“We are not selling right now, sir,” Kosti told him, genially. “Come to us tomorrow. Tonight is a time of rest and good food.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. His fellows shouted out their agreement, lifting their mugs of ale.
“It is not to buy... but to pay an old debt,” Joseph replied, as the assenting cries died down.
Kosti set down his mug and peered at Joseph’s face with keen eyes.
“I do not understand,” he said, rubbing one hand through his snowy beard. “I know the faces of all who are in my debt and would rejoice in any payment, but... your face is not familiar to me. I cannot take this money.” Joseph smiled.
“It is for a ride you gave me--long ago--to the King’s City, and for a piece of bread and an apple.”
At first Kosti seemed confused at this information; then his eyes grew wide, as did his smile. He stood up and clasped Joseph’s hand in his.
“So the boy is now a man!” he said, incredulously. “I did not forget you. I worried that you’d been trampled, or taken by bandits. How good it is to see you are grown! Sit! Join us! Move, you...” Kosti abruptly nudged one his sellers out of the seat next him and beckoned to the Inn owner. “Ale, for young Joseph Asher.”
“Many thanks,” Joseph told him, sitting down by the aging merchant. “It is good to see you as well.”
“Still alive, you mean. I feel younger just seeing you again. You must tell me about yourself! You were only, what... ten, when I met you. You must be past twenty by now.” As he spoke Kosti pushed a plate of steaming meat towards Joseph.
“Three and twenty,” Joseph answered, amused at the man’s enthusiasm. “I have been in the army these six years.”
“Yes, you have that look about you,” Kosti returned. “Do you like the North? You see... I told you that you would come here one day!”
Joseph asked his host about the fine caravan.
“One, of many!” Kosti declared. “I have a hundred sellers now, and more than just spices. Fine cloth, gold-smithing, horses... God has blessed me beyond measure. At last, I have a soft cushion to sit upon!” The old merchant laughed at his own joke; he stood and made a toast, to cushion, which his fellows returned. He and Joseph talked of the merchant’s many adventures and of Joseph’s history far into the night.
At dawn, Kosti insisted Joseph ride along with them as they left Kalos; he accepted. As the caravan prepared to depart, the old merchant admired the newcomer’s powerful, black steed.
“A fine horse,” Kosti said, rubbing Belator’s neck. “And steady nerves. A soldier’s horse. Come with us as far as you like. I would have your company once again.” Joseph hitched Belator up to the back of Kosti’s cart and took a seat by his old friend in the front of the brightly colored merchant wagon.
Two days later the mountains surrounding the King’s city rose once into view. By noon the caravan rattled through the military town of Khilar, in Velan Province. The upscale town housed a nearby fort’s officers and their families. Neat, stone-paved streets greeted Joseph’s eye, flowering trees and large, rich houses surrounded by clipped lawns and wrought iron fences. The roads through the town were filled with officers riding horses or in their carriages, their medals shining in the sun. A group of petty officers--in their bright blue cloaks and shiny black boots--cut in front the string of merchant carts, knowing they had the right of way.
Kosti spat on the ground.
“They think they own the whole road?” the white-beareded man asked, bitterly. “Every time I come through here it’s the same thing. I pay my taxes they same as they do!” He slowed his nervous horses again and let yet another carriage pass. Joseph nodded in silent agreement, looking across the chaos of the road at a group of young captains, standing outside a tailor’s shoppe; they were laughing and pointing at some new fabric or millinery on display. Kosti continued his grousing, but Joseph’s mind was far away.
Groups of officers and soldiers rode along the paved avenues, pausing to tip a fine hat at a passing carriage; others sat in the shade of the many well-trimmed trees, or by bubbling fountains in the park. By the fort’s parade grounds, he saw soldiers practicing sparring with swords or long sticks. A familiar sense of longing flooded over the young man, and a little envy. Oh, that he’d been able to go to officer’s training! Just to be able to live in such a privileged place seemed worth the sneers and jibes he would have faced; he’d weathered much worse as a mere seargent. He’d won honor and renown, only to have the same stripped away. He sat on the seat of the merchant cart, feeling the injustices of his army career weighing heavily upon him.
The caravan’s arrival at the town size-able marketplace roused Joseph from his gloom.
“My friend, you are welcome to stay with us,” Kosti said, clapping his hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “We’ll sell here tomorrow and then be off, to the King’s city once more. If you need work, I will always need a good worker.”
Scaring up a smile Joseph thanked the old merchant and clasped his hand.
My house is in the King’s city,” Kosti continued. “On the other side of the Central market. I like to be close my shop. My home you can see right away; it is the only one with trees on the roof. Cooler in summer, you know. Come see me, when you next come through.”
Nodding, Joseph let go Kosti’s hand and got down from the cart, untying Belator with swiftness.
“May God be with you,” he said, glancing back at the merchant. “I am glad to have met you again.” Kosti nodded, looking as if he wished to say much more. He did not, however, but nudged his horses to walk onward towards the other side of the market.
As he walked, Joseph’s heart sank at the sight of Belator limping. On further inspection, he found a bent shoe to be the culprit, not an injury. Inquiries from a nearby fruit vendor lead Joseph to a blacksmith; there was only two in the whole town. One smithy was near the market, a ramshackle building situated under large oak trees, set away from the other trade buildings. Before he’d even come close to the smithy, Joseph heard loud cursing emanating from inside.
“You pigheaded fool!” a older man’s voice screamed out; it sounded like a rusted wheel trying to turn. “Get out of my forge! Get out!”
A soot-covered boy stumbled out of the smithy entrance, as though he’d just received a boot from behind. Scampering away, the lad did not look back; he disappeared into the market crowd. None of the townspeople shopping--nor the merchants nearby--seemed to take any notice. Joseph tied Belator’ lead to the post outside before cautiously venturing in the open doorway.
The interior of the smithy appeared well lit by large openings in the walls; Joseph had seen this done before, when the owner could not afford windows; coal-fired forges were unbearably hot without ventilation. The back wall of this smithy was lined with four glowing furnaces, throwing a red light over haphazard piles of iron pieces, benches of tools and hanging chains. A rat ran over Joseph’s toe and out the door. In the corner, an older grizzled man--in a dirty smith’s apron and thick trousers--sat on a barrel, eyes closed. His gray head leaned back against the wall, as if he weer asleep. Joseph disliked he man’s mean appearance and the untidy manner of his shop. The air in the smithy smelled like that of a dungeon.
“My horse needs a shoe hammered straight,” Joseph said, watching the sitting man’s form. The figure did not stir. “I’ll pay for the iron and the use of the forge, but I’ll hammer it myself,” he continued, stepping over a bundle of wood.
The smith opened a rheumy eye, looking narrowly at the stranger standing in his shop.
“Are you a smith?” he asked, raising his head from the wall. Joseph nodded. The grizzled man broke out in a gap-toothed grin. “Well, isn’t that just luck,” he said, standing with some difficulty. “Of course. Hammer your horse’s shoe... two silvers.”
“A high price for use of a forge,” Joseph responded, coolly. The blacksmith shrugged and ambled over to the fires, kicking a plump rat out of the way.
“You’re not a soldier,” the smit
h told him. “Not a merchant, either, from the looks of you. Just some wanderer passing through, no doubt. What is it--to me--if your horse gets shoed or not? I have more work than anyone in this city. These officers paraded here one after the other, demanding new trapping for their saddles and new-fangled weaponry...” The man spat on the floor, wiping his mouth on a filthy rag from a workbench. “A knife’s a knife, if you ask me. Still slit a man no matter how ornate its handle.” He looked up at Joseph, appraising him through narrowed eyes.
Matching the smith’s glare with a steady gaze, Joseph took one step closer.
“One silver,” he repeated. “A day’s wage to use the forge and your hammer. That is what I offer.” The smith chuckled and grasped the handle of one of his hammers.
“A day’s wage it is, boy,” the old man cackled, looking pleased with himself. Glaring defiantly up at Joseph, the smith handed him the hammer. “I need a new assistant,” he stated. “There’s the stables out back, two stalls empty. Work for me five days of seven... and you and your horse can stay there. Five days of seven.”
“That situation is not enough to pay for food, let alone feed for my horse,” Joseph replied after a moment. One of the forge fires began to flicker; ambling over towards it, the smith threw a few chunks of coal into the opening, not caring where it landed.
“Boy,” said he, “you won’t find lodging anywhere for one silver a day. The other smith won’t hire you; he’s got three assistants already. Take my offer... or leave. It’s all the same to me.”
As the man spoke, Joseph glanced around the grimy, hot room. With some cleaning--and a cat to rid the place of vermin--the place would be no worse than his old forge at Fort Munitio, he decided. He’d seen worse.
“Perhaps, if I knew my employer’s name,” Joseph said, resigning himself to situation. “Five days it is.” The blacksmith grinned, deepening the lines in his blackened face.
“Smith Grier. That’s all the name I have anymore,” he said. “Give me your name, and you better not be a runaway slave... or wanted by the law.”
“Joseph of Rishown,” the young man replied. “I am a free man.”
“Rishown? A piddling village,” the smith scoffed. “You look like a country peasant. Get your horse stabled, boy... you work today.”
TEN
Smith Grier had not lied about the amount of work.
A steady stream of soldiers came in and out of the forge until darkness fell each day, bringing with them saddles to be repaired, trapping to be affixed, horses to be shoe’d, swords to be straightened... all demanding to be first to be taken care of. While Joseph hammered away ceaselessly in the stifling heat Grier sat on a barrel by the door, mending bundles of arrows and sharply telling officers to ‘come back tomorrow’. In spite of the steady flow of Joseph’s work and the high quality with which the young man crafted weapons, Grier amused himself by raining insults on his assistant nearly all day. Joseph hardly heard them and occupied himself with work.
At the end of his first five-day work stretch, Joseph found that the expense of feed for Belator as well as his own food had depleted his personal resources down to almost nothing. Since he would not work for two days, Joseph went out early the next morning to find a day’s work. Not many people needed any help; the local stables did not need another peasant to clean out stalls, three Inns had no need of any firewood chopped or any other labor.
“Why not go down and join up with the army, boy?” one Innkeeper told him, curtly. “You’re a strong lad, old enough not to be lazily walking about. At least have the honor to be a soldier.” Disheartened, Joseph walked back towards the village. His pace slowed as he passed the parade grounds of the fort.
On the wide stretch of grass behind the Fort--partly hidden from the road by shrubs--several townsfolk stood, apparently watching soldiers sparring to hone their skills. One area of activity caught Joseph’s eye: a square of ground fenced off with rope roughly twenty foot square. Inside, a tall soldier grandly removed his officer’s coat, tossing it to a fellow officer. His sparring partner seemed little more than a farm laborer and awkward with the blade he held. Joseph stepped in among the observers to get a closer look. This activity seemed the only entertainment to be had--at this time of day--and rich man and poor man alike stood shoulder to shoulder by the ring. Looking around, Joseph saw a general sitting in a fine carriage not far away, apparently watching the matches with interest.
The officer in the ring had no qualms in taking advantage of his partner’s inabilities, driving the farm hand into a state of fearful panic with swift lunges and showy twirls. The audience gasped and clapped often, their cheers inciting even more flamboyant moves. Joseph watched as the officer toyed with the man, and then--in a catlike move--drove his sword right into the peasant’s shoulder. Spectators gasped as the man cried out and dropped his sword. The dark-haired officer seemed disgusted at his partner’s reaction.
“Are you finished already?” the young man taunted. He circled the kneeling man lightly, using the tip of his blade to poke at him. “Is this all the sport I am to expect today? Useless creature!”
The young captain threw down his sword and went over to one of the ropes where a fellow officer handed him a goblet of wine. The bleeding peasant left smartly, stumbling through the crowd.
“Now then, Von Curtis,” another captain said to the victor. “You’ve been through seven spar partners in three days. You’re not supposed to be cutting them up.”
“A trifling wound,” Captain Von Curtis shot back, bitterly. He handed the empty goblet back and spun around to face the onlookers. “Is there a man among any of you? A man fit to fight? I’ll give five silvers to the man who comes into this ring with me!”
The rope lifted. Joseph stood up in the square of trampled grass. The sword the peasant had been using was still on the ground, along with a few droplets of blood. Leaning down Joseph picked it up, his eyes never leaving the arrogant young officer.
Von Curtis’ mouth twisted into a sort of grin as he scrutinized the newcomer.
“A strong one,” the captain said, taking up his own blade again. “Your farm labor might can do little here. It takes training to win over an officer.” The captain’s mocking tone appeared to have no effect on the newcomer in the rope square. Joseph leveled his steady gaze at the leering blue orbs of the young captain. The smell of the trampled grass hung heavy in the air. Joseph’s opponent walked to and fro in his corner, impatiently tapping his boot with the flat of his blade. Slowly, Joseph raised the borrowed sword to a ready position, as did Von Curtis. Quiet spread over the small audience and nothing stirred but the breeze.
The captain lunged first. Joseph deflected the blow and stepped aside quickly, almost making Von Curtis lose his balance. Someone in the crowd laughed; the captain reddened at this and re-adjusted his stance. Fierce jabs and quick lunges proved useless; Joseph walked easily around the captain, deflecting blows off his sword, all the while watching the captain’s hands. He seemed to anticipate each attack, but did not take advantage and attack back. The audience began to chatter noisily and a cheer rose up every time Joseph dodged another lunge.
After several minutes, Von Curtis jabbed at his opponent incautiously and missed his footing, falling hard onto the grass. He rolled over and sprang up, only to find himself at the point of Joseph’s sword. The spectators went silent.
“Here, here,” one of the other captains said, nervously. “A draw! It’s a draw... how about that Von Curtis?” He stepped into the square and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You’re tired out; you’ve been sparring since daybreak. Pay the man and come to my house for some wine.”
Joseph stepped back from the two officer, sticking the stuck the tip of the sword into the grass. Some in the crowd applauded but were silenced by a look from Von Curtis. The young captain haughtily put on his uniform and made a great show of taking out five silver coins from a heavy, red silk money pouch. Throwing them at Joseph’s feet, the captain strode away, followed
by the other officers.
As Joseph picked up the coins, a voice hailed him.
“You there!”
Standing up, Joseph looked in the direction of who spoke. A captain--not much older than Joseph--came walking up to him, grinning broadly. “I saw you with Von Curtis; you’re very good with a sword. You should be a soldier.” Disliking the young man’s smile Joseph kept his peace and nodded politely. “I’m Captain Foster,” the officer continued affably. “Spar with me tomorrow. My sword skills need work.”
“I need to find work tomorrow,” Joseph stated, flatly, beginning to walk away.
“I’ll pay you a silver,” the officer continued. “A fair price for a few hours of your time.” At this, Joseph turned and nodded at the young captain before continuing on. “Be here before noon!” Foster called after him.
Belator ate a good deal of the feed Joseph brought back from the market, but Joseph paid no mind; he had plenty of money for the week’s food. Sitting down on his cot with his own supper, Joseph’s thoughts were confined to how good it felt to wield a sword again, and in friendly combat. He hoped this Captain Foster would need a lot of practice.
THREE WEEKS flew by.
Joseph worked five days with Grier and sparred two with Foster and a few of his fellow officers. Von Curtis did not join in. He merely stood on the sides with his own entourage, mocking “the peasant swordsman’s” methods and stance. Joseph ignored this and fought each man to a draw... never inflicting a wound, nor taking one. The small sack of coins hidden under Belator’s saddle slowly grew heavier. Joseph spent money only on food for him and hay for his horse.
The first morning of Joseph’s forth week in Khilar, Smith Grier walked into the forge. Working the bellows Joseph noticed the old man was dressed unusually well and had even washed.
“I’m going cross town. I’ve business to attend with Sergeant Clentyn’s wife,” the man informed his assistant, gruffly. “I’ll be gone all day. Haven’t been able to take a holiday in awhile; might do it more.” Joseph gave the grizzled man a sideways look.
The Road To The King (Book 1) Page 14