Then he was entering the streets, where the buildings obscured the high square towers of the Walled City. The place of his birth… and, he reminded himself, the place of his destiny. The long wait was ending. Either he would die a worthless, useless death or he would take his targets down with him. Death was likely either way, unless he slunk away, an unlucky coward… or just a coward.
“Anything but that,” he said to himself under his breath. What would life be worth if he failed in his purpose?
Time slowed, and each moment shifted into significance. How strange that the prospect of death could light such an intense flame of excitement within him. And outside himself, the sun’s rays were brighter, the faces of the people he passed more alive. With every step he felt the magnetic pull toward whatever awaited him.
But first, he had to orient himself and find a foothold somewhere in the City. A lad of his skills could earn pennies in a busy place. Performing as the entertainers had taught him was the easiest—he could juggle, flip, and walk on his hands.
He continued along the street, seeing ahead a market square. He remembered it vaguely… the Middle-market of the Unwalled City, with shabby storefronts around the perimeter and vendor stalls everywhere. He wandered through, alert for opportunities and to make sure he was not a mark for someone else’s opportunity.
An old man sat alone and without apparent expectation in a shady corner. He looked too tidy to be a beggar and calm enough to invite casual conversation. It was a place to start—Arrow could always move on.
In the dusty square, with market babble all around, Arrow dropped into a squat next to the sage and addressed him.
“What do you have to teach, old man?”
Drooping lids lifted to expose a flash of pale gray irises. “Do I teach, young master? You malign me, I am only taking the sun.”
“Who takes the sun at mid-morning in the Middle-market of the Unwalled City? Besides, you are sitting in the shade.”
“I am taking the sun obliquely, young master.”
Arrow hooted. “Young master!” he mimicked. “I am a beggar like yourself, taking the shade directly.”
“Not a beggar, young master. I dispense wisdom for a price.” His bare foot slid out from under the hem of his unbleached cotton robe, his long calloused toes gripping the handle of a copper cup. Nothing was in it.
“What wisdom have you for me?”
“What have you to rattle my cup?”
Arrow shifted position, then stood up. “I have nothing,” he said, his interest in the idle game of words fading as he did not intend to give up his few remaining coins.
“No one has nothing,” said the soft voice, almost lost in the shrieks from a nearby stand where four young women haggled over fabric with a sharp-eyed dealer. The sun glinted off a gold ring piercing one of the dealer’s ears.
“Very true,” said Arrow mockingly, looking down at the man whose copper cup now sat on the hard-packed dirt between them. “I have many things. But not a coin to rattle your cup, and I have eaten the last of my food. And my water flask you may not have.”
“I teach beginnings,” said the old man. “If you will do me a service, I will give you some teachings in return. I see now you are not so young as you first appeared.”
His hand appeared from the folds of his robe. Arrow had also seen more now. The man's affliction was not entirely age itself, but a painful twisting of his joints. In his misshapen fingers, he held a coin.
“Take this coin. It is yours. In the next street, with the sign of the Thin Horse, is a bakery. Buy two flatbreads. If you bring one back for me, I will give you your teachings.”
“And if I do not bring one back for you?” Arrow said with a challenging grin. He reached for the coin as the twist of hunger came to life in his empty belly.
“Then you have chosen your own teachings.”
The calloused toes gripped the handle of the cup and pulled it back under the hem of the robe. The old man withdrew his attention from Arrow, and the game of words between them was at an end.
Arrow's hand closed around the coin. It was warm, like the earth under his bare feet. The beggar or teacher had withdrawn into an apparent doze and now was simply someone's aged uncle sitting on the ground in a shaded corner of the market. Arrow was what he was—a youth but far from a child, a stranger and yet not a stranger in the Unwalled City. He might be hungry and homeless, but he had been that before. Now he was older and able to fend for himself.
Beyond the motley cluster of streets and shabby buildings lay the Walled City, its stone bulk not visible from the Middle-market. Arrow could still feel the excitement coursing through him, making the sun brighter and his senses sharper.
“So where is the Street of the Thin Horse?” There was a jeer in his voice. The old man with the twisted hands hidden under the unbleached robe did not respond.
Arrow left him, stepping out into the glare of the full sun. He shifted the meager bundle of cloak, thin blanket and not much else back onto his shoulder, and felt automatically for the metal flask tied to it. He now had a coin that would feed him for a few days if he were careful. The flatbreads, being a delicacy, were priced accordingly. His mouth watered. A gust of warm wind swirled down from the rooftops around the square and blew his unkempt brown hair around his face.
He meandered through the market, walking past a bakery stall that had cheaper goods than flatbreads. Nearby, a soup-seller drew his attention with wafting fragrance from two heavy pots. Barbecued ducks hung by their necks in another stall, where a small girl persistently chased flies off with a fan.
A sign showing a spotted horse was on the corner of a rickety shop. It was not a thin horse. Arrow said to the little girl with the fan, “Where is the Street of the Thin Horse?”
She tossed her head with its blonde braids in the direction opposite her stall and went on fanning as if she had been chasing flies all her short life.
Arrow left the enticing barbecue smells behind and found the sign of the Thin Horse plastered onto the wall of a laundry. Rooms to let, said a sign. Arrow looked up and saw several lines of clothes above, hanging over the street. It was a four-story building. Most of them were three and four stories of stone and wood. He wondered how many rooms were to let and what the price might be.
The Thin Horse could have been called Emaciated, its hips, withers and knees exaggerated on the street sign. He left the open space of the market for the narrow street of the emaciated horse, with the coin snuggled in the palm of his hand.
“Where's the bakery?” he hailed a man who came trotting towards him carrying a large net bag full of bread.
“Not far, not far! You can't miss it, lad, just keep going as you are! Best bakery in the Cities. Everything fresh baked just now... And lordy, lordy, don't I feel it, been up since the sun went down...”
Arrow ducked past the sweating baker, escaping the flow of words that continued as the man hurried down the alley. He found the bakery on a corner where a wider alley intersected and peered in—last chance for the coin. The door was open, as was a large window criss-crossed with rusty bars, and a warm yeasty smell billowed out, advertising the shop's goods.
The heat inside was stifling. The girl who greeted him seemed unaffected. “Halloo, halloo!” she said. “What can I sell you today?”
“Flatbreads,” he said. She had dark eyes with smooth lids, chiselled features framed by dark hair pulled back in a knot. She wiped floury hands on her crusted apron and gave him a flirtatious glance.
“Flatbreads? Twenty, I'll bet, for such a wealthy man as you.”
“Two,” said Arrow, holding up the coin to show the extent of his wealth.
Arrow put his coin on the counter. She slapped down his change next to it and whisked away the coin. Arrow now had three coins, not worth much at all. The flatbreads, oiled and speckled with half-buried dried tomatoes, olives and sausage slices, plopped down in front of him, one atop the other.
“Thank you, sister,” Arrow said a
fter a moment. The sight and scent of them had hopscotched him back to a different time when delicacies such as flatbreads had been a regular treat.
“You're welcome, little brother.” With a flash of her dark eyes, she turned back to her work.
He took the two flatbreads, each about as wide across as both his hands spread out together, and stepped out in the alley. The outside air seemed cool after the billowing heat of the bakery. He shook off the jumble of memories ignited by the flatbreads and headed back to the market.
The sage had given him the coin, sent him off to buy the bread and left the question of his return up to him. For lack of anywhere else to go, he returned to the shady spot where one would have thought the teacher had not stirred at all.
“Are you dead, old man?” asked Arrow. “Here is your lunch.”
“Ah,” murmured the man, drawing in a long breath through his nose and opening his eyes. He exuded something closer to amusement than anything else. His twisted hands appeared, both of them, and Arrow passed off the top flatbread. “Join me. Do you have a name?”
“Oh, several!” said Arrow. He dropped to the ground and put his back to the wall. It was constructed of plastered stones, neither warm nor cold. His bundle he placed between his feet, knees drawn up to act as a table for the floury bottom of the bread. After his years on the northern plains, the bustling market spread out before him like a stage. “I see you come here to learn, Teacher.”
The old man was contemplating his lunch, admiring it. “One hears many things here in the market and sees more. I have not seen you here before, however. Which of your several names do you wish to be called?”
“I don't wish to be called.” Arrow sank his teeth into the crusty, chewy bread he held. Half he would eat now and the other half he would keep for tomorrow.
Years ago, after his escape to the sea, he had been called Little Fish. That was after a travelling troupe of entertainers pulled him from his small, floundering boat—all but drowned—and heaved him aboard their rickety sailing vessel. They taught him how to beg for coins; and to juggle, do flips and headstands, and walk on his hands for wide-eyed audiences in towns and villages. Down on their luck a year later, they sold him to a merchant ship where the sailors called him “you-boy”. As it rolled back along the coast in heavy weather, he had seen his chance to escape the wooden creaking hell and slipped overboard. He called himself all sorts of names as he fought the cold waves. Finally, he washed ashore and crawled up the rocks to solid ground.
When he could, he went on, starved and staggering, until he fell in with the horse trader who called him simply “boy” and eventually bartered him to the old horseman on the northern plains. That man had called him Horse-boy and eventually just Horse. Outside his horse duties, Arrow had kept up his acrobatic skills to entertain himself on the empty plains. Now he was back in the Unwalled City, five years older than when he left, and a little wiser. If he ever went back to the wild herds, he might think of himself as Horse again, but it didn’t fit his current circumstances.
“Fate has led you here, nameless, homeless and all but possessionless,” said the old man beside him. He spoke with difficulty as he had taken a large mouthful of bread. Nevertheless, his eyes flashed sardonically.
“Don't believe it, old man. I have led myself here.” Hazel eyes met gray ones and measured each other’s mettle.
“Interesting… I am looking for a student, as my former student has moved on.”
“I am not looking for a teacher.”
A shrug. “Well, perhaps I am looking for a servant, as my former servant has found another master.”
“I am no man's servant.” Although, he thought with silent amusement, he could certainly play one when he had to.
“I am, then, searching for an employee, as my former employee was not happy with his wages.”“What were his wages, old man?” said Arrow, laughing finally despite himself.
“Teaching, occasional meals, and a bed.”
“I sleep in no man's bed.”
“Pardon me, young master. I may have misrepresented the bed. It is no more than a corner in the shop. My employee is something of a guard, too, as I myself am decrepit.”
“So, old man, you possess a shop, you need a guard, and you promise flatbreads? You must be a rich man.”
“I do not promise flatbreads... I teach beginnings. You may call me Teacher, if you will, or you may continue to call me Old Man. I am older than many, though not as old as some.”
“You may call me Bell-fool. I am but a simple lad and will accept your employment… for now.” He cringed where he sat, and assumed the open-mouthed, dull-eyed expression that had become second nature, especially in the past few days. His protective mask... he had let it slip in front of the old man. Why had he done that? His excitement at reaching his destination, probably—and the hunger for human interaction. Arrow had to admit his new employer was amusing.
There was a sardonic gleam in the narrowed eyes when he checked for a reaction. “I see you are a storyteller.”
Silence (or as much silence as was possible in the market) stretched between them. The old man took a long time to eat the flatbread, chewing slowly, dreamily. Arrow drank some water from his container. It was copper, with a wool wrap and a twist cap. When new, it had been shiny and smooth, made by a craftsman, but it was battered now. The old man looked at it from under his drooping lids and said nothing.
Some time passed. Both Arrow and his new employer watched the scene in silence. A man came to the market, his eyes searching until he found the figure of the old man. He crossed the dusty square. Arrow feigned a lack of interest, looking away and letting his hair drift across his face.
“Good afternoon, Teacher.”
The old man nodded in greeting, the gray eyes blank.
“I have something to sell.”
“What have you to sell, master?”
The man's clothes were good—fine fabric finely sewn—but when he unwrapped a book with a leather cover, he handled it with unease. “This. I am told it is worth something.”
The old man's hands appeared, and the stout man bent awkwardly to give him the book. The twisted fingers leafed through the pages.
“What do you want me to pay you, master? It is a healer’s treatise, perhaps of value in some places… but here?” He cocked his head at the Middle-market around them. The businessman frowned.
“I've gone to Bennit the bookseller in the Gate Market. He sent me to you. You are the crippled teacher, are you not? I am told it is worth five King's Coins.”
“I have this book already. I would only pay one and a half King's Coins.”
The man flung his hands up to ear height. “So then I'm only out three and a half puppets! Give me one and a half, I'll take it. I am leaving on a journey and cannot carry it with me.”
The old man's bent fingers caressed the book. “I do not carry that much money with me. Come back tomorrow. You can also try another book dealer, who may give a better price. Trang, in the Fourth Apple street.” The man took back his book, wrapping it up roughly. Discontent marred his puffy features.
“Trang, Fourth Apple street,” he repeated.
“Near the Walled City water gate.”
He turned away, snarling to himself. Arrow caught a few words, “... theater! ... one and a half puppets, damn the...”
The old man said nothing. Arrow gave him a sideways glance. One and half King's Coins added up to much more than the coin that had paid for the two flatbreads.
“Puppets?” he enquired after a moment's contemplation.
The old man disregarded him. His gaze was directed across the market. “Ah,” he murmured. Arrow looked and saw three children coming across the square towards them, two boys and a girl. Behind them was a plump, well-dressed woman who waved to the old man, pointing to herself and then around at the market stalls. The children, six to nine years old, plopped themselves down in the dust, chattering at the old man. While their mother shopped, they pra
cticed writing with sticks on the hard-packed dirt.
The old man murmured, and the children answered. The woman, who had passed the time buying food and chatting, returned and watched sharp-eyed as the sticks scratched in the dirt. “That's it, I want them writing like scholars,” she said. “What are they writing?”
Teacher pointed at the child to his left. “No crime is worse than applauding greed,” she chirped. The next stumbled over: “No disaster is greater than discontent,” while the oldest read out proudly, “No fault is higher than possessiveness.”
The old man's copper cup edged out from the edge of his robe and money clattered into it. “Isn't that wonderful!” she marveled. “All right, you three, hold out your hands.” A shiny coin went into each of the eager little palms, and the children ran off. Their mother gave the old man a quick nod, sending Arrow a curious glance, and then she was gone too.
“Writing may lead to reading, reading may lead to enlightenment,” the old man said to Arrow.
“And to a few pennies in the cup,” said Arrow. “How many lessons before one has a King's Coin and a half to spend on a book?”
“Oh, many, many,” sighed the sage. “One must feed the body occasionally or one’s spirit may leave it. If you help me up, Bell-fool, we will proceed to my shop.”
Many miles distant in Rellant’s countryside, Queen Scylla and the troop of riders had turned north along the river road. When they reached a fork in the road, they crossed the rocky, shallow ford and trotted up the other side to a road winding its way west and north. On both sides were wide sheep pastures dotted with outcrops of rock and stands of trees. As they continued over the next hour or two, the pastures became smaller, the rocky patches larger, and the clusters of farmsteads grew smaller and further apart.
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