Sir Apropos Of Nothing Part 5

The disbelief on my face must have deepened. "Unicorns. You were raised from infancy by unicorns. That's ridiculous."

"Yes. It is." That was all he ever said of his youth, and I never knew for sure just how serious he had been. But it was moments like this one, as he made his way through the forest with almost supernatural ease, that I hearkened to that conversation and wondered whether or not it was possible that one of those rare and wondrous beasts had indeed suckled him in infancy. It would explain a lot.

As for me, of course, I felt-as always-like a great, galloping clod. As I approached early adolescence, my lame leg had strengthened a bit, but not much. Whenever I endeavored to obtain any sort of speed, it was always as if I were lugging along a great sack of meat attached to my right hip. I had subst.i.tuted a staff for my cane, however, and with Tacit's guidance, had become rather deft in its use. It was longer and heavier than my cane, but my arms were strong from pulling myself along all these years, so the additional weight was of no consequence. Furthermore, it helped me to semi-vault distances rather than just limp along. Plus in those rare instances where other kids in the village decided that they wanted to have a go at me, it proved a rather nasty weapon. I was hardly a knight, or an ent.i.ty to be feared, but one crack from my staff could make someone look like they'd been in a fight.

The smell of smoke grew stronger as I drew closer to it. Tacit had virtually disappeared into the forest ahead of me, but I kept gamely at it. Suddenly someone lunged at me from the side, clapping a hand over my mouth. Reflexively I started to struggle and then I realized that it was Tacit. "Shhhh!" he hissed in my ear.

Just over a rise, we saw the source of the fire.

There was a girl tied to a stake, thick ropes crisscrossing her breast. A ma.s.sive amount of kindling had been cl.u.s.tered around the bottom, and the edges were already burning and crackling. The girl herself appeared nonchalant about the entire thing. She was dressed rather boyishly, mostly in gray leathers that looked fairly worn, including visible holes in the knees. She sported a black cloak. Her ebony hair was cut short and curled around her ears. Her face was round, except for her chin, which was rather prominent and, at that moment, outthrust in a wonderfully defiant manner. She appeared to be about Tacit's age, maybe a little older.

Surrounding her was about a score of what could only be termed angry villagers. They were waving torches, which would have been rather dramatic and underscored the mood had it not been high noon. Another one or two of them threw torches onto the kindling, and more areas started to go up.

A rather ratty-looking woman, toward the front of the crowd, appeared to be the ringleader. "You'll never ensorcell anyone again, weaver . . . especially helpless young men!"

The fire was already starting to lick at the toes of her boots, but the girl who'd been identified as a weaver-a magic user, or wizard, if you will-didn't seem the least bit disturbed by it. When she spoke, it was with clear contempt rather than any sort of alarm. Considering the straits that she was in, a touch less arrogance might have been advisable. "I told you, I ensorcelled no one! We had a dalliance, and that was all!"

"You're lying! You're a seducer and a thief!"

"He gave me the money of his own volition! He wanted me to have it; it was a gift!"

That was when I noticed that the ratty-looking woman had what appeared to be a ratty-looking son standing next to her. His gaze kept shifting between the weaver and his mother, and he didn't seem able to abide the sight of either of them for long. His shoulders were hunched and if his manner were any more timid, he would have made the most skittish of deer look positively intrepid in comparison.

"He wouldn't have given you any gift!" howled the mother. "He knows better! Don't you, Edmond!" And she slapped her son upside the head for emphasis. Edmond nodded mutely but took a moment to cast a longing glance at the weaver. She, for her part, didn't seem remotely interested in him. Instead the fire was drawing nearer and it had actually managed to snag, ever so slightly, her attention. The other onlookers, no doubt friends, relatives, or simply idiots with nothing better to do, shouted encouragement to the flames as if they were sentient and interested in anything the onlookers might have to say. "You bewitched my son and robbed him, and used the money for your own evil ends!"

"I used half of it to buy booze and get stinking drunk, and the rest of it I lost in a card game while I was three sheets to the wind! If I were as clever as you claim, don't you think I'd've put it to better use than that?!"

From where I sat, it seemed a rather credible defense. But somehow the crowd howling for her blood-and looking for an afternoon's entertainment-didn't seem interested in the particulars of her hastily cobbled explanation.

Tacit was crouched next to me, and he turned and said intently, "I'm going to make a move here. Are you with me?"

"With you? Are you insane?" I looked at him disbelievingly. "That's an angry mob. The girl's a weaver that they've got a grudge against. Weavers can take care of themselves, and mobs take care of anyone they want to. She's not our concern."

He didn't appear to have heard me. Instead he was studying the area of the conflagration, which was about thirty feet away from us. "There must be no threads in that area. That's why she can't weave a spell to help herself. Po, we can't just stand by and watch them take the law into their own hands!" he continued with growing urgency. "If the girl has done something wrong, she should face true justice."

"If she did something wrong, being incinerated for it is about as true as justice gets."

"And if she didn't?" he demanded.

"Then it's her rotten luck! Tacit, listen to me! Number one, weavers aren't to be trusted as a rule. And number two, I guarantee you that if the situation were reversed, and it was our necks on the line and she happened by, she'd continue on her way without giving it a second thought."

"Well, then I guess that's how we're going to stay different from her, isn't it," he said.

The only weapon that Tacit ever carried was a short sword that was strapped to his thigh. I'd only seen him wield it for matters of a practical nature-skinning a recent kill, or hacking through some particularly impenetrable section of the forest. But when he drew it this time, the rasping of the metal as it slid from its sheath sounded particularly ominous. "Are you with me?" he said again.

I looked at the girl, the fire getting steadily closer. And I looked at the demented expressions of the townspeople. And I looked into the face of possibly the one person on the planet whom I considered a friend.

"Absolutely not," I said.

A look of disappointment crossed his face, and then it hardened into anger. "Don't you know the meaning of the word 'bravery'?" he demanded.

"Yes, I do. Do you know the meaning of the word 'foolhardy'?"

He was about to reply, and then a gust of wind fanned the flames higher. There was suddenly no more time, and nothing to be gained by trying to talk me into joining him in an adventure that was likely to get him killed.

He leaped out of hiding, crossing the distance between us and the girl with great bounds. She spotted him first, since she had the better vantage and was the only person in the immediate area who wasn't fully focused on watching her burn. An expression of complete bewilderment crossed her face. The reason for her confusion was immediately evident to me; she was doubtlessly wondering if Tacit was insane as I thought him to be.

Some members of the mob caught sight of Tacit as he drew close and sounded an alarm. They must have realized instantly he meant them no good, a logical conclusion since he was charging them and wielding a blade. Several of them instantly formed a wall of bodies, blocking his path. Tacit swung his short sword, and they fell back but still obstructed his way. Suddenly he turned and dashed up the trunk of a large tree just to his right. The move completely befuddled his attackers, and then they understood as Tacit scrambled along a high and strong branch that stretched directly over the girl. Smoke was rising and it was getting harder to see her. She was starting to cough, but if she was at all afraid, she wasn't showing it. I envied her. If I'd been in her situation, I'd have been screaming my head off.

It wasn't until that moment that I truly understood that I was lacking something that others, such as Tacit, possessed. There are some for whom the good of mankind is their primary concern, and others who basically put their own considerations before everyone else. I was among the latter. Truth to tell, if Tacit hadn't been my friend, it wouldn't have bothered me in the least. But watching Tacit's heroics frustrated me, because I saw what he was doing and realized that it was something I wasn't capable of.

I should have admired him for it.

Instead I felt a cold envy growing within me for this person, for my friend. I resented that which came so easily to him, or at least appeared to.

Momma was screaming in fury, and her son Edmond didn't seem to be doing much of anything except cower. Tacit dropped from overhead, and one quick slash of his short sword severed the cords that held the weaver in place. He grabbed one of the flaming sticks from the bundles beneath their feet, holding it at the nonflaming end, and waved the torch with one hand into the faces of the crowd while swinging his sword with his other hand. "This way!" he shouted to the girl, spotting one small area where the flame wasn't especially high. Without waiting for her to acknowledge it, he threw an arm around her waist and vaulted. The wood shifted under his feet and threw off his trajectory. As a result, he cleared the pyre, but he came down, falling on top of the weaver and landing in a heap.

Immediately the mob was upon them. They pulled Tacit free from the girl. She struggled mightily in their grasp, and it was the most emotion I'd seen from her since this whole misbegotten adventure started.

Tacit was even more determined to give a good accounting of himself, but he had inhaled too much smoke while rescuing the girl. He was hacking away, but it wasn't with his sword; his coughing was so violent that I half-expected one of his lungs to be ejected from his mouth. No matter how n.o.ble the heart or pure the determination of any warrior, it does him no good if he can't draw a breath. Tacit was borne to the ground and held immobile, his arms and legs pinned like a b.u.t.terfly's.

"Let him go!" shouted the weaver.

"Friend of yours?" asked Momma contemptuously.

"I never saw him before!"

"So a complete stranger decided to risk his neck for you. How idiotic."

It was disconcerting to realize that I was in agreement with someone whom I considered to be only slightly smarter than a mushroom I'd just mashed beneath my foot. It had had been idiotic. And Tacit hadn't listened to me, and now the weaver was still going to die and she was likely going to have company. They'd probably just tie up the both of them and toss them on the pyre, which was burning rather rapidly and with great enthusiasm. been idiotic. And Tacit hadn't listened to me, and now the weaver was still going to die and she was likely going to have company. They'd probably just tie up the both of them and toss them on the pyre, which was burning rather rapidly and with great enthusiasm.

"He's some do-gooder. This isn't his problem. Let him go."

"He made it his problem," Momma said firmly, "and that was his decision. So now he'll share your fate, you cheat and harlot."

Well, that appeared to be that. Tacit was going to die . . . horribly, it seemed. His grandstanding heroics had come to nothing. I was going to be without the one friend I had. Nothing had been accomplished.

I wondered if a sudden wave of bravery would overtake me. But no . . . nothing surfaced. I was no more inclined to risk my neck now than I was before, even if Tacit's life was on the line. He'd been the one who decided to risk it. Let him bear the burden of that decision.

G.o.ds, he infuriated me, Tacit did, for being so concerned about this girl that he'd run off and leave me behind. That he'd throw away his life, in fact, for this utter stranger. What sort of friends could we truly be if that friendship meant so little to him, that he was willing to risk ending it-and himself-all to save someone he didn't even know?

And suddenly I wanted to save him. And I wanted to make it look easy. I rose from behind the brush and slowly made my way toward the crowd.

They didn't see me at first. They were busy hauling out large quant.i.ties of rope and tying up Tacit and the weaver. But then one of them spotted me, and pointed me out, and then another did and another, and within moments all attention was focused on me. The shouting of the crowd had died off, and the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire.

If I moved too quickly, my limp would be evident and make me look weak. So instead I moved very slowly, very ponderously. I said nothing. When one says nothing, it heightens both the interest and importance of the words when they eventually come. I must have looked a rather bizarre sight . . . a rather young man, wielding a staff, coming toward them with no hurry, as if the imminent disaster which awaited Tacit and the weaver were of no consequence to me.

I drew within a few feet of them and then stopped. I surveyed the lot of them, adopting a gaze and att.i.tude so imperious that one would have thought I could have caused them to discorporate with a single harsh word.

Still nothing was said. Finally, Momma couldn't take it any longer, and she said angrily, "What do you want, boy?" But she sounded no more comfortable with my curious presence than did anyone else.

I appeared to ponder the situation a moment longer, and then I said slowly, "How much."

They looked at one another, these judges, jury members, and executioners. "How much what?" one of them asked.

As if the question was so self-evident that I couldn't believe the fool had needed to pose it, I said, "How much did she take?"

They looked at one another, and then at Momma, who seemed confused by the question. It was Edmond who spoke up, which was rather unexpected considering he hadn't said anything until that point. "Fifteen sovs," he said.

I sighed inwardly. Somehow I'd had a feeling it would be about that much. But in order to pull it off, I had to be as casual as possible.

I shook my head and gave a small, derisive laugh. "All this over fifteen sovereigns." I reached into my jerkin and pulled out the twenty that Tacit had handed me earlier. "Twenty sovs to put an end to this sorry affair. Take it or leave it." As if I didn't give a d.a.m.n about their opinion . . . indeed, as if the entire matter were already decided . . . I tossed the coins. Like a cloud of gold they hovered in the air and then fell to the ground.

Had I simply tried to hand the money over, there might have been temptation on their part for d.i.c.kering. But when people see money on the ground, they have no choice but to obey the impulse to grab it as quickly as possible. Which was precisely what they did. Immediately they were on their knees, scrambling after the fallen sovereigns.

"Wait!" shouted Momma, but her cries received no attention whatsoever and quickly she realized that if she didn't try to lay claim to the coins, she'd wind up with nothing. So she joined in the scrabbling about. Edmond, for his part, simply stood there, looking confused.

No one was paying any attention to Tacit and the weaver. Indeed, they appeared almost as puzzled as Edmond.

With a tilt of my head, I indicated that they should follow me, and promptly they did. Within moments we had obtained the safety of the brush while the erstwhile mob was still rummaging around on the ground, trying to find all the coins I'd thrown there. The fire, meantime, was burning fiercely. Indeed, burning so fiercely that Tacit couldn't help but let a look of concern cross his face.

Sensing his concern, the weaver said, "Allow me." She reached out, appearing to caress the air, and then her fingers moved together as if she were playing "cat's cradle" with invisible string. Perhaps the point where they'd chosen to try and toast her had no threads, but the area where we were now hiding, a safe distance from the madding crowd, apparently possessed what the weaver needed.

Immediately there was a crack of thunder from overhead, and then the skies ripped open. At first there were only a few splatterings of rain, but within moments we were faced with a genuine downpour. It descended upon the fire and, in no time at all, reduced the whole pyre to a huge pile of smoldering ashes. By that point, the three of us had withdrawn from the area entirely, the weaver pulling a hood up from the back of her cloak to afford her some protection from the rain. Lucky her.

We hightailed it through the woods, wanting to put as much mileage between ourselves and the mob as possible. After all, there was really nothing to prevent the crowd from keeping the money and throwing Tacit and the girl (and me, for that matter) on the fire anyway once things dried out. There was a network of caves that Tacit used for shelter on those nights when the Elderwoods proved inclement, and that was where we headed. We said nothing during that part of the trip. There seemed little to say.

Once we made it to shelter, Tacit pulled some wood from his stockpile and gathered it at the front of the cave. "Now let me just get it lit up . . ." he began.

The weaver extended a finger and made a small circling motion with it. Lightning cracked from overhead and slammed downward into the cave. The blast sent both Tacit and me tumbling backward in alarm and confusion. The weaver never even budged. She just sat there with a smug smile as the lightning struck the tinder. Within moments a warm fire was crackling.

"Very flamboyant," said Tacit, pulling himself together as best he could. Me, I was still waiting for my heart to climb down out of my throat.

"No less flamboyant than a harebrained rescue stunt," retorted the weaver.

Clearly Tacit took offense at her tone. "I was doing it to save you," he said.

"You were doing it to show off."

There was so much contempt in her voice that I almost felt as if I'd discovered a kindred spirit.

Tacit threw up his hands in disgust. "That's it. It is now official. Chivalry is dead."

"Stupidity is alive and well, however," said the weaver. "I a.s.sure you that if the situation had been reversed, I'd have left you to your fate."

I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. Tacit couldn't even bring himself to look in my direction.

"You know," I said slowly, "I don't know who's the bigger fool . . . you or him. Him because he thought you mattered . . . or you because you don't know enough to be grateful."

She stared at me long and hard, and something in her face seemed to shift. She lowered her gaze. "I don't like being in someone's debt," she said, almost to herself, wringing the rain from her cloak.

"Well . . . you are. You're in his," and I indicated Tacit.

"What, not yours?"

"No," I said.

"You," Tacit said, pointing at me. He smiled and shook his head. "You . . . I knew you'd come through. d.a.m.n, but you're an inventive little cuss. I should have known that when things really got difficult, you'd step in. You were right: I was foolhardy. You were the real hero. You used your brains and you got the job done, rose to the occasion to save her and me. You're the n.o.blest, bravest one of all."

n.o.blest. Bravest. What rot. There was no bravery in buying oneself out of difficulty. I hadn't risen to any occasion. I should have felt ashamed, I suppose. Instead, all I felt was annoyed that he didn't realize how stupid I'd made him look. Naturally, I said the only thing I could say, given the circ.u.mstance.

"Thanks."

The rain was beginning to lighten, and the weaver was clearly preparing to depart. "Wait," Tacit said. "What's your name?"

"None of your business. Names have power. I'm not about to give you power over me."

At this, Tacit began to bristle. I thought he'd shown remarkable restraint to that point. "Power over you? I . . . we . . . saved your d.a.m.ned life. You'd be a broiled corpse if it weren't for us. If owing someone your life doesn't give them power over you, I don't know what does. Deny it if you want, be arrogant to us if it pleases you, but you're not fooling either of us. In addition to having a weakness for liquor and gambling, it seems you also have a weakness for common decency."

She pulled the hood up over her head, and seemed to glower from deep within it. She rose and headed for the cave exit, and then stopped momentarily and said, "Sharee."

"Is that your real name?"

But she didn't reply. Instead she drew her cloak tightly around her and walked out.

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and then Tacit reached over and patted me on the shoulder. "The h.e.l.l with her," he said. "The important thing, Po, is . . . you proved what you're made of today."

Oh yes. I'd proven it, all right. I was made of spite and craven fear that could only be overcome when I thought that I might be able to make my one friend in the world feel inadequate. I was a definite prince among men.

He pressed half of the sovereigns that remained to him into my hand. "It's the least I could do," he said.

"I can appreciate that," I said. "I always do the least I can do."

He laughed. He thought I was kidding.

I wasn't sure if I felt more sorry for Tacit or for myself.

That night . . . I dreamt of her. At least, I thought I did.

I was sleeping in the stables, which was where I had taken to spending a good deal of my time in the evening. I wasn't expecting to dream of Sharee. I thought I had put her out of my mind. But she was hovering over me in my dream, looking down, and there was something in her eyes that I couldn't quite fathom. Then her face drew near and her lips pressed against mine. They were both warm and cold at the same time, which was most puzzling. When our mouths came in contact, I felt something like a spark, as if lightning had struck me, and suddenly-for just a moment-the world seemed to be not itself, but a shimmering array of multicolored ribbons, glistening in glorious blue, green, every color imaginable. For that instant, I saw the world the way that weavers must see it. It was astounding, amazing . . .

I opened my eyes, sat up suddenly . . . but there was no one there. And as I settled back into the straw, a recollection of the shimmering threads racing through my mind, I suddenly remembered that I always dreamt in shades of gray, not color.

Chapter 6.