The Book of Deacon

by Joseph Lallo

  "It is talk such as that which will cost us victory," the priest said.

  "Victory!? There is no victory in war! War takes everything and gives nothing! I only wish my words were as destructive as you would have me believe! If that were true, I would shout myself hoarse, I would not sleep until my words had poisoned the thoughts of everyone who had ears--but the cold truth is that nothing I say or do will have even the slightest effect on this wretched war. I am nothing! A shadow! A whisper! Dismissed and forgotten!" she ranted.

  Her heart pounded and tears clouded her eyes. She shakily lowered the tea cup to the table. In the heat of her impassioned speech, she had managed to douse herself and a good deal of the room with the piping hot contents. The bandage on her left hand was dripping with it, rekindling the faded pain of its last scalding.

  "I am very sorry for how I have acted, and I am sorry for the trouble I may have caused you, but I am not sorry for the thoughts and feelings that you insist are wrong. I will leave you now, before I say or do something deserving of regret," Myranda continued, in control of her emotions again.

  "Were I you I would turn left at the sign post that you will find outside of my door," the priest said. "The people of Renack are decent, patriotic citizens. Should they discover your sadly misguided beliefs, I doubt they would trust an icy field to do you in. Bydell is to the east. Nothing but scoundrels and deserters. You just may find someone there who shares your blasphemous views."

  These last words were heard through the slammed door of his quarters. Myranda moved with swift, motivated strides. She would have no more of this place if she could help it. The cold wind of the outside staggered her like a blow to the face. It had grown even colder than when she had sought shelter just minutes before. The patches of scalding hot tea turned icy at the first exposure to the stinging cold. The fuming girl gritted her teeth and leaned into the wind. It never ceased to amaze her how, seemingly regardless of which way she turned, the wind blew in her face. It was as though someone up above was toying with her, seeing how much torment it would take to break her. She turned her eyes skyward.

  "You will have to do better than that!" she assured her unseen tormentor.

  Not long after storming out of the church, she found the signpost of which the priest had spoken. Renack to the west and Bydell to the east. Both were ten miles away. A few hours by foot. It was a long hike by any means, but along a road, she could make it to either town well before nightfall. She might even make it to a pub before the tables had filled for supper. But which town to go to? Reluctantly, she headed off to the east.

  As she walked, she questioned her choice. The advice of a person who knew how she felt about the war had nearly cost Myranda her life the previous day, and here she was making the same mistake.

  Her father would have frowned on this. Her thoughts turned to him. It had been even longer since she'd seen his face than her mother's. She had to struggle to remember his features. He had been a soldier, never home more than a few weeks before he was off to another tour of duty. He still found time to teach her some of the most valued lessons she had ever learned, though. Even though she had not been more than six when she last spoke to him, he had made sure she knew something of the real world. He would tell stories of adventures he'd had, always with a piece of advice at the end. Above all, he'd taught her to pay attention and to learn from her mistakes.

  She shook the memories away. Those days were gone now, too painful to remember.

  With her reminiscing over, the infuriating words of the priest quickly returned. Again, she physically shook. What she needed now was distraction, anything to distance her mind from the pain and anger.

  "So, Bydell and Renack. Each the same distance from the church. What other towns have I been to that shared a church between them? Lucast and Murtock . . . Skell and Marna . . ." she thought aloud.

  She grimaced as the distraction proved inadequate to force the words of the priest from her mind.

  "Bydell!" she forced herself to consider. "Where did that name come from? I wonder if it is by a dell."

  Myranda continued to force her mind onto this and other suitably pointless subjects for the remainder of the cold and lonely trek. She had exhausted nearly every last meaningless avenue of consideration by the time she sloshed into the smoky, dark interior of the Bydell tavern. The sign over the door labeled this place The Lizard's Goblet, a name she wished she'd had to toss about in her mind on the trip. The reasoning behind such a name could have filled at least a few minutes. The smell of roasting meat and the tantalizing sound of wine being poured set her mind firmly on her empty stomach.

  The tables of the noisy room were all at least partially filled. As she scanned the establishment for a place to sit, she could feel eyes staring back. Myranda's eyes passed the faces of at least a dozen men far too young and healthy to be anywhere but the front line. They each had found some way, likely underhanded, to avoid their obligation to serve. Now they sat, drinking and laughing in this place, criminals for choosing life. Among the rogue's gallery of faces was a particularly suspicious-looking person in the dark far corner, still shrouded in his gray cloak. Nearly every man in the whole of the room wore a similar cloak, as the King had made them available for free as a favor to the downtrodden masses.

  When she finally located a seat she would be comfortable in, she moved quickly to claim it.

  The seat she chose was at the counter where the drinks were served. The odd plate and knife scattered about the bar assured her that she would be allowed to take her meal there as well. It was not the most luxurious of chairs, but with a handful of empty seats between herself and the nearest denizen of the bar to ease her nerves in such a rowdy place, it would do well enough. She sat and awaited the tavern keeper's service.

  Several minutes passed, punctuated by stomach rumblings reminding her of the fact she had yet to be served. A glance down the bar revealed the keeper to be in a very spirited conversation with a gruff customer he shared more than a casual resemblance to. She decided that they must be brothers, and chose not to interrupt their conversation. Surely he would take her order soon. As this thought passed through her mind, a particularly thick cloud of pipe smoke wafted past her face. It was all she could do to keep from gagging. She turned a watering eye to the source of the offending fumes.

  Behind her, an old man with a patch over his right eye let out a long, raking sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. The outburst lasted for a disturbingly long time, shaking his body as it progressed. The long, thin pipe he gnawed on was lodged securely between two of the only teeth left in his mouth. The half-rotten things had been used to clutch the stalk of the pipe so often they had parted to make room for it. She winced as a second, far more powerful outburst spread his lips far enough to confirm the solitary standing of the pipe-holding teeth. Another man sat at the table with him, staring intently at her. He looked as though he had not slept in days. On his shoulder was a scraggly bird of some kind. He whispered to it dementedly, prompting another long, raking laugh from his companion.

  Sneaking another scan of the patrons of the tavern, she realized that most of the other men were staring at her as well, a fact that made her more than a bit uncomfortable. Myranda turned back to the bar. A trio of flies were enjoying the remains of the meal left by the seat's previous occupant. It was seldom warm enough outside for flies to survive, so it was more than likely that these creatures had lived for generations due to the lackluster housekeeping skills of the Lizard's Goblet's staff.

  The flies drifted lazily off to their next meal when a particularly tipsy couple bumped into the bar on their way to the stairs that were at Myranda's right side. The collision nearly knocked her from her seat, but the couple merely stumbled up the stairs without so much as an acknowledgment of their rudeness. There were half a dozen similar bumps and jostles before the innkeeper reluctantly headed in her direction.

  "Make it fast, missy, I am in the middle of something," said the less-than-hosp
itable man.

  "What have you got over the fire?" she asked.

  He sighed heavily as he turned to the kitchen.

  "Goat," was his rather unappetizing description of the meal when he turned back.

  "I will have some of that and some wine," she said.

  "No wine," he said.

  "Why not?" Myranda asked.

  "Haven't had a drop in weeks. Very expensive stuff, you know," he said.

  Myranda turned to a nearby table where a man was pouring himself a tall glass of the very beverage she sought.

  "Are you certain?" she asked.

  "Wine is very expensive," he repeated. "People who cannot afford wine usually order ale."

  Now it was clear. The wine was reserved for the better-off of his customers. He did not think she could afford any. Judging by how this man did business, the price was surely prohibitive.

  "Ale will be fine," she said.

  He pulled a heavy tankard out from underneath the bar and held it below the tap of one of the numerous kegs that lined the wall between himself and the kitchen. He dropped it down in front of her, sloshing a good deal of it onto the sticky surface of the bar. Myranda wiped the rim and sampled the beverage as she watched the keeper shuffle into the kitchen in no particular hurry. His back was to the girl when the intensely bitter flavor of the ale struck her, sparing him the rather contorted face it brought about.

  In truth, it was not particularly a bad brew, as ales went, but she not been fond of the best of them, and this was not nearly as good as that. She briefly entertained the notion of skipping the drink and simply awaiting the meal, but the barrel clearly indicated that this was a home brew, and the owners of taverns tended to take great pride in their creations. It was best not to turn her nose up at it. For the sake of harmony, she took another swallow. At any rate, it was a darn sight better than the leathery rain water she had been living off of from her flask day in and day out, and she did not look forward to the flavor of the contents of the soldier's flask either.

  The plate of food was set before her: a slice of rather overcooked goat meat accompanied by a mound of boiled cabbage. A knife clattered to rest beside her plate. She carved a piece of the charred meat, speared it with the knife tip, and tasted it. The morsel required more than its share of chewing to render it fit to swallow. She followed the meat with a mouthful of the typically bland cabbage. Cabbage seemed to be the only vegetable that existed these days, and the flavor was always the same. Absent.

  Myranda's jaw ached by the time she had done away with the shoe leather of a main course. It was barely the equal of the disturbingly old provisions that were even now growing older in her pack, but it was thankfully enough to satisfy her appetite. When she pushed the pitted metal plate aside, she was greeted quite swiftly by the innkeeper.

  "Will that be all?" he asked insincerely, more interested in her money than her satisfaction.

  "Oh, yes. Thank you," she said.

  "Five coppers for the food, two for the ale," he said, holding out his hand.

  Seven copper coins. That was a bit more than she'd expected. If she recalled correctly, there had been twenty or so coppers in the soldier's bag. Her first thought as Myranda reached for the bag was whether she would have enough for a room that night. That worry was pushed aside by the chilling realization that the bag of coins was not hanging from her belt, where she had left it. She patted desperately about, hoping to hear the jingle of coins somewhere, but the only sound she heard was the impatient drumming of the fingers of the man waiting to be paid. Anxiety burned at the back of her mind as she rustled first one side then the other of her tattered cloak, shaking any pockets she had on her person. She knew she'd had it when she had come in. There had been the distinct clink of coins when she sat down. Her mind raced. Where could they be? As her panic grew, the bartender's patience wore thin.

  "Today, Missy. The other customers want service," he said sternly.

  "I--I just--" she stuttered, pulling her pack to her lap to search it.

  When she pulled the bag in front of her, the sudden shift knocked the heavy bundled sword free. It clanged to the ground. Quickly she bent to retrieve it. She plucked it awkwardly from the floor and sat up, finding she had been joined. It was the tall, cloaked figure she had noticed in the corner earlier. The hood was pulled forward, and in the dim light of the tavern his face was wholly hidden. He stood at least a full head taller than she, but the coarse cloak hid his build. He pushed the fold of the cloak aside to extend a lean, leather-gloved and gray-sleeved arm. As was nearly the requirement in the biting cold of the north, not an inch of skin was uncovered. The stranger opened his hand and a silver coin fell to the bar.

  "The young lady's meal is my treat," spoke the stranger in a clear, confident voice. "She and I are old friends. I do hope you will be staying until morning, there is so much to catch up on."

  "Oh, yes, well . . . I had planned to if I could afford it," she said.

  A second coin fell to the bar.

  "Your finest room, good sir," he said.

  The keeper pulled a ring of keys from his stained apron. Carefully, he selected the least worn of the keys, placing it on the table and sweeping up the coins. The stranger stopped him.

  "Not so swiftly, kind keeper. I think a bottle of wine would make a fine companion on a night such as this," the stranger added.

  "I am sorry to say that I have none," the innkeeper said, the silver apparently earning this newcomer the polite treatment.

  A third coin clattered to the table.

  "Do be sure, I am quite thirsty," he said.

  "Wish I could oblige, but you see . . ."

  A fourth coin dropped.

  "Perhaps a glance in the back would not hurt," the innkeeper said.

  He walked through the smoky doorway and returned immediately with a bottle.

  "As luck would have it, I have a single bottle left from last season. Drink it in good health," the innkeeper said with a wide smile as the equivalent of a large pile of copper coins was swept into his apron.

  "Thank you, and thank you very much. Good . . . to see you . . . again. I will just get up to my room now," Myranda said as she hurriedly gathered her things, as well as the key and the bottle.

  Bouts of luck like these were rare, and tended to turn sour quickly. She wanted to make sure she made it to the room before this one gave out. The warped stairs groaned as she rushed up them to a very poorly-lit hallway at the top. The left wall was lined with windows hung with heavy drapes drawn against the cold. A few of the last amber rays of the sunset found their way between the drapes to cast weak light on a row of thin, flimsy doors. They totaled seven, the last adorned with a fancier, arched top. She approached it, squinting to make out the number of the door and match it to her key. After pulling the drapes aside to shed light on the door, she tried her key.

  Though the key clearly matched the lock, it refused to turn. She turned the worn piece of metal every which way, but in the frustratingly dark hall she could not see what the problem was. She glanced at a candle holder on the wall and grumbled. Its candle had burned beyond the point of usefulness long ago without being replaced. Eventually she managed to force the key into the appropriate position, turning it and gaining entrance to the room.

  She closed the door behind her, mercifully finding it easier to lock than to unlock. It was a modest room, shrouded in near-complete darkness, but it may as well have been a palace. Sleeping in a half-collapsed tent next to a smoldering fire in the middle of a tundra had a way of improving one's appreciation of the lesser luxuries, such as walls that were thicker than her clothes. Without even lighting a lamp, she dropped her pack on one of the two chairs set at a small table on one side of the room.

  She dropped herself onto the second chair and released a sigh of satisfaction. With effort, she pulled her left foot to her right knee and undid the stiff laces of her boot. Slowly, she slid the boot from her aching foot for the first time in days and flexed her toes. T
he second foot had only just received the same treatment when she heard a knock at the door that startled her.

  "Who is there?" she asked, getting back to her feet.

  After the all-too-brief rest they had received, the sore extremities were reluctant to go back to work. She hobbled painfully as she stowed her things, particularly the sword, safely behind the bed.

  "Your friend from downstairs," answered a familiar voice.

  Myranda took two steps toward the door, but stopped. She wanted very much to thank him for all of his help. Unfortunately, it was more than likely that he had come with a particular form the gratitude should take in mind. In times like these, kindness was a rarity, but charity was nonexistent.

  "I . . . I am a bit tired just now," she said.

  "Tired? Well, I suppose we shall talk tomorrow then. Enjoy your rest," he said--disappointment in his voice, but no anger.

  Myranda placed her ear to the door to hear the light retreat of footsteps, followed by the scratch of a key in a similarly misshapen keyhole. His response was not what she had expected. There was not a hint of resentment or malice in his voice after he had been denied entrance to a room for which he had paid. He did not even try to convince her otherwise. It was contrary to every lesson she had learned in her years alone and every piece of advice she had ever received, but Myranda decided that she would let the man in. She would not allow the bitterness and cynicism that had infuriated her so in the past guide her own decisions.

  She limped to the door and turned the key, which was still in the lock. The door creaked open and she stuck her head out to see his darkened form still struggling with the temperamental lock. He turned his hooded head in her direction.

  "I am very sorry; you are welcome to come inside," she said.

  "Nonsense, I would not dare deprive you of a good night of sleep," he said.

  "I insist," she said.

  "Well, if I must," he said lightly.

  When she had allowed the cloaked stranger into the room, she shut the door, but left it unlocked. Just in case his intentions were less than pure, she wanted to be sure that she could usher him out quickly.