The Chronicles of Amberdrake
Page 53
The old man recognized a hint of desperation in the servant’s voice. “Two and two.”
The servant closed his eyes as his lips moved silently. “Two silver,” he finally offered.
The old man looked at the servant and nodded. “Two silver.”
The servant reached for the pears, but the old man swatted his hand. “Two silver crowns, or go away.”
The servant gave him a mulish look, then nodded and put two silver crowns on the side of the barrow. When the old man picked up the coins, the servant grabbed the pears and apples and put them into a sack, then hurried away.
A woman’s voice said, “You have cherries?” in a hesitant tone.
“I do,” the old man replied, “Though not many.”
The woman looked into the barrow and nodded. “Enough for a pie. What do you ask? I’m not so wealthy.”
The old man looked at the woman and nodded. “There aren’t that many. For you, five sparks.”
The woman looked surprised, then blushed. “I have but four.” She dumped her purse out into her hand. “Please, it’s for my son’s fourteenth birthing day feast.”
The old man looked at her, seeing the state of her clothes, and reached out to take just two of the sparks, then smiled at her mystified expression. He gathered the cherries and looked at her expectantly, and she quickly brought forth a basket. He loaded the cherries and saw an apple that the servant had missed and added it as well. When the woman looked even more puzzled, he said, “I used to love apple and cherry pie when my mother made it. Go with the love of the Gods Above and celebrate your son’s birth.”
The woman looked to be on the verge of tears as she bowed to him, then hurried away. There were still carrots, potatoes, and even a hand of onions. He moved deeper into the market and soon found buyers for all of it. He pushed the empty barrow up the street with five silver crowns and nine sparks in his pouch. He resolutely walked toward the gate out of the city, and mentally steeled himself for being hassled by the guards. He’d hidden all the silver deep in his clothes and only carried five sparks in his pouch.
But the guardsmen ignored him, not even looking into the barrow.
They were talking about someone killing a Drug Laird, and they couldn’t care less about a poor farmer leaving the market. The other Drug Lairds had set a bounty on the head of the murderer, and they were intent on finding him.
The old man walked away from the living hell that was Shreverston, never knowing or caring who had left him the means of escape.
All he really cared about was that he was free.
About the author
A U. S. Navy veteran, Loren K. Jones served as a nuclear reactor operator on attack submarines for six years before his honorable discharge in 1986. Loren makes his living as an instrumentation and controls technician, and writes because the stories won’t leave him alone until he does.