Chapter 21 #3
The pillbug touched its antennae together. “I-too-am-concerned. There-was-a-moment-when-one-of-the-humans-chasing-after-the-horses-nearly-stepped-on-me. He-did-not-but-it-was-frightening-to-know-that-there-was-nothing-that-I-could-have-done-to-stop-it.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been very alarming.”
Large Francis extended a leg and, very carefully, tapped it on Edmund’s shoulder. It took him a moment to realize that the pillbug was attempting to pat him. I did tell her that it was a way humans comforted each other. It felt more like being tapped with a pencil, but the gesture was kindly meant.
“They-will-be-well. They-are-better-suited-to-such-activity-than-either-of-us.”
“Thank you,” he said, and didn’t try to explain that that was part of what bothered him.
The Dervish came to in a locked room and grinned.
“It worked,” he whispered through the slats.
“Good, because a gnole is not quite tall enough for this window. A gnole may have bruises.”
“Hopefully it’ll be worth it.”
The room was unlit, except for moonlight lying in bars across a large desk. The Dervish tried the drawers and found paper, pen, penknife—he set that last aside to take with him—ink, and some old letters that probably did not include an admission of feeding travelers to a dragon.
The bottom drawer was locked. The Dervish rattled it and muttered to himself. He could probably break it, given time and a lever, but it would be loud.
He turned his attention to the rest of the room. There was a bed pushed against one wall, a basin on a stand, and a large chest. He tried the chest first and discovered a stack of plain homespun clothing so boring that it almost had to belong to Otto.
At the bottom of the chest lay a pouch of coins. The Dervish hefted them and felt one eyebrow go up. If this is all they’ve got, this settlement is in worse shape than I thought.
In the shadow of the bed stood a stack of … something. The Dervish reached down to pick one up and felt his heart leap when he realized that it was a book with a familiar cover. Thank you, ancestors. Hopefully these will keep Edmund from fretting all the way to the city.
All but two of the books fit through the gap in the window. Dog Violet muttered as she accepted them one by one. “A gnole can’t carry all these. A gnole does not have saddlebags.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.” The Dervish weighed the remaining books. Was it worth trying to sneak out the front? Edmund would certainly think so … or then again, maybe not.
I don’t want you to get hurt.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared if he got hurt. No, wait, it would have been Angharad. They’d both been alive in the traditional sense at the time, though, of course.
Paradoxically, the fact that Edmund cared made the Dervish want to take the risk to keep his books safe.
“Keep your ears open,” he told Dog Violet. “I’m going out the front way. If you hear any yelling, sheathe the sword immediately.”
“Will do, knife-man.”
The Dervish was just reaching for the doorknob when he heard heavy steps and the sound of a key in the lock. Candlelight bloomed along the doorframe.
Oh, hell.
There was nowhere to hide. He stepped behind the door, which bought him maybe a second, as Otto pushed the door open and entered the room.
The leader of the settlement closed the door automatically behind him, then stopped because the Dervish had put the tip of one dagger under his chin.
“I don’t suggest you scream,” the Dervish said. “It won’t end well.”
“Nrr.”
“Smart man. I’ll take that candle, shall I? I don’t suggest you try anything clever.”
Otto couldn’t very well nod, but he swallowed in an agreeable manner.
The Dervish took the candle from his unresisting fingers. Flickering light shone on soot-covered cheeks, carved with streaks of sweat. He looked very tired, although given the dagger under his chin, the Dervish suspected that Otto was very wide awake indeed.
“Knife-man? Are you in trouble?”
“I’m fine. Don’t pull me out yet.”
Otto’s eyes rolled toward the window, then back to the Dervish. He tilted his head back far enough to speak without bloodshed and managed to say, “So the dragon didn’t get fed?”
“It did not.”
“Ah.” Otto closed his eyes briefly. “So you’ve come back for revenge.”
“Actually, I came back for my friend’s books. But now that you’re here…” The Dervish turned the knife slightly, drawing a single drop of blood.
“It was nothing personal.”
“Maybe not for you.”
“I was doing what had to be done.”
“You know, I’ve been around for quite some time, and I’ve never seen a situation where you have to sacrifice strangers to a dragon.”
Otto, with extraordinary care, shrugged. “If you wish to consider yourself my moral superior, feel free.”
The Dervish had to admire the man’s willingness to get out a long sentence like that under the circumstances. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not. But at least I don’t tell myself I’m a good person. A good person wouldn’t do this.”
“Cold, knife-man,” said Dog Violet, when the gurgling had stopped. She sounded rather admiring.
“I wasn’t going to let him live. And the longer you let them talk, the more chance you have for things to turn bad.
” The Dervish picked up the key ring that Otto had dropped and tried keys until he found one that opened the locked drawer.
There were several sheaves of parchment that looked like land deeds, and, more importantly, a wooden box full of gold coins.
The Dervish started to pour the contents into his hand, then paused. He could practically hear Edmund worrying that the farmers would go hungry if they took it all.
Ancestors have mercy. He took a handful of coins and passed them through the window to Dog Violet. He stared at the rest. They glinted in the moonlight.
“Fine,” he muttered to the Edmund in his head. “Against my better judgment.”
“… Is knife-man feeling well?”
The Dervish shook his head. The cooling blood felt sticky in his clothes, and he suddenly hated it. “Pull me out,” he said, and let the silver fire wash him clean.
“I couldn’t save the last two books,” the Dervish told Edmund, handing over the satchel. “But that should be most of them.”
Edmund’s mouth fell open. “Really?” he said, reaching into the pack.
“You actually went back and—oh gods, you did!” He could hardly believe that the Dervish would risk so much just for his books.
“Here’s the herbal and the Poetic Idylls and Notes on Sundry Diseases of Goats and … errr … this one isn’t mine.”
“What?”
“This has been printed and all of mine were handwritten. And none of mine were about … um…” True dawn was still a little way off, but it was light enough now that he could read, which probably meant that it was light enough for everyone to see him blush.
The Dervish took the book away and flipped through several pages, while his eyebrows rose higher and higher. “Done that … done that … can’t do that … done that … nobody can do that … Otto, you filthy man.”
“You think it was his?” Edmund tried not to look at the illustrations of what the Dervish said he had done. He either didn’t want to know or wanted to know so much that it was probably unhealthy.
“All the books were in his room,” the Dervish said. “I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me that he might have some of his own.”
“Oh dear.” Edmund shook his head. “I imagine he’ll be upset to find this one gone.”
“Serves him right if he is.”
Dog Violet broke into a coughing fit. The Dervish pounded her on the back while Large Francis craned her antennae. “May-I-see-this-book?”
Aware that he might be causing some kind of interspecies incident, Edmund handed the book to the pillbug, who paged through it with apparent interest.
“Is-this-some-kind-of-art-form-in-your-culture? I-have-heard-of-humans-who-move-their-limbs-into-peculiar-configurations. Contorters?”
“Contortionists,” Edmund corrected. The Dervish seemed to have contracted Dog Violet’s cough. “It’s, uh … difficult to explain.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we’ll be able to sell it.”
“You don’t think the library will want it?” the Dervish asked, when he could talk again.
Edmund lifted his chin. “Perhaps you can ask.”
What he really wanted to do was throw his arms around the Dervish in gratitude, but the memory of their kiss was still too real and immediate.
If it happened again, the Dervish would undoubtedly feel obligated to explain that it was just flirting, and even though Edmund knew that, he wanted to spend just a little more time with the possibility that it wasn’t.
“Thank you,” he said instead, clasping the Dervish’s hand. “Thank you.”
And then, the tips of his ears still burning, he took the mule’s reins and led her forward, while Dog Violet went ahead to scout and the Dervish and the draft horse came after.
Large Francis brought up the rear, antennae occasionally twitching, as she continued to page through the peculiar human book.