Dragon's Trail

II: MINUET-1

II

MINUET

“Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance.”

— Confucius

Jarrod awoke to a chill.

He smelled candle smoke, with an underpinning of wet concrete and cedar. A basement smell. A woodshop smell. And distant incense.

It was cold.

Swearing silently through a yawn, he opened his eyes. A turn of his head yielded surprisingly less discomfort than he’d expected. He found some mobility in the left shoulder, bringing pain but not as much as he’d expected.

Jarrod looked up into the candlelit crags of a face, stubbly, the lines engraved with concern.

It took him a moment. It was a face he recognized, but certainly not one he’d expected. Carter’s face.

“You awake?” the voice seemed to seep from all corners of the room.

Jarrod closed his eyes again, tried to speak. Someone had stolen his tongue and replaced it with a hunk of steel wool.

Carter handed him a ceramic chalice of cold water. Jarrod sat up a bit and nursed it.

The room was generous, lit by wide candles in stone sconces and done in early—very early, he noted—medieval decor. Rough stone walls, bare timbers overhead, and a stack of split fat logs and a pile of dried cow flop beside a glowing fireplace. A wooden floor that looked splintery. A wolfskin spread-eagled on the wall, replete with dried, eyeless head. Rustic and simple, yet somehow rich: beams and boards were well cared-for, the bedsheets were soft and the furs covering him were real and thick, and the lone tapestry—green with a gold skeleton key superimposed along a white square tower in its center—was fine silk, heavy and bright, that seemed to glow of its own accord.

It was quiet. Wind rustled the skin on the wall. The fire snapped occasionally. If he concentrated, he could hear the burbling of a brook over stones.

“You all right?” asked Carter.

Jarrod tried to sit up further. Carter helped him.

“Good Lord,” Jarrod groaned, stretching with great effort and ow-ing repeatedly under his breath. “How long was I out?” Days? Weeks? No bedsores.

“Beats me,” said Carter. “You were out when I got here.”

He yawned again. “How long have you been here?”

Carter sipped at a ceramic stein of something foamy he’d had near his feet. “Three days.”

Jarrod stretched his neck and leaned forward to grab his toes beneath the furs. His flexibility wasn’t greatly compromised. He’d been well taken care of. “Bastard Renaldo,” he griped. “Beat the s**t out of me. Could’ve sworn he collapsed my windpipe. Did they cut me?” He reached his hand to his throat, expecting bandages, and finding none.

Carter’s tone was resigned. “I don’t know.”

“Where’s Siri?”

“I don’t know. Not here.”

“We’ve got to find her—Renaldo—”

Carter cut him off. “Forget Renaldo. This is you and me.”

“O-o-okay,” Jarrod blew out a long breath. “Where are we?”

Carter stood, went to the far wall, untied one leg of the wolfskin, and pulled it back to reveal a deep arrowslit set in a stone wall two feet thick.

Jarrod moved to the edge of the bed for a better look.

It was raining lightly against the outermost lip of the arrowslit, smudging any details of the curtain wall a hundred yards further and a hundred feet below.

They were very high in the tower.

Past the curtain wall, the skies were dark with rain above a hundred wooden roofs that sprawled down the hillside, oozing smoke from their chimneys. The outer wall of the town stood at the base of the hill, its towers, vaguely round, reduced to blurs in the mist.

The quiet was infectious, the rain a blanket on the world.

“Wow.”

“The Castle of Regoth Ur,” said Carter, “in Northern Gateskeep.”

“Do we have cell service out here?”

“I doubt it.”

“Help me up. Wow, it’s cold.”

Carter handed Jarrod a folded black shirt from the end of the bed, and helped him to his feet.

It was then that Jarrod noticed Carter’s outfit, which consisted of a gray cable-knit sweater with laces at the neck; a black cape trimmed with dense silver fur he couldn’t immediately identify; molasses-colored trousers that appeared to be suede, hand-stitched and stiff; and fine knee boots that laced up the front, the tops turned out to show a fur lining that matched his cape. Atop the sweater peeped the stiff, silver-embroidered collar of a black undertunic that looked to be either velvet or heavy silk, quite expensive, he guessed.

He hadn’t given the getup much thought at first, because nearly every time he’d seen Carter had been at a Renaissance fair, Guild event, or movie set. He was acclimated to seeing Carter dressed like he’d just stepped out of formation with Hengist and Horsa.

Perhaps most intriguingly, over the sweater Carter wore a sword and matching dagger on an authentic baldric, the sword’s scabbard in a silver-embossed frog that matched the piping on his collar.

The frog, essentially a sheath for a sheath, was one of the telling signs that an actor, re-enactor, or consultant knew what the hell he or she was doing.

A scabbard tucked under a belt holds a sword handle at an awkward angle and renders it nearly impossible to draw. A proper frog is adjustable and angles the weapon’s handle forward exactly at hand height. It was a small detail, and Jarrod was a details guy.

Jarrod was the details guy.

He stood with some effort—he was disoriented and hungry but he felt strong, all things considered—and pulled on the long shirt over the undertunic. The long shirt was black and either rough silk or soft hemp, and several sizes too large. It sported the same embroidered-silver collar as Carter’s undershirt. He began rolling up the sleeves from below his fingertips. “Nice sword.”

The sword was wide and he could tell it was heavy even in the scabbard, maybe thirty inches of blade with just enough leather-wrapped handle for two hands. “Where’d you get that?”

Carter grinned an unstable grin. “You wouldn’t believe it, man. We are through the looking glass.”

“How so?”

Carter leaned against the wall. Jarrod rubbed his muscles all over, partially to limber up, partially to warm himself. The more he moved, the less he hurt.

The giant sipped at his beer. “Welcome to Gateskeep.”

“What the hell is Gateskeep?” Jarrod asked, not kindly. A bunch of Burning Man rejects have built a feudal-era commune in northern Maine. They’ll probably make me king.

“As far as I can tell, it’s the northwestern country of a small continent. They call this their world, but the map I’ve seen looks like a continent. We’re in the castle of Regoth Ur, a short ride from the northern sea and a half-day’s ride from the palace, to hear them tell it.” Jarrod stared at Carter from hands on knees, and caught a pair of woolen trousers, coarse and gray, as they were tossed to him. “Pump your brakes. Start again.”

Carter’s voice was inattentive. “I dunno. It’s another world. I don’t know how. Maybe you’ll get it.”

“Another world, huh? Wow, these are scratchy,” Jarrod commented, turning the trousers over. “And long. Jesus. Are there any breeches or hose over there?”

Carter tossed him a set of silk breeches. “Candy-ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I need a belt.”

Carter rifled through the pile of clothes and tossed him a padded leather belt. The tooling was intricate, the clasp silver, the lining velvet, and the best Jarrod could figure, it looked expensive. It all did.

Jarrod cast a sidelong, wary glance out the window as he cinched the pants tight. There were no belt loops, but a braided rawhide drawstring. He tied the strings and secured the belt around his waist, then rolled up the cuffs. “So, I have to ask,” he started.

“Go ahead,” said Carter.

Jarrod slowed in his motions as he tucked and buckled the belt over the tunic. “Is this a reality show?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Yeah, bullshit.”

“No bullshit.”

“Bull,” he repeated, “shit.” The words sounded strange off his tongue.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry. But what I’m told is that there’s another—ah, Earthling—here. I don’t know . . .”

As Carter’s voice roved on, something tugged at the edges of Jarrod’s perception, the shimmer of reality that signals the ruin of the dream of a lifetime.

“I don’t understand a lot of it, but he’s on their side. The other side. There’s a war. Or there’s going to be. They’re asking for our enlistment.”

“In a reality show.”

“No.”

“Seriously. Because I’ve got lawyers. Good ones.”

“Jarrod,” warned Carter.

“Okay, fine. Enlistment. What’d you say?”

“I said hell, yes.”

Jarrod rubbed the bedpost with his thumb. “If you accepted, then there’s got to be more.” Carter wasn’t stupid.

And there was the nagging ache, again. The more Carter spoke, the more things seemed to shimmer.

“There’s a lot more. They’ll explain. But look, would I miss this for anything? I’m forty-three years old and I still have roommates. They’re paying us for this.”

“How much?”

“A lot. They’re paying in gold.”

Jarrod drummed his fingers. “Ooh.”

“Yeah. I mean, s**t,” Carter said. “Amy’s long gone—”

“I didn’t know that,” Jarrod interrupted. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Carter. “But I have nothing going on. Me, you, Iceland. Why not here?”

Jarrod looked around, again. “Where the f**k is here, exactly?”

“Gateskeep,” said Carter again.

“Yeah, you said that. So, chamber pot? Garderobe? What do we piss in in ‘Gateskeep?’”

“Ah, no. There’s a trapdoor beside that barrel. There’s an aqueduct that feeds the tower.”

The trapdoor opened with an ornate iron handle, and from beneath came the sound of the stream he’d been hearing.

Jarrod didn’t know anybody in Hollywood smart enough to think of an aqueduct system, much less build it into a castle floor by floor. He turned his back to Carter and relieved himself as he formulated his next question.

“I’m only going to ask this once, and I want your best answer:

“Is this for real?” they chorused.

The giant nodded his head sternly. “As real as it has to be.”

Jarrod sighed. “That doesn’t help.”

“I’m not being flippant. The last few days it’s been clear.” Carter pointed at the ceiling. “They have three moons. One big one, pink and purple, with a ring. It’s like a dinner plate up there. You can see it in the daytime.”

“Aliens?”

“Technically, I guess, but not that you’d know it. Humans, horses—they have pegasi cavalry, and I’ve heard that they have dragons, ogres, goblins, elves, the whole . . . you know.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No.”

“Come on. You’re bullshitting me. This is a reality show. It’s got to be.” He craned his neck around the room. “Goddamn pinhole cameras around here somewhere. Come on. I’ll play along. Just tell me what we’re getting paid for this. Where’s my agent? Saul!” he yelled. “Hey, Saul!”

“It’s not.”

“You’re smiling,” said Jarrod.

“Of course I’m smiling,” Carter grinned. “You will, too.”

“I swear to God,” said Jarrod, “I will kick your ass. Somehow.”

“I’ve been here three days, and I’ve had a pretty good look around. This is a working castle. It houses probably a hundred people. And everything works. I mean, the way it should. The nobles don’t do the dishes. There is not a cigarette butt, or a beer can, anywhere.” He ticked off on his fingers, “No canned food. No sugar. No plastic. No stainless steel. Everything in this castle is built by hand.”

Jarrod looked out at the rooftops stretching into the mist. “What’s with the city out there?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a city,” said Carter. “But there’s a good-sized village right outside the castle walls. These guys have a working feudal system. A whole country—a couple of ‘em.”

A thin layer of ice caked the surface of the water in a barrel next to the trapdoor. Jarrod broke it with the heel of his fist and washed his hands, then leaned close and drenched his face and hair and scrubbed vigorously, shivering and groaning at the cold. He pulled the shirt from his trousers and wiped his face with the tails.

“Countries,” he grumbled, tucking the shirt in again. “Feudal constitutionalism, or are we still grinding along under privatized rule?”

“They’re a lot more civilized about it than we were,” Carter admitted. “Administration, standing armies, but there’s a lot of friction between the crown and the estates, mostly a communication issue, the way I see it. Castles, petty lords. There’s a king and a bloodline hierarchy, but the big decisions are made by guys appointed by the local lords to various councils that advise the royals. They have a War Council, a Trade Council, a Farms Council. You get the idea.”

“Okay. Does it work?”

“Hell if I know. What I see is a pair of rudimentary nation-states, vastly overextended from their seats of power and with no hard borders. They’re on the ragged edge of administrative collapse, and the outlying lands are in chaos.”

“Big fun. Is there a church in all this?”

“I don’t think so. Probably not, which would explain why it’s so factious. Keep in mind,” Carter said, sipping at his beer, “I’ve only been here a few days. The beer’s good, though.”

“That’ll help,” muttered Jarrod. “Though I doubt I’m up to date on all my shots.”

“These guys are pretty clean,” Carter assured him. “Not fastidious, but they bathe. Most of them, daily. They clip their nails, cut their hair, brush their teeth. The dogs are housebroken.”

“That’s handy.”

“They seem to live pretty long, too. There are some seriously old dudes around here. Some of them have got to be pushing eighty. Maybe a hundred and eighty. Who knows?”