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IN A DISTANT PLACE, in a distant time, twenty kingdoms (give or take a few) were spread out in a broad band between the mountains and the sea. They were fairytale kingdoms, lands of enchantment, where the laws of nature could be bent to the rules of magic. This did not matter a good deal to the inhabitants. Magic in the Twenty Kingdoms was not unlike open-heart surgery today. It required skilled practitioners with decades of training, the results were often unsatisfactory, and it was financially out of reach for most of the population. Even those who could afford it used it reluctantly and as a last choice.

But when it worked the way it was supposed to, the results could be spectacular.

However, on this day there was nothing magical on the road from Noile to Damask. It was overshadowed by mountains and overhung by leafy branches, that still dripped steadily from the morning’s cold rain. The mountain pass was cold even this late in the spring; the peaks to either side were still snow-capped. Puffs of steam came from the mouth of the horse pulling a dogcart through the forest, and from the mouths of the two young women driving it. The one who held the reins was red-haired, green-eyed, and singularly beautiful, although with a slightly petulant look to her full lips. Her hands were covered by lambskin gloves, and a dark fur coat protected her excellent figure. Her companion, no less enchanting with fair hair and blue eyes, kept her hands sheltered inside a good wool cloak. They were cheerful, for they had the exuberance and confidence of youth, but they were also wary, for they were coming to a narrow bridge that was known to be a favorite spot for robbers.

And indeed they were not disappointed. Before they got to the bridge they heard the rushing of the Matka River, and then they heard voices filtering through the trees, and then, turning a bend in the road, they saw the bridge ahead of them, and a coach and four. It was stopped in front of the bridge, the first two horses with their feet already on the planks. Four men, swords drawn, surrounded the coach. Their leader seemed to be in deep discussion with someone inside the carriage.

The red-haired girl stopped the dogcart and murmured, “Gentleman Dick Terrapin, the notorious highwayman.”

Her companion widened her eyes. “Is he really a gentleman?” she whispered back.

“I wouldn’t count on it, Rosalind. Men give each other the strangest nicknames. ‘Big Jim Smith’ is usually a small man, and anyone called ‘LittleJon’ is invariably a giant. If he has a name like ‘Howie the Hairy,’ you know for certain…”

“That he’s bald,” finished Rosalind. “Shall we go back?”

“I don’t intend to do so. They’ve already seen us, and we can’t outrun their horses. Let’s see what ‘toll’ they will extract from us to cross that bridge.”

Dick Terrapin had been plying his trade as a road agent for nearly six years, which was a remarkably long time to be playing a dangerous game. His origins were unknown, but somewhere along in life he had picked up a gentleman’s education, and he did not mind putting it on display. He did indeed share some of the characteristics of the nobility, in that he was greedy, rapacious, and preferred to take money without working for it. He nonetheless had a certain code of honor, and that was never to leave his victims completely penniless. The occupant of the coach had already resigned himself to handing over his moneybag. But he was a first-time visitor to Damask, and had to rely on Dick to tell him how much he was losing.

“Give it to me once more,” he said to Terrapin. “A fourthing is one fourth of a penny. That makes sense. And then you have pence, tuppence, thruppence, and…four pence.”

“No,” said Terrapin. “Four pence is called a groat.”

“A groat.”

“Right. And nobody calls it thruppence. It’s called a thrupenny bit.”

“And then twelve pence is…”

“A shellac. And there’s twenty shellac to the ponce.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why not twelve, or twenty-four? It would be more consistent.”

“That’s just the way they do it. There’s also the gimme, which is one ponce and one shellac.”

“So the gimme is twenty-one shellac?”

“Correct.”

“Not twenty-four?” The passenger still didn’t want to give up his idea of monetary symmetry.

“No. Now a shellac is also called a barb. So if someone asks you for ‘barb and tenner,’ you would pay him…”

“One shellac and ten pence,” finished the passenger.

“No, one shellac and six pence.”

“Stop,” said the passenger. “That’s enough! You’re making my brain hurt. Take the money. Just leave me enough for a meal and a room in Damask tonight.”

“Should run you about three barb,” Terrapin said, handing him back some coins. “Don’t let them charge more than five. Some of those innkeepers are absolute thieves.”

“You ought to know,” said the passenger sourly, slamming the door. The driver flipped the reins, and the coach crossed the bridge and soon disappeared into thick forest.

The band of rogues turned their attention immediately to the dogcart. Two men blocked the entrance to the bridge, a third took a position on the left side of the cart, while Terrapin himself removed his hat and bowed low to the red-haired girl. “Do I have the honor of speaking to Lady Catherine Durace?”

“I’m sure the honor is mine, sir,” said Catherine. “But I’m afraid your face is not familiar to me. Have we met?”

“We have not had that pleasure,” said Terrapin. “My name is Terrapin.”

“Mercy!” said Catherine. Her hand flew to her breast, as though to quiet a palpitating heart, but putting it closer to a dagger concealed in her cleavage. “Not Gentleman Dick Terrapin, the notorious highwayman and bandit leader!”

Almost imperceptibly, Terrapin puffed out his chest a bit. Rosalind looked around at his three accomplices. Each man reacted instinctively to the glance of a pretty girl, straightening his collar and sucking in his stomach. Rosalind gave them a benign smile. Beneath her cloak, she gripped the shaft of an oak cudgel.

“You do me a disservice, miss,” Terrapin told Catherine. “We are but humble toll collectors, whose task is to see that travelers get across the bridge safely. You may be assured that once our modest fee is paid, you may travel all the way to Damask without fear of robbery.”

“Alas,” sighed Catherine. “Our family’s fortune has greatly diminished over the years. I fear that I will be unable to pay your toll, however modest it may be.”

In his years of highway robbery, Gentleman Dick had heard every sad tale a traveler could conjure up. “We take barter, my lovely. If you would be so kind as to hand over your jewelry.”

“They ain’t wearing jewels, boss,” said one of his minions. “Not even a ring between them.”

Terrapin’s smile slipped. “Search the luggage.”

Two of his men were doing this already. “Nothing, Dick. Just clothes, and nothing fancy at that.”

“We are on our way to the King’s funeral,” explained Catherine. “Finery would be inappropriate.”

“Experienced travelers,” said Terrapin. “You left your valuables at home. Very wise.”

“I have been on a few trips, yes.”

Terrapin’s smile was back, but this time it did not make him look friendly. “Fortunately, a woman always has something of value.”

Rosalind gave a tiny gasp. Dick’s men suddenly seemed larger and coarser, and uncomfortably close. Her hand tightened on the wooden club. Catherine seemed unconcerned. “Please don’t bandy words with me, sir.” Somehow the dagger had gotten into her hand. “I would not lightly surrender such payment.”

Terrapin held up a hand. “Now, ladies, surely we can avoid such unpleasantness. He put the hand on the edge of the cart and leaned inward. “I propose a little contest. Are either of you familiar with the tale of Oedipus and the Sphinx?”

Catherine sighed. “Alas, no. My parents did not approve of advanced education for girls. Instead, I was tutored in more traditional womanly arts, such as needlepoint and baking muffins.” Despite the danger they were in, Rosalind had to hide a smile.

“The Sphinx,” said Terrapin, “guarded a crossroad in ancient Greece. It was an animal with the head of a woman and the body of a lion.”

“Of a female lion?”

“The myth does not specify the gender of the lion, but one presumes it was also female. The ancient Greeks were a little kinky but they weren’t that strange. In some versions it also has the wings of an eagle.”

“What kind of eagle?”

Aquila heliaca, the imperial eagle,” said Dick. “A migratory species, but native to the plains of northern and coastal Greece. Now quit stalling, young lady.”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

“The Sphinx posed Oedipus with a riddle. If he answered correctly, he could pass unmolested. Now, ladies, I will present you with the same question. If you answer correctly, you may continue your journey. If you cannot answer, you must surrender your charms without a fight.”

“Are you quite certain you wouldn’t rather have a muffin?”

“The offer is tempting, but no. The riddle of the Sphinx is this: What animal goes about on four legs in the morning, two legs in the day, and three legs in the evening? You can see the Sphinx already ruled out minerals and vegetables, so that narrows down the scope considerably.”

“Indeed it does,” said Catherine brightly. “Why, the answer is obvious. It’s Bad Prince Charlie.”

It was one of the few times in his life that Dick Terrapin was at a loss for words. He looked at Catherine and cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate on her answer. When she merely continued to smile at him, he said, ‘Bad Prince Charlie’? I’m afraid that’s incorrect, my lady. But why would you answer ‘Bad Prince Charlie’?”

“Because I see him coming right now. He travels on four legs when he rides his horse up to you, preparing to skewer you like a holiday goose. He walks on two legs when he dismounts to run his blade through your kidneys. And he stands on three legs when he pulls out his sword and leans on it while watching the blood spurt from your painfully writhing body.”

Terrapin looked down the road. A black horse was trotting toward him. The rider was a young man, wearing cavalry boots and spurs, dark breeches, and a black leather riding coat. He was hatless, so the wind ruffled his thick black hair. From this distance it was impossible to see his expression, yet to Dick it seemed that a thundercloud was approaching—indeed, that dark clouds followed the young man where ever he went.

“On second thought, I’ve consulted with our panel of judges and they’ve decided to accept your answer,” he said hastily. “What do we have for the lucky winners, Jerry?”

His men were already piling boxes into the dog cart. “A set of designer cardboard luggage, a luxury three-day, two-night all-expense paid cruise aboard the Noile Trident—meals, lodging, transfers, tips, port fees, and reservation fees not included—and a pair of beautiful ladies’ goldtone pendants with genuine certified diamond chips. Taxes are the responsibility of the winner.”

“Then we’re off,” said Terrapin. “Nice meeting you, my lady. We must do this again sometime.” He turned around to find himself staring the black horse in the face. “Um.”

The rider was leaning to one side, evaluating the occupants of the dogcart. He had deeply set black eyes that didn’t seem to look at you so much as glower. “Is there a problem here?”

“No,” said Terrapin.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“I think we’re fine, Charlie,” said Catherine. She had adopted a familiar tone, but her voice held no warmth. “We were just about to continue on to Damask. Am I correct to assume you are going the same way?”

The young man nodded. “What news of Noile? Has the plague reached there?”

Catherine’s face clouded. “Alas, yes. I rather hoped the mountains would protect us, but the first case struck some months ago, and the numbers grow each week.”

“I have been away at the university and have not had news of home, but I fear it will be the same.”

“Is it the situation in Bitburg?”

“Even worse. These things seem to follow a pattern, starting in the major population centers, then spreading along the trade routes, and eventually reaching even into the small towns. We can only hope that it runs its course quickly.”

“At this point it shows no sign of diminishing.”

“The plague?” said Terrapin. “Excuse my interruption, but when you speak of the plague, are you talking about…surely you don’t mean…”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “Coffee shops.”

The thief made a noise of disgust. “Coffee shops. They seemed to come out of nowhere, and now Noile is infested with them. And the prices. Ten pence for a tall macchiato! It’s ridiculous. It’s…”

“Highway robbery, Dick?” Charlie swung a leg over his horse and dropped lightly to the ground.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Terrapin, taking a step back and putting his hand on his sword.

Charlie glared at him, then turned back to the girls. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for the news. Perhaps we will meet again in Damask.” He slapped their horse on the flanks and it started off. Catherine looked affronted at this sudden dismissal. Rosalind, for reasons she couldn’t explain, found herself wishing the horse would move away faster. Bad Prince Charlie made her nervous.

When the dogcart was over the bridge, Charlie returned his attention to the bandit leader. “Dick, you accosted me when I left to begin my studies. Do you recall what I said to you then?”

Terrapin attempted a display of bravado. “You don’t scare me now, Charlie. I know you’re not a legitimate prince. And you’re not in Damask, either. You have no authority here. I’ll do as I please. You may be good with a sword, but you can’t take on my whole gang.”

“What gang?” said Charlie.

Terrapin turned to look around. His men had melted into the bushes the moment Charlie had dismounted. When he turned back to face Charlie, the Prince had his sword out of its scabbard. Terrapin gave an involuntary little jump.

“This road,” said Charlie, “is the only road connecting Damask to the port of Noile which is open year round. Therefore it is important to our trade. I want it kept free of bandits and road agents. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” said Terrapin.

“Good.” Charlie sheathed his sword and mounted his horse. “Being as this is a joyous occasion in Damask, I will let you off easy today. Next time I see you…but there isn’t going to be a next time, is there, Dick?”

“No,” said Terrapin. “Joyous occasion? What are you talking about? Everyone who passes on this road is going to a funeral. The King is dead.”

Charlie flipped the reins. The horse started off, shoes clip-clomping on the wooden bridge. “That’s the joyous occasion I’m talking about.”

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Framed