by Kim Fielding
He came upon a yard where soldiers were exercising, bare-chested and sweaty. He watched them for a very long time, until he finally sighed and wandered away. Maybe when he’d earned his first month’s pay he’d visit the bawdy houses. The Harvest Moon Festival was months away, but there wasn’t any particular reason why he had to wait that long. Hell, he could afford to fuck monthly now if he chose to. But somehow that thought didn’t bring much cheer.
He found the armory and the kennels. He waved at the tailor, who promised him new clothing by the next day. He discovered a pleasant promontory where he could look out at the endless blue-green sea and the boats bobbing at the piers and the gulls wheeling overhead.
And then a tolling bell announced that it was lunchtime, and he made his way back to the kitchens without getting lost. He searched for Alys amongst the frantic activity, but she saw him first, shoving a bucket into his hand. “Bread, cheese, meat, pickles,” she said cheerily. “And ale, of course.”
He stood there for a moment, waiting, until she gave him a shove. “Away with you. You’re too much of an obstacle in here.”
“But… the prisoner’s food?”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “He gets two meals a day.”
Brute took his lunch to a stone bench tucked under the overhang of a building. He should have enjoyed sitting there, eating good food and watching people pass to and fro, but he kept thinking of Leynham, chained in a dark cell and long since deprived of such simple pleasures. He knew he was being ridiculous. Leynham was a traitor. Once a dangerous man, it seemed. He probably deserved his fate.
A trio of little brown birds appeared from nowhere and landed at Brute’s feet. They hopped around, eyeing him demandingly until he tossed a few bits of bread onto the pavement. The birds pecked and squabbled, one of them bold enough to poke at Brute’s bare toes, which made him laugh.
But then he ran out of bread and the birds flew away, and his thoughts returned to his prisoner. It seemed to him that, no matter what evils a man had committed, making him suffer purely for the sake of suffering was pointless. It didn’t undo the harm he had wrought; it didn’t please anyone or improve anyone’s life. His father’s fate had been less cruel, really. Those last moments of terror, when even young Brute could tell that his father was struggling to keep his back straight and his mouth firm, a horrible drop… and then death. Followed by the afterlife—if it really existed—or simply nothing at all.
By early evening, Brute had concluded that he needed to find some way to occupy his time. Sitting and observing palace life would soon lose its charm. He could venture out into the city itself, of course, and undoubtedly he would soon do so. But even that activity would wear at him eventually. He realized that the wooden figures on his shelves must have been carved by a previous resident of his chambers, some man trying to pass the time. But Brute had never had a knack for carving, even when he possessed two hands. Surely there must be something he could do with himself besides eating, feeding Leynham, and emptying chamber pots.
At dinnertime he collected his tin pails from Alys. Two again, although a quick glance inside the smaller one confirmed his suspicion that it contained the usual mush and dry bread.
He lit the fat candles back in his room. In their flickering light, Leynham seemed to be waiting for him, propped against the wall with his knees drawn up against his chest and the quilt wrapped around him. “Hello,” Brute said, because it would have felt rude not to.
“B-b-b-b-b—” Leynham made a garbled sound of frustration. “B-b-brute?”
“Yes.” Brute set the tins onto the table and, after a brief hesitation, dug out the bowl of mush. “Are you hungry?”
Leynham sighed and shrugged one shoulder. Brute took this as an affirmative and filled the tin cup, noting that he would need to visit the well in the morning. And then, without consciously deciding to do so, he snagged a chunk of tender roasted beef from his own meal—which was accompanied by green beans, carrots, and tiny potatoes—and dropped a few slivers of the meat into the unappetizing bowl of mush.
He decided it would be easiest if he sat beside Leynham on the cell floor. Leynham flinched at first, but then relaxed and cocked his head. “F-f-food?”
“More or less.” Brute helped him hold the small bowl.
But when Leynham tasted his first mouthful, he hissed sharply. “Wh-wh-wh-what?” he demanded.
“Just a few pieces of beef. I was afraid you might get sick with more. I can take them out if you don’t want them.”
Leynham definitely did want them, judging by the speed and enthusiasm with which he ate his dinner. He licked the bowl again, then nibbled on his bread until Brute gave him some water to wash it down.
“Wh-wh-who are y-y-y-you?”
“Nobody.”
“G-g-g-guard?”
“No. I’m—I was a laborer. I’m from a village a few hours away.” Brute’s answer seemed to puzzle the other man, and when Leynham spent a few moments struggling to get his mouth to obey him, Brute decided it probably wouldn’t hurt to divulge more details. “The prince had an accident and I saved him, but I was hurt. He gave me this job to thank me, I guess.”
“Wh-wh-wh-which p-p-p-prince?” Leynham demanded.
“Prince Aldfrid.”
Leynham recoiled slightly. “F-f-f-friddy,” he whispered.
“I certainly wouldn’t call him that, but yes.” Brute sat back, trying to better gauge the other man’s expression. That was a difficult task in the dim light, and Leynham’s missing eyes masked much of his emotion.
Leynham’s shoulders slumped, and he ran a shaking hand over his forehead. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head slowly. The conversation seemed to be over, and Brute’s meal awaited, so he made as if to stand. But before he could rise completely, Leynham reached over and grabbed his knee. “W-w-w-wait. Wh-wh-wh-wh— Fuck!” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Wh-why so k-k-kind?”
Nobody had ever called Brute kind before, and he’d never thought of himself that way. Really, he had done very little for this man. But that little was apparently more than the previous guardian had managed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t… it doesn’t cost me anything to do these things, does it? And I’ve never really had the chance before to—well, I don’t know.” He twitched nervously. He wasn’t used to having to explain himself. People didn’t generally ask him many questions, least of all about himself.
He recognized the expression on Leynham’s face then: desperation. “St-st-stay awhile. D-d-d-don’t g-g-g-go back to y-y-your v-v-v-village yet. P-p-p-p-please.” Every word was a painful effort, and he seemed to hold his breath as he waited for an answer.
“I’ve nothing to go back to. I’ll stay.”
Leynham let go of Brute’s knee and slumped back against the wall in relief. Brute gathered the empty bowl and cup and crossed to the cell door. But even as he locked it again, the prisoner sat up straight and made a slight noise, like a clearing of his throat. “B-b-brute?” he said.
“Yes?”
“P-p-please. I’m G-g-gray.”
“Good night, Gray,” Brute replied. He thought maybe he sensed the shadow of a smile cross the other man’s lips.
Chapter 6
BRUTE’S new clothing arrived on the second day. Although clearly intended to be serviceable rather than fashionable, it was finer than anything he had owned before and fit him perfectly. He spent a long time running his hand gently over the fabric. The tailor had taken care with the design so Brute could dress easily: the shirts simply slipped over his head, and instead of laces, the underclothes and trousers fastened with large buttons made of polished shell. He had even been given a heavy cloak of charcoal-colored wool with a bit of scarlet trim. The cloak would keep him very warm when the weather grew cold. When he wore his new clothing, Brute stood a little straighter and felt slightly less like a monster.
But it was the boots that truly astounded him. Along with the wool socks that had been delivered, t
he boots fit him perfectly. The dun-colored leather was soft and supple, and the boots fastened with clever metal toggles that he could easily manage one-handed. It was far better footwear than anything he could have obtained in the village. In fact, he was reasonably sure that none of the Geddings possessed finer shoes. He was slightly regretful that Darius couldn’t see him now; the foreman would squirm with envy.
Brute wasn’t sure what to do with his old clothing. Nobody in the palace would want it, and it wouldn’t fit anyone anyway. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to throw it away because, aside from his knife and razor, those rags were all that he had owned when he arrived. He ended up washing his old clothes next to the nearby well—passersby rolling their eyes at him—and when the trousers and shirt were dry, he folded them neatly and placed them in the bottom drawer.
When he wasn’t doing laundry or managing mealtimes, Brute had little to occupy himself. He wandered the grounds of the palace so thoroughly that soon he knew the open areas as well as those of his old village—although he didn’t enter any of the buildings, aside from the kitchens. Some of the people began to smile and greet him as they passed. One afternoon he walked by the half-built structure just as the men were taking a break, and a few of them chatted amiably with him for a few minutes. They were constructing an observatory, which was apparently going to be used by one of the princes—not Aldfrid—to watch the stars. Neither the workers nor Brute had any idea why the prince would wish to do so, but they all concluded that the whims of royalty were beyond the ken of ordinary folk.
In the evenings, Brute and Gray spoke very little. Brute wasn’t used to companionship of any kind, and speech was an enormous struggle for Gray. But sometimes Brute caught himself singing, and Gray didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when Brute sang a bawdy ditty about a farmer and his randy wife, Gray made a dry rustling sound that Brute realized was actually a chuckle. Brute continued to mix little bits from his own meals in with Gray’s mush, which always earned him a stuttered thanks.
The men had three nights of uninterrupted sleep before Gray woke Brute again in the middle of the night. This time Gray wasn’t screaming; instead, he was sobbing, sounding for all the world like a forlorn child. As Brute stumbled his way to the cell, he decided that the shrieking was preferable. When he got to Gray’s side, the man continued to weep. Brute simply sat there for several moments, unsure what to do, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. Then he wrapped his arms around the huddled figure and patted the quilt-covered back. The crying decreased a little, and Gray leaned against Brute’s chest. That’s when Brute began to hum one of the lullabies he dimly remembered his mother using when he was very small and needed comforting.
Gray’s body was frail and bony against Brute’s, with only the quilt between them. Brute hummed and rocked a little and tried not to think about how good it felt to hold someone in his arms, to have a few minutes of human contact.
After a time, Gray pulled away. He sniffled twice. In a little-boy voice with a hint of a lisp but not a trace of stammer, he said, “Sebbi Jonzac. He’s going to catch a terrible fever, so very fast. He’s going to die from it.”
Then he slumped to the floor.
This time, Brute didn’t try to wake him. Instead, he left the cell, bolted it shut, and pulled on a shirt and trousers. By the time he was fully dressed, Gray was sitting up again, shivering slightly under his blanket. “B-b-b-brute?”
“I’m going to give your message to the guard. Do you want some water first?”
Gray shook his head, so Brute padded down the hall and pounded on the door. The guard swore viciously when Brute told him what Gray had said. “Do you know— Who’s Sebbi Jonzac?” Brute asked.
“Coenred Jonzac is a member of the guard. Sebbi’s his only son. He’s six or seven years old.”
Brute’s stomach knotted uncomfortably. “What Gr—what the prisoner said. Is it true? Is the boy dying?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Fuck.” The guard sighed noisily. “Get back in. I have to get word to my captain.”
Although he wanted to ask more questions, Brute obeyed. He was slightly relieved when he returned to his chambers and saw that Gray had fallen asleep again. But it took a long time for Brute to follow suit, and when he did, he dreamed of dying children.
GRAY was more withdrawn than usual the following morning, turning away to face the wall as soon as he’d finished his breakfast. Brute honestly didn’t mind that much. He wondered whether the other man was aware that Brute had held him as he’d cried the night before.
Brute gathered the dirty dishes and brought them to the kitchens, where pot boys were busily scrubbing and most of the bakers and cooks rested before beginning the preparations for lunch. It took a small army of people to feed the palace’s population, and they all toiled very hard, with excellent results. Brute had already gained back some of the weight he lost while recovering from his injury. It helped that Alys seemed to have enlisted some coworkers in her endeavors to keep Brute well fed. Whenever he showed up at the kitchens, even if it wasn’t mealtime, people would hand him little tidbits of this and that. He suspected that some of what he was given was meant for the tables of the royal family, since he’d never dreamed of the existence of so many delicious things.
“You’re not hungry again already?” Alys asked him with a smile as she walked by, lugging a huge basket full of potatoes.
Brute scooped the basket away from her, cradling it in his arms and earning a grin. He followed her over to an enormous table, where several girls were chopping vegetables. “I was just stopping by,” he said, grinning back at her as he set the basket down and grabbed a bit of carrot to shove into his mouth.
“And what are you doing with yourself today? Aside from eating our cupboards bare.”
The answer was out of his mouth before he even realized he’d made a decision. “I thought maybe I’d walk around the city for a while.”
She tilted her head and gave him a long, considering look. “Sounds like a good idea,” she finally said. “Do you mind if Warin tags along? He knows his way around well enough, but I don’t like him out of the palace by himself.”
Slightly bemused at the idea of having company, Brute shrugged. “Sure.”
He didn’t know how Alys managed to get word to her brother—perhaps she used special magic, because the boy seemed to appear from nowhere almost immediately, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Hurry up, Brute! I have three coppers that are all my own, and there’s this sweet shop that has the best stuff in the world. I’ll take you there!”
Alys cuffed him gently on the head. “Brute might not want to visit sweet shops, brat.”
“A sweet shop sounds perfect,” said Brute, who’d never been to one.
Warin took Brute’s hand and tugged him impatiently out of the kitchens and to the palace’s front gates. A part of Brute still feared he might be a captive here—for what, he wasn’t sure; but then, did royalty really need a reason?—so he was pleasantly relieved when the guards at the gate simply scowled as he passed.
He and Warin were almost immediately thrust into the bustling crowds. Warin was very good at worming his way through clots of people, which Brute was far too large to do. He could have used his bulk to simply shove his way forward, but he didn’t want to cause offense. Several times he lost sight of the boy altogether, but fortunately, Warin had no troubles at all finding the towering Brute and always made his way back to pull at Brute’s hand and urge him on.
They were soon in a section of Tellomer that Brute had never visited. Men and women in fancy clothing strolled down clean pavement, stopping to eye the goods arrayed in shop windows. And what goods they were! Dishes painted in fanciful patterns, jewelry in gleaming silver and gold, rugs that must have taken someone a lifetime to weave, dresses and shirts of beaded and embroidered silk. One shopkeeper with an oiled mustache stood proudly before an array of little glass jars that filled the entire street with the scents of flowers and spices and musk. A sh
ort couple were rearranging their display of wooden musical instruments, most of which Brute had never seen before and couldn’t identify. One place sold yarns in a rainbow of colors, one was a stationer’s with beautiful papers, and another seemed to have nothing but beads and miniature figures made of blown glass.
It was a large shop on a corner that stopped Brute in his tracks, however, much to the annoyance of the women walking behind him. “Glorious gods,” he breathed.
Warin had continued walking, not noticing that Brute had stopped, and now he doubled back. “They’re just books,” he said when he saw what Brute was staring at.
“I didn’t think there were that many books in the whole world,” said Brute, who had caught glimpses of volumes now and then, usually in the hands of travelers who stopped at the White Dragon.
Warin waved his hands dismissively. “There are more books than that in the palace library.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Only about a thousand times. It’s not so great. Dusty. And you have to be quiet and sit still.”
“Why would you be sitting in a library?”
“Lessons, of course!” Warin huffed melodramatically. “I used to have them five mornings a week, and the schoolmaster would whack my head with his stick if I didn’t pay attention, but it was so boring! I don’t have to go anymore, though. I’m old enough.”
“So… you can read?”
“Of course I can read!” Warin squinted his eyes and looked up at him. “You can’t?”
“No,” Brute answered shortly, and resumed walking.
The sweet shop was only a block away. There were a few dainty tables outside, populated by women sipping tiny glasses of tea. The inside had a long wooden counter, behind which shelves of glass jars held candies of yellow, red, brown, black, and green. Tables were set off to the side, where two women with pink scarves over their hair poured drinks for the customers and set out delicate little plates of pastries. Warin wasn’t the only child in the shop. Several other boys and girls stood in a line along the counter, gazing up at the sweets avariciously. But they turned and gasped when Brute entered the shop. Warin puffed up his narrow chest and walked confidently forward.