Off Center (The Lament)

by Power, P. S.

  She still managed to tend the fire again, though Mara got the time after that. They kept taking turns and didn't even try to go out of the little hut until the sky lightened a bit. It was still dumping white down on them, and there was a half hand span on the ground when she stepped out. The fire was still burning, so she banged some of the wood together to get the worst of the white stuff off and then put it on the red embers, blowing on it until it started to burn. After that she had to find a bush and use it, which was bitterly cold. The only comfort there was that Mara had to do the same thing too. Then she pulled the bags from the little hovel they'd made, which was kind of pretty, covered like it was, and dug into the packs, not caring which one was hers.

  "You brought combat drugs with you? And took some too?" There was hesitancy in her words, but instead of barking at her about responsibility or anything like that, Mara broke out two more, took one herself and handed the second to Pran, then passed a water skin. "Brilliant. This will make it so we won't want to eat, but we should anyway. The cold will burn more energy than it feels like and we have a day's work ahead of us." She stowed the gear again and came out dressed much like Pran already was, with mittens and a hat on her head, as well as warm dark gray winter clothing. It was what the ship had, after all.

  She also had a small work bag with her, made of canvas. Hoisting it, she glanced at the fire and sighed hugely.

  "We can't leave it like this. Pile all the wood on the top of it and then cover all but the top with snow. It's not perfect, but we might have a fire left, later in the day. Coals at least. Looking for wood in the snow is less than fun." She grinned hugely and moved five or six feet to pat Pran on the shoulder. "The Lament should be back today, and if not, I bet some village person will put us up. But we need to stay ready for anything. I don't like the fact that we're stuck here like this, even for a few hours. You were in Pumpkin Hollow yesterday, what was the mood like? Do you think we need to be ready for combat?" That she was asking that seriously got Pran to actually stop and think about it, logically.

  "I don't think so. They aren't fighters, as far as I could tell. Angry about a child being abused, but no one really seemed to think that Clark and I were stealing the man away to be bathed in perfumes and fed candies. My guess is that as long as we're polite to them, they'll probably be more than willing to have us around. You and I, that is. If Will Butcher came in with us, someone might well try to hurt him again. Being sick like he is-" She was about to give her opinion, that no one would want to beat a dying man, or one that seemed that close to it, but Mara looked around and then whispered to her gently.

  It was eerie sounding however. Like she wasn't worried, but knew something Pran just didn't.

  "Good point. Don't mention that to anyone. If he dies, and it can be traced back to his beating, then the men that did it are going up on murder charges. People that might willingly sit out a few months to deliver a beating, may just try to fight, if they think the stakes will be measured in years or decades. How's your gut feeling?"

  Pran patted it. After a second she grinned.

  "Flat and a bit hollow. I'm not hungry, like you said, but I can chew on some dried fruit. Let me get it." She knew where it was after all, having packed a lot of it, so they wouldn't accidently run out of food. When she handed Mara her double handful of pears, apples and some walnuts that had already been shelled, the woman started to eat without comment. Only when she was done did she clarify.

  "I was asking if you felt sore. I don't, but most do after a night like that. Fire Breath is harder than it feels like."

  "Oh, nope. I feel fine so far. It might be the drugs? That or all the singing I do. It's not like I never do breathing exercises, after all." It was part of the job. At least if you wanted to be good at it.

  She only got a grunt in return, not any information about which thing was the most likely reason, but they had the fire set up, so that it would burn out if they didn't return soon enough, rather than spread, and left the shelter up. They had several of their oil cloths in it, but short of taking off most of the layers, they'd just have to stay, for now.

  "It's a risk of the resource, but I'd rather pay for a few new cloths than get back here in the dark and not have a shelter, with snow coming down around our ears. Shall we move into the village? I don't think it's way too early, anymore." The lady nodded at her own words, her cheeks a nice rosy color from the cold, as was the tip of her nose. The hat made her look funny, having ear flaps that folded down, but Pran figured she looked the same, so didn't mention it.

  "Lead away?" It was bright enough for her to be able to see after all. Mara waved her ahead anyway.

  Then after a second explained it.

  "Unfamiliar path for me, you've walked it several times. We can leave the gear here, but bring the weapons and a bit of food."

  The walk was different, since the ground was firmer underfoot, and she was allowed to just walk, instead of running a walking guard. It sped the whole trip up, and even the Guardian next to her mainly moved like a normal person. True, a few times she was suddenly gone, when Pran looked over, to find that even her footprints weren't there anymore. A bit later, each time, she was back before Pran could locate her, and finally laughed, and then pointed at her feet.

  "You can see the tracks. Anyone can. I was just walking backwards in them at the same pace as you traveled forward, so you didn't hear me do it. Then once you got about four meters ahead, I slipped off into the brush. It's too dangerous to move without rhythm right now. It's slippery enough that you'd end up hurting yourself if you tried. So we move to one of the alternate techniques. You can go next." She said it as if the idea of walking through the freezing brush with snow falling down her neck was a special treat.

  The only good side was that she only had to do it twice before they got to the village, which still had muddy streets. It was just covered with white now. An improvement visually, at least. It took the filthy looking mud pit and turned it into a rather picturesque landscape. If she would have seen this first, she might well have thought more kindly about the place. They had a lot of stone buildings, and even the big barn she and Ben were supposed to play in later was pretty now. The roof was glistening in the sun as she moved, the tiny crystals that had stuck to it not melting yet at all. Given the temperature out, they might not that day. Hopefully they could warm the place inside, or her strings would snap when she tried to play.

  A lot of the houses, and they were real enough places, she saw, with nice sturdy doors and even glass windows in place, had thick plumes of wood smoke coming from the chimneys. The whole village smelled of it. That and various meats being prepared. She wasn't hungry at all, so her mouth didn't water, but it was pleasant enough. There was no noise however.

  Not past the sounds of a few animals back in their pens, behind the main street.

  "You know," Pran began, realizing that she was probably going to say the wrong thing, but feeling willing to do it anyway. "This place would benefit a lot from some good roads. Even gravel would help."

  Mara shrugged and looked around, her foot slipping on the still soft mud under the main street, which hadn't gone solid yet at all.

  "That kind of thing takes a lot of work, and villagers feel entitled to their half year off. Asking them to do something like that might mess up the holiday schedule. Can't have that."

  The funny thing was that, as hard as Mara could be at times and as much as she looked down on "lazy and soft Bards" She seemed pretty serious.

  For her part, Pran blinked and stopped in her tracks, which meant her right boot started to sink, until she realized what was happening and scrambled to the left side of the track, near a large building that seemed like someone's home.

  "They get a half year off? Each year? How does that work?"

  Mara stared at her for a bit and then gestured around them.

  "The growing and harvest seasons are set by the weather. There are some daily chores, but most of their work is finished in those b
usy seasons. Then, if they have time for it, they do building projects and what not, before things become impossible that way. To you and I that seems hard to understand, because we have to work those cold seasons, and don't take many days off. That isn't what most people do. My folks are town people, and they still take a good quarter of the year off. They run a shop, and work more than most, but in the winter they might not even open the door for a month at a time, just waiting for someone to pound on the window if they need anything."

  The way she said it was matter of fact enough, but Pran had to feel a bit out of step. She'd never actually known any of that at all. To her it had always seemed like everyone just worked all the time. School had been seven days a week, with only a half day for religious services, and at the Grange... Well, you did what you were told and it wasn't much fun, so things like days off went without notice. They'd been schooled occasionally, and worked in the gardens. They could play too, skipping rocks or whatever, at times. Mostly they tried to work, since it made things better.

  Even the youngest quickly learned that being useful got you better food and a chance to survive without trading your behind for scraps from the older boys. Most of the time. The girls were worse. The boys would stick it in you, and be done with it. It would hurt, but they got enough that way that no one was really raped. You had to eat, and if you just let them do it, they mainly wouldn't force you. The older girls were animals to the younger ones though. Some would torture the little kids, claiming it was a game. Not letting them breathe until they passed out, or burning them with the ember ends of sticks. Then there were the Keepers...

  She shuddered and made herself not even think about it, but Mara noticed and looked like she was going to say something. Luckily Sam Milner limped out of the building they were standing by, wearing a warm, but old looking, fur coat. Behind him in the doorway was an equally old woman, who hadn't been in the mess the day before. She closed herself outside, and was bundled well enough that it was clear she planned to come with them, wherever they were going.

  "This is my wife, Mildred. She handles most of the store keeping records and actually knows where everything is. I figured it would save some time. Besides, she told me she was coming along, and you know how women are, right boy?" He winked at Pran, who nodded, back, even as Mara smirked a little.

  "Some. Are we ready to start?" She didn't actually have any knowledge of how this was done at all, but it turned out not to be that hard.

  They were led to the main storehouse, which was filled with barrels, bins and sacks, and then Pran had to climb around and verify that each thing had what was claimed on the label in it. The inside of the place wasn't well lit, and it was decent sized. Still, Mara seemed happy enough with what she was finding.

  "Given the population here, of two hundred and seven, this is enough for winter. You have three storehouses?" No one had mentioned that, but the older man nodded.

  Then he walked toward the front, with his wife looking a bit annoyed for some reason.

  "This way. How did you know it was three, and not two? The third is a ways back into the woods."

  Mara smiled and followed along, going slowly, since the man had an obvious stomachache. He was still occasionally holding himself there at least.

  "We saw them from the air when we came in. It's normal for us to do an aerial assessment before we land, when possible. You'd be shocked about how many places try to lie to us about what they have. It's foolish of course, because we aren't the tax assessors. I guess they think it will net them more from the emergency supplies? Sometimes it probably does, but taking more than you need doesn't help anyone, does it?" She sounded almost innocent as she spoke, rather than like an adult woman in her thirties. Pran got it and smiled a bit, turning away so that the others wouldn't see her doing it.

  Mildred, the old woman, still got it and frowned at her.

  She didn't say anything, because sassing a Guardian was poor form. So she left that part to Sam the old man, as they went to the next warehouse set-up. This one had mainly grains and potatoes in sacks, but a section of dried fruit as well. The last section held odds and ends, and meant Pran was all over the place by noon, when the old woman finally looked at them all bitterly. She seemed to be pretty good at that, being disgruntled.

  "We should stop for a meal, I suppose. What are you going to do about the Butcher's place? He holds most of the meat for the village, salted and sugar packed for the cold times. We have food, but nothing like that, unless we can use it?" Her sharp words seemed out of place, even after Pran remembered that the Butcher was accused of touching her granddaughter.

  Mara however, didn't seem to think anything of it at all.

  "We can wait a few days, for the trial. If he's not guilty, well, then we'll see what he says. If he is, his goods will be distributed to his closest family. They can do with it what they will, but there's no reason for them not to work with you. Especially if they're not from this area. You normally trade with each other, rather than use coins or script?" She said the words lightly, but the older couple both frowned.

  The old man looked suspicious and sort of glared at Mara.

  "Aye. That's so."

  That earned him a shrug at least.

  "Again, the Guardians don't collect taxes. Even we occasionally trade goods and services to avoid the tax man. I was just thinking about what kinds of things might be needed if you have to ship goods out a long ways. That costs, since room on an airship isn't free, especially this time of year. Wagons run about the same price, unless you can take things on your own."

  That wouldn't help them with meat soon enough though.

  Pran watched the older woman closely. There was something about her that seemed off. Not "Techno-cult spy" out of place, maybe, but something was wrong. She'd been way too concerned about the stored meat, rather than about the men that would be taken away for abusing a prisoner in their care. That couldn't be right, could it?

  Chapter five

  "We really should do something with that meat. Mayhaps we could buy it, then hold the coin for Will, for when he gets out of prison?" The old woman was staring so hard at Mara, as they sat at the wooden table in her daughter's kitchen, that the Guardian didn't dare look away.

  It was the fourth time she'd come back to the topic. Pran didn't even bother looking at her this time, focusing on Lyse, the woman's daughter, who was across the warm room, standing at the stove, near where a loaf of fresh bread sat. Her back was turned and she was stirring some soup in a pot, which was the standard mid-day meal here, they'd been told. It smelled better than decent, but what got her attention was how the woman stiffened, as the topic was brought up again.

  The little girl was helping to set the table, and didn't seem beaten down or abused, like the kids at the Grange always had. Pran knew that she'd been the same way, and had learned to fake being normal at school in her first weeks.

  She seemed perky and lively, to be honest about it all. She also had dark hair. Kevin, who was the girl's father sat across from them. He was lighter in color. An ash blond. Lyse had a nice long head of strawberry colored tresses in a single braid.

  But little Hadis? She could have passed for having black hair, in the right light. Like Will the butcher? It was hard to tell by the set of the eyes, but it was clear to Pran that Kevin wasn't her father. She didn't mention it however, since it wasn't her part in things. She was there to sing, play some songs and, apparently, be called a boy.

  Kevin did the honors this time, trying to change the subject. He was smart enough to get that harping about looting someone's storerooms might not be the best way of doing things. Especially since he was, apparently, going to be going to a work camp himself, for his abuse of power.

  "I hear that you and your Master are going to be playing for us tonight, boy. Are you any good?" The man winced and took a sip of the warmed cider from the clay mug that was in front of him. It was over spiced, but not that horrible. Pran was halfway through her own. The gesture wasn'
t over his calling her a boy even, since no one there seemed to have picked up on that yet. She was nearly bursting to tell them too, but held her tongue for some reason. "Forgive me. Not trying to say you wouldn't be good. Most Bards have to be, or they don't get no training. You've been through the school? You look young for it."

  That was at least an attempt at being polite, so she nodded, making her face look considering.

  "Bard Benjamin isn't actually my Master. I'm traveling to meet her, but we stopped here for a time. He's very good however. Hopefully I'll be good enough that Sam won't feel the loss of the materials he's trading for it." She looked down and tried to seem humble. It nearly worked, but the older woman coughed ruining it.

  "None o'that now. Two things I ain't never seen. A cow what's could jump worth a berry stain, and a humble Bard. No e'en a youngster. I bet you want us to hurry with the food, being a growing lad and all. Lyse, honey, how's that coming?" The accent was being laid on a bit more richly than before, and Pran took note of it. The day before, when he was worried, Sam had done much the same thing with Clark. It was a deflection, meant to mislead them from something.

  Probably a realization that they were smarter than they seemed, and at least some of them were up to something.

  The blondish woman at the large metal stove stirred for a bit. When she spoke, it was clear that she wasn't overly bright. Pretty enough, but slow. It showed a lot more in her voice than on her face, which was decently attractive, by country standards. Not made up or anything, but cute, in a slightly round and well fed way. She wasn't stocky however, so it was all about her bone structure.

  "Almost done, mother. I think. Should we get jam out? I like jam. The strawberry is good." There was a little child's kindness to the words, but no one explained that the woman wasn't bright, which was good. That would be insulting to her, and she seemed to be getting along fine enough. Her daughter was bright, it seemed. At least she knew where the good preserves were and looked at her grandmother for permission to get them, seeming eager.