Gleeman's Tales Page 16

  He saw a few of those same menacing frowns disappear behind full glasses of ale. “Anyway, I digress back to my first, second-age-ancestor.” Gnochi saw Cleo let out a long breath. He wondered, for a moment, how close he had come to inciting a mob. “He and a small group discovered the vital winterbush. He wrote of it, calling it the discovery which saved humanity.”

  “How’d they figure it out?” one asked. How’d he see the benefits?”

  “For decades after that day, the breaking of the world, there existed a winter unbeknownst in its ferocity and longevity to us,” Gnochi said. “My ancestor and his group had settled near what was then a coastline of ice. Before an ocean equally as frozen. To him, it was just another patch of ice and snow. But when they witnessed animals routinely venturing out onto the ice and returning plump, the group trekked out onto the ocean-tundra and discovered the endless forest of winterbush.

  “The winter succeeding the world’s end lasted for hundreds of years. It outlived my first ancestor and his children, and their children. Granted they all died young, as did everyone, but I’m telling you, this winter was a force of nature unimaginable today. The winteryear of our time is a small fraction of the length of the first winter. I imagine that someday in the lives of our children’s children—some way down the line—they will look back at our time and wonder what it must’ve been like to have winter for more than a few months out of the year.” Gnochi sipped at the milk before him to alleviate his dry throat. A silence gripped the room and even the staff was afraid to speak amongst themselves. “I’m sure you folks have questions. You can ask them, be they about anything.” Still was the crowd and silent was the room.

  Cleo raised her hand.

  “Yes Boli?” Gnochi said, using her new alias.

  She gulped and eyed the crowd, then asked, “That noise, the shrill sound. What was it? What creature could utter such a loud noise?”

  “That was no creature. It was an alarm. A warning that the governments of the first age had in place so that people could have some time, however brief, to retreat to the safety of a shelter,” Gnochi explained.

  “Tell us about the shelter. You called it a library,” one of the patrons said. “Why?”

  “I called it a library because that’s how my ancestor referred to it, though his descriptions don’t depict a place for the storage of books,” Gnochi lied, hoping to discourage further probing. “It was a quaint underground bunker. A shelter to protect those inside from the effects of the war above. As far as the structure itself, it was a little cozier than a house. It fit my ancestor, his infant brother and their mother fine with room, of course, for their father. Any more than six would’ve quickly and severely depleted the resources though. They had portable machines to generate power, but those, in time, died.”

  “What about food? And water? And did they finally leave the shelter for food?”

  “Actually, my ancestor left the shelter because he grew restless. He had what they then referred to as cabin-fever. He snuck out one night, leaving his mother and brother alone. When next he returned, many years later, they had disappeared with no trace of where they had gone.”

  “How’d they get food to last that long?” the innkeeper asked. “Smoked and cured meats only last so long, even in the icebox.”

  “Scientists and scholars of the first age had developed methods to store food indefinitely so that it was palatable for years upon. Sort of like how honey doesn’t go bad,” Gnochi said. A young boy raised his hand from his prone spot under a table. Gnochi looked to the boy, smiled, and beckoned him to speak.

  “What type of bomb was exploded over your ancestors? The mushroom bombs? Fire? Echo-bomb? Are you an echoer?” The boy’s questions spilled like water.

  The innkeeper rushed over and banged his hand on the table over the boy. “Don’t be asking questions like that of our guest, now. Besides, asking a silly question about being an echoer. That’s a tale to hear on your mum’s teat.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Gnochi said, noting how quick the innkeeper had dismissed the notion of echoers being real. “To be honest lad, I don’t know what type of payload was dropped nearby.”

  “Have you seen an echoer,” the boy asked before the innkeeper clipped him with a slap.

  “Despite what your innkeeper believes, echoers are not only stuff for mothers to use to scare their young obedient. I do believe I’ve met an echoer or two over my travels, though Lyrinth does not have a strong track record accepting them, so they are rare and inconspicuous here. Echoers are a bit more prevalent across the world.” He paused. “No, you cannot catch echo by touching or talking to them, though any children of an echoer parent will have an echo themselves,” he said, anticipating the boy’s next flurry of questions.

  The innkeeper, frustrated at the boy’s enthusiasm, retreated up the stairs of the inn. A few minutes of silence tagged onto the end of the boy’s questions. More meals and mead made their way from the kitchen out to patrons. Gnochi saw that his audience wanted time to digest what they’d already heard. He got up and excused himself and Cleo by saying, “Well, I suppose Boli and I here have talked ourselves through, and worn our welcome out fine as the embers in the hearth. If you have any individual questions for me, you can come see me. I’ll be outside. I need to get some air and it’s a bit stuffy in here.” Gnochi stood and was greeted by a soft applause from the patrons. He took a slight bow and retreated outside, seeking refuge from the rainy night under a tin awning that sang with every drop.

  Chapter 17

  Rolly jumped up as the bard and his young apprentice left the inn. “Now there’s a man who would appreciate and protect my stash,” he said, removing a folded slip of paper from the bottom of his boot. He started to walk toward the door of the inn, then stopped and looked back to Harvey and Roy. “Thanks for the night boys,” Rolly said, pursing his lips. “Oh, and thanks for saving my arse back there.” He gave his saviors a toothy grin, then rushed out the door in the wake of the entertainers.

  “We rescue him, and we’re left to pick up the tab? Where’s the hero-worship you’re always gabbing about Roy?” Harvey asked, shaking his head with a slight smile. He stood up and stretched, then approached the bar to settle their tab.

  “It’s more for the ladies, Harv,” Roy said, catching up as his friend counted out pence on his hand. “Had Rolly been Rose, and oh, say forty years younger, we’d be showered in kisses and gratitude,” he said.

  “In that case,” Harvey chuckled, “I don’t mind Rolly’s unenthusiastic thanks.” He watched Roy’s eyes glaze over in a fantasy.

  “Imagine,” Roy said. “That we bust into some robber’s shanty with our claymores raised and carve up a plethora of his guards. Then, after a long, evenly matched duel, one of us would get injured, and the other, in a defensive rage, would shear the leader’s head from his neck.”

  Harvey only half paid his friend mind. He watched as a porter entered the inn and grabbed the bard’s bags, taking them outside. “They’re not staying?” Harvey asked, though Roy ignored him.

  “She would help bind up the wounds of the fallen and then treat us to a nice warm meal.”

  “Come on, Sir Valiant,” Harvey said, dragging Roy from his daydream. “We’re going to be late getting back to camp. I want to get Typhus in some travel-ready shape before we retire.” The adolescents stepped into the brisk night, surprised to see that the torrents of rain had since declined to a mere drizzle.

  Roy shivered and bundled himself into his clothes, flipping his collar to shield his bare neck. “I hate the cold,” he said. “Don’t know how you can stand to bare your arms on a night like this.”

  “A little run will get you warm. Come on,” Harvey said, jogging towards the road leading westward. The pair had not even passed the outermost building when they were intercepted by three shadows in the night: the bard, his young apprentice, and their mare. The apprentice held some of their bags. The rest were strapped to the hearty mare.

 
“Harvey and Roy, is it?” The bard’s voice sounded rough, not as elegant and smooth as it had during his story. “Rolly said you two belonged to the menagerie.”

  “Yes,” Harvey said, scratching at the thin stubble sitting lightly on his jaw.

  “And your troupe is headed west?”

  “We are,” Roy said. Harvey flinched at his words.

  “Do you think that the boy and I could hitch a ride? Solo travel is not as easy for me as it once was.” The bard paused for a moment of thought, then continued. “And I’d like to keep the lad safe, such as I promised his old man.”

  Harvey spied the boy look sharp to his master, but the bard seemed not to notice. “No,” he answered.

  “What Harvey means,” Roy amended, “is that it’s not up to us to decide.”

  “No, what I meant was—”

  A deep howl filled his ears. His other companions seemed oblivious to the noise that had interrupted him. He saw Roy turn and speak to him, but the concerned words failed to reach his ears. After a moment, the howl subsided, its only remnant, a slight ring on the edge of his hearing. “Yes, sorry. I meant that it’s not our call. Our boss, Dorothea, runs the show. Doubt you’ll be allowed to join us, but you’re welcome to ask.”

  “Dorothea, you say? Your ringleader?” Gnochi asked.

  “Would you put in a good word for us?” the apprentice pleaded. Harvey seemed to notice for the first time that the boy had perched himself on top of the horse.

  “Dorothea is—”

  Harvey shoved his elbow into Roy’s ribs, firm enough to bruise.

  “Picky, to say the least.” Roy gasped, straining to maintain his voice’s neutrality. “But I saw the way Harvey was welling up at your story. I don’t think you’ll have any problems talking your way in.”

  Harvey’s cheeks felt warm. He was grateful for the dark night that concealed his embarrassment.

  “Good, let’s get going,” Gnochi said, picking up two full packs at his feet.

  Chapter 18

  The desolate state of the menagerie shocked Cleo as Harvey and Roy escorted them into its center. The wagons, mangled and dirty, flocked around various cook fires. Meandering between wagons, Harvey and Roy led the two through the camp. She watched the two teens with fascination, noting how they seemed to support each other more than if they were merely two players in the same troupe. They shared a strong mental connection, seemingly knowing what the other was thinking, or going to say.

  The wagons, she further observed, were in various states of disrepair with exterior paints chipping and tin-boarded windows. Circled around each fire, in dirty heaps on the ground, were small clusters of vagrant characters: burly men wearing a few too many swords, dirty children, and a few scarce and overworked women. Cleo leaned on Perogie’s saddle and whispered to Gnochi. “Why does this menagerie seem so—”

  “Devoid of fun?” Gnochi asked, supplying the description.

  “I was going to say ghoulish, but that works,” she said, smiling.

  “We’ve hit some hard times,” Harvey explained. “Don’t expect the menagerie to perform between here and Blue Haven. Too many players injured or out of their contract.” He turned to face the two. A nearby cook fire bathed his face in a warm orange light that accented his fiery eyes. Harvey looked straight at Cleo. She felt ants picking their way down her spine as his eyes pierced her own, seeming to see past her boyish disguise. “Anyway, Dorothea is right in here,” he said, pointing to the only tent still impaled into the ground. “Give me a minute to talk to him, then come in,” he instructed, tugging Roy’s arm and pulling him under the tent’s flap.

  Cleo was stuck on Harvey’s bidding words. She pursed her lips, and then said, “What did he say?” She turned and saw Gnochi squatting before the rear wheel of a nearby wagon. “Gnochi,” she hissed. “What are you doing? What if someone sees you snooping? We could end up on our own.”

  “Hush, Boli.” He said, his voice assuming a feigned mantle of authority. “I was merely padding my bargaining hand by gathering evidence.”

  “What, you don’t think they’ll want to take us in? Even considering your skill? I mean look at this place: players frowning like orphans, wagons that look to be held together by—”

  “Duct-tape?”

  Cleo looked at Gnochi and raised her eyebrow in question. “What?” In the firelight, she realized that the energy which flooded his features at the Pike inn had abandoned his face. His cheeks sunk as though weary under the weight of the guise they peddled, his mouth reverting to the solemn frown with which Cleo had familiarity.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Wrong age.”

  “Not even the Ringleader’s personal tent is clean looking,” Cleo said, eying its dirty façade.

  “Yes, their curb-appeal is indeed lacking. But I think you’ll see that there’s more to this menagerie than meets the eye.” Gnochi picked himself up and dusted off his pants. “Well, I dare say it’s been long enough. Let’s go meet this Dorothea,” he said, placing a gentle hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “Better let me handle the negotiations. I’ve got years of practice under my belt and you’re a little blunt, to be blunt.”

  “And you love me for it,” she said, snickering.

  “Your words, not mine.” Gnochi held the flap open for his apprentice to enter, and then stooped under. As the two walked further into the large space, an oppressive heat poured forth from large braziers which belched out flames. The smoky air chafed the back of Cleo’s throat. Large tarps which hung from the roof quartered the tent.

  Standing as though before a king, Harvey and Roy were talking to a stout man whose legs were perched up on the velvet-embroidered armrest of the throne where he sat. A look of visible disdain painted his face as his subordinates addressed him. Without seeming to notice his new guests, the sitting man stood and paced in a circle around Harvey and Roy. Cleo noticed his short and stumpy stature. He could have been Cleo’s own height or even shorter. Despite being pudgy in the face and bald on the chin, the man exuded dominance and confidence that masked any cracks of self-consciousness. He seemed oblivious to the tent’s hellish heat as evident by his manicured pace and the fact that he neither broke out in sweat, nor lost his breath.

  “You’ve really gone and done it now,” the man shouted. “Jeopardizing everything by killing those Luddites, then trying to hide it from me.” Cleo and Gnochi exchanged a worried glance. “I’m your superior, for Providence’s sake.” The man turned, seeming to notice his two new guests for the first time. He plucked at the lips angling down from under his nose.

  “Sir, if you’d prefer that we wait out—”

  “Nonsense,” the man said, uttering a guttural noise and slapping his hands together. “You’ve already seen me at my lowest, I’m afraid. It seems that recruiting these hood rats has come back to bite me more times than naught,” the man said, patting a hand on each boy’s waist. “Anyways, I do apologize for the trouble these peasants caused you,” he said, dusting his hands off on his greasy shirt as he approached Gnochi and Cleo. “Name’s Dorothea: Tent-master and ringleader of this motley of vagrants otherwise known as Providence’s Royal Menagerie, or Perm for short.” Dorothea offered his hand to Cleo.

  Cleo grabbed it, wincing from his grasp, and blurted out, “But you’re a—”

  “Man? Yes, yes. Unfortunately, you will have to try harder to impress me with your funnies.” Dorothea inched close to Cleo’s face, his own grey eyes, dull and fatigued where Cleo’s were clear. She felt a lone bead of sweat drip down her back and slip under her leather armor.

  “Boli, my apprentice, and one who still needs to mind his tongue,” Gnochi chastised, positioning himself before Cleo. “My name is Gnochi, sir. Gnochi Gleeman.”

  Seeming to ignore Gnochi, Dorothea continued to stare at Cleo. “It seems rather odd that you of all people should be shocked by my gender, seeing as you are faking one yourself.”

  Cleo sucked air into her mouth. She could feel Gnochi tense, his left hand dropp
ing to the sword on his hip.

  “You’re welcome to call me either Gnochi or Gleeman,” he said, trying to redirect the conversation and offering his hand.

  “I’ll call you what I damn’d well please, boy,” Dorothea said, seeming to see Gnochi for the first time. “Who’s the pretty lady?”

  “Boli, as I said earlier,” Gnochi asserted. “And she is not only my apprentice, but my vassal. Should you so much as look at her sideways, I’ll split that face of yours into a permanent sneer.”

  Cleo heard a gasp come from both Roy and Harvey. Dorothea huffed to himself, then resumed his frantic pacing, bracing his thick hands on the small of his back.

  Gnochi continued as though he had not threatened the ringleader. “We are looking for safe travel west. Heard you are heading that way. We’d like to hitch a ride with your menagerie.”

  “Tell me, please. Do enlighten me, Jester. After you insult me in front of these two peasants, why I should bend to any of your whims at all? Tell me why I shouldn’t lash you and throw you to the wolves, taking that pretty apprentice as my play-thing?”

  “I’d like to see you try,” she said, hefting her quarterstaff and resting it a hair from his pudgy neck.

  “Easy, Boli,” Gnochi said, placating her by lowering her staff with his hand. “Just know, little man, that I can kill you before you could so much as speak a syllable of kicking us out. And I wouldn’t try anything with her. The last creep that tried groping her is probably only now waking up without complete function of his senses, if you catch my drift.

  “No, I did not come here to bully you into submission,” Gnochi continued. “But if that’s how this army is run, maybe I should’ve come in with my sword drawn.”

  Dorothea glared at Gnochi. Roy’s jaw fell open, and Harvey nodded to himself as though he had won a bet.

  “You might be able to fool the hoi in the south and on the coast with your farce, your excuses, and your shambled appearance, but any noble with a coin to his name, hell, even a mediocre merchant can tell that something is off with this ramshackle group.” Gnochi picked at some dirt under his fingernails.