Brute

by Kim Fielding

  The shopkeeper was an old man, not much bigger than Warin. “Yes?” he asked the boy, giving Brute a wary glance.

  “One copper each of lemon, mint, and peach,” Warin immediately responded. Likely he’d been planning this purchase for some time.

  The man nodded and scooped the brightly colored little balls and twists into a paper cone. Brute thought they’d leave the shop then, but instead Warin hurried across the floor and plopped himself into one of the chairs. Brute followed, eyeing the chair suspiciously before sitting down, relieved when it didn’t collapse beneath him. He felt ridiculous, though, perched on such a tiny seat.

  Warin crunched happily for a few minutes before holding his cone toward Brute. “Have some.”

  “I haven’t any money.”

  “So? I already paid for them. C’mon. Alys’ll tan my hide if she thinks I ate this much on my own.”

  The boy’s casual generosity stunned Brute more than anything he’d experienced since he came to the palace. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely and took a couple of candies between his fingers. He popped them in his mouth and sucked at them, savoring their sweetness.

  “You’re here to keep tabs on me, aren’t you?” Brute said after a while.

  Warin shrugged. “Sort of. But I really wanted to go. I hardly ever get out of the palace. Everyone’s too busy to take me, and Alys says I’m too young to go on my own. Which is not true, but there’s no use arguing with her.”

  “Why do I need a minder?”

  “’Cause they want to make sure you come back.” The boy looked suddenly concerned. “You are planning on going back, right?”

  “Of course. But the other… the other people who’ve stayed in the Brown Tower, they haven’t?”

  “Some of ’em stuck around for a few weeks. One guy was there for three or four months. But one man left after his first night!”

  “Because of the dreams?”

  Warin used a finger to dig compressed candy from his teeth. “Yeah. They got scared. He only dreams about people who are nearby, and I guess they were afraid he’d dream of them next.”

  “Do his dreams always come true?”

  “Nah. Sometimes they can be stopped. That’s how come you have to listen, to tell what he says.”

  Brute was slightly relieved to learn that Gray’s prophesies weren’t infallible. “Warin, the things he dreams of… is he just seeing the future, or is he making those things happen?”

  “Dunno.”

  And that must have settled the matter in Warin’s mind, because he poured three candies onto the table in front of Brute, shoved the rest into his own mouth, and stood. “Let’s go. There’s lots more to see. Sometimes there’s jugglers over by the green market.”

  So Brute slipped the candies into his pocket and followed the boy out into the street.

  Brute was fairly certain that Warin’s chosen route was not the most direct one, but it was certainly interesting, at least from a child’s point of view. Brute didn’t mind; it wasn’t as if he had a particular destination in mind. After several blocks of posh houses, followed by more modest homes where dogs barked at them from front doors, they passed into a tradesmen’s district. Warin stopped to watch men hammering metal or cutting leather into various shapes. Even Brute was fascinated by the glassblowers sweating in front of their furnaces, and he enjoyed the scents of the breweries and distilleries. Then a terrible smell filled their noses as they reached the tanneries with their enormous vats of colored dyes. They didn’t stay there long, instead twisting and turning down narrow streets where the people looked tired and hungry and where some begged pleadingly with passersby. Brute saw a man—a young man, not much older than himself—who was slumped against a wall, a cracked bowl placed in front of him to receive coins. Both arms ended in angry-looking stumps at the elbows, and for the first time, Brute was thankful for his own misfortune.

  Ramshackle hovels gave way to tiny shops and then to taverns that were raucous even at midday. On a street smelling of sour ale and urine, a man stumbled out of an inn and collided with Brute. Despite being two heads shorter, the man blocked Brute’s way, swaying slightly and staring blearily. “Not so tough,” he said. He drew out all the vowels as if the consonants were sticking on his tongue.

  “Excuse me,” muttered Brute and tried to move around him.

  But the man sidestepped too—clumsily—and wobbled closer. They were almost touching, and Brute could smell his foul breath. “Not so tough,” the man repeated.

  A small crowd materialized, drunken men and women who were eager for a bit of entertainment, small boys who jeered and clapped. “I won’t fight you,” Brute said, as mildly as he could. He pulled the stump of his maimed arm out of his pocket, producing gasps and catcalls from his audience. “See? I can’t.”

  His assailant poked him in the chest. “Coward.”

  “I’m not. But you’re rat-assed and I’m damaged, and I haven’t any quarrel with you.”

  Maybe the man would have come to his senses and stepped away, but Warin chose that particular moment to butt in, announcing grandly, “We’re the king’s men. Now stand aside!”

  The crowd erupted in laughter and the man snorted. “King’s men, eh? Guttersnipe and his pet monster, more like. King wouldn’t have nothing to do with the likes of you.”

  Warin’s face turned almost as red as his hair, and he kicked the man’s shin. The audience roared with laughter, but the man growled and backhanded Warin in the face. Warin went flying as blood spurted thickly from his nose. To the boy’s credit, he didn’t back down. He growled and lowered his head, butting into the man’s ample belly hard enough to make him grunt and stagger back a step. The man grabbed a fistful of Warin’s hair.

  Brute didn’t know what the man had in mind to do next, and he didn’t wait to find out. He snarled, stepped forward, and brought his fist down directly on top of the man’s skull. The man crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut and lay motionless on the cobbles. Warin gave him a vicious kick in the side.

  “Is he dead?” called an ancient crone with messy gray hair.

  Warin dragged a sleeve under his nose. “Nah.”

  Brute thought the crowd seemed disappointed at that. “Let’s go,” Brute said quietly to him, even as the bystanders surged forward with offers to buy them both drinks. Warin seemed slightly hesitant to leave the excitement, but he allowed himself to be hauled off.

  By the time they were only a few blocks away, Warin was nearly giddy with enthusiasm. He retold their brief confrontation over and over, embroidering the details a little more each time, until it sounded as if the two of them had taken on a legion of enemies and Brute had slaughtered the lot of them with barely lifting a finger.

  “Let’s go to the market, Brute,” Warin wheedled as he danced back and forth. “The jugglers and the acrobats and— Or maybe the docks? I bet we can get on one of the ships and—”

  “We’re going back to the palace.”

  “But it’s hardly even lunchtime! I haven’t shown you the fish market yet or the weavers or—”

  “Another time. I think we’ve had enough adventures for one day.”

  Warin pouted but followed along, and it didn’t take long before his mood brightened again. He poked tenderly at his swollen nose. “Do you think it’s broken? Do you think maybe I’ll end up with a bump like yours?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine and straight.”

  “Oh.” Warin sounded disappointed. “Maybe if I sort of whack at it….”

  “Why would you want to ruin your face with a nose like mine?”

  “Because you… you’re amazing! You’re like Fenris. In the story, you know? Big as a mountain and brave as a bull and he saves a whole town from the monsters of the chasm.”

  “I’m only a man, Warin. And not much of one.” But Brute couldn’t hide the pleased grin on his face, and it stayed there the whole way back to the palace.

  Chapter 7

  WHEN they returned to the palace, Br
ute had to face Alys, who was not at all pleased to have her brother returned to her with his nose swollen and his shirt hopelessly bloodstained. But then Warin began telling her what had happened, complete with reenactments and embellishments that Brute kept trying to correct. All of the kitchen staff who weren’t otherwise employed gathered around to listen and watch, and Brute felt his face go scarlet with embarrassment over the attention.

  “You really saved Warin with a single punch?” Alys finally asked.

  “It was… I suppose. The man was really drunk. A tap on the shoulder probably would have made him pass out.”

  “You must be a good fighter.”

  Brute’s blush intensified. “Not really.” In truth, the first and last time he’d fought anyone was just after his remarkable growth spurt began. Until then he’d been bullied unmercifully by other children—and by his great-uncle. The village boys liked to waylay him while he ran his errands, and he’d curl into a pathetic ball as they kicked and punched and spat at him, knowing that when he got home he’d face another beating from his great-uncle for being late. But then, seemingly overnight, Brute grew. The next time he was attacked, he fought back, earning success more from sheer size than adept technique. The boys had limited their harassment to verbal taunting after that, which he tried to ignore. His great-uncle had continued to thrash him, however, literally until the day the old man died.

  Alys reached up and stroked Brute’s bicep. “Thank you for protecting my brother.”

  Brute hung his head and mumbled something inchoate.

  A large man in a stained apron appeared and yelled at everyone to get back to work. They scrambled to obey, but not before quite a few of them clapped Brute on the back. Alys shooed Warin away to clean himself up, but she told Brute to wait where he was. She returned a few minutes later with Gray’s dinner pail and a large basket covered with a linen napkin. “These are special,” she said, nodding her chin at the basket. “They were made for the king and his guests tonight. But we can spare a few, and you’ve earned them.” She smiled and then hurried away.

  Whatever was in the basket smelled wonderful, and Brute was famished. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But as he walked back to the Brown Tower, it occurred to him that Gray hadn’t eaten since breakfast either, that he never got more than two meals a day, and that those meals were small and bland.

  Gray was awake when Brute entered his chamber, turning his face in the direction of the table, where Brute set the food. “B-b-b-brute?”

  “It’s me,” Brute answered, and couldn’t help but notice that Gray sighed with relief. “Sorry I was gone so long. I brought dinner, though. Just give me a minute.”

  Gray nodded. “D-d-didn’t th-th-th-th—fuck!—th-think you’d c-c-c-come b-b-b-back.”

  “I guess I’m too stupid to stay away,” said Brute. “Nowhere else to go anyway.” He lifted the fabric from the basket and discovered a half dozen golden rounds of dough, each with poppy seeds sprinkled on top. Alys had put some grapes in the basket too—large red ones—and a bottle of wine. He wondered what the king would think he if he knew that his ogreish new employee was consuming his fine food and drink. Then he shrugged philosophically and took a large bite of one of the rolls, moaning as he tasted the filling of extremely tender and delightfully spiced meat. He gobbled it down quickly before grabbing a second roll and Gray’s bowl of mush, then made his way to the cell.

  Gray almost yelped with surprise when Brute handed him the roll. “Fuck!” He never seemed to have any problem with that word, Brute noticed and smiled. Gray nibbled at the roll slowly, pleased little sounds coming from his throat the entire time. He ate his mush as well, although with considerably less enthusiasm. He could hold the bowl by himself now, Brute noticed, and without any shaking of his hands.

  “N-n-not m-m-m-meant to f-f-feed me like th-th-th-that,” Gray said when he was done.

  “I know. But you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

  Gray snorted. “N-n-no.”

  “Then nobody will know.” Brute stood and gathered the empty bowl.

  He had considerable difficulty getting the cork out of the wine bottle. It wasn’t something he’d practiced often even when he had two hands. But eventually he propped the bottle between this thighs and dug at the cork with the tip of his knife, and he was able to get at the liquid inside. Little bits of cork floated in it, but he didn’t care. The wine was lovely. He drank it all while he ate his food, and he was left feeling warm and comfortable and content.

  He was sleepy too, so he decided to wash up and get ready for bed. He removed his shirt first, but as he was unbuttoning his trousers, he remembered the candies. He pulled them out of his pocket and gazed at his palm: three slightly linty balls, one yellow and two green. He popped one of the green ones in his mouth and looked speculatively toward the cell. What was the point of being happy if you couldn’t share it, at least a little, he thought.

  Gray startled a bit when Brute opened the cell, and seemed to tense under his quilt. But Brute simply crouched beside him and held out his hand. “Here. This is for you.” When Gray didn’t react—aside from deepening his frown—Brute gently fished Gray’s left arm out from under the blanket and transferred the candies to Gray’s slightly clenched hand.

  Gray sniffed at the candies, then poked them with a fingertip. “Wh-wh-wh-what?”

  “Just sweets. I was given them as a gift today, and I suppose they’re mine to give away if I want to.”

  Gray put the candies in his mouth and spent a long time sucking on them. He had a strange expression on his face, one that Brute couldn’t place. But then it was hard to read him anyway, between the dim light and his mass of beard and hair, and the nothingness where his eyes should be. But when Brute stood up, Gray reached out and tentatively touched his leg. “C-c-c-can I f-f-feel y-y-y-you?”

  “What?”

  The prisoner sputtered helplessly as he tried to say something, but Brute couldn’t make any sense of it. Finally, Gray swore again, twice—“Fuck! Fuck!”—and then mimed running his fingertips over his face. Brute understood.

  “You want to see—to feel my face.”

  Gray sighed a bit and nodded twice.

  “It’s not a nice face.” But even as he said it, Brute wondered if a man could tell with his fingers that Brute was ugly. Would he feel ugly too?

  “P-p-please,” Gray whispered. “W-w-w-want t-t-to know y-y-you. H-h-help m-m-me remember. L-l-l-later.”

  “When I’m gone, you mean.”

  Gray nodded again and turned his head away.

  Maybe Brute should have refused. But nobody had ever wanted to remember him before, and people certainly weren’t clamoring to touch him. His skin felt hungry for it, like his stomach when he’d missed a few meals. So he collapsed onto the floor, sitting cross-legged next to Gray, so close that his knees brushed against Gray’s blanket-covered leg. “Okay.”

  Brute had given up trying to guess the prisoner’s age, but when Gray smiled at him now, Brute realized that the other man was younger than he’d expected, although well past his youth. Midthirties, maybe. Just a few years older than Brute. How many of those years had he spent chained in this cell?

  Gray shifted himself around so that his knees pressed against Brute’s. His chains clanked as he moved. He lifted his right hand and reached forward, then seemed surprised when his fingers touched Brute’s lower neck instead of his face. “Tall!” he exclaimed, stammer-free.

  Brute laughed. “I am.” He wondered what mental image Gray had of him, and how close it was to the truth. Then he stopped wondering anything and nearly held his breath as questing fingers ghosted over his closely shorn scalp, over his heavy brow and crooked nose, over his evening-stubbled cheeks, over his scars. Even over his smooth, dry lips—which caused an involuntary shiver.

  But then Gray continued to touch him, sliding his fingertips gently down Brute’s neck. When he reached the notch between collarbones, he raised his other hand as well and glid
ed his palms to both of Brute’s shoulders. “B-b-b-big,” he said, sounding impressed.

  The knot in Brute’s throat was too thick for him to reply, even as Gray’s hands moved slowly down his biceps. This man was a witch, Warin had said. Maybe this was some kind of spell, a continuation of Gray’s supposedly nefarious deeds. The sensations matched what he suspected magic would feel like—everywhere Gray touched tingled slightly, as a sleeping limb did when it was in the process of waking up.

  But Brute remained still, and Gray traced the heavy muscles of his forearms. And then Gray’s left hand continued past Brute’s wrist and down to the heavy knuckles, while his right hand—well, it ran out of things to feel. Gray gasped. “B-b-b-brute?”

  “Accident.”

  Gray took a deep breath. Brute expected he might be disgusted, but he didn’t seem to be. He delicately felt the contours of the rounded stump before pulling away completely. “Y-you’re st-st-still strong.”

  Honestly, Brute was feeling a little weak in the knees. But he climbed to his feet and left the cell, bolting it carefully behind him. He pulled off his trousers and breechclout, and he climbed into his comfortable bed and went to sleep.

  If either of them dreamed that night, the images weren’t enough to wake them.

  Chapter 8

  “YOU seem to want to make a habit of being a hero,” said Lord Maudit.

  Brute swallowed uncomfortably and looked around the room for a moment before answering. “I’m not, Your Excellency. It was only a drunken ass—a drunken lout, someone who didn’t know better than to raise his hand to a child.”