by TJ Muir
The man’s hold loosened further, allowing Kirrin to escape. He raced down the length of the hayloft and dove into a pile of loose hay. Safe. But the second man had gotten up the stairs by then, and caught hold of Kirrin's foot before he could bury himself. And then he dove on top of Kirrin, effectively pinning him while he waited for reinforcements.
Kirrin swore to himself. Once the second guy got there he wouldn't have much of a chance. And that was the one he had just kicked, so he likely wasn't going to be disposed to mercy. Before he could decide on a plan of action, a second pair of hands reached into the hay, dragging him out. The two men gripped Kirrin firmly between them, discussing their captive over his head.
The second man straightened up, making sure his grip was solid. A faint hint of moonlight glinted off his bald head. “Think the Master will want to deal with this one?”
“Could just take ‘im to Cook, let him deal with the wretch,” Big-Hands said.
Kirrin tried to pull free, only causing the men to hold tighter. That decided them, and without needing to discuss it further, they half-dragged him out of the barn, across the grounds, and inside the main house. Kirrin forgot to fight as he stared open mouthed at his new surroundings.
The men led him down a hallway lined with statues, some of which were magical. A giant fish undulating in midair as if swimming through the sea. A statue of Kambarr the thief with the three moons crossing the skies just above his outstretched hands. Kirrin blinked, watching that one, the moons moving just as they would in the night sky.
A shove put him back into forward motion, and reminded him of his circumstances. Doors opened, and the two men wrestled Kirrin into a large room.
Kirrin looked across the room, and recognized the burgundy boots beneath the desk. He knew those boots very well, after staring at them for several hours. Kirrin had a better look at the rest of the man now, seeing all of him, and not just the feet. Everything about him was impeccable. His clothes matched the boots, in style as well as color. Rich burgundy silks, and dark green hemp-cloth, finely woven and embroidered with silver and white.
“So’har,” bald-head said, as they approached.
Kirrin gulped. So’har. Could it get any worse? He had been caught stealing from one of the rulers of the region. This wasn’t just a rich man; this was a powerful man.
The man looked up from a table strewn with papers. A barely-touched breakfast sat cooling near his right hand. “What is this? This interruption?” the man asked, his hand waving directly at Kirrin.
“We caught this boy stealin’, So’har.”
“Deal with it yourselves,” the man said, dismissively, turning his attention back to whatever was on the table.
“Sir, he gave Cook the slip, and then the two of us had a fair time getting hold of him. We thought you might want to deal with him personal like.”
“Was there any damage done?” the So’har asked, looking up again.
“He stole bread from the kitchens, and kicked me in, uuhh…” Big-Hands trailing off without mentioning the specific indignity.
The So’har gazed curiously at Kirrin, head tilted. A motion of the hand, and the two brought Kirrin up closer. “Tiny thing. This,” he indicated Kirrin, “got the better of three of you?”
“He might be small, sir. But he’s quick. And nasty-mean.”
The So’har looked back and forth between his two men, and then turned his attention to Kirrin. Clasped firmly between the two men with the So’har’s intense gaze fixed on him, Kirrin was feeling anything but mean or dangerous.
“You aren’t one of our boys,” the So’har noted. “How do you come to be on our land, stealing our food, and causing inconvenience and distress to our men?”
Kirrin pursed his lips, the hint of a frown, as he considered his response. Big-Hands shook him, hard, showing his impatience with the nuisance in his grasp.
“There was these boys as was chasin' me. I was a goner, as I kicked Traz’s knee. And so I ran and hid the first place I found.”
The names meant nothing to this man, Kirrin could tell by the look on his face. And yet still he waited, listening, leaning back in his velvet chair, hands resting on carved armrests. “And this place was in my kitchens?”
“No sir. Twere your carriage,” Kirrin said, ducking his head.
The So’har laughed outright, surprise on his face. “You hid in my carriage, from Tatak Square?”
Kirrin nodded. “The market square, yes.”
“You hid under the carriage?”
“No sir, in the carriage. Like I said.”
The So’har sat upright, head cocked to the side, eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Under the seat, like,” Kirrin added.
The man laughed again, a short sound, then his expression turned thoughtful. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Seventeen--almost” Kirrin was finding his voice. He was still unsure what was to come, but this, right here, was preferable to any beatings.
The man’s eye’s narrowed. “Small,” was his only response.
Kirrin shrugged. Nothing he could do about his size, and he well knew he was not large for his age. It was half the reason he had the trouble he did with the backstreet bullies. The other half was being an outsider. He wasn’t from Tatak Rhe, had no family except his mother, and no siblings to protect him. Since Chad and Finn left, Kirrin had been at the mercy of the local boys.
And now he found himself at the mercy of a far more dangerous person. Strangely, he felt less fear now, even knowing this.
“Well, there is still the matter of theft to deal with. I am the So’har, here. So’har Hak’kar Charam, and I can do with you as I see fit.” Again with that voice. The face was impassive, but the voice frightened Kirrin, making him feel even smaller than he was, like a mouse caught before a hawk.
The change in tone wasn’t lost on Kirrin. The fear he hadn’t felt crept up his spine now. He swallowed. Games were over, this Lord was done amusing himself. He fought down panic. He was utterly lost. Instinct kicked in.
He twisted, quickly, sensing that Big-hands and Bald-head had relaxed their grips. He used his elbow to knock Bald-head’s hand from his shoulder, ducked out of his shirt and dove under a table, rolling to the other side. He came up on the other side of the carved table and dashed over the top of a many-cushioned couch. As he ran, he searched the room for a possible escape. A set of glass doors opened onto a terrace. Kirrin aimed for that. But Bald-head came around from the other side, cutting him off. He dove between Bald-head's legs, sliding across the polished stone floor. By now, Big-hands had caught up with them also. Kirrin bit the man on his fleshy leg and smashed a fist down on his toes.
He jumped to his feet and pushed a statue over, forcing Bald-head to grab it, or get knocked over by it, and tried to run towards the door to the room, as the balcony exit was now cut off. He didn't know if he could find his way back outside, but decided he could solve that problem later. He didn't get the chance. He slipped on the floor, and the two men finally cornered him, dragging him back to Hak’kar- who was laughing outright at this point,.
“So, you’ve almost bested two of my men. Twice.”
Kirrin looked up, confused. The two men were panting and scowling, looking as if they’d like to knock his head in, but Hak’kar wasn’t the least bit upset.
“You will work in the kitchens, three months. Punishment for your theft.” He said, with finality to his words. “If you run, trust that these men will find you.”
The threat was not lost on Kirrin. He knew what those words meant, very well. He gulped, and nodded his understanding. Felt a knot twist in his stomach thinking about it. One hundred thirty-eight days. It could have been far worse, he knew. But still. He knew if he tried to run again eventually they would catch him, or plan that moment better, and it wouldn't end well for him-- probably far worse than anything Aldon could dream up for revenge. And he knew the threat of being sent south was not empty.
The So’har nodded.
Dismissal. The two men led Kirrin away, no longer bothering to hold him as the threat was a greater hold over him than any hands would ever be. As they headed out the door, Big-hands shoved Kirrin's shirt at him, snorting under his breath.
“And teach the boy to fight,” Hak’kar added, almost as an afterthought.
Bald-head and Big-hands led Kirrin back outside, toward the kitchen. There they deposited him with Cook, who looked none too thrilled at having someone underfoot in his space.
Kirrin didn't want to make another enemy. Despite being sore, he grabbed a broom from the corner and turned to face Cook. “Do ya want me to sweep up?”
Cook glowered at him in response. Kirrin played the same trick he did with his mother and Perrin- he just stood there, holding the broom, waiting with all the innocence he could muster. A slight blink, the tiniest pout, just enough to look sad. Shoulders drooped.
Cook lost the stare-off with a grumble. “Go get yourself clean before ya touches anything in here. Spigot around back. Take a towel from above the sink.” Kirrin nodded, deciding not to ask why he couldn't just wash up at the sink. “Leave yer shirt here, as it's all dirty and torn,” Cook added. Kirrin was reluctant, but this round of staring went to Cook, who was not going to compromise. So Kirrin gingerly pulled off his shirt.
“By the red god! What's a'happened to you? Kip 'n Duffy wouldn't hurt a lad that bad. They's better not, leastways.”
Kirrin shook his head. “No, sir. Weren't the men. Twere the bullies in the city, as I was runnin away from.”
Cook came over closer, examining Kirrin’s torso. The bruises were starting to show up now, ugly purple splotches. Cook lifted his arm, turning it.
“Not broken,” Was Cook's decision. And then he shoo'ed Kirrin out. When Kirrin came back, feeling cleaner, Cook had salve and poultices for his bruises and ribs. After which, he had a clean shirt to wear as well; Cook noting that dirt was not going to be allowed in his kitchen.
Cook quickly warmed to Kirrin, as he proved himself useful in the kitchen. Kirrin had grown up helping his mother at the inn. Now, those years paid off. He even learned a bit about making some exotic dishes.
Kirrin hung the last pot up on the hook over the counter. He wondered what was the point of hanging them up when they would come right back down- even though he knew how cluttered the kitchens would be. He walked over to where Cook was hunched over the prep table, grinding something into a powder.
“What's that?” he asked.
Cook sneezed, and rubbed his nose against his shoulder. “Choofa spices. See this here root?” He nodded to a deep yellow tangle on the table. Kirrin nodded. “And that lighter yellow one next to it, along with some Nash Pepper, is the base of choofa cooking. After those three, in just the right combination, you can add other things, depending on what you want to make.” Kirrin nodded again, as he fingered the roots. He sniffed them, noticing a pungent spicy smell that seemed almost familiar and tickled his senses. He picked up one of the Nash peppers.
“Careful there,” Cook said. “Very hot, even though it looks small. And make sure you go wash your hands, or you'll be in for a surprise next time you have to wee.” Kirrin dropped the pepper hastily, looking at his fingers, which looked normal.
“There's oils in the peppers, always better to be careful. You won't see the oil, unless the whole pepper is crushed up, then it's a reddish on your fingers- just like the pepper is.”
Kirrin nodded. He trusted Cook's advice, having already had a choking fit when he thought the hot mustard was a bean dip. Cook had laughed at that, but had also helped him while his eyes ran and his face poured sweat. Yogurt and bread, Cook had said. It worked, but he didn't forget.
He hoped to surprise his mother when he got home. He knew she would worry about him. After his first day, Cook was satisfied with how well Kirrin learned his way around the kitchen, and even grunted approval at how clean everything was. Kirrin took that opportunity to ask if it was alright to write a note to his mother, so she wouldn’t worry.
That was an added touch that warmed Cook to Kirrin. “Is a good thing, always respect your Mum.” So he provided Kirrin with paper, and watched him write out his message. Kirrin wasn’t sure if Cook was curious about his ability to write, or if he didn’t entirely trust what Kirrin might put in the note. When he was done, he handed the note to Cook.
“She works at the Red Coach Inn. I put the name at the top.”
Cook nodded, looking over the note. Kirrin knew he hadn’t put anything improper in it, though it had taken him some time to figure out exactly how to word things so he wouldn’t alarm his mother.
Mum,
I had a scrape with a few of the lads on the street. But I’m okay. I am out of the city, where I will be for the rest of the month-span. I’m safe, and learning how to cook. I will tell you more when I return home, and will make you a Choofa dish.
Take care of the cats for me,
I miss you.
Kirrin
“I don’t want her to worry,” Kirrin said, over Cook's shoulder. “It’s just us two, so I’m all she’s got, like.”
Cook nodded his understanding, then shooed Kirrin off to finish scouring pots.
Kirrin settled into the routine quickly. Cook worked him hard for the first week-span, but Kirrin made genuine efforts to be helpful and to learn what he needed to know. By the end of the week-span he could anticipate what needed doing, and had it done before Cook barked the request across the kitchen. Pots scoured, potatoes scrubbed and peeled, vegetables washed and prepped, and herbs picked from the gardens.
He was kept busy through the entire day- mostly in the kitchens. Twice every day, before the mid-day meal and before dinner, Kirrin met with Big-hand and Bald-head. Their names were Duffy and Kip, but it was half-span before he thought of them with their real names. They had an area behind the barns they used as a practice area. A sandy clearing by the sheep pen, with a few logs laying around the sides.
At first, they didn’t seem to like Kirrin very much. Granted, Kirrin knew he had made them look bad in front of the So’har—their lord, and boss. But they did as they were instructed. Kirrin took his share of bruises, especially in the beginning—ducking and dodging only got him so far.
They spent the first week-span teaching him how to block blows and defend himself better. By the end of the nine days it was a challenge to land a blow past Kirrin’s defenses. Kirrin spent his spare time practicing- going through arm-blocks, head-blocks and leg-blocks until he was falling over, asleep.
“You’re bloody all quick,” Kip said. “Use that. Especial against them as is bigger than you.”
“That’ll be most everyone,” Duffy added, ruffling Kirrin’s hair and slapping him on the shoulder. For a moment, Kirrin almost felt like he did with his brothers.
“But dodgin’ll only get yous so far,” Kip continued. “You gotsta use your speed to do more than just get away like. Else they just keep comin’ back at ya.”
Kirrin nodded his head. Wasn’t that sure the truth. Aldon had been tormenting him for three years, ever since Chad had left to be an apprentice.
“So ya gotsta put em down once. Fast and hard,” Duffy said, with Kip nodding agreement behind him.
“Now, y’aint gonna be able to drop a fellow with weight. ‘Less you’re knockin down little tykes,” Duffy continued. “Now, cuz’a yer size, they’s gonna underestimate you, like. That’s a good thing. Gives you an advantage. See? But only for a moment.”
“So, ye’s gotsta know… other ways. To make it even like.”
Kirrin looked at the two men, a little confused. There were ‘other ways’ to fight? How could he make it even? He was even more confused when they pulled out a cow’s leg. But he soon found out what they meant.
“Now, first thing ta know? Never run. Never turn yer back on em. Where the fight starts is where ya want ta finish it. Turn yer back, and ye risk him taking you down from behind.”
Kirrin nodded, knowing the truth in that.
Duffy used Kip to demonstrate several moves. Kip was a bit larger than Duffy, so Kirrin could visualize himself standing up to someone larger.
“Knees, crotch, temple, throat, and foot. A jab to the throat. Can’t breathe? Can’t fight. Instant advantage. Blow to the temple? Can knock im senseless, stun im—can even kill a man, sometimes. Kick the knee, like this. Breaks real easy, like. Stomp the foot when a guy moves in. They break pretty easy. Can’t stand? Can’t fight.”
“And remember,” Kip continued, “Anything’s a weapon. Sand? Toss it in his eyes. Spit in his eyes. A bottle? Break it. And if you do get caught? You can try this.” He reached over Duffy’s head, grabbed his shirt, and pulled it up, over Duffy’s head, effectively blinding him. “Works best with sweaters, and things that stretch. But in a pinch, this works with any material.”