Free Prisoner of the Horned Helmet by James Silke, Frank Frazetta Page A

later she surfaced some way down river. She turned and swam back with strong strokes, climbed out.
    She shook herself like a frisky colt, and beads of water shot with sunlight flew in all directions, like a riot of wet jewels. Kneeling on her tunic, she uncorked a vial and poured its contents on her hair. She scrubbed until a thick lather formed, spread the lather over her body, rubbing vigorously, then plunged back into the water.
    The lizards stayed and watched, and a shadow crossed over them. They promptly bolted in all directions and disappeared.
    Brown John, who had been concealed behind the scrub oak, had edged forward. The look on his face was bawdy, flushed, and profound. He also liked the view.
    Robin floated back downriver, playfully flopping about and diving, then swam back to her rock and climbed out. This time she wore not only a slick coat of water, but a handful of soap bubbles.
    It was the kind of wardrobe Brown John admired.
    Robin shook and wiped herself dry, then kneeled on her tunic. Using a rose ointment, she economically anointed her face and body, then rubbed her lips with rose vermilion. She selected a bright yellow ribbon, set it aside, put everything but her comb back in her satchel, then sat down cross-legged on her tunic. With her hair to the sun and her back to the scrub oak, she began to comb her hair.
    Brown John’s fingertips drummed the air in time with the stroke of Robin’s brush. His head bobbed to the same tune.
    When Robin finished with her comb, she picked up the ribbon and, laying it flat across the top of her head and joining the ends at the base of her neck, bent her head forward and tied her hair back. As she did, Brown John moved down and across the rock to stand behind her.
    Suddenly, seeing his shadow, she gasped and rolled upright in one movement, drawing her knife. She waved the blade at the stranger using one hand while the other tried to cover her nudity. It was a beautiful and energetic effort, but futile.
    Brown John smiled and said, “Robin Lakehair.” It sounded like a title rather than a name.
    Robin hardly heard him. She was gasping and tugging at her tunic with her free hand.
    Brown John said politely, “Perhaps, child, if you lifted your foot.”
    She looked down, groaned, and jumped aside, snapping up her clothing. Turning her back, she slipped into her tunic with three wiggles and a yank, while watching him over a shoulder. Then she turned back, deliberately smoothing her tunic with one hand, while the other held her knife aimed at Brown John’s belly. Her straight brow was lowering over angry eyes. She seemed to be frowning but it was difficult to tell. Her firm smooth forehead was barely cooperating, and her cheeks were too busy blushing. But her tone helped.
    “You snake! Were you watching?”
    Brown John sat down on a flat rock, said, “To my great good fortune, yes.”
    Groaning, she glanced away, then looked back at him sharply. Her eyes were large beautiful wet wounds. “That was awful of you. Mean.”
    “Not mean, child, simply lucky. Extraordinarily lucky to have chanced to pass this way. The sun, the lizards and I will not only carry your lovely image to our graves, but far, far beyond.”
    She hesitated, then asked, “Do I know you?”
    “I believe so,” he said with a slight tone of mystery. “I, at least, have seen you many times.”
    “Really? Where?”
    “Well, once I saw you standing on top of a barrel and laughing in the village of Coin. And last summer you were watching the performers on the stage in Rag Camp.”
    Robin, unconsciously lowering her knife, gasped, “But… but no one knew I was there!”
    “I thought as much,” he said. “Then, of course, you are always in the front row when we perform in your village.”
    “Oh!” Robin blurted. “You’re the
bukko
! The wizard-master!”
    He bowed extravagantly. “I am called Brown John.”
    “I know! Everyone knows!” Robin exclaimed. She picked up her belt, sat down