Benedict Spills the Beans

Benedict Spills the Beans

Postby Niabh » Wed Apr 29, 2020 8:16 am

She’d said something about going to visit the Big Guy while the raven was with Glenn. Either she hadn’t gone yet or she’d already come back, but it honestly didn’t matter because when he finally caught sight of her, she was alone at the lakeside, carrying basket stuffed with greens slung over her shoulder and a palm cupped over her eyes, scanning the skies. When he skidded to a halt on the packed grass, she stepped forward at once to meet him, her expression tight, cross, concerned. He wondered if she might have had a tickle of premonition before he got there.

“First off,” he said, in wan hope of forestalling the inevitable, “he said not to do anything unless he’s not back before tonight. So let’s not. This might not be that big a deal.”

That brought her up short. She glowered down at him, face hardening to stone. “Would you be so good as to tell me what we are not meant to be doing, my raven?”

She was doing the thing where her voice was light, bright, and cheerful while not a muscle in her face moved, giving her words an edge sharp as chipped flint. He hated when she did that. It reminded him of His Lordship. But of course, she still thought he was talking about Catch.

He feigned taking a deep breath, the better to get his facts in order. “Two blokes from the Inquistory came and took Glenn away while we were talkin’.” Oh shit, there went the basket thumping to the ground, overturning a load of wild lettuce and spring sorrel. She was already walking past him, on the path toward the Dagger and the main road to town. He talked faster and scuttled ahead to block her path: “Hey, hey, he said do not do anything unless he doesn’t come back so will you please just listen before you go barging in with your bow nocked? Please?”

“I am listening.” And she was. Her ears cocked forward like a deer’s, and she was blinking too much. Usually that was a pretty good indication she was upset. It was the fixed stare that meant trouble. “Go on.”

“I didn’t hear all of it; I was outside. He signaled me back in to snatch a letter off his table before he let ’em through the door. The one as did the talkin’ was a tall, skinny bloke with white hair. Corm McKinnon, he was called. The other was a heavy-set fellow who looked like he was itchin’ to beat the shit out of somebody and didn’t care much who. Sounded like Glenn were tryin’ to pull rank on ’em. They didn’t appreciate it.”

A faint and feral smile glimmered on her face. “He hasn’t any rank. He was distracting them. Do you know what they wanted of him?”

“They said he was a figure of interest in an Inquisition that could lead to a charge of conspiracy to commit murder. He asked if they’d brought a letter or a warrant. They said it was a warrant. After that he went with ’em.” He hesitated, then added, as if in apology, “One of ’em popped him in the mouth because he wouldn’t shut up.”

“Hm. I do wonder who signed that warrant.” Her gaze swapped upward, staring at the peaks of Myrken visible beyond the lake and fixing there like a bloodhound’s. Her tone was distracted. “Was he much hurt?”

“Don’t think so. He could still talk and all.”

She let out a small, rough plink of a laugh. “That man will go on talking after his head’s cut off.” Her black gaze dropped downward. The raven shivered in its shadow. “Let’s have the letter.”

He shivered again, but braced his feet, hunkering down in place. “Sorry. Ain’t for you.”

“I didn’t imagine it was.” Hands clasped behind her, she turned a little to the side and took two steps away. The wind ruffled the lakegrass, underscoring her deadly silence. She came strolling back, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “I’ll have it all the same, an you please.”

“Over my dead body, an fíochmhaire.”

Her hand went up to catch a tiny, frosty laugh—a cold parody of mirth. “I don’t expect it will come to that.” She shrugged. That, too, seemed like a stiff imitation of disinterest. She bent to swing her basket to her shoulder. “That’s just as well. That’s as it should be. But you will tell me who it is for.”

Three entreaties. The third was neither a question nor was a command. It simply was. She was the Niall. He really didn’t want to have to say The Name, but other than the fist-clenching, the lady had taken everything with an eerie, contemplative calm that seemed pretty durable. He took the plunge. “Gloria.”

And then she was silent. They both were. They seemed perched upon a precipice: one word might be the pebble’s-weight that would push her toward town or roll her safely back toward the Woods.

“She is in back of this, I fear,” said the lady quietly.

“She was waitin’ out front when they took him inside.” The raven hopped up to the side of her boot, peering up at her. “You don’t think he’d, y’know, spill the beans?”

She blinked twice and drew her foot back, surprised by proximity. “What beans?”

“About you, you—your majesty.” He’d been half a syllable away from saying you ninny but the title sounded even more out-of-place from disuse, and his flustering sounded more like sarcasm.

She smiled at him. That smile, too, the one that did not touch her eyes—that was a lot like His Lordship. He wondered if she knew how much she favored him in these moments. “Glenn will say exactly what he will say and no more.”

“Yeah, and that’s plenty,” the raven blurted out. “You really want him tellin’ that bitch your business?”

The icy look she threw him was as much as he deserved for saying such a thing aloud. “I repeat: what beans? Not even Glenn could find this place again should I close the path against him. Beyond that…what can he say, that Tuatha hate iron? Every child Here knows that already. That I am Queen? Tell them all about it; mayhap they’ll think twice before they test my patience. Hark you, Raven,” she said more gently, and lowered herself to one knee before him, “there was a plan in place well before the Inquistory stuck its nose in. If they come for me, they’ll regret it.”

“Yeah,” said the raven more insistently, “but what if they make him?

They both looked at one another, and both realized at the same moment. For one moment only, she looked surprised. Then she signed in resignation and turned her face, thoughtfully, back toward town. In a decisive ripple of movement, the queen calmly put her back toward the raven and strode toward the blackberry thicket, her head lowered like a bull’s. The grass snapped and whispered in her wake.

The raven hopped after her, neck outstretched and beak wide open. “Where are you goin’?”

“To put things away,” she called back to him. “You have promised to deliver a letter, and so you will. Come along.”

To his surprise, she crooked an arm, looking over her shoulder in expectation. He wasn’t much for riding shoulders, but he took wing, settling with as much aplomb as he could manage with one clawed foot digging into her sleeve. She grimaced and hefted him higher. “Aren’t you lucky?” she said brightly. “You get to borrow my new boots.”

“Boots?” he asked, confused.
Anything can be magic if you're gullible enough.
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Niabh
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