Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3) - Page 91

Squinting up at Seamus in disbelief, Prue said, “Worse? Like, what?”

“Spent three days in a tree, whilst a hungry bear sat at the bottom.”

“Doesn’t really compare.”

Seamus thought for a second before saying, “I got caught by the Mountain King, once, when I was trying to burgle his scepter—took it up on a bit of a gamble, actually. Brendan bet me I couldn’t do it, and you know, a good bandit never passes up a wager. Got the scepter, so there’s that.”

“Why is that worse?”

“Fell in love with his daughter in the process. Tried to take her along. Didn’t fare so well. A lot of extra weight. Got nabbed, spent a week dangling by my big toes in a cavern filled with poisonous spiders. Hence the name, Long Toe Seamus.”

“Didn’t know that you had that name.”

“Doesn’t come out much. Sore subject. But I cleared that scrape just fine.”

“What happened to the princess?”

Seamus scratched at his beard and replied, “Funny you should ask: After I escaped, she ended up running away from her father—awful guy, the Mountain King—and finding me in the bandit camp. Nice woman, we married. Turns out bandit life wasn’t to her liking, and she ended up going back to her father’s fiefdom in the caverns below the Cathedral Mountains and overthrowing the Mountain King’s regime with an army of rat soldiers. Good story, that. Miss her from time to time. I get the occasional letter. Gotta hand it to her, the woman made a really good borscht.”

“That’s heartening,” said Prue lightly. “You ever been captured by a power-hungry religious sect and stranded on a deserted rock in the middle of the ocean? If so, how did you escape using your bandit-sense?”

Seamus shook his head at Prue’s sarcastic tone. “Listen up, lass. You might be some chosen apostle for the Council Tree and a half-breed Outsider with the ability to chat with plant life, but you’re a far sight removed from banditry. It’s all about remaining limber, opening yourself up to the possibilities. And the like.”

“I’m open,” said Prue. “Look, I’m open.” She held her palms out to the bandit.

“No. I’d say you’re not. I’d say you’re rather closed, actually, lassie. Time is our friend here. It’s one resource we currently have a very lot of. Let’s use that time wisely. We can start by cataloging our problems. Organization is the bandit’s best ally.”

“Is that a bandit saying?”

“Should be. Now, naysayer, Gloomy Gus, let’s go down the list. First off, we have our fellow bandits, captured, assumed brainwashed.”

“Infected by a parasitic fungi,” added Prue.

Seamus cringed at the mention. He rubbed his nose. “Right,” he said. “Assimilated into a religious sect of dubious morality. Correct?”

“Aye,” said Prue in her best bandit voice.

“That’s the spirit. Secondly, one of our team has experienced a, shall we say, premonition about the possible rise and return of the Dowager Governess, someone who was last seen making an evening meal for a patch of animated ivy. Correct?”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” said Prue, getting into the spirit of the exchange.

“That’s a pirate voice. There’s a fine distinction between bandits and pirates, I’d have you know. Show a little respect.”

“Sorry.” And then: “Aye.”

The bandit continued. “So that’s two fairly dire predicaments. Before we begin managing the solutions to them, do you have anything else to add?”

“You forgot ‘marooned on a rock in the middle of the ocean.’”

“Right, that. I figured that was, you know, assumed.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

The bandit smoothed his beard and began juggling the rock he held in his right hand. “Right. Now, a good bandit sizes up his obstacles and sees them for the trivial things they are, in the grand scheme of things.” Prue was about to interject and challenge him on the “trivial” bit, but Seamus waved her away. “Stick with me here. Consider, for a moment, the vastness of the universe.” He looked at Prue to make sure she was, in fact, envisioning this. “Consider the untold stretches of space, the unexplored and unknown lights that glint in the skies. The watching eyes of deities? Perhaps. Sand grains kicked into the heavens by the Great Sky Crab? There are those who believe that.”

Tags: Colin Meloy Wildwood Chronicles Fantasy
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