THE TALISMAN
Osmond glanced quickly at the sky. “Morgan is expected
at six of the clock—perhaps a little sooner. It is now—two. I would say two. Would you say two, Captain?”
“Yes, Osmond.”
“And what would you say, you little turd? Thirteen?
Twenty-three? Eighty-one of the clock?”
Jack gaped. Osmond grimaced contemptuously, and Jack
felt the clear tide of his hate rise again.
You hurt me, and if I get the chance—!
Osmond looked back at the Captain. “Until five of the
clock, I suggest that you be at pains to save whatever barrels may still be whole. After five, I suggest you simply clear the road as rapidly as you can. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Osmond.”
“Then get out of here.”
Captain Farren brought a fist to his forehead and bowed.
Gaping stupidly, still hating Osmond so fiercely that his
brains seemed to pulse, Jack did the same. Osmond had
whirled away from them before the salute was even fairly begun. He was striding back toward the carter, popping his
whip, making it cough out those Daisy air rifle sounds.
The carter heard Osmond’s approach and began to scream.
“Come on,” the Captain said, pulling Jack’s arm for the last time. “You don’t want to see this.”
“No,” Jack managed. “God, no.”
But as Captain Farren pushed the right-hand gate open and
they finally left the pavillion, Jack heard it—and he heard it in his dreams that night: one whistling carbine-crack after another, each followed by a scream from the doomed carter.
And Osmond was making a sound. The man was panting, out
of breath, and so it was hard to tell exactly what that sound was, without turning around to look at his face—something
Jack did not want to do.
He was pretty sure he knew, though.
He thought Osmond was laughing.
5
They were in the public area of the pavillion grounds now.
The strollers glanced at Captain Farren from the corners of their eyes . . . and gave him a wide berth. The Captain strode
King_0345444884_6p_01_r1.qxd 8/13/01 1:05 PM Page 121
The Road of Trials
121
swiftly, his face tight and dark with thought. Jack had to trot in order to catch up.
“We were lucky,” the Captain said suddenly. “Damned
lucky. I think he meant to kill you.”
Jack gaped at him, his mouth dry and hot.
“He’s mad, you know. Mad as the man who chased the
cake.”
Jack had no idea what that might mean, but he agreed that
Osmond was mad.
“What—”
“Wait,” the Captain said. They had come back around to
the small tent where the Captain had taken Jack after seeing the shark’s tooth. “Stand right here and wait for me. Speak to no one.”
The Captain entered the tent. Jack stood watching and
waiting. A juggler passed him, glancing at Jack but never losing his rhythm as he tossed half a dozen balls in a complex and airy pattern. A straggle of dirty children followed him as the children followed the Piper out of Hamelin. A young
woman with a dirty baby at one huge breast told him she
could teach him something to do with his little man besides let piss out of it, if he had a coin or two. Jack looked uncomfortably away, his face hot.
The girl cawed laughter. “Oooooo, this pretty young man’s SHY! Come over here, pretty! Come—”
“Get out, slut, or you’ll finish the day in the under-
kitchens.”
It was the Captain. He had come out of the tent with an-
other man. This second fellow was old and fat, but he shared one characteristic with Farren—he looked like a real soldier rather than one from Gilbert and Sullivan. He was trying to fasten the front of his uniform over his bulging gut while
holding a curly, French horn–like instrument at the same
time.
The girl with the dirty baby scurried away with never an-
other look at Jack. The Captain took the fat man’s horn so he could finish buttoning, and passed another word with him.
The fat man nodded, finished with his shirt, took his horn
back, and then strode off, blowing it. It was not like the sound Jack had heard on his first flip into the Territories; that had been many horns, and their sound had been somehow showy:
King_0345444884_6p_01_r1.qxd 8/13/01 1:05 PM Page 122
122
THE TALISMAN
the sound of heralds. This was like a factory whistle, an-
nouncing work to be done.
The Captain returned to Jack.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Where?”
“Outpost Road,” Captain Farren said, and then he cast a
wondering, half-fearful eye down on Jack Sawyer. “What my
father’s father called Western Road. It goes west through
smaller and smaller villages until it reaches the Outposts. Beyond the Outposts it goes into nowhere . . . or hell. If you’re going west, you’ll need God with you, boy. But I’ve heard it said He Himself never ventures beyond the Outposts. Come on.”
Questions crowded Jack’s mind—a million of them—but
the Captain set a killer pace and he didn’t have the spare
breath to ask them. They breasted the rise south of the great pavillion and passed the spot where he had first flipped back out of the Territories. The rustic fun-fair was now close—Jack could hear a barker cajoling patrons to try their luck on
Wonder the Devil-Donkey; to stay on two minutes was to win
a prize, the barker cried. His voice came on the sea-breeze with perfect clarity, as did the mouthwatering smell of hot food—roast corn as well as meat this time. Jack’s stomach
rumbled. Now safely away from Osmond the Great and Terri-
ble, he was ravenous.
Before they quite reached the fair, they turned right on a
road much wider than the one which led toward the great
pavillion. Outpost Road, Jack thought, and then, with a little chill of fear and anticipation in his belly, he corrected himself: No . . . Western Road. The way to the Talisman.
Then he was hurrying after Captain Farren again.
6
Osmond had been right; they could have followed their noses, if necessary. They were still a mile outside the village with that odd name when the first sour tang of spilled ale came to them on the breeze.
Eastward-bearing traffic on the road was heavy. Most of it
was wagons drawn by lathered teams of horses (none with
two heads, however). The wagons were, Jack supposed, the
Diamond Reos and Peterbilts of this world. Some were piled
King_0345444884_6p_01_r1.qxd 8/13/01 1:05 PM Page 123
The Road of Trials
123
high with bags and bales and sacks, some with raw meat,
some with clacking cages of chickens. On the outskirts of
All-Hands’ Village, an open wagon filled with women swept
by them at an alarming pace. The women were laughing and
shrieking. One got to her feet, raised her skirt all the way to her hairy crotch, and did a tipsy bump and grind. She would have tumbled over the side of the wagon and into the ditch—
probably breaking her neck—if one of her colleagues hadn’t
grabbed her by the back of the skirt and pulled her rudely
back down.
Jack blushed again: he saw the girl’s white breast, its nipple in the dirty baby’s working mouth. Oooooo, this pretty young man’s SHY!
“God!” Farren muttered, walking faster than ever. “They
were all drunk! Drunk on spilled Kingsland! Whores and
driver both! He’s apt to wreck them on the road or drive them right off the sea-cliffs—no great loss. Diseased sluts!”
“At least,” Jack panted, “the road must be fairly clear, if all this traffic can get through. Mustn’t it?”
They were in All-Hands’ Village now. The wide Western
Road had been oiled here to lay the dust. Wagons came and
went, groups of people crossed the street, and everyone
seemed to be talking too loudly. Jack saw two men arguing
outside what might have been a restaurant. Abruptly, one of them threw a punch. A moment later, both men were rolling on the ground. Those whores aren’t the only ones drunk on Kingsland, Jack thought. I think everyone in this town’s had a share.
“All of the big wagons that passed us came from here,”
Captain Farren said. “Some of the smaller ones may be get-
ting through, but Morgan’s diligence isn’t small, boy.”
“Morgan—”
“Never mind Morgan now.”
The smell of the ale grew steadily sharper as they passed
through the center of the village and out the other side. Jack’s legs ached as he struggled to keep up with the Captain. He
guessed they had now come perhaps three miles. How far is that in my world? he thought, and that thought made him think of Speedy’s magic juice. He groped frantically in his jerkin, convinced it was no longer there—but it was, held securely within whatever Territories undergarment had replaced his Jockey shorts.
King_0345444884_6p_01_r1.qxd 8/13/01 1:05 PM Page 124
124
THE TALISMAN
Once they were on the western side of the village, the