by Jean Winter
The young laborer was picked up by his lapels and dragged to the nearest table where Hundt lay him forcefully on top, bending over the startled offender's face. “Open up, Mr. Waldik,” he growled, pointing a small dagger at Waldik's semi-open lips.
“Are you kidding m—!” The rest of Waldik's sentence dissolved into gargling mush as Hundt wedged the blade between his teeth and gripped the thin jaw to force it more open. The inside of Waldik's mouth was inspected.
All music and activity stopped cold and Lyra got to see what forty people gawking with the same open-mouthed expression looked like. It would have been humorous …
A few moments later, Hundt withdrew the dagger. “You show scarring from healed pock throat, Mr. Waldik, and it seems you passed it on to one o' my women. What part o' 'absolutely no touching the merchandise' do you no' understand?”
Waldik's answer was pitched about an octave higher than normal. “Wait! Just because I had pock throat at one time does no' mean I am the one who gave it to her.”
Hundt was unconvinced. “I have caught the two o' you acting suspiciously already, and I seem to recall being told four nights ago that you were almost an hour late taking your watch post.”
Indecision flashed across Waldik's features as he stared at the mountain of muscle towering over him. Then, his shoulders relaxed. He resumed the same confident air as before, his voice mellowing to a svelte, wheedling persuasiveness. “Look, she came on to me.” He let loose a little laugh. “You understand, right? We are men with needs. How am I supposed to resist a beautiful woman who is hinting so strongly o' her willingness—”
“I do no' care if she threw herself at you stark naked.” By the shirt, Mr. Hundt pulled him to his feet. “You are supposed to have a brain above your belt. I expect you to use it. I thought I made myself very clear when you were hired. Do you remember the penalty for inappropriate conduct with the khari'na?”
Waldik's face turned almost as pale as 'Na G'lint's. “What? I thought you were joking about that!”
The dagger came forward again, hovering with intent under the hammered copper button of Waldik's pant waistband. “Start laughing.”
Suddenly, Hundt jerked and the sound of gunfire reverberated off metal canopy posts. The big man doubled over in pain. Amid screams and bodies throwing themselves to the ground, Lyra lunged for Hundt while Waldik scrambled away, a smoking pistol in his hand.
He turned and aimed the barrel at his superior a second time. “You are no' going to cut off any part o' me, you sick lunatic!”
Waldik squared his shoulders, preparing to pull the trigger, and something shiny whizzed through the air. It embedded itself in the young man's thigh. He screamed, his second shot streaking wildly up into the night sky.
A third shot rang over the terrified huddles of khari'na and Waldik's body dropped dead to the ground. A shocked silence descended. Then someone started crying.
Lyra knelt beside Hundt. She was trembling all over. “How bad is it?”
An irregular circle of blood had spread across his whole right side just under the ribs. Lyra found the handkerchief in her apron pocket and gave it to him.
“I think he just grazed me,” Hundt grunted, the pain obvious by the stiff way he returned his revolver to its shoulder holster. He pressed Lyra's hankie against his wound. “I almost got out o' the way in time.”
His breath hissed out as he carefully stood and Lyra hovered close just in case, but Hundt was fine as he walked to Waldik's body and gingerly bent to pick up the man's pistol from the ground. He also retrieved the object in Waldik's leg. Lyra flinched at the little cracking sound it made when it was wrenched from the femur.
Two men were assigned to carry the body to Mr. Shorn and explain what happened. Then Hundt's eye settled warily on Lyra.
“Shooregood, take over the watch,” he said. Lyra felt a grip like iron cinch around her arm. “Carry on, Mr. Sprill.” Hundt's nod was to the flushed string player, but those two black orbs of his never left her face.
Shooregood jumped to attention. Sprill's fingers obediently went to work. No notice was taken as to whether anyone was still in the mood to dance.
“You are coming with me,” the deep, grating bass grumbled for Lyra's ears alone.
Lyra was half led, half pulled across the camp. They paused at the door of a storage barge where Hundt opened it and conducted her into pitch blackness. His tight grip finally released her and Lyra rubbed at her arm a little. Nervous. Wary. Listening anxiously to the gruff man's movements.
Light flared from a lantern. It illuminated a rectangular space lined with open shelving. Boxes and crates of food, tack, toiletries, and tools filled each level. In the near corner sat a small office area. The lantern was hung on a hook and Hundt sat her down on a stool. His glare was made more ominous by the backlighting that cast harsh shadows across the angles of his face.
“You are bloody lucky no one else noticed it was you who threw this.” He held up a small, star-shaped disk—the object he had taken from Waldik's leg and Lyra regarded her bloodied razor star guiltily.
“I'm sorry! It was an emergency,” she blurted.
“No one is to be carrying weapons in this caravan, except me.”
“So, I guess Waldik didn't get the message!”
Oh, crap. Hundt took an angry step toward her, raising the star blade in taut fingers. Lyra cringed against the wall at her back, but then he turned.
Whizzz-thwack! The blade landed dead center in the middle of a target nailed to the far wall of the barge and Lyra jumped at the sound. The scowl loomed above her a few moments longer. Then he just emitted a low growl and stomped away to the chair behind the desk to—carefully—sit down.
“Sorry,” she whispered once she had coaxed her heart down from her throat. “I was out of line.”
“Aye, you were,” Hundt agreed.
He sighed and began to take off his vest.
Lyra sat up straighter to get a better look at his wound. “Will you let me help you with that … sir? Or maybe you would like me to go fetch Keeper?”
Hundt looked her over a second. “Will this make you squeamish?”
“No.”
“Then come help me see if this really is just a graze.” Hundt started undoing the buttons of his shirt. “I have a first aid kit here in the drawer.” He nodded toward the lower right of the desk.
Lyra went to the indicated drawer and located the metal container. A hint of scorched flesh and blood prickled her nose as she knelt beside him and carefully pulled away one side of his shirt while he lifted his arm for her to see better.
“You're right,” she said. “It looks like the bullet passed through just under the skin. The entrance and exit holes are just an inch apart. You're still bleeding a lot, though.” She took some gauze padding from the kit and placed it over the small holes, applying gentle pressure.
“Then just set that in place for now. I will rinse it later.” He handed her a roll of some medical wrap.
Lyra unrolled the long cotton strip across his back then reached around his rib cage to bring it around. Her fingers almost couldn't touch. And then the thought struck her that she was embracing the man's six pack! Lyra worked faster.
“The knowledge that you have been walking around secretly armed this whole time is no' my main concern,” he told her, his gruff edge softening. “Do you realize that this caravan is probably the safest place for you in all o' Caldreen? You should no' be doing anything to jeopardize your position here with Mae. What do you think Shorn would do if he discovered your part in tonight's events?”
Lyra made another loop of the wrap. “I know,” she mumbled. “Maehan already warned me not to bring attention to myself.” Then she looked up. “So, was I supposed to just stand there and let that guy put a bullet through your heart?”
Hundt didn't answer. His cool gaze went to his throwing target. Lyra stretched the wrap two more times around his middle, cut the extra, and started to tie it off.
“
Were you carrying those on you when you were captured?” he finally said. “I did no' notice any pockets or holsters on you when I brought you here.”
“I keep them in a leather band that I usually wear around my arm.”
Hundt looked down at her. “You do no' strike me as a warrior, 'Na Lyra.”
“Oh, I'm not—not really.” Lyra tossed the extra wrap into the first aid kit and stood. She walked to the pinkish softwood target. Her hand plucked free the polished, star-shaped blade that was not quite the size of her palm. “These little things work well as a distraction and hindrance to the occasional, ornery predator in the mountains. I never considered using them on people.” Then Lyra half smiled. “I totally forgot I had them on me that night when you helped me find my pack.”
Returning to Hundt's desk, she placed it there in front of him. “I like how they are easier to use at variable distances than regular knives.”
Hundt was buttoning his shirt. “You throw knives, as well?”
“Just in target practice.”
He watched her a moment, then, without preamble, brought out a knife from a desk drawer and presented it hilt first. “Show me.”
Taken aback, Lyra studied his expression. Was he serious?
Okay, he was.
“Well … okay.” Tentatively, she wrapped her fingers around the handle, feeling its weight and the smoothness of its black leather worn shiny with use against her palm. She admired the expertly beveled sides, her eyes following the blade's equilateral lines that ended in a perfect, harmonious point.
With one more hesitant glance, Lyra turned to face the target. Calming herself, she took a step back to adjust for distance, raised the knife over her shoulder and … thunk! It hit low and to the right, but it stuck.
“It usually takes a few throws for me to get warmed up,” she grinned back at Hundt sheepishly. “Jon and I would—” Lyra's smile faded.
She returned to her stool, numb, and empty once more.
“… I suppose it would be wrong o' me no' to thank you, 'Na Lyra,” Hundt said after a minute. “Your assistance with Waldik is appreciated.” A small grin emerged. “You may consider your debt to me as paid.”
A stirring of life rippled through her and Lyra managed a smile back. “You're welcome, sir.” Then she proceeded to play with her fingers a moment. “So … am I not going to be punished?”
The grin broadened. “I need you to stay for a few minutes more.” He put his medical kit away and scraped his chair around to face a filing cabinet. “I need to fill out some forms o' termination o' employment … and life. Tomorrow will be busy. I would rather get this done now.” Some folders were rifled through until he found what he was looking for. “Some o' these need Mae's signature and her documentation o' that khar's illness. I would like you to take them to her for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hundt began his work and Lyra let her eyes roam over the work space while she waited. The old, dark wood desk was in neat order—an open box for papers, a cup holding some quill pens and pencils, a large mug sitting on a cloth coaster, a short stack of papers that looked like supply lists and reports. But it was too small for the hulking shoulders and defined, upper body of the man bent over it. Every time Hundt shifted, his chair would creak and protest under the strain of his weight. It made Lyra want to giggle.
“Mr. Hundt?” she said after a while.
“Aye?” He didn't look up.
“Will there be some kind of memorial or something tomorrow for Mr. Waldik? Tonight was pretty shocking and … a lot of the girls seemed rather traumatized. I think he was well-liked and—”
“This kind o' thing happens occasionally. Most o' them will be over it before their head hits their pillow.” His head shook back and forth once. “Such simple-minded drivel—khari'na.”
Lyra's cheeks grew hot as she sat unmoving on her stool. Her jaw clamped shut.
Hundt checked a few more boxes on his page, then his quill paused. “I was no' including you in that generalization, 'Na Lyra.”
“Oh? Oh, uh, it's okay.”
The quill pen went down. Hundt leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes pinning her down once again. “Mm-hmm. You know, I have five older sisters, and I know when a woman is offended.”
A blush bloomed on Lyra's face. He read her too easily. Lyra didn't like it—especially given that his stony facade efficiently hid nearly everything about him. He displayed the emotional range of a sea sponge. He saw everything and revealed nothing.
But the burly Mr. Hundt as younger brother to a bunch of sisters? Hmm. Intriguing.
“Please accept my sincere apology,” he offered.
More intriguing. Lyra nodded and Hundt returned to his forms.
A small motion behind him caught Lyra's eye. It was leaves, or rather, the fronds of an unusual looking ferny plant. It grew from a beautifully decorated ceramic pot on a short file cabinet placed just below the barge's single window. Lyra's first impression was that he must have bumped the dark-reddish tinged blades, but the movement wasn't quite natural. Slowly, the fronds retracted closer to the base of the plant. Something stirred in her memory.
“Is that …?” She leaned forward on her stool. “Is that—”
“Nali Kahnl,” Hundt said matter-of-factly. He went to his next form. “The common name most people know it by is—”
“Infant's Caress,” Lyra broke in, anticipation rising. She stood. “May I?”
Hundt glanced around at the deeply veined foliage. For a moment, his eyes seemed to—
It was gone and he returned to his work. “Knock yourself out.”
Lyra approached the lush, bushy plant, sidling between the back of Hundt's chair and the cabinet. She studied the glossy texture and the form of its branching fronds spraying upward directly from the root ball, a foot above the crown, only to arch gracefully downward at the tips.
“It's native to the island of Pakelle, right? In the tropical waters of the south sea,” Lyra practically quoted from her father's encyclopedia set—prized possession of the household from her youth.
“Aye.” Then he added, “While you are there, would you mind giving it a spray with the mister? The climate here is rather dry for its taste.”
Beside the pot's humidifying pebble tray rested a tin watering canister with a push pump. Lyra pointed the nozzle at the fronds and gave the pump a try. It sprayed water droplets so fine that the mist floated in the air a few seconds before settling gently down on the feathery greenery. Several more pumps evenly misted the entire plant.
“Does it really feed off the electrical currents coming from our bodies?” Lyra returned the watering can next to the tray.
“It takes nutrients from the soil for most o' its energy needs, but can also feed off o' energy from other living things when available. Go ahead and touch it if you want.”
Lyra drew a hand close to a near branchlet. She gasped when the frond reacted, slowly reaching out to her. Lyra curled her fingers away. The frond hung there for a moment, then slowly, slowly, retreated to its original position. Her heart beat a little faster. “Does it hurt? I read that it doesn't hurt, that it kind of just pulls, but … does it really?”
Lyra heard another one of Hundt's single, communicative grunts. This one sounded amused.
Gathering her nerve, she stretched her fingers out again, this time holding them steady for the frond's light touch. It moved up her hand at a dawdle bug's pace, letting more of its tiny pinnae make contact with her skin. A gentle pulling sensation started—not pulling at her skin, but the sense of something being drawn out of her, like the suckling of a baby. It didn't hurt.
“I would not guess you to be the type interested in horticulture,” she remarked, transfixed by the plant's feeding.
“You would be right,” he said. “It was a gift.”
Lyra waited for him to elaborate. No such luck. The scritching of pen on paper resumed.
Suddenly, the plant's red tints seemed to grow brighter, more vib
rant, until Lyra would swear that they were glowing. Wow.
The shuffling of papers behind her said that Mr. Hundt was done and, gently, Lyra pulled away from the frond's grasp. She examined her skin. No marks. “My hand feels tired, like I've been cutting with scissors for the last hour.”
The thick neck craned around to look at her. “One time I fell asleep in this chair, leaning back against the cabinet here. When I woke up I had a headache o' mind splitting proportions, but that plant was glowing like firesparks at summer solstice.”
Lyra laughed and returned to her stool.
Hundt came over with the paperwork. “Take these to Mae. When she has finished making her notes, return them to me tonight. I will be back on watch for a little while longer.”
The nurse in Lyra wanted to protest him working any more tonight, but the defiant flicker in his eye dared her to try to order him away from his job. Fine, she sighed. Typical man.
“Yes, sir.” She took the papers, bent into a curtsy, and turned to leave.
“'Na Lyra?”
“Yes, sir?”
“When the auction is over, the caravan has a break before beginning the rounds again. I like to spend some time in target practice then. You may join me if you are interested.”
Lyra didn't know what to say. His black eyes were still unreadable, his stance and demeanor, confident and calm, like he didn't care one way or another what her answer was. “Um, sure. I think I'd like that. Thank you.”
He nodded. “Oh, and one more thing. I need to see your right leg.”
Lyra started. Then she rolled her eyes. Bringing her right leg forward, she lifted her skirt to the knee for him where, crouching, Hundt undid the soft, brown leather band that hugged her leg just above her calf.
“Unfortunately, I must still confiscate all weapons.” He stood and counted three more razor stars inside.
