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Bringing a Knife to a Gun Fight.
Mar. 4th, 2012 09:23 amLJ Idol, Week Seventeen
"A moment of your time, Caravan Master?"
The voice behind me was both silky and cultured, but sent a cold chill running down my spine for all that. I briefly considered pretending that I hadn't heard her summons, and then rejected the idea. She'd never be fooled by it, and I had no doubt that I'd be forced to pay for it later. Sighing, I turned to face my tormenter.
The covered wagons making up our group had been drawn up in a circle for the night, and in the full moon's glow, I could make out the occasional shadow of an armed sentry patrolling the camp's perimeter. Although the forest pressed close along the opposite side of the road we'd been traveling, the land on our side consisted of rolling meadows, periodically punctuated by a collection of standing stones. Despite the fact that both the forest and boulders were notorious refuges for single marauders and more organized bands of thieves, we had seen no signs of life so far.
"Good evening," I said, performing the gesture of peace all travelers were familiar with, two hands at chest level opened outward. Then, feigning astonishment, my right hand flew upward, and slapped my forehead. "But, surely we've met?"
Tacia Dawnstar, commander of the caravan's assigned soldiers, was improbably tall, even for a member of the warrior cast. At our first meeting, my eyes had landed on her waist, then had tracked up, and up, and up, until finally stopping, with delighted surprise, at her chest, and then jerking guiltily away. I was city born, and had seen plenty of troopers in my day, but most of the women tended to be over-athleticized, resembling nothing so much as a collection of willowy sticks in a uniform. Captain Dawnstar was a very notable exception. By now, of course, I was prepared, and kept my eyes under better control.
"Very droll, Caravan Master." Her blue eyes, looking down at me from on high, showed no amusement whatsoever. "Perhaps, if things should somehow go awry during our journey, you could toss aside the unworthy cloak of the merchantman, and perform on stage instead?"
Blushing, I took an involuntary step backwards, and then did my best to cover it with a courtly bow. I had, as it happened, spent some time with a group of actors the previous summer, and had been incredibly happy with the carefree lifestyle until my family caught up with me. But surely, even my father, who had harangued me at some length about how I would be made to suffer if I ever besmirched the family reputation in such a fashion again, wouldn't have dishonored me by telling Captain Dawnstar about that misadventure?
"Alas, Captain," I answered, straightening from my bow and praying that it had concealed my embarrassment, "although your accolades warm my heart, I fear I am destined to wear the cloak of this profession for many years to come."
"Hmmm, perhaps," she said, sounding very doubtful. "As it happens, it is our continued survival that I'd like to speak with you about."
The nighttime sky above was free of any clouds, filled with twinkling stars silently mocking my predicament. Caravan Master indeed. How did she manage not to laugh every time she said it? Over the years, the captain had escorted so many of my father's trading caravans that, by now, actually leading it, even if filtered through a somewhat dull proxy such as myself, must surely be second nature to her.
"Of course you would," I responded, shoulders slumping as I waved her towards my wagon.
Far away, in the evening stillness, I heard a lone howl. A pack of hunting wolves? Was it possible that the pack might come closer? Maybe even close enough to catch an over-confident guard captain unawares?
"And you'll want to discuss my latest blunder at some length I imagine. Care to come inside?"
"Actually," she said, as I reached to pull aside the canvas covering my wagon's small doorway, "considering your lack of experience, you've done relatively well so far."
Of course I had done well. How could I not, with the ever-present captain scripting my every move?
"Thank you," I managed, while swallowing the words I desperately wanted to yell at her in response. "I'm sure my father would appre…"
As the canvas door slid aside, my wagon's small interior was revealed. There was a chest containing what few suitable clothes I possessed for this expedition; several crates, crammed with various and sundry items my father was certain would fetch a fair price once we reached our destination; and my sleeping pallet. My occupied sleeping pallet. Until now, I hadn't realized that there was even enough room for two people to fit on it, let alone two girls.
"Talking to yourself, Caravan Master?" asked the one on the right.
"It must be the stress of his position," her companion theorized, leaning forward while offering me a very pretty smile.
"Milady, miladies, I …" And there I stopped, completely tongue-tied.
I knew them both of course, they were Countess Rosemonde's twin daughters, Catherine and Charlotte. What I couldn't fathom was why they were in my wagon, and wearing so few clothes while visiting.
"We wanted to thank you personally for doing such an excellent job as the new Caravan Master," Charlotte Rosemonde announced, as though reading my mind.
"The famous Rosemonde hospitality," Captain Dawnstar said from behind me. "How charming!"
Charlotte's inviting smile vanished, as though swallowed by the night.
"Did you hear something, sister?" Catherine asked, her smile still intact. "It sounded sort've like the screeching of that long-necked bird Grandpa likes to shoot."
"A crane," Charlotte agreed, her smile returning.
"I'll thank you both to keep a civil tongue …" the captain snapped, but broke off as a cry of alarm sounded from the guards patrolling closest to the forest. "A trap," she growled, staring daggers at the twins, and then spinning away. "A new Rosemonde low, colluding with brigands. Hold them here while I round up the raiders."
Afterwards, I was never certain as to what exactly clued me in. I had turned away, mimicking Captain Dawnstar, my only guide for appropriate behavior, and focusing my attention towards our perimeter troops. Perhaps it was a flicker of movement or a rustle of fabric from the wagon that didn't feel right. Perhaps I simply realized, however belatedly, that turning my back on the Rosemonde twins wasn't such a brilliant idea. Whatever the cause, when I spun back to face the sisters, I saw Charlotte poised to throw, a knife in her hand.
"No!" I screamed, and threw myself at her.
Thankfully, her throw went wide, and only succeeded in grazing my arm before I landed on top of her. Catherine, who had launched herself towards the captain when Charlotte's thrown knife failed, was swiftly taken down by a series of rapid blows from the troop commander, ending her assault in a crumpled heap on the ground. I was fairing less well against Charlotte, attempting, with somewhat limited success, to keep her scratching nails and snapping teeth away from my face.
"When you're uncertain you're up to the physical challenge," Captain Dawnstar drawled, leaning over me to press her side arm's muzzle into Charlotte's head, "it's always best to draw your weapon instead."
I was, I decided, not quite ready for the wolves to make a meal of the acerbic captain after all.
Author's Note:
There are two authors in particular who inspired me to create this fantasy world. Kage Baker, with her book about a caravan master, The Anvil of the World, and George R. R. Martin, because of a mercenary bodyguard in one of his science fiction stories, Rica Dawnstar. As for musical inspiration and the destination of my little caravan, they were traders and not pilgrims, but I'd still like to think they were headed to Shambala.
Dan
"A moment of your time, Caravan Master?"
The voice behind me was both silky and cultured, but sent a cold chill running down my spine for all that. I briefly considered pretending that I hadn't heard her summons, and then rejected the idea. She'd never be fooled by it, and I had no doubt that I'd be forced to pay for it later. Sighing, I turned to face my tormenter.
The covered wagons making up our group had been drawn up in a circle for the night, and in the full moon's glow, I could make out the occasional shadow of an armed sentry patrolling the camp's perimeter. Although the forest pressed close along the opposite side of the road we'd been traveling, the land on our side consisted of rolling meadows, periodically punctuated by a collection of standing stones. Despite the fact that both the forest and boulders were notorious refuges for single marauders and more organized bands of thieves, we had seen no signs of life so far.
"Good evening," I said, performing the gesture of peace all travelers were familiar with, two hands at chest level opened outward. Then, feigning astonishment, my right hand flew upward, and slapped my forehead. "But, surely we've met?"
Tacia Dawnstar, commander of the caravan's assigned soldiers, was improbably tall, even for a member of the warrior cast. At our first meeting, my eyes had landed on her waist, then had tracked up, and up, and up, until finally stopping, with delighted surprise, at her chest, and then jerking guiltily away. I was city born, and had seen plenty of troopers in my day, but most of the women tended to be over-athleticized, resembling nothing so much as a collection of willowy sticks in a uniform. Captain Dawnstar was a very notable exception. By now, of course, I was prepared, and kept my eyes under better control.
"Very droll, Caravan Master." Her blue eyes, looking down at me from on high, showed no amusement whatsoever. "Perhaps, if things should somehow go awry during our journey, you could toss aside the unworthy cloak of the merchantman, and perform on stage instead?"
Blushing, I took an involuntary step backwards, and then did my best to cover it with a courtly bow. I had, as it happened, spent some time with a group of actors the previous summer, and had been incredibly happy with the carefree lifestyle until my family caught up with me. But surely, even my father, who had harangued me at some length about how I would be made to suffer if I ever besmirched the family reputation in such a fashion again, wouldn't have dishonored me by telling Captain Dawnstar about that misadventure?
"Alas, Captain," I answered, straightening from my bow and praying that it had concealed my embarrassment, "although your accolades warm my heart, I fear I am destined to wear the cloak of this profession for many years to come."
"Hmmm, perhaps," she said, sounding very doubtful. "As it happens, it is our continued survival that I'd like to speak with you about."
The nighttime sky above was free of any clouds, filled with twinkling stars silently mocking my predicament. Caravan Master indeed. How did she manage not to laugh every time she said it? Over the years, the captain had escorted so many of my father's trading caravans that, by now, actually leading it, even if filtered through a somewhat dull proxy such as myself, must surely be second nature to her.
"Of course you would," I responded, shoulders slumping as I waved her towards my wagon.
Far away, in the evening stillness, I heard a lone howl. A pack of hunting wolves? Was it possible that the pack might come closer? Maybe even close enough to catch an over-confident guard captain unawares?
"And you'll want to discuss my latest blunder at some length I imagine. Care to come inside?"
"Actually," she said, as I reached to pull aside the canvas covering my wagon's small doorway, "considering your lack of experience, you've done relatively well so far."
Of course I had done well. How could I not, with the ever-present captain scripting my every move?
"Thank you," I managed, while swallowing the words I desperately wanted to yell at her in response. "I'm sure my father would appre…"
As the canvas door slid aside, my wagon's small interior was revealed. There was a chest containing what few suitable clothes I possessed for this expedition; several crates, crammed with various and sundry items my father was certain would fetch a fair price once we reached our destination; and my sleeping pallet. My occupied sleeping pallet. Until now, I hadn't realized that there was even enough room for two people to fit on it, let alone two girls.
"Talking to yourself, Caravan Master?" asked the one on the right.
"It must be the stress of his position," her companion theorized, leaning forward while offering me a very pretty smile.
"Milady, miladies, I …" And there I stopped, completely tongue-tied.
I knew them both of course, they were Countess Rosemonde's twin daughters, Catherine and Charlotte. What I couldn't fathom was why they were in my wagon, and wearing so few clothes while visiting.
"We wanted to thank you personally for doing such an excellent job as the new Caravan Master," Charlotte Rosemonde announced, as though reading my mind.
"The famous Rosemonde hospitality," Captain Dawnstar said from behind me. "How charming!"
Charlotte's inviting smile vanished, as though swallowed by the night.
"Did you hear something, sister?" Catherine asked, her smile still intact. "It sounded sort've like the screeching of that long-necked bird Grandpa likes to shoot."
"A crane," Charlotte agreed, her smile returning.
"I'll thank you both to keep a civil tongue …" the captain snapped, but broke off as a cry of alarm sounded from the guards patrolling closest to the forest. "A trap," she growled, staring daggers at the twins, and then spinning away. "A new Rosemonde low, colluding with brigands. Hold them here while I round up the raiders."
Afterwards, I was never certain as to what exactly clued me in. I had turned away, mimicking Captain Dawnstar, my only guide for appropriate behavior, and focusing my attention towards our perimeter troops. Perhaps it was a flicker of movement or a rustle of fabric from the wagon that didn't feel right. Perhaps I simply realized, however belatedly, that turning my back on the Rosemonde twins wasn't such a brilliant idea. Whatever the cause, when I spun back to face the sisters, I saw Charlotte poised to throw, a knife in her hand.
"No!" I screamed, and threw myself at her.
Thankfully, her throw went wide, and only succeeded in grazing my arm before I landed on top of her. Catherine, who had launched herself towards the captain when Charlotte's thrown knife failed, was swiftly taken down by a series of rapid blows from the troop commander, ending her assault in a crumpled heap on the ground. I was fairing less well against Charlotte, attempting, with somewhat limited success, to keep her scratching nails and snapping teeth away from my face.
"When you're uncertain you're up to the physical challenge," Captain Dawnstar drawled, leaning over me to press her side arm's muzzle into Charlotte's head, "it's always best to draw your weapon instead."
I was, I decided, not quite ready for the wolves to make a meal of the acerbic captain after all.
Author's Note:
There are two authors in particular who inspired me to create this fantasy world. Kage Baker, with her book about a caravan master, The Anvil of the World, and George R. R. Martin, because of a mercenary bodyguard in one of his science fiction stories, Rica Dawnstar. As for musical inspiration and the destination of my little caravan, they were traders and not pilgrims, but I'd still like to think they were headed to Shambala.
Dan
