I'll be as strong as you were, Mother. Stronger, if that's what it takes to beat her. You'll see.
Marta went back down the mountain path, Bone Tapper on her shoulder. Marta barely noticed when others on the path stood aside from her, averting their eyes, whispering to each other in various degrees of nervousness or excitement once she was past. When Marta reached the bottom, however, she stopped, and it was as if all the anger she'd built up over Amaet's injustice, now too much for her to control or confine, boiled away. Marta felt weak and unsteady, and found a place to sit and rest. It took a few moments for the feeling to ebb, but it left something behind.
"I'm hungry."
The provisions she’d brought with her didn’t seem quite adequate then, despite her intentions. Marta looked around at the vendors clustered near the foot of the path. She mostly ignored them before, now at least one of the smells coming from the group was very appealing. Marta sought out a stout older woman selling warm bread. She looked up at Marta and her smile froze and died.
Marta, for her part, turned on a bright, friendly smile as if she hadn't noticed a thing. "I'll have one of those, please," Marta said. She didn't ask what the woman was afraid of; she knew. I suppose she thinks I'm going to turn her into a rat or something.
The woman almost dropped her wares, she was trembling so. Marta wanted to tell her that nothing was going to happen to her, but what could she say to cut through all that fear? Marta knew she'd been more than willing to use it against Master Lokan; she couldn't very well complain that she'd done the job so well. The baker finally managed to get a grip on one fine loaf and hand it to Marta.
"Thank you. How much?"
"N-nothing. Please take it."
Marta managed to keep smiling, though the effort cost her. She took a small silver coin from her purse. "If you'll take this in exchange." At that she almost had to force the coin into the woman's hands, but Marta finally managed to make the payment, and turned away before the woman tried to return it, leaving her standing there staring at the small metal disk as if it might bite her.
Bone Tapper glanced behind them as Marta walked away. "It seems foolish to turn down free food. I never do."
Marta took a bite, savoring the heady aroma. "If I had a taste for carrion I might agree, as who would pay for that? Yet this wouldn't have been free. Taking that bread would have cost me, somehow. I'm sure of it. This way is better."
The raven looked disgusted. "Easily three times what the loaf was worth and she'll probably just throw it away, the way she's looking at it. Like as not she thinks the coin is cursed."
"Maybe, but she owed me nothing and now I owe her nothing. I'm in debt enough."
Bone Tapper cocked his head at her. "Indeed? Forgive me for asking, but what about Feran? I'm not a fool, so don't deny what you did."
Marta took a deep breath. "Feran was a mistake I will not repeat. If you're really not a fool you won't mention that name again."
"Noted. What now? Back to the sodding archives?"
"First thing tomorrow," Marta confirmed. "Tonight, however, I will want a bath. As hot and as scouring as Master Lokan can make it. I've got something I need to wash off of me."
Bone Tapper tested the breeze. "Strange. I don't smell anything."
Marta remembered Amaet's cold gaze.
"I do."
CHAPTER 12
"History will remember me as a fiend and a monster. There are those who have a better opinion but, unfortunately, history will outlive them."
— From the Annals of Dommar the Beast
"Greetings to the house."
It was late afternoon. Treedle had stopped counting the days he had been on the road. The gold that Kath had given him had lasted long enough to give him lodging through the winter, but now it was almost spring and his purse was empty. He knew he wouldn't be able to run much longer anyway and this area, one he knew and had reason to think Marta didn't, seemed like as good a choice as any.
I hope I've chosen right, but I still have to survive here long enough to find out.
Treedle stood on the cart road where it passed a small farmstead. The cottage was small but well built. There were signs of recent neglect—thatch that needed mending, a split post on the windlass at the well—that seemed out of place. After a few moments a woman opened the door. She was small, and her dark hair was gathered in a pale blue kerchief. She wore a dress of the same cloth. She might be handsome; it was hard to be sure through the weariness Treedle saw in her face. She stood against the door frame, one hand out of sight. Treedle thought he saw movement in the darkness behind her, but couldn't be sure.
"Greetings, Stranger," she said.
"I've had a long day's walking, Mistress. Could I trouble you for a drink of water?"
She smiled faintly. "Easily given, but not easily done. The windlass is broken, as you can see. I'm afraid you'll have to haul up the bucket yourself."
"Little enough to ask." He stepped through the gate, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He lowered the bucket on its rope and pulled it up full. He drank from the dipper, watching the woman from the corner of his eye. He could see the haft of the woman's ax partially hidden by the door, and nodded approval. She was kind enough to a stranger, but no fool. "There's plenty left in the bucket, if you've no mind to waste it."
She frowned. "That I have not. Jacky, fetch the basin."
Treedle heard footsteps from the house and a small boy appeared at the door beside the woman. Treedle guessed him to be about nine, give or take. His hair was as dark as his mother's. He stepped out past her and brought the basin, and if he was afraid of the stranger he didn't show it. Treedle carefully emptied the bucket into the basin and the boy carried it back to the cottage slowly, trying not to spill.
"I saw a marker for a village down the road, but the lettering was gone. Is it far from here?"
"Wittanplace," she said. "About a league down the road."
Treedle smiled. He'd come farther than he had thought. He knew it wouldn't be enough, but that was all as it must be, and there would be time enough to worry about that later. "I was born near Averdale. We used to come for the fair, years ago. Do they still have it?"
The woman's dark eyes seemed to lose a little of their hard edge. "Every autumn after harvest. How long since you've been home?"
Treedle smiled, and told the understated truth. "Too long. I doubt anyone will remember me. My name is Mattic Jerson. Everyone called me Treedle."
She frowned. "Odd name. And I don't know any Jersons."
"As I said, a long time."
"What's a Treedle?" asked the boy before his mother could shush him.
"Well, if my grandmother was to be believed, it's the old way of saying 'treadle.' Something that does useful work without complaining. She said it was my only virtue, and I dare say she was right. Still, you look as if you could tolerate some useful work done for you."
The suspicion was back. "We have friends who help out as they can."
Treedle was a little surprised that she didn't immediately claim a husband who was merely away for a bit and would soon return. Then it occurred to him that perhaps that particular lie might have been too painful for her to tell.
"Doubtless good friends, but ones who have their own land and families to tend, I wager," Treedle said. "Especially this time of year. Spring is a busy season. Still, I'm sure I can find something in Wittanplace."
"I'm sure you could..." she paused, and the struggle was clear on her face. Fear, suspicion, and need were waging battle royal. Treedle waited.
"We can't pay you," she said, finally.
"Food and a dry place to sleep seem like excellent wages to me just now. And I do good work; you'll see."
Need won. "I am so tired of lifting that infernal bucket... All right. If you can fix the windlass I'll give you supper and a place in the barn for tonight. After that, we'll see."
"Done."
"Jacky, fetch the tools."
There was no spare t
imber handy to replace the split post. Fortunately, it had split from the augur hole to the side of the post rather than down, and the windlass had been set a bit high for either the child or the mother's comfortable reach anyway. Treedle took the windlass apart and evened up the posts with the bow saw, then marked them for the auger. Jacky watched him openly, perched on the stone fence.
"How long since your Da died, Jacky?" Treedle asked as the wood curls from the augur piled up at his feet.
"Last summer. He took sick with the water fever. The barber bled him but it didn't help..." Jacky stopped himself and looked at Treedle. "How did you know about Da?"
"Men are known to stray, and that's no more than truth. Yet the sort of man who builds a home like this and has a wife like your Ma and a son like you—" The auger struck a knot hole and Treedle paused to give a little more twist to the crosspiece. "—doesn't just leave of his own will. Besides, I read it in your mother's face."
The boy frowned. "That's silly. You can't read a face."
The auger point nibbled through the opposite face of the post. Treedle moved it to the other side long enough to clean up the hole and went to the other post. "Faces are easier than books. I can read yours, if you'd like."
The boy's face went stony. "What does it say?"
Treedle smiled. "At the moment, nothing. A few minutes ago it told me there was something you wanted to talk to me about. Man to man, I think. Was I wrong?" He worked the auger as he waited for Jacky to answer.
"It's about the oxen," said Jacky, at last. "The plowing, I mean."
"Hmmm." Treedle kept working the auger.
"We share the oxen with Jolan Tol and his family. My Da helped him buy the pair, and they took turns for the plowing. Then Da died."
"And this Jolan fellow keeps the oxen for himself now?"
Jacky sat up stiffly on the fence. "He wouldn't do that! But Jolan's fields are bigger than ours and now that his Da is getting on he has all he can manage alone. And... and I'm too small! Another year, Ma says. Maybe two. Ma and I can do the planting, but we need someone to do the plowing now."
"It's a hard thing to be responsible for so much so soon, Jacky. It's not a sin to need help now and then."
Jacky took a breath. "I want to hire you."
Treedle kept his expression as serious as the boy's. "Have you talked to your Ma about this?"
The boy shook his head, looking solemn. "I'm my father's son. It's my place to see that the plowing and sowing gets done. We can't pay you money now, but Ma said we have food and a place to sleep, and I say when the harvest is in you'll have a share of what we sell at the market. A full share."
Treedle nodded, equally solemn. "A fine offer. Let me think on it." Treedle finished the new mount and set to putting the windlass in place. Another few minutes and the bucket was spinning merrily toward the water below.
"Try the crank now."
Jacky hopped down from the fence and worked the crank vigorously. The bucket rose easily from the well, brimming with water. "I knew you could fix it," he said. "I've watched you. You handle tools as good as Da, and I think you know how to do lots of things. Will you work for me?"
"I don't know how long I can stay, Jacky, and that's the bare truth," Treedle said. "But if your Ma has no strong objection to our deal I'll stay as long as I can."
Treedle took the boy's offered hand and they shook on it, as men do. Jacky went back into the house, and a few minutes later the woman emerged alone. She glanced at the windlass.
"Done, I see."
"As I agreed."
She didn't say anything else for a bit. "Jacky's a good son. This has been hard for him." She met his gaze squarely. "He told you about our need. Well, it's true enough. Yet I do not know you, Treedle. I'd be a fool to accept you blindly."
Treedle shrugged. "That's no more than sense. Yet as I don't know how we change that situation on such short acquaintance, I have no solution."
"Nor do I. But need has its own rules, and I may be willing to accept the risk. You heard Jacky's offer; frankly I was thinking of making it myself if you did fix the windlass. But there's something I need to know first."
"Yes?"
Silence. Then "Who's chasing you, Treedle? Have you done something wrong?"
He smiled. "How did you know?"
"I've watched you," she said frankly. "You're no tinker, no beggar, no peddler, nothing that speaks of a life on the road. You were made to be in one place and live your life as part of it. A man like you is not rootless without cause."
"I see all of Jacky is not from his father, fine man though he doubtless was."
She smiled too. "He was all that and more besides. Now answer my question."
Treedle took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I've done many things wrong in my life, and made at least one very bad choice. But I swear to you that I've harmed no one save myself, and what follows me seeks only me. I'm no danger to you or your son, directly or otherwise. I'd like for you to believe that, because I would really hate to leave sooner than need be."
"I would hate that too," she said, "my name is Genfyr. Supper's waiting." She left him there without time or reason to say or do anything save follow her.
*
The King's Librarian was a monk, not a priest, and sworn to Amatok instead of Amaet. Perhaps that is why Marta had allowed herself to like him, despite her best intentions. That and the fact he was a friendly soul, more interested in his realm of parchment than anything else. Marta knew that he understood what she was, at least on a superficial level but, as he wanted no more than exactly what he had in life, this knowledge didn't affect him in the least. He had accepted both Marta and her obscure scholarly interests without hesitation, and in the weeks following her return from the Shrine had made himself extremely useful, if sometimes annoying. Partly, she knew, because the king had told him to help her, but just as much because he enjoyed what he did and it was rather hard to stop him from doing it even if one wanted to. The man's enthusiasm was nothing short of contagious. Come see! Read this, consider that. Marta had a hard time keeping up with him, and now and then had to be firm and say no until she had gleaned all that could be gleaned from her current project.
"Mistress, you have to see this."
Marta looked up from a somewhat fanciful history of the founding of Junland. "What is it, Brother Akaen?"
"Something that might of considerable interest to you. It's the earliest reference I've seen to something that might be the Arrow Path."
Marta yawned, and put her scrolls aside without much regret. Most of what had been recorded there she could now judge better in the light of other readings. The events that these particular records chronicled either couldn't have happened, or didn't happen to the people named, or did happen and the chronicler had forgotten to mention it. Marta usually found that the bits that were left out were the most interesting, but she had only just begun to realize how much work was required to even scratch the surface of what she needed to know, and how hard it was to see patterns with so little of the picture provided. She had made a good start, but that was all.
"I was done here anyway. What have you found?"
"A chronicle of the reign of Riegur I of Borasur, done soon after the coronation of his son Galan. That makes it...five hundred and sixty years old, give or take a decade."
Akaen held up a moldering volume. Marta peered closer and saw that the book actually was moldering, at least somewhat. There were dark streaks that had been mildew, as if the book had gone through several cycles of wet and drying. Akaen handled the thing carefully, obviously afraid it would fall to pieces on him. He placed it on the table and Marta rose, stretched, and walked over to look where he was pointing. "Read this bit starting...here."
Marta followed Akaen's finger and started to read. It mostly concerned a treaty agreed between Riegar and an unnamed Lord of the Five Isles which put an end to a period of raids and piracy against Borasur's ports and trading vessels.
"I don't see
..."
"Keep going," Akaen said.
Marta obeyed, and finally came to a passage that caught her attention. "They suspected Dommar the Beast fomented the crisis," she said. "But my understanding is that he was suspected of nearly everything, from the murder of Duke Palot to the eruption of a volcano near the Blacklands. What has this to do with the Arrow Path?"
"You'll note," Akaen said, "that in each instance Dommar was said to have acted through intermediaries. People who, I quote, 'owed their very souls to the evil wizard.'"
"That's rather vague," Marta pointed out. "And I certainly don't own any souls."
"But telling, don't you agree? And you must admit that, to an outside observer, it certainly might at least seem the case?"
Oh, fine, Marta thought. Now the Arrow Path will be linked to one of the darkest magicians in the history of the mainland.
"It's interesting," Marta admitted, and that was all. "Not all magicians are Arrow Path, or so I understand, and what they owe the Powers is a matter I know little about. If the Arrow Path existed before my grandmother's time I've seen no direct reference. Still, it is interesting. Thank you."
Akaen beamed. "I thought you would see it thus..." Akaen suddenly frowned. "Speaking of souls, where's that bird of yours? I don't think I've seen him for a day or two."
"Bone Tapper? He's on an errand." Marta hesitated, then went on, "I wanted to see what shape the eastern road was in. I'll be leaving soon."
Akaen's face fell, and it was all Marta could do to keep from hugging the man. At least one soul in Karsan will miss me. It wasn't much, but Marta knew it was more than she had any right to expect.
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