by John Brown
The crossroads sat at the juncture of five roads. It was a large oval that often was the place for gatherings or a small market. But no matter what was going on, there was usually a Shoka tinsmith here. His rat dog would lie in the shade under the wagon while he sat with his tin goods and tools under a blue awning that folded out of the side. Today there was nothing here but grasshoppers and the rutted and dry roads stretching out from the place like spidery fingers.
“Why risk any of them?” asked Nettle. “We should leave the wagon and set out on foot through the woods.”
“That’s reasonable,” said Talen. “Except the woods are most likely already full of Sleth hunters who have set a multitude of snares and traps. And I’m not leaving Iron Boy tied to a post, which means we’ll have him clomping along with us. I’d dare say the woods are more dangerous than the roads. Besides, it makes us look guilty.”
“You,” said Nettle.
“Huh?” asked Talen.
“You’re the one who will look guilty. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Thanks,” said Talen, “you’re always such a big support.”
Nettle sighed with exaggerated humility. “I suppose I am. Especially when I’ve been promised a throttling.”
Talen waved Nettle off. “Look, I’ve got a better idea-what we need is an escort.”
“An escort?” Nettle asked. He looked at Talen as if he’d just sprouted a cabbage out his ear. He motioned at the empty field. “Who are you going to get? Grasshoppers?”
“If we were close to your home, we’d get a number of your father’s men to go with us. But we’re not. So we get someone who is a friend of your father’s.”
“And who would that be? I say we go through the woods. If we run into anyone, we tell them we were hunting Sleth. We just don’t tell them we’ve found them already.”
“We don’t have any black cloth for armbands. And even if we did, we have no tokens. Anybody we came across would spot us in a minute.” Talen pointed to the road at the far end of the crossroads. “We’re going to the glass master’s.” He was a powerful man with many men in his employ.
Talen would not have considered this, but Uncle Argoth had recommended Talen to a number of respectable Mokaddian families, including Bartem the glass master. And the glass master had expressed some interest should Talen get his Shoka clan wrist.
Uncle Argoth had once told Talen that his mother’s Shoka blood would eventually overpower the Koramite blood he’d gotten from Da. This, of course, had incited Da, but then that’s why Uncle Argoth had said it in the first place. The two of them liked to dig each other as much as he and Nettle did. But lately, Da had come around to Uncle Argoth’s arguments that what Koramites needed was some binding to the Clans. Talen was almost too old to apprentice himself out, but there were other ways Uncle Argoth might find a place for him among the Shoka. It wouldn’t be a powerful position, but it would be better than being an unconnected Koramite.
Just at that moment, a Shoka boy, holding a throwing stick in one hand and two dead ducks in the other, walked from one of the roads into the clearing.
“Lords,” said Talen. All they needed was someone to see them.
“Keep calm,” said Nettle and hailed the boy.
When the boy came close, he said, “There’s men looking for you. Hunters.” The boy was short for his age, but wide.
“Oh?”
The boy looked at Nettle’s ear, but did not remark upon it. “A group of about ten Fir-Noy.” He pointed up one of the roads. “They accosted me. Asked me what I’d seen.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them I hadn’t seen nothing but ducks.”
“You keep telling them that,” said Nettle.
“They accused you of Slethery, but I spoke up, told them Captain Argoth was worth all ten of them.”
The boy had done no such thing, Talen thought. What’s more: he was a risk. What were they going to do with him?
“Fir-Noy rot,” said Nettle and spat. “Always blaming their troubles on someone else. This whole Sleth madness started in one of their own villages. Not ours.”
“Aye,” said the boy. “But we’ll catch them. My da and I, we’ve got ourselves half a dozen traps set in the woods.”
“You’re a brave one,” said Nettle, “walking out here on your own.”
The boy puffed up a bit.
“If enough Shoka take the initiative like you and your da,” Nettle said, “we’ll have the Sleth for sure. And if any other Fir-Noy come by, you’ve seen nothing but ducks.”
“Aye,” said the boy and raised the end of his throwing stick to the side of his nose.
Nettle flicked the reins and directed Iron Boy toward the glass master’s road.
Talen considered his cousin: he’d handled that situation well. Of course, the boy was still a risk.
When the boy was out of earshot, Nettle said, “I hope your glass master is willing.”
“Of course, he’ll be willing. He trusts your father. Your father trusts me.”
Nettle nodded. “Well, then let’s get out of here before some Fir-Noy finds us and prevents us from testing your theory.”
The road to the glass master’s was broad, but it wasn’t straight, and they were constantly worrying they’d turn a bend and run into some vigilante patrol, but they never did. When they came to the part of the road that crested a hill and gave them a view of the glass master’s vale, Talen heaved a sigh of relief: there were no Fir-Noy to be seen. Just the fields, the main buildings, and the glasshouse belching smoke out of three of its five chimneys.
Talen had walked the whole way. Now he told Nettle to pull up. He drank deeply from the barrel, then dumped the rest over his head. He was more thirsty than ever. And the itch in his legs had grown.
He hadn’t worked anything out of his system. In fact, he wondered if there had been anything in his system to begin with.
“You know the stories of peopled bewitched to dance until they starved,” Talen asked, “until their very bones turned to dust? Do you think it’s possible to curse someone like that?”
“So now our hatchling wasn’t just a post when she kissed you?” asked Nettle.
“She was a post,” said Talen. “It’s just my legs have put me to thinking what could have happened in the night.”
“Who knows?” said Nettle. “If you wake up tomorrow and find yourself doing a chicken trot with Prince Conroy, then I’ll be leaning towards curse.”
Talen shook his head and began down the slope. Partway down the hill, he said, “If Atra comes to the door, I need to have something to say. Otherwise, I’ll be staring at her like a great ox.”
Atra, the glass master’s daughter, had expressed an interest in him at the last harvest dance. Or at least it had seemed she had, and he’d thought about her ever since. He knew it was nothing more than a fancy, but such an arrangement would be good for everyone: Da would get a family member into a clan, Uncle Argoth would keep his promise to his sister, the glass master would be able to tie his interests with a man close to a warlord of the Nine, and Talen, if she accepted him, would be able to serve and ponder one of the most stunning creatures he’d ever beheld.
He remembered that River had told him once the key to conversation is asking helpful questions. Good humor, a few good stories, and a few helpful questions. Not the stupid lines men came up with after a few pints of ale.
“Helpful?” he’d asked.
“Yes,” said River. “A question that makes it easy for the other person to talk.”
“Well, how’s a question going to do that? Either they have something to say or they don’t.”
“No,” River said. “Everyone has something to say. There are some people that are like an irrigation ditch. You pull the stop up and they’ll go on until you shut them off. But others aren’t like that. Other people are like a pond or lake. You’ve first got to make an outlet for them, only then will they flow.”
“I’ve neve
r heard you go on and on about a man’s questions,” said Talen. “All you talk about is their brilliant parts and all the presents they bring.”
River smiled. “Trust me, little brother. The splendor of fine hair fades quickly.”
“Yeah, well I’d rather fade than never shine at all.”
Except after trying to think up great things to say, Talen was thinking maybe River had the right of it. Let them do the talking. But he’d never asked River for examples. What was a helpful question? How did you make an outlet for them to flow?
Well, it couldn’t be that hard. He began to mumble questions to himself.
“What are you doing?” asked Nettle.
“Thinking up something to help Atra flow like a river.”
“What?”
“Conversation. I’m thinking about making conversation.”
“We’ve got men bent on doing us harm, and you’re worried about conversation?”
“I’ve had enough of hunts and hatchlings and baker’s come-backs. I want to think about something pleasant for a while. Is it going to tax you?”
“No,” Nettle said. Then he grinned. “Tell her she looks beautiful and then ask her if she wants to breed.”
“You can rot,” said Talen.
“Touchy,” said Nettle.
Talen waved him off. Maybe he could ask after Atra’s mother’s health.
“Who cares what you say?”
“I do,” said Talen. “It doesn’t matter what you do, you’re Captain Argoth’s son. Honor and cattle hang on you like apples from a tree. You’ve got a garlic-eater’s wrist. You can do what you want and still be attractive. But I have to make a good impression, especially when I tell them I need an escort and then have to wait around for the glass master to gather one. Besides, we don’t want them asking us questions, do we?”
“You have a point,” said Nettle.
“So?”
“So we keep it short. You’ve been threatened, falsely accused by Fir-Noy. I show them my ear. Then we say it would be mighty nice to have some Shoka with us the rest of the way home.”
Talen nodded. Short and to the point. And if he got to talk to Atra that would be a small gift in a day that was turning out to be one big stinking cow pile.
They crossed the fields and stopped at the border of the yard proper. It could be dangerous to walk into the grounds of a place where the dogs did not know you. But nothing barked. And so he led Iron Boy in.
The glasshouse sat many yards away from the yard, its chimneys smoking. The doors stood open, and and Talen could see men moving about in the shadows. He could not tell what they were doing. And that’s why it had been set apart from the house. The glass master wanted to avoid prying eyes that might discover his secrets.
The dogs lay under a wagon out there, probably to guard the glassworks. Talen knew that sand was a part of glass-making. And a fiery furnace. This land had once been covered with trees, but they’d chopped down at least a square mile of the wood and fed it to the furnace. A glassmaker needed wood to make charcoal to burn in his ovens. And so there was heat involved. He knew they used lime. He’d heard the dark blues were made with cobalt. But how it all was put together and blown into shape, he’d never know. Nor would anyone outside the glass guild. It was a rare art, and the secrets were guarded with oaths and penalties of death.
A grove of willow grew all up and down a creek. The willow branches were used to weave about some of the glass to keep them from breaking. Three women sat at the side of the glasshouse weaving willow sticks around large glass jugs.
Talen heard laughter and looked over at the house. Women busied themselves in a back room. Was Atra among them? He hoped not.
But even if she were, he would simply ask for the master.
His thirst was such that he thought about going straight to the well, but that would be rude. He was still wet from dumping water over his head, and he supposed proper young men did not come begging favors in soggy clothes, but what else could he do?
There was no one outside, so Talen would have to strike their bell.
He smoothed back his hair the best he could. Then wiped his wet hands on his tunic and walked up to the door.
A brass bell hung to the side of the doorpost. The artificer had engraved delightful scenes of bears and deer on the bell. He’d engraved the symbols for health and welcome upon the striker. The bell and striker were beautiful.
Talen’s family could never afford such things. When people came visiting his home, they simply said, “Hoy,” and waited for someone to respond.
He struck the bell twice.
He heard footsteps as someone came to the door. He hoped it was not Atra. Then the door opened and Talen saw a serving girl of maybe twelve years.
“Good day,” said Talen. “I need to talk to the glass master.”
“You’re Horse’s son, aren’t you.”
Talen nodded. Da had earned a new name a few years back. They did not have Iron Boy then. On a wager, Da had altered his harness, hooked the plow to himself, then told Ke to keep the lines straight. They had plowed their whole field that way. Not as deeply as a horse might, but deep enough. So he had earned the name Horse.
“I’ll take your request back to the mistress. You can go on around to the well to water your mule.”
As Talen walked back off the step, he got a feeling someone was looking at him. He turned and he saw a curtain slide back into place. Talen could just see the outline of someone through the curtain. Could that be Atra?
Talen smiled, then the person moved the curtain slightly, very slightly and stared at him.
It was Elan. Mad Elan, Atra’s older half-wit sister, hiding where she obviously thought Talen could not see her. She had a mole on her face from which long hairs grew and an awful habit of chasing boys and giving them huge slobbery kisses. As a child he’d been terrified of her. She had caught him once, and he’d had to scream bloody murder to escape. She still put him on edge.
Some had suggested the glass master sacrifice her. It was common for the lame, blind, or maimed to give themselves up to the Divines. When a war is being waged and you cannot see, you can still give Fire to those who can. If you cannot lift a sword, you can give Fire that will allow a man to wield his sword with incredible might. In fact, the glass master had offered her up once for the war weaves a few years back. Or so it was said. But they hadn’t needed her or hadn’t the time to draw her. And so Elan was still with them.
He hoped Elan had learned to keep her affections to herself. Him being chased around the glass master’s yard simply would not do.
He motioned Nettle to take the wagon around to the trough. He could smell the smoke from the glassworks, but he could also smell the cold well water, a whiff of leather, hay, a rose. It was odd. There were suddenly too many smells. And he realized he’d been smelling too many things for some time now.
He glanced to the back of the house where the women were. Their talking had quieted. One woman sat breaking beans, glancing his way. Then he saw Atra. She walked past the other woman, picked up a basket, then walked out of his line of sight.
He heard a sound from behind. He turned slightly. Someone hid halfway behind a tree trunk a few paces behind him, holding a long arching stem of wild, white rose.
“Hoy, Elan,” said Talen.
She quickly moved back behind the tree.
He wondered if half-wits had any special feelings for the opposite sex. You couldn’t tell for sure because her face defied a precise age, but he guessed Elan was perhaps twenty-five years old: well beyond the age of marriage. He wondered if she dreamed of some handsome man giving her children and if she knew that such a dream would never become reality for her.
“There’s a fine scent on the breeze that I cannot identify,” he said. “I wish I knew what it was.”
He glanced back, but she did not reveal herself.
He wondered how long it would take to get the glass master. Even if he did agree to send some of his men
, Talen would probably end up waiting here for an hour or two. An hour or two that could land them in more danger.
He heard footsteps and turned around, only to come face-to-face with Elan. The rose stem in her hand was about three feet long and bent over to the ground. She held it out to him, beaming with delight.
Elan had a yellow ribbon tied in her hair. It did not do anything for her. In fact, it looked as if it had somehow snagged there.
“Muffin,” she said.
“Talen,” he said. “You must call me Talen.”
“Muffin,” she said and smiled her huge smile. She was missing a few teeth. And while he could see no long hairs growing from the large mole on her cheek, he could see a distinct shadow of a mustache.
Talen shook his head. She’d called him Muffin Bunny ever since she’d caught him that one time.
Then she straightened and said something.
Talen couldn’t understand her. She spoke like she had a severe sore throat. “What?”
“I had a man call. Da made a good bargain.”
At least that’s what he thought she said. A man called for Elan?
“Really?”
“I a strong worker,” she said. “I better than a watchdog with babies. I not some cheap servant.”
“I’m sure,” said Talen.
“He paid gold.”
Who would pay gold for Elan? It didn’t make sense. She was not bright, but maybe she was indeed a hard worker. Life had many simple tasks. Maybe the best deal the glass master could get was to sell her as a servant. He wondered: would the purchaser treat her kindly?
“I hope it goes well for you,” said Talen.
“Muffin Bunny,” she said. “You wet.”
Then Atra called Elan.
“He here!” Elan shouted back.
Talen turned and saw Atra walk down a path that led from the back door of the house. She was wearing a sky blue, sleeveless surcoat. The armholes were huge and showed her bright red tunic underneath. The effect with her black hair was stunning.
Talen’s heart jumped. He took a breath. His hair was sopping wet, so he released the thong that held his long hair together, smoothed back as much water as he could, and quickly retied it.
