by J. V. Jones
The road was tastefully thread with trees and bushes, not a piece of rotting vegetation in sight; even the air smelled fragrant. Tawl had just delivered the first of the letters from Larn. He was anxious to deliver the second one.
"The archbishop's palace is not a stone's throw away," said Nabber. Tawl had found the young street urchin to be a wealth of information regarding Rorn. Their journey to Mulberry Street
had been marked by Nabber waving hellos at every dodgy-looking character they'd passed. "Now, if you think that place you delivered the letter was fancy, you should set your eyes on the palace. I could take you there next, if you like."
"Another time. Lead me on to Tassock Lane
, Nabber." Tawl didn't know what it was that made him so eager to be free of his debt from Larn. It was as if as long as he held their letters, they had some claim upon him. "How far away is it?"
"Not far, but it's not as nice as this place." Tawl was glad to hear it; he had not liked the feel of Mulberry Street
one little bit. It seemed to him that beneath all the splendor lay something rank and furtive.
Before long the district changed. People walked on the streets, vendors sold their wares, tempting passersby to purchase hot chestnuts or toasted onion cakes or rolls stuffed with fragrant lamb. Tawl could see that Nabber was hungry, and he admired the way that the boy ostentatiously ignored the food on display; he was determined to show Tawl that he would complete his part of the bargain before expecting the payment.
The two walked a little further, and then Nabber slipped down a little side street. "Tassock Lane
," pronounced the boy. It was a dark street, the buildings blocking out what little light was left of the day. It was home to many traders: boot repair, sign painting, saddlers, none of whom appeared to be doing much business.
Tawl bid the boy wait and walked down the lane alone. The priest had told him to deliver the letter to a man who lived above a small bake shop. He was beginning to think the priest was mistaken. He had walked nearly the full distance of the street and had found no such place. He could see a dead end looming ahead, but as he drew nearer he saw that the last building was indeed a bakery. Tawl walked into the small shop; what few items it had on offer looked neither fresh nor appetizing.
The tired-looking woman behind the counter was openly hostile. "What d'you want?" she demanded. Tawl thought that it was rather an odd way for a shopkeeper to greet her customers.
"I have a letter for the man who lives upstairs."
"Oh, have you indeed? And who might this letter be off?"
"I'm afraid, madam, I cannot say." The woman snorted loudly and Tawl decided not to leave the letter with her. "If you please, I would be grateful if you could direct me upstairs." The woman snorted again, but stood up.
"Follow me." She led him through a doorway and up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a brief passageway with three doors leading from it. "You'll be wanting the second door," said the woman.
"How can you be sure who I want? I have not told you his name."
"You'll be wanting the second door," she repeated. "All people coming here delivering letters want the second door." She watched as Tawl knocked on the door.
A slight, wiry man answered. Taw] saw confusion and something more in the man's eyes. He spoke the name he had been given by the priest and the man nodded, shaking slightly.
"I have a letter for you." Tawl pulled it from his belt. Understanding dawned in the man's eyes. He grabbed at the letter and shut the door in Tawl's face. Tawl looked around for the woman, but she had withdrawn. He made his way down the stairs and out of the shop, his mind trying to grasp what expression he had seen flit across the man's features when he first set eyes upon him.
"I thought you'd skipped out on me," said Nabber as Tawl walked up to him. "You've been a fine time. A man could starve to death with waiting." Tawl smiled, knowing this was the boy's way of reminding him about his part of the bargain.
"Fish pie and eel ends it is, then." They both laughed heartily. Tawl was relieved to be free of his obligation to Larn.
Bringe drew his blade once more over the whetstone. The action produced a scraping noise which he found pleasing. He ran his thumb across the huge ax blade. Swords and knives were for weaklings. The ax was the weapon of a real man. No simpering lord had the balls to yield an ax. Bringe rolled his phlegm and spat in disgust. He dipped his rag into the pot of congealing pig fat and proceeded to work it into the blade; it would need to be well greased tonight. He scooped out a handful of the soft, yellow lard and wrapped it in the rag in case he had want of it later.
There was little need for him to be quiet as he left his house. His wife was drunk, and that, combined with a sound beating, had rendered her unconscious. As he passed the inert form of his spouse lying on the dirt floor, he aimed a passing kick at her chest. She groaned faintly in acknowledgment.
It was a fine night, thought Bringe as he walked down the hill balancing the weight of the massive ax on his shoulder. A crescent moon glowed weakly in the cold sky, providing just the right amount of light he needed. A full moon would have been too bright; sharp eyes could see on a full moon. His step was light and he hummed a tune to himself. A fine tune, with words that spoke of the delights of a certain young maiden. Bringe always thought of Gerty when he heard it. It was true that she had neither the golden hair nor perfect skin of the girl in the song, but she was warm and willing and he required no more in a woman. It would not be long before she would be his. With his wife out of the way and money in his pocket, he would take Gerty for his own.
After a short while he reached his destination: a secluded area of apple orchards. The portion of land lay in a gentle valley with the ground rising around it. Bringe knew the nearest farmhouse was way over the rise. He would be observed by no one. He was not a counting man, but he figured there were at least five score of trees in the valley. It would be hard work.
He rolled up his sleeves, the curve of his muscles catching the moonlight. He approached the tree nearest to him, a sturdy, low specimen with a thick trunk. Probably more than forty years growth, he reckoned. Bringe swung the huge ax above his head and brought it down with all the force in his body. The blade hacked viciously into the tree trunk, its cruel edge biting deep within the tree. Bringe swung again, bending his back low and setting the ax at a different angle. Two more blows and a large wedge of trunk fell from the tree, leaving it mutilated. The tender inner wood was now badly exposed. There would be rain and then frost in the coming days. The rain would permeate the trunk and the frost would cause the moisture to freeze and swell, damaging the integrity of the tree. Even if the tree did not wither and rot, it would be some years before it could once again bear a decent quantity of apples.
Bringe moved on to the next tree. He reckoned it would take him the greater part of the night to hack all the trees in the valley, and he had no time to waste.
Chapter Seventeen
Tawl awoke with a start. He was aware of someone moving around the room, and as a reflex he went for his knife; it wasn't there.
"This what you're looking for?" The boy held it out for Tawl to take.
"By Bore! How did you get in here?" Tawl was annoyed at being caught off guard--and by a mere boy no less. "Easy as can be," said Nabber. "After that excellent meal last night, when I took my leave of you, I got to thinking that I had no shelter for the evening, and I thought that you wouldn't be opposed to the idea of sharing your room. So I made my way up here. You were flat out, so I just made myself comfy and went out like a light."
"The door was locked."
"You're a bit green, ain't you?"
Tawl was at a loss for words. The boy was right; he had been foolish to trust a locked door. He had, however, always thought of himself as a light sleeper, yet the boy had not only broken into his room but also managed to steal his knife. "What time is it?" he asked testily.
"Dawn's just about to rise. Time for breakfast, I'd say."
&
nbsp; "Buying you breakfast was not part of the bargain."
"Well, I'll buy you some, then." The boy pulled a gold coin from his tunic and grinned. Tawl checked in his belt only to have his suspicions confirmed.
"That's mine, boy."
"Has it got your name on?" The boy scrutinized the coin. "I don't believe it has." Tawl whipped across the room and over to the boy, caught his arm and twisted it.
"Give it to me this instant, you little robber." The boy dropped the coin and it rolled onto the wooden floor. Tawl released the boy and picked up the coin. When he looked up, the boy was making a great show of rubbing his arm. "You can stop pretending I hurt you; all I did was squeeze you a little bit. You wouldn't want me to think you were a crybaby."
"Didn't hurt one bit," said Nabber with exaggerated dignity. "I was just rubbing it to improve the circulation." Tawl ignored the boy and made his way around the room. Gathering together his things, he checked in his bag to make sure the boy had not stolen anything else. Once satisfied that everything was in his possession, he made his way toward the door.
"Hey, wait a minute," said the boy, chasing after him. "Leave me be, boy. I have much to do this morning and I have no need for company." Tawl descended the stairs of the small inn and walked into the dining area. A middle-aged woman approached him.
"What can I be bringing you, sir?" The woman smiled invitingly, adjusting the ruffle around her bosom. He had no time for a dalliance this morning. He was anxious to be on his way. Now that he'd paid for the seeing at Larn, it was time to act upon it. He needed to head for the Four Kingdoms and find the boy.
"I'll take some mulled holk and a plate of bacon and mushrooms." Tawl knew the cost would be high, but he would leave the city this day and this could be his last chance for a proper meal for some time.
"And for your son?" Tawl looked around to see Nabber standing behind him. The woman waited expectantly.
He relinquished. "The same for the boy. Half portion." The woman scuttled off. Tawl spoke to Nabber, "Sit down, boy, and enjoy your breakfast. It will be your last meal that I pay for."
Nabber sat down and began to tear at the warm bread the woman had brought. "While you were asleep, my friend," he said, "I took the liberty of casting my eyes upon your circles. Nothing personal, mind, just testing your credentials. Anyway, I couldn't make out what the scar in the middle was---sort of runs right through 'em."
Tawl took a deep draught of ale. "It's none of your business, boy." Nabber opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. They ate the rest of their meal in silence.
By the time the Nabber was mopping up the last traces of bacon fat, Tawl was beginning to feel he'd spoken too harshly. To make up for his bluntness, he offered the boy a chance to show off his knowledge of Rorn. "Tell me, Nabber, how much would an old nag set me back in this city?"
"Two gold pieces," said the boy in between mouthfuls of bread. Rorn was an expensive place.
"What could I get for... " Tawl made a quick calculation, "..... ten silvers?"
"A sick mule."
Tawl could not help but smile. A mule was no use to him; he could move quicker on foot. He was beginning to wish he'd kept back more than one gold coin from Megan.
The Four Kingdoms was a great distance away; it could take him over two months to get there on foot. Not to mention the mountains: the Great Divide, as they were called, ran the length of the Known Lands. Tawl realized for the first time that he would be forced to cross them in deep winter. He would need warmer clothes and supplies. He decided he would wait until he'd left Rorn to purchase them, not only because they would be cheaper elsewhere, but also because the climate in Rorn was warm and he would be forced to carry any clothing he did not wear. If he was to walk, then he must keep his belongings to a minimum.
Tawl briefly pondered the idea of asking the Old Man for more money; he was sure it would be freely given. He was proud, though, and liked little the idea of asking any man for help. He would have to rely on his own resources. He was not too worried; there were always ways for a man with a strong arm to earn some money. Still, he would have to be careful with what money was left once he had paid for his food and bed.
Tawl finished his meal and paid his bill. The woman bit on the coin to test its worth, then handed him twelve silvers in return-less than he had expected. "Where can I buy some dried goods and a water flask?" he asked Nabber. "And I need to find my way to the north gate."
"I'll show you, if you like."
"No, Nabber." Tawl was anxious to be free of the boy. "I'd rather you just tell me where to go." The boy nodded and described a place nearby.
Tawl clasped Nabber's arm in the knightly fashion and bid him farewell. The boy gave him an unreadable look and wished him "profit on the journey," an unusual saying, and one Tawl suspected was unique to money-hungry Rorn. He watched as the boy slipped down an alleyway. Tawl thought he detected a certain reluctance to his step, but paid it little heed. Nabber would soon be off finding more lucrative possibilities.
Quickly finding the place the boy had described, he made his purchases, and was pleased to see that they were not too expensive. He checked the position of the sun in the sky. It was time to be on his way.
It was a bright, gusty morning and the odors of salt and filth mixed on the breeze--it was a smell that summed up the city in one sharp whiff. Tawl approached the towering north gate of Rorn. He would not be sorry to leave. Too much had happened here: imprisonment, torture, the loss of a friend in Megan, and the comprehension of just how low the knights' reputation had fallen.
Even now, though, he had things to be thankful for: a chance meeting with a fortune-teller had led him to Larn. And Larn, in turn, pointed his way west.
Was that always the way things happened, he wondered, by chance? Fate he wasn't sure of, but chance seemed a familiar tune. Its arbitrary strains had accompanied him more than once in his life. It was playing brazenly the day he met Tyren: what were the chances of a man, whose sole objective at the time was to find new blood for the knights, being present the afternoon he'd been taunted into a fight by the village bullies?
Dragonflies courted in the shade. The breeze was warm on his skin, too warm to dry the sweat. His legs felt weaknot from the fight, but from the shock of learning that the man who stood before him came from Valdis.
Tyren looked at the leg of mutton. "Come back to the village with me and I'll buy you another-that one's too dirty for roasting."
Tawl was still out of breath. Pride prevented him from accepting the man's offer. He shook his head. "No, this will do. Sara can wipe it down."
"Who is Sara?" asked Tyren. "My sister."
"I'm sure she won't mind waiting on the joint a little while longer. Come join me for a drink, and let me tell you about Valdis."
Tawl took a deep breath; he was still shaken from the fight. "Sir, I don't want to waste your time. I can't go to Valdis with you." There! he'd done it: put an end to the matter. What alternative did he have? He couldn't run off and leave his sisters.
Tyren seemed amused. "You mean to tell me, boy, that you'd turn your back on the chance of free training at Valdis?"
Free. Tawl could hardly believe it. The cleric had told him training cost a small fortune. It made his refusal even more difficult. "Sir, I have other obligations."
"What obligations? Are you an apprenticed baker, or a tied fieldhand?" Tyren's voice mocked him. "What possible obligations could you have to prevent you returning with me to Valdis?"
Blood dripped down Tawl's chin-one of the boys had landed a decent blow. It would be so easy to go with Tyren and never return home. But he couldn't do it: his sense of what was right prevented him. "I have two sisters and a baby to care for. My mother died three years back and they depend on me to live."
"Ah." Tyren rubbed his short, slick beard. "What about your father? Is he dead, too?"
"No. We don't see him very often. He spends his days drinking in Lanholt."
"So you do the honora
ble thing. It's a shame you're not free. We could do with more of your kind in the knights." Tyren smiled, showing his teeth. "Not to mention the fact that you fight like a demon." He shrugged. "So be it. Perhaps when your sisters are older. . ."
"Sara is twelve, the baby is three."
"Hmm. Well, give thought to my offer, and if you change your mind I'll be staying at the Bulrush in Greyving for a week." He bowed with grace, his dark cloak brushing the dust, and then began to walk back to the village.
Tawl raised his arm to halt him, but never said the words. The sight of the figure retreating into the distance was more than Tawl could bear. He turned away and began the journey home-down along the riverbank, across the drying mire. He grew bitter with every step. He hated his sisters. He hated his mother. He hated his father. The leg of mutton became a symbol of his duty, and raising it over his head, he threw it from him with all his strength. The ribbons he crushed beneath his feet.
His sisters were at the window, watching for his return. Disappointment at seeing he was empty-handed was quickly replaced with concern over his injuries. "You've been beaten," said Sara, dampening a cloth for the blood.
"No, not beaten," he said. "I put on a fair show."
"You won?" asked Anna, her voice sharp with excitement.
"It doesn't matter who won. Go and get me some ointment from the shelf." Sara turned to Tawl. "They called you names, didn't they?"
Her sympathy annoyed him. "So what if they did? I'm a grown man. I can fight if I choose."
"What happened to the meat? Did it get lost in the fight?"
"Yes," he lied.
"It doesn't matter, Tawl." Sara kissed him on the cheek.
"As long as you're all right, fish will be fine for Summer Festival."
Slowly, through their gentle, good humor, they brought him round. He didn't mention his meeting with Tyren, preferring to be alone with his loss. Three nights he lay awake, tossing and turning in his bed, his imagination tormenting him with visions of what could have been. He knew it was unfair to blame his sisters, and he made an effort not to be short tempered with them. It was easy. Sara and Anna were so pleased he was unharmed by the fight-and he suspected a little proud of his performance-that they spent the next few days spoiling him: kissing and hugging and making his favorite foods.
