Sir Apropos Of Nothing Part 25

"Is there somewhere we can wait?" I asked.

"I have a small barn out back. Unless that's not good enough for you," she added with faint disdain.

"Ohhh, we've gotten quite used to making do, thanks. A barn will be fine," said Entipy.

We unhitched the Heffers and brought them around to the barn. Night came early in these parts, so although there was still significant daylight, the shadows were already stretching their dark fingers. The animals seemed happy for the shelter, and I looked at Entipy thoughtfully. She saw me studying her. "What is it?" she asked.

"I'm just surprised that you accepted such humble lodgings so readily," I admitted.

She shrugged. "It's nothing."

"No, it's not 'nothing,' " I replied. "You've made it very clear what you feel you're ent.i.tled to as a princess, and shelter inside a barn certainly seems outside that ent.i.tlement."

She laughed softly at that. "Yes. I suppose it does, all things considered. I guess to someone like you, who thinks you know me so well, it's confusing."

"It is a bit, yes."

There was a bale of hay in the corner, and she sat on it, stretching her legs. "If you want to know the truth . . . although I don't mind tossing my rank around to annoy people . . . I've actually very little love for the status of 'princess.' Of royalty in general. It's one of the reasons my parents sent me to the Faith Women. We would meet other royalty or n.o.bility, people with t.i.tle brought to me with an eye toward future marriage, when I was no more than eight or nine years of age. Can you believe that?" She made a contemptuous, dismissive noise. "Eight years old and they wanted to circ.u.mscribe my future for me."

"Most people of limited means-peasants and such-have their futures circ.u.mscribed at younger ages than that. Circ.u.mscribed by the circ.u.mstances of their birth and the nature of their station in life," I pointed out.

She pursed her lips and studied me thoughtfully. "You're probably right. I hadn't considered that."

My G.o.ds . . . she sounded more and more human. It was beginning to make me nervous.

"Anyway," she continued, "in would walk these princes or young lords or young dukes or whomever, each one filled to the brim with his own importance. Each one acting as if I should be thrilled that they were even considering me for a possible bride. Each of them so mannered, so smug. I came to revile them, each and every one. And perhaps the most repulsive thing was that I was seeing male reflections of myself. If they were so repulsive . . . what did that make me?" I didn't answer her; the question seemed rhetorical. "So each suitor I treated with the increasing disdain I felt not only for them . . . but for myself as well."

"Causing havoc every time such an encounter was made."

She nodded. "My parents felt that I didn't appreciate all that I had. They had it wrong, though. I appreciated it for what it was . . . a sham, an arbitrary accident of birth. I was no more deserving of all that was handed to me than anyone else. My vision in the matter was clearer than theirs. They just wouldn't acknowledge it. So they sent me to the Faith Women, hoping that I would come to be happy for what I had through the simple expedient of taking it away from me."

"And did it work?"

"What do you think?"

I sized her up. "I think you understood all the reasons your parents did what they did, but still resented them for it. And that resentment became as hard as stale bread, and you took it out on the Women, even though you didn't really mind the hard work since it eased your conscience."

"Ah. So you'd credit me with having a conscience then. Not all that long ago, I don't think you would have."

"You're probably right."

"And now?"

"Now?" I shrugged, a gesture that she seemed eminently comfortable with. "Now, frankly, I don't know what to think of you."

"Good." She smiled at that, and you know what? When she was making no effort to be an arrogant little shrew, she had a genuinely lovely smile. I didn't tell her that, of course. I'd have been insane to say something like that to her.

Then her face clouded and she looked down at her boots. Immediately the old apprehensions started to return. "What's wrong?" I said.

"Tacit's not coming, is he," she said. Despite the phrasing, it was not a question. "I thought he was a hero. He said he was a hero. But a hero would have come for me. A hero would have been there for me."

I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling ill-at-ease in my own body. "I'm sure he would have come if he could. Just because he, uhm, couldn't . . . doesn't make him less a hero . . ."

"Yes. It does," she said simply. "When you promise things and then don't come through on them, when someone was counting on you . . . it makes it harder to count on anyone in the future. Makes it harder to trust anyone."

"I can certainly sympathize with that view," I said.

Her gaze fastened on me. "Why?" she asked.

"It's not important."

"It is to me," she said, and from her tone of voice I could tell it really was. "Why do you say that? Does it have anything to do with how you managed to acquire all that money? I saw you go out of the room with that countess. Did she betray you somehow, and you extorted the money from her in exchange for silence?"

G.o.ds almighty, she had a brain sharper and better targeted than an arrow. I made to deny it, but I looked into those eyes and realized that, for some reason, I couldn't.

So I told her.

I had no idea why I was telling her. It really wasn't her business. I didn't have to spin some lie off the top of my head; I could have just said, "It's none of your business," and left it at that. But something in me . . . wanted wanted to tell her. to tell her.

I didn't go into my entire history, of course, and I certainly didn't make any mention of my connection to Tacit. But I told her of how Astel had taken not only my virginity, but whatever rudimentary ability I might have had to trust anyone. Of how she had left me with the literal taste of ashes in my mouth, penniless, with no resources.

Entipy took in every word, and when I stopped talking-after what seemed an age-she said in amazement, "If I were you, I'd hate the world."

She really did understand me. The concept frightened me.

"It's amazing," she continued, "that you're as heroic as you are."

Then again, maybe she didn't understand me all that well.

I'd been sitting on the floor of the barn, and she climbed down off the hay bale and sat next to me. And we continued to talk for quite some time after that. I was still guarded, and I suspect that she was as well. But we spoke of many things, most of them involving our cynical view of the world at large. I sensed within her a kindred spirit, someone who was capable of perceiving the dark underbelly that those in power seemed incapable of seeing no matter how clearly it was pointed out to them.

"Sometimes," Entipy said, "I think the only person in the entirety of my father's court who makes any sense at all is the jester. He, at least, is capable of treating the world the way it deserves to be treated: with humorous contempt. And the real joke is, as often as he points it up, my parents and the courtiers all laugh as if it's some great jest with no deeper meaning. They don't understand that their inability to understand that they're all shams is the biggest joke of all. They are the b.u.t.t of all the humor of the jester and they blindly snicker about it. Fools."

I couldn't help but agree.

I also noticed, though, that the more we talked, the closer she seemed to edge to me, until-as the evening hour drew late-she was within bare inches of me. As chill as the barn was getting, she was so close that her body heat was warming me. I found it . . . disconcerting. We had lapsed into momentary silence and this time it was an uncomfortable one, because I sensed that there were things she wanted to say, and I didn't want to hear them. "Princess . . ." I said after a time.

"I hate that," she said abruptly. "I hate when people call me that. Don't you call me that."

I blinked in surprise. "But . . . it's your t.i.tle."

"Yes, I know. And that's what people see me as, and that's all they see me as. My t.i.tle is me, I am my t.i.tle. The t.i.tle says everything that I'm supposed to be, except it's a t.i.tle given anyone of that birth, so we're all supposed to be alike. Except I don't want to be like anyone else."

"Trust me: You aren't."

She didn't seem to have heard me speak. "I'm so defined by my rank," she said softly, "that I feel as if no one knows the real me. I even start to wonder . . . if there's any real me left anymore."

"There is. I'm sure there is."

She looked to me and smiled that dazzling smile again. I felt a warm stirring in my loins, and shoved the thoughts away immediately.

Understand, I wasn't being bound by any prudish concerns. A female is a female is a female. But there were two major problems. First and foremost, as much as I was beginning to feel some rudimentary connection to her, I couldn't help but remember that it wasn't all that long ago that I had considered her borderline insane. That I would look into her eyes and see an ocean of madness in those orbs. I was not ready to set aside the notion that she was a loon, and the last thing I needed to do was couple with such a mad creature.

Second, and just as problematic: This was no bored wife of a knight. This was no tavern maid. This was a princess. One does not form the beast with two backs with such an individual and then expect that it ends with a shake of the hands and a "See you later." When one engages in such horizontal activities, one had better be d.a.m.ned ready to make a lifetime commitment or be prepared to lose one's head, or other body parts.

You might think me mad to flinch from an alliance that would wind up making me consort to a future queen. Not so. It was simply not my way to rush into anything. Not until I had the opportunity to consider every possible angle and determine the potential negative aspect of a situation. I had given in to impulse before, remember, and had nearly had my skull caved in by my mother's funeral urn because of it.

"It's getting cold," said Entipy. She got up and took a large blanket piled in the corner, then brought it back to the two of us. She draped it around herself and then held it up, indicating that I should join her under there.

"I think," I said slowly, "that it would be best if you wrapped yourself up in that, Highness. I can sleep next to you to provide warmth, but . . . within the blanket, well . . ."

For a moment, just a moment, she looked hurt. Then the hardness of rejection was reflected in her eyes. "Is there a problem?" she said, her voice suddenly sounding much colder than the air around us.

"Entipy . . ." I said, deliberately not making use of her t.i.tle. "As you yourself have observed . . . I have every reason to have a difficulty with the concept of trust."

"Are you saying," she asked with incredulity in her voice, "that you don't trust me?"

"No," I corrected her as politely as I could. "I'm saying I don't trust myself."

At that, the corners of her mouth turned up again, ever so slightly. "Oh. I see" was all she said. Whereupon she wrapped herself up in the blanket, tightly coc.o.o.ned, and presented her back to me. I lay next to her. Somewhere during the night, I draped an arm over her, and that was how we slept, while the Heffers looked on and doubtless thought we were ridiculous.

They were probably right.

"Get up."

Dotty was prodding us with her foot. Immediately I snapped awake, worried that we were under some sort of attack. Entipy was slower than I to be roused, but only slightly, as we both blinked against the early-morning sun streaming in through the door of the stable. I could still smell the dew in the air. Whatever time it was, it was d.a.m.ned early.

It was at that point that Dotty drew back her foot and gave me a swift kick, hard enough to send me rolling. "I was awake!" I yelped in irritation.

"I knew you were," she replied tartly. "That was payback for my inconvenience."

"Inconvenience?" Entipy was rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What inconvenience? What did we-?"

"I received a return on your message," she said. She was looking at the two of us with renewed suspicion. "Never got one back so fast and so early. Whatever your package is, someone obviously considers it to be extremely important. The spell landed in my cauldron, shrieking its blasted head off. Wouldn't shut up until I transferred it to parchment for you. Here." As she leaned forward to hand it to me, I saw that there was still some slight gunk in her eyes. She'd really only awoken a minute or so before.

I unrolled the parchment and studied it. Entipy looked over my shoulder. She seemed to be breathing in my ear, but I chose to ignore it.

"We are quite pleased, as you can probably surmise, to know that your package is safe" (said the note). "For obvious reasons, coming into the Outer Lawless regions is not practical. We will trust you, Apropos, to get the package to the fortress outpost called Terracote. There you can turn your package over to its rightful owners."

Very carefully worded. The reasons were obvious, all right; unexpected and unprompted troop movements over the borders into Outer Lawless would certainly attract the attention and interest of the dreaded Warlord Shank. It might make him wonder just what it was that had so sparked the king's interest that he would undertake such an endeavor. I couldn't say that I was thrilled to think that we were, in essence, still on our own for as long as we were in Outer Lawless. But I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that there were not going to be easy answers.

"Terracote," I said, looking up at Dotty. "Where is-?"

But she was already reaching into her robes and extracting a map. "Thought you might be needing that," she said. "It's about a two-, maybe three-week ride from here, just beyond the Outer Lawless borders, at the outskirts of Isteria."

"A hazardous journey?"

"In places," she said. "Some is well traveled, some . . . less so. It's hard to say for sure. The makeup of the land is changing. Don't know if you've noticed that or not."

"Somewhat. I wasn't sure what to attribute it to."

"These are dangerous times," she said darkly . . . which is what weavers usually say when they've no idea what other answer to make. "Now . . . get off with thee so I can return to sleep. Usually I don't waken until noon. I need my beauty sleep."

Privately I thought that there weren't enough hours in the day for her to sleep through to help her in that score, but I saw no reason to voice the opinion.

"Madam," I said abruptly, just before she was out the door. She stopped and looked at me balefully. I thanked what G.o.ds there were that her specialty was communication. If she had any knack for transformation, I'd most likely have been a racc.o.o.n or some such by that point. Gamely I said, with a slight bow, "I cannot thank you enough for you service. I was hoping that I might be able to impose on you for one last-"

"No," she said, and started to walk away again. I knew her type, however, and when I made a significant enough jingling while pulling out my purse, it stopped her in her tracks right enough. She regarded me with a suspicious, but accepting stare. "I'm listening."

"I hope I did nothing to give you the impression that you would not be well compensated for your-"

"What is it, what is it?" she said impatiently, making a hurried gesture that indicated I should get to the point.

I reached into my tunic and pulled out a folded parchment that I had carefully prepared the night before. "I would like you to wait seven days . . . and then see that this gets to the dreaded Warlord Shank. It is to be delivered directly into his hand." I reached deep into my purse and said, with carefully constructed nonchalance, "I'd say two dukes should cover your services in that regard, wouldn't you?"

Her eyes widened. She was so startled by the amount that she didn't even bother to haggle. She held out a clawlike hand and s.n.a.t.c.hed the coins. Then she took the parchment from me and startled to unfold it.

"Pardon me . . . that's intended to be private."

At that she gave a contemptuous laugh. "You want me to walk up to the most formidable individual in our land and hand him a message sight unseen? And if it said something about me that would prompt him to put me to the sword? They kill messengers, boy."

She read it over, frowning, and then her eyes widened. She looked straight at me. "If you think I'd give this to him and be anywhere within the vicinity, you're mad. I'll send it by bird or by nothing."

"Bird. You mean that great falcon I saw?"

She nodded.

Well, it would have to do. The falcon looked formidable enough, and I doubted anyone could stop it if they had a mind to. "Very well," I said with a curt nod. "I believe it will suffice. And thank you f-"

She didn't hear what I was about to thank her for, which was all well and good in that I don't think she especially cared either. Instead she just walked out of the barn. The loose flaps of skin under her arms waved like twin pennants in the breeze as she lurched away.

"That note," Entipy said with interest. "What did it say?"

"Oh. That," I said with a feigned blase att.i.tude. "That was simply a note giving the good warlord some background information about his new bride. Things that she would be too modest to mention."

"The commweaver acted as if they were bad things."

"They were true things. I leave good and bad to be judged by others."

She smiled at me, genuinely smiled, and it was utterly devoid of the faintly demented looks I'd received from her before. "You told Shank about his fiancee's background. Didn't you. And he's not going to like it."

"True. But they're to be married within the week, so by the time he finds out, she'll be his wife. So I've given her a sporting chance, you see."

"But she paid you for your silence."

"I never promised to remain silent. I simply said I'd go away. I'm keeping my word. However I also owe her a debt from the past . . . and make no mistake. I always repay my debts."