Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [56]
It worked marvelously. Some vendors and shoppers surged towards the southern boundary of the market square, crowding each other to see if the warning were true. The remaining vendors tried to flee in every possible direction. In the first surge of panic, no one seemed to be watching Peter or the produce stalls immediately around him. Almost leisurely he filled his pockets with sweet onions. Then, perceiving that he had more time, he stepped over to another stall and filched three fat potatoes, and (wonder of wonders) an entire slab of uncut bacon.
Hiding all of his loot inside his jacket, which in turn was concealed under his cloak, Peter made his way slowly through the crowd, which was still entirely focused on locating where the danger was.
Ten minutes later, he was outside of the market square, free of the crowds. He walked west, towards the waterfront, along the Street of Boats, changed direction as soon as he could, north along Theatre Street, and then doubled back on himself, turning east along the short and narrow Barrel Maker’s Street. He began to relax just a little, certain that he hadn’t been followed.
He was wrong of course.
ON THE LAST SUNNY DAY OF THE YEAR, Carl the Arrow watched Peter from a distance, not knowing who he was, and not much caring. It was enough that Carl had seen him before, and on that past occasion, as in this one, Peter had been engaged in the act of bold and open thievery.
He observed from a distance, and noticed, not without admiration, as Peter threw the entire market crowd into a panic, with only a few well-chosen words. When Peter had completed his theft and had worked his way free of the market area, Carl followed, always at a discreet distance, and always so slyly that Peter never suspected he was being followed.
When Peter entered the narrow Barrel Maker’s Street, Carl let a short but heavily weighted wooden truncheon fall into his palm. When Peter turned a sharp corner into an even darker and narrower side avenue, Carl rushed forward, silent as a monk’s prayer, raising his truncheon on high.
Peter had only begun to sense his danger and turn around when Carl the Arrow struck hard.
AFTER AN INDETERMINATE TIME, Peter began to awaken, slowly and with great effort. He was dizzy and nauseated, and there was a vicious pain thundering in his head, pounding over and again like the unstoppable beat of an ironsmith’s hammer. He was lying on a stone floor, covered with old, damp straw. He could feel the scratchy, prickly straw ends sticking into his face. He reached for his head and felt dried blood in matted hair. His face and neck also seemed to be crusted with dried blood.
How long have I been here, he silently asked himself. And where exactly is the “here” that I’ve landed myself in?
He raised himself up a bit on unsteady arms and looked around. He was in a small, dark room, but not so dark that he couldn’t make out any details. The floor and walls were made of dressed stone. There was partially dried vomit and the smell of urine mixed in with the straw directly beneath him.
Both from me, he thought, recognizing that there was an acid taste in his mouth and a dampness in his clothes to match the smell in the straw.
There were no windows, but there was a single stout wooden door set within one of the walls. The little light that was in the room entered through a small window cut high into the door. It was only a short narrow slit, not nearly enough to escape through. He thought of escape, because it was all too clear that he was trapped in a prison cell.
“The gobs finally got me,” he said, aloud this time, in a voice that cracked and strained to summon barely a whisper.
Taking an infinite amount of time, Peter struggled to sit up and place his back against the far stone wall, where he could sit and regard the single locked door. He knew it would be locked with the same certainty that he knew day followed night. He didn’t need to further pain himself making the useless effort to test it.
After sitting for a long while, listening