Hero for Hire (2 page)

As we approached the dock, we saw a man waving two red cloths warningly. The keenest-eyed crewmember went to the prow and reported that the dock was half-tumbled into the sea. Jori frowned.

“Your harpy, perhaps?”

“She’s not mine yet. Can you get closer?”

“Bad shoals here,” Jori said, pointing to where the white water foamed and broke.

I nodded and headed to the waist where our midday meal of bread, oil and dry sausage was being laid out. I emptied the beaker of oil over my best armor, put on that morning, always impressive for the first visit to a new client, and ignored the cook’s surprised curse.

One step up to the rail and I dove into the sea.

After a week without much chance to get clean, the warm water was welcome. I turned onto my back to wave at Jori. He shouted over the water, “You are a madman, my friend. When you sink, we’ll fish you out!”

I turned the wave into a rude gesture, rolled over, and set as fast a pace as possible toward shore. My ceremonial armor isn’t as heavy as the stuff I wear for business but it slowed me down nevertheless. Besides, even with the oil to protect it, I didn't want it to get rusty.

Pulling myself up by the two remaining upright pilings, I shook all over like a wet dog, then promptly drew my short sword.

The signal man, a beardless boy really, gave a squeak of alarm and backed away, shaking his head, “No, no...” he keened.

To him, I must have look like an avenging minion of Poseidon.

Keeping an eye on him, I snatched one of his cloths from his weakened hand and wiped the seawater from my blade before it rusted. It was good bronze, stronger and more expensive than the long one at my side. I figure that if a battle reaches the point where whatever was trying to kill me got past the long sword, I’d want a really, really good short one.

I picked up the other cloth and ran it over my dripping hair, face, and arms. It felt good to have something solid under my feet again.

“Palace up there?” I asked the boy.

He nodded and raised a trembling hand to point up the hillside. I clapped him on the shoulder as I passed, buckling his knees. “Keep up the good work.”

“The King won’t see you,” he piped.

“Eh?”

“He won’t see anybody now. Not since it came.”

“The harpy?”

He nodded, and looked up at the sky, his large eyes rolling.

“He’ll see me, boy. He sent for me.”

“Are you...Eno the Thracian?”

I retraced my steps. “I’m Eno, right enough. Who are you and who told you I was coming?”

His round young chin came up. His fear was passing off. I gave him credit. At least he hadn’t wee’d himself.

“I’m Prince Temas. This is my island.”

“And your father’s holed up in the palace? Were you waving those for help or to keep us off?”

“My father...told me to keep ships off. He thinks...he says we are cursed by this thing that has come to us. He’s barricaded himself in with a few servants to pray and make sacrifices. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, I’ll just go pay a call on him anyway. You come along to show me the way.”

It didn’t take a whole lot of intellect to notice the gaps in his story. A curse doesn’t just happen. Most men have to make a real effort to be worthy of a curse. Murder on a large scale and incest being prime examples of foolishly piquing the attention of the Gods. Even then, the Gods often wait to until someone dies to give some everlasting Underworld punishment, not ordering a beast to curse a whole island kingdom. In any case, why send for me?

The seaside village seemed deserted. Our sandals slapping – or in my case squelching – was the only sound yet I felt the weight of stares on the back of my neck. The prickling feeling in my muscles told me that some part of me was expecting an ambush.

“What of your father’s guards? Where are they?”

The prince did not answer. I pivoted and pinned him by his thin neck to a white-washed wall.

He was scarlet-faced, his eyes filled with tears of anger and helplessness. “The...the captain is in the woods on the other side of the island. He says he is king now and will come soon to take over the palace. I’d fight him but how can I? He has men and I have nobody.”

“He has not moved against you already?” I slacked the pressure on his neck. “That’s bad tactics.”

“He doesn’t want the harpy to follow him for the crime of killing his sworn king.”

“Sensible fellow. How do you know what he’s thinking? Or is your father already dead?”

“No! One of the maids comes out to bring back food. She says Father is trying to propitiate the Gods with prayers.”

I released him. He rubbed his throat and coughed. “You have no reason to believe me,” he said.

I began to have some respect for Prince Temas. Most boys of his age – I’d trained a few during my brief stint in King Cademus’ Army before we’d parted ways over a small matter of Dragon’s Teeth – would have shown resentment. Temas either didn’t feel it or was gifted in concealment. I’d have to bear that second possibility in mind.

“When did the maid last come down for provisions?”

“Two days ago. She should come again today.”

“I’ll need to get in to see your father. To finalize my contract.”

Just then, the shriek of the harpy shredded the air. Partly the scream of a brutalized woman, partly the screech of an eagle spying prey, it dug into the mind like claws into the back of your neck. Though it faded away, some echo remained, rattling in my head like a stone in a dry skull.

The boy clapped his hands over his ears, bending down low, his own cry of agony a faint imitation of the harpy’s shriek. “Do you see it? Do you see it?”

I scanned what I could see of the clear blue sky. “No, there’s nothing.”

I looked at the boy, seeing him sweating and shaking. “Come now,” I said, shrugging off my own unease. “It’s just the cry of a mindless beast.”

“You don’t know. It grows worse with every repetition. You start to think you hear it even when no one else does.”

I made a mental note to acquire some wax before leaving Leros. Wax pellets in the ears should keep the crew from panicking. Pirates have their own sign language, useful for night attacks so temporary deafness shouldn’t impair the running of the ship.

The boy sniffled and wiped his hands over his face as though he were awakening from a dream. His eyes were glazed. I had to repeat my question twice to get his attention.

“The palace?” he murmured.

“Yes, the place you live. Where the king is?”

He seemed to have to think about it. “Past the olive grove and the spring. That way.”

“Come on; you’ll show me.”

He hung back. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“I want you to tell the maid to let me in.” I had to grip his arm to get him to move. The cry of the Harpy seemed to have sucked the spine right out of him.

The white walls of the seaside village seemed to magnify the silence as we heading out on the single road. Though it was nearly noon, there was no smell of cooking coming from any house. No face peeped around a door and no shutter opened but the feeling I had of being watched persisted.

Outside of town, signs of life at last. Two dogs dug listlessly at the edge of a garbage dump only to slink away without barking as we passed. The boy stared after them. “I think those were two of my father’s dogs.” If I hadn’t tightened my grip, he would have wandered off after them.

“Later,” I said. “Show me the palace.”

Temas turned sulky. “I already told you! Keep straight on and you can’t miss it.”

I’d heard that before, usually just before getting lost. “I want you to show me the way. The maid will be frightened of me. You can talk to her first.”

The road was hard-packed dirt. Our sandals kicked up no dust. A trickle of water grew louder as we passed through some trees. It was probably refreshingly shady before the branches had been lopped for firewood.

A drink from the spring, bubbling up in a stone basin, seemed to restore the prince’s rattled brain. “Father’s going to be pissed about the trees. But the people are scared to go any farther for wood than they need to.”

He clasped his hands together reverently and said to the water, “I will bring you a libation and sacrifice for the desecration of your grove, oh Lady of the Spring.”

The tops of the trees rustled in a breeze that had not blown before. A sweeter scent seemed to arise around us, though no flowers bloomed there. I coughed to draw the nymph’s attention. “I have seen bright tiles in the Athenian agora, brought all the way from Gaul. Should my task prosper, I send some to this prince to add to your fountain.”

The breeze grew stronger, caressed my cheek, and faded away. It was, therefore, with a bit of added confidence that I approached the palace. A two-story, four-square building, it stood on a smoothed prominence overlooking the sea-road. Jori’s ship was far below, tiny, seeming not to move on the sea which lay spread before me like a wrinkled blanket.

An enclosed balcony overhung the sea cliffs. The air shimmered as though heated by a brazier, a hair-thin plume of smoke curling up from a corner.

“My father has retreated there,” the Prince said, pointing.

“We couldn’t have missed the maid?”

“No, Nausicaa always comes this way. There is no other path.”

A locked door, even a palace door bound with brass, wouldn’t have stopped me. But battered wood hanging from a hinge, while impressive, tends to annoy prospective clients when it is their front door.

So we hung around for a while. The boy showed me a half-finished statue of the Sea-God standing in what might one day be a fine arbor. The head, one arm and a massive torso, as yet lightly modeled, seemed struggling to be free of the encompassing marble. The chippings were piled around the base, a chisel and a hammer half-buried among them.

“Where’s the craftsman?”

“Gone...on the first boat after the harpy came.” Temas glanced skyward. “This garden used to be full of butterflies. My father liked to sit here while a harpist played.” He sighed. “There was this one dancing girl who had this way of bending backwards.... It’s all gone now. Ever since the harpy came.”

Though the bushes were losing their shapes and the paved walks were dirty and leaf-strewn, I could sense the peace that had once bloomed here like the small white flowers. I shook off the spell. “None of this is getting me my commission.”

I turned to see a woman, her hair shrouded by a cloth, come out of a side door. The prince called her name. “Nausicaa!”

She saw us. Even from a distance, we could see the start she gave as she recognized the Prince. She threw up a hand as if to block a sudden beam of bright light and immediately turned back to the door.

“Come on,” I said. “Something’s wrong.”

At a jog, I reached the side door before she could shut it fully.

She cowered back as I entered. I was blinded for a moment in the contrast between the brightness of outside and the dimness within. An oil lamp burned before an altar to one side. I smelled baking bread and burned meat and I heard the whispers of startled women and their movements in the gloom. I confess my hand was clamped to my sword though I did not draw it.

Prince Temas entered behind me and called the maid’s name. “What’s wrong? Why did you run from me?”

I could see her now. She had the worn and weary strength of a life spend in service to others. Her cheeks were fallen in, her hair twisted into a wiry knot. Her lips worked soundlessly. She sank to her knees, hands high, open palms in supplication. “Forgive, lord. Forgive!”

As though her keening summoned them, the other servants appeared, all dropping to their knees, some crawling forward to grasp at the hem of the boy’s chiton. A few of the younger maids were bawling, their tears dripping onto their shawls.

I guessed what it all meant while Temas was still gaping around. He knew these people well but he’d never seen them behave with this mixture of grief and terror. I'd seen it often enough. I'd even caused it a few times. Death had visited this house today.

I headed to the stairs at the back of the kitchen. The maid called out, “No, no, no!” an expression more of pain than of denial. "Stop him, lord."

"Eno, maybe you...what's this all about, Nausicaa?"

The smell of smoke grew sharper as I climbed. At first, it reminded me of the yearly sacrifice of an unblemished white bull to the Thunderer. I’d met the wrangler at the last year’s ceremony. He told me how they hand-raised the bulls from birth, and how they’d every day draw a blunted blade along the bull’s throat until the animal grew to expect it, raising its head for the treat. They would suspect nothing then when the priest cut their throats on the altar. Most people think it is a miracle that the bulls lift their heads for the stroke. I wish I still thought that.

As I climbed the stairs though, the smell began to remind me of something else, darker yet than the betrayal of the bulls.

I’m about thirty, according to my mother. My first experience in the hero business was when my village was plagued by man-eating horses the spring I turned sixteen. Several hunters had gone to rout them out but none had returned. Being big for my age always, when a more organized group went up into the hills, I went along.

What we found were not horses but men; a family of cannibals, traveling from place to place, seeking what they might devour. We attacked their cave stronghold with fire and sword, slaughtering them as they’d slaughtered others.

For days afterwards, I could smell the greasy odor of cooked human flesh that had permeated their hiding place, their clothing, even their skin. I’d wrestled one of their grimy, mad-eyed boys when he’d leaped on me, teeth clinking together as he snapped for my throat.

I’d never killed before but rage burned my heart when I’d seen the half-devoured carcass of my mother’s brother, my favorite uncle. An upward stab with the knife I'd almost forgotten I carried ended the boy's life and then another, the female who'd came at me to revenge him. I seemed to feel the stickiness of their blood again on my right hand as I reached the top of the stair. I gagged as the filthy smell reached me. Nothing else smells like a burning human being.

I had guessed the King of Leros was already dead. But I felt a dread apart from that when I kicked open the door to the room where the king had hidden himself away from everyone.

Long curtains flew, beckoning me through the room and out onto the enclosed balcony. My sense that I approached something vastly unclean grew stronger. Dark magic had been done here. Symbols were scrawled on the floor and ceiling, symbols that seemed to move with fetid life of their own.

The fire smoldered in a wide copper-lined pit in the center of the tiled floor. A bundle of sacking or old clothes had fallen across it, smothering the fire even as the fire consumed it.

Covering my nose, I thrust open the shutters, my palm landing in something sticky. Turning with the light behind me, I saw the ‘sacking’ was the body of the king. A bloody knife, the handle a leering satyr’s head, lay where it had fallen from his hand. Blood had sprayed the wall and the shutters. I didn’t need to look to know my palm was red.

“Father?” Prince...King Temas called from the chamber beyond.

“Here. He’s here. He’s dead.”

Temas came through the curtains, his face the same dingy white as his chiton, and stopped short. “By the Gods...what happened to him?”
“Sacrifice, I think. But to who and why?”

“Sacrifice,” he echoed, staring at the body.

“What cults did your father follow?”

“Zeus, of course, and Artemis. We have this temple. It’s famous. But for the rest...human sacrifice is abhorrent to the Gods. Everyone knows that.”

He took a step forward and one of the symbols lifted a hooded head. Temas had all but put his foot on it. The snake hissed and bobbed its head, preparing to strike.

Temas stood statue-like, the angle of his thigh between my knife and the snake. I took one slow, gliding step and then another. The cobra was too focused on Temas to notice me.

Seizing it behind the hood, I lifted three feet of thrashing, twisting muscle straight up into the air. A stroke of my knife separated head from body. The long body fell, writhing. I threw the head, fangs still a-drip, into the coals. It was the largest snake I'd ever killed thus far.

Temas paid little attention. He dropped to his knees, pushing the corpse of his father off the remains of the fire. It had devoured the king's chest, leaving it like a half-burned log on a campfire. The smell of burned human flesh arose stronger than before. I was reminded again of sacrifice. His throat was cut, open like a smiling second mouth, gleaming white and red, butcher's work.

He lay now face-up in the shaft of sunlight. It showed clearly the two shallow cuts high on the left side, under the jaw, as well as the deep crimson cut that exposed the severed vessels in his throat. The gout of blood had stopped the fire from consuming the upper part of his clothes. They were of a style strange to me, a flowing robe with a wide embroidered collar and cuffs tight to the wrists. The symbols were soaked with red but those that escaped the deluge looked much like the ones drawn on the floor.

I spoke my thought aloud. “This room reeks of dark magic.”

“My father knew nothing about such things.”

“Well, for an amateur, he's done very well.”

“I don’t understand any of this. It isn't like him. What was he trying to do?”

“Propitiate some god by the looks of it. Or expiate some sin. A sin big enough to punish him and his people with a harpy?”

“There was nothing, I swear," he said passionately, tears starting in his eyes. "He was a good king, wise and loved. And a good father too.”

“No man can ever answer for another's soul.”

His straining eyes stared at the great wound in his father’s throat. “Could the harpy have done this?” he asked, pointing with a trembling finger. “I see marks like claws there.”

“Most men make a couple of tries before slitting their throats, sire.” I laid a hand on his shoulder and felt the jolt that went through him as I became the first to call him that. “Call your servants to prepare the body for the funeral.”

While he was gone, I built up the fire to burn the snake’s body, and tore a strip off the curtains to bind up the late king’s throat. I didn’t want his head falling off when the servants lifted him up.

Then I vomited out the window.

Downstairs, I found a boy to carry a message to Jori, telling him that the situation had grown more complex and that I doubted I’d be back on the ship tonight. Having been on cases with me before, I knew he would not be too surprised by any of it.

With a sigh, I went, again, in search of a king.

* * *

He sat on the ground near the half-created statue as though his knees had failed him just there. His eyes were red. He knuckled them roughly with a boy’s shame, the tear marks like creek beds down his cheeks.

I had grabbed a straw-covered jug as I’d passed the kitchen altar. Tugging out the cork with my teeth, I took a sniff. My own eyes watered at the harsh bouquet of the local wine.

“Drink deep. It’ll help.”

He swigged it as though he’d been given it in his cradle. The color surged back into his face.

“Better?”

He nodded, wiped the lip of the jug with a grimy thumb and handed it back to me. “It’s our best yet.”

“The Goddess won’t grudge it,” I murmured. He hadn’t realized where I’d gotten from ‘til then and he cast a glance skyward as I drank.

One sip and I saw I’d wasted my efforts upstairs. To anyone used to the wine of Leros, cobra venom was a mild tonic suitable for peaky children and sickly kittens.

When I could use my voice again, I asked the question I’d wanted to ask his father. “So...this harpy problem. Your father’s man offered....”

“Whatever Phandros offered, I’ll double! All our misfortunes fell on us when this thing came upon us. My father would never have committed suicide except for that!”

I was tempted - a double fee would mean I could just kill the creature instead of transporting it across the sea. Easier all around.

But I’d already paid for the cage. That, and the Hero’s Code, decided for me.

“I couldn’t do that. Your representative and I already worked out a price. Speaking of which, where is Phandros? Didn’t he come back ahead of me from Athens?”

“He’s down at the taverna most days. He’s been drinking a lot since my father threw him out. He’ll be back as soon as he hears the news.”

No doubt the boy I’d sent to Jori would be at pains to tell everyone he could find about the old king’s death. Bad news travels on the wind as effortlessly as a bird.

I’d given Temas three swigs to every one of mine. So he was nicely blurry when Phandros came up, long beard blowing in the breeze. The prince hailed him even as the newcomer hesitated. “Phandros! Come to mourn or celebrate?”

“I cannot guess your meaning,” Phandros said, bowing austerely. He nodded to me, in brief recognition. “I grieve for your loss, King Temas. Your father was a great and noble king and shall be long remembered. But now we must look to the future.”

I hadn’t cared much for Phandros when we’d worked out our deal. He was thin and pale, with a greenish tinge like a reed dipped in fat. It had been dark in the bar and I’d had a hard time resisting the urge to light his head. He had a high arched nose, ideal for sneering down. I now knew why it was so very red at the tip.

For the rest, his hair was dirty white and swept off a high brow over eyes too small for his face. He was missing an eyetooth on the right. I wondered who had tired of his permanent sneer and tried to knock it off. Whoever it had been, I liked him already.

Temas pointed at me. “He’s going to destroy the harpy for me.”

“I hold to our bargain, Master Phandros.”

“No doubt," he said, running his hand down his beard, "but does my lord forget that there are other, nearer, dangers? Mortal dangers?”

“He means the guards,” Temas said in an aside to me.

“Word will reach them soon of your father’s passing. They will not long delay their attack. They know we are defenseless.”

Temas seemed to be squinting down the neck of the bottle. “What would you have me do, counselor to my late father? What wise words made him kick you downstairs?”

The bony face showed two pink patches on the cheekbones matching the wine stains on his tunic. “I spoke true. We must leave, seek assistance from another kingdom. Your uncle, Scoros of Phyros, would grant you ships and troops. Leave Leros to this captain and return in force to rout him out. There is a ship in the Roads now; take it.”

Temas seemed now to be attempting to balance the bottle on one outstretched finger. It fell, of course, but did not break thanks to the stone chips littering the ground. He stared at it, his eyes round as an owl’s. He glanced at me. “What think you of wise, frightened Phandros’ counsel, Eno the Thracian?”

“I don’t think he’s a coward, or he would have run away in Athens.”

Phandros bowed to me with gracious irony. “Praise indeed.”

“It’s your kingdom now,” I said, ignoring him. “I’d not give bits of it away to anyone else. Scoros is known as a hard bargainer. He does nothing from kindness, not even for close family. He might help you and leave you penniless, prey to the next renegade.”

“There are other kings to aid you if you don’t trust Scoros. But if you do not seek aid, sire, Captain Eurytos and his men will overwhelm you.”

Temas stood up, swaying slightly. “My father was a good king before these trib-trib-troubles came on us. I haven’t his wisdom. But I can rec-hic-ernize a gift from the gods when it appears before me. Phandros...where are you...Phandros....”

“My lord?”

“Persuade Eno the Thracian to send the Captain and his fellows to Hades.”

“Sire,” Phandros whispered. “He is but one man.”