Once Upon a Winter's Night (35 page)

Girard sighed and closed the door; the man would be taken to the docks below to catch the ferry across to whichever isle he paid the ferrymen to take him, where, no doubt, he would ride a cage to the top.

Camille was relieved that she wouldn’t have to cross the bridge with Gautier, and she thanked Girard and Thoreau and Albert and Louis, and would have given each a bronze, but Louis pushed out a staying hand, saying, “Non, ma’amselle, the gold and two silvers paid it all.” Camille then bade adieu, and shouldered her bedroll and waterskin and rucksack, and took her stave in hand—one hundred twenty-three blossoms gone, the one-hundred and twenty-fourth blossom withering—and, as the red coach rolled on, with Girard and Thoreau on their high bench arear and looking back at her, she set out across the bridge, Scruff on her shoulder, the rope-and-board span jouncing a bit underfoot, the sparrow chirping that it was time to eat.

 

Never had Camille seen so many people bustling to and fro; to her eye the streets seemed utterly jammed; how anyone avoided collisions, she could not say, yet they managed to do so. People rushed thither and yon, bearing baskets, pushing carts, towing small wagons, all laden with goods. Others were there as well: shoppers, hawkers, a group of street urchins dodging in and out among the grown-ups, laughing, playing at some game. Merchants stood in doorways and invited passersby in. Playing a lyre and a lute and a drum and a fife, a quartet of strolling musicians winnowed among the mass. These and more did Camille see, and to her eye it was all quite confusing: much like a thousand motes of dust dancing in a beam of sunlight, and as with them, she couldn’t seem to pick out from the crowd any given mote.

“I feel quite like a minnow, Scruff, about to swim against a tide of spawning salmon.” Even so, she paid the bridge toll-keeper a copper penny, then plunged into the mass, trying to master the intricate ballet.

Camille made her way along the teeming street, foot traffic flowing about her, and though she did not know the dance, it seemed the others did, and so she progressed slowly along the way without crashing into anyone, or rather without them crashing into her. And as she went, instead of a faceless mob, she began to see individuals: tall, short, rotund, slim, breathless, sweating, rushing, casually ambling, standing still, elegantly dressed or wearing rags, some selling goods from carts or open-air stands.

“Oh, Scruff, that must be a Dwarf.” Camille paused and watched the bearded, short, broad-shouldered being cross athwart the street to disappear down a byway. “I think he was no taller than I am.”

Camille continued onward, and she came to a footbridge arching across to another island. Ahead, she saw a group of Dwarves—five or six—coming her way, and she stood aside to study them as they passed. Indeed, she was nearly a full head taller than any, each of them somewhere in the range of four-foot-six or so. Yet they were very broad of shoulder, and they all wore leather vests with small, overlapping plates of bronze affixed thereon.
Oh, ’tis armor they wear. Is this a warband, or do all Dwarves go about accoutered so?
At their belts they wore daggers, but no other weaponry did they bear. All were bearded, and all seemed to be male. And they spoke to one another in a rather guttural and harsh-seeming tongue.

After they passed, Camille continued onward, her gaze now on faces and forms. Most were Human—
“Common salt,” Louis would say
—while others were Fey. She saw someone child-size, three foot tall or so, brown and shaggy and quite ugly.
Spriggan?
Her heart gave a lurch.
No, not a Spriggan, but what? Mayhap one of those Alain called Pwca, yet then again, mayhap not.
Onward she went, making her way along the crowded street, passing across bridges, progressing toward the big island, where Girard had said the inn would be. As she came nigh the midmost isle, she encountered two bearers carrying a small, silk-curtained litter, and Camille heard high-pitched giggling coming from within, sounding much like the giggles she had heard in the Springwood an eternity past, or it seemed that long ago. Still, she did not see who or what made the laughter.

Finally, as the sun lipped the horizon, she came upon the Crown and Scepter, a rather modest but quiet inn sitting a bit back from the sheer drop to the water below. The clerk looked somewhat askance at Scruff riding on Camille’s shoulder, and he shook his head and grinned, saying, “We get all sorts here, ma’amselle.”

 

“Maps?”

Camille nodded.

“Of Faery?”

Again Camille nodded.

It was the next morn, and Camille had decided to start the day speaking with any mapmakers in the city. And so, after breaking fast, she had asked the serving maid, who referred her to Huges, the desk clerk.

“Well, now,” said Huges, “I’m not certain there is such a thing, the way Faery keeps changing, and all.”

Even as Camille’s heart sank at this news, a second man, sitting at a desk behind the counter, quill in hand, looked up from his ledger sums. “Huges, that’s an old wives’ tale. Faery doesn’t shift about like a tassel in the wind.”

Huges raised an admonishing finger. “I only repeat what I hear, Robert.”

“Well, then, let me ask you this: how long have you lived here in Les Îles?”

Huges turned up his hands. “Why, I’ve been here almost as long as has the Crown and Scepter.”

“Ah, then, a good long while, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed.”

Robert smiled. “We agree. Now answer me this: how often has this part of Faery changed in all that time?”

Huges frowned. “Why, not at all.”

Robert touched his temple with the feathered plume. “And what would you conclude from that?—I mean about Faery changing and all.”

Huges’s jaw jutted out stubbornly, and he snapped, “Perhaps the ’scape of Faery doesn’t change much around here, but elsewhere, now . . . well that may be a different story altogether.”

Robert sighed, then looked across at Camille. “Ma’amselle, I suggest you visit the docks, for perhaps they know of mapmakers and chartsmen and other such.”

“Merci, sieur. I shall do so.”

 

A fortnight later, her legs weary from climbing up and down ladders and stairs on the sheer-sided steeps of the isles, Camille had located many folk who had charts—boatsmen; traders; merchants, three of whom did sell maps—yet none knew of the place she sought.

Then she began seeking out minstrels and bards, visiting the parks where some played or orated, stopping on street corners to talk to others, walking alongside strolling musicians, and haunting taverns and theaters and music halls to speak with any she found. And she asked if they knew of a place east of the sun and west of the moon, and she also asked after Rondalo.

And all those she queried shook their heads or turned up their hands, though one had heard of the Elven bard, but had never met him.

She continued to visit the docks, for every day boats and travellers came and went, but it seemed a hopeless cause, for none knew of such a place, nor of a bard so named.

And another moon elapsed, and more blossoms withered away.

 

In the lanternlight, Camille, having taken a late meal, trudged up the steps to her chamber. But at the top of the stairs, she heard Scruff chirping frantically even though it was night and he should have been well asleep. Fearing fire or some such, Camille rushed to her door and inside. Light from the hallway lantern shone dimly into the darkened room. “
Chp!-chp!-chp! . . .
”—Camille could hear Scruff chattering from the direction of the bed, and in the dimness she could faintly see his wee form fluttering and flopping about on the covers. Swiftly, Camille lit a lantern and then quickly stepped to the agitated bird. “What is it, Scruff?” Camille knelt at the side of the bed, eye level with the sparrow, and she held out a finger, but Scruff ignored the offer and, fluttering awkwardly, he hopped to the floor and toward an open window, where a faint breeze stirred the curtains.

Camille frowned.
I do not remember leaving the sash ajar.

Now she looked about the room.
Oh, no!
The chifforobe stood open, the drawers pulled out, the contents of her rucksack were strewn about, her cloak lying on the floor. As Scruff chattered up at the open window, Camille rushed to the scattered goods. The rucksack was empty, the secret pocket lay open, all the contents gone. She turned to her cloak; the lining was slitted; the jewelry and coin that had been therein was gone as well. And her money belt no longer lay in the bottommost drawer.

“Oh, Scruff, we have been robbed.”

 

The clerk called the city watch, and two men showed up, but there was little they could do, except take a description of the stolen goods—coin, jewelry, money belt. They did, however,
tsk-tsk
and admonish her for not taking better care of her valuables; and when she replied she thought the inn quite safe from thieves and such, they smiled and told her she was nought but a gullible girl.

When Camille suggested it might be Spriggans at work, they both denied that such were in the city. “We keep watch at the bridges and throw the buggers into the river below.”

After the watchmen had gone, the clerk cleared his throat. “Ahem, ma’amselle, but does this mean you cannot settle your debt to the Crown and Scepter?”

Camille burst into tears.

“Ma’amselle,” said Robert the very next morn, “you can work in my kitchen, though it will take some while to pay off what you owe.”

“How long, sieur?”

“Three moons, mayhap a bit more.”

Camille’s heart sank. “Oh, but that’s nearly one hundred days in all, one hundred blossoms withered.”

“Eh?” Robert cocked an eyebrow.

“There is another way,” said Huges, “one where you’ll erase your debt much quicker, mayhap in two fortnights or less.”

“Huges . . .” said Robert, a note of warning in his voice.

“Oh, sieur, I would be most grateful,” said Camille. “Where is this job?”

“At the Red Garter,” replied Huges.

“Red Garter?”

“A brothel,” growled Robert.

“And what would I have to do?” asked Camille in all innocence.

“You really don’t know, do you?” said Robert.

As Camille shook her head, Robert glared at Huges and said, “It’s just as well you don’t, for the Red Garter is no place for the likes of a young fille as you.”

“Robert, it is hers to decide, not yours,” said Huges.

“What would I have to do?” repeated Camille.

“Have you lain with a man?” asked Huges.

Camille reddened, but nevertheless replied, “With Alain, my beloved, he whom I do now seek.”

“That’s what you would have to do with the clientele of the ’Garter. And given your face and form and golden hair, men will gladly pay good coin to couple with you—”

Shocked, Camille blurted, “You want me to lie abed with strangers and do
that
?”

Huges nodded. “Many a lonely boatman and merchant and trader comes to Les Îles, and I would think one such as you would be in great demand; as I say, your debt would be wholly discharged within two fortnights, perhaps in but one.” Huges glanced at Robert, who stood in grim-lipped silence. “Much less than the three moons Robert offers.”

“Of course, my uncle would have to approve,” added Huges, breaking into her thoughts. “Perhaps even try you himself.”

“Your uncle?”

“He owns the Red Garter”—Huges smiled—“it is a play on his name: Gautier.”

Camille shuddered and turned to Robert. “Sieur, may I work in your kitchen while I consider what to do?”

Robert smiled. “Indeed, ma’amselle.”

 

That evening, Camille and Scruff were moved into cramped quarters in the attic, and the following day, Camille began washing dishes and aiding the cook and bearing out garbage to cast into the waters below. It was the best Robert could offer, for, though he sympathized with Camille, her manual skills were those of a crofter, and there were no farms in Les Îles for her to earn her keep while working off her obligation.

Even so, Camille struggled with her dilemma: one hundred days versus as few as fourteen; her virtue versus mayhap finding Alain. She spoke to no one about her quandary, though she did tell of her loss.