by Brad Carsten
“Wait for it,” Quinn said, his voice quivering with excitement.
Smoke began drifting up from just behind the town wall, and old man Branbill caught sight of it and straightened as much as his bent shoulders would allow. He muttered something, his jowls quivering and started towards it with purpose.
Quinn tapped Liam's arm, sputtering with laughter, and pointed to the top of the wall, where short Norris' head had just popped up.
Like the wheel, the village didn’t need such a sturdy wall, not since Faulton was swallowed into the kingdom almost forty years back. The Graystone barracks, along the eastern border, would deal with any bandits. The only trouble the village had seen since then, apart from the occasional fox getting into a chicken coop, was when Master Gabridge contracted red-eye fever in the city and took an axe to his hand yelling that it was trying to throttle him.
“Okay, this is it,” Liam said, getting ready to move.
Quinn took off down the slope at a run, and Liam shouted after him.
They were halfway down the hill when old man Branbill caught sight of them, and cried out in alarm. He started back at a trot, hollering and waving that stick of his, but he had wandered off too far and would never reach them in time. “Don't you go touching that wheel, you hear me!” His voice was high with panic. “Don't you dare touch it. I know you—the both of you—and your folks. You’re that Barristen troublemaker, and—and you—you’re Talbot’s lad. I’ll drag you in front of the council by your noses. I’ll box your ears. Stop. Stop, curse you.”
“We're just going to take a quick look,” Liam shouted. “That's all.” The cold wind felt glorious against his face and bare chest, and he couldn't help laughing out loud.
Quinn was grinning, but that may have been his skin pulling back from the cold.
The diluted sun cut off in the shade of the wall, and water spray blew up against Liam's front. The roar and the clanking wheel was deafening.
Liam and Quinn reached the railing together, but Liam was the first to spring off of it. He caught onto the wheel and was wrenched up into the air.
As he leapt, he may have ‘accidentally' bumped Quinn who lost his footing and disappeared headfirst into the freezing water below.
An ice-cold fountain cascaded down the wheel and over Liam, soaking him through, and he gasped. His fingers went numb, and he scraped his legs trying to get a decent foothold.
Far below, Quinn broke through the water holding onto the wheel. He threw his head back and howled like a lunatic. Liam couldn't help joining in, and as the world dropped away, he threw up a hand and screamed a farewell to his childhood.
Old man Branbill made it halfway to the wheel before his energy gave out, but there was a thunder cloud over his head, and he was shouting every curse word he knew.
The beautiful Tarla Holsby stood with her friends in the meadow. They had stopped talking and were watching with interest.
With her eyes on him, Liam felt invincible. He blew her a kiss, and she smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
The top of the wall was rapidly approaching, and Liam slipped through to the other side of the scoop to get closer to it, and as the water above him tipped out, spraying twenty buckets over the edge, Liam stepped off onto the parapet like a hero in a storybook.
Quinn appeared a few seconds later, slumped over with his hair hanging in his face like a drowned ferret. Liam gave him a hand, and he collapsed onto the wall, half spluttering, half laughing.
Liam was conscious of Tarla’s eyes still on him, and as he congratulated the others, he may have spoken a little louder and was more animated.
Now that they were taking on more responsibility, they'd be looking for wives, and every lad in the village, and villages for twenty miles around, had their eyes on Tarla. The day after the Passing, she'd have a dozen proposals, and Liam suddenly had a really crazy idea of adding his name to that list. He hadn't considered asking her; she was as far out of his reach as a princess. Oh, he’d dreamt about it, as had every other two-bit lout with a grin and a polished buckle, but he had always assumed that she wouldn't be interested. She was gentle and kind and excitable, and unlike Liam, was eager for the future, and she was as beautiful as a spring morning. He, well, he had six flaws for every perfect thing about her, with nothing to offer but a life without any wealth, tucked far away from the kingdom. But while he had a burst of courage, and before his mind could get in the way, he excused himself and started back down the stairs for the meadow. Perhaps he'd go and talk to her after all.
As Liam got closer, he realised he had nothing witty or interesting to say, so he simply put his wet arm around her shoulder.
She shrieked and began slapping his arm away.
“That, Mr Talbot, isn’t funny. Or polite! Everyone knows I can't get warm until the snow thaws. They tease me about it all winter, and they certainly don’t need any help from the likes of you. Are you okay by the way, you're turning blue?”
“I'm fine. I really am.” He had to clench his teeth to stop shivering.
“Yes, you look as fine as a side of pork after it's been left in the snow all night. Now please put a coat on. I'd hate to see you get sick, or to have to carry you home. You look heavy and wet and cold—and so cold.”
“Or he can keep it off,” Jennah said, under her breath, as her eyes slid over his chest. The other two spluttered with laughter, and Liam suddenly felt like a child being inspected for ticks after playing out in the fields.
There came a shout from up the way as Brandbill and his son rounded into sight.
“Oh, you should probably go.” Tarla gathered up her baskets of meat like she was the one in trouble.
Liam flicked his hand nonchalantly. “Stay. Ignore them. I'll just deny everything.”
“Just go,” she said in a panicked voice. “Look at you. You're wet and dripping and are still turning blue. The Passing is only tonight which means you're still young enough for a switching. And I have a few deliveries to make before this afternoon anyway.”
“Let me help you with those.” Liam picked up one of her baskets and lifted the kerchief to peer inside. “Cooked ham with glaze!” It smelled divine. Tarla pulled the kerchief closed and slapped his hand away. “Don't you even think about it, Mister. That belongs to Madam Newbyn, and she's a loyal customer—unlike you and your family.”
Old man Branbill and his son had reached the meadow and were now shouting like men trying to flag down a wagon in the rain.
“Just—” she pushed him back. “Go already.”
“Come with me.” He held out a hand, and she looked from the wheel to the Branbills to her baskets and to Liam, and then, biting her lip, she accepted.
Her hand was warm or perhaps his was cold. He wanted to step closer, but as she had pointed out, he was wet and cold, and after being slapped once by her already, he didn’t want to risk another assault. “But first, we have to find you something warm to wear. Alright!”
“Deal.”
Together they took off through the snow, trailed by the Branbills' indignant cries.
Liam and Tarla had no shortage of things to talk about, or rather Tarla had no shortage of things to talk about, and Liam listened, enjoying the way his insides churned under her spell. They strolled along the river, crunching through the frozen grass.
Liam had promised himself that he'd never get lost to a pretty face like some of the other louts in the village. He had seen good men losing their minds to love and then acting like bards and singing outside windows; it was embarrassing, but here he was, trying everything to keep a level head and failing miserably. He felt himself slipping, falling for her, with her every word and musical laugh and her stories about running the butchery with her eccentric father and six brothers.
“So, the water wheel outside the shop moves the bone saw,” she was saying, “but father of course decided that he could use it in the evenings to create furniture!” she rolled her eyes. “So, he got distracted with something else,
I don't even know what, and he forgot to clean the blade, and the next day we had the order for the Newspring dance. It was a right disaster.”
“I remember that,” Liam said. There was wood in all the meat—but I thought they hammered that on Master Fubner?”
“They did.” Right then he got to see her 'cheeky face.' Little pieces melted inside of him, and he was completely helpless to stop it.
“And you weren't about to correct them, were you?”
“Well, some of the wood could have come from his wagon, right? I mean, it's not unthinkable. So why should we take all the blame.”
“You shouldn't.”
“My point exactly. I'm glad you see things clearly.
You must come visit the shop sometime. I'd like to show you around.”
“You just want to sell me some meat, and you know I'll be defenceless against your charms.”
“Of course.” She touched his arm. “That's my thing. I lure men into my father's shop and lighten them of their purses. I'm like a meat bandit—a leg-of-lamb cutpurse.”
He had never heard a woman calling herself a leg-of-lamb cutpurse, and the snare caught, and the net fell.
“Exactly. So, you must watch yourself around me, Mister. You shouldn't be walking alone with me out here. It's simply not safe for you.”
They had circled around along the old wagon trail that brought visitors to the village in milder seasons as well as the occasional peddler or traveling entertainer, that would even have the Brandbills dusting off their suits and running a comb through their hair. It was a beautiful walk through the bare vineyards with a view of the sweeping countryside for miles around them. In winter, the wispy seeds from the snow peas blew across the meadows, dancing on the slightest breeze, and at night on a full moon they'd reflect the light, and people would come outdoors with blankets and boiling mugs of vanilla tipsy, and the older couples would hold hands and the younger ones would cuddle, and the children would run between them all caught up in the mood. Liam had always appreciated what they had and especially so whenever he got back from a hunt. Brigwell was surely the most beautiful village in the world.
When they caught sight of the village again, a large crowd had gathered past the gate. Others were coming out of their houses, and Madam Tolsby came running across the meadow to see what was happening. Above the crowd, men—soldiers sat on horseback, their armour glinting in the diluted winter sun, and the wind rippling across the red and gold banners of the kingdom.
“What are kingdom soldiers doing here?” Tarla said, suddenly looking nervous. “How many do you suppose there are?”
A soldier hadn't been seen in Brigwell since his father was a boy, and perhaps even before then. Liam counted eighteen, but he wouldn't be surprised if he’d missed some.
“A lot,” he said. “More than have any business being here.”
Quinn spotted him and shouted something, and a few people turned back to look. Liam had a terrible feeling that something had happened to his father on the trail. His father seldom took people out in winter because the weather could shift in an afternoon throwing off even the most experienced tracker, but Rootworm had found its way into the crops, and they needed the extra coin. He wasn't expected back for another week, but still, Liam couldn't help worrying.
“Liam,” Quinn said, out of breath, when he reached them. “They're asking for your father.”
“My father?” At least nothing had happened to him then, but Liam wondered if his father was in trouble. He had often escorted people beyond the kingdom borders, but that wasn't breaking any laws as far as he knew. “By the light of mercy, what are they doing here?”
“I don't know. The people are pushing them hard, but they refuse to say anything. Come on already.”
“There hadn't been that much excitement in the village for years. People stood in clumps whispering, children fought each other with sticks, and Mrs Applesby brought out some of her pies, hoping to make a few kingdom Morings.
The captain of the guard, with his red plumed helmet and winter cape, was fending off a barrage of questions, looking harassed.
“Have the Tarmidians crossed the border?” Madam Lanson was shouting.
Master Tarplewold was saying something about a grand conspiracy to raise the taxes, while shaking a finger at them in anger.
“What news of the kingdom?”
“Have the crops failed outside of Faulton as well?”
“Is His Majesty the King alright? The last I heard, his health was failing.” Like soldiers would bother coming to Brigwell with that kind of news if it had.
Master Anson stood next to the soldiers with his head held high like he was one of them. “Now, my good people, my good people. Let’s calm down.” He had brought out his own flag for the occasion.
A Lord had once arrived in the village in a sleek black carriage with a gold family crest on the doors, and Master Anson was so taken with it, that he’d gone off right away to design his own crest—a proud rooster and a bushel of wheat. He then got his wife to stitch it onto a flag, but the poor woman’s fingers were too thick to handle a needle, and it ended up looking like a frightened chicken that was about to be trampled on. But Master Anson was proud of it and hauled it out every chance he got.
He was a weasel of a man, always looking for a way to get ahead, and now he was trying to buy favour with the soldiers by pretending to be in charge.
“One at a time,” he said. “Please, one at a time. They’ll answer your questions, but we cannot all shout at once.”
As Liam approached, a hush fell over the villagers, and all eyes turned to him. No one wanted to miss a tick.
“You are John Talbot's son?” the Captain asked, looking relieved to see him.
“That's correct,” Liam said. “What's going on? Is everything okay?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private.” At that, a disapproving murmur rose through the crowd.
“My father's place is about two miles that way.” He pointed north and was about to say that otherwise he was sure master Blithe would allow them to use the private lounge in the inn, but the Captain nodded curtly. “That'll do just fine. You know how to ride?” Liam nodded, and the Captain instructed one of the soldiers to surrender his horse.
Liam wanted to ask Tarla to come with him—he wasn't ready for their time together to be over—but he didn't know what this was about and didn't want to put her in danger. When they brought the horse to him, he took her hand, unashamed of all the eyes that were on him. “I'll come past the shop as soon as I know what's going on. We still have a few baskets to deliver, right?”
“Okay. I'll take them all the way back to the shop even though everyone’s standing right here.” She squeezed his hand playfully. “But that doesn't mean you're off the hook, okay! You’d still better come past the shop to buy some meat from us.”
“You have my word.” Liam took hold of the reins, and she gave the guard a distrustful look. “Please be careful—and come find me as soon as you're done.”
Chapter 3
Liam’s house was like any other in the village. A large room served as a living area and kitchen, and a ladder led to the beds in the loft. Liam's father built on a master bedroom, and the village thought he was putting on airs. The Branbills took to bowing to him every time they passed in the street and insisted that he should take the head seat at the council meetings. He accepted graciously which irritated them to no end, and so finally, not to be outdone, they built a library onto their house and gathered a total of nine books before sanity prevailed.
The house was like any other in the village, but Liam had seen enough of the houses outside of Brigwell to feel awkward about inviting a Captain of the Kingdom inside. Liam had been to villages with his father where a master bedroom, or attic, or even a pantry wasn't unusual. Some of the houses had all three with other rooms as well.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Liam said. “I'm sure it was a long journey into the village.” One
of the banners had the bird crest of the Tallisyn barracks at Holly-downs which must be where they had journeyed from. “I imagine the last town you passed was Doverwol, and that's at least four hours away by horseback.”
He took in the mess he'd left behind: His dirty laundry was where he'd left it, and the oil jar and mortar and pestle he'd used to make some bread was still discarded on the table. The shutters were still drawn, and dirt and leaves had been trampled in from outside. He normally cleaned before going out, a habit instilled in him from the time he could walk, but Quinn had arrived unexpectedly, and well, it seemed unimportant at the time. At least they couldn't see into the loft.
He gathered up the breakfast dishes and carried them to the washtub.
“Thank you,” the Captain said. “I've been told your father isn’t in the village at present.” He didn't look away, and Liam suddenly felt awkward as though he was being measured. At his age, he was still living in the village, and so it was obvious that he hadn't been selected for the kingdom, and the Captain wouldn't know why. A small prodding at the back of his mind reminded him that he may never have been selected anyway.
“No. A family from Tamdon had land somewhere in Craswich and had forgotten to renew their lease, which was about to lapse, and they needed to get to the Master's office quite urgently.” Argh, he was babbling.
“When is he expected back?”
“Not for two weeks at least, and if the weather turns and the Wardon pass closes, he could be delayed until spring. What is this about, if I may ask? Perhaps I could suggest someone else?” Liam suddenly realised that the Captain had not only been selected for the kingdom at a young age, but he had accomplished enough to set himself apart from the other really capable soldiers. He had to be better in order to earn such a high rank. Why would he need any suggestions from some village lout?
As he poured the drink, he kept his back turned and his eyes well away from the Captain's.
“So, you mentioned that Doverwol was four hours away by horseback. Are you familiar with the route to Holly-downs?”
