The Warden Threat

  ~*~

  Kwestor remained outside the tent for several long seconds after his employer had rushed past him. He looked on unconcerned while the tent deflated into a loud, roiling red and white striped mound. With a sigh, he waited patiently for the inevitable.

  Only a couple of noisy minutes passed until Donald, Muce, and a husky woman with a tangled mass of rust colored hair appeared from around the corner of the opposite side of tent’s remains. All three looked as if a gang of scarecrows had mugged them in a hayfield. Their disheveled clothes were covered with splotches of dirt. Dried grass adorned their hair and made interesting patterns on their clothing. Muce’s backpack hung askew on his shoulder from a broken strap. The woman and the prince sported matching bruises slowly darkening on their foreheads.

  “Greetings, Your Highness. I assume all went well. This must be the damsel in distress you were looking for. I trust you were successful in rescuing her from a fate worse than death,” commented Kwestor in his low monotone.

  “I weren’t in no distress until he came in,” the woman said, pointing her thumb at Donald. “He didn’t rescue me. He assaulted my person and jumped on top of me, he did. There weren’t no cause for it, charging in like a mad gond like that. Scared me half to death, what with those crazy eyes he’s got.”

  Donald gave Kwestor a questioning, pleading look as though asking for reassurance that his nondescript medium brown eyes were not, in fact, crazy.

  “Thought he might be some kind of demon or something,” she continued. “And I was having a real religious experience at the time, too. I’m very receptive, the preacher says,” she added with barely suppressed pride.

  “I said I was sorry,” Donald protested.

  “Oh yeah. A lot of good sorry does me. You probably ruined my best dress, and I think I may have broken something.” She rubbed her hip theatrically. “And you knocked down our church and interrupted my religious experience. I might never have another, you know. Those don’t happen every day.”

  “Your what?” Donald asked unwisely. He looked more confused than usual.

  “Religious experiences! Not that you’d know, but sometimes someone really sensitive can be touched by the Spirit and it’s a wonderful feeling. They’re quite rare, they are. Not everyone can have one.”

  “Wasn’t that you we heard scream earlier?”

  “Well, I had two today,” she admitted, then quickly followed defensively with, “But that hardly ever happens.” She looked around searchingly, as if fearing her rightful indignation might be escaping her, and she seemed determined to catch it before it could get away. “And he hit me, too,” she added abruptly.

  “I did not!”

  “What you call this, then?” she asked, pointing to her head.

  “An accident?”

  “Humph!”

  “And anyway it’s not a church, it’s a tent,” the prince said, obviously not knowing when to shut up.

  “The preacher says it’s a church if we think of it as a church. It’s just that it’s, uh, motionable or mobitable or something like that.”

  “Mobile,” said Kwestor.

  “Thank you.”

  The rest of the congregation began extricating themselves from the tangle of ropes and canvas and meandered uncertainly toward the prince and his companions. The white haired man with the oleaginous hairstyle strode to the fore. He stood tall, not quite as tall as the prince but close, although easily several pounds heavier. Additional muscle contributed little of the extra weight. A roll of fat jiggled unattractively around his middle when he moved. His light blue linen shirt looked to have been recently laundered, starched, and pressed. If not now besmeared with dirt and grass, it might have been quite dapper despite the pudgy middle it covered. The white belt was a fashion mistake, though, no matter what.

  “Might someone explain to me what is going on here?” he asked, glaring accusingly at the prince.

  Kwestor noticed a heavy smell of spicy cologne when the presumed preacher of the tent congregation approached. The ranger held the opinion that men who wore a lot of cologne should not to be trusted. If they were so concerned about their smell, they ought to bathe and fix the problem. Scent just covered it up. What else might they be hiding?

  “Uh, I’m sorry.” Donald stammered. “You see, I heard a woman scream, and, well, I thought there might be some kind of trouble.”

  “So you just decided to charge in blindly?” the preacher asked incredulously.

  Kwestor stepped forward. “His Highness has a tendency to let his impulses run away with him, at times.”

  “His Highness?”

  “Prince Donald of Westgrove,” the young prince introduced himself. “At your service,” he finished, out of force of habit instilled by long training in courtly manners.

  “Cor.” The bruised farmwife’s mouth dropped open, and she tried to merge inconspicuously with the rest of the assembled peasantry.

  “Oh, I see,” said the white-haired preacher. He looked pensive, as if silently calculating the variables in this new equation. “Charging in like that was very, uh, heroic, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, very brave indeed,” came an oily voice from behind the preacher. It belonged to the man with dark brown hair the prince glimpsed in the tent before things became too confused. “Quite noble, certainly.” He was dressed in city fashions, clothes designed for show more than utility and certainly not for hard work. His shirt appeared to be made of a black, silk-like material with puffy sleeves and turned-up cuffs fastened with silver clasps. His pants were also black but made of well-tailored fine cotton cloth. He wore a leather belt with a silver buckle and a sheathed, bone handled dagger. Now, whatever look he intended the outfit to present suffered from the numerous bits of yellowed grass clinging to it.

  Kwestor observed the obsequious display with interest. The prince should be able to recognize this as another blunder. Surely, he would not buy the insincere flattery these two tried to sell him.

  “That’s very kind of you to say,” Donald responded warily. “But it seems my assumptions were incorrect.”

  Good. At least he had learned something.

  “We can’t be right all of the time now, can we?” the blue shirted preacher said with a predatory smile. “So what brings you out this way, Your Highness?”

  “We were heading back to—”

  Kwestor interrupted him with a sharp nudge and completed the response. “We were surveying the harvest efforts around Greatbridge. We were just on our way back.”

  The capital remained a week away, and the preacher looked skeptical of the ranger’s explanation. Kwestor did not care what the man thought so long as nothing was said about Gotrox or the Warden. Something devious lurked behind all of this. Someone wanted to provoke distrust between Gotrox and Westgrove. Kwestor sensed the foul smell of intrigue, and he felt this man might somehow have a part in it, certainly not as a director, but perhaps more of a supporting actor. Why or how he could not say, but he trusted the feeling.

  “And what brings the two of you way out here?” he asked, turning the flow of inquiry the other way. Kwestor suspected that neither of the two men came from this area based on the inflections in their voices. The preacher’s accent labeled him from a rural region around Berwick. The few words spoken by the other man suggested he came from Greatbridge.

  “I am a simple preacher bringing the word of Ariman to the common people. My companion here works for an anonymous benefactor but is also a follower of the True Faith and is accompanying me for a time.”

  A ragged chorus of “Praise Ariman” rose from the small congregation clustered behind the speaker.

  “You must be Arimanists then,” Muce concluded innocently. “The Reverend Tripgood’s sect.”

  The preacher took in the notso’s upswept ears, dirty-blond hair, and blue eyes, and asked, derisively, “And you are?” His tone of voice made the question almost synonymous with ‘What are you?’

  “Muce. My name is Muce. I’m
His Highness’s bodyguard, sort of.”

  “He’s my traveling companion,” Donald said defensively.

  “Of course. No offense intended.”

  Kwestor did not doubt the man’s intent. He would not want to alienate the prince intentionally, but given his obvious distaste of notsos, it seemed a fair bet he held similar opinions of fairfolk and stoutfolk as well.

  “This would be a good time to complete the introductions,” the aging scout interjected. “My name is Kwestor. I’m serving His Highness as guide.” He gave the preacher an inquiring look, implying rather than asking a question.

  “Of course. Of course. My name is Crasse, Reverend Crasse.” He placed a hand on the shoulder of the shorter man with the black shirt. “My companion here is called Whead.”

  “So you and Mister Whead are traveling by yourselves from town to town preaching your religion to people?” Kwestor doubted this as neither of them struck him as the type to risk the personal danger or hardship long travel implied.

  “Not entirely. We do have two stout lads of the Faith along to tend the gond and provide protection from ruffians.” He indicated a couple of young men dressed much like the rest of the congregation. Neither carried a sword at the moment, but both looked as though they could hold their own in any bar fight in any bar you might want to mention using whatever came to hand. “We travel from village to village to ease the burden of these poor people by bringing them the good Word.”

  The idea of these men pursuing a quest to ease anyone’s burden other than their own seemed about as likely as a cheese maker inviting a family of rats over for dinner, the ranger thought. He wondered about their personal motivations. His perception of humanity required they have some. People did not altruistically inconvenience themselves simply to help others. Most did not anyway, although he occasionally heard of actions possibly falling outside this paradigm. He explained such things away as anomalous behavior by abnormal people, exceptions proving the rule. Normal people required more selfish incentives. Money, power, sex, ego gratification—those were the common ones. Which of these motivated these two?

  “This seems an odd place to hold your, uh, services,” Donald commented.

  Kwestor experienced just a hint of satisfaction as he listened to the prince question them on why they set up here in a wheat field two or three miles from the nearest village. Perhaps he could learn to balance some of his naive idealism with a little skepticism. At least he knew to question things that did not make sense now.

  “We go where we are welcomed,” the Reverend Crasse replied. “The kind farmer of this land allowed us to set up here.” He motioned toward the small crowd, singling out a middle-age man wearing a faded flannel shirt who nodded and smiled back meekly. “I believe the prince has already met his wife.”

  The woman who participated in the prince’s unintended demolition unsuccessfully tried to hide behind her husband.

  “He had some friends and family here,” the preacher continued, “and with a few people from the village and nearby farms we have a pretty good turnout.”

  A thought occurred to Kwestor. “And of course these, uh, good people contribute to your cause.”

  “Oh, no. Not money, if that is what you mean,” the traveling preacher replied with an exaggerated air of indignation. “These folks have little enough to spare,” he added louder than necessary. “We would not ask them for monetary contributions. We only ask for their attention and their prayers.”

  “So how do you pay the expenses? That is a very nice tent you have there.” Kwestor pointed to the striped canvas heap. The high quality tent had probably cost a considerable amount of money. Despite being flattened, it seemed to have weathered its recent mishap quite well except for the main pole. “And then there’s your food and lodging, and you said you have a gond. These things cost money.”

  “I’m sure he means no offense,” the prince interjected as though trying to apologize for his companion’s abruptness.

  “None taken. Your guide is quite right, and we don’t turn down generous offers of food or lodging from those who appreciate the truth we share with them. As for the rest, yes, these things do cost money. Fortunately, we have a benefactor who supplies us with all the resources we need for these worldly things.”

  “He must be very well off.”

  “I would assume so.”

  “Who is it?” Kwestor asked.

  The reverend hesitated briefly. “No one knows his name. He is very careful about protecting his anonymity. He is obviously a very humble man as well as a very pious one.”

  “I see. So how do you arrange for your funding since you never meet?”

  “Mister Whead can tell you more about it, if you’d like. That is one of his duties.”

  The preacher’s companion had achieved a certain amount of success brushing off his clothing and picking the straw from his fancy black shirt. He stepped forward, smoothing out a few last wrinkles. “I can’t really say much more than the good reverend. I have never met the man myself. I prepare expense reports and funding requests and submit them through an accounting firm in Greatbridge. All they have ever told me is that we have a rich uncle. I do not think they know who he is either. I have never asked further. If our benefactor wishes to conceal his identity and not take credit for his charity, I believe this is his right. Such humility is indeed noble, and we should all respect that.” His expression challenged the ranger to object to so obvious a sentiment.

  Kwestor remained silent but his expression called the man a liar.

  The hint of a grin ghosted across Whead’s face. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we should see about getting our tent back up.”

  Whead and Crasse turned toward the tent, and their congregation moved to follow like enamored ducklings.

  Kwestor shouldered his way into the group before it retreated more than a few shuffling steps and placed his hand on the arm of the man identified by Reverend Crasse as the owner of the farm.

  “Prince Donald wishes to speak with you,” he said, intentionally conveying undertones of mild intimidation.

  “H-H-He does?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he does. Come with me.” Kwestor’s stern demeanor brooked no room for protest.

  The ranger led the man back to where the prince and Muce stood waiting.

  “Here is the man you wished to speak with, Your Highness.”

  “It is? I mean, I did?”

  “Yes. This is the man who runs this farm.”

  “Oh, right,” he said hesitantly. He turned to face the fidgeting farmer. “What is your name?” Donald furtively glanced at Kwestor as if trying to determine what his guide hoped to discover.

  “Fred,” the man said. “Uh, I’m sorry if my wife hurt Your Highness or anything. She’s a bit over enthusiastic sometimes.”

  “Oh, no. No problem. My fault, actually.” He smiled. If he wanted to put the man at his ease, the attempt failed.

  “Kwestor, was there anything else we needed of this gentleman?”

  “You wanted to ask him about the reverend, Your Highness.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, and about why it was he invited him to set up his traveling cir…, um, his church here.”

  Before Donald could finish pondering this, the farmer answered. “Well, they came by day before yesterday and said they’d help with the harvest if I let them setup here when it was done. They did too—well, the two big guys with them did. I don’t suppose the reverend or that city guy would be much good at fieldwork, anyway.”

  “I see,” said Kwestor, taking over the interrogation. “And what did you think of his preaching?”

  “Oh, he’s a good preacher. He can really fire up the spirit.”

  “I’m sure he can.” All good conmen could, he thought. “What did he talk about?”

  “Well, about Ariman and how he cares for all of us, and that if we follow his teachings, we’ll all be happy. You, know. Religious stuff, except he made it almost exciting. I got t
o say, I’ve never been really religious, although the misses is in to it—all the gods and fairies and stuff. But this preacher made it all really simple, and it started making sense to me for the first time.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he talked about how Ariman was the chief god above all the other gods, you know, and that all we really had to do was worship him and he’d make sure the other gods blessed us too. I mean, that’s pretty simple, isn’t it? I can do that. It’s hard to remember all the things you need to do to respect all the gods properly, so most folks pay the priests to make sure the right prayers are said and the right sacrifices are made and all that. And I can’t say I was ever really sure the priests were doing a good job because my animals still got sick sometimes and we’d still have bad years for the plantings. If the gods were happy, these things wouldn’t happen, would they?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “And he told us about how we’re Ariman’s chosen, you know, us tallfolk. And how we’ve got all these rights and responsibilities because of that. Kind of makes you feel pretty special, when you think about it.”

  “Did he tell you what these rights and responsibilities might be?”

  “Well, once you understand it, they’re pretty obvious. We’re supposed to bring the Word of Ariman to the lesser races.” He glanced self-consciously at Muce and leaned toward Kwestor, continuing in a softer voice. “And, you know, kind of make sure they behave themselves since they don’t have, uh, something—I forget what he said but it’s something we have that they don’t. Something spiritual that makes us naturally more moral and civilized and such.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Kwestor lied, suppressing an urge to slap the man back to sanity. One of the defining characteristics of humanity in general was that it was amoral and uncivilized. Tallfolk were no better than the stoutfolk or fairfolk in that regard. The ranger could not abide racial prejudice. In his eyes, all people were equally scummy. He did not like the fact, but he no longer doubted it.

  “He also said that the natural order of things has been disturbed, and that’s why things aren’t getting any better. Like we work and work and work and never seem to get anywhere. He says a lot of it is because of them stumpies, I mean the stoutfolk. He says they couldn’t even eat if it wasn’t for the food we send them, and then they pay us back in rocks! Just rocks they pick up off the ground. It’s not like they have to plant them or weed them or anything. They’ve been taking advantage of us, and we’re Ariman’s chosen people. It’s just really unfair.”

  “I’ve never heard it put that way before.”

  “But it’ll all be put right soon. We’re going to have a war with them, he says. Then we’ll kick some stumpy butt real good. Put them back in their place and make things right for our children. That’s what it’s all about, when you get right down to it. Making things better for our children. My oldest son went off yesterday to join the king’s army. I’d have gone myself, but I’m getting a little too old for it, and I need to stay to tend the farm, anyway. I still have a wife and few other kids to feed, you know. But I’m sure proud my boy is going to be a part of it.”

  Kwestor took a step back. The urge to slap the man almost overwhelmed him now. Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to continue with no hint of inner turmoil or even sarcasm. “Yes, I’m sure you are. Well, I think that answers all of my questions. Do you have anything else you’d like ask farmer Fred, Your Highness?”

  “Um, no,” Donald replied. “Thank you, Fred. It was very good of you to take the time to talk with us.”

  “My pleasure, Your Highness.” He appeared sincere, and he took a few backward steps, nodding in what he probably hoped conveyed the proper etiquette for leaving the presence of royalty. When he reached a comfortable distance, he turned and quickly rejoined his wife who now stood in the middle of an awed circle of peasants listening to whatever it was she might have been telling them about her recent encounter with royalty.

  “Something strange is going on here,” Kwestor said to no one in particular.

  “Strange in what way?” asked the prince.

  “I’m not sure, but I have a suspicion.”

  “You always do. Come on. Let’s make up some time.” He sprinted toward the road. Muce, juggling his pack to compensate for the broken strap, followed, with Kwestor, a pensive expression on his face, bringing up the rear.

  Chapter Seventeen