Act of Will

SCENE XXXIII



Romance

In the Eagle, tales of adventuring had always been stuffed full of colossal dragons, all insatiable greed, murderous fury, and breath that would singe your eyebrows at four hundred yards: absolute evil in physical form. I’d never believed that rubbish, of course—nobody did—but even a hard-line realist like me would like to be proved wrong from time to time. Not too often, mind. I don’t know what I’d do if I met some hulking troll in a dark alley. A smallish goblin would be all right, I suppose: something I could kill without too much effort or qualms of conscience. That had always seemed the core attraction of life wearing a sword in stories: You could hack and slay all day and then put the pile of corpses down to honor, the triumph of goodness, the protection of puppies, and so on.

It didn’t seem to work like that in reality, though I wasn’t sure Garnet and Renthrette had figured that out yet. For them, there was always a line drawn, and they were on the side of truth, justice, and sunshine. There were a lot of people on the other side of the line, and once you were over there you could very easily became ax meat. This was disturbing for someone like me, who frequently wandered from one side of the line to the other without even realizing it.

Lately I’d been on fractionally better terms with Renthrette, though that wasn’t saying much, and even that limited progress had less to do with her feeling more comfortable with me and more to do with feeling less comfortable with the mission, if you see what I mean. She had made her disdain for my moral status clear after my conciliatory words to the duke (the fact that he had been ready to execute me did not strike her as relevant) and had referred to my money-raising methods as “snakish and deceitful,” so we weren’t exactly ready for candlelit dinners, but she called me stupid less often and always seemed to be weighing the things in my character that nauseated her (most of them) against my undeniable, if erratic, usefulness to the party. Whenever I did something right she would give me a long look of muted surprise, as if she were watching a camel say the alphabet at high speed: unexpectedly praiseworthy but somehow suspect. I’d bought her a drink a few nights before and she gave me that very look when I didn’t try to weasel my way into her affections and/or underwear. Even I wasn’t certain what I was doing, since I’d pretty much given up hope of progress in that direction. Pretty much.

I hadn’t met many women lately, because the party members always seemed to be watching me like the vultures we’d seen in the Hrof, their faces heavy with sermons on virtue or equality. I watched keenly for signs of romantic goings-on amongst the group, but everything seemed cerebral and professional, curse them. I had thought people went into adventuring for romance (sex) and excitement (sex). It was just my luck to hitch up with the only celibate mercenaries in Thrusia. I started saying what a good physique Lisha had to Garnet, but his green eyes started to get that cold, homicidal look, so I dropped it. I said nothing of Renthrette, fearful that Mithos or Orgos would show interest and then I’d really be screwed. Or, rather, I wouldn’t. I liked to pretend I had a chance, even if she was only just getting over the impulse to put a dagger through my windpipe every time she saw me.

A sample piece of recent dialogue: “You have beautiful eyes,” I said to her, very smooth over the top of my tankard. We were sitting in a tavern waiting for the others to join us and she was drinking tea (for God’s sake!).

“Oh right,” she said with the smallest of smiles that turned into something grimmer around the edges. “I’m supposed to be flattered. You can compliment me on my eyes because that’s classy, whereas to refer to my breasts would be crude.”

“But your eyes, er . . . show your personality,” I faltered.

“I might not know the theatre, but I’ve seen the poetry, Will. Eyes are just part of the catalogue. Eyes like crystal, isn’t it? Ruby lips and ivory skin. Then ankles, thighs, and so on, down the list. The composite woman. A collection of parts for your pleasure.”

“It’s not as if I’m not attracted to you as a person,” I said.

“Meaning what, Will? I pour nothing but derision on you all day, but if I came to your bed at night, you’d be all over me like sauce on one of your succulent entrees.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I lied.

“Oh, please.”

“Well, all right. Maybe so,” I confessed, trying to smile in a winningly flirtatious way. “So what?”

“So ‘as a person’ doesn’t extend beyond this body, which happens to fit all your little criteria?”

“Most of them,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Your nose is a little . . .”

“Thanks, Will.” (That was sarcastic, in case you missed it.) “But at least you’re being honest, for once. Fortunately, I am feeling charitable and will refrain from going through the list of ways in which you, physically, don’t make the grade.”

That stung.

“What is your problem, exactly?” I said irritably. “What is it that got so stuck up you that you can’t get it out?”

“How apt.” She smiled. “I must have something stuck up me because it isn’t you. How like a man.”

I was, for once, speechless. She was quite calm, even amused, which was new for her. The worst part was that she was right. A million times I’d heard some oaf lumber back to his barroom mates and tell them that the girl who had just blown him off was “a right bitch” or “not that pretty when you got close” and I had always smiled knowingly to myself. Now I was the oaf, and there was no dark corner and group of friends to bring me solace. I felt like the fox scowling up at the grapes he couldn’t reach. What a bitch.

The upside, however, had been the ease—even the enjoyment—with which she had rejected my oafish advances. There had been no vitriolic screaming, no threats of evisceration, no torrents of frosty contempt, and when I had abandoned the chase she had actually smiled, as if it had been a kind of game we were playing and she had won a round. Later, when the others did show up to make plans for whatever new madness we were to embark upon, I caught her looking at me. When I turned my sulky face towards her, her grin had been so open and knowing that I found myself returning it.

Since we would learn nothing in the palace, we had decided to split the party and stay in inns scattered about the city. Lisha and Orgos would be in the Silversmith’s Arms, an upmarket place for traders and the local gentry. Garnet and Renthrette went to a middle-class tavern called the Bear’s Paw. I got the cheap end of town (surprise, surprise), and would spend the next night in the dubiously titled Swan with Two Necks, dodging cutthroats and pickpockets. The fact that I was sharing a room with Mithos didn’t especially cheer me up, since he tended to be a sort of portable storm cloud: largely dark and silent, occasionally brightening up to flash lightning and thunder at you. Still, maybe I’d get a game of cards.

Just before I left with Mithos, I made a point of examining Lisha’s black-shafted spear. I hadn’t forgotten that odd blue lightning flash. I was unsurprised to find that the silver metal of the spear’s fer-rule, where the shaft fit into the tip, was set with a large irregularly shaped blue stone. It didn’t make me feel any better.