Chapter Four #3
Sir Peledon stirred. “She needs protection—”
“The Rules protect all Denizens,” I said, “don’t they?”
To this, the manticores assented – and in that assent, Bait had her protection. They acknowledged her as a fellow Denizen.
Bait did as she’d promised. She gathered up her stolen treasures – the knife, the belt, even the boots, wrapped them up in the blanket, and brought them down to the manticores’ lair. She did as the Rules dictated; very politely she begged for entry, and waited until they let her in.
They had no use for boots or belt or backpack, or even the knife, and they let Bait keep those. And if she understood why the floor of the manticores’ temple crunched with splinters of bone, or why their smiles were languid and red-stained, she showed no fear.
When she came back, she related some half-remembered bits of a story that Third-Sister had told her. With diligent enquiry, I have reconstructed this tale, which runs like this:
Once, in the days of the Elder Empire, there was a captain of the occupying forces.
He looked very grand as he led his column of spearmen into the defeated town.
The palace of the former ruler had been smashed to smithereens by bombardment, so he had to find another place to dwell.
He saw an old, abandoned villa atop a hill, and decided that spot was both defensible (in the event of an uprising) and suitably grand for a man of his newly exalted station.
The captain and his family moved into the villa, and had servants restore the house and its extensive gardens to their former glory.
When the work was done, the captain surveyed his new home.
He admired the freshly painted ceilings, the restored plasterwork, the bright new tiles, the high and sturdy walls (from which he could look down on the town below, all still in ruins).
He commented on how airy and bright the place felt, how the hilltop breezes drove away the stultifying heat of the town below.
The ornamental gardens gave him particular pleasure, with their walkways of crushed stone, their manicured lawns, their neat rows of fruit trees.
Then he saw one outbuilding that had not been restored. Weeds grew from cracks in the stone; the roof sagged, and the barred door was filthy.
“Why has that building not been repaired?” demanded the captain.
“Forgive us, lord,” said the head of the servants, “but that is the bathhouse of the old king. By long command, no one is to approach. A monster dwells there.”
“Why would the old king keep a monster in his garden?”
The servants conferred. “It’s said that the monster could be compelled to prophesy, and that its prognostications always came true.”
Now it happened that the captain was prone to worrying about the future, and he thought it would be a grand thing indeed if he could learn certain things by magic.
The location of the camps of various rebels, or where treasures from the temple had been concealed – indeed, he worried about how well or ill the occupation of the town might go.
And beyond that, he worried about the plans of his rivals in court, the health and fortune of his family, the curious growth on his nose, and many other things.
He found that he greatly desired the power of prophecy.
The captain entered the bathhouse. The glass windows were caked with dirt, and admitted no light. At first, he could see only the slime-encrusted tiles closest the door. But he heard the slow breathing of some huge beast.
“Show yourself.”
“You would not like to look upon me, mortal.”
“I’m told you can tell the future.”
“I can, if I choose.”
“Do so!”
“You humans are unworthy of prophecy, I think. You are weak and foolish. You have no virtues – except maybe as my meat.”
The monster took one step forward, and the light caught its many rows of teeth.
The captain retreated from the bathhouse.
The head servant said, “There is no need to fear, my lord. The monster is bound within the bathhouse by sorcery. It cannot leave. Just shut the door once again, and forget about it. Come, the merchants are here to discuss the reopening of the markets. Let us serve mint tea in the gardens, and forget about this place.”
But the other servants whispered in their own tongue, and the captain feared they mocked his cowardice.
He paid no attention while the merchants talked of tariffs, and scrip, and the price of bread, and the importance of rebuilding the market square; he thought only of how he might deal with the monster in his garden.
Even after the merchants departed and he retired to his bed, silk sheets and cool pillows brought him no comfort.
All he could think of was those rows of teeth, and his dreams were nightmares of crunching bone.
Over breakfast, the captain asked the head servant how the monster could be compelled to speak.
“I know only what the old tales say, my lord. They say that the old king was a warrior of such singular prowess that the monster bowed to him.”
Now, the captain had been a good soldier in his youth.
He had a fine sword, although it had seen little use in the recent campaign – wars, he felt, were not won from the front lines – not to mention a suit of armour and a stout shield.
The folk of this kingdom – including, he reflected, the old king – had favoured much flimsier armour, and their weapons were dull compared to his well-forged sword.
He dressed himself for battle, and admired himself in the mirror before setting off down the garden. He was, he reflected, the very flower of knighthood.
He kicked open the door of the bathhouse with surprising valour.
“Show yourself, monster, and prophesy for me.”
Again, the monster stirred, and twisted its head so the sunlight filtering in through the bathhouse door caught its serried rows of teeth.
In response, the captain brandished his sword, and clanged it against the boss of his sturdy shield. “I have steel to match your teeth.”
The monster took another step towards the light, and the captain saw that it also had many, many claws.
That afternoon, the captain summoned his lieutenant up from the garrison in the occupied town.
“How many men do you have in the garrison?”
“Thirty, sir, and we’re hard-pressed to keep order in the town. Do you think you can prevail upon the king to send more?”
The captain ignored him. “I need six of them up here.” He thought for a moment, and decided he did not like how the servants had whispered. “Actually, make it a dozen.”
It was late evening before the last of the soldiers climbed the steep hill and assembled in the courtyard of the villa.
The captain reviewed his troops, with their serried spears and bright armour, then marched them down to the bottom of his garden.
Some of the soldiers laughed, but it was relief to be up here in the safety of the villa, rather than down in the streets of the ruined town where people threw stones and spat at the occupying soldiers, and ambush waited around every corner.
The captain entered the bathhouse once more. “I do not fear your teeth, and I have spears to match your claws.” The soldiers were well disciplined, and did not quail when they glimpsed the monster’s shining claws. A dozen spears bristled as one!
In response, the creature spread its wide wings, and let the moonlight shine on the magnificence of their leathery span.
The revelation that the monster could fly troubled the captain greatly, and consideration of that tactical problem eclipsed all other concerns.
He deferred his meetings with the merchants and other worthies of the occupied town; he neglected to send the letter his lieutenant had suggested, calling for reinforcements.
Instead, he worried about the airiness of the villa that he had so admired, with its wide windows and open courtyard.
It was, he felt, remarkably vulnerable to aerial assault.
A flying monster could flit around the hill and strike with impunity at the villa’s weakest spots.
All the spearmen and guards were useless against such a foe.
After several long and sleepless nights, and a great deal of strong coffee, the captain summoned the lieutenant once more. He did not notice the fresh cuts on the lieutenant’s face (inflicted by hurled stones), or how eagerly the haggard lieutenant fell upon the steaming coffee.
The captain handed the lieutenant a sheaf of papers. “I need ropes. Chains. Timber for temporary towers, but we’ll replace them with good solid brickwork as soon as we can.”
The lieutenant studied the plans. His hand shook as he replaced the coffee cup in its saucer. “Many of those construction supplies,” he said, “were allocated to the reconstruction of the town.”
The captain waved his hand. “A temporary delay to assure future security.”
“You’ll need labourers, too, to build all this.”
The captain considered this. “Send some up. Oh, and give me another half-dozen soldiers, to keep an eye on them.”
*
Now in the garden of the hilltop villa bloomed a strange thing.
It might have been a landlocked sailing ship, with its rigging and its masts and sails.
It might have been a snare for rocs or other great birds, with all its ropes and hooks.
In the rubble-choked streets, the people whispered that it was a new sort of gallows, and the invaders meant to hang anyone who defied them.
The garden of the villa was plunged into shadow by all the ropes and chains that criss-crossed the sky. The captain gave a lantern to the head servant, and commanded him to accompany the soldiers down to the bathhouse. The captain pushed the door open, and pushed the servant in.
The light revealed the monster, spread out lazily like a fat house cat. “I have a sword,” said the captain, “to match your teeth. I have spearmen to match your claws. And through ingenuity, I have countered your last advantage. Flight will not avail you, beast. Now, prophesy for me!”