Crowded in here, isn't it? Hang on a minute while I shift my gear, and you can sit at the counter. All the sweets are great here . . . Oh, you know the menu already.
You say I look familiar, huh?
Yes, I'm Gloria Mondee, but I'm not working right now.
Yeah, I used to be called Little Glo, and a bunch of other names I never bothered to remember. And you can knock off that "Glorious Gloria" crap right now, or this conversation is over before it starts.
That pile of metal next to the wall is the "famous" armor. You didn't think it would be so pink? That's not pink. It's heart's blood red! Hmm, maybe it has faded a little. It's pretty old gear, I guess. It belonged to my mother and who knows how many women before her.
Listen, we'll get along better if you don't call me "ma'am," even if I am a person of substance these days.
You want to know how I went from being Little Glo to what I am today? My parents had a lot to do with it. Mom was a pretty gifted heavy cavalry officer in her day, and Dad—well, Dad was, and is, one of the best pastry chefs back home.
Are you really curious about this stuff? Well, okay, buy me lunch (I warn you that I'm a hearty eater), and I'll tell you the whole story, or as much of it as you'd want to know.
About ten years ago I broke both legs below the knees when my horse and I parted company on rocky ground. So there I was, flat on my back in bed, with big thick boards strapped to both legs, unable to get up, or even pee, without help. Let me tell you, it's deadly dull, especially if you can't read, and what first-ranked cavalry officer can?
Anyway, the duchess's troops—what duchess? It doesn't matter, they're all pretty much alike, just pay-masters, or -mistresses, who hire troops for dirty, dangerous jobs. These particular troops were moving out, my legs weren't anywhere near healed, and my mood was pretty foul. Long story short: They sent me back to my dad's to recover. Or not.
I arrived at Dad's tavern in style, on the back of a haywain. It's a comfortable enough ride, but dirty. I had hay and dust in places a lady doesn't mention. I'll show you where, later.
So there I am, wobbly on my crutches, glad to be off the wagon but not too happy about reaching my destination. I expected to die from boredom before my legs healed.
"If you keep eating like that, Glo, you're never going to fit into your mother's armor," Dad said.
"Golly, that would be bad, right?" the sixteen-year-old me retorted. I took another bite of plain, grilled trout and washed it down with chamomile tea. I hadn't had any of Dad's home brew since I started arms training. Lean and mean, that was me.
"I'm starting to think you'll never be woman enough to fill it." Dad's face turned as red as Mom's armor, but that didn't stop me.
"I'd never want to be as much woman as 'Sherma the Trough.' "
"That's Sherma the Tank!"
"Trough, tank—who'd want to be called after that big, huge, enormous round thing that horses drink out of?"
As if I'd reminded him, Dad walked over to the tavern's trough and ducked his head and shoulders in, almost up to his waist. His way of cooling his temper. After he shook off he came up close to me, slicking his thin hair back with both hands.
"Look, girl, I don't want to argue with you. I just want to do what your mother asked and make sure you take her armor when you join up with the mercenaries."
I couldn't imagine lugging all that heavy pink junk around, even if it had been Mom's dying wish, which it might have been. "Dad—"
"I'll give you an extra horse, for your gear." It was a bribe, and a good one.
I thought briefly about selling both the extra horse and the useless armor at the first opportunity, but one look at my dad's open, homely face told me that I never would.
He said something funny before I left, though. "Don't ever put it on unless you're sure you're big enough. Promise me, Glo." Since I couldn't imagine willingly ever strapping on anything so bright, bulbous and ugly, I promised.
So I still had the extra suit of armor with me when I wound up back at the tavern. I'd gained a bit of weight since breaking my legs, but I wasn't in Mom's class. Dad fixed that, though. He refused to listen to my requests for simple, small meals and instead plied me with all his specialities: butter-drenched croissants, butter-drenched spice bread, butter-drenched potatoes, butter-drenched . . . well, you get the idea. And the desserts must have been made of nothing but butter and sugar and air—and in Dad's kitchen, even the air was fattening.
Cooped up in the tavern, or out on a bench in the courtyard, food became my entertainment. I tried taking lessons on the mandolin and the lute, but music bores me unless there's a good-looking musician attached to the instrument. By the way, do you play anything? What? I'm just asking. Keep your shirt on. For now, anyway.
Since I couldn't get into leggings or trews while my legs were broken, I'd taken to wearing some silk robes that had been my mother's. They were soft and bright and roomy, and so comfortable after leather and armor that I didn't really mind wearing them. When they unwrapped my legs, I still had to use the crutches because my legs had gotten so weak. It seemed like I weighed double what I had before, but I told myself that's because I'd been off my feet for so long.
When I finally tried to strap on my leggings, they didn't fit. And the jerkins and doublets? Forget about it! I tottered downstairs and out to the kitchen and started yelling.
"It will take me months to get back in shape! How could you do this to me?"
"You're still strong, Glo," Dad soothed. "You train for a couple of months, and you'll be as good as new."
"And about as light-footed as a plough horse."
Dad's face grew very still, and he looked me over from head to foot. "Try on the armor, now."
"Mom's armor? You're kidding."
"No, now you're ready for it."
"Well, it will certainly fit, but I don't see what good it will do. I'll still be wheezing after the first fancy footwork I try."
When Dad finally shooed me out of the kitchen, I pulled myself upstairs and stood in my room, looking at the trunk where the armor was stowed.
Eventually I pulled it out and put it on. By the time I picked up the helmet my body tingled all over. I thought I'd have to fumigate the old stuff, that cooties had gotten into it.
The armor was infested all right, and with a rare sort of pest, but I didn't know that right away.
When I put the helmet on, I heard a voice. Sherma?
I whirled around faster than I'd thought I could on my formerly busted legs. Nobody else was in the room.
Sherma? I heard it again, all around me.
"No, it's her daughter, Gloria Mondee." Silence. Just when I was sure I'd imagined the voice, it came again.
Baby Glo?
I snorted. "Not for a long time now."
Then Sherma is—
"Dead, when I was ten. Crushed while moving beer barrels into the cellar—one got loose. Who are you?" But I thought I already knew.
If I ever had a name, it's gone now. You can call me "Amory."
" 'Amory' the armor, who gets stored in the armory? You're kidding, right?"
I used to be an armorer, I remember that. At my deathbed there was a man, my patron perhaps, who swore that my spirit would live on in the glorious armor I'd made for his lady. This (I swear I could hear Amory shrug) seems to be what he meant.
"So, Amory, can you do anything besides talk?"
And, of course, he could, and the price for using the armor was a pleasure to pay, except maybe for getting called Big Pink for the first couple of years.
Why do I call him "he"? I never thought about it, but I guess it's 'cause he nags like a man. What? Sorry, I meant he nags like my dad—is that more "acceptable" language?
As for the price, you can probably guess. The armor helps me fight, makes me damn near invulnerable—maybe not to one of those exploding projectiles they have up north, but we haven't put it to the test yet. In return, I feed it.
Remember that tingling sensation I mentioned? That was the armor, feeding. Off me. I'm lucky that he only needs to feed when someone wears it. I guess he's not really "awake" unless someone's inside. Anyway, he never remembers anything when I'm not using him. Even so, the cost of my combat rations alone has caused some employers to reconsider the length of their campaigns.
After a week-long engagement I've lost as much as fifty pounds. Just wearing the armor around for a week uses about five. You'd think the armor would get big and clumsy when I lose a lot of weight, but it always feels just right when I have it on. That's magic for you.
So that's why you found me in a bakery rather than a tavern. None of the taverns around here know how to make a decent dessert, and I need about ten a day on top of my regular food, to maintain my fighting weight. Beer's good, too, but I get hung over if I drink enough to do the armor any good.
This might be my last fighting season, though I'm still pretty young. I'd like to settle down, maybe have some kids. It's nice being famous and practically invulnerable, but that suit is a real chatterbox. Vain, too.
You say you'd like to talk to Amory? No, you wouldn't. Besides, the only way to hear him would be to put on the armor, and I don't like to think what it would do to a skinny fellow like you. For that matter, it's not really . . . configured . . . for a man. It might be dangerous. You'll just have to take my word.
Anyway, you asked, and that's my story.
Now, what's yours?
You're no soldier, that's obvious. You don't look rich enough to be a prospective employer—also, you're too polite. And you already told me that you don't play an instrument, so I guess you're not a bard or a skald or whatever they're called in these parts. So, who are you, and what's your calling?
"Louie Baker"—that's a good name. Easy to remember. And you work here? As a pastry chef? Why, Louie, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship . . .