The Return of Fitzroy Angursell Page 3

  By the time I found my bag and scrambled to my feet, the bicycle was nearly out of sight. I spent a good few minutes attempting to haul it out. It was borrowed, and I’d rather that Gus up at the Nec tell all his friends that Fitzroy Angursell had seen to the safe return of his cycle than to have taken it in good faith only to abandon it in the middle of a haunted swamp. The suction from the mud below the water made my efforts increasingly difficult, as did the mosquitos that had emerged out of nowhere when I stopped moving.

  It was in all regards a distasteful activity. The mud was unpleasantly warm and squishy between my toes—my sandals were an early sacrifice to its depth—and full of disquieting bits of harder material that I hoped very much were fragments of plants. It also smelled. It was funky rather than vile, with a brackish edge, and it made me think of old stories about these fens.

  It was said that Yr the Conqueror, the ancestor whose tomb I had just raided, had set off about conquering his empire specifically to get away from the Solamen Fens in the dry season, when they used to catch on fire.

  It was just the edge of the dry season. The water was low, the mud turgid, and the mosquitos hungry. It was all very disagreeable.

  I eventually stopped, with the handlebars propped uncomfortably against my shins, so that I could pay attention to the mosquitos and shift them magically. As I wiped my muddy and now sweaty brow with an equally muddy and sweaty hand, grateful to stretch my back straight, I discovered I had an audience.

  This was promising.

  There were three men on the boardwalk watching me. Short and wiry and midtoned of skin, insofar as I could tell in the gloaming, they reminded me rather of Gus up at the Nec; the Plainsmen are taller and have a redder hue to their skin, and the river-folk tend towards the Plainsman phenotype, though I don’t believe they are all that closely related. These men were clearly shorter and stockier than the river-folk I had met in the past. The central one was holding a shielded lantern so the light fell on me, which I spied with great delight.

  “I haven’t seen one of those in years!” I cried, ignoring all else. “A proper thief’s lantern, to be sure. How splendid. Is there much to rob in here?—Oh!” I gave them a brilliant smile, even as the lantern-bearer lifted his hand and cast the light on my face. “Good evening, good sirs. I must apologize for my presumption, I’m afraid it’s a terrible habit. I don’t suppose you could assist me in lifting this bicycle out of the mud? It doesn’t belong to me and I shouldn’t like Gus up at the Nec to think I’d absconded with it when he was so kind as to lend it to me.”

  “Gus up at the Nec, eh,” the central one said, looking to the man on his right. I couldn’t see their expressions because of the light in my face—the boardwalk put them a good two feet above me, though I was naturally taller than they—but I could see the way their bodies shifted with discomfort, wariness, and curiosity.

  One thing sitting on a throne staring down at milling courtiers for hours on end does is give you a ripe appreciation for what body language can indicate. There are all sorts of games you start to play when your function is to sit up on a gold-plated throne in glory and be seen as powerful, magnificent, and divinely benevolent while your courtiers busily angle for favour. I tried to cut back on how often I held court, but that only ended up in a noticeable increase in regional warfare, so developing several variants of courtier solitaire it was.

  And really, reading an audience is reading an audience regardless of whether one is a bard, a conman, a jobbing mage, or a head of state.

  All this is to say that it didn’t occur to me to be concerned about my physical safety.

  “Yes,” I went on blithely. “He let me out of Yr the Conqueror’s tomb.”

  There was a pause. I tugged at the handlebars, which were subsiding again, and grinned up at the three men. My hat had disappeared in the tumble, and good riddance to the itchy thing, so I trusted the darkness, the situation, and the preponderance of mud to disguise me.

  “Out of the tomb, eh,” the lantern-holder said. His two companions shuffled back a step. He held his ground, but he lifted the lantern again so it shone on my face.

  It is absolutely true that I strongly resemble every one of my ancestors.

  He cleared his throat with a phlegmy-sounding cough. “And—excuse me—” he coughed again, and twisted around to spit the gob of phlegm off on the other side of the boardwalk, a courtesy I trust you will understand I very much appreciated. “And why were you, er, in there?”

  I patted my bag, strap safely if somewhat damply snug against my side. “I had something to fetch.”

  The two companions stepped back again, then jostled forward when they realized they had nearly fallen off the opposite side of the boardwalk.

  “Steady there,” I said. “The mud isn’t that pleasant. It’s probably usefully exfoliating, but I’m not sure about the contents.”

  “Not a fan of leeches, eh?” the speaker said. It was a comment that I found wonderfully motivating.

  In short order I was up beside them, the bicycle handlebars hooked on the edge of the boardwalk to keep it from disappearing. The three men had retreated several yards away, leaving me just enough light from the lantern to see that my arms and probably many more parts of my body were liberally spotted with shiny black parasitical molluscs.

  “How do I get them off me?” I enquired with as much calm as I could muster, which wasn’t very much. I abhor leeches. Slugs. Even snails. Anything of that mucilaginous ilk.

  “Fire works,” the lantern-holder began slowly, coming a half-step towards me as if to proffer his aid.

  I danced away from him, rubbing my hands together and shuddering bodily when I touched one of the leeches with the side of my palm.

  “Fire? Right. Yes. Fire.”

  “Yes, you want to—” he said, but I ignored whatever he went on to say.

  Without really thinking further I called up magic in the form of small flames and sent them dancing across my skin. Head right down to toes, and not forgetting any of the more private areas either. It’s probably just as well that the clean-shaven fashion extended to all bodily hair but for eyebrows and eyelashes, as I would surely have singed it all close in an effort to be thorough. The mud baked instantly into a crackling dry glaze.

  I let the last of the flames die away from my hands and took a deep, relieved breath. “There,” I said. “Surely none of the leeches would have survived that!” I stretched, grateful to be out of the swamp and also—my thighs were protesting the entirely unaccustomed exertion—to be off the bicycle. Ah yes, the bicycle. I stared down at the handlebars, just visible in the light from the thief’s lantern. I smiled hopefully at the men and gestured at the vehicle. “Would you be so good as to help me lift it up?”

  “Er,” said the lantern-holder, making a motion suggestive of turning to look plaintively back at his friends. My eyes were adjusting but it was a dark night, thick with clouds. I have to admit that despite being a skilled weather-worker (not to mention having lived half my life in the vicinity) I had no real idea about the weather hereabouts. General climatological patterns, yes. Daily forecasts, no. I've spent most of my time indoors.

  I remembered the magic word, and smiled as winningly as I could. “Please?”

  One of the non-lantern-holders laughed, a short, astonished crackle. “Why not?” he said, his voice full of ironic marvel. “An ancient man cycles into the middle of the Fens on a new-moon night and sets himself on fire to rid himself of leeches. Of course he’d have a strange request.”

  “I’m not that old,” I protested, though it’s true I am on the edge of retirement.

  “You can’t suggest you’re young?” the new speaker asked, handing something to the third of their trio and stumping forward to squat beside the bicycle. “My cousin owes me one,” he muttered, tugging at the handles. “Glory, this is stuck.”

  “I like that invocation,” I said.

  “Shorty doesn’t like calling on the Emperor,” the lantern-holder e
xplained.

  “Neither do I,” I said, charmed. “Can I be of assistance, ah, Shorty? I’m afraid I’m not one for upper body strength, but I can try.”

  “You’re not too shabby,” Shorty replied after giving me a thorough inspection in the light his friend thoughtfully held up for him. “Can’t say you’ve missed too many meals, but at the same time, you’re obviously not totally idle.”

  This was highly gratifying, for all that sitting on thrones and so on does not make for a particularly active lifestyle. “Thank you,” I said, which made Shorty utter his crackle again and return to his efforts with the handles. He obviously did have a more active lifestyle, for he was able to set his heels down against the boardwalk and with a single thrust heave the bicycle up beside him.

  I was within the radius to be splattered with mud as he did so. When I lit a small magical light to see if any leeches had come with the mud, I discovered I had been somewhat overly enthusiastic earlier and had contrived to burn off all my clothes without noticing.

  “Thank you,” I said gravely to Shorty, refusing to be discombobulated. “Do you have any leeches that require removal?”

  He brushed his hands together. “No, thank you! You might want to clean off the bike before you get back on it again, mind.”

  The lantern-holder snorted. “You might want to put some clothes on first.”

  I gave him a serene smile; I am very well-practiced at them. “Oh, I shan’t be getting back on that any time soon, I assure you. I shall have to find somewhere to leave it so that Gus can find it again.” At Shorty’s incredulous look—his was the only expression I could see clearly—I grinned at them. “I am perhaps a bit underdressed for the next stage of my quest. The mosquitos, you know. One moment.”

  My bag was not my bag, the one made famous in song and story, but was a reasonable replacement. It held anything I put into it, which included all the luggage my chief groom of the chamber had thought requisite for my quest. I didn’t fancy trying to clean any cloth the Fen mud got onto, however, so I forbore any of my more impressive outfits in favour of the white cotton tunic with which I had begun my travels that day.

  In some ways this bag was superior to the first one. That first bag was well stuffed with all the eclectic paraphernalia that caught the eye of a magpie-minded young poet on his first adventures, but because I couldn’t easily retrieve any specific item I had a tendency to provide whatever came first to hand in response to whatever had prompted the search. This made for some absolutely splendid stories.

  Alas, with age and experience comes a certain tendency to expeditiousness. I put my hand into the new bag and drew out the white tunic without any trouble at all, and was just a touch disappointed. Though it must be said my audience, all three, seemed happier once I was again clothed.

  “Right,” I said, clapping my hands together and placing the replacement bag over my shoulder. “Thank you, Shorty. I’m afraid I have delayed your expedition quite considerably. Is there anything I can do to assist?”

  The lantern-holder let the lantern swing idly for a few moments as Shorty (who was, naturally, the tallest of the three) bent down to whisper in his ear. I let them discuss without trying to listen, looking out past the two circles of lantern- and mage-light to the black water beyond. The grasses swayed in the light breeze, whispering (one story had it) the ancient secret that one emperor had donkey ears. I had always rather hoped it was Haultan the Terrible, in the running for my least favourite ancestor, but the histories are coy on the matter.

  The ripples caused by the bicycle retrieval had stilled. Apart from the grasses and the whispering men in front of me, it was very quiet, no frogs or birds to be heard. In the distance more and more lights were gathering, all the palest of colours.

  “But if he is,” Shorty said suddenly out loud, attracting my attention.

  “Shh!” said the lantern-holder, sending his circle of light swinging wildly.

  I saw absolutely no reason to politely pretend not to have heard. “Yes?” I said, with a grin. “If I am—who?”

  The lantern-holder scoffed. “That’s a question, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not one you have yet asked,” I pointed out. “Let me give you one hint: you know my name.”

  Shorty elbowed the lantern-holder, as if to emphasize his intuition. The lantern-holder was not easily moved, however, and spoke with slow caution. “That’s as may be, and I can’t say I hope I’m wrong, but you must understand our position—we don’t know what your purpose is.”

  “It’s a wise man indeed who knows that,” I replied, laughing. “My current purpose is to find a bite of supper and a place to spend the night. I had been aiming at the River-Horse Inn, where I had heard I might find both. However, as serendipity has led me to you, and I cannot believe that your good turn in assisting me does not cry out to be returned immediately: what can I do for you?”

  “Well,” said the lantern-holder, “seeing as you’re obviously a man of talent with fire, will you help us burn down the swamp?”

  I was barely three hours away from a long and resolutely respectable career as a competent, benevolent, and beloved head of state.

  I am noted, I believe, for being reasonable.

  I gave the lantern-holder and Shorty and their third friend a brilliant smile.

  “Absolutely.”

  3

  In Which I Am Tempted To Lie

  It turned out that they thought I was the revenant spirit of Yr the Conqueror, come to avenge himself on the Fens.

  This put me in a somewhat tricky position. On the one hand, this was not true. On the other, what a delicious mistake.

  I smiled and said nothing, in a most telling way.

  The anarchist in me had only recently been loosed to do more than utter sarcastic comments in the privacy of my own mind. You cannot think I would have done anything else.

  Shorty’s two friends were Hank, the lantern-hold, and Wat, who was taciturn. They addressed me, with a sidelong, tentative air, as, “Sire,” and I did not even think for several minutes that I should not be answering that honorific. It’s so rarely that I am called by name (any name, to be honest) that I usually respond to everything else first.

  They led me along the boardwalk away from the concentration of lights, with me pushing the bicycle and contemplating the fact that this was only the second time since my days with the Red Company that I had stood barefoot outside. It was deeply satisfying to feel my feet thwack on the wooden boards.

  “May I ask,” I said after a bit, “why you wish to set the Fens alight?”

  There was a pause. Hank was in the lead, with his lantern casting a low circle of illumination on the boardwalk in front of him, then Shorty walking on the other side of the bicycle from myself, with Wat coming along behind. After we had turned the corner that had caused me such trouble, the previously straightforward route marked by the boardwalk began to turn and angle and branch more extensively.

  I had had no idea any of this construction was here. It was hard to see in the dark, but while the wooden boards seemed new, the piers looked old—very old indeed. I had bound the Fens, oh, seven hundred and fifty years ago, as the Ouranatha reckon it.

  The Fall of Astandalas had a peculiar effect on temporal progression in the worlds that had once been a part of it. On Zunidh there had been a period when different areas had aged at different rates, so that one village might be generations on from the next. I did not personally feel a thousand and thirty-six years old, but that was what I was told the College of Priest-Wizards had counted.

  “We’ve always burned the Fens, like,” Hank said, a little lamely.

  The three men were not youths, though hardly of my age (either real or apparent) either. Perhaps they were in their late thirties or early forties. This was not a question of high spirits or mischief, not by their solemnity and caution.

  Nevertheless, I was quite sure that even I would have heard—Kip would surely have told me—if people burned the Fens on a r
egular basis.

  “Every year?”

  Hank swung the lantern slightly more vigorously than necessary, which I took to be no. After a moment he said aloud, “Not for a while, like. Too long.”

  The circle of light cast odd shadows across the grasses surrounding us. As we’d gone further into the Fens the grasses to each side grew taller, and now were a good three feet over my head. The scent was less brackish and pungent now; rather more just barely sweet, like new hay, and a touch peppery. It did not sound like the reed plains around the Painted City, which were always rustling and full of birds and frogs and insects. These Fens were dead silent and, now that the Fen lights were hidden by the grass, black but for the grey light of the thief’s lantern.

  It was all rather exciting. What an adventure this was turning out already!

  Shorty tried to explain next. “Back when the Last Emperor—you know about him?”

  I inclined my head gravely, fighting not to smile. “I do.”

  “Well, back a while he did this work of magic to make the Fens safe, like,” Hank interjected in an explanatory manner.

  Shorty nodded. “It was sore dangerous after the Fall—you know about the Fall?”

  “I do.”

  I didn’t smile this time, for much as I often disliked my empire I didn’t wish for it to be destroyed in a great magical cataclysm, either, nor for myself to be forever written into the history books as the one reigning when that happened.

  “Well, like Hank said, the Last Emperor made the Fens safe. But he didn’t know—I guess no one told him, and he didn’t come asking us, see—that the Fens need to burn, or else the Tigara gets … antsy.”

  God, sometimes I hate how Kip is always right. He’d told me I should have talked to the inland villagers as well as the ones who lived along the river.