Gallants in Distress / The Next Town Over

Gallants in Distress

Morning, and Hamlyn rolled his cart into place at the edge of the town market. If it was raining, he would tie a canvas over the cart to protect its contents, but today was one of the first sunny days of spring.

The twenty tankards he had were beaten pewter, and many had become dented and bent over the years. Hamlyn could not afford to replace them; he had spent all of the coin he’d made from his first year as a seller on two things: clips and nails.

As to the clips, he’d heard of ‘street-tankards’ from a sailor who’d passed this way some years ago. The man had told him of a large city where men and women could carry their tankards of ale through the street without having to worry about them spilling a drop! Hamlyn had listened to the man, and then he’d saved his coins. When he had enough, he’d paid a craftsman to make him twenty clips for the tankards.

The clips held the top of the tankards shut. Anyone could buy a tankard and wander safely with their ale through the streets of the town, even if they were quite drunk. All Hamlyn had to do was collect the coins from the regular customers when they came to get their tankards, and then gather the empty tankards that night or the following day.

There was a tavern in the town; every town had a tavern. But Bil the owner had gone from seller of drink to consumer of drink, and now the tavern was only open at odd hours. When patrons knocked at other times, Bil screamed at them, or tossed rocks at them. So there was room in the town for Hamlyn’s little cart, and with the street-tankards and the notice-board, he made a careful living.

The notice-board…Since he was competing against the tavern, and since he was at the edge of the market, he needed something to draw passers-by. Another visitor to their town had told Hamlyn of a great notice-board in a large city with hundreds of posted papers and parchments drawing crowds. Hamlyn did not have a great notice-board, but he had a large flat piece of wood that could be used to post notices. He had originally used tar to tack up the scraps of paper, but it was messy and the notices did not hold. So, he had commissioned the nails, grimacing at how much they had cost him. The gamble had worked.

Hamlyn lifted the board into place. It still had the notices from yesterday and days before; they would stay up until the owners took them down. There were spaces on the board for those who wished to buy, and those who wished to sell; those who had services to offer, and those who had quests they wanted performed. And lastly, a space for Damsels in Distress and Gallants in Distress. There was only one notice in this space.

Other cart-sellers had tried to copy Hamlyn’s notice-board, but his was the first and best-known, so men and women came to his board first. And while they were there, why would they not stop for a tankard of ale, especially if they could carry it with them to their place of work without spilling a drop?

Other than the notice in the Gallants in Distress section, the notice-board was mostly clear. It was spring, and there was little traffic through the market so far. The few notices in the Sell space listed winter clothing no longer needed, and preserves stewed over the long winter months.

The knight would be along soon.

Thaylor was his name, and Hamlyn did not care for Thaylor. A knight meant adventures and violence and risk, and Hamlyn did not like risk. Also, the knight did not buy any ale. Hamlyn could not compel him to buy a street-tankard, but it annoyed him that Thaylor used the notice-board without giving anything in return.

And there was Thaylor, in street clothes, sword at his belt, coming to look at the notice-board. He did not greet Hamlyn, did not do anything but examine the Gallants in Distress section of the board, pull off the single notice, and grunt.

This had happened three times in the past month. First, a thin dark man named Gully would come to buy two street-tankards and ask to put up a notice in the Gallants in Distress space. Every time, there was a gallant in distress in some distant faraway castle, and every time the man – Gully was his name – sought a knight to rescue the gallant.

And then Thaylor would come along some days later, take the notice, grunt, and go on his way.

This time, Hamlyn screwed up his courage and asked, “Knight?”

Thaylor looked at him with hooded eyes but said nothing.

“Did you rescue the other gallants? The ones from the previous notices?”

Thaylor said nothing. Then he shrugged and walked off towards the center of the market.

It was maddening, Hamlyn thought. Surely there could not be a constant stream of dashing young men in faraway castles that required constant saving by knights. One, two a year, perhaps. But so often? And how did this Gully discover these gallants that needed saving?

It was a bad business, but Hamlyn did not want to say anything. He was known as the man with the notice-board, and he did not wish to turn away anyone who would post a notice. He even tolerated those who put up notices on his board telling readers to visit OTHER stalls with OTHER notice-boards.

Were Gully and Thaylor passing messages to each other? Were they spies? Was this a doomed, forbidden romance of some sort between the man and the knight? Or was there truly a plague of reckless gallants upon the land?

In normal times, it would have been another week before Gully would come to put up the next gallant-in-distress notice, but today was not to be a normal day. Gully arrived just after midday, when Hamlyn had already served his usual crowd.

Gully had curly brown hair, dark eyes, and a thin, pleasant face. “Two street-tankards, please,” he said, and passed Hamlyn the coins. While Hamlyn retrieved the tankards, Gully posted his usual notice in the Gallants in Distress section of the notice-board.

Hamlyn wanted to ask Gully about the notice, but he was unpracticed in the ways of conversation. Although he had a constant stream of men and women to his cart, they were there for the ale and the notice-board, and not to speak with him beyond the exchange of coins. So Hamlyn waited until the dark man was about to leave.

“Tell me,” Hamlyn said in a rush. “Are there so many gallants-in-distress in the castles around this town?”

Gully raised an eyebrow at him. “I am a traveling merchant,” he explained with patience. “I often hear of men who have had one problem or another…sometimes, men with more good looks than sense, sometimes men with more haste than caution. Why should I not post these notices? When a knight rescues one of these gallants, they reward me and the knight with gold.”

“And…how much gold have you made from these notices?” Hamlyn asked, though it was a bold question of a stranger.

Gully hefted the street-tankards, nodded at Hamlyn, and walked away.

Maddening! Hamlyn thought. Gully’s story made some sense, but so many gallants? And why always Thaylor the Knight? No other knights had ever passed by the notice-board, that Hamlyn’s could remember. It had the whiff of conspiracy about it.

That evening, Hamlyn closed down the stall and collected most of the empty tankards, cleaned them in the river and polished them. Then he looked at the notice Gully had posted. “There is a Gallant in Distress in a Nearby Settlement,” the notice read. “A brave knight is required to rescue him from imminent peril. Go to the stand of elms in the hills to the west of town to make further inquiries.”

Hamlyn secured his cart and the tankards by the hut where he lived. Then, mustering up his courage, he walked through the empty market, down the road that led west out of town, and up into the hills.

Under a group of tall, flowering elms stood a little house. Hamlyn watched the door of the house from a distance, not sure what he was awaiting. His feet tugged him towards the house, and then away from it, and at last he stood in the clearing by the elms and felt…maddened.

Then the door to the house opened, and Gully came out.

“So,” Gully said. “You have come at last.”

Hamlyn had the notice in his hand, and he pushed it towards the man. “Please explain.”

Even in the gathering dark, Hamlyn could see the thin man blush. “You are a difficult man to speak to.”

Hamlyn shrugged. “All may come to my cart. You came many times.”

“I saw you from afar,” Gully said, “and I wished to know you better.” He raised his eyebrows again, and Hamlyn saw a deeper meaning in Gully’s actions. And then it was his turn to blush.

“I was as shy as you,” Gully went on, “and so I asked Thaylor to act out this shadow-play with me.” He shook his head. “I thought you might come the first time, or the second, but…”

Hamlyn threw up his hands. “Why did you need Thaylor?” Maddening, he thought. Or simply madness.

Even Gully’s smile was shy. “I did not want another knight coming to my house to seek a quest for a gallant in distress that did not exist. And at some point, there would have been ten notices for gallants in distress on your notice-board…a suspicious thing.”

Suspicions…Hamlyn shook his head. “Then, there is no gallant to be rescued,” he said at last, exasperated.

“Isn’t there?” Gully asked, leaning against the doorframe. “I have watched you at your stall, alone among the crowd. That is no life for a man of ideas. A man clever enough to sell street-tankards is a match for a man who posts notices of gallants in distress, is he not?”

This man, Hamlyn thought…this man has seen into my heart as surely as if I had placed a notice of my own. Alone among the crowd, indeed. “But, if I have answered your notice, am I not the knight in this story?”

“A house in the hills with no one around can be as lonely as a stall at the edge of the market.” Gully beckoned Hamlyn with a finger. “Does it matter whether you are knight, or gallant? Surely someone here needs rescue. Come and drink with me one of these street-tankards I purchased from you earlier this day.”

Yes, Hamlyn thought, stepping forward and into Gully’s house. Someone would be rescued. Either the gallant, who yearned to be pursued, or the knight, who yearned to have someone to pursue. Was that not the story of gallant and knight?

----

The Next Town Over

It was the smell, Quinn thought. He could not get the smell out of his mind.

Like every soldier of the Collective, he had seen dead bodies, dying animals, houses on fire. What was different this time was the smell: the heavy scent of cooked and burned flesh, like animal meat roasting over a firepit. The resinous aroma of pine trees popping and burning. And of course, the scent of blood.

Quinn passed a group of soldiers trying to contain a fire using pots of water, without much success. When a senior officer waved him over to help, Quinn raised the silver insignia he’d been given. He had more important work to do.

The insignia also got him past a second group of soldiers that was rounding up spooked cows, horses and other animals and trying to herd them into an enclosure far away from the fires. The pen was too small, and not sturdy enough. Some of the animals were bleeding, and some were deeply wounded. Quinn knew the reason for the wounds; he shook his head in disgust and kept going.

A tent stood at the edge of the encampment, where the center of the town had once been. Four silent soldiers with swords guarded each of the tent’s four corners and two guards with scimitars waited by the entrance flap. Quinn showed his insignia and they stepped aside to let him enter. He had hoped that the oppressive smell would let up when he entered the shelter of the tent, but it was now mixed with the scent of wet, mildewed canvas.

A man stood in the center of the tent, tied to the post with far more heavy rope than was necessary. Another two soldiers stood guard.

The man was one of the People – the group that called themselves The People. Tall, much taller than Quinn or any of the soldiers, with long red hair and hazel eyes. He might have been the tallest man Quinn had ever seen. Diagonal slashes of paint daubed his right cheek; paint, or blood.

He was alert, but relaxed. No expression showed on his face. In a reedy, tenor voice, he asked: “Will you execute me, then?”

Quinn ignored him until he had pulled a stool forward and sat on it, facing the prisoner. “The Collective does not execute our enemies. We are not you.”

By the light of the guards’ torches, the man’s face was somber. “You will not execute me. You will certainly not release me. And you will not imprison me – our scouts tell us your towns have jails that may hold three, four people at a time. Jails to hold ‘criminals’ who dare to steal a sheep, or drink in public, or slap a husband or punch a wife. What will you do with me, then?”

Quinn sighed. “We shall have a talk, you and me. How long it will last shall depend upon you.” To see the man’s face, he had to lean back and crane his neck upward, a sign of weakness. But to sit in front of a standing prisoner was a position of power. The balance of power and weakness would decide this game. “I am Quinn. What is your name?”

The man threw back his head and laughed, a shocking sound against the crackle and pops of the fire and braying of animals. “Quinn the Torturer!” he said. “You are well known among the People. You may call me…Garret.”

Quinn’s voice was calm. “The Collective does not torture our enemies.” Then he added, “We have not tortured anyone in a long time.”

“I shall add torture to the list of things you will not do to me,” the man who called himself Garret replied. Garret, Quinn thought with more disgust. One of the ‘gods’ of the People – trickster, rebel…martyr. Perhaps ‘Garret’ did not know that Quinn could read, that Quinn read poems from outside the Collective. Or perhaps he knew and did not care.

His task was to interrogate this man, and to convince him of what he must do. How to interrogate a trickster? How to persuade a martyr?

“We cannot have the People near the Collective,” Quinn said as if he was talking to a child. “We have told this to your people – The People. I would know why you chose to settle here last summer.”

Garret shrugged as best he could within the confines of the heavy ropes. “There is little land between us to share. Your ‘Collective’ and our People continue to grow in number. There is no longer enough room in the small area you have designated for us.” His eyes were suddenly angry. “And why can we not live next to you? We keep to ourselves. We would not mix with your sort.”

The wind howled against the canvas of the tent, and the smell of the firesmoke grew stronger. Quinn was losing patience. “Blood magic. Need I say it again? Fine. Blood magic. The People continue to use this abomination, for no good reason.”

He turned and spat into the dirt; he would rather have spat into Garret’s face. “Our mages, our healers have invented other names for it: ‘vivimancy,’ ‘enchanted vivisection’. It matters not what they call it.” His voice was heavy and slow. “You remove the blood of animals…while they are alive. You remove their entrails …while they are alive. And when there are no animals, then you use the blood and entrails of each other – while your people are alive.”

Now it was Garret’s turn to spit, but much closer to Quinn this time. “The ancient libel,” Garret said. “You teach this tale to your children in their lessons, and you think yourself so enlightened. The People do not turn on each other. And we do not turn on the Collective, unless you intrude on our towns. Look at the animals outside. We have enough for our spells.”

Quinn nodded. “I saw those animals, indeed. There was a dog nearly cut in two, and it howls and howls. One of many.” He put out a hand as if to appeal to some common sense, some logic that the People might still possess. “Do you not see how this is cruel? How this is wicked?”

“Blood is the People’s magic,” Garret said. Now he was acting the teacher, Quinn thought. “Blood is the source of our strength.” He looked down at himself. “Do you not wonder that I am four hands taller than you, or any of the soldiers? The Collective knows the base workings of metals, but the People have the sacred magic of blood.”

“I would bring the dog in so that you might explain to it the sacred nature of your blood magic,” Quinn said.

“Would you also bring in one of your infants?” Garret asked. “I have heard how the Collective does not believe that a baby may feel pain until it is older. The People know that we feel pain from the moment of birth to the moment of death. It is our nature.”

Quinn was about to reply, but he realized that there was no point. “If you or any of your People shall renounce the blood magic, then we would happily welcome you back into the Collective. You need only ask.” And they must be sincere in the asking, he thought.

“Some will renounce it,” Garret said with bitterness. “Those who do not wish to live in villages that your Collective continues to burn to the ground. Most will not.”

“Then you will leave,” Quinn said. “You will leave, Trickster Garret, and your People will retreat to your designated area.”

“If you push us too hard, we may move into the Forest beyond,” Garret warned.

Quinn shook his head. An old gambit. The Forest surrounded the lands of the Collective and of the People, but nothing and no one could survive in the Forest. There were rumours – but were there not always rumours about places where men and women could not go?

Perhaps Garret had seen the doubt on his face. “And when we are in the Forest, you will not be able to see where we move, or what actions we take.”

This was a worry. No spies for the Collective had ever returned from the Forest. The People could hide there, they could plot their revenge and outflank the Collective. But this was a concern for the future, and the future, Quinn would let the generals determine.

“You will leave and you will retreat.”

Garret smiled, and for a moment Quinn could see the handsomeness in the alien man who stood before him. A man who likely had his own partner – man or woman, or both, a parent to one child or many…all of whom would stab at a dog or a cat rather than live in a civil society. “We will never attack you,” Garret said. “All we wish is to be left alone.”

Quinn got to his feet. “You know what your People must do. You will be freed at dawn. Do not come towards the land of the Collective, and you will not be harmed.”

He did not wait for Garret to respond, but left the tent and those that guarded it.

The fires were still burning, but the soldiers had managed to capture most of the terrified animals in the small, rickety pen. Quinn turned the silver insignia over and over in his hand. He thought of Garret’s final promise: that the People would never attack the Collective.

He sighed and put the insignia back in his pocket. It did not matter if they would attack or not. What Garret had said was true: there were not enough jails to hold those People who would not turn away from blood magic. And the Collective had forsworn executions, just had as he had forsworn being Quinn the Torturer.

The conclusion was inescapable: For the Collective to remain a community of peace, a beacon of liberty and justice…the People had to die.