Dragon Princess (20 page)

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.”

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.

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.

Once we settled on an amount, she was quite helpful. She fixed my hair, which was apparently a hideous mess. And she helped properly fitting the bodice—during which time I discovered that this woman wasn’t nearly as well-endowed as I had thought. Her bodice and low-cut chemise combined to do absolutely miraculous things to the princess’s cleavage.

I had been worried that someone might recognize me once I slipped into the crowd with my face uncovered. Looking down as she tightened the laces binding me, I realized that my worries might not be such an issue, at least for half the population. It also gave me a convenient place to stash the elf whistle.

“There,” she said after adjusting everything. “Now you don’t look too frightening.” She reached down and smoothed my apron. We had traded undergarments, and my old chemise, despite being cut more modestly, was still wet and clung to her in some rather distracting ways. Again I was reminded how long it had been since I’d shared intimate company with a woman, and that feeling—more than the bodice thrusting my cleavage toward my chin—reminded me of exactly what I lacked at the moment.

As much as I told myself that what I was doing was for Lucille’s benefit, I was really motivated by selfishness. Of course I would do just about anything to return her to her body; it was the only way I could return to my own.

The woman gave me an inscrutable expression and touched my cheek. “You’re really too pretty to be waylaying serving wenches.”

“I’m not waylaying you,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m bribing you, remember?”

She laughed. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have followed through on your threat if I’d started screaming?”

“It would have been the huge barbarian who waylaid you. That’s what I brought him for.”

“I see.”

I hunted for a good place to conceal my dagger, and settled for my upper thigh. I fumbled with it a moment, before my most recent contract employee reached down and said, “Let me.”

She slid my hand away and started working with the buckle to fit the sheath snug against the skin. She quickly managed it, but left her hand against my inner thigh. “You haven’t even asked my name.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Evelyn,” she said.

“Uh huh.” I reached down and removed her hand. She squeezed it for a moment. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to tie you up now.”

“I know.” She looked into my eyes, and what I saw there . . .

Let’s just say, I didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. Whatever it was, I didn’t have the time to deal with it right now. Instead, Brock and I tore apart enough dishrags to tie together to make credible restraints, bound Evelyn hand and foot, and Brock gently set her down into the barrel I’d arrived in. Last I put the remains of the harlequin outfit in with her. She looked up at me with a half-smile and said, “I normally work in Brightwood, at The Three-Legged Boar. If you ever want to return my clothes.”

I nodded and Brock put a clean dishrag into her mouth as a gag. I lifted up the barrel lid. I hesitated a moment, then I told her, “My name’s Frank.” I put the lid in place over a very puzzled expression.

I did not want to ponder any of the implications of what Evelyn had said—mostly because entertaining certain ideas would be admitting to myself that my current princessly state was something more than a temporary affliction, and that wasn’t anything I was ready to deal with on any level.

Instead I filled a tray with a full supply of ale tankards and walked with Brock out of the tent.

“What does Brock do now?”

Good question.

“Keep posing as a servant. Carry things around and work your way toward the tourney field. At some point I’m going to get close to the queen. It’d be nice if I can do this without being noticed, but there’s more than likely going to be some sort of commotion. I’ll probably be yelling. A lot. If that happens, I want you to ready some sort of distraction. A big one.”

He smiled. “Brock can do this.”

“Wench!” Someone shouted in our direction.

I turned and saw an old man hooking a finger in my direction. “No fraternizing on the job. Get those drinks out here.”

“Got to go,” I smiled at Brock and moved in the direction the crotchety old guy indicated.

As I passed the old man, he slapped my butt. “Speed it up, missy,” he said with a cackle. From that point on I knew that serving girl wasn’t going to go on my list of favorite disguises—though my earlier speculations were borne out by the fact that the old man was so fixated on my bodice that he was oblivious to the change in its occupant.

 • • • 

Welcome to the world of the highborn and noble,
I thought as I stepped over some scion of some great house or other who had passed out in a pool of mud, piss, and vomit. I weaved through a population of titled nobles, courtiers, and diplomats, all personal guests of the Grünwald crown, and I think I could have exchanged most for any random denizen of The Headless Earl
.
The only differences seemed to be clothes, diction, and the cost of their indulgences. That, and I suspected the thugs at The Headless Earl were more polite to the servants.

Then again, what would you expect of a crowd gathered to watch men of knightly virtue beat the crap out of each other?

Between me and the field of honor was a good two to three acres of drunken lords, princes, barons, and whatnot from a dozen different places. Even though the arms of Lendowyn were notably absent from the serving tables, there were probably more than a few people present who may have actually met the Princess Lucille at one point or another. Unfortunately, I saw no way to get close to the royal pavilion, and Queen Fiona, other than through this mass of inebriated nobility.

Thin as it was, my disguise held up. There was the noble disinclination to notice the existence of common people, especially servants. And there was the general intoxication of the populace. Then there was the last line of defense, my cleavage-emphasizing bodice.

I drew a lot of unwanted attention, but none of it because anyone recognized me.

Still, as I dispensed tankards and dodged lewd dukes and groping earls, I began to recognize that my serving-wench persona was unlikely to get me too close to the queen. Close to the royal pavilion, the long open-air serving tables gave way to benches of seats for spectators. That area seemed much less rowdy, and my protective coloration would stand out. I didn’t see any of my fellow wenches carrying tankards into the stands. Then there was the pavilion itself, which was its own building in the midst of the stands, separated by brightly painted canvas walls from the less-royal spectators.

I worked the tables close to the tourney field, occasionally using my skills at clandestine acquisition to keep my tray populated with full tankards. I didn’t want to run out and have to return for more. In many cases all I needed to do was lean over slowly as I collected empties, and no one would notice the empties weren’t.

As I played my role, I kept one eye toward the royal pavilion, looking for means of surreptitious entry. I saw half a dozen ways to enter unobserved, and all had the same problem. The queen faced the field, on a dais, in front of everyone. Behind her was a tightly packed group of advisors, nobles, and guardsmen. Even if I made it into the pavilion, there was no route from inside to the queen—over, under, around, or through—that would escape notice from her entourage. Even then, there was another serious problem. To the right of Queen Fiona, standing at attention, was her champion.

Sir Forsythe the Good.

Of course he’d be here.

I turned away, afraid that even at this distance, Sir Forsythe might recognize me. That complicated things even more as I tried to think of any possible way to get to the queen without him seeing me. Cleavage alone wasn’t going to be enough camouflage to get close enough to snatch the ring. Nâtlac aside, Sir Forsythe probably thought himself too pure of heart to be distracted that way.

I could hide within and wait for the queen to leave the festivities, but that would give me a very small window of opportunity, in a tight space that was probably even more tightly packed with guardsmen. And, more likely than not, Sir Forsythe would be there as well.

This was looking less and less possible. Worse, I could see the rings glittering on her hand. So close . . .

I watched as the next pair of knights took the field. They strode in front of the pavilion. They were dressed in full plate armor that shone in the sun, the type of overly engraved nonsense that only got worn when nobles dressed up to play at war. Good at looking pretty, not so good on the battlefield.