Gleeman's Tales Read online

  Cleo exited the room, expecting to see the general waiting outside the door but he was missing. She looked for him in his office, but it was empty. The dining hall and war room too were devoid of his sterile droning. She contemplated resigning her search when she passed by the door to the library, finding it ajar. She was certain that she had closed it when she left earlier, so she pushed it open. Peering in, she saw the wiry general scrawling something on a piece of paper, only one first-age tome was spread out before him. She cleared her throat.

  “Pallius, Father wants you in his office right away.”

  He nearly jumped out of his uniform, he was so startled. “Yes of course. Be a good girl and close up the library.” He closed the tome he had been looking through and placed it into the first opening on a shelf that he saw, then he shuffled out.

  “Uh-huh,” Cleo mumbled. Curious, she pulled the tome that he had been looking through and placed it on the desk. Opening it revealed a hand-written journal that had translations between a first age language and the common language of the world now. Cleo did not notice any words that would have given the general a fright, so she thought to listen in on his meeting with her father. Cleo returned to her father’s study and put her ear to the closed door.

  “—sending her off to Lyrinth with Bollo. Don’t worry, I need my general here by my side. I wouldn’t send you on that suicide mission.” Cleo’s father enunciated ‘suicide’ and it stung in her ears. “I cannot be here when she departs. Might change my mind. Just give her this so I can keep an eye on her. Tell her it was her mother’s. Should keep her on her best behavior thinking it was from the monster.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Cleo missed what else Pallius said because a servant caught her listening in.

  The servant pulled the cloth out of her ear. “I have half a mind to tell your father that you were eavesdropping,” she whispered so as not to disturb the meeting.

  “No, please don’t,” Cleo begged. She knew at this point, she would be in serious trouble if her father thought she knew of his lies. “Please, forget you saw me here,” the emotion and sadness in her voice must have convinced the servant not to pursue it because she walked down the hallway without another word. Cleo put her ear back to the door.

  “—not good news from our spies across the way,” Pallius said.

  “We knew going into this that Jackal and Ren were wild-cards,” Cleo’s father said. “Their mutiny was almost expected. Now we need to react.” A few seconds of quiet followed. “Jackal’s plan will put him at odds with the local Luddites, who would do anything to keep that knowledge lost. If nothing else, they’ll slow him down until the winteryear when we can move my armies across the tundra and quell their little rebellion.”

  “Should I send over more of our men now?”

  “No, let’s see if that mongrel brother of mine can do his job for once.”

  ◆◆◆

  Present day.

  Cutting a corner from a busy street into a quiet alley, Cleo flew past a hissing cat and tripped over the dirty leg of a sleeping vagrant. Ignoring his muddled curse, she continued deeper into the alley, managing to catch her breath as she leaned against a refuse bin. Peering around the corner back the way she came, Cleo was shocked at the stark contrast between the bright street and the dark alley in which she now resided. A large silhouette mounted the alley mouth and moved toward the vagrant. Cleo cursed her luck. She imagined that her uncle spied her enter the alleyway, despite the speed and gain she had on him.

  Faint scuffling behind her drew Cleo’s attention to the other end of the alleyway, where a second silhouette appeared. Now, boxed in, Cleo eyed her options. Every small nook offered a potential hiding spot, but considering that they saw her enter the alley, she’d be found regardless of her choice. Resigning herself to punishment, Cleo was about to surrender when she saw a door ajar. Without thinking, she lunged into the doorway, bursting into a bustling kitchen. Cleo slammed the door in her wake. Silence rippled through the small, hot, galley-shaped room. A few cooks glared at her and one reached for a bloodied butcher knife buried in a hog’s haunch. Cleo eyed a doorway, imagining it to be an exit. From the otherside of the doorway came a woman barreling into the kitchen.

  “Who got cut? Who’s on fire? What’s with the quiet?” Then, as she spotted Cleo, a scowl grew to fill her expression. “Girl, what are you doing in here?” She eyed the cook with the bloodied knife in his hand. “And just what were you planning to do with that, Ellmor?”

  From the tone of her words, Cleo saw how the woman commanded respect. The accent with which she spoke, unfamiliar to her, added a heavy edge to her already stern voice.

  “My ‘pologies, Mistress. Wanted to make sure she w’aint here to rob us,” the cook said, humbling himself and lowering his makeshift weapon. The kitchen mistress directed her harsh stare back to Cleo.

  “If you won’t talk, I’ll send you right back into the alley you came from,” she threatened.

  “No! You can’t send me back out there,” Cleo whispered. As if on cue, a loud pounding sounded on the rear door from which she had entered.

  “Open the door!” Bollo’s voice called from outside.

  Cleo felt the mistress’s eyes beading down her neck, though she kept her mind trained on the door’s brass handle. It rattled as if some force strained against the lock.

  “You’ll not enter my establishment that way,” the mistress replied. “If you want to come in, you can come in the front room like a regular.”

  He mumbled something that Cleo could not hear, then, louder, said “Stay out here. Don’t want her sneaking out back while I go around.”

  A minute of silence slipped by. Cleo eyed the kitchen staff and their mistress, none of whom were moving.

  The mistress seemed to see right through Cleo’s scared façade, judging her intentions. The faint ring of a bell rippled through the quiet kitchen. She grabbed Cleo by the arm with strong weathered hands and pulled her to a scullery. Once inside, she dragged a heavy sack off a false floor, which she lifted.

  “Quickly child, in here,” the woman’s voice sounded softer than it had been in the presence of the kitchen staff.

  Cleo jumped into the dark chamber and landed on damp earth. The false floor was replaced, plunging her into darkness. A strange motley of scents assailed her nose. From one side came the pungent scent of potatoes. Feeling around, Cleo’s hands met a stockpile of chalky rocks, which she assumed to be coal. From above, she heard the bustle return to the kitchen. The kitchen mistress’s voice sounded clearest over the din of food preparation.

  “Those loaves had better not be burnt, Simone, or I’ll cut your pay this week. Ellmor, why aren’t the lobsters in the boiling water? People, we have a big night in front of us. Y’all need to get the weights out of your legs and move.” Loud footsteps sounded over Cleo’s head.

  “I know she’s in here! Where are you hiding her?” Cleo recognized the brutish voice of her uncle Bollo.

  “You have some nerve barging in here like you own the place. Beatrice, go get the guards.” Cleo heard the heavy footfalls louder; a sprinkling of dust and dirt rained down on her hair. After a moment, they seemed to return to the kitchen. A shrill scream sounded from above.

  “You little wench! Where is the girl? What’d you do with her?” One of the cooks answered her uncle’s demands, but the voice was inaudible to Cleo’s ears. “Speak up girl, before I—”

  “Don’t you dare touch her, you rat. I’m not afraid of your sword. The drunkards out back are more intimidating,” the mistress spat. Something big crashed into the ground accompanied by a low grunt. Lots of heavy boots sounded on the floors.

  “We are placing you under arrest.”

  The sound of further scuffling met Cleo’s ears from above. “I’ll be out in a day. And you can tell that girl that she can find her own way back to her daddy because if I see her, she’s dead to me.” The footsteps receded to the other side of the inn.

&nb
sp; “Well go on, get back to work. This changes nothing,” the mistress said, shocking the kitchen back to life.

  After a moment, Cleo heard soft footfalls overhead. The false floor was removed, a column of light speared into the dark space stunning her. The mistress’s hand reached down and helped her out of the storage pit. “I didn’t ask you to roll around in my winteryear-coal, girl.”

  Cleo looked to her hands, black and dry as coal dust, and coughed. She then noticed a cut diagonally through the mistress’s hand that had been wrapped in bandage. A trickle of blood pooled at the edge of the wrap and inched down her wrist. “I can’t even begin to thank you!”

  “Don’t even get me started, girl. The trouble you’ve caused me. I’ll have you bussing tables and cleaning rooms for a year before you’re out of my debt.”

  “You’ll keep me safe from them?” Cleo rubbed at the stains on her hands.

  “I did already, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t have a place to live, no one else to call on.”

  “I’ve got an empty bed in my private quarters. You can use it. Just don’t be bringing any boys in.” The mistress’s mouth split in a faint smile. Then, seeing confusion on Cleo’s face, she winked. “You can meal here too.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Cleo wiped at tears, smudging dirt on her cheeks.

  “No more of that,” the mistress said, looking confused. “Come on now, I’ll draw you a bath so you can get cleaned up before your first shift.” She led Cleo into a back room with a quaint bed, a sturdy wardrobe and an empty bathtub. She lit a match under the tub and had Cleo pump the water. “I’ll set you up with clothes, though we don’t have time tonight to tailor ‘em. Step carefully, though, as you’ll be wearing trousers and a shirt. No dresses allowed, though I doubt you’d want to keep that one, anyway.” The mistress paused, her eyes obvious in their inspection of Cleo’s clothes. “Get cleaned up girl, then come find me in the dining room for your first assignment.” She had turned to leave the room when Cleo interrupted her.

  “Cleo.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Cleo.”

  “Well, Cleo. I am your mistress. That is what you can call me.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Cleo said as the door clicked shut, leaving her all alone in the mistress’s chambers. She set out her new clothes at the foot of the bathtub as she waited for the water to heat. With precision, she undid the pins holding her hair in a tangled bun. Dark brown hair, stained black by the pervasive coal dust, waved down past her shoulders. It was then that Cleo found the tall mirror next to the bed. At first, she gasped at the stranger staring back at her, but after a moment, she saw what her mistress meant. She saw how her once fine dress, already stained from months of sea-air, was ripped and dirty. She stooped and, lifting her skirts, untied and stepped out of her boots. Barefoot, Cleo’s dress tickled the faded carpet. A creeping chill, rising from the thick slabs of stone underneath, forced an impulsive shiver. Her hands and face were dirty and black with dust. Hidden under that grime were countless freckles and two slight dimples. Earlier tears had streaked trenches through the thick layer coating her face like thick black makeup. Cleo tested the bath water, and, finding it warm enough, stripped from her dress and sank into its depths.

  Chapter 3

  The abrupt sound of impatient knocking tore Gnochi from his nightmare of fire. Rising from the wooden chair in which he had dozed off, he stretched and wiped from his brow and face the sweat that accompanied his recurring terrors. His throat felt raw from a night of breathing Imuny’s noxious mix of ocean air and decaying fish. Locals seemed to pay it no heed. He hoped he would not stay long enough to acclimate to the prevalent odor. With his sister and niece depending on timeliness, he knew that he could not afford to dally.

  Gnochi opened the door and immediately braced his hand on the tarnished brass handle as he felt the air rush from his chest. The hallway revealed a dark-haired girl. She offered a smile that lashed at his heart. He thought she looked familiar, but shook his head, realizing that he was not seeing a reflection of his niece, Pippa, but rather a maid for the inn. The more his brain emerged from its nightmarish fog, the more he saw that this girl was not his niece, no matter how similar she looked. He swallowed a lump, fearing that hallucinations would begin to torment his wake as it did his sleep.

  “Are you Master Gleeman?” the girl asked.

  A shallow breath eased out of his mouth. He relished the fact that she sounded different from his niece. Her voice, unlike that of Pippa, sounded older, where Pippa’s was wispy. Although, Gnochi noted with intrigue, this maid stood barely taller than he remembered his niece.

  He failed to realize how much he was leaning on the door until he felt his temple come to rest on its worn surface. Without an ounce of strength to turn away, he cleared his throat. “You’re a maid willing to knock on a door not knowing who is behind it?” he asked, chuckling to himself. “What, is it your first evening on the job?” As the foreign laugh spilled through his mouth, he cut it off, his teeth clinking together to silence the sound.

  “Yes,” the girl said. “Mistress Mirage sends for your presence in the dining room below, before your performance.”

  “I’ll be down, thank you,” Gnochi said, starting to close the door.

  A moment before it closed, the girl shoved her booted foot in between the door and the wall. A boot, which Gnochi noticed with a shock of intrigue, bore no scuffs of common wear. It looked un-broken, the leather, still spry. Surprised, Gnochi opened the door back and scowled at the girl. “Hmmph, they expect tips for everything now,” he said, grumbling to himself as he retreated to fetch his purse. Before he could hand the girl a copper pence, she entered the room and stood, arms crossed in defiance.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Master Gleeman, but today is my first day, and I don’t want to anger my mistress, or Mistress Mirage, by returning without you.”

  “I don’t suppose I could pay you to leave?”

  She shook her head in response.

  Her stubborn stance tugged on Gnochi’s heart. He feared that if he did not purge clear the nightmare from the recesses of his mind, then he might start believing this maid to be Pippa. “Well, give me five minutes then.” He brushed past her, ambled down the hall to the common washroom and splashed cold water on his face from the washbasin. He stopped scrubbing his face when his eyes caught their reflection in a small scratched mirror. Once-rosy skin drooped from fatigue and sat raw from his recent travels. His eyes, their usual shade of dark-churned earth, were bloodshot and seemed to sit heavy in their sockets. Localized throbbing across his cheeks and neck let him know that his recent attempt at shaving had resulted in more nicks and scabs than smooth skin. A few lone drops of the frigid water slipped through his rugged scruff and splashed onto his shirt.

  Gnochi returned to his room to find the serving girl sitting on the side of his bed, on top of his poncho which he had laid out to flatten the wrinkles. “No, girl, don’t sit on that,” Gnochi yelled. As he rushed past her, he noticed confusion on her face, but he paid it no heed as he kneeled before the bed and smoothed his hands over the poncho’s surface.

  “I’m sorry, I thought it was a bed decoration.” She retreated to a corner and sat down hugging her knees to her chin.

  Gnochi pulled the poncho before his face, seeming to study the faded pattern of woven fabric and noting the tears and burns as though he had already catalogued and memorized each one. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” he finally said.

  He placed the poncho over his head and turned to the maid, the fear on her face shocked him. After a minute where neither offered a word, he finally cleared his throat and said, “Alright, let’s head down to the dining hall.” The girl picked herself up out of the corner.

  “You won’t tell them that I sat on your clothes, will you?”

  Gnochi shook his head as he and the servant walked out the room.

  “Master Gleeman, if I may ask,” she said.

  “If I may a
nswer,” he replied, closing the door.

  “Huh?”

  “Just ask.”

  “Okay,” she said, unfazed by the awkward response. “Well, I overheard my mistress saying to the other staff that you are the best thing the inn can have for a night. Now, I’ve been around enough entertainers to know the good ones. But you don’t even look like an entertainer. Where are your colorful clothes? Granted your poncho has color in it, but it’s faded and looks like it’s been dragged through hot coals. Where are your silky ribbons, and cute animals? All I saw was your clothes, your supplies and that weird pendant.”

  “Pendant?”

  “Yeah, the black pendant with a small red stone in the center.”

  A wave of nausea surged in Gnochi’s gut. He turned, rushed back to his room, and thrust open the door. Jackal’s instructions came ricocheting through his head from the darkest recesses where Gnochi had hidden them.

  ‘Hide this with your life,’ Jackal had told him. ‘It has one purpose, to be bestowed once the job is done. Do not let anyone touch this. Do not let anyone see this. We will know, and your family may pay the price for your insolence.’

  Gnochi emptied his pack onto the ground scattering the supplies and clothes. After a minute of rooting, he found the pendant and dangled it in front of his eyes. Clasping it between tight fingers, he felt it pulsate under his grasp, though he thought that he could have been feeling his own heartbeat. It seemed, all at once, as cold as his empty heart and as hot as the rage he felt towards the group Silentore, and its shadowy leader, Jackal. The pulsations quickened as if the beating heart raced in anticipation. He imagined Jackal looming over his mind, saying to him ‘we know.’ Gnochi knelt to the floor and rocked, clutching the pendant to his forehead. He wished that it would burst into the flames of his nightmares and consume him. A lone tear escaped his eye and trailed down his nose.