The smell of salt-air stung his nostrils as soon as he walked out into the deck. He squinted, and as he struggled to regain his footing, heard footsteps behind him.
“What would you have me do?” Lisa called.
Kefier pressed his hands together and gazed out into the infinite darkness. He finally turned to her. “You’ve done enough.”
“All I did was inform them you had returned, like they asked me to. I didn’t know this was what they had in mind, that they were interested in the girl at all.” She looked like she was on the verge of tears. “Kefier, I don’t understand why you’re angry. They’re treating her well. And she’s not truly your daughter.”
“Don’t!” he snapped.
Her face tightened. “You’ve changed, Kefier. This isn’t how I remembered you.”
“No, it’s not. The boy you knew died with Oji on that mountain.”
“You and the girl’s mother, then. Are you…?”
“That’s none of your business, Arlisa.” He saw someone staring at them from the corner of his eye and dropped his head. “I’ll be in the cabin.”
“It is very difficult to help you when you won’t even look me in the eye, Kefier.”
“Deal with it. It’s the only thing stopping me from remembering what you did to us. To my daughter. My daughter. And nothing you or anyone can say will ever change that.” He didn’t look at her again. He retired to their cabin, like he said, and took the pallet he had made on the floor. Whether she followed him after or not, he didn’t know; when he woke up in the morning, the bed was still empty.
They arrived at Ni’in before noon. Lisa secured a room for the night while he visited the market. Yn Garr had given him enough coin to buy everything he needed, but he wasn’t sure where to start. He decided to visit a weapon shop he remembered. The smell of burnt metal was evident as soon as he walked through the door, which meant they made most of their wares in-house. This had never occurred to him before.
The shop owner was the same man, too, though a little older now, and more stooped. Kefier smiled at him, though he couldn’t possibly recognize him now. “I’ll admit something straight out—I haven’t handled a sword in years. Maybe you can help me.”
The man glanced at his arms. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I work at a smithy’s. A hammer’s about all I’ve used for a while. But I need ah…”
The man waved at him. “You don’t have to explain. What have you got in mind?”
“Something easy to handle and that wouldn’t stub my toe.”
“This thing you’re using it for. Will it be fighting back?”
“Probably.”
The man pointed him to one of the glass counters. A selection of daggers and swords were on display. “These are expensive,” he murmured, glancing at the labels.
“There’s another store down the street,” the shop owner said. “Half the price. Half the steel. You better hope this thing that may fight back will die of fear before you have the chance to test their blades. How about this?” He reached down and pulled out a long sword, about an arm and a half in length.
“Impressive. But I’m thinking something more like that.” Kefier pointed at a dirk in the corner. The man shrugged and took it out for him. He lifted it, testing the weight. It was well-balanced, at least compared to the grass-cutters he made for Jorri. He made a few test swings and then returned it to the counter. “I’d like it sharpened.”
“It already is, but I’ll have the boy re-sharpen it out back. Anything else?”
He bought two daggers and scabbards for both. It was the most he had ever spent in one place at a time, but even when it was all over, the purse Yn Garr had given him didn’t seem any lighter. He could’ve bought two or three of the most expensive pieces in the store and still have enough to buy a horse and a meal.
The feeling of having money didn’t use to sit well with him. In the old days, with Oji, he had been happy to hand whatever he had over to his friend; they usually bought things on credit anyway, with Oji paying the tab before the month was over. Later, working at Jorri’s, he just as easily did the same with Sume. He traced it back to growing up without it; money was a foreign concept to children in Gorent. It was needed to trade in the mainland or with Baidh, but it was barely used within the islands.
Yet it was the lure of money—of what it could buy, at least—that had taken his friend from him. He was starting to understand what had kept Enosh away all those years. He glanced at the purse before pocketing it. Yn Garr had promised so much. Perhaps he was right, and she could have a better life than he could ever give her.
Disturbed by his own thoughts, he found the inn Lisa had chosen—a quiet place called Bargo’s. They were serving bowls of caramelized pork hock and mung bean stew with half a loaf of rye bread. He ordered some and ate at the counter, wiping fat from his mouth every so often. Halfway through his meal, he saw Lisa walking towards him.
“If you want to make amends, you can start by helping me write a letter to Rosha’s mother,” he said.
“What do you want to say?”
There were several things, but it was not the time nor place. He kept the message short. Lisa walked away and he returned to the problem at hand. It had been years since he had last been in the Boarshind headquarters…years since he’d vaulted over the stone walls to walk up to Thiar, Oji’s blood still fresh on his shirt, to kill him. Lisa had told him that security had tightened since that day. Guards now manned the gates and patrolled the grounds whenever the officers were around.
He had almost convinced himself that this would be easy. All he had to do was pretend to be a new recruit—the years had added some breadth to his shoulders, and with a full day’s growth of beard he probably wouldn’t be recognized from afar. But the risk that someone would was too high. His old officer, Algat, was the kind of man who would even play along before sticking you under the ribs, and also the sort who was everywhere—stalking the mess hall, doing inventory on the equipment, overseeing repairs on the building. Every scenario Kefier could think of ended in his death.
It wasn’t that he was particularly afraid of death. The dispassionate way he had lived his old life did not leave room for anything beyond day-to-day survival. But he had come to the realization that his life now extended past his fingertips. What would happen to Rosha if he died? His mind couldn’t grasp it. A mere brush against the thought that he couldn’t be there for her was enough to send him into panic.
He paid for his meal and took his purchases up to the room. Lisa was penning the letter on the bed—the room had no desk. He walked past her to lay each item down on the floor. A sword and two daggers. He could’ve had an army at his back and he still wouldn’t know what to do.
“Ask me to seduce Baeddan for you,” she said.
He didn’t look at her. “I won’t do that.”
“And why not? They know me there. It wouldn’t be such a stretch. And I’ve—I’ve done it before. Baeddan, I mean. I…”
“It doesn’t matter. You told me you don’t do that anymore. You’re a respectable business-owner, now.”
“Business-partner, when I’m not being a respectable errand-runner for that man.” She pretended to snort, but he happened to glance at her direction and noted that a few lines had disappeared from her face, as if she was secretly pleased by his answer.
“But while we’re on that subject, you wouldn’t know if Baeddan has a mistress or anything of that sort? He couldn’t have a wife, or we’d have known of it.”
“Nothing like that. He wasn’t a frequent caller, either—only when he’s passing by town. I think he just likes the company. I could tell you his favourite was Bella. He’d only call on the other girls if it was her day off or she was occupied.”
“Bella?” Kefier asked. “Why?”
“Why? Haven’t you—? With anyone else?”
He carefully placed a dagger on the floor. “You know the answer to that.”
Lisa set t
he letter aside and looked at him. “I guess I do,” she murmured. She looked away. “Well, there you go. What else can I tell you? The man likes his wine. Has a servant get it straight from Ni’in as soon as the ship arrives. Killed a man once for selling him a soured bottle, or so Bella told me.”
“Doesn’t he own property in Cairntown? I remember a rumor going around once…”
“Not in Cairntown. Ni’in.”
He looked up. “Right here?”
“Yes. Upriver, just past the marsh. But it’s supposed to be abandoned. He hasn’t gone there in years. I doubt it’ll be any help.”
“That’s strange. You would think if a man owned something that he’d visit it once in a while.” He sheathed the blades, but wore only the sword. The daggers he left on the bed.
“I suppose it’s as good a start as any. We’re not heading out till tomorrow and I need to do something until then.” He stepped out.
“Try not to get yourself killed,” she murmured, before closing the door behind him.
The house was not what Kefier expected.
It had taken him most of the morning to track down the exact location, and then the better part of the afternoon to find it. By then, the sun was sinking on the horizon—a yellow haze against a greying sky—and he was tired. Ambling across the stone footbridge just at the edge of town, he saw the small hut behind an overgrown hedge and a low fence, most of which were on the ground. The windows were boarded shut.
Upon closer inspection, he realized that what he thought were hedges was actually grass—grown so out of control that some stood taller than him. They obscured the footpath leading around the cottage, but he waded through them and found a faded green door set so that he couldn’t see it from the road. Strips of paint flakes gathered around the grass on the front steps or hung off the wood around the doorknob. The paint was peeling around the windows, too. Above him, the roof looked like a sheet of paper, crumpled before being laid flat against the rafters. A gust of wind might blow it away.
He glanced back out at the road, but he wasn’t sure if it was for fear that someone would see him or that no one ever would, again. The closest village was at least half an hour’s walk away and the looming darkness made him feel like he had stepped into a different world. The fear that had been building in the pit of his stomach over the last few days welled up inside of him.
But it was too late to turn back. He forced himself to make that first step and climbed along the stairs. He tested the doorknob. It was locked. He smashed the handle with his sword.
The floorboards creaked as he stepped inside. The air was filled with the scent of dust and animals. It was too dark to see well. He grabbed his lantern and lit it before he went further.
The main floor was a good-sized sitting room with a high-backed bench and wooden chairs set around the hearth. A doorway to the left revealed a long table and another fire-pit, pots and pans hanging above it.
Dust tickled the back of his throat. He coughed, the sound pulsing through the walls. He heard something creak above him—a rat, or some other creature—which told him that there was an upstairs. He found the steps to the far side of the wall in the sitting room and tested them with his weight. They were in better condition than the ones outside.
There were two beds in the loft, facing each other, another desk, and nothing else. He was about to go back down when the light caught the glimpse of a chest set in the corner, half-hidden by shadows. He slid the bolts and opened it. There were leather-bound books inside, journals, and other pieces of paper. He couldn’t see them very well, so he took the whole thing back to the sitting room.
He saw a rocking horse beside the hearth. He hadn’t noticed it when he came in. He held the light up against it. Rosha had one, way back, though that had been made of bamboo and was little more than a stick figure in the impression of a horse. This one was carved out of hardwood, oiled and painted, with a real leather saddle and bridle. He tapped its nose and watched it rock back and forth, casting strange shadows on the wall. Something about its presence was soothing.
It was too dark to look through the journals and so he found himself leaning against the wall beside the rocking horse, arms crossed over his chest. He fell asleep.
He opened his eyes before dawn, to grey light and a heavy uncertainty. He glanced to his side, saw the rocking horse, and remembered. That sleep had been the soundest he’d had in years; he hadn’t realized that he had been exhausted.
Recognizing that if the cottage had been abandoned for years then it was likely to stay abandoned, he hid the chest in the fire pit, covered with a few pieces of firewood, and made his way back to the village. The baker was already awake, but he arrived a little too early, and the man made him wait outside while he got started on the day’s first batch of pies and fried bread.
When the scent of hot bread finally wafted through the air, he returned to the counter and hung around there until the man returned with his food wrapped in paper.
“You’re new here,” he said, once Kefier had counted and passed his coin along. There was a note of suspicion in his voice.
“I…” His mind darted from one answer to the next, and then he decided to be truthful. “I’ve been sent to look over Baeddan of Boarshind’s house.”
The baker blinked. “Baeddan of Boarshind? You mean Baeddan Siromer, don’t you?” He looked thoughtful. “Then you’ve finally come to fix that old place up?”
“Yes,” he said, taking care not to let his voice give him away.
“That’s good to hear. Place has been crawling with vermin for years. People have been wanting to burn it up, but well, cursed as it is…”
He tried to pretend that didn’t bother him. “Cursed,” he repeated, cracking a smile.
“Could do things to a man, what happened with his family in there. They said the little babe was murdered right in his sleep, right beside his mother. There was even talk for years that Siromer himself did it, but that was hard to believe. They were the light of his life. I can still see him walking down that street, his boy on his shoulders. It’s been over forty years since but you don’t forget a thing like that.”
“I didn’t know this,” he admitted. “My officer just sent me out here, didn’t give me much to go by.” He cracked open the paper, pulled out the bread, and bit off a chunk.
The baker chewed on his moustache. “It’s old news. I know what he’s become now, and the folk in town don’t like that, the reputation he’s brought with him, but they didn’t know him then. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” He made the sign of Yohak. “Well, you best be off and back to work. Daylight is precious this time of the year.”
“I need supplies. They gave me money to spend, but nothing else.”
“Hosry’s lumber yard is what you want. And if you need a horse and cart I think Mistress Molly can lend you one for the day. I’ll send the boy with you. Yohak knows, the sooner that place is purged of its evils, the better off we’ll all be.”
Kefier spent the rest of the morning buying things he had never intended to buy and getting to know—from what it sounded like—half the village. The baker’s boy ended up accompanying him back to the cottage with a cartful of lumber, hammer, nails, roof shingles, oil, paint, and enough food for several days. The boy was a cheerful lad who knew little about the story behind the cottage. He helped Kefier pull the weeds and set up the fence before he had to run back home for lunch.
When the boy was gone, Kefier retrieved the chest and went out to the back to view its contents. Most of the books were child’s reading primers, though there was one on Yohak’s verses and another on the care of various crops in the area. There were a few blank journals. He cracked open one, at random, and made out a few words: “Toran took his first steps today.”
He closed it, feeling a weird ache inside him.
He didn’t like reading, anyway, he told himself, and returned the chest to the living room. Then he returned, sawing out lengths of wood to replace the door
frame.
By the end of the afternoon, he had done that, and more. He had removed the boards from the windows and pulled them open, oiled out the hinges, repainted the sill. He replaced the steps, washed and swept the floors, and filled the hearth with new firewood. Night came and went. The next day, he re-shingled the roof.
The day after that, he went back to the village to buy stones to fix the footpath. Then he took out the mattresses and burnt them (trying to ignore, as he did so, the deep, dark stains that might have once been blood). He cleaned out the rest of the loft, oiled the rafters, and blocked the holes to stop the rats and owls from coming in. During this time, he discovered the framed sketches on the upstairs wall—a sunrise, or a sunset, a young woman, a baby, and then a little boy. He wiped them free of dust and stacked them on the desk down below.
On the fourth day, there were some odds and ends to do, but he found himself with some free time and took a walk to the back of the property, where he found a creek that was brimming with fish. He cut himself a switch and made a quick fishing pole, and sat down by the bank and thought about what he had just done. He had probably gone overboard, but it was difficult not to. The memory of their home in Shirrokaru was still fresh in his mind. The realization that it all still stood there—with its cracked steps and the small pond where they kept three goldfish—but that they would never return to it again was suddenly too painful for him to bear.
It came as a relief when, another two days later, he heard the first sound of hooves in the distance. He knew the sound of the villager’s carts and horses, and that no one there owned a horse that could gallop as fast. He gathered his things, stacked them under the floorboards, and then made his way up the oak tree behind the house. At the top of the highest branch, obscured by the thick leaves and shadows, he waited.
An Elegy of Heroes Page 63
