Chapter 11 #2
The first outfit she brought me to try—which I maneuvered my way into behind a changing curtain with some puzzling and problem-solving—fit well: a modest corset that gave my breasts the support they so desperately needed, over a tied bodice and a soft linen dress that gathered at my waist then flared to my feet.
The illusion left the corpse clothes as I peeled them off my body; with a touch of panic, I realized I had nothing to change back into.
“We’ll take this one,” I said, sweeping back the curtain theatrically.
The woman cooed, complimenting my figure, before drawing closer to discreetly correct my assemblage.
She adjusted the lacing, pulling it tighter than I had dared, then plucked at my sleeves, straightening them.
“Do you, er, also have shoes?” I asked. “And stockings?”
She beamed and fetched a measuring device to fit to my outstretched foot, then bustled off to retrieve her wares. While her back was turned, I gave a saucy spin for the sorcerer. “You’re the one buying. What do you think?”
“I think someone’s enjoying himself far too much,” he grumbled. Then: “The cleavage is a bit much. You’ll be cleaning in this, remember.”
The seamstress overheard. “It’s modern,” she protested, returning with the requested goods. “With a body like hers, why keep her covered like a grandmother?”
I retreated behind the curtain to pull up the stockings. The shoes fit a bit snugly, but I liked the added inch of height; it helped return my eye-level to what it once was.
Pushing through the curtain again, I did a little clicking dance in the shoes, to the clapping delight of my new best friend the seamstress. “I’ll be wearing these out,” I said, and her painted lips pulled wide in a smile.
The price for it all seemed reasonable to me, though the sorcerer blanched and shot me a harsh look upon its revelation.
I left the perfumed establishment in high spirits, clicking my heeled shoes and playing with the linen of my skirt.
Even the sorcerer, who carried my old corpse clothing draped over an arm, seemed a touch less full of rage than usual.
Perhaps he was affected by the unchoked afternoon sun.
He must be soaking it in like a starved plant, I thought, eyeing his exposed skin for any hint of an emerging burn.
“How shall we spend the day?” I moved to take his arm again, but the sorcerer dodged me. “I’m of the appetite for scones and a little hydration.”
“You will be going back to the castle. I will be completing the errands typical for a town trip with the assistance of William. Don’t protest, you draw far too much attention, and I would like to return here safely in the future.”
William materialized from the crowded street, an unremarkable man aside from his inflexible gait and the curious lack of focus in his eyes. I reached out to brush his arm as he came to a halt. Instead of a sleeve, my fingers touched wood.
“Don’t fiddle with him,” the sorcerer scolded. He handed over the corpse clothing, which William received stiffly.
“I’m not! And anyway, if you won’t let me help with chores, can’t I wander around a bit? It’s so wasteful to do multiple transport spells, and I’ll be on my best behaviour.” I twirled my skirt hopefully.
The sorcerer sniffed. “Your enemies include all of humanity, at least one elf, and possibly the bird kingdom, depending on how you spent your days as a vulture. And you want to wander around.”
“I’ll be perfectly safe by myself. I’m in disguise, in peak physical condition, and, I mean don’t let this put you off,” I lowered my voice conspiratorially, “but I happen to be something of a master manipulator.”
The sorcerer gaped at me, then shook his head. Without further argument, and in synchronization with William, he strode off. “Be back in this location by sundown,” he called over his shoulder.
My happiness faded as I realized the sorcerer had left me without any spending money. He’d abandoned me amid bakers and vendors, the scent of sugar and salt thick in the air, without any means of enjoying their wares. Was this deliberate torture? How was I supposed to grab myself a little treat?
The answer soon presented itself: feminine wiles.
Among knights, it was common to use town leave for flirting with the locals, brandishing coin to procure squeals of admiration (among other things).
I’d never taken part, preferring to spend my coin on myself, but maybe now I could engage from the other side.
It couldn’t be too hard to charm a knight into buying me some pretzels, and a splash of ale to wash it all down.
All that remained was to find a victim.
After playing the tourist, peeking in store windows and admiring the occasional fashionable hat that passed on a bobbing head, I found the knights.
They sat on a slight incline before a spired church, arranged on the grass in a sprawl of masculinity.
Leather armour and sheathed swords marked their station, as well as the tell-tale balancing scale insignias.
One man stood out, with his fox-red beard and broad everything: Sir Gareth, who’d been stationed at my outpost the previous year, before reassignment elsewhere.
This must be the elsewhere. He’d been a notorious lady’s man, and had given the impression of jovial sociability in our occasional conversation.
Couldn’t have designed a better set-up if I’d tried.
Dawdling in front of the church, I flashed little glances at the man, tucking my chin to my chest and fluttering my eyes.
“Have you got something in your eye, ma’am?” Gareth called, in the deep bellow I remembered.
“Ah, no,” I said, “I was just, er. Admiring your beard!” I tried not to feel nervous as he separated from the other knights. His approaching form towered over mine in a way that felt distinctly different from our previous interactions.
Gareth grinned down at me. “You can touch it, if you like.”
“Shouldn’t we get to know each other first?” I squeaked. “Over, say, a pretzel and some ale?”
“A pretzel and some ale,” he repeated back to the men, earning chuckles and a couple of hoots.
“Aye, I can do that. Let’s go, little lady.
” He grabbed at me, engulfing my hand in a hairy mitt.
I found myself half-yanked along the street, directed in the same forceful manner I’d used with the sorcerer, and began to have second thoughts.
A pang of longing struck me. I wanted to be a man again, someone Gareth would meet eye-to-eye, instead of tugging along like a toy. “Ow,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint, but he didn’t.
He led me to a pub with a hanging wooden sign, bearing the crude depiction of a pissing dog.
I scarcely had a chance to read it—‘The Mangy Stray’—before I was ushered through the door.
The hot, stagnant air made it feel like entering the gut of an animal.
A row of small windows, choked with smoke stains, blocked all daylight with great effectiveness.
Amid the smoking and drinking patrons, I could only see one other woman.
She seemed somewhat out of it, squawking with laughter like a manic bird, while a weedy man rubbed at her shoulders.
We sat at an unoccupied table, each on a stool, and Gareth held up two fingers to the barkeep. “They don’t have pretzels here,” he said, then laughed like I wasn’t in on the joke.
Alright, so I’d failed at my first task. But perhaps I could substitute the pretzel for something else: information.
“So, what’s with all you knights dawdling about this afternoon?” I fingered a golden ringlet, pulling and releasing so that it sprang back into shape. “I’ve heard word of a prophecy foretelling the mad sorcerer’s defeat—has that already happened, or something?”
“Now where’d you hear a thing like that?” Gareth’s eyes hardened into little stones as he leaned over the small table.
“Knights told me,” I yelped. “Other knights, who I’ve been drinking with.” Two flagons slammed onto the table between us and, happy for the distraction, I grabbed at one and took a deep, foamy sip of ale. When I next chanced a look, Gareth was sitting back with a rueful smile.
“Those loudmouths.” He forced a chuckle. “Well. What can you do?”
“Is it all wrapped up, then?” I said, once we’d both had a couple of swigs. “Should this be a celebratory drink?”
“Ah no . . . no. There’s a complication.” The burly knight sighed and placed a meaty paw over my hand, rubbing my wrist with a thumb.
“This mug’s too heavy to lift with one hand,” I apologized, retracting my hand and taking a double-gripped sip as demonstration. “This complication . . . it wouldn’t happen to be a man named Sir Cameron, would it? The knights also told me about that,” I added hurriedly.
Gareth heaved a true laugh this time, shaking the bulk of his belly. “Little miss well-informed. We’ll have to keep an eye on you, eh? But you’re right, it’s that shit-head Cameron, God curse him to the abyss.”
“Oh?” I said through gritted teeth. “From what I heard, he was quite beloved.”
“That coward?” The knight guffawed. “No. His father bribed the Order to take him off his hands. Only reason he’s survived up till now is some junky elf took him for a pet. Walked him about on a leash, I bet, else he’d be scrap meat on the front lines by now. Nobody human could stand the man.”
“I heard he was handsome,” I said, grinding my jaw. “Like a knight from a storybook.”
“Sure,” Gareth conceded, then rubbed his beard.
“How do I explain this? Have you ever talked with someone who is obviously shaping their replies to please you? Except their guesses are like a blindman throwing at a dartboard. It leaves you feeling kinda soiled, like you’ve been talking to a poorly made shell.
” He tapped on his own head demonstratively. “Nothing behind the eyes.”
“That’s, uh . . .” I took a swig of the ale, then another, longer gulp. “That’s a bit judgemental, isn’t it?”