This heralded more laughter from the four men at the table, but not from the woman or the man behind the bar.
“Listen, lad, don’t try to get wise with me!” the man growled, tucking his rag away and narrowing his broadly set eyes. “You come in here wantin’ somethin’. What do you want?”
“I want food.”
“Well you’ll be showin’ me some money first then,” the innkeeper said, cocking his brow skeptically.
“Money? What is that?” The boy had heard the word before, but was unsure of its meaning, and didn’t want to make another mistake. Unfortunately, he’d already made one, and the room burst into laughter once again. He was beginning to think that the four men at the larger table would laugh at anything he said.
“You know, gold, silver, even a copper or two. Money.” The innkeeper shook his head sadly.
“Oh, coins. No, I have no coins. The Master had all the coins, and I didn’t take any of them when I left.”
“Left?” The innkeeper and several of the others were staring at him more intently now. “You mean you ran away?”
“No. I walked.”
More laughter broke out all around the room now, even the quieter of the two women chuckled behind her hand. The boy was dumbfounded at the meaning of all this laughter, so he thought it best if he tried to explain.
“The Master was dead.” The laughter shopped short. “I saw no reason to stay.”
“Did you kill him, lad?” the large man asked, his voice slightly different than before.
“No, the other men did that.” They stared at him again, so he elaborated.
“Seven bandits came from the woods and tried to take things from the Master. We killed them, but an eighth was hidden and shot the Master in the throat, then rode away. The Master was dead, and I knew that my destiny was down the road, so I walked away. Now can I have some food?”
The room erupted into laughter, several comments regarding his destiny and what an unlikely story it was ringing around all at once. Finally the large man behind the bar banged a tankard hard on the wooden surface and the uproar subsided.
“Sorry, lad, but no money, no food. Now get out before you stink up the place permanently.”
The boy sniffed the air, detecting a wide range of scents mingling with that of the food. His own odor was only that of a bit of sweat and four days on the road. Surely the man didn’t mean that.
“No money, no food?” he asked.
“That's right!” the innkeeper retorted hotly.
“Give me some money, then.”
This brought a loud snort from the man. His round face reddened, and his voice came out harsh. “Listen kid, I don't know if yer stupid or just wrong in the head, and I really don't care, but yer not gettin’ anythin’ from me so beat it!" With the last words, the man’s huge hand reached over the bar to grip the boy’s tunic.
The boy snatched the man’s fingers in a grip of steel, twisting backward until they popped out of joint. He pulled hard, using the man’s heavier weight to splay him over the bar, and brought his elbow down on the extended arm. Bones cracked like kindling and the man screamed in pain. Other shouts rang out around him, so he thought it best if he finished the man quickly. He cocked back his hand for the killing blow.
“NOOO!”
The boy stopped. He looked at the woman who had screamed, simply because he had never heard such a bloodcurdling plea. He did not release the man’s mangled arm, but his curiosity was burning to know why the woman was so distraught.
“Why not?” he asked, cocking his head at her quizzically.
“Just don’t hurt him any more!” she pleaded, but the boy was noticing that the other men were finally getting to their feet. And their hands were on their weapons. He released the bartender’s arm and balanced himself.
“I don’t know who you are, Boy, and I don’t know what you want, but you’d best leave or yer gonna regret it.” The most formidable of the men stepped away from the larger table, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
“Why?” was all that the boy could think to ask. He had done nothing wrong. The innkeeper had attacked him, and he had retaliated. Those were the rules of combat.
“This is why,” the other man drew his sword, a well-kept longsword of medium-hard temper and keen edge. “Now you’ll be off, or I’ll --”
The boy moved like a stroke of lightning.
As the sword came free and pointed toward him, his feet left the floor. His palms clapped onto the flat of the blade near the tip, while his foot swept in a short arc to impact upon the weapon’s midpoint. The finely tempered steel snapped and the hilt spun out of the other’s grasp. Continuing the spinning motion, the boy’s other foot crashed into the man’s chest. His opponent’s feet left the floor, and did not touch again until after the wall behind the large table stopped the man’s trajectory. He lay there stunned, clutching his broken ribs and struggling to breathe.
The boy now stood where the man had. He was poised in a crouch, the two-foot piece of the man’s broken sword was clasped between his palms near the broken end and held over his head perfectly parallel to the floor. His eyes scanned his remaining opponents, gauging their nerve, skill and the weapons that still rested in their sheaths.
“We can take ’im, Lem,” the youngest of the three whispered, fingering the hilts of a dagger and shortsword.
“Not me,” his friend answered, eying the crumpled form that lay wheezing against the wall behind them. He moved his hands away from his own weapons. “Jorry was a better blade than me, and the kid took him like a cheap whore with a butter knife. I say give him some food, Marra, and send him on his way.”
“Sure, sure,” the barmaid prattled, moving from where she was tending the injured innkeeper to a cold box. She retrieved a heavy burlap sack and stuffed cheese, bread and a cold leg of mutton into it then thrust it over the bar at the boy. "Just take it and go..."
The boy relaxed his stance somewhat, yet remained vigilant, wondering if this was some sort of feint or ruse. They were all looking at him worriedly, some still fingering weapons, but most trying to look as non-threatening as possible.
“Here, here. It’s food.” The barmaid placed the laden bag on the bar and backed away. “Take it and leave. We don’t want no more trouble!”
Trouble? What trouble was there? They had attacked him, and he had defended himself. He did not understand their behavior at all!
The boy relaxed his stance fully and walked cautiously to the bar. He felt like he should say something, but it seemed that every time he opened his mouth, someone laughed then attacked him. Perhaps silence was more prudent at this point.
He carefully placed the broken length of sword onto the bar and picked up the bag. He moved to the door, but once again felt as if he needed to say something.
“I only wanted food, not trouble.” He watched for some response, laughter, another attack, anything, but they all just stared at him. He pulled the door open and stepped into the night, quickly continuing his journey.
Reaching into the bag, the boy retrieved the loaf of bread and bit off a large hunk, chewing as he walked. He could hear the voices of the people in the inn for some time as he lengthened his stride and continued his meal. Many of their words were strange to him; he had no idea what a “hangin’” or “constable” were, and didn’t know why they would need to have the former and get the latter. He simply walked on, eating and thinking as he traveled. In the future he would try to remember: no money, no food. Perhaps he would be able to avoid trouble that way.
The midmorning sun was halfway to its zenith when the faint tremor of galloping horses stopped the boy in his tracks. He stood still, eyes closed, feeling the cadence through the soles of his feet. There were six of them, he could tell from the pattern of hoof beats; they were running flat out and were still far enough away that he had time to make a careful decision about what to do. The decision was simple: stand or hide.
He opened his eyes and studied his s
urroundings. To his right was thinning forest with little undergrowth, to his left a stone fence with jagged topping stones and a rolling field with sheep dotting the green. The fence was higher than he could reach standing flat footed. It offered little in the way of an obstacle, but there was always the chance that something lay beyond that he could not see. There was little choice. The boy tossed over his food bag, took a three-step running start and executed a perfect rolling jump that cleared the sharp topping stones by a hand span. Thickly thatched grass met his feet on the other side, which was a pleasant surprise. He recovered his bag and stood quietly with his back against the stone wall and waited for the horses to pass.
When the sound of the thundering hooves reached its height, curiosity won out over caution. He needed to know who these horsemen were. Were they after him, or was his caution misplaced?
He gripped the highest protruding stone that he could reach, and lifted himself up; then he gained purchase on the topping stones, and chinned himself to peek over. The glimpse he got of the receding horsemen yielded a wealth of information: Three of the six were men from the inn, the three whose friend he had injured. The other three he did not recognize. All wore weapons, and their bows were strung and close at hand. The leader, or so he seemed, wore a helm of bronze and rode a horse both taller and stronger than those of the others. Their mounts were all lathered as if they had run a fair distance, and some quick calculations lent credence to the theory that they had come from the village. That they sought him was not a far stretch of his somewhat limited imagination; the trouble he had inadvertently created had followed him. He would have to be more careful from now on.
The sun had moved to its highest point when the boy reached the crossroads. He approached cautiously, moving along the edge of the road where the concealing underbrush was only a step away. If those who sought him lay in wait, he could vanish into the undergrowth in the blink of an eye.
He had never seen a crossroads before. He knew not what to expect. Would someone live here, tend the well and the simple structure that served as shelter to any traveler who felt the need to stop for the night? He listened for several minutes and knew that no one hid in wait, so he moved into the open to better assess the choices that lay before him. The well yielded enough cold, sweet water to sate his thirst, but the crossing roads left him with another decision.
Life since the Master had been killed seemed to be nothing but one decision after another, and he felt that every one he made hung over his head like a great weight, ready to crush him if he chose poorly. This decision was not without some information to guide him at least, and he stood quietly for some time, weighing his three options. The tracks from the six horsemen were plain, and it took no skill to see that his pursuers had stopped for water, then continued west. If they sought him, which seemed likely, they would return by the same road. To the west, the road was no longer girded by stone walls, but rather split-rail fences and open fields that would offer him no cover if he encountered the horsemen. That made the northern and southern roads more attractive simply in the interest of avoiding his pursuers. He looked to the north where the road rose into hilly, forested country. To the south lay low, rolling hills and empty pastures. If the horsemen returned to the crossroads and took the same track as he, either by design or chance, he would rather be in rougher country that offered cover.
The boy took a bit of bread and a hunk of cheese from his dwindling bag of supplies and turned to the north, eating as he walked and wondering if he’d made the right decision.
Chapter V
“So, what do they call ya, then?” the portly man asked, shoving a wheelbarrow of coal onto the pile that fed the forge. He dumped the load and let the wheelbarrow drop, turning to the boy and dusting off his hands.
“They call me Lad,” the boy answered, not knowing how else to reply. The Master had only ever called him Boy, but the people at the inn had called him Lad, and he thought the latter sounded more like a name.
“Well, Lad then, is it?” The man rubbed his beard with a hand blackened with soot and coal dust, his broadly set eyes narrowing with scrutiny. “Well, I guess a man’s name’s his own business, ain’t it? And ya need money, do ya?”
“Yes. I need money for food.”
“Well, yer skinny enough, that’s plain to see, and half the blokes in this gods forsaken hole give some phony name, don’t they? No matter to me, is it?” The man’s gaze raked up and down the boy appraisingly. “I can’t see what you can do for me, though, can I? Yer too skinny to heft a load of coal, and I doubt you could even swing a hammer.” He looked around the small smithy dubiously then shrugged. “Sorry, Lad.”
The boy did not understand. All he had told the man was that he needed money. Now he was talking about things he could and could not do for him. Did the man mean that if he did these things, he would give him money? There was only one way to discover the truth. “I can swing a hammer, and I can lift that cart loaded with coal.”
“Oh, ya can, can ya? Well, you’ll just have to show me then, won’t ya?” He pointed to the wheelbarrow, then to the wagon he’d been unloading. “Shovel that cart full and bring it over here to the pile near the forge then.”
“Yes, M --” The boy stopped; this was not his Master. The Master was dead. He didn’t know what to call the man, but he’d heard others use another term that was respectful, and used that now. “Yes, Sir.”
He retrieved the wheelbarrow and, though he had never seen a contraption like it, mastered the simple balance of it easily. At the wagon he hopped up and took the broad-bladed shovel. This was another implement he was unaccustomed to wielding, but it was not difficult. In short order the wheelbarrow was brimming full. He hopped down and took the two handles.
“Careful now, Lad,” the man warned. “I don’t want ya hurtin’ yerself.”
“How could I hurt myself?” he asked, lifting the load easily and wheeling it over to the large pile.
“Well, I uh --” The man stared as Lad emptied the cart and set it aside exactly where he had picked it up. “Well, I guess yer stronger than ya look, aren’t ya?”
“I do not look strong?”
“Well, I didn’t mean to-- I mean you’re kind of skinny, so I thought --” The man gave a snort of laugher, which clicked as a warning in Lad’s mind. “Well I guess you’re just wiry strong, not beefy strong like me.” He flexed his huge shoulders.
“I guess,” Lad said, still not really understanding, but feeling that it was best to agree. He did not want trouble.
“Fine then, I’ll pay you two pennies a day, and feed ya. You can sleep behind the forge; it’ll be warm enough for ya there, won’t it?” The man looked at Lad as if there would be an answer forthcoming, but Lad hadn’t the slightest idea what to say. He didn’t know if he was supposed to agree, disagree, name a different amount, or stand mute.
“Will that be acceptable?” The man finally finished.
“Yes,” Lad said immediately.
“Good! You can start by unloadin’ the rest of that coal and shovelin’ the dung heap there into the wagon. If you finish that before supper, you can muck out the stables.”
“Yes, Sir.” Lad got right to work.
He grabbed the cart and brought it back to the wagon, while the man attended his forge and the huge horseshoes that he was beating into shapes more likely to fit the plate-footed draft horse waiting patiently in the stall. Lad took a moment to wonder how long he would have to work to afford enough food to make it back to the crossroads. Just one glance around the logging camp where this branch of the road ended told him that this was not where his destiny lay. His long-belabored decision at the crossroads had been wrong, and the mistake had cost him time, but there was no way he could have known which of the three choices led to his destiny. Now he needed more food, for his supplies were gone, which would cost him more days. The concept of working for money with which he could buy food to continue his journey settled well with him. He hadn’t caused any trouble
here, and the smith seemed pleased with his work. He could work here for a few days, buy food, and continue his journey without worries about having to evade the clumsy pursuit that had dogged him out of the first town.
His only worry was about his destiny.
He’d already been on the road for five days since the Master was killed; he hoped his destiny would wait for him. It was another day and a half back to the crossroads, then who knew how far, to his destiny, if he even would know it when he saw it.
“Grandfather.” The young apprentice’s voice cut through the silence of the vast chamber that was the guildmaster’s private suite. The apprentice stood at the open door, his toes half a step back from the aperture. The door had been open, as it often was, but woe to the lowly apprentice who broke that intangible barrier without consent. There were no guards at the door to the suite; there didn’t need to be. And a lock would have been even more superfluous. This was the abode of the most deadly assassin in the city of Twailin. Guards and locks would have been ridiculous.
Shadows fluttered within the blackness of the balcony and the Grandfather of Assassins strode through the open arched doors, his stride fluid, his countenance assured. This was his domain; no one was foolish enough to attack him here.
“What news, Sereth?” he snapped, striding across the priceless rugs toward the uncomfortable apprentice. “Has anyone spotted Corillian?”
“There is no news from the east road, Grandfather.” The youth bowed low, presenting an easy and hopefully painless target to his master. If the lack of news enraged his lord, it was better to be killed quickly than to survive to endure the master’s torments. “A three-wagon caravan of wool arrived from Melfey this evening, and brought no news at all of anything unusual.”
“Blast!” The guildmaster whirled and strode back across the room to his broad desk. “If Corillian has one trait, it is punctuality. If he can calculate the exact time required to complete a sixteen-year project, I grant he has the faculties to estimate the travel time from Krakengul Keep!”
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