As Wesley put it, we told Mother we were going west. She chose to believe what she wanted, which was that her daughter had finally come to her senses. Just before we rode out at dawn, Wesley kissed her cheek. I allowed her to cup my face one final time.
"West," she said. "Do not stop until you reach the ridge. Do not speak to soldiers. Do not use your real names."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do not let your brother speak to anyone. His mouth is a door that swings both ways and has never once had a lock."
"Noted."
We rode east.
The journey to the Guild was long and miserable. Riding that cart for an entire day is one of the worst experiences that a human body can be subjected to. There is no cushion. There is a mule. And there is your ass. Your ass is on the cart pulled by the mule. For hours. Over dirt roads, ruts and over rocks, every bump transmits directly through the medium of your tailbone. After the first hour, it starts to feel like your tailbone has been replaced by a nail.
After three hours, I could no longer feel my legs. By hour 5 I couldn't feel anything below my waist. By the seventh, I was worried that this trip had given me a second asshole and that I would have to live with that from then on.
Wesley, on the other hand, appeared unaffected by this.
"Now when we arrive, you must let me speak first. I shall present us as men of purpose — warriors, seasoned, tested by fire and forged in —"
"Uh-huh."
"Our tale must be compelling. I am thinking a history of military service. Perhaps a skirmish in the eastern provinces. You were wounded — bravely, of course, defending a village from...are you listening?"
"No."
"Fox, this is important. First impressions are the currency of —"
"Wes, my ass, has been on a cart bench for seven hours. I don't care about first impressions."
He huffed, then continued talking. I continued not listening.
The Guild was not what I expected. It was a modest stone structure situated between a tannery and a neighboring shop, nestled on the outskirts of a bustling market town. The sign above the door was faded and slightly crooked: GUILD OF GLORIOUS ENDEAVORS, and underneath in smaller lettering: Est. By Royal Charter. Inquire Within.
We dismounted. I slid off to the side and immediately reached for my ass with both hands. I needed to assess the damage: something back there had definitely changed.
"Jesus Christ," I grumbled, rubbing in circles, trying to bring feeling back to my butt. "That thing wore me a new... I think I need medical attention."
"You are gripping your hindquarters in public," Wesley noted.
"My hindquarters fucking hurt, Wes."
"Perhaps release them before we enter."
We approached the entrance. A man sat on a stool next to the door. A very short man with a long beard.
Wesley lowered his voice and turned to me. "A dwarf. How fortuitous. They are known for their —"
"Dude." I gaped at him. "You can't call people that anymore."
Wesley glanced at the man. "He is a dwarf, fox."
"It doesn't matter what he IS, you can't just point at someone and —"
The man on the stool raised his eyes from his scroll. "You two gonna stand there bickerin' all day or d'you actually want somethin'?"
Wesley stepped forward, straightening to his full height while he adjusted his collar.
"Good sir," he started. "I am Wesley, son of Buain, a bard of no small renown in the western villages. And this—" he swept his hand toward me. "—is my brother, Cassian, a warrior of extraordinary valor whose deeds upon the field of honor have—"
"Are you 'ere about the princess?"
"I — well — yes, but if you would permit me to —"
"The princess lot is over there." He pointed his thumb at the inside of the building without looking up. "Queue starts at the back. Behind the bloke with the eye patch."
Wesley's mouth was agape in mid-sentence, while his hand was stretched toward me.
"There is... a queue?" he asked.
"Been one since dawn. 'Alf the kingdom's shown up wantin' to play hero. Take a number."
I slipped past Wesley and glanced through the door. Inside, a line of thirty or forty people stretched from the far wall all the way to where we stood. Everyone was packed in shoulder to shoulder. Knights in dented armor, farmers with pitchforks, a guy who seemed to be wearing a pot on his head, and people like us who looked like they'd wandered in by accident.
"Great," I said.
Wesley was still there with his hand out.
"My tale," he murmured. "I had prepared the entire tale."
We waited in line for so long that I cycled through every level of boredom I had ever known and created several new ones. I looked at the ceiling and counted the stones in the wall. There were 214, plus one that was possibly two stones or one cracked stone, which I never resolved. I contemplated my own mortality.
The line barely budged. Each person who reached the desk launched into a heroic pitch: their qualifications, their battle history and their extremely detailed plan to save the princess.
"I spy. With my little eye. Something beginning with... S."
Wesley scanned the room. "Sword."
"Nope."
"Stone."
"Nope."
"Stool."
"It's the stain on that guy's shirt."
He sighed. "I spy with my eye — and mine is far more discerning than yours — something beginning with... F."
"Floor."
"No."
"Fool."
"Which fool? There are many."
"The one in front of me."
"That is unkind. But no." He waited, expectant.
"I give up."
"My future. Wasting away in this accursed line."
By the second hour, I'd taught him how to play rock-paper-scissors, which he found deeply philosophical. ("How can paper defeat a rock? A rock would destroy paper!") He picked up a clapping game that I'd learned in the second grade with surprising speed. We were both clapping so hard that the man in front of us turned around to glare.
By the third hour, most of the people around us had joined in. Two knights in full armor were playing rock paper scissors against each other. Their gauntlets clanged with every throw. The pot helmet guy was teaching the clapping game to a woman with a crossbow.
"Pardon me."
The voice came from behind us. I turned, and there stood a figure: tall and cloaked, with a face partly hidden under a hood. His hands were clasped in front of him, covered in gloves. He held something out: a rolled-up piece of parchment.
"No thanks," I replied, turning around again. "I'm good."
"I would encourage you to reconsider."
"Dude, whatever you're selling, I don't want it. I don't want your pamphlet. I don't want your religion. I'm not joining your thing."
"It is an invitation."
"To what? A pyramid scheme? A murder?"
"To an opportunity. For those who wish to do more than stand in a line and wait to be told what they already know." He paused. "The men at that desk will take your name and add it to a list. The list will be given to a commander. The commander will assemble a company of the largest, best armored men available. They will march north. They will be spotted within a day. The princess, if she yet lives, will be moved before they arrive."
I turned back around. He still hadn't moved.
"If you are serious about retrieving the princess," he said, "you will be at the crossroads east of the mill at sundown. Tell no one. Bring no weapons you are not prepared to lose."
He held out the parchment again. This time, I took it.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Sundown," he said ominously and walked away into the crowd. Disappearing as if he'd never stood there at all.
"That was definitely a serial killer," I said. "He's gonna murder us."
"The possibility is considerable." Wesley glanced at the line in front of us before wistfully looking at the door. "I have always said that the finest tales begin with a choice between boredom and a certain death. And I have never once chosen boredom."
"So what... we're going? To meet the cloaked stranger at the secret location at sundown?"
"It does sound rather thrilling when you say it plainly."
"It sounds like how people end up in ditches."
"Perhaps. But it also sounds like a story worth telling. And I would rather die in a ditch with a tale on my lips than grow old in a queue behind a man wearing a pot."
"Yeah," I said. "Why not? Screw the line. Let's go get murdered."
The path east of the mill led to another road, which led to yet another road. This one wound through an increasingly sinister patch of woods until it opened into a clearing where—surprise—there was a manor. Its stone walls were covered in ivy, and its neatly trimmed hedges stood out. This place was probably the home of a man who wore a silk robe and killed people in his basement.
"This is the plot of every horror movie I've ever seen. Two idiots follow a stranger to a nice house in the woods and then get their organs arranged on a shelf."
There was a garden around the side and in it was a small playground. An old, rusted iron merry-go-round with small seats. It creeped me out.
I was surprised when we went inside. I'd been expecting chains and a dungeon. Perhaps an adorned wall lined with knives of varying sizes. Instead, it was a spacious entryway adorned with candleholders. There were around fifteen men, some seated on benches lining the walls, while others stood. There was a long table along one wall. On it: food. Bread, cheese, meats, fruit, and wine. Laid out like a spread.
However, the most intriguing feature of the room was the empty table opposite of the benches, with chairs positioned in front of it, facing the men.
Wesley was already heading for the food. I grabbed his sleeve. The door at the far end of the room opened and a man came through.
He was tall and thin. He wore fancy clothes, every seam aligned, every button fastened, and his collar was perfectly straight, so much so that it could have served as a level. He carried a small leather folio and a quill. He stopped behind the empty table and set the folio down.
"Gentlemen," he began. "Thank you for your attendance. We are still awaiting several more. In the meantime, you may avail yourselves of the refreshments. Please do not touch the silverware. It is not yours." He unrolled the document and started to write.
Eventually a few more men trickled in. The thin man looked up just in time to see that we were twenty or so, scattered across the benches, eating or just sitting there, radiating confusion.
He stood, setting down, clasping his hands in front of him.
"Gentlemen," he said. "My name is Wallace. I serve at the pleasure of a patron whose identity, for the moment, shall remain undisclosed. You have each been selected, from the queue at the Guild, from the taverns, from the roads, because you possess qualities that may prove useful to a venture of considerable importance."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"The Princess Cruit of Tolamn has been taken. This you know. What you may not know is the nature of her capture. She is held by a faction from the northern provinces who believe the princess to be the subject of a prophecy: a divine figure whose imprisonment is, in their minds, a sacred act. She has been placed in a tower. And she is, according to sources I trust with my life, alive. A prince from a neighboring kingdom has been named as the foretold rescuer. The prophecy states that only the chosen one may wake the princess from her cursed slumber. This venture requires individuals of uncommon discretion. Uncommon courage. And a willingness to operate outside the boundaries of what one might call... conventional heroism."
He looked up.
"The compensation is generous; therefore, the details of your involvement will never be spoken of publicly. By anyone. To anyone. If this is not agreeable to you, the door is behind you. Good evening."
No one stirred. Wesley leaned forward, wide-eyed.
Wallace responded, "Very well," "My patron will now address you directly."
The side door opened.
Two boys entered first. They were small and wore uniforms, carrying cushions. They positioned themselves on either side of a chair that had been placed behind the evaluation table, carefully patting the cushions with their hands. A third boy walked behind, holding a plate adorned with a single stemmed glass of wine and a group of miniature pastries artfully arranged in a heart shape.
Then a man came in.
He was round, with plump, rosy cheeks and thick, ringed fingers. He wore what looked like a red bathrobe, with golden embroidery on the cuffs, falling perfectly in folds. His hair was styled in a fluffy quiff. He sat down, and one of the boys adjusted the cushion under him. The nobleman gently touched the boy's arm, his thumb grazing the inside of his wrist. The second attendant moved in to arrange the wine, and the nobleman's fingers lightly touched the back of his neck.
"Thank you, darling," he murmured, then louder: "Do sit. All of you. You look as though you are awaiting execution. Which, I suppose, one of you may be."
He grabbed a tart and took a bite. He scanned the room while chewing, his gaze moving across the men.
"Wallace, It smells in here." He dabbed his mouth with the cloth one of the boys produced instantly. "I was under the impression that bathing was available to all classes. Has that changed? Has soap become scarce?"
Some of the men sitting on the benches emitted grunts. One of them sniffed his armpit.
“Forgive the conditions,” the nobleman added. "I am unaccustomed to receiving guests of such... varied provenance. Ordinarily my chambers host men of titles, men of letters, and men who have encountered a washcloth within recent memory. But these are extraordinary times, and extraordinary times demand that we lower our standards." He smiled. "I trust you have all been informed of the task at hand. I shall be assessing you personally. I shall be blunt, because I find courtesy toward strangers exhausting: most of you will not be selected. But the one who is chosen will be compensated beyond what your bloodlines have prepared you to imagine." He took a bite of another tart. "Wallace. Proceed."
Wallace turned to the room. "You will be called one at a time. You will present yourself, state your name, your qualifications, and your willingness to undertake the task as described. You will then be assessed. Please form an orderly line."
The auditions commenced.
The first man was enormous. His arms were as thick as tree trunks. As he approached the table, its surface trembled.
"Tharn," he said. "Of the northern wastes. Fifteen years in service. Two times dragon biter."
"Biter?" the nobleman whispered.
"He means he bit a dragon," Wallace clarified.
"On purpose?"
Tharn cracked his knuckles. The sound echoed.
"Why do you wish to undertake this task?" Wallace asked.
"Coin. Glory. Blood."
The nobleman blinked. "Those are the precise three things I avoid before lunch."
Wallace scribbled down something. "Thank you. Next."
"Did he bow?" the nobleman inquired after Tharn left.
Wallace had already begun waving in the next one.
It continued: a parade of Very Loud Men with Very Big Weapons. One claimed to have slain twelve dragons, but he fainted when Wallace asked him for a demonstration. Another threw an axe at the wall, missed entirely and nearly took out a candelabra. One man took off his shirt for no reason. Another kept winking at the nobleman with both eyes.
"I find this distressing," the nobleman murmured after the sixth candidate claimed prophetic visions mostly involving fire and screaming.
Wallace laid down his quill and turned his gaze toward us.
Wesley elbowed me. "That is your call, fox."
I stood up and walked toward the table, feeling nervous, though I had never been prone to stage fright.
"Name?" Wallace asked.
"Cassian. Of the western villages." Wesley gave me two thumbs up.
"Qualifications?"
"Qualifications for what, exactly? Like... are we storming the tower? Is there a plan or are we just gonna, like, wing it? Because where I come from winging it is all we do. We also are all kinds of fat and don't exercise but y'know--"
"You said you were from the western villages?"
"Right. Yeah. That's what I said. Very western. Lots of farms."
"And your combat experience?"
"I've been punched. A lot. Like a LOT a lot. I'm kind of an expert at getting punched at this point. Once hit a girl so hard during soccer practice they banned me from.... wait, sorry that's not relevant to this. What I was saying is, I can take a punch, I can throw a punch."
"Soccer?" Wallace seemed perplexed.
"Western village things. You wouldn't know them."
The nobleman stopped chewing his sweet treat. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles and watching me curiously.
"Sire, I must advise —"
"Hush." He pointed at me with the half-eaten tart. "You. Boy. You are considerably smaller than the others."
"I mean, I'd say I'm pretty average--"
"And younger."
"Eh, probably."
"And you have no military training, no combat credentials, and no apparent understanding of what you have volunteered for."
"Pretty much."
"And yet you are —." He tilted his head. "Clean. Or at the very least, cleaner than the rest."
"Ayeee." I pointed at him. "I KNOW that's right. Thank you. I bathed this week. Apparently that's a flex around here."
From the bench, Wesley cupped his hands around his mouth. "That's my brother! The cleanest warrior in the western provinces!"
The nobleman laughed, surprised. His plump cheeks turned red.
"I like this one," he stated. "Wallace, I like this one very much."
"Sire, liking someone is not a qualification for —"
"Look at him." The nobleman stood. Which, based on the effort it cost him, was not something he often did. He made his way around the table and positioned himself in front of me. He stood just as tall as I did, if not slightly taller. He then turned to address Wallace.
"We could be twins," he exclaimed, delighted.
"Excuse me?"
"Look at us. The build. The coloring. That bone structure. Quite fine, if I do say so. And I do. We are practically brothers. Wallace, do you not see the resemblance?"
Wallace looked between us: the plump nobleman in embroidered robes and the peasant in dirty clothes, and chose not to respond.
"It is perfect," the nobleman continued. He was circling me now, examining me from all angles. "Truly. It is as though someone took my reflection and dressed it in... well, in that. But beneath the grime, I see the beauty."
I looked down at myself. At my soft midsection, created by the princess's treats. I gently patted it and compared it to the nobleman's belly. I looked at it again.
No way! I definitely did not look like that guy. I was — I was —
I patted my belly again, frowning.
Damn, I needed to starve again.
"This one," the nobleman declared, returning to his seat with obvious satisfaction.
"Sire, if I might counsel against —"
"You may not. My mind is settled. This boy has spirit. He has fire. He has — what was the term you used? Soccer?" He grabbed his glass of wine. "Have rooms prepared. And Wallace, do find him something more suitable to wear." He took a sip. "We begin tomorrow."