The Accidental Highwayman (9 page)

“I did cast my comprimaunts before him, didn't I,” the little man said with regret. “Anyway, I'm Willum, leader of the rebel Faerie army, and him up there in the shadows is Gruntle.”

“And who's Gruntle?” I asked.

“He's the rebel Faerie army.”

“I see,” said I, seeing nothing but a tiny man with light streaming out of his backside. “What, pray, is a comprimaunt?”

Willum became concerned, his light flickering uncertainly. “Didn't Magda tell you all this?”

“She may have told my master,” said I, “but she told me nothing at all. I'm merely a servant, you see, in Master Rattle's house. And he is, or was, for he has met his maker, also the highwayman called Whistling Jack—as I discovered but yesterday.”

Willum shook his wings with alarm. “But your costume—your horse!”

“They belong to my master.”

“So you have taken up the highwayman's mantle in his place! Brilliant!” The little man clapped his hands together.

I shook my head. “It was not my choice. As soon as I find some different clothes, I shall bury this highwayman's stuff beneath a stone and live a quiet life somewhere far away.” It felt very strange to be talking to this small person with an illuminated posterior, overheard by his secretive friend in the hayloft, but I was—to my horror—rapidly becoming accustomed to it.

“You can't be finished,” Willum said, and his light grew dim. “This is the beginning of the revolution, I tell you. You're the secret to our success.”

I stood up and brushed damp straw off myself. Midnight bent his neck around to watch what was happening. He didn't seem at all put out by the tiny apparition.

“I'm Kit,” said I. “Christopher Bristol, indentured servant to Master James Rattle, and before that indentured to Fortescue Trombonio, impresario. Why I'm dressed like this and how I came to be tangled in this business with the Princess I can hardly explain, for I hardly understand it. That's my entire story. Now, what is yours?”

 

Chapter 9

A ROYAL WEDDING FORETOLD

“I
T'S LIKE
this,” said Willum. “Gruntle and myself are feyín
*
, which is a type of Faerie. All magical creatures are Faeries. We are now in the First Realm, that being the human world. But we are from the Middle Kingdom, which regulates the natural part of the First Realm. On the other side there's the Realm Beyond, which is where the Elden are, and we have no more to do with that dark world than manlings have to do with ours.”

“But I have to do with your world!” I exclaimed. “I was surrounded by goblings and so forth, and met that witch, and now you.”

“No, that all happened here in your world. We only pop in and out for periods of time. Except Magda. She dwells here. It's her what coordinated the rescue mission. She'd like to get back, you see, and she's most unhappy with the king. Elgeron, he is. King of Faerie. We planned the whole thing by bee.”

I dwelled upon these words for a while, my thoughts illuminated by bottom-light.

“Allow me to summarize,” said I. “Please correct me on any point. Faeries include you lot with the glowing bums along with other, different creatures. Goblings and trolls and whatnot. That old witch hired my master to rescue the Princess, but he died, so I had to rescue the Princess instead to fulfill his bargain, which I did.”

“Exactly,” said Willum, and brightened up quite literally.

“Why did I have to rescue the Princess?”

“Well, she's Princess Morgana ne Dé Danann Trolkvinde Arian yn Gadael ou Elgeron-Smith, she is. Lady of the Realm, Keeper of the Silver Leaves, Duchess of Springtime, daughter and only heir of King Elgeron. And her father arranged a marriage for her. She's supposed to get hitched to some hapless Hanoverian halfwit from the human herd to cement a political alliance.”

“Are you telling me,” I said, “that George William Frederick, grandson of King George II
*
, is to marry a Faerie princess?”

“It's absurd, isn't it?”

Absurd was hardly a strong enough word. “Why, though?” I asked. “Why would a human royal marry such a—”

“Such a what,” Willum said, springing to his feet, ready to take offense. He put up raisin-sized fists.

“—Such a dream of beauty?” I concluded. And I meant it. She was a vision plucked from a reverie on a warm moonlit night. “After all,” I added, “human kings and princes and so forth are the most worldly men alive. There's not a drop of magic in 'em, I should think.”

“Ah,” Willum said, mollified. “And I see you're a fellow of quick insight. You have touched the very root of the source of the wellspring of our rebellion. Our King would see us turn our comprimaunts—that's our magical abilities—over to human endeavors, like manufacturing and agriculture.”

“And war-making,” Gruntle added, from a hiding place somewhat closer than before. “Manlings love war. I just like the unionforms.”

“I see,” I lied. “And you and Magda the witch plan to put a stop to all that, by rescuing the Princess.”

“That's just the
first
step,” Willum said. “But we need your help. You might not think of yourself as a highwayman, but you've got talent.”

I ignored this, and asked, “Was it you that made the rings of green fire around me?”

“It was 'im,” Gruntle said, and stepped into the light from a small gap between two boards.

Gruntle was clad in homespun and a shapeless cap; his wings stuck out to the sides, like those of a dragonfly. “'E broke eighth verse of chapter thingummy, did 'e. Cast witchfire all about you on no fewer than more than one occasion. And now I've broke the law as well by revealin' meself, and we'll both have our wings plucked for it.”

“If it wasn't for my quick thinking back there he'd be dead, or worse,” Willum said. “Some army you turned out to be, cowering in the bushes.”

“Pleased to meet you at last,” I said to Gruntle. He shyly tipped his hat.

“Princess Morgana didn't like our plan,” Willum said, resuming his narrative. “She thought your master was the lowest kind of scoundrel, may his soul find the moon. But nobody else could do the job so well. Then someone—her father the King, I'll be bound—hired rival bandits to see your master never went through with it. That's when the Princess told us to watch out for him. She might not like rogues, but she's got a conscience. Apparently too late, for we watched out for you, instead. It's a rum go.”

I wholeheartedly agreed. “In any case, your Princess is free. The task is done, and I'm finished with it. Thank you for saving my life.”

Willum smote his open palm. “You're just what the Princess needs! An honest criminal, if I may be so bold. We must get her out of England before our King finds her and marries her off!”

“Nonsense,” said I, and meant it. “Lots of people marry someone they don't much like. Whose business is that but their own? They're only a woman and a man after all, regardless of their royal blood!” Then I added, because I was getting worked up, “Besides, she's no Faerie. She hasn't got wings. She's not very tall, but she's as human as I am.”

Willum looked around him as if he was about to say something quite tasteless. Then he whispered, loudly, “You're half right. Her mother was a human woman, you see, hence the ‘Smith.' King Elgeron himself took a mortal wife, and she died in childbirth. But he got the Princess out of the bargain. Halfsies
*
can't fly nor cast many comprimaunts, but they sometimes have the deeper magic that comes from the Realm Beyond.”

“That will do,” said I. “Not another word.”

“You're right, I've been telling shameful tales about our beloved Princess,” Willum said, and removed his tiny cocked hat, the better to hang his head.

I decided not to explain it wasn't propriety bade me stop him: it was confusion. He was telling me gossip about a world that somehow lapped over my own, and secret engagements between royal persons, and besides he had wings. I felt certain I would be found in the morning, stark mad, bleating like a sheep. It was time to conclude this bizarre interview.

“It's been lovely talking with you,” I said. “But it is time for me to sleep, and after daybreak I must go into the town and determine how far from this place I can go on the money I have. My role in your revolution has ended. Thank you very much for explaining things to me, and safe travels to the Princess. Best of luck with the revolution. Never speak to me again.”

With that, I lay down in the straw once more, and put my hat over my eyes. The last thing I saw from beneath the brim was the pair of Faeries sitting side by side on the hayrack, looking absolutely dejected. Willum's light went out.

*   *   *

I hadn't meant to sleep; at first I was only pretending, to keep them from bothering me any more. But at some point genuine sleep took me, and I did not awake until Midnight nuzzled me out of a chaotic dream of flying kings. He was standing in a beam of morning sunlight that streaked in through a hole in the barn wall. I stood up, stiff as a leg of mutton. My stomach growled at the thought of mutton. It was time to disguise myself somehow and see what news there was, and plan my escape.

Ordinary, nonmagical luck was with me. Propped in a dry corner of the barn I discovered a pair of scarecrows on poles, dressed in ragged old clothes. Although the garments were worn and shapeless, brown with dirt, I was able to assemble shirt, weskit, and trousers between the two. The trousers were of the sailor type, and fell over the red turndowns of my boots. Following a thick application of mud, the lower parts of the boots did not appear out of place on a peasant's feet.

I concealed all of Whistling Jack's gear beneath the hay, tied Midnight to a railing so that he would not wander off, and emerged from the barn looking for all the world like an impoverished tatterdemalion
*
living rough in the countryside. Which is precisely what I was, except for the poverty—I had fifty gold pieces concealed in my shirt. Thus prepared, I walked into the town I'd seen the previous night.

There were a few people on the road, most of them going to work in the fields or at a nearby felt-fullery. It was a blessed relief to see no soldiers about. I found a bakery in the street, and purchased a day-old loaf for a penny. My pennies were worth more than gold, in this particular situation: It would be very difficult for one who looked as poor as me to pass a gold coin without raising suspicion. That was why I bought the loaf day-old, as well—a pauper wouldn't buy new bread. I knew a good deal about poverty, having spent only two years out of it.

There was a peculiar incident when I got the penny from my pocket: What should I find beside it, but the old witch's tooth? It was a horrible yellow fang; there could be no mistaking it. How it got there I did not know, but as I left the bakery I threw the foul bone over the roof of the shop.

I ate the entire loaf of bread at one go, cramming fistfuls of it into my mouth and then dashing water down my throat from the river that ran past the town. Profoundly refreshed, I ventured deeper into the street and found a post-tavern named the Bull & Crown. There they would have newspapers and all the unprinted rumors, because post-taverns were where the mail coaches stopped, and so they served as informal hubs of information along their routes. And the name of the place—was this what the sketch by Master Rattle had meant? It might have been fate that drew me here, if I went in for that sort of thing.

It was busy inside the bar, because beer was the foundation of most breakfasts. I crowded to the board and thought of having a beer myself, but decided against it. People would talk about the young beggar who could afford a half-pint. Instead I feigned to inquire after the price of a fare to London, claiming I was on an errand from a gentleman. It was perfectly common to use starvelings for odd tasks such as carrying messages. The landlord retailed a list of fares and the time of departure for the various coaches, and I pretended to remember them. But all the while I had my ears bent to the talk in the rest of the tavern. It was most edifying, although unhappy memories crowded my thoughts.

“Found shot through the heart,” one man said. “Discovered him in the kitchen, murdered by Whistling Jack. Not ten leagues from here.”

“So I heard,” his companion said, smoking a Turk's head pipe. “Word is they've captured a dozen desperate men already. They nearly got Whistling Jack as well. They seen his black horse with the white nose, and him battlin' his way through soldiers and rivals alike. Fought like a devil and rode like the wind, they say.”

I turned my attention to a couple of women with fish-baskets who stood on my other side. “They say he lost his mind, they do,” one clucked. “Giant Jim, it was, mad as an hatter. Captured him wandering about in a field, and he went gentle despite his great strength. He spoke only of the little elf-arrows, says Captain Sterne. ‘Off to Tyburn with the banditti, regardless of their mental state,' says he.”