Lackey, Mercedes - Five Hundred Kingdoms - 03 by Fortune's Fool

Author:Fortune's Fool [Fool, Fortune's]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-01-16T01:21:04+00:00

Then he heard a wild, high-pitched cackling that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It wasn’t sane, that laugh. In fact, it was the laughter of someone who never had more than a nodding acquaintance with sanity.

But he kept going, pretending he hadn’t heard, either, because he had decided that he was going to pretend to be a deaf-mute. He marched down the road, head high, foolish grin on his face as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

He pretended not to know that the roaring, and the cackling, were approaching him from behind. He forced himself not to react as it drew nearer and nearer.

And then—

He found himself knocked flat on his face by a sudden burst of “wind” as the most improbable vehicle in the world shot down the road and skimmed just over the top of where his head had been the moment before.

The thing, and its driver, spun around in a tight circle and landed right in front of him as he picked himself up out of the dirt.

It was a giant grey mortar, the sort that apothecaries and herbalists—and witches—used to grind up ingredients in.

It looked as if it was made of stone, and the pestle somehow hung off the back of it, as if the witch was using it as a rudder. The mortar was fully large enough that it came up to the witch’s waist, and she was not small.

As remarkable as the vehicle was, the rider was even more striking. She had wild, bright red hair, red eyes and skin of a pale green. Tusks protruded from beneath her withered lips, and her face had more wrinkles than an oak tree’s bark. She wore at least three blouses, each a different clashing color, all layered on top of one another, all in various states of tattered, so that the colors of one showed through the holes of another. She had a kerchief tied loosely on her head, but not as a good, modest housewife would, so that none of her hair showed; no, the witch’s bright red hair stuck out in every direction as if squirrels had been nesting in it. There was a black shawl about her shoulders, three more in different colors tied about her waist. It looked as if she had on as many skirts as she did blouses and for the same reason, because all three of them were torn and tattered. Her neck was hung with necklaces of bones, teeth, tiny skulls, and charms, and her arms were loaded with gold bracelets. She looked down at him out of those red eyes, and there was no more sanity there than you’d see in a goshawk. He scrambled to his feet, bowed, then stood before her, grinning foolishly.

“Don’t you know better than to get in my way, fool!” she screeched. Her voice was as harsh as a screaming cat’s.

He allowed puzzlement to creep over his face, though he never stopped smiling, and tilted his head to the side.

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