Chapter 10

Chapter 10

DAYS BECAME WEEKS, and those weeks blurred into a menagerie of running, hiding, escaping, and running again. They had fled throughout half of Vimiland, seeking a buyer for the Golden Baby, but instead encountered an endless array of people looking to turn them in to Calus Grey. Rory had grown used to his fame preceding him, granting him access to every town (and every bed therein), and was not quite sure how to react to entrances being barred and legs being closed. Well, the legs never really close, he thought triumphantly. At least there was one solace in this mess.

And a mess it was! The trio quickly determined that major cities were definitely out of the question. The vile scum of humanity resided in the lowest spots of major metropolises, but so did the bigger, bolder, more heavily-armed police forces. The same wanted posters that Rory used to covet and blush over were now the bane of his existence. Where once a wanted poster was the pirate’s all-access pass to debauchery, now there lingered bounty hunters and heroes-for-hire, hoping to catch their big score.

After fleeing New Garrison, the party headed west to Liebert, a large city on the edge of the Acreaire Forest. Surely this was to be their salvation, but the city’s proximity to Castletop only made it the worst possible option. The boys barely made it out of the city with their lives, not to mention still carrying the Golden Baby. They moved east and attempted to stay ahead of the manhunt, but at this point it was too late. The major cities were all along the highway system, and news traveled fast via paved roads. Avleron and Purdil were both busts, and from there travel became a great big blur. Journeys that should have taken two days took five, a week’s travel became a fortnight’s adventure, and the road was paved with dread.

Rory was running out of options, Bozius was already beyond the limits of his patience, and Rafule did not have a choice or a say in the matter. His magic had gotten them out of a fair share of predicaments, and—though it pained him to admit it—Rory might be dead or captured if the boy had not been around. The Pirate of Vimiland was strongly considering foreign countries at this point. At least the Grey Callus of Castletop would not have placed wanted posters beyond the borders of Vimiland.

“It’s time to head outside the Knot,” Bozius suggested that morning as they broke camp somewhere in the valley east of the road to Heflirin.

The Knot was the nickname for the Royal Highways, as the outside roads nearly completed a ring with the Crescent Mountains, and the Queen’s Parkway crossed through the middle over the Yuklit River, making was looked like a knot when drawn on a map. The largest cities were dotted along the highway system, and most of the population of Vimiland resided within the Knot. Beyond the limits of the Royal Highways were some unincorporated parts and small towns developed back in the early days of Vimiland’s history (some whose residents carried very anti-Vimiland sentiments). Also outside the Knot was the great body of the Unforgotten Drift, a desert so big that the borders of three countries were lost within its fruitless expanses.

Rory had many reasons to avoid the desert.

“We still have places here that we haven’t visited yet,” Rory spoke, though even he was aware of how distant and non-committal his tone was.

“Where, Rory?” Bozius roared. “Where haven’t we been since we got our hands on this damned stupid baby doll? The Pit was a real treat, there are still two nooses tailored just for us waiting in Heapsworth, Appleton might be missing a guard tower thanks to us, and thanks to you an entire angry mob of townsfolk would love to see our corpses in New Garrison!”

“Thanks to me?” Rory was taken aback. “Don’t blame me, Bozy, that was a team effort.”

“We shoulda left you there!” Bozius blurted.

“And went where, Bozy?” Rory asked. “Sanguan for the man-twin? How about Horncrest? There’s always the road to Castletop!”

“All places I can’t go because of you,” Bozius proclaimed. “Situations you got me into! Why don’t we just go into the Drift, go to Parke, and sell this damned thing to Chaca? Then I can get my damned share and be done with you!”

“Be done with me?” Rory asked. “You don’t mean that!”

“I think I do.”

“Chaca is a last resort, and even then I don’t like it.”

“A last resort?” the buff enforcer questioned. “Rory, where do you think we are now?”

“Bozius, it’s not that bad! We’ve been in worse.”

“When?”

Rory thought for a minute. “How about Overloft? That was a time, huh?”

Bozius’s face turned so red with anger it seemed as if it might erupt into one of Rafule’s spells. “With the hicks? You really want to bring up Overloft now? Is that really where you want to go, Rory?”

“Bozy, you’re just tired, and probably a little hungry,” Rory figured. “Raffy, pass us some Daisy, will you?”

“That’s it,” Bozius cursed, taking the jerky from Rafule and tossing it to the road. “I’m done! I’ve been dragging this trinket of yours around for weeks when we should have very well sold it a long time ago, nobody wants to let us into any town, the closest I’ve come to a woman is seeing the red door of the whorehouse in Maso from a distance, and now I’m eating donkey meat from a boot! I’m done!”

To add to their troubles, the party ran into some bandits while attempting to avoid the main roads, and a stray arrow from a bad shot struck Daisy in the neck, sending the reliable ass to the dirt. By the battle’s end, she had bled out. The trio managed to defeat the bandits, who dropped their bags as they fled—one thief barely escaped, having been charred near to death by Rafule’s magic; the boy had grown quite fond of Daisy. All the thieves had in their two tattered and horrendous smelling bags were some top hats and a few pairs of well-kept boots. Rory gave Daisy her last rites, but as the party had been starving for two days at this point, she was reluctantly chopped into bits and turned into jerky. It took nearly a day to convince Rafule to eat some, and he was still not taking kindly to Rory simply asking for some “Daisy” whenever requesting jerky.

Because the thieves’ bags were so tattered and gross and the saddlebags the mule had carried were filled with what little supplies the party still had, Rory and Company had little choice but to carry the jerky around in the boots the thieves left behind; this put Bozius into a further horrible mood.

“Bozy, why so glum?” Rory asked, gnawing on some jerky. “This is the life! We go where we want, when we want; sleep where we want, with whomever we want; and strike out together on the open road. What could be better?”

“My back, for one,” Bozius snarled. “When are you going to take a turn with this damned thing? And when are we doing what we want when we want? All we’ve been doing is running from Grey’s men, who seem to always be everywhere!”

“In the name of King Robert and under the authority of Lord Grey,” shouted a police figure from the open field east of them, “As well as His Honor, the Mayor of Quinn, I declare that you, Roderick Casbury, come into my custody at once!”

“Told you!” Bozius cursed.

“How does someone sneak up on us in a field?” Rory asked.

The party immediately fled to the other side of the road, eyes remaining firmly on the five armed men that approached them. “Roderick Casbury? Where?” Rory shouted.

“Don’t play fool, Casbury,” the man continued, his party cautiously stepping off the grass and onto the road. “I recognize you for what you are, pirate.”

Rory laughed. “Pirate? You think I’m the famed Pirate of Vimiland? With what evidence?”

“First off, that pansy frock of yours that you have the nerve to wear as a shirt,” the officer stated. “The bandana, the lankiness—“

“Lanky?” Rory was outraged. “Sir, I’ll have you know that it requires a very specific diet and exercise regimen to keep my sleek, tone, and chiseled body.”

“Lookin’ pretty lanky to me, Muscles,” Bozius whispered through gritted teeth.

“Shut up, Bozy, you’re not helping,” Rory hissed in return.

“The fact that you travel with an oaf and a child in a dress…” the officer continued, unaffected.

“How do you like it, oaf?” Rory shot at Bozius.

“If someone takes notice of my bulging muscles and actual ability to put them to use and then calls me an oaf,” Bozius replied. “I’ll gladly take that as a compliment.”

“And the fact that you carry a sword on your hip, Mr. Casbury,” the officer finished, nodding to his men to approach Rory, “it’s all a dead giveaway.”

“You wear a sword,” Rory called out, stopping the men with a raise of his hands. “Are you a pirate, Mister…”

“Gibson,” the officer replied. “Lieutenant Jonathan Gibson, and, no, I’m not a pirate.”

“But you assume I am?” Rory asked, mocking offense. “Why? Because I dress with an obvious sense of high fashion? So I’m guilty of being sexy, and being sexy makes me a pirate? If I’m such a pirate, why is this a short sword and not a rapier? Would that not be more authentic, Lieutenant Gibson?”

“Yes, but—” Gibson started.

“And for that matter, so what if my shirt has some frills? Do I have a tricorn hat? Sure, I have a bandana, but it is worn at my neck, not upon my head. And what of the official pirate accessories? Sarcastic parrot, hook for a hand, corncob pipe—”

“That would be a snowman,” Bozius corrected.

“Snarling accent? Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum?” Rory caught himself, continuing on without missing a beat. 

“And most important, Gibsy, what of my pirate ship? If I were this pirate, would I not have a boat?”

“The Pirate of Vimiland doesn’t have a boat…” Gibson countered, his voice lacking the bolster and candor of before.

“Well neither do I!” Rory finished, now leading his friends away from the road.

“Halt!” Gibson insisted. “You are still under arrest!”

“By you?” Rory asked. “By the authority of the Quinn Police Force? Are you serious? Not on our side of the road, you won’t be. You fly no pennant of the king, and you already noted your mayor in that little speech earlier. In all honesty, your jurisdiction is limited by county lines, Lieutenant Gibsy, and this road would be the border.”

“It’s Gibson! And we can arrest you on the road as well, Casbury,” Gibson responded, some vigor back in his voice as his men all mumbled in agreement.

“Haven’t we already established that I’m not this Casbury fellow?” Rory asked. “And more important, we’re not on the road, we’re next to it. And, quite frankly, we’re happy traveling this way.”

“You’ll have to cross eventually,” Gibson foretold, waving his men back to the eastern roadside with him. 

“And when you do, I’ll be right here waiting!”

* * *

GIBSON WAS A man of his word: Rory and Company made progress along the western side of the road, and Gibson and his men kept pace on the eastern side. The lieutenant from Quinn was not giving up, and it seemed as this match would only end in Heflirin, where Rory would surely lose.

“Good work on the jurisdictional lines there, magistrate,” Bozius stated. “Any other bright ideas before these guys decide to turn a blind eye to the rules and just come over here after us.”

“Justice is blind, Bozy,” Rory noted.

“What?” Bozius asked. “Way to make a case for them then!”

“Sorry, I’m thinking,” Rory commented. “It’s hard to focus, I’ve been living off ass jerky for nearly a week and I’ve only had the two shirts to switch between since we left New Garrsion. Why couldn’t the fashion show have just gotten to me a bit sooner…”

“The fashion?” Bozius almost slapped himself in the head, he was so perplexed by Rory’s words. “Rory, look over there, on the other side of the road: those guys aren’t going to just hang out and wait for the authorities in Heflirin to take all the credit. I say we run.”

“The only thing we have going for us right now is that we’re not running,” Rafule jumped in.

Both Rory and Bozius stopped in their tracks and looked at the boy, baffled.

“What?” he responded to their confused glares. “I’ve been part of this from the beginning! I think I am entitled to an opinion.”

“If I have to listen to both of you talk, I might just walk over there and let them have me,” Bozius sighed.

“If we run, they’ll probably just chase us,” Rafule inferred. “Right now, they can see us, we’re not making any obvious moves to escape…”

“Except the whole part where we stand around here plotting,” Bozius cut in. “Can we at least keep walking?”

The party moved on as Rafule continued. “But Bozius is right, the police from Quinn are not going to want to share their bust with Heflirin. We’re running out of time to make a choice. Why don’t we just turn around?”

“And walk to Dree?” Bozius blew out a deep breath, likely in an attempt to calm himself as best he could. 

“Great idea, kid! Do you want to know why we prefer when you don’t talk?”

“No, Bozy, I don’t think that’s what the kid is saying,” Rory smiled. “When we get closer to Dree, we just turn around!” Rafule nodded and grinned.

“Genius,” Bozius snapped. “This idea is brilliant until you idiots realize that there is nothing stopping the Dree or Heflirin police—or, even better, the soldiers from Castletop—from patrolling this road. Are you going to give your jurisdiction speech to them, too, Rory?”

“We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it, Bozy,” Rory smiled, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“I’ll jump off and leave you to die,” Bozius mumbled and shook his head.

“Hey, Gibsy,” Rory shouted across the road. “We’re going this way!”

* * *

A DAY CAME and went with Rory’s party choosing to change directions along the roadside at random. Fortunately there had not been any traffic during this particular excursion, and even better, the officers from Quinn were starting to get bored. Or maybe they’re frustrated, Rory considered. Either way, I hope they leave.

Rory and Bozy had become used to taking watches through the night during their travels, though it became frustrating to have to rotate sleeping times for this long a period. At first, they were both reluctant to give a watch to Rafule, but one night Rory fell asleep when it was his turn, and Rafule just happened to wake up and pick up the slack. Rory offered to work it out with Bozius to allow Rafule to take a watch each night if the boy promised to never admit that Rory fell asleep. The agreement worked out and now the watches were shorter because all three men took turns.

With the officers from Quinn merely across the road, Bozius insisted on staying awake with Rafule for the kid’s watch. Rory smiled privately that it was not the kid who Bozius should be worried about. But the night was uneventful. As a matter of fact, the Quinn men offered Rory and his friends some breakfast in the morning in exchange for some donkey jerky. Expecting a trap, Rory reluctantly agreed.

“How do you want this to go?” Rory asked.

“Leave the jerky in the middle of the road,” Gibson called out. “Then we’ll come get it and leave you some breakfast.”

“I don’t like it,” Rory argued. “We go out there, leave, then go out there again? No way. You leave the food for us, then back off. We’ll come over and get it and leave you some jerky.”

“I’m not trusting a pirate,” Gibson retorted.

“Who said anything about pirates?” Rory scoffed. “I’m just a guy who likes to express himself through his wardrobe.”

“This food’s getting cold,” Gibson said.

“This jerky is running out,” Rory smiled. “Ever have donkey jerky before, Gibsy?”

“It’s Gibson!” Gibson corrected. “And no! Fine, here we come. Don’t try anything fancy!”

“Like what?” Rory asked. “Come over there and arrest you?”

“We want this pot back,” Gibson called over as he and his man left a small dish full of steaming breakfast in the middle of the road and retreated to their side.

“Go get it,” Bozius ordered, nudging Rafule with his shoulder.

“Ow! Why me?” Rafule asked, rubbing his tender arm.

“Because somewhere along the line you have to actually be a man,” Bozius insisted, and shoved the boy into the road, where Rafule tumbled into a cloud of dust. “Don’t go gettin’ no dirt in my breakfast!”

Rafule leapt to his feet and brushed off his robes—the once bleach white of his wardrobe was now a mix of faded beige, dirt brown, and grass stains, due in no small part to the boy having nothing else to wear. He slowly stepped over to the dish and reached down for it, but jerked his hand away with a hiss and put his fingertips to his lips.

“Good, still hot!” Bozius cheered. “Come on, Sally, bring it over!”

“Where did you get this kid from?” Gibson smiled.

“Some private girl school,” Bozius joked.

“Well, isn’t she a dandy?” Gibson cracked, and both his men and Bozy laughed.

Rory choked down his laugh. “C’mon, Rafule, it’s alright. Just use your sleeves and come over here.”

“Hey,” Gibson called out to Rafule. “Jerky!”

“Oh right,” Rafule put a top hat full of jerky down on the ground. As he picked up the pot, he kicked over the hat, sending some jerky into the dirt. “Oops! I guess they didn’t really teach us girls proper etiquette.”

At a glare from Gibson, Rafule practically ran back to his friends. An officer fetched the hat of donkey jerky and headed back as Rory, Bozius, and Rafule eyed their delicious breakfast. The pot was full of eggs mixed with a little cheese and ham, with three cold biscuits sitting on top. They were salivating just imagining the flavor.

“Hey,” Rafule called over. “There are no spoons or forks!”

“They didn’t teach us etiquette either, kid,” Gibson shouted back.

The trio didn’t care; they all reached in with there hands to eat the first meal of real food they experienced in nearly ten days. The pot was scraped empty in what seemed like an eye blink. Every delicious bite ravenously ingested and gratefully received.

“This is disgusting,” Gibson shouted over.

“We know,” Bozius responded.

“Bad deal, Gibsy,” Rory chuckled.

“Seriously, this is horrible,” Gibson called. “You guys live off this?”

“I wouldn’t call it living so much as surviving,” Bozius replied.

“It’s enough for me to take pity on you,” Gibson mentioned.

“Enough to let us go?” Rory asked.

“Not nearly,” Gibson smiled. “But I’ll make sure you boys get a good meal in Quinn.”

“Any whores where you’re from, Gibson?” Bozius asked hopefully.

“Best this side of the Yuklit,” Gibson pledged.

“Maybe we should just let them arrest us,” Bozius grinned, licking egg and cheese remnants from his fingers.

“Yeah, I’m sure they make house calls to prison cells, Bozy,” Rory laughed.

“Never know…” Bozius’s eyes lit up at the prospect.

“Boys, hush,” Gibson called over, then mumbled some commands to his men.

The road sat a little higher than the shallow trenches along its sides, so Rory and Company could only see the men from Quinn stand up, some ran east, and vanished into the soft morning mist and high grass. Rory and Bozius both drew swords, neither sure whether a trap was about to be sprung by the officers or some other danger lurked. Either way, they prepared themselves for whatever unexpected thing may come from across the road.

Gibson’s side remained quiet, and he and his men either hunched down or ran off to investigate whatever disturbance they experienced, rendering them all invisible. Not a single sound pierced the silence; not so much as even an animal or the wind.

Then Rafule sneezed.

“Shut up,” Rory hissed, as Bozius accompanied with, “Are you an idiot?”

“Sorry guys, that was completely on purpose,” Rafule mocked; he was getting bolder.

Bozius slapped him. “Bless you. Now shut up.”

“Run, boys,” Gibson called out, stepping out onto the road. “They got Ranbin. We’ll try to hold them off. Just run!”

“Run?” Rory thought. “Yeah, sure, you get ‘em, Gibsy!”

“No, Rory, wait,” Bozius stopped his friend, grabbing his arm. “Gibson, what is it?”

“Bandits,” Gibson called, as his three remaining officers stepped into the road to join him. “Raiders, actually.”

“The Step,” Rory and Bozius noted in unison.

There were many thieves guilds in the world, and few concentrated in Vimiland. The only one whose members were referred to as “Raiders” were those initiated into the Unfaltering Step, an organization that never seemed sure weather it wanted to be a guild for thieves or murderers. Not enough was know about the Unfaltering Step to really understand it, but the Raiders were feared. They had not been heard of in sometime, and rumors had it that the guild moved east across the Devilarke River and out of Vimiland; apparently they had not completely vacated the premises.

“Is this bad?” Rafule asked.

“The Unfaltering Step is what the Cache of the Hand would be if the Hand didn’t abide by a code and promoted killing en masse,” Rory answered, grip white-knuckle tight on the hilt of his short sword. “Actually, think of along the lines of the The Unforgiving International Circle of Death and Robbery, if the Circle didn’t sit up in Rande Bahn and just play house all the time.”

“So bad then,” Rafule gulped.

“Yeah,” Bozius nodded. “Real bad.”

“Run, boys, while you can,” Gibson asked.

“And let you die?” Bozius snapped.

“He does kind of want to give us over to Calus Grey, Bozy,” Rory shrugged, considering escape the best option.

“He gave us breakfast,” Bozius argued, before turning his head back to the road. “And he was gonna give us whores…”

“He was never going to give us whores!” Rory barked.

“I might have got you one whore,” Gibson rolled his shoulders, preparing for the oncoming melee.

Bozius jumped up into the street, but upon making eye contact with Gibson, leapt back to the roadside.

“Really?” Gibson asked. “Big fish up here, Bozius. And this at least gives us the high ground.”

“We’ll guard the low ground,” Rory called back. “From behind…”

“Ugh!” Gibson grunted, nearly pouting. “Come on, men, fall back to the other side.”

“No need for strategy, captain,” squealed the thin voice of a Raider just joining them on the road. “We’re already here. Brought you something!”

From behind his back, the Raider pulled out the eyeless and tongue-less head of Officer Ranbin and flung it at Gibson’s feet. The Raider himself was not the kind of imposing figure that Rory expected. He was thin, but not even lean. The tight leather breaches and jacket that he had buckled about his person were still a bit loose in the chest and arms, though his gut protruded against the worn material. His neck was no thicker than his arm, and his beaklike nose and thinning, unkempt light blonde hair atop his scarred pate made him out to be a diseased man, possibly mad. The blood splashed about his face, hands, and clothing sold him as a psychopath. He was chewing on something large, and when he finally gave up and spit it out, Rory realized it was a tongue. A human tongue. Ranbin’s tongue!

“Monster!” Gibson screamed, raising his sword and bull rushing the frail Raider.

But the skinny bandit was surprisingly lithe, dodging Gibson’s swipes and landing in shocking kicks to the police officer’s sides and abdomen. Gibson and his men only wore leather armor, about an inch thick at best. It was not offering the lieutenant much against the cackling crazyman’s barrage of kicks and chops. Then, when the Raider managed to finally knock the wind out of Gibson, the psychopath pulled out a long, serrated dagger to finish the job.

Then he dropped to the dirt of the road, a throwing dagger driven into his skull.

“That’s enough of that,” Bozius proclaimed from the roadside, prepping another throwing dagger. “You guys coming or what?”

As Gibson and the other officers from Quinn joined Rory, Bozius, and Rafule, at the side of the road, the rest of the Raiders of the Unfaltering Step stormed across the road. It seemed like there were a hundred of them if there was one, but Rory found his center and focused. He quickly noted at least fifteen, though he hated uniforms; they made counting so difficult. Almost all of the Raiders were wearing similar garb as the dead psycho in the road, though some had minor alterations made. A cape here, an extra belt there; not all of them were cackling madmen, and not all of them were men. Rory could not help but admire bloodthirsty, marauding women in tight, form-fitting leather outfits, particularly the ones who chose to exploit their “talents” with more revealing changes to their costumes.

“If this is the way I have to die,” Rory noted to himself. “Even if it’s only half the way I imagined it, I will be a happy man!”

“They’re not going to kill you with sex, Rory, they’re just going to plain ol’ ordinary kill you, and it will hurt,” Bozius stated, dragging his friend back from the road for a better vantage point. “Rafule, fire would be real nice right about now!”

“I can’t,” Rafule admitted, waving his hands in frustration. “The officers are in the way.”

“Gibsy, get back,” Rory commanded, but it was too late: Gibson was already in the middle of another fight.

And now Bozius was as well. He took down two more Raiders with his throwing daggers—though he missed a third—before drawing his sword to take on what Rory could only describe as a towering hulk armed with a large hammer. Bozy was faster, but barely. The hammer came down—wielded in two hands by its long haft—but as Bozius came up to slash at his opponent, the hulk managed to lift the handle in time to block. In the meantime, Rory chose to defend Rafule. The boy was only good for one thing in a fight, and until his opportunity presented itself, he was an easy target. A circle of 6 Raiders formed around Rory and Rafule almost instantly, and despite the alluring fact that four of them were women that chose to reveal as much flesh as their ridiculous leather-and-buckle costumes would allow, Rory was forced to fight. He would hate scarring such pretty faces, but if it came down to him or them… well, finally an easy decision!

“About time all those dance lessons pay off, mom,” Rory said to himself.

“Dance lessons?” Rafule asked, worry in his voice.

Rory spun away from the kid and whirled his sword overhead in a small arc that grew in its range and swept down into a wide circle. Two Raiders jumped back, but one unfortunate victim took Rory’s blade across—and clean through—the jaw. Rory stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by fear.

“Oh good, it was only that guy,” Rory breathed a sigh of relief. “You ladies okay?”

The circle of Raiders quickly closed in on him, vengeance burning in their eyes. Dodging and reflect blows as fast as he could, Rory was suddenly becoming aware of both his depleting endurance and lack of armor. Swiping at one girl’s blade, he spun to dodge another. Rory pushed Rafule out of harm’s way with a boot before dropping to the ground to narrowly dodge the flying kick of another very sexy marauder. A body stepped over him, but not to strike; one of Gibson’s men came to the rescue, offering a hand up while simultaneously locking blades with the remaining male of the closing circle of attackers. Together, the officer and Rory fought back-to-back, taking out Raiders as they came. So many bodies were flying in an out of his immediate vicinity that Rory lost track of where his favorite, lovely opponents went.

Some of them were unfortunately dead at his feet. “Sorry, ladies,” Rory lamented, still fending off attackers. “But it’s you or me. We could have been great, too!”

“Why won’t you just die!” Bozius bellowed, now hanging on the back of the hulk, locking the beast of a man’s neck in the crook of his elbow, attempting to choke him into submission. Finally the hulk stumbled and toppled forward, crushing two Raider’s beneath his massive weight as Bozius rolled away and lept to his feet, tossing two more daggers.

“Missed one,” Rory acknowledged.

“Did you see what I just did?” Bozius shouted. “Points for finesse at least!”

“Surely,” Rory agreed, running his blade through the chest of a man he was sure he owed money to. Well, he thought, that debt’s settled. “But deductions for inaccuracy.”

“Handicap for challenge?” Bozius asked, pulling his sword from what Rory assumed could only be thin air.

“You sure you want to start giving handicaps?”

“Distractions don’t count, Rory.”

“Have you seen these women?” Rory insisted.

“No, sorry, I was busy wrestling around with a four-hundred pound—well, hello there!” Bozius suddenly took notice of one of the female Raiders, this particular redhead donning shorts that almost weren’t really there and a top that was more bikini than jacket.

“See?” Rory asked, after throwing a rock at her and sending her unconsciously to the grass. “You don’t want to kill them. That’s a handicap!”

“Fair,” Bozius agreed, clashing swords with another bandit, though one of the officers took that fight over. “Verdict?”

“Nine,” Rory noted, stopping for a moment to survey the scene.

“Nine?!” Bozius argued. “Finesse is a minimum three!”

“You missed the second toss, Bozy.”

“Are you forgetting that there were two men crushed underneath?”

“Oh, sorry,” Rory recalculated. “Twelve, and that’s generous! Kill the hulk next time and I’ll gladly give you fifteen, no argument.”

“I’m taking your handicap away,” Bozius waved the argument to a close.

“Watch out!” Rafule screamed, leaping in front of Rory and Bozius.

A large bunch of Raiders came over the ridge of the road, but this time the officers were not in the path. Rafule lunged forth and released a stream of fiery magic in a wave of power that crushed the first oncoming bandits under its might and singed them into an abrupt death, while actually scaring those behind to turn and retreat. Those that did not give in to fear were swept up by the flow of burning magic, cooked to sinders by the wonderous energy wielded by the teenage boy who called upon such ferocity. Even some of those Raiders who attempted escape found themselves too slow for the inferno that hunted them down. Rafule himself was awash in blazing light, a blurred silhouette against the canvas of incomparable force bursting forth from his hands with such magnitude that Rory needed to turn away for fear his eyeballs would melt in their sockets. Then, as quickly as the storm of flames rocked the roadside battlefield, it was gone, leaving in its wake a trail of smoldering corpses.

Rafule fell to his knees, in shock. He looked at his hands as if he could not believe they belonged to him. He looked up at Rory, lip quivering. Try as hard as he could to hold back the tears, the boy had exhausted his strength saving the lives of his companions, though at the great cost of taking the lives of so many others. Granted, people got hurt at Appleton, but the guards managed to escape—albeit with broken bones. To this point, Rafule had never killed anyone, and now his first kill was not one person but a flock.

The boy erupted into a panic-stricken, hysterical fit. He was gasping for breath for he was crying so hard. Overwhelmed, he could do no more than bawl. Rory did the first thing that came to mind: he knelt down and pulled Rafule in to his chest.

“Let it out, Raffy,” Rory whispered. “It will be okay.”

“No it won’t,” Rafule blurted. Rory could feel the tears and snot ruining his shirt. “They’re all dead. I killed those people! I watched you all fight and kill them, but I froze. I was scared! But then the others came over and I thought they might kill you! You and Bozy are all I got, Rory!”

Rory’s heart sank at the sentiment. All this time, he never considered Rafule’s place in this world. Did he even have one? His uncle left him for dead, and as Byron Wordsly is the master of the estate at Dengalde, Rafule may never be able to return home. Besides that, Rafule Charsbic’s universe was flipped upside-down since accepting the job with his uncle: he was left for dead, brought into a criminal enterprise, hunted across the country by royal forces, and now pushed to the edge, or as near to it as anyone should ever go.

“You did good, kid,” Bozius affirmed, squatting down and placing a hand on Rafule’s shoulder.

“Bozius?” Rafule was in disbelief at Bozius’s affection.

“It’s tough out here, and there’s bad people all over,” Bozius continued. “If not for you, those bad people would have won.”

“Very good stuff out there, son,” Gibson added, pulling a pin off of his coat and placing it in Rafule’s hand. It was the image of an eagle carved out of wood. “That’s the only medal we give out back in Quinn. You only get it for a selfless act in the defense of others. You earned it, kid.”

The fight was over. Bodies lay dead or unconscious all around, save for the two Raiders of the Unfaltering Step that Gibson’s two remaining officers held hostage—unfortunately another man from Quinn fell to the bandits. Gibson’s men dragged them back up to the road. Rory, Bozius, and Rafule followed the lieutenant as far the roadside, then kept their distance.

“We’re going to head to Dree,” Gibson admitted. “I could just as easily now send Jonah or William on ahead to inform the magistrate there of our coming, or even the installation of the King’s Rangers, for that matter, but I need them here, to help me… question our prisoners. You’ll be in irons if you continue on.” Gibson paused to let Rory take the information in. “You almost had me believing you when we first met, but now I’m sure that you are exactly who I knew you were all along, Roderick Casbury.’

“You’re good men. We have to inquisition these men before we can go on,” Gibson placed special emphasis on the word “inquisition,” and there was no meaning lost in his words. He looked off into the distance, toward the river that could not be seen from this distance. “It would be a shame if you weren’t here to be arrested when we finished up. Waste of a trip from Quinn, I feel.”

Bozius extended his hand towards the police officer, and so did Rory. “Thanks, Gibsy.”

Gibson merely raised his hands, palms forward. “No offense, Rory, Bozius, but if I take your hand over this here road, I will be obligate to arrest you.”

With that, Gibson nodded and walked away.

Rory and his friends ran west towards the river.

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

HE WAS TRAPPED, and there was no obvious way out. A victim of his own actions, Rory had nobody to blame for his current predicament but himself. Had he the foresight to see this coming—or the sense to pay attention to it—he would not be in the dank prison, counting off the ticking seconds of his life. Rory was nearing the edge of his sanity, practically about to scratch at the walls to keep from bursting at the seams.

At least there was bacon.

“Thelma, this is delicious,” Rory commented to the police secretary as she handed him another plate of breakfast, smiling bashfully as she did. “You are an exquisite woman!”

The middle-aged woman giggled to herself and bounced back to her stove. Considering all the times he had been arrested, thrown in a dungeon, or tied to the gallows, Rory did not think this arrangement was half bad. Thelma was the best cook the pirate had come across in some time, and between the two deputies, Vincent adored the ground he walked on and Bartholomew seemed to be equally star-struck—though he tried not to show it.

A perfect situation for a master manipulator of Rory’s class!

“Gentlemen,” Rory asked between bites of savory bacon. “Here’s what puzzles me: you are deputies, but who is in charge exactly? I mean, one of you should be promoted, wouldn’t you say?”

“Bartholomew is pretty much in charge around here,” Vincent admitted, moving on to his third plate of pancakes.

“Ever since ol’ Patrick retired,” Bartholomew added, puffing his chest out and plucking his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. “Doesn’t seem right not having him around, but what can you do? We just have to wait for the mayor to make the promotion official.”

“That’ll be nice,” Rory congratulated. “How long since Patrick retired?”

“Three years,” Bartholomew answered, the answer coming forth like reflex.

Interesting… “Any day now, my friend,” Rory assured him. “Any day now.” And any minute until I get out of here…

* * *

“IT’S KILLING ME!” Rory moaned, tugging at his shirt. His vest lay atop his boots in the corner, as the pirate was making himself right at home. “I’ve been wearing this same shirt for four days! What are people going to think? At this point, I would take anything. Vince, surely you can find me something!”

“We’ve got a duty to uphold, Rory,” Bartholomew cut in, placing a hand on Vincent’s shoulder to keep him from leaping at the opportunity.

“A duty?” Rory asked. “My dear Bartholomew, is it not your duty to keep your prisoner safe and comfortable?”

“Comfortable? Not really. I mean, we fed you, didn’t we?” Bartholomew asked. “And how are you not safe?”

“I’m the victim of fashion homicide, Bartholomew!” Rory pleaded. “It’s the worst crime of all! My shirt is trying to be the death of me!”

“It is a pretty nice shirt,” Vincent commented.

“Thank you, Vince, you have impeccable taste,” Rory bowed. “But the issue is not necessarily the shirt itself, but the fact that I have not been relieved of its fine company for some time now. Four days!”

“We don’t have anything here for you, Rory,” Bartholomew regretfully spoke.

“But you could get me something,” Rory stated. “If you were so kind.”

“With what money?”

“Oh, no money, my captain, no money at all!” Rory assured him, appealing to Bartholomew’s rank—or desire thereof. “I would easily accept one of yours, or even Vince’s.”

“You would wear one of my shirts?” Vincent’s eyes lit up as if a room full of presents just opened up before him.

“Vince, I would be honored,” Rory bowed again.

“Surely we could get him a shirt, Bartholomew,” Vincent begged. “It wouldn’t take long at all!”

Bartholomew’s face turned grim. “Sorry, but it’s out of the question. Lord Grey will be here soon for you, and you can take up your request with him.”

“Callus Grey? Come here?” Rory tried hard to force out a believable laugh. “For me? Don’t be silly.”

“He’s the one the posters say to report your capture to,” Bartholomew eyed Rory with a pensive glance. “It’s a shame to say it, Rory, but you’re a criminal.”

“Criminal? I’ll admit, I’m a thief—truly, a pirate—but do you know what it is I stole?” Rory asked, pausing in wait for an answer that never came. “The hearts of millions!”

Thelma wiped her eyes in sympathy, handing a handkerchief to Vincent, whose eyes were also getting damp. “That’s it!” the plump deputy said, leaping to his feet. “I won’t stand for this injustice! Rory, I will get you a shirt!”

Rory smiled with pride as Vincent turned to leave, but his way was barred immediately by Bartholomew. “If anyone’s running off to fetch him a shirt, it might as well be me,” the acting chief determined. “Thelma, come with me. I could use your fashion sense.” Rory doubted that, as the woman wore a baggy, flower-print dress big enough for two Thelma’s—and that was a whole lot of Thelma!—covered in a raggedy, home-knit gray fleece. Still, two less people guarding Rory were better than one.

Now he and the malleable Vincent were alone.

“Thank you, Vince,” Rory nodded. “Sometimes a man needs a champion, and you stepped up to the challenge.”

“All in a day’s work, Rory,” Vincent smiled, sitting down with a pastry, quite proud of himself. “Though neither of them is going to know a paisley from parsley, but I tried to go for you instead.”

“That you did,” Rory agreed, taking a seat. “You know, you could go anyway.”

“And beat Bartholomew and Thelma back?” Vincent asked. “I know it’s hard to believe looking at me, but I’m not in as good of shape as I used to be!” This said while he proceeded to spill jelly-filling down his shirt.

“I bet you could do it,” Rory continued. “And wouldn’t it be famous if I was wearing a different shirt when they came back?”

“Rory, I’m a big fan—”

“I know, you asked for three autographs!”

Vincent paused a moment, licking jelly from his fingers. “Don’t think I don’t know your reputation! I love all the stories about the famed Pirate of Vimiland!”

“And the songs!” Rory cut in. “Don’t forget about them.”

“Oh, of course! Checkmate the Queen is one of my all-time favorites,” Vincent agreed. “But what I’m saying is that I know the moment my back is turned, you’ll pick that lock and be on your way, and I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“Dear sweet, ignorant Vincent,” Rory appealed. “Do you have any idea what goes into the art of lock pickery? It’s not as if I stare the lock down and will it to open. Do you think it takes a tap of my finger to convince the tumblers into place, the mechanisms to deactivate? Everyone thinks it’s so simple, but it’s not!’

“A lock is a work of art—an example of pure perfection—and each is different.” Rory continued. “What was the locksmith thinking when he made her? Who was his muse? You searched me when you brought me in—which, reminds me, I would like my money back, please. Did you find anything on my person that would suggest I could free myself? A set of precision tools, perhaps? A bump key? A list of combinations? No, of course not! Do you know why? Because I don’t have my tackle on me! Ipso facto, I cannot break out of this cage!”

“Ipso what-o?” Vincent asked.

“Some dead language, I just use it for emphasis,” Rory waved off the question. “Point is, were you listening? Vincent, you could walk out of here and go home, and I would be sitting right here come morning! Now, please, don’t make me wear whatever hideous garment those two bring back. Go, take that impeccable sense of fashion you possess and get me something that looks good!”

“I will!” Vincent agreed, wrestling himself out of chair and to his feet. “You deserve it, Rory!”

“Good man!” Rory cheered, leaning on the bars of his cell and pumping his fist in the air. “Go get it! Remember I’m partial to maroons, reds, purples; they really accentuate my raw sexuality. And, Vincent…” The guard paused at the door, waiting on Rory to complete his thought. “I wasn’t kidding about the money; I really want it back.”

Vincent nodded and pulled Rory’s coin purse out of a drawer, handing it over.

“Very good,” Rory thanked him. “Don’t want to be stealing money now. Once you start down that road you never go back! Now, get out of here! Leave me festering in my prison to think on the mistakes I have made that lead me to this point!”

Vincent marched out purposefully, leaving Rory alone in the jailhouse. The pirate lifted up two purses to inspect them, noticing the one he pinched off of Vincent’s belt was noticeably lighter than his own. Not exactly the keys, Rory considered, but it will do!

Rory immediately strapped on his boots and vest, and got to work. Every second was precious, and the clock was ticking. From his boot he pulled out two long pins and got to work on the lock. It always surprised Rory how few locks could not be sprung with a simple application of pressure and patience—quite similar to his approach with the female anatomy. Feeling around for the tumblers, he found the shearline—the proper spacing to create between the tumblers within the lock—and with a click and a twist, felt the lock spring open. Odd, Rory was certain he almost hear the heehaw bray of a donkey as well…

Suddenly the back wall of his cell burst open just as the gate pushed away. Turning, Rory saw Bozius and Rafule standing in a cloud of dust, a rope spread from Daisy to the bars that once stood in the window of his cell, now amongst a pile of rubble on the ground behind the jailhouse.

“I thought you might come to visit,” Rory greeted. “Broad daylight, huh? Kind of bold, isn’t it?”

“Strike when they least expect it,” Bozius smiled, untying the rope from the bars and resetting the gear on Daisy’s back. Something’s missing, Rory thought.

“New pack?” Rory took notice of the thick leather bag on Bozius’s back.

“Cost a pretty bobby, too,” Bozius nodded. “Don’t think I ain’t claiming the cost first before we split the price for this damned stupid Baby.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it any other way,” Rory smiled, stepping over the debris.

“Rory!” Vincent called out, his voice cracking with heartbreak. In his hand was a purple shirt garnished with a paisley print. He was standing in the doorway to the jailhouse.

“One moment, gentleman,” Rory asked, to the grunting groans of protest from both men. He approached the deputy, hands raised. “Vince, look, I didn’t escape. I was broken out!”

“You just stepped through the door to your cell!” Vincent noticed.

Rory stopped a beat to inspect his work. “Must’ve rattled free when the wall came down. Point is, Vincent,” Rory snatched the shirt from the man’s hand. “This is a very nice shirt! It might even fit!”

“I told you I used to be in better shape,” Vincent dropped his head in sorrow.

Rory felt his own heart break a little. Looking at the shirt, the Pirate of Vimiland made a decision he rarely ever made, save for those seldom occasions such as this where particular measures were called for.

“You dropped this earlier,” Rory tossed his own coin purse into Vincent’s hands, keeping the deputies lighter purse for himself. “I’d hate to see you broke, Vince. Until next time, shall we?”

With that, Rory bowed and ran out to his friends.

“If you’re done playing kissy face with you new boyfriend, I would like to get out of here before the Grey Callus makes an appearance!” Bozius insisted.

“Yes, Bozy, of course,” Rory agreed. “I wonder whatever could be taking Bartholomew and Thelma so long. Where could they be?”

“Right here!” Batholomew called from the street, several shirts in hand. Thelma stood beside him, also with many samples to choose from. Behind them, several townsfolk were dropping the clothes in their hands to pick up whatever nearby improvised weapons they could.

“Best. Escape. Ever.” Bozius lamented.

“We thought a little fashion show would be nice for our celebrity guest,” Bartholomew said, dropping an armful of garments to draw his sword. “Apparently, we’ve just been had by the Pirate of Vimiland!”

“And I made you breakfast!” Thelma hissed.

“Thelma, Bart, so sweet,” Rory fumbled as his party slowly backed away from the amassed mob. “But really, isn’t this better? Think of the story you get out of this! Bozy, how fast can Daisy run?”

“You saw her before,” Bozius replied. “Faster now that she’s no longer carrying a hundred-pound box on her spine, but I might be a bit slower!”

“Run!” Rory commanded, turning to flee.

The trio spun on their heels and booked it for the road out of town.

“Raffy,” Rory gasped, “What do you have for me, kid?”

“Are you mad?” Rafule demanded. “I’m not setting innocent people on fire! They were going to put on a fashion show for you, Rory!”

“Who said anything about killing anybody? Why is it always killing?” Rory asked. “I just want some mayhem and chaos. Slow them down a bit. They’re not just coming after me, y’know!”

“Good point,” Rafule noted. “Does this grass look dry to you?”

“Here? I doubt it,” Bozius answered. “It rains pretty good around these parts this time of year.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” Rafule regarded, and stopped to turn and face the onrushing crowd. They were closing in, but far enough for him to avoid directly burning any of them. Pushing forth both his hands, Rafule worked an arc of fire across the ground between the townsfolk and the party. It took a bit of time to take, but eventually the ground lit up, and Rafule worked a ten foot wall of flame through the grass from one street to the next.

“Hopefully the roads keep the fire from spreading,” Rafule wished, turning to rejoin his friends.

“Yeah,” Bozius blurted in mock agreement. “I’d hate for the horde of homicidal runway models to get hurt. That would be a shame! Rory, can you take this bag? My shoulders are hurting something fierce.”

“And break our good pace we have going?” Rory questioned. “I’ll take it when we get there.”

“Get where?” Bozius asked, adjusting the straps on his shoulders.

“I’m not sure yet,” Rory admitted. “But we’ll get there!”

“Should have left you in jail,” Bozius regretted.

“And miss all this excitement?” Rory smiled. “You wouldn’t dream of it!”

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

THE MORNING BROUGHT the scent of breakfast, hope for opportunity, and the slightest sensation of a hangover, all good signs for things to come. Rory’s party dined and packed up the mule—the fact that the animal had not been stolen in the night was also taken as a very good omen—for a trip to what would hopefully be a successful business meeting. In an attempt to get reacquainted with the finer points of Rande Bahn, Rory spoke briefly to Chuck about the town’s general geography, and upon adjusting his bearings, led his party downtown to the Westbury Playhouse.

Culture was nowhere to be found in a town that prided itself on being devoid of class, rules, or morals, and the playhouse was not a place one ventured to for a night of classic theatre. It was run by Herrick Labruce, a former accountant fallen from nobility to become a loan shark to clientele that would likely be found gracing the grand ballrooms of King Robert’s court. The man had a fortune if he had a bobby, and this made him the most likely candidate for business with Rory. Finding the Westbury Playhouse would be easy; gaining audience would be the difficult part.

“What exactly are you planning on saying to Labruce when you see him, Rory?” Bozius asked. “Well, hello, sir, we stole this thirty-pound stupid baby from the Grey Callus, how much are you willing to pay for it? I just don’t see that approach working.”

“Neither do I, Bozy,” Rory agreed. “But he is our best shot. This Golden Baby could be his shot back into Bobby’s court!”

“What makes you think he wants back in?” Bozius countered. “The man has success, fame, security—I heard he’s Circle!”

“The Circle doesn’t really seem all that bad,” Rafule chimed in.

“Just ‘cause the one run in you hand with the Circle involved that blubbering little girl doesn’t mean they ain’t dangerous,” Bozius warned. “I’m serious, Rory, you gotta have a plan!”

Bozius was right. Rory had not actually thought this out beyond getting to Ronde Bahn and seeking out a buyer. What was he going to say? He usually had a buyer in mind when he snatched something, but this whole Golden Baby heist sort of fell into his lap. If he and Bozius took the other split from the fork in the forest, they would never have stumbled upon Rafule, and this situation would never have been theirs to deal with.

Rory could not help but smile. “It’s fate, Bozy!”

“What?” Bozius snapped.

“It’s meant to be,” Rory explained. “We were intended to sell this baby to Herrick Labruce.”

“Are you insane?”

“Not in the least, my muscle-bound friend. The tides of fortune have pushed us in this direction, our sails filled with the winds of destiny!”

“Oh no,” Bozius lamented, face in hand. “Not another pirate analogy…”

“The currents of our lives have ebbed and flowed to culminate in this one epic destination: we entered this ravaging storm of fortune not of our own will but pulled by something greater, to stand on the bow as the sun breaks through the clouds, to lead us to our most triumphant victory!”

“Great, great!” Bozius cut in. “I’m glad that we have the winds of fortune and undertow of destiny to sell the Baby for us. I thought your plan might be ridiculous. Glad you thought this one through!”

“I’m actually kind of inspired…” Rafule admitted, awestruck by Rory’s monologue.

“Shut up,” Bozius squinted at him.

Before long they had arrived at the Westbury Playhouse, a large and rather old building in the center of downtown Rande Bahn. It was easily two stories if not three, with large pillars supporting a marquee above the veranda, which stood atop a five-step half-moon marble stairway. Large windows near equal in height to the face of the theatre let light into the front hall, displaying the beautiful architecture within. Such a sight of majesty in an otherwise gloomy alcove of despair nearly brought a tear to Rory’s eye, which he pretended was an itch for the sake of wiping it away.

Bozius grabbed his arm before Rory could climb the first step. “Really though, you got something better than tides of fortune, right?”

Rory simply smiled confidently at his friend. “It’s destiny, Bozy.”

Bozius sighed but released his friend’s arm. The trio walked up the steps and into the Westbury Playhouse, donkey and all. The front hall featured a checked marble floor, with subdued red and brown stucco walls that created a very comfortable contrast with the reflective floor. Two stairways complete with swirling wooden railings wound around the outer edges of the grand room and rung up to meet above the entryways into the theatre itself. Before these doors were rooms off to either side, both on the first floor and mezzanine level upstairs as well. Rory actually found it a shame that something so magnificent would never be used for its original purpose; it was really quite shameful in his eyes, and he had rarely himself ever been to a play. When I’m filthy rich, he allowed his fantasies to drift for a moment.

“May I help you?”

A striking woman stepped out from one of the rooms upstairs. This beautiful bespectacled brunette was bedecked in a soft red dress that almost appeared to grow forth from the very walls of the theatre itself. Though the dress was obviously tailored to match the woman’s curves, she accompanied it with a loose-fitting brown coat that came down to a point just below her waist, hiding her form that Rory could only imagine was every bit as luscious as his wandering mind hoped it could be.

“Yes, my dear,” Rory called back. “We have come to see Lord Herrick Labruce.”

The woman eyed Rory for a long moment, considering him for some time. “Come up.” With that she vanished into the room from which she came. “Leave the donkey.”

The trio, all bespelled by this mysterious woman, did as she said and made their way up to the mezzanine. Entering the room, they found her sitting behind the desk of an office. There were two bookshelves, a couch, and some chairs, with a door behind her that must lead to Labruce’s office.

“I am Charlotte, his…” again she considered Rory for a lingering moment. “Secretary. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We have a business proposition for your employer,” Rory replied.

“That won’t do, Lord Labruce is a very busy man,” Charlotte commanded them with her soft-toned but strong voice. “Tell me about this business of yours?”

“We have had come into our possession a certain item that we feel Lord Labruce would be quite interested in.”

“And you want to sell it?”

“Pardon me?” Rory was taken aback.

“Don’t play aloof with me, Mister…”

“Casbury,” Rory replied.

“Casbury?” Charlotte asked. “Roderick Casbury?” It was as if she were tasting the words, trying his name on for size.

“In the flesh,” Rory nearly blushed.

“I see that…” Charlotte paused again, taking him in with her spellbinding eyes. “Well, I suspect you have come here to sell this item to Lord Labruce?”

“Yes, Charlotte,” Rory admitted. “You have deduced our motives.”

“I knew your intentions the moment you can strolling into our theatre,” Charlotte stopped abruptly, though this pause felt… different. “What are you asking for?”

“It’s negotiable.”

“I don’t care,” Charlotte was tough indeed. “How much?”

“I was thinking…” Rory had to be careful not to leave his opening price as a question. Without confidence, this battle was over before it began. “A hundred.”

Charlotte pierced him with those big, gorgeous hazel eyes, framed so elegantly behind her wire-framed spectacles. She paused, and Rory felt as if the breath would be snatched from his lungs if she wouldn’t soon speak again. “Very well. Lord Labruce should be back this afternoon. You may wait for him in the room below the right staircase, in the front hall where you came in.”

Success! “Thank you, Charlotte. We’ll happily wait downstairs. Gentlemen…”

Bozius and Rafule bowed a bit clumsily, but the effort was there—all three men were practically fastened in place by the overwhelmingly exquisite beauty of the woman before them. Rafule and Bozius exited first, and Rory followed. All three were on their way down the stairs but froze in place when Charlotte called again. “Mr. Casbury?”

The three men looked curious at each other. “Yes, Charlotte?”

“Would you come back in, please?”

Bozius looked directly at him, nodding, and mouthed, “Yes!”

“Of course, Charlotte,” Rory replied. “On my way…”

Bozius pumped his fist in celebration and led Rafule downstairs to the sitting room. Rory, meanwhile, brushed his clothes quickly with his hands, ran his fingers quickly though his hair, and proceeded back into the office, where Charlotte now stood in front of the desk, half sitting on its edge.

“Please, Mr. Casbury, have a seat,” she offered, indicating the chair immediately before the desk. “May I call you Roderick?”

Rory gulped. It was rare that a woman intimidated him. “Most people call me Rory.”

“Hmm…” Charlotte though, removing her glasses as Rory sat before her. “I prefer Roderick.”

“It does sound nice coming from you tongue,” Rory suddenly caught himself. “Lips, I mean! Your lips… sound nice…” What is the matter with you, he scolded himself privately.

“Why, Roderick, do I make you nervous?”

“Not at all, Charlotte,” he lied. “It’s just that this little transaction is important to me, and I want everything to go… perfectly.”

“Mm hmm…” Charlotte agreed, letting her long hair out of its bun, so that it could fall perfectly across the front of her shoulder, before she slinked her body into his lap. “I’ve got a feeling that it will.”

I really am gifted, Rory congratulated himself as he slipped Charlotte’s jacket from her shoulders and welcomed her lips against his. Her kiss set him on fire, and Rory welcomed the heat. He gently slid his hand across her cheek and into the hair behind her ear, pulling her body closer to his.

She pulled away. “This office can feel so… cramped,” Charlotte declared, nibbling one more time on his lower lip. “Follow me.”

She took Rory’s hand and led him to his feet. At this point, he would have willingly followed her into one of Rafule’s blazing infernos. Instead, she pulled him through the door at the back of the office and into what turned out to be a bedroom! Apparently, she lived here at the theatre. How convenient, Rory considered. Rande Bahn is really looking up!

The room was even darker and more subdued than the rest of the Westbury Playhouse, but somehow even more comfortable. Lace curtains kept the sunlight muted through the single window in the room, and the soft whites and deep browns of the walls and furnishings really kept Rory at ease—and he would need all the ease he could get in the presence of this vixen! Charlotte led him to the grand four-post canopy bed in the center of the bedroom, turned him about, and shoved him down to the soft mattress where he became lost in the plush comforter spread across it. Before Rory could fathom what was happening, Charlotte was on top of him, tongue down his throat and hands reaching to remove his clothes. His hands fought back in equal stride, pulling Charlotte from her dress. The couple twisted and rolled about each other, somehow never breaking a kiss for more than the span of a breath, and soon wound up naked and beneath that same plush comforter that Rory first found himself on top of.

Bodies pressed deeply against each other, Charlotte was again on top of him, leaning back in pure, loud ecstasy as the two lovers flesh converged in an explosion of sensual pleasure. Nothing could be more perfect at that very moment…

“What is the meaning of this!” came the voice of a man standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the office.

“Herrick!” Charlotte shrieked mid-stride.

“Lord Labruce?” Rory was not quite sure, though he was a bit embarrassed.

“What are you doing to my wife?!” the furious man demanded, stepping forth. Rory had only seen the man from a distance on a few occasions, but from the cut of the beard, the closely trimmed gray hair, and what looked like a small barbed circle branded into the back of his hand, it seemed pretty likely that this was indeed Herrick Labruce.

“I thought you were his secretary!” Rory stated.

“I am,” Charlotte murmured, rolling back on him one last time—likely a parting gift for both lovers. “I work for my husband…”

Labruce came at the couple with a sword, narrowly missing as Rory kicked Charlotte away and rolled himself to the floor. Labruce was old and slow, and Rory worked this to his advantage. The man made another swipe with his sword, and Rory ducked, grabbed his shirt, and rolled past the vindictive former nobleman. Escaping this blow, Rory found his pants and boots, then raised his still sheathed-and-belted sword to block Labruce’s next attack. Charlotte screamed and ran out of the room.

“I suppose you probably don’t want to hear about my business proposal, Lord Labruce?” Rory proposed.

“I’m going to kill you!” Labruce spat, raising his sword for another strike.

Rory ran off as the sword came down, hearing the blade get stuck in a dresser that could have as easily been his skull. Herrick Labruce was old and slow, but apparently quite strong still. Charotte fled the room, and Rory had no other option but to follow. As the two naked deviants came rushing down the stairs, Bozius and Rafule were stepping out into the hall.

“What happened?” Rafule asked.

“Rory happened,” Bozius answered.

“You encouraged me!” Rory accused as he reached the bottom of the stairs, struggling into his pants. “Grab the donkey, let’s go!”

The trio turned to flee, when suddenly a familiar face stood between them and the exit.

“You guys?” it was Shoulder-circle from the night before. “What are you doing here? You know this isn’t really a theatre, right?”

“I’m not so sure anymore,” Bozius quipped.

“Nice seeing you again,” Rory greeted nervously, looking back up the stairs while pushing his feet into his boots. “Sadly, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“Of course, right this way,” Shoulder-circle held the door open for them. “Now you, young man, did you learn your lesson? Are we going to respect our elders from now on?”

“Of course,” Rafule responded. “I’m so sorry about last night, really. Won’t happen again.”

“It might, you’re young,” Shoulder-circle smiled, patting Rafule on the shoulder as the trio exited on the way out. “But around here, you gotta be careful. Some people might kill you for less.”

“Kill them!” screamed Labruce from the top of the stairs as the trio exited the theatre. Bozius gave up one of his swords to jam the door handles and lock Shoulder-circle and Herrick in the playhouse.

Charlotte was outside, still naked. “I’m finally free!” she proclaimed, leaping into Rory’s arms and kissing him deeply. “I’ll never forget you!”

“I can’t wait to forget you,” Rory admitted, though he still kissed her once more. She was quite the kisser, with quite the body…

“Take this street down to Pastwine, and make a left. It’s the quickest way out of town,” Charlotte offered, kissing him one last time. “Oh, Roderick Casbury, you set me free! We will meet again!”

With that, Charlotte Labruce ran one way, and the trio ran the other. Despite instinct to turn sooner, they proceeded until they reached their destination, their frantic pace drawing way more attention than they ever wanted, all the while the mule squealing from the stress of the weight on its back and the pace it was being forced to keep. Finally it gave up and stubbornly stood its ground. Fortunately, the party had reached Pastwine.

The only question was which left to take?

“Pastwine Lane, Street, Road, or Way?” Bozius asked, reading the signs.

“Or Court?” Rafule added, noting another street sign.

“Maybe she figured we would know…” Rory considered.

“Well, you spoke the language of love with her,” Bozius cracked. “You tell us.”

“You told me to go for it!” Rory retorted, not enjoying Bozius’s attitude.

“That was before I knew she was Labruce’s woman!” Bozius countered.

“How was I supposed to know that?” Rory shouted. “And she wasn’t just his woman, she was his wife.”

“Even better!”

“Bozy, drop it! All I wanted to do was sell our Baby!”

A passing elderly couple stopped and stared, shaking their heads.

“Oh, who are you to judge!” Rory squawked at them. “You live here! You’re probably murderers and thieves!”

The man pulled his wife close, shook his head, and led her away.

“Guys, I think Pastwine Road is the way to go,” Rafule suggested, standing in the middle of the intersection. “Look!”

Following where Rafule pointed, Rory could see the gate. Escape was within sight! He ran over to the mule, grabbed its lead rope, and tugged. And tugged. And tugged and tugged some more, but the animal refused to budge.

“Try this,” Bozius offered, walking behind the mule. Seconds later, the animal squealed in a combination of fear and discomfort, and started trotting as fast down Pastwine Road as its legs would carry it.

“What did you do?” Rory asked.

“Trade secret,” Bozius replied, half-smiling.

As they neared the gate, Rory could see the guards there looking up the hill to where the party had come from. Risking a look over his shoulder, Rory saw the distant form of Herrick Labruce and several armed men, but they were fortunately too far for their calls to be heard. Rory and Company simply quickened their pace and charged for the gate, which was starting to be pulled shut. Apparently, Labruce’s voice need not be heard; the combination of his excitement and Rory’s party sprinting for the way out were all the clues the men at the gate needed.

“Rafule?” Rory asked.

“I was thinking about that, too,” the boy responded.

Thrusting his hands forward and spreading his fingers wide, Rafule took a huge breath, and with a great exhale pushed flames forth from each fingertip. The gate blew forth, set up in a great blaze; two guards were cast into flame, charging into each other and them bouncing into their nearby fellows; and also a nearby cart full of hay burst afire. Other guards posted nearby simply leapt back from the chaos, and the trio with donkey in tow ran out of Rande Bahn, though they were not free quite yet.

“The fire will hold ‘em off for a bit, but not long enough for us to stop and think,” Bozius stated as the party continued to run from the Pit.

“Well, we can’t go back to Octaria, not yet,” Rory noted. “Not with Tabitha there. We can’t endanger that town.”

“Suddenly you care about Tabitha again?” Rafule honestly seemed offended.

“Shut up, kid. Don’t question love.” Bozius scolded the boy. “When you find some guy willing to pop that sally cherry of yours, then you can have an opinion.”

“A guy?” Rafule asked. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Boys, not now,” Rory brought the conversation back. “We need to make a decision and soon. All this running and talking is making me really tired…”

“What about New Garrison?” Bozius proposed.

“As good as we’re going to get,” Rory acknowledged. “Let’s do it.”

With that, the party continued running in silence. A few roads branched off the one leaving Rande Bahn, but it was not until the party came across and chose one of several faint trails that they finally slowed down. No one seemed more relieved than the mule. The party paused for a short break to catch their breath, then continued at a walking pace down the mountain towards New Garrison. Confident that Herrick Labruce finally gave up on them, the trio felt comfortable talking again.

“We can’t keep lugging around this chest, Rory,” Bozius said. “It’s gonna kill this poor mule. It’s not like there’s a comfortable way to load a hundred-pound square.”

“It’s more of a rectangle really,” Rory stated.

“A square is a rectangle,” Rafule informed him.

“What?” Rory shot a look at Rafule.

“A rectangle is a shape with two pairs of parallel sides, containing within itself four right angles,” Rafule affirmed. “By definition, a square is a rectangle.”

“Your taking his side?” Rory asked, befuddled.

“What?” Bozius asked. “How is he taking my side?”

“Well, yes, I kind of am,” Rafule admitted.

“Don’t defend me with your nerd talk,” Bozius demanded, and punched Rafule in the arm.

“Ow!” Rafule yelled, grabbing his sore shoulder. “What was that for?”

“I’m a man,” Bozius asserted himself.

Rory simply shook his head. “Anyway… Bozy, you’re right. We’ll have to figure out another way to carry the Golden Baby. If we can get a sturdy pack in New Garrison, that might work.”

“Oh no, I’m not lugging this thing around,” Bozius said. “I ain’t no pack mule. Sorry, Daisy, no offense.”

“Daisy?” Rory asked.

“It’s her name,” Bozius replied, adjusting the supplies on her back and feeding her a handful of oats. “Why don’t we just sell the damn thing in New Garrison and be rid of it?”

“Who in New Garrison is going to have the eighty-thousand bobbies for it!” Rory demanded.

Bozius stepped back a bit. “Why does it have to be eighty?” Bozius asked. “We’ve gone way under value for stuff before.”

“I won’t accept less than eighty-thousand, Bozy,” Rory said, avoiding eye contact. “This time, we have to get enough.”

Bozius was quiet for a moment, pondering what Rory said. “I know what this is about! Dammit, it’s so obvious! You’ve been like this for awhile now!”

“What? No!” Rory went on, backing away a bit. “What?”

“You want to propose to Tabitha!” Bozius laughed. “Hell, I knew it! I knew you were ready to settle down!”

“Really?” Rory asked, some relief in his voice.

“Oh yeah, I knew it,” Bozius went on. “You want to retire, want a little nest egg. And you’re too good to not give the kid an equal cut. Alright, Rory, you want eighty, we’ll get your eighty. But consider this my wedding present to you!”

Rory laughed nervously. “You got it...”

“And I better be invited,” Bozius claimed. “And there better be an open bar! You know I should be your best man, right? Hell, I already got the bachelor party planned…”

* * *

THE TRIO ARRIVED in New Garrison late the following morning, having traveled right on through the night, stopping only long enough to unpack rations and refill waterskins, and felt a great relief come over them as they eyed the large fort in the center of town, the namesake for this little farming village. Long, long ago, in the days when Vimiland was still being settled and various factions fought over the land, this location was an important garrison for troops and supplies between the mountain trails and the towns of Liebert and Appleton. Now, some ghosts of that legacy still remained, but the fort now was more of a community center, with shops, a church, and the mayor’s home.

It was not the party’s current destination. They were more interested in food and rest, the latter more than the former. Soon after their arrival, Rory and Company came across the Red Lantern Inn, and—true to its name—a red lantern was lit outside the door. The party tied Daisy to a post and began unpacking her.

“I’ll see about a room,” Rory offered, cracking his back and slipping away to escape the heavy work.

Stepping inside, Rory was taken aback when all eyes seemed to do a double take at him. Nothing too strange; it actually happened quite often. Between his flamboyant fashion sense that typically heralded his identity, and the dirt caked on him from non-stop egress down the Crescent Mountains, Rory was bound to attract attention. Ignoring it—he was not in the mood for autographs this morning—the Pirate of Vimiland stepped up to the front counter to inquire about a room.

When the clerk avoided eye contact with him, Rory finally took notice of the Wanted Poster behind the desk: his likeness was drawn above a claim that he stole a pressure treasure from Castletop!

“Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Rory thought aloud.

“Roderick Casbury?” called a voice from behind him. Turning, he noticed two deputies. “Are you Roderick Casbury?”

“I might be…” Rory replied.

“Mr. Casbury,” the deputy stated. “I’m afraid we have to clap you in irons for the duration of your stay in New Garrison.”

At that moment, Bozius and Rafule were walking in with the Golden Baby’s storage chest between them.

“Oh no!” Rory shouted as dramatically as possible, waving his hands about wildly so as to keep the deputies’ attention on him. “Why? Oh why me? Why have I been forsaken?” His comrades took the hint and slowly crept back out. “For how long?”

“Well, Mr. Casbury,” the deputy continued. “I’m afraid until someone from Castletop comes to get you.”

“Oh, the humanity!” Rory pleaded, looking around to make sure his friends escaped. Looking through a window, past the patrons that were all staring at him intently, Rory spied Bozius, Rafule, and Daisy creeping back towards the forest. “The horror! The agony!”

“Mr. Casbury,” asked the deputy, “will you please go with us?” Rory nodded as he offered up his wrists to the iron cuffs.

“And Mr. Casbury,” asked the other deputy, opening his mouth for the first time. “When we get to the jailhouse, can I have your autograph?”

“Of course,” Rory agreed as the two men took him away. “After all, I can never deny a fan. Will there be food there?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the first deputy answered. “Thelma’s finishing her famous pancakes right about now.”

“Oh, Thelma,” Rory continued. “Bless her heart. Maybe we can work a backrub in there, too? I’m real sore. You know, from all the law-breaking.”

“We’ll see what we can do, Mr. Casbury.”

“Perfect…”