PodCastle 431: La Héron - a podcast by Escape Artists, Inc

* Author : Charlotte Ashley

* Narrator : Nadia Niaz

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

*

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Originally published in Fantasy and Science Fiction.





Rated PG-13.

La Héron

by Charlotte Ashley

In the grayest hour of the evening of April 16th, 1699, when the sun had just vanished behind the great château that embraced the city of Caen but before her lantern-bearers had taken up the hooks of their trade, a gargantuan woman stooped to fit through the door of the Trois Tours Inn. Her inconvenience did not end at the door. Her steeple-crown hat, two centuries out of fashion, bumped the inn’s rafters and fell askew, causing her to swear and slouch as she made her way toward the crowd clustered at the foot of the stairs. Like the other travelers there, she was road-worn and unkempt, blonde hair so filthy that it looked green in the moonlight, spilling like seaweed out of her pointed cap. But so great was the force of her presence that the lesser persons ahead of her moved aside at her approach, clearing the path to the front of the queue where a registrar sat at a table, poised over a long ledger. His pen shook as it hovered over the lists.

“Name?”

“La Héron.”

“Weapon?”

“Rapier.”



“Purse?”

La Héron stepped forward and placed a small stack of coins on the book, which the registrar smartly swept into the lockbox.

“And who will be acting as your second?”

“No one.” La Héron folded her long arms over her chest. “I will negotiate my own bouts.”

“Oh, no,” the registrar said, looking up. “Oh, no no no. You must have a second. The rules clearly stipulate that—”

A distant horn blast interrupted his complaint, a piercing wolf tone that set every brass bowl in the inn ringing. La Héron glanced at the window and frowned.

“A hunt? At this hour?” she asked. “It’s nearly midnight!”

The registrar did not reply. He was frozen in place, only the jelly of his yellowed eyes trembling.

“Monsieur?” La Héron asked him. “Are we finished?”

“Herlechin,” the man whispered. “Damn him.”

“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but if you are finished with me, I’d like my sash and token.”

“What?” The registrar’s wide eyes flickered back to her, focusing again. He turned red and looked at the tournament lists again. “Ah, your second?”

La Héron scowled. The registrar drooped and ran a hand over his now-damp face. After a moment’s thought, he withdrew a blank slip of paper from the ledger and started writing.

“Very well. Go and see Monsieur Chuinard at this address. He can escort you to the Abbaye aux Dames. The hour is late, but the gendarme will help you find an assistant.”

“At the convent?”

The registrar held up a tired hand. “Every man-at-arms in town is already enlisted, madame. You are in no position to be particular. I suggest you call on him immediately.”

La Héron snatched the note and left, ducking through the door. She had not passed ten paces when a galloping ruckus preceded a party of costumed riders bearing down the tight streets of Caen at full speed. She stepped into the shadows of a tannery to let them pass, eyeing them suspiciously. The lead rider was a man dressed head to toe in shiny red leather with a sword on either hip and a grotesque black mask like the face of the devil. He tipped his hat at her as he passed, his demon’s face curling into a smile, flashing sharp, dog-like teeth.

Herlechin.

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