I stared at the “castle,” my eyes probably widening by the second. “Actually,” I heard Gwendolyn murmur, “I’ve been told Gropius Laebmauntsforscynneweëld once passed through here. Rumor has it he was inspired to design something based on one of the Barony castles. Can’t imagine what.”
“I’ve seen it,” I croaked. “It’s in the Imperial Zoo at Ozar. The baboon exhibit.” I tore my eyes away from the grotesque pile of rubble masquerading as a castle. “Supposed to have been, anyway. The baboons refuse to use it. When I left, they were talking about turning it into a scorpion exhibit, if they could figure out any way to let people close enough to see the venomous creatures.”
“‘Venomous creatures’ is right.” Gwendolyn pursed her lips and nodded toward the nearest castle. “We’ll have to be careful here, Benvenuti. Very careful. Each one of those Barons—the best of them—makes a scorpion seem like a house pet.”
We were standing in plain sight, on open ground—and easily visible because the sun had risen above the horizon. My feet twitched a little, as if they sought the relative security of the forest.
“Relax. We’re safe enough. In the Baronies, you always travel during the period just before dawn and through the morning. Then, although it’s a bit risky, you can travel again after the sun’s down. During most of the day, you find a place to get out of sight.” Again, she nodded at the not-too-distant “castle.” “The Barons don’t do a lick of work, you know. Exploit the peasants in the afternoon and carouse all through the evening and night. No respectable Groutch Baron rises before noon. Nor do their armed retainers.”
My eyes went to the “gopher hole” she had pointed out earlier. “Won’t the peasants report us?”
“You must be joking,” she said, shaking her head. Then, set off at her usual brisk pace.
* * *
The biggest hurdle to our progress—and it was a big one, indeed—was clambering over the rock walls which separated each of the fields. The walls were neither high nor difficult to climb, but there were so many of them that the sheer number eventually became quite fatiguing.
“Too dangerous for us to take the road, I assume,” I commented at one point, after negotiating yet another wall.
Gwendolyn was straddling the same wall. I spent a moment envying her leather trousers, which were withstanding the rigors of the wall-climbing far better than my own. I spent rather more time admiring the contents of the trousers.
“What ‘road’?” snorted Gwendolyn. “It’s just a leg, Benvenuti.” The second sentence was spoken half crossly, half . . . not.
I grinned. “I’m an artist. Can’t separate my appreciation of form from function.”
She finished clambering over the wall. “Oh, what a lot of crap. If that’s an aesthetic ogle you’re giving me, I’ll eat these trousers.” She set off slogging across another field; over her shoulder: “And if you follow up that train of thought, you’re a dead man.”
I responded with an innocent smile. I also, I confess, squelched the riposte which had been on my lips—since it did, indeed, “follow up that train of thought.”
I saw no reason, however, to refrain from continuing my admiration of the form and function swaying across the field ahead of me. I was by no means a fetishist, but by then I admit to have become quite an enthusiast for leather trousers. Those, at least, which had Gwendolyn in them. Although I will also readily admit that I would probably have felt the same way about any apparel which had Gwendolyn in them. Now that I had spent enough time with the woman to have gotten past the initial impression of her—ah, call it “fearsomeness”—I was finding it quite impossible to ignore the rest. Part of that fascination was simply due to her truly incredible body. Most of it was simply due to Gwendolyn.
This is stupid, I told myself firmly. A ridiculous—hopeless—infatuation. Myself cheerfully ignored me.
In an attempt to bring my thoughts onto more practical ground, I spoke again.
“Are you saying there are no roads in the Baronies?”
“Nothing more than rutted trails. The Barons cherish their independence, don’t you know? Since a real road might imply the eventual possibility of a central authority to build and maintain them . . . they keep them as primitive as possible.”