Not fair!
Chapter 11.
Not Fair!
We left early the next morning.
The worst of it was having Jenny and Angela hugging me the whole time, like the world’s most wonderful teddy bear. Well. Okay, that part wasn’t bad. It was that I knew Hrundig would be able to hear all the gibbering nonsense they were babbling.
No way he couldn’t, after all. He and the Frissault women were hidden in the fake compartment which Oscar and the boys had jury-rigged in the largest coach we’d been able to find. Right under the seat where Jenny and Angela and I were perched. With every single trunk and valise we’d been able to buy, filled with every piece of clothing we owned and a lot more we’d bought and all of Jenny and Angela’s seamstress supplies. Even the cavernous interior of that coach was packed to the gills. In order to search the whole thing, the porkers would have to work like coolies.
I’d never hear the end of it! I could see Hrundig’s cold grin already, and hear the derision. Hero, is it? Man of their dreams, no less!
“Don’t get any ideas,” I snarled, for maybe the hundredth time. “This is just an exception!”
“Our hero,” whispered Jenny, kissing my cheek. “Man of our dreams,” murmured Angela, running her fingers through my hair.
I glared at Greyboar, sprawled on the opposite seat. He returned my glare with what you could call an insouciant shrug, if the term “insouciant” can be applied to someone with shoulders like a buffalo.
Insult was added to injury. “What the hell, Ignace?” he drawled. “It’s entropy, that’s all.”
* * *
Truth to tell, the lunatic escapade went off pretty much without a hitch. There was a spot of trouble at the Northwest Gate. By then, the authorities in the whole city were on a rampage, and even the lazy guards at the gate were on what passed for an “alert.” So they stopped the coach and started making noises about a search.
Not much of a hassle, really. Greyboar climbed out of the coach and explained to the guards—there were six of them—that he was really in a bad mood that morning, on account of how his breakfast hadn’t agreed with him, and that if they didn’t open the gate in five seconds he was going to turn them into Queen’s Guard au gratin. He shredded their pikes by way of illustration.
The guards made the deadline. On our way through, Greyboar leaned his head out of the window and suggested that the guards might find it healthy to forget the incident. His suggestion was accompanied with the whole recipe for purée d’imbécile officieux. But it’s a short and simple recipe. I’m sure the guards had no trouble remembering all of it.
It was a nice outing, actually, at least for the first day. I’m not normally the type who enjoys the great outdoors, as I believe I’ve mentioned. Smell of the wildflowers, all that rot. My idea of a proper backpacking expedition is struggling my way from one smoke-filled room into another, hauling a full pot of ale.
But still, it was nice. Autumn had arrived, and the leaves were turning color. And, if nothing else, outwitting the authorities always put me in a good mood.
Quite a nice inn where we spent the night, too. Very comfortable lodgings, and the ale was surprisingly good. Not up to Trough standards, of course, but I’ve led a rough life, learned to survive in the wilderness. And once we saw how lazy the innkeeper was, we realized we’d be able to smuggle Hrundig and the Frissault family into our rooms, so they’d even be able to get a good night’s rest.
The next morning we set out for the Abbey. Since we would soon be entering Joe’s Favorite Woods, we had to find a guide. Whatever their skills as teamsters, Oscar and his partners were city kids. They’d get lost in a cornfield, much less a primeval forest. But it didn’t take me long to find a local peasant who was willing to ride along and show us the way.
By midafternoon, we were well into Joe’s Favorite Woods. I was wondering if the peasant would squawk at that, since Joe’s Favorite Woods had been declared forbidden territory by the Queen. Violation of whose edict is a crime punishable by etc., etc., etc., etc.