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Authors: Tad Williams
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heart.
I must keep this hood on, she told herself. It’s a festival night, so who will look twice? Better that than someone recognizing my face—however unlikely that might seem.
Cadrach was gone a surprisingly long time. Miriamele was just starting to feel restive, wondering if she should go and look for him, when he returned with a jar of ale in each hand. A half-loaf of bread and an end of cheese were prisoned between the jars.
“A man could die of thirst a-waiting for beer, tonight,” the monk said.
Miriamele ate greedily, then took a long swallow of the ale, which was bitter and dark in her mouth. The rest of the jar she left for Cadrach, who did not protest.
When the last crumbs were licked from her fingers and she was pondering whether she was hungry enough to eat a pigeon pie, a shadow fell across the bench she and the monk shared.
The raw-boned face of Death stared down at them from a black cowl.
Miriamele gasped and Cadrach sputtered ale on his gray robe, but the stranger in the skull mask did not move.
“A very pretty joke, friend,” Cadrach said angrily, “and merry midsummer to you, too.” He swiped at the front of his garments.
The mouth did not move. The flat, unexcited voice issued from behind the bared teeth. “You come with me.”
Miriamele felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl. Her recently-consumed meal felt very heavy in her stomach.
Cadrach squinted. She could see tension in his neck and fingers. “And who might you be, mummer? Were you truly Brother Death, I would expect you clad in finer clothing.” The monk pointed a slightly trembling finger at the tattered black cloak the figure wore.
“Stand up and come with me,” the apparition said. “I have a knife. If you shout, things will be very bad for you.”
Brother Cadrach looked at Miriamele and grimaced. They rose, the princess on wobbly knees. Death gestured for them to walk ahead, through the press of tavern guests.
Miriamele was entertaining disconnected thoughts of making a bolt for freedom when two other figures slipped discreetly out of the crowd near the doorway. One wore a blue mask and the stylized garb of a sailor; the other was dressed as a rustic peasant in an oversized hat. The somber eyes of the newcomers belied their gaudy costumes.
With the sailor and peasant on either side, Cadrach and Miriamele followed black-cloaked Death out into the street. Before they had gone three dozen paces, the little caravan turned into an alley and down a flight of stairs to the next street below. Miriamele slipped for a moment on one of the rainwashed stone steps and felt a thrill of horror as her skull-faced captor reached out a hand to steady her. The touch was fleeting and she could not draw away without falling down, so she suffered it silently. A moment later they were off the stairway, then quickly into another alley-way, up a ramp, and around a corner.
Even with the faint moon overhead and the cries of late revelers echoing from the tavern above and the harbor district below, Miriamele quickly lost any sense of where she was. They traveled down tiny back streets like a string of skulking cats, ducking in and out of hidden courtyards and vine-shrouded walkways. From time to time they heard the murmur of voices from a darkened house, and once the sound of a woman crying.
At last they reached an arched gateway in a tall stone wall. Death produced a key from his pocket and opened the lock. They stepped through into an overgrown courtyard roofed with leaning willow trees, from whose trailing branches rainwater dripped patiently onto the cracked stone cobbles. The leader turned to the others, gestured briefly with his key, then indicated that Miriamele and Cadrach should walk ahead of him toward a shadowed doorway.
“We have come with you so far, man,” the monk said, whispering as if he, too, were a conspirator. “But there is no benefit to us in walking into an ambush. Why should we not fight you here and die
I must keep this hood on, she told herself. It’s a festival night, so who will look twice? Better that than someone recognizing my face—however unlikely that might seem.
Cadrach was gone a surprisingly long time. Miriamele was just starting to feel restive, wondering if she should go and look for him, when he returned with a jar of ale in each hand. A half-loaf of bread and an end of cheese were prisoned between the jars.
“A man could die of thirst a-waiting for beer, tonight,” the monk said.
Miriamele ate greedily, then took a long swallow of the ale, which was bitter and dark in her mouth. The rest of the jar she left for Cadrach, who did not protest.
When the last crumbs were licked from her fingers and she was pondering whether she was hungry enough to eat a pigeon pie, a shadow fell across the bench she and the monk shared.
The raw-boned face of Death stared down at them from a black cowl.
Miriamele gasped and Cadrach sputtered ale on his gray robe, but the stranger in the skull mask did not move.
“A very pretty joke, friend,” Cadrach said angrily, “and merry midsummer to you, too.” He swiped at the front of his garments.
The mouth did not move. The flat, unexcited voice issued from behind the bared teeth. “You come with me.”
Miriamele felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl. Her recently-consumed meal felt very heavy in her stomach.
Cadrach squinted. She could see tension in his neck and fingers. “And who might you be, mummer? Were you truly Brother Death, I would expect you clad in finer clothing.” The monk pointed a slightly trembling finger at the tattered black cloak the figure wore.
“Stand up and come with me,” the apparition said. “I have a knife. If you shout, things will be very bad for you.”
Brother Cadrach looked at Miriamele and grimaced. They rose, the princess on wobbly knees. Death gestured for them to walk ahead, through the press of tavern guests.
Miriamele was entertaining disconnected thoughts of making a bolt for freedom when two other figures slipped discreetly out of the crowd near the doorway. One wore a blue mask and the stylized garb of a sailor; the other was dressed as a rustic peasant in an oversized hat. The somber eyes of the newcomers belied their gaudy costumes.
With the sailor and peasant on either side, Cadrach and Miriamele followed black-cloaked Death out into the street. Before they had gone three dozen paces, the little caravan turned into an alley and down a flight of stairs to the next street below. Miriamele slipped for a moment on one of the rainwashed stone steps and felt a thrill of horror as her skull-faced captor reached out a hand to steady her. The touch was fleeting and she could not draw away without falling down, so she suffered it silently. A moment later they were off the stairway, then quickly into another alley-way, up a ramp, and around a corner.
Even with the faint moon overhead and the cries of late revelers echoing from the tavern above and the harbor district below, Miriamele quickly lost any sense of where she was. They traveled down tiny back streets like a string of skulking cats, ducking in and out of hidden courtyards and vine-shrouded walkways. From time to time they heard the murmur of voices from a darkened house, and once the sound of a woman crying.
At last they reached an arched gateway in a tall stone wall. Death produced a key from his pocket and opened the lock. They stepped through into an overgrown courtyard roofed with leaning willow trees, from whose trailing branches rainwater dripped patiently onto the cracked stone cobbles. The leader turned to the others, gestured briefly with his key, then indicated that Miriamele and Cadrach should walk ahead of him toward a shadowed doorway.
“We have come with you so far, man,” the monk said, whispering as if he, too, were a conspirator. “But there is no benefit to us in walking into an ambush. Why should we not fight you here and die
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