Dragon Princess

“I’m a fair acrobat and juggler. The right costume and no one would question it.”

  “What would Brock do? Brock is not a performer.”

  I had looked him up and down and said, “You’re an attraction all by yourself.”

  “Brock cannot do anything.”

  “No? How much can you lift?” I had asked him.

  Turns out, despite being slow and clumsy, he was just as strong as he looked, and could hold a chair steady while I sat, juggled, did handstands, and otherwise made a literal fool of myself. Our act was good enough that people threw money at us. We may have made a profit by the time we were halfway to the tent city.

  I felt pretty proud of myself. I had a talent for disguise, but that was as the old Frank Blackthorne. I didn’t know if those skills would translate as well as the physical ones. The closest I’d come to disguising as woman before now was the one time I had to dress in drag to escape the harem of a southern sultan who was rather upset at the loss of a jewel-encrusted ceremonial dagger.

  Turns out that just like the acrobatics and climbing, the only major difference was having a set of boobs.

  But our disguise was a little too good.

  We were only one of dozens of acts making our way down the main road. And, like every other performer, we were obliged to stop whenever a crowd of enough interested people congregated. So I noticed when a trio of other performers would stop at the same time we did.

  It also attracted my notice because the trio was rather mismatched; a fellow juggler on a pair of stilts, a fire-eater in a leather vest and baggy pants, and an actor in a tragedy mask who appeared to be dramatizing the death of the last Grünwald king.

  “I think we’re being followed,” I whispered to my supporting act as I bounded off the chair to collect the latest round of public donations.

  “Brock doesn’t see who?”

  “Stilts, Flame-boy, and Tragedy.”

  I couldn’t see his expression behind his mask, but I could hear the confusion in his voice. “Brock only started learning the language. Can you explain?”

  I retrieved the last coin from the dirt and gave a bow. “Head toward that alley,” I said as I scrambled up to return to my perch on the suspended chair. It gave me a better bearing on our shadows. I cursed because Tragedy had already lost himself in the crowd.

  Brock headed toward the alley I had indicated, and I saw Stilts and Flame-boy abruptly end their performances to follow us.

  “Okay, maybe the actor was just some random hanger-on.” I said, keeping watch behind us as we slipped between a stable and a blacksmith’s. “Two on two’s better odds anyway.”

  We were deep between the buildings, out of sight of the street, when Brock came to an abrupt halt. “What is—”

  I was interrupted by someone saying, “Bravo!”

  I turned around so I was facing forward, and looked down on the gentleman with the Tragedy mask. His arms were flung wide, and in one he held a wicked-looking short sword.

  Not some random hanger-on, I thought.

  “Magnificent act,” Tragedy said, bowing in our direction. “Quite the eye-catching pair you make.”

  What gave us away? I couldn’t figure it out. Was the princess just that recognizable?

  Flame-boy and Stilts caught up with us, blocking our retreat.

  “What should Brock do?”

  “Wait a moment,” I whispered. “What do you want?” I called down to Tragedy.

  “To honor you, of course.”

  Brock started to lower my chair and Tragedy whipped the short sword around to point at my face.

  “Please remain seated for the duration of the program. I am loathe to provide a swordsmanship demonstration to a nonpaying audience.” Brock slowly raised the chair back into place.

  Tragedy made a show of stroking the chin of his mask. “Where was I? Oh, yes, you’re being honored.”

  I heard chuckles of amusement from behind us and I looked as Stilts idly tossed one of the clubs he’d been juggling from one hand to the other and Flame-boy brandished a pair of burning batons.

  “You have been chosen, by vote of the membership, for induction into the Brightwood Performers’ Guild.”

  My first feeling was relief. This was just straight extortion; none of these characters actually knew who I was. There was some slight chance of extricating ourselves without attracting any more attention. I sighed and picked up my purse. “I assume there are some dues involved?”

  The point of the sword lowered. “You are wise as well as an excellent performer.”

  Stilts piped up, “Heh. He knows it’s hard to juggle with busted fingers.”

  I could tell why Tragedy was the spokesman for the group.

  “How much?” I said with my most reasonable voice. “Half?”

  “Sorry,” Stilts said. He reached over Brock’s shoulder and snatched the coin purse from my hands. “We’s got to take it in advance. Fines for registering late.”

  I was perfectly willing to let bygones be bygones and let them take what they wanted, but when I wrapped up my boobs, I had stashed the elven whistle in the purse. That wasn’t something I could give up, since I didn’t have a Plan B for my exit after thieving from the queen.

  I stood up on the chair. “I’ll pay you, but I need that pouch.”

  “You should have considered that before you attempted to shortchange the Performers’ Guild.” Tragedy was brandishing the sword again. “Please seat yourself.”

  “Brock,” I said, “Chair him.”

  I sprang off onto Brock’s shoulder as Brock swung the chair at Tragedy. Stilts backpedaled with his massive stride, to give Flame-boy space to demonstrate his skills in my direction. I leapt as Flame-boy puffed out his cheeks. The distance of my leap managed to surprise all three of us. Advantage to the princess for having a higher leg-strength-to-weight ratio than I expected.

  I arced across the alley, followed closely by a spray of fire from Flame-boy. Stilts dodged quite ably to the side to avoid a collision with me, a maneuver that would have been more impressive if he had kept my purse out of my reach, and if he hadn’t dodged into the Flame-boy’s dragon impression.

  I hit the ground in an ungraceful tumble, but I landed with my purse in hand.

  Behind me I heard Stilts calling out, “Idiot.”

  I spun around and dodged just in time to avoid another spray of fire. Stilts no longer paid me any attention; he was attempting to reach down and beat out flames that were spreading up his long pants. Flame-boy stood between me and Brock now, flame-tipped baton in one hand, ceramic flask in the other. He was in the midst of taking a swig, fueling his next attack.

  I reached into a sack on my belt and pulled out one of my wooden juggling balls and pitched it at his face. It struck him in the hand, shattering the flask and splashing his face and chest with the fluid inside. Whatever was in the flask must not have been pleasant to get in the eyes, because Flame-boy screamed and covered his face . . .

  Dropping the baton . . .

  Flame first . . .

  Into the puddled remains of the flask at his feet.

  His scream raised several octaves as his boots were engulfed in fire, and he ran blindly in my direction. I dodged to the side, and he slammed into a wall. “Brock!” I yelled.

  He turned away from the crumpled form of Tragedy.

  “We need to go!”

  He tossed aside the splintered remains of the chair and ran toward me.

  “No, you’s not getting away like that!” Stilts yelled down at me. He had beat out about half the open flames, and had decided that was enough. He took a couple of impressive strides in my direction, easily outpacing Brock, who resembled a mountain in terms of speed as well as size. Stilts bent and swung a club in my direction—

  Just as the blinded and stunned fire-eater stumbled face first into Stilts’ still-smoldering knees. The remnants of the stilt fire was enough to ignite the fluid that doused Flame-boy’s upper body, and he screamed, burying his burning fac
e into Stilts’ trousers trying to smother the flames.

  Stilts might have been skilled, but he wasn’t able to keep his balance like that. He toppled over just as Brock scooped me up and ran back toward the street.

  By saying “ran,” I am being generous. The only reason we lost our pursuit was because they were all either unconscious or on fire.

  • • •

  We managed our way to the tent city with a few minor alterations in our act, accommodating the loss of our chair and one of my juggling balls. And we managed to avoid any more recruiters from the Brightwood Performers’ Guild. We stationed our last performance in front of one of the auxiliary entrances to the tent city at the fringes of town. There was much less of a crowd to lose ourselves in, but there was only one guard manning the entrance.

  One particular guard.

  I had some worries as we extended our performance twice. But my friend from the inn finally showed like I’d paid her to. She had not only been useful in determining the best way to sneak into the upper-crusts’ side of the festival, it turned out that her inside knowledge of the city guard was particularly thorough when it came to this city guard. She managed to monopolize his attention so thoroughly that even Brock had time to slip in past him.

  We were now inside the perimeter of the tent city around the tourney field, but not quite where I needed to be. We had slipped into the service half of the temporary city, where all the supplies and servants were housed for the festival. A strongman and a juggling harlequin might have fit in on the streets within the city proper, but here our dress was out of place—unless there was an unannounced clown joust scheduled that I wasn’t expecting.

  As soon as we were past the guard, I led Brock between a pair of supply tents, ducking between a web of interwoven anchor ropes to find a safe place to slip in and plot out my next move.

  I found a good hiding spot, a quiet tent that, when I pulled the canvas up to peek inside, was filled with stacks of oak barrels. I held the canvas up and waited for Brock to maneuver his way past all the ropes between the tents. Where I had ducked and weaved through most of them, he had to lift his legs up and step over them. In some cases he had to swing his leg over ropes that were nearly eye level on me.

  Slow as he was, I would never want to be chased by the guy. He gave the impression of a deliberate avalanche.

  After a nerve-racking wait, Brock caught up with me. It was too much to pull the canvas up to let him in, so we had to sneak around to the proper entrance and slip inside when no one else was looking. Fortunately, there were not many people back here, and at the moment they were concentrating on unloading a wagon into one of the other storage tents. They shouted at each other in a language I couldn’t decipher.

  While those people were occupied, I ushered Brock inside and closed the tent flap behind us. Large barrels flanked us, stacked along each wall of the large tent. I could guess their contents pretty easily. The whole tent had a yeast-mildew smell like the basement of an old alehouse.

  I whispered to myself, “So far so good.”

  Brock reached up and removed his mask and smiled. “What do we do now?”

  “Give me a few moments.”

  The smile faltered. “What is your plan now for Brock to save the princess?”

  I held up my hand and shook my head. “Hold on. I need to think.”

  “Brock thinks you have no plan.”

  “No, I do have a plan.” Unfortunately we had reached the part of my plan that simply went, “Step 4: Think of something.”

  I know, it’s a bad habit of mine, but things never follow the a script anyway.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’m improvising,” I snapped in frustration.

  Brock shook his head, sighed, and sat down on one of the oak barrels. The aged wood creaked in protest. “Brock should not be surprised.”

  “Could Brock stop talking about himself in the third person? It’s annoying and I’m trying to think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you hear me referring to myself by name all the time? I do this, I do that—not Frank does this, Frank does that.”

  “Brock—I apologize. This is not how Brock’s people talk. B—I just learned this language.”

  “I thought your accent was a little strange.” I took off my floppy hat and freed my hair. The oak casks had given me the germ of an idea of how I could mingle with the high and mighty. I would just need to get from where the ale was stored to where it was served. “Sorry I snapped at you. How long did it take you to learn?”

  “Brock has only been here two weeks.”

  “Two—you learned this language in two weeks?”

  “It took Brock longer than usual.”

  “Longer—usual—how many languages does Brock speak?”

  “Brock hasn’t counted.” He closed his eyes and, after mumbling for a moment, said, “Twenty-seven.”

  “You know twenty-seven languages?”

  “No. Brock knows thirty-three. Brock can only speak twenty-seven of them. Six of them Brock can only read, since the languages are dead and no one speaks them anymore.”

  I stared at him a moment and then I shook my head. “You’re a surprising man.” I reached into my pouch and pulled out a cloth and began removing the makeup from my face.

  “You are improvising now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know what Brock can do?”

  I looked him up and down and said, “Ditch the cape and the mask—you know the language those guys by the wagon were speaking?”

  “It is spoken in small land to the north of—”

  “I know exactly what you can do.”

  CHAPTER 23

  As a mode of travel, I do not recommend riding within a hastily emptied oak barrel carried by a gigantic multilingual barbarian. It is even more unpleasant than it sounds. You can barely breathe, and every breath you do manage is saturated to the point it’s like trying to suck air through a barkeep’s cleaning rag. Then there’s the fact that the inside is too slick to hold yourself up against all the bouncing and shifting.

  Brock did good. Once the accessories we’d added for the sake of the performing arts were removed, his normal attire fit seamlessly into the population of servants and laborers who worked on the backside of the royal games. He was intimidating enough that no one bothered to challenge him, especially since he seemed to be carrying a barrel of ale toward thirsty noblemen. His language talents were helpful, in that he could get directions from his imported peers without having any extended interaction with a Grünwald foreman, or anyone else who might combine the realization that something was amiss with the inclination or authority to care. I heard someone challenge him twice; each time Brock responded in that strange northern tongue I couldn’t understand. The people challenging him apparently didn’t understand either, and were too busy to bother dealing with him.

  It felt as if I rode in that barrel for half the day, but it probably only amounted to a quarter hour at most. Eventually, the world tilted around me, spilling the remaining dregs along with myself, toward one end of the barrel as it hit the ground.

  The impact set the end above me askew. We’d had to pry one end of the barrel free to get me inside, and doing so had ruined the barrel, leaving that end only loosely attached. We’d wedged some rags around it to hold it in place, but apparently there were limits to how long that could last. I drew my dagger and crouched in an inch of dirty ale, hoping that there wasn’t anyone other than Brock about to see the lid go cockeyed.

  A large hand reached in and lifted the broken end of the barrel off of me. Brock looked down and quietly said, “You can come out.”

  I sprang out of the barrel and assessed my surroundings.

  We were obviously in the working part of the tent city now. This tent was packed with barrels, but unlike the storeroom we’d come from, half these barrels were empty. I was gratified that Brock had the presence of mind to stack our barrel with the empties.
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  Also in this tent were racks of large mugs and trays, and a space with rags and a large washbasin. That was good, since I now smelled more like a brewery than was appropriate. I headed toward the basin and told Brock, “Keep an eye out for anyone coming.”

  “If they come?”

  “Warn me, look busy, and don’t speak the language.”

  He nodded and took a station by the entrance.

  By the basin I stripped off the saturated jester costume and started washing the excess ale off of me. Brock looked in my direction, turned several shades of red, and went back to looking out the tent flap.

  What else could I do? I needed to change outfits again if I needed to get anywhere. And if nothing else, it is hard to express the relief I felt after unwrapping my chest. Twice, Brock warned me of people coming. Both times I crouched, clad only in my dagger and wet undergarments, behind a stack of barrels while Brock anonymously moved barrels from one side of the tent to the other. Each time, the servers ignored Brock and went about their business, retrieving and filling tankards of ale, depositing trays of empties by the washbasin.

  The third time, the server came to wash the empties and refill the rack of tankards. I watched her until I had a good estimate of her size and shape. Slightly taller than the princess, and a bit more endowed, but generally workable.

  “You’ll do,” I said as I leapt from my hiding spot to point the dagger at her. “Don’t scream,” I said as Brock set down a barrel and grabbed the woman by the shoulders.

  “What is this?” she cried, eyes widening at me.

  “It’s one of two things,” I said. “It’s where my large companion knocks an innocent woman unconscious and shoves her in a barrel. Or it is where a not-so-innocent woman avoids a blow to the head and makes some extra money for very little effort.”

  She looked at me, then turned to look up a Brock, then back at me again. “How much are we talking about?”

  • • •

  We were talking all that was left of the slaver gold, plus about half the take from our street performance. It pained me, but I wanted this woman’s discretion as much as I wanted her clothes, and I was paying her to allow us to tie her up and sit in a barrel for what might be a few hours at least. That should be worth something.