by Mark Eller
* * * *
“Oh Gods, I ask only that you make his bowels run like water. May rocks inhabit his shoes so they pierce his feet with his every step. I ask for the earth to be blessed by the lack of his children, and I beg you to grow his behind so large it gathers nettles from the ground when he walks.”
Ludwig stuck his hand into the leather sack. After pulling it out, he looked with distaste at the pale pig fat coating his fingers. Turning his head, he saw erected tents speckled across the slight slope. Men walked among those tents. Others tended to arvids staked out amid the small trees and thick brush surrounding them. He envied those men because they did not have their hands stuck in pig fat. Wiggling grease coated fingers, he scowled at the sensation. “I hate this.”
“A man should never try to pull a sword on a fellow who’s near his mates,” Harlo observed. “Which one are you cursing?”
“It was a general-purpose curse. Garland gave me this job, but Yezman started the fight.” Ludwig ran his hands over the harness lines, working fat into the leather. It was just his luck to have so many arvids in this caravan. Their sensitive skin demanded their harness had to be cleaned and greased every few days. Looking at the pile of work he still had to do, Ludwig thanked the Seven Gods and Two Garland had not visited any of the other nearby caravans. It was a sure bet one of them would have been more than willing to throw some of their harness in Ludwig’s direction.
“Relax a little,” Harlo admonished. “Forget who you were and remember what you are.”
“What I am is gentry,” Ludwig said firmly. “I’m sure His Lordship will have forgotten my small lapse with his daughter’s virtue by the time we return.”
“Only because sweet Meliandra will have shared her virtue with a half dozen others by then. Hope springs eternal, lad. Mayhap Gertunda forgot to divorce you. That will allow you to get your hands back on her dowry.”
Ludwig shuddered. “May the blessed gods see she does not forget. The memory of her face is enough to give a man nightmares. Divorced or not, I will reclaim my just share of her dowry once Lord Wencheck sees fit to release me from this duty. See you, Harlo, if I am not dressed in robe and slippers by this time next year.”
“I’ll speak to Nedross on the matter,” Harlo promised. “After all, I’m his priest, and he is the god of hope.”
“The god of hope for causes eternally lost,” Ludwig corrected. “I was there when you invented him. We were ten at the time.”
“Why so we were,” Harlo agreed. “I’d forgotten.” He looked at Ludwig reflectively. “We have a long history, you and I.”
“You were never a good servant.”
“But I was always a good friend.”
Ludwig thought the statement over for a moment. “Usually,” he admitted, “but not always. You left my service.”
“You forgot to pay me,” Harlo reminded him, “and I have an extreme fondness for money. Still, I did come back in time to ensure your head stayed attached to your neck by talking his Lordship into giving you this job.”
Ludwig dipped his hand back into the sack of pig fat, scooped some of it up with his fingers, and pulled his hand free. After a few moments studying the pale glistening, oily fat, he looked toward Harlo.
“That,” Ludwig said, “was no favor.”
