Betrayal in the Highlands (8 page)

Don’t get involved!

A rock hit the fat man’s face. A cheer erupted as blood started to trickle from a small gash above his eye.

Edmund stormed up to the chuckling constable.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded. “He’s a person, just like any of us! Why are you treating him this way?”

The obese man had been whipped; ripples of fat on his bare back had been sliced open, and blood oozed through a half-dozen slashes. Given the visible scars, this evidently hadn’t been his first offense.

“Fatty Moron?” the constable replied. “His usual. There’s no cure for him, I’m afraid. Somebody should put him out of his misery and ours as—”

“Yes, yes. But what did he do to deserve this?”

The constable stared down at him, evidently trying to determine whether Edmund was important enough to use such an aggressive tone with an enforcer of the law.

“He was convicted of theft,” the constable said, eyes narrowing. “Who’re you, sir? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

See! He’s not a magic user. He’s simply a common thief. Don’t get involved. Nothing good will come from you getting involved.

He still needs our help.

Don’t—!

“What did he steal?”

“Sir.” The constable stepped from the platform. Even on level ground, he stood a good eight inches over Edmund. “Perhaps you are new to this region but as constable here, I am accustomed to having my questions answered first.”

An older boy kicked the fat man in the face. Another great cheer went up.

Blood flowed from the prisoner’s nose, mixing with the manure they had smeared across his mouth. Yet through it all, the young man in the pillory continued to stare dully in front of him.

Control your anger. You don’t know what the situation is.

Nobody should be treated like this!

“M-m-my, my name is Mr. Edmund,” Edmund said, trying to unclench his teeth. “I am presently a guest of Baroness Melody, though my colleague, Mr. Pond, and I are contemplating relocating here permanently. Now, if you would be so kind, please tell me, what exactly did this poor fellow do to deserve this torture? What did he steal?”

The constable regarded Edmund, and then Pond.

“And what is it that you and your colleague do, Mr. Edmund?”

Be calm. Don’t do anything stupid.

“Our positions are such that we don’t require a trade,” Edmund replied.

The constable took a deep breath, an understanding dawning in his cold expression.

“Very well.” He stepped back a pace. “If you wish to know, Fatty Moron was caught stealing food. He couldn’t pay restitution, so—”

“So you, you tortured him?”

The constable’s lips tightened into a forced smile. He bowed slightly.

“Your words, sir. This is the law of our land. If it displeases you, perhaps you and your colleague should consider relocating to a city whose laws better suit your tastes.”

“So am I correct to assume that if the merchant was reimbursed for his losses, this young man would be set free?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fumbling with his many packages, Edmund searched his pockets. “How much does he owe?”

“Eighty-five silver pieces.”

“Eighty-five silver pieces! What the hell did he eat?”

Edmund continued to pat his empty pockets. He glanced at Pond, who shrugged and inclined his head toward the packages in their arms.

“He ate seven sea bass and drank a quarter keg of ale,” the constable said. A more genuine smile crept across his lips as he watched Edmund turn a trouser pocket inside out. “He has been charged for the entire keg since he stuck his head in the barrel. It couldn’t be sold with his crud in it.”

Edmund felt something inside his vest pocket. He reached in and pulled out the wedding ring from the troll’s lair. Its grape-sized diamond shimmered in the starlight.

Don’t! Molly would—

“This is worth more than eighty-five silver pieces,” he said, pushing the ring into the astonished constable’s hands. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Breathless, the constable replied, “Well, I’m no expert in such things, but I would guess that you are correct, sir.”

“Then this is what I want you to do. Take this ring and in the morning sell it to anybody you like. Get whatever you think it’s worth. From that money, give eighty-five silver pieces to the merchant. You can keep the rest for yourself.”

The constable looked up, startled. “I couldn’t!”

You’re making a big mistake.

“Now,” Edmund said, “let this poor fellow go.”

The constable fingered the ring, examining its clear diamond and silver band.

“It’s worth about nine hundred gold pieces,” Pond told him. “Just so you know what to expect. I wouldn’t accept anything less than eight hundred fifty if I were you.”

The constable mouthed “nine hundred gold.” Doubt washed over his face.

“It isn’t stolen, is it?”

“Would somebody give a stolen ring like this to an officer of the law?” Edmund asked in disgust. “Look at it! It’s one of a kind. It could be easily identified. Now let the poor fellow go.”

Like a burglar preparing to exit the scene of a crime, the constable surveyed the crowd around the pillories.

“Very well.” He slipped the ring into his pocket. “But Fatty Moron is now under your care; he’s your ward and responsibility.”

“Fine! Fine!” Edmund said. “Just let the poor fellow go.”

Despite the children’s disappointed whines, the constable unlocked the pillory and opened the hinged boards.

The thief didn’t move. Bloody manure slid from his face.

The constable smacked him across the top of his head.

“Get out, Fatty Moron. And get out of my sight. You’re none of my concern any longer. These gentlemen will be dealing with you from now on.”

Fatty Moron’s head lifted a bit, his tiny black eyes drifting over in Edmund’s direction.

“Come on, moron! Get going or I’ll—” The constable cocked his hand back.

Edmund seized his arm before another blow could fall.

“If you strike him again,” he said, “you’ll have me to answer to.”

Even the taunting children fell quiet.

“Sir!” The constable’s voice thinned to its breaking point. “I’m an enforcer of the law!”

“I don’t care.”

For a moment they stared at each other, Edmund’s fingers tightening around the constable’s forearm. The constable turned away first.

“Get going, Fatty Moron,” he repeated as Edmund released him. “Get out of my sight!”

Fatty Moron pulled his wrists and ankles out of the restraints, his great pear-shaped body unfolding like a concertina, and straightened as best he could with a still-bleeding back. Even hunched over, his bald head loomed over everybody.

Holy cow! He’s bigger than Tiny Turd!

And probably just as dangerous.

“What’s your name?” Edmund asked the giant.

The children around them giggled.

“It’s Fatty Moron!” sang a little girl in pigtails. “Fatty, Fatty Moron!”

Fatty Moron’s sad gaze sunk to the ground.

“That’s okay,” Edmund said. “You can tell me. We’re friends.”

The constable laughed. “He can’t answer you.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause he’s a moron. He doesn’t talk; he just grunts.” A look of pleasure grew in the constable’s eyes. “But he’s your problem now.”

Terrific! What’re you going to do with him?

I can’t just let him go about his way. Without a job, he’ll be in the stockades, or worse, when he steals more food to feed himself. He probably doesn’t even have a home.

Neither do you
.

“I’m Pond,” Pond said, extending an open hand to Fatty Moron.

Fatty Moron looked sidelong at it then stared blankly at the ground again.

Parading around them, the children began to chant: “Fatty Moron! Fatty, Fatty Moron!”

The constable whooped. “Got more than you expected, eh? Good luck feeding the troll.”

What’re you going to do now?

Edmund touched Fatty Moron’s sizable elbow. “It’s okay. W-w-we’re … we’re going to take care of you.”

Fatty Moron didn’t move.

Edmund drew a handkerchief from his pocket, reached up, and wiped the blood and manure from Fatty Moron’s face.

“There. We’ll get you cleaned up better later.”

The behemoth stared vacantly in front of him.

“Pond,” Edmund said, “get our new friend here some decent clothes and some shoes tomorrow. Sturdy stuff, suitable for a hard day’s work.”

“Okay,” Pond replied. “But we’ll have to sell some of the gems. We’re all out of coins.”

“Fine. Do what you have to. We’ll review our finances later.” Edmund beckoned to Fatty Moron. “Come with us, okay? We’ll get you a good meal and a bed. You’re with us now. Do you understand?”

Fatty Moron continued to stare at the ground.

“He doesn’t understand, mister,” said a little boy. “He’s a moron!”

The blood-and-manure-coated handkerchief slipped from Edmund’s fingers, landing on Fatty Moron’s grubby bare feet. Fatty Moron blinked at it for a moment then bent down and picked it up. He handed it to Edmund.

“Thank you,” Edmund said. “If you come with us, we can get you cleaned up a bit more. M-m-maybe even get you some food. Are you hungry?”

Fatty Moron nodded, face vacant.

“Okay. Then let’s go home, shall we? I’m sure we can use your help with a few things.”

He gestured up the road to the bluffs overlooking the city, where Baroness Melody’s expansive manor stood surveying the Western Sea.

“Actually, I think I have a job for you,” Edmund said, peering up at Fatty Moron as they walked away from the jeering townsfolk. “Do you like dogs?”

Chapter Nine

“Do you have a name?” Edmund asked Fatty Moron.

Fatty Moron lumbered up the stairs to the top floor of Baroness Melody’s guesthouse, gulping for breath. Sweat skimmed down his portly face and neck. Rolls of fat draping from his midsection bounced with each trudging step.

If he leans on that banister, it’ll snap like a dry twig!

Just be glad the entire staircase hasn’t collapsed.

“Well, we’ll figure that out later.” Edmund slid his key into the door’s lock. “You’re with us now, and we’re n-n-not … we’re not going to harm you. No more whippings or anything else like that, do you understand?”

Fatty Moron might have nodded; it was difficult to tell as he sucked in air.

You’ve bitten off more than you can chew. What’s stopping him from killing you while you sleep?

He’s not like Turd. We’ll be fine.

You don’t need this aggravation.

He needs help.

“Okay, this is what we need you to do,” Edmund said. “We have this dog who’s a bit of a handful.”

Pond leaned closer to Fatty Moron. “She’s a demon!”

Fatty Moron’s tiny black eyes widened.

“No, she’s not.” Edmund shot Pond an admonishing look as he opened the door to their suite. “She just needs a lot of attention that we can’t really give her right now. We need you to walk—”

Fatty Moron’s eyes grew wider still.

Pond groaned.

Edmund turned and gaped at the parlor.

The parquet floor was covered in white down feathers. It looked like it was snowing inside. Becky streaked across the room, bounding through the drifts and chomping at the feathers as they flew into the air. Upon seeing the front door open, she smiled at her owners.

“Oh, great!” Pond said. “I’ll bet you anything it’s my bed.”

Following Edmund and Pond, Fatty Moron ducked through the doorway.

“Becky …” Edmund sighed. “What did you do?”

Becky sat in front of him and barked, tail kicking up a fluffy white cloud behind her.

Looking into his bedroom, Pond cursed.

“Of course,” he said. “Now where the hell am I going to sleep?”

Tiny feathers clung to the crystal chandelier. Feathers lay in the fireplace. Feathers were even behind the closed glass doors of the corner bookcase, though how they’d gotten there, Edmund didn’t have a clue.

Fatty Moron stood in the entryway like a man awaiting his execution.

A feather drifted through the air; snarling Becky gave chase. She snapped and snapped as it swirled about her head.

“Becky,” Edmund said. “What am I going to do with you?”

Fatty Moron bent over and began to clean, his chubby fingers picking up one feather at a time.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Edmund told him.

Expression blank, Fatty Moron slowly stood up and let the three feathers he had collected float back to the floor. Becky charged at them from across the room.

“So what are you going to do about this?” Pond asked. “She’s a menace! It’s time to get rid of her.”

Edmund rubbed his forehead. His hangover was returning, full force.

“We’ll get a new mattress tomorrow. And get one for … for …” He inclined his head toward Fatty Moron. “In fact, get him two. We’ll lay them side by side on the floor in my room.”

“Like I said, we don’t have any coins left,” Pond reminded him. “We’ll need to sell some gems or jewelry.”

“I know. Maybe we can go to Long Ravine and sell a few things. The nobility there might have the resources to pay what they’re worth. We’ll need to sell enough to last us for a while. I don’t want to travel all over; we need to keep a low profile.”

Pond looked at the mammoth man standing by the front door. “You really think we’re going to be able to keep a low profile wherever we end up?”

Edmund sighed again.

“Hey … big fella,” he said to Fatty Moron. “Could you do me a favor? Somewhere in this chaos is a wadded-up cloak. Take Becky outside and throw it around until her legs fall off. Okay?”

As soon as Edmund said “outside,” Becky began to bark. Tearing through the field of feathers, she disappeared into Edmund’s bedroom and then returned with a feather-covered ball of olive-green fabric in her mouth. She hopped up onto her hind legs and pawed at Edmund’s stomach.

“Or you can just rip her legs off yourself, if you like,” Pond said to Fatty Moron, picking up a remnant of one of his blankets.