by A.R. Wise
* * *
The Scholar stood in the emptied storefront of the only First-Baker in the Northern District. He walked slowly, studying the shelves, cases, and decorations that gave the shop its simple character. The smell of bread still lingered, despite there being only a few scant rolls left behind. The owner had fled with his daughter mere hours before Dessidus had arrived that morning.
He rounded the counter, entering the part of the store normally reserved for the owners. There he stood and looked out at the front door, imaging himself as a simple baker welcoming his customers in. Next he went to the back room where the massive clay oven dominated the space. He lifted one of the peels from its hook on the wall, and examined the large, flat, wooden shovel that was scratched up from frequently sliding in and out of the clay oven.
The bells that hung above the front door jangled, and The Scholar placed the peel back on its hook before going to see who’d come in. When he went back to the front of the store he saw Ferragut there, a foreboding sight in his dusky leather and menacing helm. He was thick and tall, imposing and strong, with fresh blood spattered up and down his arms.
“She was here, my friend. This is where she spent her days.”
“I know,” said Ferragut after he removed his helm.
“What a waste of a life,” said The Scholar. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a baker, it’s a fine profession, but not for her. Not for her.” He swiped his gloved finger across the counter, picking up a dusting of flour that he then ground between his finger and thumb.
“Maybe they don’t know about her,” said Ferragut.
“Why else would they hide her?”
“I mean, maybe they don’t know what she’s culpable of.”
“You mean ‘capable.’”
“Right, sorry.”
The Scholar nodded and said, “And I agree, they don’t know what she’s capable of. If they did, she wouldn’t be wasting her days baking bread, that’s for sure.” His demeanor turned more serious as he changed the subject, “How are things going out there?”
“Good,” said Ferragut. “Most of the highborns retreated to their mansions, as expected, and a good amount of the Swords went with to protect them. Both markets are cleared, but we’re searching the buildings for stragglers. We were able to secure the gates, except for the one at the south side of the river. Someone got there and opened it. We’re not sure how many got out, but I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned with. I doubt any highborns leapt into the river to swim away.”
“Let’s hope not. And what about the merchants outside?”
“They’ve all fled,” said Ferragut.
The Scholar nodded and grimaced. “Nothing much we could do about that. They’ll no doubt send word to the other walled cities about what happened here. That might make it harder for us next time. Sooner or later they’re going to realize we’re attacking from the inside. If they decide to hole themselves up in fear, we might have a tough time taking down the final three.”
“I’m sure you can figure out a way,” said Ferragut.
The Scholar regarded his friend and soldier, although the man couldn’t see his leader’s smile behind the mask. “Thank you, Ferragut. Time will tell. Have you checked on Cerrus and the girls yet?”
“No,” said Ferragut. “I was going to head there next.”
“Is there anything else you have to report?”
“We found where Ebon was hiding,” said Ferragut.
“Let me guess,” said The Scholar, his tone laced with new malice. “Was he in the sewer with the rest of the scum and rats?”
“No, sir,” said Ferragut, uncertain if The Scholar had been serious. “If you’ll remember, this was his home town. His family owned the…”
“I know,” said The Scholar. “Was he at the stables then?”
“It seems so, although he left before we got there.”
“He’s probably traveling with the girl,” said The Scholar. “But where’s he taking her?” He was asking the question out loud although he didn’t expect Ferragut to offer an answer.
“Golden Rock?” asked Ferragut.
“Not likely. He’s going to want to hide her.”
“Sir, if you’d like, Cerrus and I could go searching for him. That little worm’s a good scout.”
“No, I need you two with me. Dessidus and his Black Riders are already on Ebon’s trail.”
“To be fair, we’re not even certain he’s abandoned us. For all we know, he might bring the girl back. Maybe he thought this would be the best way to protect her.”
The Scholar looked at Ferragut for a long moment, allowing his expressionless mask to force the big man to question his own statement. Finally, The Scholar said, “You’re not turning on me too, are you?”
Ferragut responded emphatically, “No, sir!”
“Because I know you and Cerrus and Ebon were friends. It would break my heart to learn that the three of you were in on this together.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” said Ferragut. “I know I speak for Cerrus too when I say that we’re devoted to the cause. If Ebon betrayed you, then he deserves to die with the rest of them.”
“No, I don’t want that,” said The Scholar. “He’s too much of an asset to simply cast off. I want to know why he left. I want a chance to win him back. And if we can’t get him back on our side, then we’ll have to decide what to do with him, but not before I get to speak with him.” The Scholar stepped around from behind the counter and closer to Ferragut. “I’m not a vindictive man. I’m practical, and I take care of my friends. If it were you who left instead of Ebon…”
“I wouldn’t leave,” said Ferragut.
“I know, but if it were you, then I’d afford you the same courtesy. I respect everyone in our group too much to abandon without due process.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m with you until the end, no matter what happens.”
“Good,” said The Scholar. “I’ll rest easier with you at my side. Now go check on Cerrus and the children.”
Ferragut did as he was told, as always, and The Scholar was left alone again in the shop. He lingered, breathing in the air, experiencing the environment Saffi had lived in for so long. She’d been within his grasp, only to be snatched away at the last second. He looked at the flour clinging to tips of his fingers, and then blew them clean before leaving.
