Myth-Gotten Gains

The Margrave narrowed his eyes again. I had made him re-evaluate us, and he didn't like that.

The royals in this country had birth names, but took a new name when they ascended the throne. I happened to know because I'd had all the archives of the Possiltum court at my fingertips, which included information, maps and portraits from spies and cartographers visiting the neighboring countries, plus some very confidential data from diplomatic diaries.

When he was still prince of his country, before it had been absorbed by Possiltum, Congreave had proposed to Queen, then Princess, Hemlock more than once. She had never taken the proposals seriously, since she thought that Congreave's nickname and underwear were both hilarious. She probably wouldn't have been as thrilled if she knew the nicknames that her brother monarchs had for her.

I pressed my advantage, and shook my manacles.

"Now, look, Highboy, Duke Spruesel is not gonna be happy that you locked up three of his favorite courtiers in chains over a stupid little misunderstanding, is he?"

"It's Highperin," the Margrave said, automatically. He looked less certain than he had before, then he recovered himself. This was still his ball field, whatever kind of sneaky base-stealing I had just done. He came up, kicking aside a rat, and glared me straight in the eye. "You will call me Lord Margrave!"

I was casual. "Whatever you like. You can call me Lord Fistula."

"Never heard of you." He hoped I was lying. I smirked.

"The duke has. I am his good right hand."

"Not so good, if you are capable of starting a near riot through your ineptitude. The Skivers..."

"You oughta be proud of the Skivers," I interrupted him. "Holding up the honor of the province like that. They weren't willing to blab a syllable to a stranger without making sure it was going to hold the people, and hence, its ruler, in the best

possible light. I call that pretty impressive. Right off the bat, they were trying to do things right. I have to hand it to them. It's going to go in my report."

Highperin stroked his fat chin. "I see..."

I built on my theme. "His grace will be glad he sent us. I'll get it all down on parchment. Just as soon as you unclip the iron jewelry. It doesn't go with the rest of the outfit." I jingled my gyves again.

"Well, Fistula, if that IS your name, if the king is so impressed by security, then he will not be displeased with me."

I held out my wrists, but he waved them away.

"I'm not going to take you at your word. You will remain here, without food or drink, until my messenger gets back from the capital. That should take," he gazed at us, enjoying our dismay, "about three days. Each way. If you are whom you say you are, then I shall apologize and make amends for detaining the Duke's archivist and his minions. If not, then I shall devise a very public punishment for the three of you. I have plenty of scope for my imagination, as you can see." He waved a hand at the wall.

I had already been admiring Highperin's collection of nasty torture devices, most of which would delight a socially-deficient crowd like the one that had dragged us here through the streets. They were, one and all, the kind of objects capable of doing things to a body that you hope never happen to yours. Hovering beside them like museum docents eager to show off their display of impaled butterflies was a handful of professional torturers, complete with black hoods and oiled bodies naked to the waist.

Pervects could take a lot of punishment, but Trollops had less stamina than we did, and Walts were more fragile yet. A session with any of the devices would probably ensure that none of us would ever play the piano again. I vowed to the God of Second Chances if we got away unscathed I would start taking lessons immediately.

I glanced at Tananda to see if we had a hope of magikal escape. She gave a little shake of her head, and I realized that

she was stretched to the limit maintaining our disguise spells: I was afraid her powers were stretched as far as they'd go. She could do smallish spells, mostly connected with her many professions. The padlocks securing our chains were old and probably somewhat corroded. I glanced meaningfully at the cup. If I'd been motivated before to get my powers back, I was rarin' to go now. It was our last chance.

"So, you see, Lord Fistula," Highperin said, with a smile, "we are very security-minded here. See you in six days." He started toward the door. His torturers, with a backwards look of regret toward their working tools, set down their irons and followed him.

"I salute you, Margrave," I called after him. "In fact, I want to offer my respects."

Curious, he turned back to me. "And how would you do that?"

"Let me drink a toast to you. What would it matter if our six-day fast starts now, or in a minute?"

"Are you thirsty, Lord Fistula?" Highperin said, returning to me with a gloating look spread across his plump little face. "Why not use the object of your most convoluted theft?"