, Melody MayBrent, you make me feel quite the whore. I was so certain you sought me out for other things.” “Oh Malvius,” she grinned. “Sex with you was always one of those experiences one hears so much about, then finds entirely lacking when actually experienced.” Her smile faded. “There is something I want to discuss with you, though, since you gave me quite a surprise tonight.” Her voice seemed suddenly too sharp and clipped, enough to make him think that there might be militiamen hiding among the thick drapes, waiting to ambush him. He couldn’t help himself from casting a glance in the direction of the heavy velvet coverings. “Oh Malvius, you still entertain me in ways I can’t fathom.” He was relieved to hear her laughter turn light and musical, and he relaxed somewhat. Still, he had a niggling feeling that there was a darker underpinning beneath the lace and expensive perfume. “You should know I’d rather find a use for a man who’s turned his back on me, rather than give him up,” she paused. “For now, I only want to ask you a few questions about what’s transpired since last we met.” He suddenly wasn’t in the mood for conversation, light or otherwise. “Malvius,” she leaned back in the chair, settling in. “How long has it been since you’ve visited your Father? You must know that he’s turned the whole of KingsCross upside down looking for you. Even after all these years, there are those who say he’s not quite given up.” He did raise an eyebrow at that comment. If his dear Father ever lifted a finger toward him, it was to poke and pinch. He’d felt the elder Trent’s disappointment and rage too many times to forget. In his youth, in fact, he had come to think that the meaning of ‘lending a hand’, was that sharp report of a swift backhand. She read his mind. “I know things weren’t well between you, but you are his only living heir after all.” She clucked like a little hen. “I know that burden well and wouldn’t think of casting Father into such a tither.” She rested her head against the plush cushions and sighed. “I might say that even I am not so cruel as to disappear and leave him to worry and ponder whether I’m among the living or dead.” She left off with that for the moment. Instead, she reached to the side of her chair and retrieved a large fabric bag, the type ladies carried with them when they traveled. She withdrew a printed newssheet and laid it on the table between them. “I run a news bureau now,” she explained. “But of course, this is an article from years ago, when the printing methods were more archaic.” He hadn’t yet looked at the smudged sheet before him. “Oh, a ‘news bureau’,” he repeated. “Exactly what is that, some sort of new past time for a bored and deposed princess?” She pursed her lips. “You think to bait me into forgetting why I asked you here?” He yawned. “Possibly, because I’m already bored,” he paused, “by everything other than your enchanting presence.” “I’m not biting, Malvius. You will not put me off track with your little barbs.” She pushed the printed page toward him, “or false compliments.” He took up the page. “A bit difficult to read, love,” she purred, “though I’m impressed the ink has held up as well as it did over these past five years.” In fact, the print was all too clear, precise even as Melody was in pursuing whatever she needed or wanted. He wondered if it was the way of the wealthy to expect such things to come to them. His Father was definitely demanding enough, and all his cohorts in politics seemed the same. He read. The headline first. ‘Wanted Highwayman murdered was son of local nobility.’ In smaller print beneath, the most important of that news. ‘Innkeeper’s daughter also victim in capture.’ He read the article, a single lengthy piece on the page. He put it down. “Seems right, except for one important fact.” He paused, letting the silence spin out between them. “It’s been five years, Melody. Did you think to confirm this erroneous report here tonight?” He put out an arm toward her. “Would you care to pinch and prod me to see if I’m flesh and blood?” She seemed suddenly almost hesitant to touch him. Malvius gave her a wink. “I’ll be happy to disrobe so you can be thorough in your task.” He winked. “Might be a good idea to see if the parts work as well as they did the last time we met.” “I said I will not be put off by a tawdry attempt to embarrass or discredit my,” she paused, “honor, as it were. You must know that in light of this information, I was taken aback nearly to heart failure when I saw you on the docks tonight.” “Gone into news reporting, eh?” He rubbed the page with one finger. “Nice ink. Any printing I’ve had the misfortune to read, smears with the lightest touch.” “And usually was accompanied by a promise to pay a fine sum of gold to anyone lucky enough to meet you along the way.” She simply rolled over him. “Wants are printed on cheap paper with inferior ink.” She leaned in closer, their heads nearly bumping over the page. “Here’s the funny thing,” she said. “I see nothing funny on this page,” he answered. “Allright. It’s odd then, and quit mincing words to slow things down so you have time think up a lie. If this article,” she frowned, “and badly written at that, is true, then it would be impossible that you sit here alive before me.” There was a picture drawn between the headline and the main article. Malvius could not tear his eyes away from the image of the Half Moon Inn. They fixed on the window of Ann’s bedroom, the one that looked out over the stables. “It’s where Ann’s body was supposedly found, but then when I asked about, everyone seemed to think she was either spirited off, or ‘ran away’.” Melody looked up at him. “Tell me, Malvius, how fast can a woman run if she’s shot point blank with a militia rifle?” Her voice fell. “And whose blood in that room?” Of course, Malvius didn’t answer. She knew he would not. “I can’t confirm a word of it, any of it,” she wrinkled her nose, “not about Ann, not about you, but a dead woman cannot …” He wasn’t hearing, his eyes fixed on the page. Malvius imagined Ann at the window, waiting for him, waiting for him to come and die, propped up there so she would see them shoot him down, helpless for the gun… “Malvius.” He dragged his sight away from the drawing. “Melody.” “All the witnesses to that event are dead or missing, disappeared.” “Oh?” he smirked despite his melancholy. “And I am supposed to be heartbroken over that fact?” He thought about it. “Ann’s father?” “Oh he’s alive and kicking. He made me pay a hundred gold for the privilege of a carnival show tour of his inn. My article will have to be doctored up with townsfolk hearsay and surmise.” She looked doubtful. “I wanted to write a romance about this tragedy, a sort of remembrance of our,” another pause, “friendship. But now I see you here before me, and it’s ruined. I can’t write a memorial for a living man, now, can I?” She lit up. “In light of this, actually, I might write the story, but with a ghostly twist, perhaps.” “I suggest you leave it be Mel, and good.” “Good what?” He grimaced. “Good that he’s still alive. I don’t want anyone else to have him.” “Malvius.” She brought him back from the thought of throttling the man or taking him apart, skinning him little by little, long and agonizing. “Yes?” “I saw the road just over the rise from the inn. I saw the place where you were ambushed. It was a week after, but the mud was still red with your blood, and from the amount, I’d say all of it.” “And?” “And I saw the room at the inn, the one they now rent out for fifty gold, the room where the supposed ghost of Ann Tremayne walks nightly, the one where her own father says she’ll tell her tale to a preferred few worthy to know.” “What a bastard. He’s still trying to sell his daughter to the highest bidder.” His hands balled into fists. Fortunately he was no longer holding the delicate crystal filled with liqueur, else it would be splinters, his blood mingling with the red sherry to ruin the plush rug. “There were copious amounts of blood there as well.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry Malvius.” Was there an actual note of pity in her voice? She clucked like a little hen. “Well, that’s all nonsense, now that I’ve seen you with my own eyes after you’ve gone five years thought dead.” “Barely yesterday to me.” “My apologies.” “No need.” She reached into her bag and brought out another, more familiar type of paper. On the wanted poster dated the month she’d slit the drunk’s throat, a drawing of Ann. Melody slid that across the table glass as well. “I would commend the artist for his excellent rendering,” she said softly, “except that from all accounts I should believe this woman is dead as well.” She turned the likeness and studied it. “For my part, Malvius, she was a kitten of a girl, no sting to her in the least. If I read this correctly, it says that she ‘murdered in cold blood’. When I spoke to the innkeeper and those who were there that night, they said that she took offense at a man who barely even whispered a finger over a curl. She pulled a knife so fast that no one saw her move, and severed his jugular as finely as any surgeon.” She was puzzled. “All this from little Ann? From what I heard from the townspeople, she was nearly the Virgin Mary, so sheltered a life did she lead. She toiled all day for her brute father, and used all her spare time to spread charitable acts, tend the sick, aid the poor with her pennies.” She grinned, a predator ready to spring. “Why, Malvius, was it your company that turned her into a bloodthirsty criminal?” “Stop.” “Is she dead?” “I suppose if that’s her on the poster, then she’s not.” “You would know.” “How would I know?” “Well, you were with her at this inn. Surely you saw her slit the poor man’s throat and besides,” the smile faded, “you were seen in this inn, and left just before she did.” “Just words, just surmise, and frankly Melody,” he snatched up the wanted poster, crumpled the cheap paper, and tossed it into the fire. “I’m done here.” “It was me who saw you, Malvius. I’m surprised you didn’t notice. I stand out wherever I go.” Already on his feet, he stopped abruptly and forced a bitter laugh. “Yes, Melody, I believe it’s the type of particular establishment you would frequent, one with no bath and bedbugs that come free of charge with each shambles of a room.” “If you had noticed on riding in, there was a carriage broken down at the fork before town,” she smiled. He had seen it. Malvius had the kind of mind that filed away anything untoward or out of place along the road to any city or town he entered. Ambushes were something he had developed a second sight for. Since that day. “I did.” “If you had noted the crest, you would have known it was mine.” “Heavy rains kick up a lot of mud beneath a horse’s hooves, Mel.” He instantly regretted calling her that. “I believe the carriage was covered in it, the crest not visible as I recall.” “We weren’t talking about me, Malvius, and if you insist on walking away, I’ll just have to print that I saw you taking the ferry to MayBrent. My Daddy would love to know you were coming his way and the witch hunts are starting up again I hear.” She glanced at him demurely from beneath thick lashes. “What a juicy catch for them – a walking dead man and possibly his woman.” She was smiling again but there was no mirth in the gesture. “Think what a grand spectacle that trial, torture and burning would be for Holy Judiciary, what a promotion for the beginning of the great purge they’re all talking about.” She saw the anger in him, the rage in the look he gave her. “Oh love,” she purred, “I know you all too well to think for a moment you’re a blood thirsty killer, one who’d murder an old friend simply to silence them.” They listened to the clock tick until the tension faded. Malvius lowered himself back into the chair and sighed. “To be honest,” he met her eyes so that she would see the truth there, “I can’t recall anything but the sight of her framed in the window. I was late,” he paused, “an entire day late and was remiss in my usual caution.” He shook his head side to side and rubbed at his temples. “Honestly, I can’t recall anything but the report of guns before feeling the first volley of shot hit my chest. I can’t remember anything but the pain after, and when I looked again at the window as I fell from the horse, Ann was gone.” “Fair enough.” “In fact,” he continued, “I remember them standing over me, prodding with the bayonets, literally screaming very unsavory things at me. I remember laughing at how ludicrous it all was, that I was going to die in the mud. I remember putting up my hand, not to ward off the blows, but to see if the lace at my cuffs was ruined.” He laughed and stared at the pristine froth that spilled out of the dress coat cuffs. “I remember thinking that gentlemen don’t die in the dirt, with blood soaked lace. I remember straining to see the window, and my last conscious thought was of Ann. I prayed she’d made it to safety, that she wouldn’t be involved, that she’d forget me and move on to better things.” “Touching.” There was ice in her words. “You didn’t think that for a moment,” Melody seemed to consider the possible violent reaction her next suggestion might elicit, and then went on, “you didn’t think for even one moment that it was she who betrayed you?” Before he could respond, she answered for him. “In the end, it was her father who sold you out, as you know now.” “Yes, but not the particulars.” “The Militiamen came to the inn that morning of the ambush, showing around a very nicely rendered portrait of you. Apparently it wasn’t even the usual drawing, but the actual portrait that hung above your Father’s fireplace.” He did look up at that. She nodded. “I know. But in the end, it led to many unpleasantries for poor Ann and I won’t go on about that.” “I’ll kill him, you know, in ways one might not imagine, drawing it out long, so long that he feels every moment that she suffered.” “Time does not run backwards, Malvius. “She spoke as if she were a learned elder dispensing valuable life knowledge. “No matter how you revenge her despoilment, her torment, nothing will change about that day. Nothing will change about Ann or the subsequent path she chose. Nothing will ever change about the basic man that is you.” “Do you now also fancy yourself a sage, one qualified to dispense wisdom and advice?” He chided. “Why, Melody MayBrent. I didn’t know you had it in you to be so insightful.” “Malvius, you know that’s the way it is in life. We move forward into the future, carry or bury or cure our deep wounds, and go on.” She sighed. “As for our personal past…” “Our conversation is ended, if you’re looking for an explanation for that night, or merely wanting to whine about your misfortunes in love.” He did not want to talk or hear about another iota of suffering. “Either way, I have no explanation for that particular night, nor any for what transpired between you and me.” He put his hands on the chair and rose, arranging his evening coat. “All I know is that I awoke in great pain, remembering little. Suffice it to say there was a long recovery after. As for Ann? When I was well enough to ride, I met her along the road near Barclay Pass. She was traveling with a healer, Old Gun, in a gypsy wagon of sorts, and they were selling goods to those moving on toward the capital.” He looked pointedly at Melody. “It was good to see her, like a miracle,” he said. “Unlike tonight’s arduous renewal of acquaintance and subsequent wound gouging, it felt like fresh air and sunshine.” He went to the door. “Good luck with your fledgling career in newsprint,” he jibed. “The ink is of fine quality, but you still need to improve your interviewing techniques. Otherwise, like you say, it’s not news, but hearsay,” he paused and fixed her with a smile, “and it’s very old news at that.” He closed the door quietly, though he would have liked to slam it. Melody sat the night, staring into the fire, her mood alternating between triumph and despair. |
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