BARNABY’S DECEIT

BARNABY’S DECEIT, by Al Onia, Audio by The Bard

 

 

“I’ll be back before dawn,” Barnaby whispered. A lie, if the night’s task succeeded or went awry. The small man slid from Aida’s cot in the troupe’s lead wagon and donned his tunic, belted his short sword and mouthed a silent prayer to Beltrum, God of thieves.

Aida mumbled his name and rolled over, her lithe arms and legs revealed in the shadows. Dancer, seer, acrobat. Her talents and endurance were more than a match for Barnaby’s.

“She can’t say I didn’t tell her,” he muttered.

He pushed the wagon’s canvas flap open a crack with his finger. Dark of the moon but the stars gave light enough to discern the original caravanserai’s crumbled walls in the distance. Half a dozen yurts surrounded the troupe’s wagons. Fires had been doused and the assemblage was asleep. Even de Grace’s wagon was still. The troupe’s leader often entertained through the night. The man was indefatigable.

Barnaby the Quick stepped down to the sand and moved under the wagon to listen. Camels and horses held their own conversations but human voices were silent.

He moved from the wagon’s faint shadow to the first yurt. Then into the center of the encampment. A bony hand grasped his arm and pulled him to a crouch.

His partner, Wulfa the Spider, whispered, “I hope you didn’t imbibe too much wine; your bladder may need to hold for three hours or more.”

Barnaby said, “I stopped at two glasses. I can hold it.”

“Then we move. Targon is halfway through his rounds and the yurt is yours as soon as I lure Banjeem outside.”

The first step in the night’s burglary, Barnaby reviewed. How Wulfa had entranced the oasis owner’s mistress was beyond ken. Barnaby’s dalliance with Aida came as natural as breathing but Wulfa? The man made ‘unattractive’ an understatement. Wulfa’s nickname described his appearance as well as his criminal skills, a malformed but patient thief awaiting fortune to come to him.

“Time to position yourself,” Wulfa ordered.

Barnaby followed, though he’d resented Wulfa’s assuming the command role from their initial hire.

They approached the rear of Targon’s yurt and stopped. Barnaby’s entry point had been slit two nights previous during a trial run. The breach had not been discovered. He prepared to wriggle inside, between the outer and inner wall.

“Give me five minutes.” Wulfa disappeared around the yurt, whistling low as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Barnaby had many cares, not least of which was his partner in crime. Next time, he’d choose his own crony, not be forced into an alliance by a patron.

Barnaby heard muffled voices and judged the time right to slip in through the inside opening. His size had been one of the prerequisites of his employment by Baronet Skald. That and my cunning.

The interior was illuminated by a single candle. Barnaby was alone. Targon was indeed occupied elsewhere and his mistress had joined Wulfa for their assignation. Barnaby’s gaze swept across the luxurious divans, plush rugs and discarded wine jugs; signs of the fine living standard accorded the hostel’s master. Scrolls and other signs of commerce littered the far alcove where Targon managed his business.

Conscious of the murmurs just outside the main flap, Barnaby made his way to the large wicker chest at the enormous bed’s foot. He lifted the lid and climbed in.

He crouched; knees drawn to his chest. No, he thought, better to rest on his back. He turned over. He almost closed the lid when he changed his mind again. The chest had been Wulfa’s suggestion. The wicker creaked at every tiny movement and breath. Barnaby’s instinct inspired an alternate hiding place

He sprang from the chest and retreated to the wall where he’d entered. He slipped between the two layers and reclined on his side. He lifted the slit enough to watch. He could see the bed clearly. He’d know when Targon and Banjeem were asleep and make his move then for the prized chi-stone.

The murmurs stopped and Banjeem re-entered her master’s lodging. She disrobed and slid into the bed.

Barnaby’s breath stopped at the brief sight of her nakedness. His mind’s eye roved over the lush, rounded form as her breathing changed from shallow to deep and finally, a light snore. She was not prepared to share her luxuriant flesh with Targon tonight. Or she took advantage of his absence to renew her strength.

Before long, Barnaby heard voices outside. Targon came in, glanced at the bed, then poked his head out the flap to mutter orders to his guards. He disrobed, blew out the candle, and joined Banjeem.

Targon’s words were low but insistent. Banjeem’s reply, when it finally came apparently encouraged him and soon the muffled words were replaced by pleasured moans.

Were they ever going to fall asleep? Barnaby’s anxiety grew, thanks to Baronet Skald’s repeating voice in his head. ‘The chi-stone enhances the wearer’s intelligence, energy and libido.’ He and Wulfa’s patron then added his warnings. ‘Beware, at no time attempt to use it yourselves. Preparation takes time and discipline. Even then, the possessor must remove it for at least six hours every day or the mind and body will erode to dust.’

The Baronet was no doubt still preparing these weeks later. First Wulfa had arrived at Targon’s doorstep, managed to gain servile employment, then Barnaby followed a fortnight later. His association with Aida and her troupe had been easy. He entertained them with tales of Corenthal and they’d embraced him. He’d included a modified version of why he’d left Corenthal. ‘To avoid certain legal scrutiny,’ he’d admitted, which was true. He did not reveal the more pertinent detail about his current commission.

Snores brought Barnaby back to the night’s task. At least one set of snuffles was genuine. Barnaby prepared to leave his spot when he heard rustling. A shadow—Banjeem—stood and approached Targon’s bedside. She lifted something shiny from his night stand. The chi-stone. She walked around the bed and snatched a broad-handled dirk from the drawer of her night stand. She did something with the handle and replaced the dirk. She no longer held the stone.

She picked up Targon’s sword belt he’d left on the floor. She lifted the sword free and held it aloft.

Fhel’s blood, Barnaby thought, she’s going to do in Targon. Worse than that, he might get blamed for it. He prepared to abandon the plot altogether but lay still while he watched her move, not toward the bed but the chest. A two-handed downward thrust through the lid froze his vitals. How had she known there’d be someone inside? Himself. Wulfa, the bloody traitor. Trying to do me out of my share before I have a chance to do him out of his.

She removed the sword and opened the chest.

A scream shattered Barnaby’s frozen position and he squirmed outside.

Banjeem screamed again.

He avoided guards, ducking under wagons until he reached Aida’s wagon.

She poked her head from the wagon. Barnaby stood as though he’d just left her.

“What’s goes, Barnaby?”

“I don’t know. I was relieving myself. We stay here.”

He thought of Wulfa and the horses. Would the screams send his partner fleeing into the night as they’d planned? But Wulfa wouldn’t have gotten the stone from Banjeem, there wasn’t time.

Then he heard Banjeem’s voice. “He must have stolen it, Targon. There. See him among the horses?”

She’d betrayed Targon and now Wulfa. With or without the stone, would Barnaby be next? No chance to escape unless he wanted to try the Chobai Desert on foot. Little choice but to remain and hope Wulfa didn’t betray him to save his own skin. Not likely. Banjeem was an unknown factor. She obviously screamed in surprise when she discovered a chest empty of a corpse. He could claim sleep in Aida’s arms if it didn’t implicate her. Still, Targon wouldn’t find the chi-stone in this wagon.

More voices and then he saw his Wulfa, struggling between two stout guards. Targon and Banjeem accompanied the procession. The group headed directly for Barnaby.

He nudged Aida and said, “Get to de Grace’s wagon.”

But de Grace and the other two members of the troupe had arrived. Aida was protected by her fellow entertainers.

“He’s the accomplice. Search him.” Banjeem pointed at Barnaby.

“You won’t,” said Barnaby, his first reaction. “Accomplice? Search? Looking for?” He avoided Wulfa’s eyes but hoped the Spider would keep quiet and let this play out.

Aida stood over the kneeling Wulfa. “You be careful who you accuse, or I tell who you rut with.”

She stepped away to confront Banjeem. “We don’t follow this cow’s orders.”

Targon took charge. “You do under my hospitality.” He nudged one of his men forward while an archer leveled his bow at Barnaby’s heart.

Barnaby opened his arms. “Go ahead, search me.”

The guard ran his hands over Barnaby’s body with thoroughness.

Barnaby stifled a laugh. “You’re very familiar. Not my type, though. I have a better companion.”

The pawing finished, the guard turned to Targon. “Nothing.”

“Search the wagon.”

Aida jumped toward Targon, outstretched fingers ready to claw and tear. Barnaby tackled her to the ground, waiting for an arrow to pierce his back but it didn’t come.

He said, “Better to let them, then we leave.” A whole skin was worth leaving the commission behind. Especially since it appeared Skald had hired Banjeem to steal the stone and let he and Wulfa take the blame.

The troupe’s leader, de Grace, stepped up into the wagon. “Under my supervision.” He pulled Targon’s guard after him.

Minutes later, the guard emerged, his hands were empty.

Targon whirled and struck Wulfa across the shoulders. The thief sprawled in the dirt.

“I employ, I trust, and I am betrayed,” cried Targon. He followed his outrage with a kick to Wulfa’s side. “Double-crosser.”

That could be almost anyone, Barnaby thought. No need for names.

Wulfa fell silent after another blow to his lower back.

Aida spat at Banjeem’s feet. Barnaby didn’t stop her, thinking of the sword thrust meant for him.

“Come, Barnaby,” said Aida. “We leave this place and these peoples.”

Barnaby hesitated. He had one chance but he had to act now, before Banjeem could escape with the stone. He might not get it either, but a man in his profession could get a bad reputation, allowing a partner to die.

He whispered to Aida, “Follow my lead.”

“By my gods, Barnaby, is not enough?”

He shot her a grin and shouted above the murmurings of the gathered traders. “Wait. We are blessed with the presence of one of the most beautiful and talented fortune tellers on Mentus. Our world’s gift to this moment.” He gestured with a flourish to Aida. “Perhaps she can find the missing item’s trail. I say we give her a chance to settle this. Innocents have been accused, let us prevent them from being wrongly punished.”

Barnaby pointed to Wulfa. “I’ve come to know this man. A Corenthallian, like myself. Not my blood but a fellow citizen of my home. Maybe I can help clear Targon’s charges against him.”

“He tried to make the love to me his first night. I tell him he’s a goat,” said Aida. “He lays with goats. Who knows what else? The cow perhaps?”

Banjeem started for Aida but Targon held her back. “Time for reprisals later.”

“I not afraid of you,” Aida laughed.

Her glare toward Banjeem even frightened Barnaby for a moment. He said, “Hold the insults, my love. Give Targon his chance to test these false accusations. Come, we’ll examine Targon’s yurt.”

Without waiting, Barnaby marched with Aida to the host’s dwelling. He whispered, “Pretend to hypnotize me and bid me seek the path of the missing item.”

Inside the yurt, Banjeem protested to her lover. “You’re not going to fall for another trick, Targon. Kill the man and be done. Consider your reputation.”

“Take her outside,” said Aida. “I cannot concentrate with a crow’s rasp scraping my ears.”

Targon nodded to a guard and Banjeem’s caws diminished the further she was led away.

Aida moved around the yurt, then circled back to Targon. “Describe the item and where you keep it.”

He patted his chest. “A blue gem the size of a plum. I wear it on a golden chain. At night, I remove it and place it here.” He opened the night table’s drawer.

Aida rubbed her palms together then placed them on his skin. She swayed then tore a fingerful of chest hair.

Targon gasped and raised a hand. De Grace inserted himself between them. “Hold. Let Aida ply her skill.”

Aida pulled Barnaby near a lighted candle and mumbled words he didn’t understand. She cupped his chin with her free hand and stared into his eyes. They glistened but looked right through him. He began to think this not his best idea. He needed to be conscious to find the dagger Banjeem had held with the chi-stone before the gem disappeared from her hand.

“You will be my eyes and my limbs,” Aida intoned. She brought the hair close to her lips and blew them across the flame. The smell filled the yurt.

“Barnaby, now is your turn to serve Bedlam, God of disturbance.” She closed her eyes.

Barnaby staggered like a drunk from bed to yurt wall, past the chest then rolled onto the bed. “It…was…here…” He slid to the floor and spun on his side until he flung an arm toward the second nightstand. “There?” He dragged himself across the floor and up. He opened drawers and swung his hands randomly inside each until emerging with the dagger.

I hope Banjeem hadn’t removed it already. “…here…once… Am I close, mistress Aida of the nether realms?” I could be an actor. If it paid better.

“If your heart says, my possessed one.”

Aida played her role well, he thought. Barnaby held the dagger aloft and twisted it in his hands. The handle came apart with a satisfying click and the chi-stone spilled onto the sheets.

He heard Targon gasp. Barnaby crumpled with exaggeration to the floor, trying to think of a way to steal the gem.

“How did she know?” Targon said to no one specific.

Aida rocked back and forth.

“Because she is blessed,” said de Grace.

“And you have strong aura, Targon.” Aida stood and staggered toward Barnaby, still supine on the floor. “You imbue your possessions and your people with your essence. For instance, I sense part of you going away.”

Targon rubbed his chest and arms. “You mean to hurt me?”

Aida shook her head. “Your mistress takes to horse.”

Barnaby heard the fading hoofbeats. Ones that should have carried he and Wulfa away, but for Wulfa’s seduction at Banjeem’s hands. He pretended to emerge from his trance an sat upright.

“I lose a buxom companion,” said Targon. “But I still have her traitorous confederate, Wulfa.”

Barnaby said, “A boon, good sir. For my countryman. Let him live. Work out his debt as you see fit.”

Targon rubbed his chest where Aida had stripped the hair. “I’ll sell him to the slavers due through next month. They always need camel attendants. He can work off his price for them.”

 

*

 

Two months later, within twenty leagues of Corenthal, Barnaby bid farewell to Aida and her troupe.

“You are good man, my Barnaby. Make good team, you and I. Will miss you. I would say stay out from trouble but trouble is in your blood.”

“I leave you with fond memories, Aida. You are a woman after my own heart. ” Loving, lusty, and larcenous. Promise me your troupe will visit us. Be safe on your journeys. Rumors of war to the south worry me.”

“You watch out for Spider.” Aida hugged him.

He climbed into the saddle. A fresh mount, a path for home and time in solitude to put his mind to forthcoming misappropriations.

Wulfa would no doubt escape his captors as some point. Barnaby mentally noted to recruit a stout bodyguard for future enterprises.

 

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Al Onia lives on Vancouver Island, Canada.  Following the events in “Barnaby’s Deceit”, Barnaby’s adventures continue in Barnaby’s Luck, book 1 of a fantasy trilogy released by Cursed Dragon Ship publishing in January, 2025.  

Al’s short fiction has appeared in Analog, Emerging Worlds, Ares, Perihelion SF, On Spec, The Speculative Edge, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Spinetingler, Marion Zimmerman Bradley, Mystery Weekly, and the anthologies The Machines That Make Us, The Astronaut Always Rings Twice, Titanic Terestructures, Visions VI:  Galaxies, AB Negative, Caserole Diplomacy, Enigma Front:  The Monster Within, Body-Smith 401, North of Infinity, and Warrior Wisewoman 3.  Al is a two-time Aurora Award Finalist in the short story category, and a full SFWA member.

 

What can be said of The Bard?  This:  Long ago, the mists of time parted. An unheard-of figure emerged: a wildman; untamed and howling. His brute savagery was a marvel to all. He fled into the wilderness and passed beyond memory. During the commotion, the Bard also emerged. He also fled into the wilderness but he came back when he got hungry.