Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “Anything look good to you?”
Oh, right. Food. He looked to the right and left of the road, spied a roasted chicken stand, and pointed his chin at it. “There.”
“Oh, chicken? Sounds good.” Smiling, she cut between two carts and dragged him straight there.
The cart wasn’t much, just something that could feed four people at most, but the smell coming from it was a good one. He took the stool next to hers tentatively, aware of the sidelong glances of the people around them. But she didn’t seem to either see or care what other people thought. She smiled up at the cook and said, “One chicken for me, flat bread if you have it, and…oh, is that apple cider I see?”
“Yes, miss,” the burly cook responded with a weather eye on Erik.
“Good, I’ll have a tankard of that. Wolfinsky, order what you want.”
Not sure how much generosity he could impinge on, he said, “What my guildmaster ordered.”
With an exasperated sigh, she turned to face him. “Wolfinsky. It’s Siobhan to you, not Guildmaster. And there is no way under the heavens that a man your size can eat what I do and be satisfied with it. Beirly eats twice as much as I do and he’s shorter than me! Goodman, give him three times the amount you serve me.”
Siobhan? She wanted him to call her by name? He drew back in confusion. What did this woman really want from him?
Tapping a finger on the wooden surface, she called his attention back to her. “I hail from Widstoe, which is on the eastern edge of Robarge. And among my people, we eat together to form friendships. So. Won’t you eat with me?”
“You want…” he had to take a breath before he could force the full sentence out, “You want to be friends with me.”
“Right.” She said this easily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“A former dark guild mercenary and slave. For a friend.”
“Right,” she agreed again. Her eyes tilted up in a silent smile. “It’s not a bad deal for you. Being my friend means being part of my guild, so you can cross over the Grey Bridges, and can make it back home again.”
While that was true—a dark guildsman couldn’t travel across the Grey Bridges, it wasn’t allowed—that wasn’t the point at all. “Aren’t you worried that you might be getting the raw end of this deal?”
“The fact that you are worried about me says I made the right choice.” She waggled her eyebrows at him. “A truly bad man wouldn’t be. He’d have already taken off and run for freedom.”
Oh. True, even though she’d held on to him, if he was truly determined to get away from her, he could have managed it easily. So, she felt she knew everything she needed to know because of how he’d acted in the past fifteen minutes? Oddly enough, it made sense. She seemed whimsical, as if she was simply doing what she wanted to do, but there was method to her madness after all.
The food was set in front of them with a clatter of plates, and the issue of friendship was abruptly shelved as he was presented with real food. Like a voracious wolf, he devoured all three chickens, the four pieces of flatbread and two tankards of cider without pausing for breath.
Siobhan’s hand came up and she patted him on the shoulder. “Slow down, man, slow down. Eat too fast, and your stomach will rebel.”
She was right. He forced himself to stop and breathe.
“Now. Tell me, how did you lose the hand and how long ago was that?”
Looking into those innocent eyes, he found he couldn’t tell her the full gory story and instead shortened it to the basics. “In a fight, three months ago.”
“So it’s healed?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Concerned, she put her tankard down. “What, it’s still not healed?”
“Infection set in at first,” he explained hesitantly. He didn’t want her to think that she’d have to spend even more money on him. Medicines were expensive. “But that’s cleared up now. I just kept bumping it against things, and it kept re-opening. It’s healing now, though.”
Not taking his word for it, she drew his hand to her, and unwrapped it. He studied her expression as the filthy wrapping fell free. Her eyes went wide with horror, mouth opening.
“You call that healing?!” she demanded incredulously. “Look at it! So red and puffy, and…no. No, this won’t do. Goodman, where’s a decent surgeon or apothecary?”
The goodman leaned over the side of the cart to take a look. He let out a low whistle before saying, “That’s nasty looking. Vidal is who you want. Down this street, take a right at the white tent, and two streets over. His clinic is on the corner, has a red door on it. He’s a bit pricey, but his medicine works the best.”
Siobhan nodded understanding. “He needs that right now. How much do I owe you?”
“Four coppers.”
Erik found himself floundering, not sure how to reassure her that if he just had time to clean it properly and wrap it, the arm would heal. That expression on her face reminded him eerily of his mother when she had a mad-on, and he didn’t want to open his mouth and cross her. Besides, she hadn’t flinched at the idea of buying medicine for him. He had not yet seen the end of her generosity.
Siobhan paid the man, slipped off the stool, and once again towed Erik by the hand after her. This time, he kept his injured hand close to his chest, more leery of it being banged against something with the bandage off. He found the hand, so dainty and slim in his own, comforting and strange in equal measure. It was with great care that he returned the grip without crushing her fingers.
They followed the goodman’s directions, weaving their way in and out of people, small herds of animals, and carts, and found the clinic without trouble. Giving a single knock on the door, Siobhan pushed the red door aside and stepped in. “Hello!”
“Hello!” a male voice returned from just out of sight.
Erik blinked as he came through, eyes adjusting to the dimmer interior. The place smelled odd, probably because of all the herbs tacked to the ceiling, hanging out to dry. But it was clean and tidy. Two narrow beds were side by side against the far wall, there was a table to his immediate left filled with herbs, jars, and a stone pedestal. From a back door, a man appeared, looking clean cut and presentable, if older. He had to be at least in his fifties with that grey streaked hair. A professional smile creased his face as he greeted, “I’m Vidal. What can I help you with?”
“I’m Siobhan Maley,” she returned, then gestured to Erik. “This is my friend, Erik Wolfinsky. As you can see, his arm is in a bad way. We’re here to get treatment for it.”
The apothecary’s eyes went between them, probably noting the difference in how they were dressed and their overall condition, but asked no questions. He came to Erik, gesturing to let him see the arm. Lowering it, Erik let the man take a good look.
“Hmmm,” Vidal hummed in disapproval. “This is bad, bad indeed. Infection is setting in. If we don’t give it a strong treatment, it’ll lead to rot. How long has it been like this?”
“Three months,” Erik answered quietly.
“Good heavens, man, your body is strong to fight it off this long. Well, take a seat. I’ll make a poultice for this, and wrap it good for you.” As he went to the table, he asked, “Are you citizens here?”
“No, from Goldschmidt,” Siobhan denied. “We’re passing through.”
“Then I’ll make up some medicine to go. Make sure you clean the arm, apply the medicine, and change those bandages twice a day. Once in the morning, once before retiring. It’s vital to keep it clean. Oh, and I’ll give you something to drink before you go.” Vidal’s tone became cheerful, in an evil way. “It’ll taste awful, but work wonders.”
Erik snorted. Medicine always tasted awful.
Vidal was quick and efficient. The poultice was applied, the arm wrapped neatly in white linen, and the medicine (otherwise known as toxic green sludge) was given to him within minutes. As the apothecary wrapped up a jar of the poultice to go, Siobha
n dug out the coins to pay him with.
Only to himself would Erik admit that the arm already felt better. It no longer ached and itched. Vidal knew his trade well.
They gave cordial goodbyes and exited the clinic. Siobhan stopped in the doorway and looked about her. “Well, I think we’ve done everything we need to. Wolfinsky, how about we return to the inn and give you a proper haircut? And a shave? I don’t mind if you have a beard or not—you’ve seen Beirly’s—but yours is so matted that I think you best start from scratch.”
“I don’t actually prefer beards,” he told her honestly.
“Then let’s get rid of it.” With a wink, she took his hand again and started off. “Inn’s this way.”
Chapter Two
Siobhan didn’t cut his hair or beard herself, but had someone else at the inn do it. She told him without guile that she was terrible at cutting hair, and it’d be best for him if someone else do it. But she stayed nearby as his hair was cut, and explained a few things to him.
Deepwoods was an escorting guild that had barely been in business for the past few months. They were still building up a client list and getting the word out, but they were doing well for themselves. Mostly because one of the members, a man called Grae, was a Pathmaker. In fact, it was for his sake that the guild had been formed. She, Grae, and Beirly were apparently childhood friends, all from Widstoe. They had moved to Goldschmidt and started a guild there because they’d heard it would be the best place to start. So far, it seemed to be true, as they were making a decent living at it.
This seemed a humble description to Erik, as he had just seen this woman spend an incredible amount of money on him in just two hours. If she could afford to do that, then she was doing better than ‘decent.’
Beirly came in just after the haircut was finished, two wrapped bundles in his arms. He took in the sight of Erik and gave a grudging nod of approval. “You look better. Don’t think we were properly introduced before. Name’s Beirly Kierkegaard.”
Erik stood and offered a hand, even though it was his left one. “Erik Wolfinsky.”
Pleased by this show of manners, Beirly set everything aside on a table and accepted the handshake, clasping it firmly. “Well, now, Wolfinsky. Seems you have quite a story to tell. But we’ll wait for Grae to show up so you don’t have to repeat yourself. For now, why don’t you follow me up to my room and try on these clothes, see what fits.”
Nodding acceptance, he scooped up one bundle with his good hand and followed the man up the stairs.
The inn was a nice one, tidy if not perfectly clean, and the rooms a fair size. There were two beds in the room, large enough even for him, with a washstand in a corner and a window that looked out over a busy street. Erik put the bundle down on one bed and opened it clumsily with his hand, the twining giving him some trouble.
Without a word, Beirly came over and yanked the knot free, then stepped back again so he could unwrap it and sort through the clothes. The silent help, without mockery, was a kindness that he appreciated.
The clothes were obviously used but all of good quality and in fair condition. He counted three shirts—one of which might not fit—two pairs of pants, a vest, several pairs of socks and undergarments, and one pair of boots that looked scuffed but serviceable. Without any real care of coloring or style, he tried on the first thing that came to hand and found the fit decent, if a bit tight in the shoulders and thighs.
“When she gets you back up to weight, we’ll have to special order clothes for you,” Beirly noted aloud, almost idly. “As it is, you’re half-starved and barely fitting into these.”
Truly. But oh, the feel of proper clothes on and a full belly. He felt human again. It was perhaps because of this feeling that he asked what he should not have. “Why…did you let us go off alone?”
Beirly didn’t answer him, just looked back at him steadily.
“I’m a former mercenary, a dark guildsman,” Erik pressed, becoming more indignant as the words tumbled free. “Even with this,” he waved his missing hand in the air, “gone, didn’t you realize how easily I can hurt her? Why by sweet mercy would you be so reckless with her?”
Beirly’s shoulders slumped and he let out a slow breath. “Just once, just once, she’s going to be wrong.”
“What?” he demanded in confusion.
“It hasn’t happened yet, but surely it will at some point.” Beirly shook his head, seeming more amused than anything. “Wolfinsky, I’ll tell you straight. In all the years I’ve known that girl, she’s never been wrong about a man’s character. She sees straight to the heart of people. It’s why Grae and I insisted she be the guildmaster. She looked at you, she saw something I didn’t see, and that was what made her trust you. I knew that look on her face well, and it’s why I didn’t argue. Not much good comes from arguing with her. Stubborn, that one.”
“But she could have been wrong,” he insisted, becoming agitated.
“Oh, true, she could have been. But the way you’re taking me to task about her safety says clear as day she wasn’t. For that matter, the look on your face back there told me she was right.”
Look on his face…what was the man talking about?
“Don’t know what I’m saying, eh?” Beirly chuckled. “Your heart was in your eyes then. Still is, whenever you look at her. And that’s why, Erik Wolfinsky, I knew that she wouldn’t be hurt by you.”
Erik rubbed his hand over his face in despair. Fools. They were all fools. Kind and generous ones, but fools nonetheless. The idea that they would try this again in the future, with some other dark guildsman, made his heart drop into this stomach and writhe.
Beirly nodded toward the door. “Let’s go back down. She’ll want to see you dressed properly.”
He obediently trooped back down the stairs, but his indignation and worry didn’t ease. Erik was not a deep or complicated man. He was good to the people that were good to him, it was simple as that. That beautiful redhead downstairs had saved him from hell itself and shown him kindness and sympathy, but not pity. He wanted to give whatever he could in return for that grace. He might have spent seven years in darkness, but he still remembered what kindness and integrity were. Or at least, he thought he did.
And it seemed to him, that with these reckless habits of hers, she needed his help. Whether she realized it or not.
Erik had to duck to clear the door back into the taproom. In the middle of the room, Siobhan sat at a table with a man he didn’t recognize beside her. Erik’s first impression of the man was ‘frail.’ Thin, in body and face, with high cheeks, brown hair but with tan skin. He dressed well, like a scholar, and his eyes spoke of intelligence. When Erik stopped at the table, those blue eyes went wide with surprise and nervousness. Ah, finally, a normal reaction.
Siobhan either didn’t note this reaction of her companion (unlikely) or didn’t care, as she blithely introduced them. “Grae, this is Erik Wolfinsky. He’ll serve as our translator and guide when we go into Wynngaard next month. Wolfinsky, this is Grae Masson, our Pathmaker.”
So. This was the man responsible for Deepwoods’ creation. Erik saw immediately why he didn’t work alone like most Pathmakers. This was not a man that would be able to handle the world on his own. He wouldn’t do well in confrontations. Putting the thought aside, he ducked his head at the man. “Masson.”
“Wolfinsky,” Grae returned, manner and tone cautious. The look he shot Siobhan was one of incredulity. “So, ah, we are traveling into Wynngaard with him. Then what?”
“Well, then we meet up with his family and return him home.”
That let Grae breathe a little easier. “Ah.”
“Let’s eat an early dinner, shall we?” Siobhan suggested, already turning to wave down one of the serving girls. “I’d rather leave early in the morning and get home soon. We have a lot to do.” She placed an order for food, and lots of it before settling back. “Wolfinsky, you don’t have to go into details, give me a basic history. Where are you from exactly?�
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“Reske.”
Grae shrunk back in his chair at the tone.
“Reske?” Siobhan parroted, expression blank. “Where’s that?”
She really wasn’t that familiar with Wynngaardian geography, was she. “Far western coast, up in the mountains.”
“Hmmm.” Siobhan screwed her mouth up sideways in a gesture of contemplation. “That’s an area where we have no paths. We’ll have to travel the usual way, I suppose. From Brevik to Reske, how far is it?”
“Five days on horseback, more or less.” Why, why wasn’t she asking any of the usual questions? Frustrated, he frowned darkly at her. “Why aren’t you asking me how I came to be a slave?”
“I would love to have the story,” she admitted with open frankness. “But the way you’ve been growling at me makes me think you don’t want to tell it.”
She had that right. As grateful as he was, Erik was not at all sure he trusted this woman enough to tell her his full history. Still, if she were to take him back home, she’d have to know at least the bare bones of it. Grudgingly, he pried his mouth open just enough to give her basic facts.
“I was kidnapped from Reske when I was fourteen. A dark guild bought me as a fighter. I stayed there seven years until I lost the hand. After that, my guild was wiped out by another guild. They took anyone that survived and sold them to a slave merchant.”
Beirly let out a low whistle. “Seven years in a dark guild? That’s a long stretch to survive in a guild like that. You’re either insanely lucky or insanely strong.”
Not seeing any condemnation, he relaxed a hair. “A little of both,” he agreed. “Even the loss of the hand is turning out to be good luck.”
“Yes, it is,” Siobhan confirmed with a wink. “After all, I wouldn’t have met you if you hadn’t lost it.”
Origins: A Deepwoods Book - a Collection of Deepwoods Short Stories (Deepwoods Series 0) Page 4
