Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (5 page)

“Balls,” said James, and was inwardly pleased when he saw Thomas blink in surprise at the response. “This isn't about books, or narrow-mindedness, or even the true spirit of Albion. This is about balverines. Even more, it's about the balverine that killed your brother.”

“No.”

“Yes, it is. You want to find the one-eyed thing, assuming it still exists, and you want to kill it and cut its head off and shove it in your father's face, and say, ‘See? See here? I wasn't lying all those years ago.' ”

“If I did that,” said Thomas with resignation, “my father would claim it was some sort of trick. Or the head of some sort of singular freak of nature. He would never, ever accept what I presented him as fact. There's no proving anything to him.”

“Then why—?”

He thumped his fist into his own chest. “I need to prove it to myself. I have to see at least one of the damned things with my own eyes. For the past ten years, I've had nothing but my father and my mother openly disbelieving me, disputing me, dismissing me . . .”

“You must be running out of words beginning with ‘dis.' ”

“This isn't a joke, James.”

“I'm sorry. But isn't maybe part of it that you're starting to wonder if perhaps they weren't right? That you were a scared child with an overactive imagination and a guilty conscience who built a simple wolf into something that it wasn't.”

Slowly, Thomas nodded. “Yeah. And I just . . . I need to know, James. I need to know, and this is the only way I'm going to find out.”

“Are you planning to come back?”

“I really don't know.”

“Then you're not leaving me much of a choice.”

The comment appeared to take Thomas off guard. He looked askance at James, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

James walked over to Thomas and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “The truth is, Thomas, the only part of my life that's remotely worthwhile is being associated with you. So the idea of not seeing you for the rest of my life just isn't acceptable to me.”

Thomas visibly tensed. “So you're going to try and stop me?”

“Hell no. I'm going with you. What?” And he laughed. “Do you really believe I'm going to remain behind in this piss hole of a city while you're off adventuring in the lands of the east? Don't be ridiculous.”

“James . . . it could be dangerous. I'm of age; you're not. It's not fair to ask you to . . .”

“You're not asking me to do anything,” James pointed out. “I'm telling you what I'm doing. Besides, you need me.”

“I really don't. I won't lie, James; you've been a good friend. But there are some things”—and his voice deepened, taking on a manly tone—“that I just have to do alone. Good-bye, James.” He shook James's hand firmly, turned away, and started walking.

“Thomas,” James called after him.

With a faint sigh of exasperation, Thomas turned, and said, “What?”

“That way is north.”

Thomas tried to laugh dismissively, but then he looked uncertain. “You're sure?”

James chuckled. “Thomas . . . you get lost in the marketplace. Hell, you've gotten lost in your own house.”

“Only that one time,” Thomas said defensively.

Ignoring him, James continued, “I, on the other hand, have a superb sense of direction. I always have. And if you're going on any sort of trip, and you have the slightest hope of not getting lost, you're going to need someone at your side who—at the very least—can keep ‘east' consistently in his head and his feet on the right path. Besides, you think I don't want to see a balverine? Or a hobbe, or a hollow man, or a kraken or whatever other creatures are out there that anyone in his right mind would be running from rather than seeking out? You think I don't want to see a genuine Hero? You think I want to spend my whole life in this place? Besides, if by some chance you manage to find your way, survive, and make it back here, I'm going to have to listen to your endless tales of adventure. To hell with that. So unless you've got a better reason for my not coming, like maybe that you're tired of my company . . .”

“We have known each other forever, James, and I have never tired of your company,” said Thomas. “But . . . what of your family? You're simply going to take off?”

“If you can take leave of your senses, I can take leave of my family. Frankly, it'll be amazing if anyone in my family notices that I'm gone.” He shrugged. “One less mouth to feed.”

The two young men stood there for a time, regarding each other, sizing each other up. The one who had come of age, and the other who—if matters did not turn out as they hoped—might not live to reach that mile-stone. Then Thomas stretched out his hand, palm up, and James reached out and gripped Thomas's forearm firmly. Thomas likewise returned the grasp, and they shook once on it.

“Do you need to return home? To get your things?”

“I come from a poor household. I've nothing worth taking.”

“Then wait a moment.” Thomas went back into the house and emerged a few minutes later with a traveling cloak and a short sword. “Here. My father's. I doubt he'll miss them, and even if he does . . .”

“It is better to ask forgiveness after the fact than to ask permission and be denied?”

“Pretty much. So . . . east?”

“East,” James said firmly.

THOMAS WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO
having people laughing in his face. Giving him dubious looks, or chastising him, or perhaps just shaking their heads and turning away while muttering disdainful comments, yes, all of that and more had he experienced.

This man, though, was laughing outright. He was round and heavyset, sitting opposite Thomas and James and swaying side to side as the rocking coach barreled down the highway. The horses' hooves stamped out a steady tattoo on the dirt path, and if they slowed, the coachman would shout “Yah!” every so often, which meant nothing to the horses, but then crack his whip, which did indeed mean something to them. The fellow passenger had already introduced himself as a merchant on business to Rookridge, the town for which the coach was bound, and just to pass the time, he had tried to prompt the lads to tell him what their own business was. Thomas had been evasive in that regard for much of the trip, but the merchant, whose name was Sutter, had managed to wear him down so that as their destination was merely a few hours on, he judiciously told him as much detail about the matter as he felt comfortable. No need to dredge up the entire tragic story of his brother, certainly, but he let down his guard sufficiently to describe precisely what it was that they were hoping to encounter.

This prompted the laughter, which so overwhelmed Sutter that he had to start coughing mightily, as if his lungs might be expelled from his chest, before he could compose himself.

“Balverines! Seriously?” he finally managed to ask.

James gave Thomas a cautioning glance, and Thomas was able to discern the unspoken message:
No. Not seriously. Tell him you were not serious. Tell him you were joking. We do not need this grief.