Lady of the Lake

Chapter 2

In the middle of the room there was a round table, and uniformed peoples sat at its edges.

The whole place reeked of smoke and sweat.

Amidst the jovial chatter and raucous laughing, there was a fat man. Serious and solemn, he was quiet as a mouse. Withdrawn, he seemed to meld with the gloom of a particularly dark corner. For reasons beyond him, the noise hushed to a murmur.

"Wait for it." Cried one of them. A tense pause... and then a burp ripped through the room.

"Oy – Oy – Oy." The crowd began drunkenly chanting, banging their tankards against the table. Large foamy swathes of mead splashed around. The man made a point of ignoring.

It was plain to see he was concentrating. His beady black eyes unmoving, his bushy brows furrowed and a slight crinkle of the nose. Underneath the rim of the table, his sausage fingers held onto a pair of well-worn cards. A pair of aces.

The game resumed.

"I'll call." Said one.

"I'll call." Mumbled another.

Most threw their cards away and the buzz of conversation filled the room once again.

"The stinking slut." A slurred voice to the mans left began. "I foken carried every bag, up and down, and she dinny even give me a lou-sy copper, nad even a thank yur. Cann'ya belief it?"

"You think -hic- that's bad. I ripped -hic- one of 'er dresses. On accident."

" 'f course."

"I fold, I swear I get the lousiest hands-."

"That harlot got me –hic- privy duty. Me. Imagine dat –hic- a royal fuckan guard up to my ears in shite for a monf. Over a blodey dress!"

"I only took the fudgen job cus of the easy money."

The man felt eyes on him. Glancing up at the table, his suspicions were confirmed. It was his turn. If he played this hand right, it could mean one, two weeks extra pay. But he had to play it right.

"It's a right'o shame. We're supposed to be headed to Hyute, but she's decided to take the backroads. Says she's got a stop on the way. What stop? There's nothing 'ere, no one but farmers and-"

"I herd she's going to visit her lover."

"Nah yus wrong it's 'er bastard kids we gonna see."

Things were heating up. He'd cast a line, and a few were nibbling. Nonchalantly, just like he'd practiced, he reached for his own tankard and took a long, drawn sip. The mead was bitter and bubbly, tickling its way through him.

While he did, he casually scanned the table. The cogs in his head whirred, taking notes of every pause, each card mucked, who was drunk and who was acting. He did this meticulously, adding and subtracting it all on one grand abacus. Purposefully, he put down the tankard and flung a handful of acorns to the growing mound at the centre of the table. They represented ducats.

"I raise."

"Nonsense. I heard she's got chests in the back of her carriage, filled with gold pieces-"

"Gowd pwices? Wuddis a Duchess gwoing to do wit those?"

"Well-uh-I don't know the specifics, maybe she's hiding them? Planning an escape? To run off with her lover."

"Escape? Wy bwing all of us?"

"Yur talkin out –hic- yur ass Deks. Ain't no lover –hic- it's obvious!"

"Wud is it then?"

"She's payin someun -hic- to off her 'usband. No secret those two don't get along."

The acorn mound in the middle had grown hefty. The man reckoned it was at least a week or two's pay. Only one left. An old man. He put on a brave face, but in the same way sharks could smell blood, the man could sense his spirit. Defeated, it was practically written on his forehead. It was almost too easy.

"Then she shat me out. In front of everyone! Just cause I didn't say your highness."

"Aye, it's not right. Too much even for a royal."

"Royal pain in the arse."

"Ya know, I dun even care wat the Dut-chess is 'ere fore. I just 'ope she gets wat she deserves."

"Here -hic- here." Someone lifted a tankard. "To 'er getting wat she deserves."

"To her getting what she deserves." They agreed in raised voices. There was a clinking of tankards. More mead spilled over.

"Oi you t**s you're disturbing the game."

"The game...?"

The pile had swelled, bigger than it had the whole day. Two month's pay. A fortune. The boisterous buzz and bumbling had stopped completely. No one dared speak above a whisper. A palpable tension hung in the air, mixing with the streaks of translucent smoke. A long silence.

"I'm all in." Said the old man, adding even more acorns to the stack. Considerably more. Ooo's and Aaa's rippled across the room. Every eye fell on the fat man now.

A loud creak, and stark white light bathed the hazy room. Chairs squeaked loudly, most complained in colorful language. To them, a religious moment was being interrupted.

The head of a soldier, barely old enough for service popped out the door frame.

"Captain, yur needed up front."

"I kinna feel un comin." A bassoon like belch boomed from inside. Impossibly loud and long. A cacophony of whistling and bravos erupted, silenced instantly as the door shut. Two months pay. Even he couldn't resist a smile.

"Right." Said the fat man, circling around. Facing forward, he ignored the boy and began down the steps. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Some cuckoo on the road Cap'n." The boy caught up and walked in step.

"Cuckoo?"

"Aye Captain, some senile old lady won't let us past."

"Hmph." The duo careened left. "You know where the Duchess stays?"

"No sir."

"It's back by the end, big and fancy you can't miss it. Go and tell her what's going on."

"Yes Captain." The boy soldier split off.

Hemmed in between the two tree lines, everything was at a standstill.

"She's going to be pissed." He muttered to himself knowingly.

Entering the thick of it now, he saw a patchwork of men and women busying themselves. Some tended to the horses, feeding and watering them. Nearby a commanding voice rattled off orders, while others offloaded large boxes from stationary wagons, unpacking and repacking.

Most merely loitered. Three cooks badgering away, all portly women. To his right, a simple looking girl with her back against a trailer wrapped her hands around one of the traders.

Threading in and out of the lines of caravans, he eventually found his way to the very front and was spat out from the herd. Layed out before him, was the path ahead. Still untouched by the grinding of hooves and axels, yet felled trees blocked the road.

Now out in the vast open he heard voices. Huddled close, he saw two lightly armed watchmen... and another. A figure hunched over, cloaked in black.

The captain walked over.

"Can't be done." One of the watchmen said gravelly.

"Ma'am it's simply not possible." Squeaked the other.

Hearing the footsteps, they craned their heads around and greeted him. He could see them properly now. One was a great deal lankier, with a rebellious tuft of blonde hair. The other was older, wider, with scars along his face that sported a beard so thick it added even more age to him.

"What can't be done?" The captain asked, as he joined the pair. The cloaked figure was bent low and its face was completely obscured, the hood faced him, but it felt that whatever face it hid wasn't looking at him, but through him.

They began discussing the hunched over figure, as if it weren't a few steps away.

"She wants to speak to the Duchess" Peeped Blondie.

He eyed the shadow where a face should be.

"Thank heavens you're here Cap." Started the older one. "Been trying to move her for ages but she won't budge."

"Let me try." And then in a slower, more deliberate voice like he was talking to a child or a simpleton. "Madam – I'm – going- to – need- you- to leave."

In a grating tone, one that sounded like something was stuck in her throat, the cloak spoke.

"Only after I speak to her."

"Her?"

Like a hunting hound who just spotted a cat, the hood jerked left, right, then left again.

"She comes."

"Who?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The cloak rasped, steady and even.

He ignored the jibe. "Listen. I-am-going-to-need-you-to-get-off-the-path."

A pause. She seemed to sniff the air.

"Hello?"

...

He clicked his fingers, waved his hand in front of the hood.

"Madam?"

...

"Thank heavens you're here Cap." Started the older one. "Been trying to move her for ages but she won't budge."

Then Blondie muttered softly. "Mad as a bat this one."

The captain thought for a moment, watching the strange cloaked statue. He noted that she not only hunched over, but there seemed to be a mound – a rather sizable one – sticking out from her back.

"Well we don't have a choice, the drivers and traders will start getting impatient soon if they haven't already, let alone what she'll think." Then again to the figure. "Alright-ma'am-we're- going-to-help-you-get-off-the-road. Is-that-okay?"

...

Shame, whoever it is must be lost. The fat man teetered over slowly, careful to not make any sudden movements, as if the cloak concealed a cornered cat. When he was close enough, he tried to gently place his hand at her back. She had a pungent stench to her, like she carried something that had died months past. While he reached for her hump, he made a mental note to get one of the soldiers to clean her.

The captain had never touched a hunchbacks hump before. Still he suspected something was wrong, when his meaty hand gently landed on the mound, and it moved.

His trained ears registered the sound of a sword being drawn.

Instinctually he leaped back. Good thing too, if he had stopped to wait and watch his head would have been lopped off.

Like a tempest through drapes, the slightly ajar cut in the cloak was blown away. All he saw was a faint grey blur, and the whistle of cutting air that followed. The tip of a sword glinted devilishly, inches apart from his throat.