Page 75 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

“I’m just brave,” said Liir. “Have to be. I’m coming to see Lady Glinda.”

“Well, you’re not lucky, then,” the Animal answered, “because she’s not at home.”

Liir’s shoulders fell.

“She’s off at Mockbeggar Hall. The Chuffrey country estate, down Kellswater way. A month in mourning.”

“Mourning?”

“You just rolled off the cabbage cart? Looks like it. Her husband died. Didn’t you know? Lord Chuffrey. He made a big donation to the Emperor and the banker’s cheque had hardly cleared the First Accountant’s office when Lord Chuffrey breathed his rummy last. Perhaps he thought he’d never be in as expensive a state of grace again, and might as well take advantage of it. Lady Glinda’s bereaved.”

“I’m sorry for her,” said Liir.

“Don’t be. She’s not exactly a pauper widow. And she wasn’t much more than a paper wife to him, anyway, so I hardly think she’s fussed. She’ll miss him, no doubt—we all will. He was a good sort in his way. Supports my family upcountry. Or he did.”

Liir slumped against the stone gatepost. “Great. So what next?”

“I wouldn’t come too close if I were you,” said the Tiger. “I may be chatty when I’m bored, but if I chat too much I might work up an appetite.” He winked at Liir, who moved back a few feet.

“Why do you stay?”

“Well, it certainly isn’t the chains, is it? I sport these for effect,” said the Tiger. He tossed his head and his eyes flashed in anger. “I mean, it’s a statement of style, isn’t it? Or are you really only a cabbagehead?” He was on his feet, and he roared. The gate shook on its pins, and Liir was halfway through Mennipin Square before he realized he was running.

So much for his first idea. Well, he’d have to work without the help and blessing of Lady Glinda, Society Goddess. And he’d hoped for a square meal to set himself up for harder campaigns. He had only the small scraps of dried fruit and bread that Candle had forced into his hands before he left.

The last time Liir had been so destitute in the Emerald City, he had gone to work in the Home Guard. Ready to improvise, he headed again to the main barracks campus near Munchkin Mousehole, in the lee of the low hill on which the Palace in its opulence squatted.

Boys, and a few girls, too, were running about the same sward on which he had once played gooseball with the bored soldiers. The grass was brown and flattened, weary of winter even before Lurlinemas Day, but the cries that rang out among the children seemed green enough to him. Unless he should run forward and capture the ball, and impress himself onto a team by dint of his swift responses, he would remain invisible to the children. Why not? He was a tallish, slightly ravaged young man, thinner, more ribby than the sleek soldiers who toyed with the kids.

He saw himself through their eyes: his cord-held hair, his green eyes, his new habit of ducking his head, scratching his elbows. A handsome enough beggar, maybe, but a beggar nonetheless, and too grown up to be thrown a bread roll for charity’s sake. If the notion of charity still obtained here. He wasn’t yet able to tell if it did.

Still, children at their games! It pleased him to watch. He remembered the children he had sung to, briefly, on the steps of a church when he first came to the Emerald City. He had smiled at them, had felt for them in a general sense, but he hadn’t stood solid with them. Each time of life is such a prison, a portable prison. The children here on this fairway, the soldiers messing about with them, were no more like Liir than a Tiger was, or an elf or a—

“Cutting an old chum with impunity, and not blinking an eye. You’ve considerable nerve, you have.”

Liir shook his head to register. A soldier at his left shoulder, breathing hard; he must have been among the fellows playing at gooseball, and come running up behind him. Hah. So much for the more sublime perception of the isolate.

“You don’t remember my name any more than I yours.” The fellow swept his damp blond hair off his sweaty brow. “What’d you do to deserve early retirement? Our tenures have been indefinitely extended with no right to petition otherwise.”

Liir shook his head, wondering if he should play dumb, play it as a case of mistaken identity. Play wounded in battle? Play for time anyway. He hadn’t worked out any particulars of strategy, just intentions.

“It’s bon Cavalish, if you please. Trism, actually. You came into the service from this very field, and I was the one told you how.”

Liir wrinkled a smile at him and shrugged. Work with what you have. Trism. Yes. A Minor Menacier…and in dragon husbandry, if he remembered correctly.

Coolly, Liir said, “That’s a good eye you have for a distant acquaintance. I was standing there thinking how blind we all are to each other, and I didn’t even recognize you.”

“And I got you, but not your name.”

“Ko, that’s what I go by. Liir, commonly.”

“Liir Ko. Right. You went off somewhere a few years back.”

“I did indeed,” said Liir, “but I don’t want to talk about it, certainly not here.”

“O ho,” said Trism, and then, “O ho. A deserter? No.”

“You’ll get in trouble being seen with me.”

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