“I don’t—”
“Wiggen!” The call from the kitchen was obviously Forbish, and he did not sound pleased.
“After breakfast, Lad,” she said, whirling toward the kitchen.
Lad squatted back down in front of the fire, adding two more lengths of pine and watching the flames lick at the pale wood. He looked into the flames, watched their patterns swirling in the constant upward spiral that was faintly hypnotic. No memories lurked in the flames to torment Lad’s mind; all of his memories were securely locked away, and would not come to the surface unless he needed them.
“This is unprecedented, Grandfather.” Targus’ boots whisked along the flagstones of his master’s courtyard, half a pace behind the Grandfather’s silent steps. Jax followed them both, and Targus could feel the young man’s temper smoldering like a bed of coals. “She is naught but a girl, and a headstrong one at that! You will rue putting her in such a critical position.”
“I will rue?” The Grandfather stopped in the span of a single stride, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Speak not of actions to be regretted when you commit them yourself, Master Targus! You overreach yourself when you deign to tell me what I will do!”
“I spoke out of turn, Grandfather,” Targus said, the muscles of his jaw bunching and relaxing rhythmically. “I am simply concerned that you have put a witless girl in a position that may cause you difficulty in the future. She will serve herself in this, not you.”
A dagger stood before Targus’ left eye before he could blink it, the needle point a finger-breadth from ending his life. He stood perfectly still, knowing better than to try anything as foolish as drawing a weapon. Even if he could have cleared the weapon from its sheath before being pithed, he was bound by more than words when it came to raising a hand against the Grandfather. He clenched his left hand on the obsidian ring that encircled his finger and bound his soul to his master.
“The only reason you still live, Targus, is that you are a very valuable hunter. I need your skills and I need your obedience. The former without the latter is useless to me.” The dagger vanished into the Grandfather’s sleeve in a flick of motion. “Do you understand me, Targus?”
“Perfectly, Grandfather.” Targus held his tongue. He had said all that he thought he must say to make his opinion known. Anything further would unnecessarily endanger his life. “I live to serve you.”
“Good! Start by assigning your apprentice to assist Mya.”
“What?” Jax sputtered. “Grandfather, I’m—”
Targus felt Jax start to move and whirled. The backhand blow met with his apprentice’s jaw with all the force he could deliver, knocking the stupid young man to the ground and probably saving his life. Targus placed his boot carefully on Jax’s chest and glared down at him.
“Who gave you leave to speak, apprentice?”
“No one, Master,” he said, his words slurred through his clenched and bloody teeth.
“Then don’t. Your life is mine to spend, Jax! If I tell you to fall on your sword, you will fall on your sword. If I tell you to assist Mya to the best of your abilities, you will assist Mya. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good! Now get up and see to our things. Stow your gear in the barracks.” He removed his boot from his apprentice’s chest.
“Yes, Master.” Jax rolled easily to his feet, bowed and whirled toward the stables. The two men watched Jax until he disappeared into the low building.
“My apologies for the behavior of my apprentice, Grandfather,” Targus said with a bow. “He is skilled, but short of sight.”
“He will learn to tread carefully, or he will perish,” the Grandfather said with a wave of one hand, as if the matter was of no consequence. “I have something else for you, a task that will require your absence from the city for some days.”
“The wizard?”
“You are astute, Targus.” The Grandfather’s smile was thin and bore perhaps enough warmth to melt a single snowflake, a small snowflake. “Take one of my mages to deal with any spells. You were wise to tell the authorities in Thistledown to hold Corillian’s body; he may have trinkets stashed about his person that will help us in our search for my weapon. If you find anything interesting, return. But if your search of his person is fruitless, proceed to Krakengul Keep and see what you can find out.”
“I will leave at once, Grandfather,” Targus said, hiding his disappointment. This would be his third visit to the dismal little village of Thistledown in less than a fortnight, and he felt that this one would be no more productive than the others.
It was late afternoon before Lad and Wiggen got a break from the relentless list of chores that piled up every day around the Tap and Kettle. Finally, when the milking, haying, baking, mucking, feeding, egging, cleaning, washing, grooming, stoking, hauling, washing, pressing, and cooking were done, the two slipped off to the barn.
“So, what’s this mind trick you mentioned this morning?” Wiggen asked, her tone blatantly skeptical. “Is it some kind of magic?”
“Magic? No.” Lad led her up to the hayloft and they sat in the open haying door, the sun streaming in on them. “It is a discipline of the mind. It is like learning how to read or speak a language.”
“I don’t believe you can change the way you think just by wanting to hard enough.” Wiggen’s voice was almost angry now and the scar that marred her face grew livid. “It’s like saying I could fly if I flap my arms hard enough. It’ll never happen!”
“Let me show you what your mind can do.” Lad’s voice had taken on a quality that she’d not heard before, and her temper seeped away, leaving behind a faint ghost of fear. How well did she really know this strange young man? Would he spell her and steal her thoughts, or was it just a trick?
Lad reached into his tunic and withdrew a stale heel of bread. He brushed a bit of the loft floor clear of hay and crumbled the bread. Then he looked up into the rafters and twittered a whistle, high and shrill. Immediately, a small flock of sparrows fluttered down and began to peck at the crumbs. They scuffed and pecked and pushed one another about, and Wiggen thought them the most adorable things she’d ever seen.
“Which one do you like best?” Lad asked, his voice calm but not a whisper. The birds paid no attention, as if he didn’t exist.
“What?” What does he mean? she thought.
“You like the birds. I’ve seen you watching them when you feed the chickens. Of these here,” he crumbled more bread and let the bits sift through his fingers, bringing the little birds closer, “which would you like to hold in your hand?”
“I don’t know.” This was ridiculous! What did birds have to do with her bad dreams? “That one in the back, I guess. He’s smaller than the others and only gets the littlest bits.”
“Okay, now watch him closely, and concentrate on him.”
“Fine.”
Wiggen stared at the little bird, widening her eyes and studying his every detail. Suddenly, Lad moved and all the birds fluttered away, their wings beating the air in a rush.
“What? Why did you—?”
“And here he is,” Lad said, holding out his gently cupped hands. The tiny sparrow sat there, its head cocking around to look at them from between his thumb and forefinger. Its tiny wings were pressed snugly down to its sides in Lad’s hands, but it was not hurt. It knew it could not fly away, and surely it was scared, but it didn’t struggle, as if it were resigned to its fate.
“How did you do that?” she whispered, awed that anyone could catch a bird in their hand, but at the same time, drawn to the little scared creature. “Don’t hurt it.”
“I won’t hurt it, Wiggen. Now, place your hands over mine in the same position.”
“What?” She stared at him as if he’d told her to put her hands in a fire. “I can’t!” But her hands moved, as if of their own volition. Her palms settled over the backs of his hands, and she was startled to find his skin so much warmer than hers. She let her hands rest there, an
d slowly, he pulled his back. The tiny bird fluttered a bit, but found her hands as unyielding as his had been. In a moment it settled down, watching her with first one eye and then the other.
“Now what?” Her voice quavered and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears.
“Now hold him,” he said simply, his voice different again. She looked to him, expecting a smile to match her own, but there was nothing on his face. Only his voice held any emotion. “Let him trust you, Wiggen.”
“Huh?”
“Let him trust you.”
She looked down at the tiny frightened bird and instantly felt sorry for it, so scared and alone. She wanted to hold it, but at the same time, she didn’t want it to be scared any longer. Slowly, she started to understand what Lad meant. She brought her cupped hands close to herself and whispered to the tiny bird. She could feel its wings pressing against her hand, its gentle struggles against her overwhelming strength. She could feel its fluttering breathing, its hammering heart. She cooed to it gently, trying to put peace and calm in her voice and slowly, after long minutes, the bird began to still. Its breathing slowed and its heart beat at a less frantic pace. It looked at her now with less fear than it had.
“Now,” Lad whispered, “slowly open your hands.”
Without questioning him, she slowly lifted the pressure from the tiny bird’s wings, gently pulling away her constricting hand until it sat there peacefully upon her other. Its wings fluttered once, but it still sat there, staring at her. She watched the bird for what seemed like forever, but was only a few breaths, before Lad’s gentle whisper drew her attention.
“Now, what are you thinking about, Wiggen?”
“Huh?” The question meant nothing to her, it had no bearing upon the beauty she held in her hand.
“Where are the memories that troubled your sleep last night?”
“I, uh, don’t know?”
“Have you forgotten them?”
She thought for a moment of the horrors she’d witnessed, the violations she’d endured and the pain that had been dealt her. The memories lay there in a lump, but they did not compare to the glory of the tiny sparrow in her hand.
“No. They’re still there. I just wasn’t thinking about them.”
Finally, the little bird fluttered off, twittering a shrill cry as it soared up to the rafters to join its flock. She stared up after it, then lowered her eyes to Lad’s, and she began to understand.
“For the time you held the bird, your mind was free from those memories, yes?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing it was true. For that moment, nothing had mattered but the here and now, and the beauty in her hands.
“So, you see? You can free your mind of those thoughts which cloud your peace.”
“But I can’t catch birds,” she said, smiling despite her claim.
“You do not need to.” He passed his hand over hers and she again felt the warmth of it. “Close your eyes.”
She did so, unquestioning now.
“Now, see the bird in your hand.” She felt something tickle her palm and, without conscious thought, resurrected that moment in her mind. She held the bird again and her mind was at peace.
“Good,” he whispered, his voice smooth and calming, “now stay there.”
His hand slipped from hers and her thoughts wavered, but she grasped at the feeling, holding it like she’d held the fluttering life in her hands, gently but firmly. She refused to let go. She felt herself sink into it, the soft warmth of calm. Peace...
“Wiggen.”
“Huh?” Her eyes fluttered open and she was staring at Lad’s face, expressionless but exuding calm.
“Time to go.” He nodded out the haying door toward the inn.
“Already?” She sighed and pushed herself to her feet. “Well, I guess a moment’s peace is better than none.”
“Longer than a moment, Wiggen.” He gestured to the sun, and she noticed that it was approaching evening. “It has been half a glass and more.”
“What?” She looked back at where they’d sat. “But we just...”
“Half a glass ago.” He gestured her to the ladder and she descended. When she reached the bottom, he was standing there waiting for her. For once, his sudden appearance didn’t startle her. “How do you feel?”
“Good.” It was the only word she could think of, unless, “Rested.”
“You have done very well for your first try at meditation, Wiggen.” He walked toward the inn with her, talking as they strolled. “Tonight, before you begin to sleep, think of the bird in your hands. Still your mind. Find the place where you were today and stay there. Your sleep will not be troubled.”
“I—” She stumbled over the words, trying again as they walked around the corner of the inn to the kitchen door. “I don’t know how to thank you, Lad.”
“Then do not.” He opened the door and she stared at him in passing. She would have expected some kind of joke from anyone else, but she knew he was serious. “I will show you more tomorrow.”
She entered the kitchen and he closed the door, heading off to the cow byre to continue his endless chores.
Chapter XII
The owner of the Golden Cockerel backed through the door into the pub’s only private room, balancing the heavy tray as his lips moved in a constant muttering curse. He stopped when one of the hulking thugs that guarded the door waved a foot-long dirk under his nose.
“You best learn to knock, barkeep.”
“And you best learn manners, boy.” The barman moved into the room, ignoring the thug’s grim mien. “I was servin’ yer master’s master in this pub when you wasn’t even a bulge in yer pappy’s drawers.”
“You got a mouth, old man,” the thug growled, taking a step. He stopped in his tracks, however, with one look from Mya.
“Leave off, Donik.” Mya managed a thin smile for the barman, motioning toward the least-cluttered portion of the broad table that she was using as a desk. “You can put it there, Paxal, and thanks.”
“Aye, Miss Mya.” He put the heavy tray down.
There was enough food and blackbrew for her and her two bodyguards here, and the Golden Cockerel didn’t even serve food. He must have gone to the cafe on the corner and bought all this. For the first time in a week, she thought of the cost to her landlord of this impromptu invasion she’d spearheaded into his domain. She’d been just a tenant to the man, taking an occasional drink in the bar before climbing the stairs to her one-room flat, and she’d only ever been called “Mya” or “Girl” by him in those years. Now, all of a sudden, he called her “Miss” and was fetching her food day and night. This was costing him dearly.
“You’re keeping track of the reckoning, I trust,” she said before he turned away, taking up the blackbrew kettle and pouring a cup.
“There’s no reckoning, Miss. It’s been seen to.”
She wondered for a moment just how much Paxal knew, then dismissed the entire matter. If Paxal said it had been taken care of, she could rest assured that it had been. She’d already gone back to her maps and lists of names, sipping the life-giving blackbrew and rubbing her tired eyes, when there was a knock at the door. She looked up with a silent curse at the interruption, but immediately changed her outlook at the sight of Jax and the gaily-clad man with him.
“Master Hensen, of the Moneylender’s Guild,” Jax announced, his tone flat. He’d been utterly stone-faced with her for the two days he’d been here. That he was angry with her was obvious, but Jax was a professional and kept his feelings to himself. That was good, because Mya had more than enough on her hands trying to locate the Grandfather’s weapon.
“Master Hensen,” she said in greeting, standing and waving at a chair and the tray that Paxal had just brought. The man may well have been a master in the Moneylender’s Guild, but he was also a high-ranking boss in the Thieves Guild, and Mya needed his help desperately. “Please sit and have something to eat and a cup of blackbrew.”
“Delighted, Miss Mya
,” he said with a glittering smile. He swept his crimson cloak aside, straightened his green velvet doublet and sat, accepting a cup from her hand.
“Cream?”
“Please.”
“There is sugar or honey as well, here. Please feel free.”
“Thank you.” He put two heaping teaspoons of sugar into his cup and swirled the syrupy brew.
“Master Hensen,” she began, watching him sip daintily, “we are all friends here, so I will speak bluntly.”
“Please do, Miss Mya.” He put the cup down and smiled again, his eyes narrowing with hidden knowledge. “Our two...organizations have always worked closely together.”
“Quite closely,” she agreed. It was true that the Thieves’ and Assassins’ Guilds worked together, but they were often bitter rivals as well, and turf wars between the two had spilled blood in the streets and alleys of Twailin more than once. She had no doubt that any help she got from Hensen would cost her dearly. And she also knew that she could, under no circumstances, allow him to know the value or origin of the Grandfather’s weapon. But people like Hensen had ways of knowing when they were being lied to. She must be careful in her deceptions.
“The plain fact is that I require your aid in a rather delicate situation.” That much was true, at least.
“From the look of it,” he said, pointedly eying the maps and lists littering the table, “you are searching for something, or someone.”
“Your powers of observation are uncontested. As a matter of fact, we seek a young man.” She produced the sketch of Lad; it had been enhanced with colored chalk and fine graphite pencils by a master artist, and the likeness was flawless. “This is the closest rendering of his face that we have.”
“Hmmm, a lovely young man,” Hensen said with a raised eyebrow. “Did he...steal something of yours, perhaps?”
“Nothing of the kind, Master Hensen. He was to have served my Grandfather in some way, the details of which I am not privy to. He has disappeared, but resides somewhere in the city, we feel sure.” She made a shooing motion as he handed back the sketch. “Please, keep it. I have many copies.”
Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) Page 11
