Chapter 23 I’m a Minstrel
Lem
I have such good intentions: storm the duke’s house, rescue Agatha, sweep her away so she can live happily ever after.
Unfortunately, intentions is where I peter out. I’m not clever—everyone knows that. I have no idea how to storm a castle or rescue a fair maiden. I’m not skilled at swordplay, even if I had a sword, which I don’t, and I am even worse at wrestling.
Is wrestling even an option? If I mastered it in, oh, say, the next fifteen minutes, could I take out the duke’s ruffians by wrestling them all at once?
How many ruffians does a typical duke have in this country, anyhow?
A tight headache begins to squeeze its way around the base of my skull as I march through the streets of Glen Violet. From the way people step out of my path and the cries I inspire in every passing infant, I’m guessing that my face is pulled into a grimace even more grotesque than usual.
Could that be useful?
Let’s count my current assets: one sullen face, one guitar that I can’t play, and one teapot that Agatha left behind. It’s still hot to the touch—I guess Agatha was right when she said it stays warm forever—but no matter how I tip it, not a drop of the stuff will pour out.
A shame, because I could use a cup. I could use something stronger than tea, really, but I have no way of procuring anything else. So I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, slouching my way through the maze-like streets of Glen Violet.
Have I mentioned how much I loathe this city?
This whole uncivilized country? The streets here barely deserve the name: most of them aren’t even cobbled, and as there was apparently a lovely little mountain rain last night, I’m wading through mud that’s at least five inches deep on average.
Wet, slimy sludge seeps into my boots and fills the crevices between my toes.
Fat flies buzz around my sweaty head. I bat them away, or try to.
I can’t even keep flies away. What hope do I have of rescuing Agatha? I kick at an innocent rock, earning a stubbed toe for my sullenness.
It feels like I’ve been walking for hours, though surely it couldn’t have been that long.
Glen Violet is, as the name suggests, mostly located in a long, gentle valley between two heaving, hazy mountains, although some of the houses have begun creeping up the slopes, like ants trying to escape a bowl of syrup.
The innkeeper had said the duke is one of those who has attempted to establish dominance by settling higher on the hillside, and as I’ve been wading my way up, up, up all morning, I should be getting close.
My feet slow of their own accord as I pass through a small market, my stomach growling at the scents of produce. Never again will I take my daily bread for granted. If, that is, I survive long enough to ever see daily bread again. It’s been a while.
A friendly-seeming tradesman nods as I pass his stall. Leatherworks, and decent ones, I’ll admit. I hadn’t thought to find much of value here in Candor, let alone in this grimy city, so I’m surprised by the quality. I pause to give grudging admiration to a well-tooled satchel.
Agatha would like it. It would be just the right size for her teapot. If I had any money—
I stop myself there. If I had any money, I’d buy food. Not trinkets for Agatha.
The tradesman’s hands don’t stop their work polishing up a horse bridle, but he nods again. “That’s my wife’s favorite style,” he says, his eyes following mine to the teapot-sized-satchel. “Finds it very useful, she does.”
“It looks well-made,” I say.
The tradesman tips an eyebrow. “Rhylorrian?”
“How did you know?”
“My wife says her ls the same. Grew up speaking both languages, she did, but I can hear the difference.” He lays the bridle down and stands, moving closer to the table where his wares are spread. “What brings you out of the lowlands?”
“Bad decisions,” I grunt.
The tradesman’s eyebrows raise again. “Looking for a godmother, were you?”
“How did you know?” I repeat, exasperated. Am I that obviously pathetic?
“My—”
“Wife, yes,” I interrupt.
He’s not put off by my curt tone, but gives me a wide smile. “Exactly, sir. Didn’t go as she expected, but all worked out for good, as it does.”
“Does it?” I cross my arms over my chest, turning my attention back to the table.
The tradesman chuckles softly. “Took a while, but all’s well now. What was your boon, if I may ask?”
“You may not.”
Again, he doesn’t seem offended by my rudeness. “Still a bit raw, are you?”
“You could say that.” My stomach growls again.
The tradesman must hear, for he motions to an empty space to the left of his stall. “You can set up here, if you need a place to play for a bit.”
It’s my turn to chuckle, although I don’t sound anywhere near as jolly as the tradesman did. “You don’t want that.”
“Oh,” he replies. Interest sparks in his light eyes. “You’re not the minstrel who played last night at Mauthmin’s place, are you?”
I take a step back, wary. “Were you in the audience?”
“No.” He shakes his head, regretfully. “Wish I were. My wife would have liked to hear the Lady. Beautiful enough to make a man weep, they say.” He cocks his head to one side. “Your wife?”
I grit my teeth. If I say yes, will her reputation suffer when the duke marries her?
Wait—he’s not going to marry her. Because I’m going to rescue her.
And as long as I’m telling myself that, I may as well go one step further and imagine that she’ll leap gratefully into my arms and my curse will be reversed, and together we’ll bound onto the back of a conveniently-near horse, and we’ll make for the Rhylorrian sunset and be home in time for a hearty dinner.
“She is,” I finally say, keeping my arms folded.
“Is she near?” The tradesman perks up. “If she’d sing again, you could make a fair piece. This square will get busier as the day goes.”
“She is not.” I rub the back of my neck and cough. “You don’t know the way to Duke Mansfield’s estate, do you?”
I am not comfortable with how high the man’s eyebrows raise. Foreheads were not meant to wrinkle that much. “Run off on you, did she?”
“No,” I begin hotly, before remembering that she … sort of did. But under duress, which makes it different, so I don’t need that pitying look. “Can you give me directions or not?”
The tradesman tips his chin down the street. Down the street. The way I came. “Mansfield’s estate is on the far side.”
I turn to look back down the road I’ve been struggling up for the past hour.
It winds down the steep hillside. Whoever named this town Glen deserves to be beaten, because it’s nothing more than a despicable ravine, and I have the sore thighs to prove it.
Below me, the little city itself spreads out, a hodgepodge of buildings nestled in the bit of valley and then slapped precariously on the surrounding hillsides.
My gaze roves the collection of houses, darting all over the valley before rising to look at the hillside across from me, the one Agatha and I had descended yesterday—
I swear. There, on the opposite side of the city, a large house sticks out like a pale scar on the otherwise verdant mountainside. Did the innkeeper give me bad directions? Was he laughing at me the entire time?
Or, which is more likely, did I just climb the wrong mountain? I clench my fist. If Agatha were here, she’d be able to say, quite eloquently, how much of a dunderhead and buffoon and useless, helpless, pathetic sort of chap I am.
I grind my teeth so hard that I’m in danger of biting my own chin off.
I really am useless. All this trudging, and I’m further from helping Agatha than I was this morning.
I’ll have to retrace my steps, and then climb the other mountain, and then find my way to the duke’s estate, and then I have to figure out what to do about the whole Duke-taking-Agatha business.
I wish Agatha were with me, even though she’d certainly mutter imprecations at my daftness.
She’d surely be able to come up with a better plan than “walk up to the house with a guitar and a teapot and hope for the best.”
Well, at least she couldn’t fault me for not trying to think things through this time. I just thought of what, three steps ahead? And all on my own. How wonderful.
“You seem upset,” the tradesman suggests.
I glare at him, tempted for a moment to forget the whole thing.
I still need to figure out how to find Henry.
I don’t have time to spend tramping around and probably being beaten up by the duke’s hooligan henchmen.
My fierce resolution of the morning is fading in the bright sunlight.
I mop my damp brow and wish again that the fairy had left me my pocket-handkerchief.
“Did you ever wonder if your wife would be better off without you?” I say miserably.
The tradesman laughs a bit. Rude. “I don’t deserve her, if that’s what you mean,” he answers. “But I make her happy somehow.”
I’m really not sure if I make Agatha happy, or if I ever will. But I do know that the duke’s whole purpose is to make her unhappy, and, and … and I’ll be hanged if I just let him stomp all over her!
I might be a miserable, pathetic excuse for a man and a former prince; I might even wish to wash my hands of the affair and strike back to Rhylorria on my own. But despite that, I find myself straightening, wiping my forehead again, and saying, “That’s his estate over there?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t like beggars much,” the tradesman says, frowning doubtfully.
“I’m not a beggar.” I return his frown with one of my own. “I’m a minstrel.”
The tradesman is kind enough to send me off with both a loaf of bread and directions. I tear into it as I walk, repeating his instructions over and over. I’m determined not to waste more time.
The sun is blazing by now, so the ground is less muddy, but the humidity is something fierce. I loosen the collar of my minstrel outfit, wishing heartily I was somewhere cooler where I could sit and rest a while. But I’ll keep going, for Agatha’s sake.
I very nearly get lost again at a crossroads I don’t remember the tradesman warning me about, but I pick the direction that seems more uphill, and after another slogging climb, I finally round a bend and glimpse the duke’s forbidding gates further up.
The knowledge that I’m nearly there lends a bit of energy to my tired legs.
Now that I’m actually within a stone’s throw of the estate, I should probably come up with a plan.
I could bash my guitar over the first person I see, but then I’d have a broken guitar.
Perhaps I should just demand to be taken to wherever Agatha is, and she can tell me what to do.
I’m sure she can think of something; cleverness must be one of her endless gifts.
I suck in a deep breath and decide that yes, I will find Agatha and just follow her plan.
The gates of the duke’s house are fastened, so I rattle them and call out my most imperious halloo. Then I wait.
No one comes, so I give another rattle and another call, more irritated.
It’s not until I’ve given up with the rattle and taken to a constant, annoying knock with both of my fists that a lethargic gatekeeper finally saunters into view, wiping his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve.
“It’s my lunch break,” he complains when he’s close enough to talk.
“You missed a spot.” I wrinkle my nose at the smear of yellow sauce that clings to the corner of his lips.
He dabs at it again, and I grimace when I see him transfer it to his shirt. Disgusting. If any of our servants had acted like this, they would have been fired immediately. Does the duke have no standards?
Well, clearly his morals are dubious at best, since he’s kidnapped a married woman and taken her to his home, with no concern for her preferences. It stands to reason that his serving staff will be slobs and reprobates.
“What do you want?” The gatekeeper’s lips smack unpleasantly when he talks.
“I have business with Mansfield.”
His gaze travels up and down my outfit dubiously, but these rags can’t undo years of royal living. I stiffen my back and stare at him.
Then he shrugs half-heartedly and turns away.
“Hey!” I yell, dropping the regal bit. “Come back!”
But he does not.