Bad Prince Charlie Read online

“No, one shellac and six pence.”

  “Stop,” said the passenger. “That’s enough! You’re making my brain hurt. Take the money. Just leave me enough for a meal and a room in Damask tonight.”

  “Should run you about three barb,” Terrapin said, handing him back some coins. “Don’t let them charge more than five. Some of those innkeepers are absolute thieves.”

  “You ought to know,” said the passenger sourly, slamming the door. The driver flipped the reins, and the coach crossed the bridge and soon disappeared into thick forest.

  The band of rogues turned their attention immediately to the dogcart. Two men blocked the entrance to the bridge, a third took a position on the left side of the cart, while Terrapin himself removed his hat and bowed low to the red-haired girl. “Do I have the honor of speaking to Lady Catherine Durace?”

  “I’m sure the honor is mine, sir,” said Catherine. “But I’m afraid your face is not familiar to me. Have we met?”

  “We have not had that pleasure,” said Terrapin. “My name is Terrapin.”

  “Mercy!” said Catherine. Her hand flew to her breast, as though to quiet a palpitating heart, but putting it closer to a dagger concealed in her cleavage. “Not Gentleman Dick Terrapin, the notorious highwayman and bandit leader!”

  Almost imperceptibly, Terrapin puffed out his chest a bit. Rosalind looked around at his three accomplices. Each man reacted instinctively to the glance of a pretty girl, straightening his collar and sucking in his stomach. Rosalind gave them a benign smile. Beneath her cloak, she gripped the shaft of an oak cudgel.

  “You do me a disservice, Miss,” Terrapin told Catherine. “We are but humble toll collectors, whose task is to see that travelers get across the bridge safely. You may be assured that once our modest fee is paid, you may travel all the way to Damask without fear of robbery.”

  “Alas,” sighed Catherine. “Our family’s fortune has greatly diminished over the years. I fear that I will be unable to pay your toll, however modest it may be.”

  In his years of highway robbery, Gentleman Dick had heard every sad tale a traveler could conjure up. “We take barter, my lovely. If you would be so kind as to hand over your jewelry.”

  “They ain’t wearing jewels, Boss,” said one of his minions. “Not even a ring between them.”

  Terrapin’s smile slipped. “Search the luggage.”

  Two of his men were doing this already. “Nothing, Dick. Just clothes, and nothing fancy at that.”

  “We are on our way to the king’s funeral,” explained Catherine. “Finery would be inappropriate.”

  “Experienced travelers,” said Terrapin. “You left your valuables at home. Very wise.”

  “I have been on a few trips, yes.”

  Terrapin’s smile was back, but this time it did not make him look friendly. “Fortunately, a woman always has something of value.”

  Rosalind gave a tiny gasp. Dick’s men suddenly seemed larger and coarser, and uncomfortably close. Her hand tightened on the wooden club. Catherine seemed unconcerned. “Please don’t bandy words with me, sir.” Somehow the dagger had gotten into her hand. “I would not lightly surrender such payment.”

  Terrapin held up a hand. “Now, ladies, surely we can avoid such unpleasantness. He put the hand on the edge of the cart and leaned inward. “I propose a little contest. Are either of you familiar with the tale of Oedipus and the Sphinx?”

  Catherine sighed. “Alas, no. My parents did not approve of advanced education for girls. Instead, I was tutored in more traditional womanly arts, such as needlepoint and baking muffins.” Despite the danger they were in, Rosalind had to hide a smile.

  “The Sphinx,” said Terrapin, “guarded a crossroad in ancient Greece. It was an animal with the head of a woman and the body of a lion.”

  “Of a female lion?”

  “The myth does not specify the gender of the lion, but one presumes it was also female. The ancient Greeks were a little kinky but they weren’t that strange. In some versions it also has the wings of an eagle.”

  “What kind of eagle?”

  “Aquila heliaca, the imperial eagle,” said Dick. “A migratory species, but native to the plains of northern and coastal Greece. Now quit stalling, young lady.”

  “Sorry. Carry on.”

  “The Sphinx posed Oedipus with a riddle. If he answered correctly, he could pass unmolested. Now, ladies, I will present you with the same question. If you answer correctly, you may continue your journey. If you cannot answer, you must surrender your charms without a fight.”

  “Are you quite certain you wouldn’t rather have a muffin?”

  “The offer is tempting, but no. The riddle of the Sphinx is this: What animal goes about on four legs in the morning, two legs in the day, and three legs in the evening? You can see the Sphinx already ruled out minerals and vegetables, so that narrows down the scope considerably.”

  “Indeed it does,” said Catherine brightly. “Why, the answer is obvious. It’s Bad Prince Charlie.”

  It was one of the few times in his life that Dick Terrapin was at a loss for words. He looked at Catherine and cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate on her answer. When she merely continued to smile at him, he said, “ ‘Bad Prince Charlie’? I’m afraid that’s incorrect, my lady. But why would you answer ‘Bad Prince Charlie’?”

  “Because I see him coming right now. He travels on four legs when he rides his horse up to you, preparing to skewer you like a holiday goose. He walks on two legs when he dismounts to run his blade through your kidneys. And he stands on three legs when he pulls out his sword and leans on it while watching the blood spurt from your painfully writhing body.”

  Terrapin looked down the road. A black horse was trotting toward him. The rider was a young man wearing cavalry boots and spurs, dark breeches, and a black leather riding coat. He was hatless, so the wind ruffled his thick black hair. From this distance it was impossible to see his expression, yet to Dick it seemed that a thundercloud was approaching—indeed, that dark clouds followed the young man where ever he went.

  “On second thought, I’ve consulted with our panel of judges and they’ve decided to accept your answer,” he said hastily. “What do we have for the lucky winners, Jerry?”

  His men were already piling boxes into the dogcart. “A set of designer cardboard luggage, a luxury three-day, two-night all-expense paid cruise aboard the Noile Trident—meals, lodging, transfers, tips, port fees, and reservation fees not included—and a pair of beautiful ladies’ gold-tone pendants with genuine certified diamond chips. Taxes are the responsibility of the winner.”

  “Then we’re off,” said Terrapin. “Nice meeting you, my lady. We must do this again sometime.” He turned around to find himself staring a black horse in the face. “Um.”

  The rider was leaning to one side, evaluating the occupants of the dogcart. He had deeply set black eyes that didn’t seem to look at you so much as glower. “Is there a problem here?”

  “No,” said Terrapin.

  “I wasn’t asking you.”

  “I think we’re fine, Charlie,” said Catherine. She had adopted a familiar tone, but her voice held no warmth. “We were just about to continue on to Damask. Am I correct to assume you are going the same way?”

  The young man nodded. “What news of Noile? Has the plague reached there?”

  Catherine’s face clouded. “Alas, yes. I rather hoped the mountains would protect us, but the first case struck some months ago, and the numbers grow each week.”

  “I have been away at the university and have not had news of home, but I fear it will be the same.”

  “Is it the situation in Bitburgen?”

  “Even worse. These things seem to follow a pattern, starting in the major population centers, then spreading along the trade routes, and eventually reaching even into the small towns. We can only hope that it runs its course quickly.”

  “At this point it shows no sign of diminishing.”

  “The
plague?” said Terrapin. “Excuse my interruption, but when you speak of the plague, are you talking about . . . surely you don’t mean . . .”

  “Yes,” said Charlie. “Coffee shops.”

  The thief made a noise of disgust. “Coffee shops. They seemed to come out of nowhere, and now Noile is infested with them. And the prices. Ten pence for a tall macchiato! It’s ridiculous. It’s . . .”

  “Highway robbery, Dick?” Charlie swung a leg over his horse and dropped lightly to the ground.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” said Terrapin, taking a step back and putting his hand on his sword.

  Charlie glared at him, then turned back to the girls. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for the news. Perhaps we will meet again in Damask.” He slapped their horse on the flanks and it started off. Catherine looked affronted at this sudden dismissal. Rosalind, for reasons she couldn’t explain, found herself wishing the horse would move away faster. Bad Prince Charlie made her nervous.

  When the dogcart was over the bridge, Charlie returned his attention to the bandit leader. “Dick, you accosted me when I left to begin my studies. Do you recall what I said to you then?”

  Terrapin attempted a display of bravado. “You don’t scare me now, Charlie. I know you’re not a legitimate prince. And you’re not in Damask, either. You have no authority here. I’ll do as I please. You may be good with a sword, but you can’t take on my whole gang.”

  “What gang?” said Charlie.

  Terrapin turned to look around. His men had melted into the bushes the moment Charlie had dismounted. When he turned back to face Charlie, the prince had his sword out of its scabbard. Terrapin gave an involuntary little jump.

  “This road,” said Charlie, “is the only road connecting Damask to the port of Noile, which is open year round. Therefore it is important to our trade. I want it kept free of bandits and road agents. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” said Terrapin.

  “Good.” Charlie sheathed his sword and mounted his horse. “Being as this is a joyous occasion in Damask, I will let you off easy today. Next time I see you . . . but there isn’t going to be a next time, is there, Dick?”

  “No,” said Terrapin. “Joyous occasion? What are you talking about? Everyone who passes on this road is going to a funeral. The king is dead.”

  Charlie flipped the reins. The horse started off, shoes clip-clomping on the wooden bridge. “That’s the joyous occasion I’m talking about.”

  Early in the history of Damask, a man named Joseph Durk staked a claim to one of the few springs that ran reliably all year and built a brewery. Durk knew his craft. He brewed a pretty good lager, using high-quality hops and a cold fermentation process. Joe Durk didn’t worry much about selling the beer. He just brewed the kind of beer that he liked to drink. Other people drank it without complaint, and everyone agreed that Durk’s was a good beer. If you were in Damask, you drank Durk’s.

  His son, Thomas Durk, inherited his father’s brewery. Thomas also opened a brew-pub. He sold his own beer, as well as laying in a few barrels of imported beers to keep up interest in the place. Most of the customers drank Durk’s. But for Thomas, it wasn’t enough to know that people drank his beer. He asked himself an important question: Why don’t people drink more beer?

  He pondered the matter for several years while he observed the customers in the pub. He funded research. He commissioned studies. And he came to the surprising conclusion that people didn’t drink beer because they didn’t like the taste of beer.

  Oh sure, they drank it. They drank it because it was something cool on a hot day and wet on a dry day, and the bubbles felt good on the tongue. They drank beer because it went well with particular foods, and it carried with it a certain aura of conviviality and good times. They drank it because their friends drank it. They drank it because it gave them a little buzz. But they didn’t really like the taste.

  Another brewer might have shrugged off this knowledge, but Thomas Durk knew an opportunity when he saw it. If the patrons didn’t like the taste of beer, he’d give them beer with less taste. The obvious thing to do was to water down the beer. To his delight, sales went up. He was not only selling more beer, he was making more profit on the beer he sold.

  There was a limit, however, to the amount of water he could add to the beer. Too much and it actually tasted watered-down, didn’t look right, and of course, didn’t give the same buzz. Durk experimented with his brewing process. He replaced some of the hops with sprouted grains—barley, wheat, and maize. Flavor decreased. Sales went up each time. But when he finally settled on rice, he knew he had a winner. His beer was beautiful to look at, modestly alcoholic, and virtually tasteless. Soon Durk’s Beer was the number one beer in the Damask.

  And that was a source of unending irritation to his grandson, Tommy Durk. Tommy was a beer aficionado. The family did not let Tommy manage the brewery yet. Someday, he knew, he would have control of the brewery and then they’d start making real beer again, beer a man could be proud off. In the meantime, he had charge of the brew-pub.

  He did a pretty good job with it. He stocked a variety of microbrews from all over the Twenty Kingdoms—top-notch stuff, if you liked beer. The food was also good (for pub food), while the barmaids were pretty and buxom (no complaints there) and wore kirtles. In the evening there was a fiddler to keep things lively. In the summer the windows were opened to let in the breeze and a couple of small boys were hired to swat flies. In the winter the windows were shut, the fire was lit, and the air grew thick with the smell of pickles, cheese, smoked sausage—and beer. It was pretty big, as taverns go, but it was full this past week, with so many people coming into the city for the funeral, some even coming over the mountains from Noile. Tommy worked alongside the barmaids and tried in vain to educate the customers.

  “Steve,” he asked a regular. “Why don’t you try this? It’s an Alacian light amber. It’s a mild lager, maybe a bit darker and maltier than your usual, but low on the hoppy side, with a hint of juniper.”

  “Pint of Durk’s,” said Steve.

  One advantage of owning a tavern was that you overheard things. Once he had listened to the conversation of a pair of bricklayers. They were building a brick house for a wealthy merchant. But they were planning to cheat him and use inferior mortar between the bricks. That night Tommy went to the merchant’s home, delivered his information at the tradesman’s entrance, and suggested it was worth a tip. The servant who answered the door listened to his news in stony silence, then shut the door in Tommy’s face. Tommy figured he had learned a lesson, put it down to experience, and went back to the tavern.

  Except a few days later a man, not the wealthy merchant, arrived at the tavern with a handful of coins for Tommy. And instructions on how to earn more tips.

  He was thinking about that now as he wiped down a table for a customer. “Got something special just in, Mr. Carter,” he said. “You owe it to yourself to try this. It’s a wonderful red ale from Deserae. The caramel malt gives it sweetness, but the hops dominate. Deep gold color, high alcohol content, and a slightly fruity background make this . . .”

  “Let me have a schooner of Durk’s,” said Carter.

  “Coming right up.”

  One day the man came back and told Tommy that he wasn’t allowed to sell his news to anyone else. But to make up for the lost income, he would be paid a small retainer. Tommy agreed immediately, since he had never thought to try selling his news to anyone else. He knew, of course, that he was not the only one gathering news. He was a small part of a network, and it might be a very large network, and there was no telling who else was in it or where the information was going. But there was nothing to be gained by thinking about it. He kept his ears open and husbanded his coins.

  The barmaid was gesturing urgently to him. Tommy looked where she was pointing. Catherine Durace and a companion were seating themselves in the dining room. (Tommy ran a respectable tavern—ladies were not permitted in the bar.) He
hurried to put on a clean apron and fill two glasses with his finest new import.

  “So good to have you with us again, Lady Catherine.” He set the glasses on the table. “Compliments of the house, allow me to present you with this Bellringer Abbey Special Dark. It comes from an abbey in Illyria, where monks have been brewing it for nine hundred years.”

  Catherine put her hand on the glass. “And it’s still cold!”

  “Amazing what those monks can do. But if you like a good brew, milady, if you’re a woman of judgment and discerning intelligence, if you’re looking for something new to please your palate, then you can’t go wrong with this Illyrian double dark premium lager.”

  Lady Catherine looked up at him with her deep green eyes. “Why, that sounds delicious, Tommy—it’s Tommy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Tommy, feeling ridiculously pleased that she remembered his name.

  “But what I’d really like now is a nice glass of Durk’s.”

  Tommy’s smile slipped the tiniest bit. “Certainly, milady.”

  “And I’d like a glass of Durk’s Light,” said Rosalind.

  “Coming right up,” said Tommy, sighing inwardly. He delivered two new glasses, brought the dark beer back to the bar and sipped one glass. He was gratified when a new customer walked up to the bar and said, “What’s that you’re drinking?”

  “Bellringer Abbey Special Dark. Try one. Compliments of the house.” Tommy passed the man the second glass and looked him over. He wasn’t wearing insignia, but the cut of his tunic and his overcoat told Tommy he was a military man.

  “Well, thank you much. Say, this is pretty good.”

  “You think so? You must not be from around here.”

  “From Noile. Folks here told me that Durk’s was the best beer in the country, but I dunno. Tastes watery.”

  “Staying long?”

  “I’m starting back home tomorrow. But I expect to be back before summer’s end. And don’t worry. I’ll be with men who will drink anything.”

  Tommy thought about this. There were a lot of people from a lot of countries in Damask now, so it wasn’t unusual to find a Noile soldier. But this one expected to be back with more soldiers? That might be worth a tip.