Twenty-Five

The Barrowland

Corbie miscalculated. He forgot that others beside Case were interested in his fate.

When he failed to show for work various places, people came looking for him. They pounded on doors, tapped on windows, and got no response. One tried the door. It was locked. Now there was genuine concern.

Some argued for kicking a break-in up the chain of command, others for moving now. The latter view prevailed. They broke the lock and spread out inside.

They found a place obsessive in its neatness, spartan in its furnishings. The first man upstairs yelped, “Here he is. He’s had a stroke or something.”

The pack crowded into the little upstairs room. Corbie sat at a table on which lay an oilskin packet and a book. “A book!” someone said. “He was weirder than we thought.”

A man touched Corbie’s throat, felt a feeble pulse, noted that Corbie was taking shallow breaths spaced far more widely than those of a man sleeping. “Guess he did have a stroke. Like he was sitting here reading and it hit him.”

“Had an uncle went like that,” someone said. “When I was a kid. Telling us a story and just went white and keeled over.”

“He’s still alive. We better do something. Maybe he’ll be all right.”

A big rush downstairs, men tumbling over men.

Case heard when the group rushed into headquarters. He was on duty. The news put him in a quandary. He had promised Corbie... But he could not run off.

Sweet’s personal interest got the news bucked up the ladder fast. The Colonel came out of his office. He noted Case looking stricken. “You heard. Come along. Let’s have a look. You men. Find the barber. Find the vet.”

Made you reflect on the value of men when the army provided a vet but not a physician.

The day had begun auspiciously, with a clear sky. That was rare. Now it was cloudy. A few raindrops fell, spotting the wooden walks. As Case followed Sweet, and a dozen men followed him, he barely noted the Colonel’s remarks about necessary improvements.

A crowd surrounded Corbie’s place. “Bad news travels fast,” Case said. “Sir.”

“Doesn’t it? Make a hole here, men. Coming through.” He paused inside. “He always this tidy?”

“Yes, sir. He was obsessive about order and doing things by the numbers.”

“I wondered. He stretched the rules a bit with his night walks.”

Case gnawed his lip and wondered if he ought to give the Colonel Corbie’s message. He decided it was not yet time.

“Upstairs?” the Colonel asked one of the men who had found Corbie.

“Yes, sir.”

Case was up the stairs already. He spied Corbie’s oilskin packet, without thinking started to slide it inside his jacket.

“Son.”

Case turned. Sweet stood in the doorway, frowning.

“What are you doing?”

The Colonel was the most intimidating figure Case could imagine. More so than his father, who had been a harsh and exacting man. He did not know how to respond. He stood there shaking.

The Colonel extended a hand. Case handed the packet over. “What were you doing, son?”

“Uh... Sir... One day...”

“Well?” Sweet examined Corbie without touching him. “Well? Out with it.”

“He asked me to deliver a letter for him if anything happened to him. Like he thought his time was running out.

He said it would be in an oilskin packet. On account of the rain and everything. Sir.”

“I see.” The Colonel slipped fingers under Corbie’s chin, lifted. He returned the packet to the table, peeled back one of Corbie’s eyelids. The pupil revealed was a pinprick. “Hmm.” He felt Corbie’s forehead. “Hmm.” He flicked several reflex points with his finger or fist. Corbie did not respond. “Curious. Doesn’t look like a stroke.”

“What else could it be, sir?”

Colonel Sweet straightened. “Maybe you’d know better than I.”

“Sir?”

“You say Corbie expected something.”

“Not exactly. He was afraid something would happen. Talked like he was getting old and his time was running out. Maybe he had something wrong he never told nobody about.”

“Maybe. Ah. Holts.” The horse doctor had arrived. He followed the course the Colonel had, straightened, shrugged.

“Beyond me, Colonel.”

“We’d better move him where we can keep an eye on him. Your job, son,” he told Case. “If he doesn’t come out of it soon, we’ll have to force-feed him.” He poked around the room, checked the titles of the dozen or so books. “A learned man, Corbie. I thought so. A study in contrasts. I’ve often wondered what he really was.”

Case was nervous for Corbie now. “Sir, I think that way back he was somebody in one of the Jewel Cities, but his luck turned and he joined the army.”

“We’ll talk about it after we move him. Come along.”

Case followed. The Colonel seemed very thoughtful. Maybe he should give him Corbie’s message.

Twenty-Six

On the road

After three days during which Tracker and I returned to our landing place, loaded the wagon, then headed north on the Salient Road, I began to wonder if I had not erred. Still no Goblin or One-Eye.

I need not have been concerned. They caught up near Meystrikt, a fortress in the Salient the Company once held on behalf of the Lady. We were off the road, in some woods, getting ready for supper. We heard a ruckus on the road.

A voice undeniably Goblin’s shouted, “And I insist it’s your fault, you maggot-lipped excuse for fish bait. I’d turn your brain into pudding for getting me into it if you had one.”

“My fault. My fault. Gods! He even lies to himself. I had to talk him into his own idea? Look there, guano breath. Meystrikt is around that hill. They’ll remember us even better than they did in Roses. Now I’m going to ask you once. How do we get through without getting our throats cut?”

After an initial relief I halted my rush toward the road. I told Tracker, “They’re riding. Where do you suppose they got horses?” I tried finding a bright side. “Maybe they got into a game and got away with cheating. If One-Eye let Goblin do it.” One-Eye is as inept at cheating as at games of chance themselves. There are times I think he has a positive death wish.

“You and your damned amulet,” Goblin squeaked. “The Lady can’t find him. That’s great. But neither can we.”

“My amulet? My amulet? Who the hell gave it to him in the first place?”

“Who designed the spell that’s on it now?”

“Who cast it? Tell me that, toad face. Tell me that.”

I moved to the edge of the woods. They had passed already. Tracker joined me. Even Toadkiller Dog came to watch.

“Freeze. Rebel!” I shouted. “First one moves is dead meat.”

Stupid, Croaker. Real stupid. Their response was swift and gaudy. It damned near killed me.

They vanished in shining clouds. Around Tracker and me insects erupted. More kinds of bugs than I imagined existed, every one interested only in having me for supper.

Toadkiller Dog snarled and snapped.

“Knock it off, you clowns,” I yelled. “It’s me. Croaker.”

“Who’s Croaker?” One-Eye asked Goblin. “You know anybody named Croaker?”

“Yeah. But I don’t think we ought to stop,” Goblin replied, after sticking his head out of the shining to check. “He deserves it.”

“Sure,” One-Eye agreed. “But Tracker is innocent. I can’t fine-tune it enough to get just Croaker.”

The bugs returned to routine bug business. Eating each other, I guess. I constrained my anger and greeted One-Eye and Goblin, both of whom had donned expressions of innocence and contrition. “What you got to say for yourselves, guys? Nice horses. Think the people they belong to will come looking for them?”

“Wait up,” Goblin squawked. “Don’t go accusing us of...”

“I know you guys. Get down off those animals and come eat. We’ll decide what to do with them tomorrow.”