by Bobby Adair
Oliver wasn't sure how to answer.
"Ha!" Winthrop shouted. "Just as I suspected."
"There is no highest number," said Oliver, talking over Winthrop's new laugh. "They go on forever."
That stopped Winthrop immediately. He glared at Oliver. "Perhaps Franklin did teach you. He says the same senseless thing." Winthrop spun the box around in his lap so that the lid was leaning open against his big round belly. Nodding, and looking down his big nose, he said, "Stand up here then. Count these relics. Mind you, I may be deficient in mathematical aptitude, but I know the name of the number of relics in this box. You'll get it right. Or…" Winthrop tilted his head at the fire roaring in the hearth.
Oliver stood up, hoping to keep hidden the three crosses still in the chamber pot.
Using his finger to touch each cross as Father Winthrop inspected, he started counting. He went through the numbers one through six, skipping five just as Winthrop had done. He made it easily to ten, slow and rhythmic. He counted the number eleven and skipped over twelve to get to thirteen. Similarly, he skipped sixteen on the way to twenty-three where he stopped. "Twenty-three," he repeated for emphasis.
Frowning, Winthrop said, "Count them again."
Careful to skip the same numbers, Oliver went back through, touching each relic as he counted it. When he finished, he announced the number, "Twenty-three."
Winthrop spun the box around in his lap and stared at the pieces for a few minutes while he fumbled through them. Finally, he said, "Clean up this filth. Gather your things and go."
Chapter 29: Bray
After passing through the gate in Coventry's dilapidated circle wall, Bray kept walking until he'd reached the first of the buildings.
He was immediately assaulted with a barrage of odors. It was early morning, and the lingering smell of alcohol and last night's meats hung in the air. Buildings stood in silence, empty blankets draped over the windows. The streets were nearly vacant, save the earliest of merchants pushing out their wares, arranging them for the morning bustle. Having survived another Cleansing, the townsfolk who hadn't been burned were celebrating another season of survival, having passed the prescribed period of grief.
Bray didn't need to live in town to know that.
He approached a portly old man with a rag tied around his head. The man was setting out a pile of knives.
"Morning, Ezekiel," Bray called.
The man looked up. "Morning, Bray. I didn't think I'd have a customer for an hour," the man said, a smile creasing his weathered cheeks.
"The silver was calling."
"It always does." The old man wiped his nose. "What do you have for me?"
Bray pulled off his pack and untied it, liberating the pile of skins he had inside. He shook them off, watching several pieces of crusted blood flake to the ground. He handed them to the merchant. Ezekiel took them and looked them over.
"They never get any prettier, do they?" Ezekiel smiled, revealing his stained, yellowed teeth.
"I never hang onto them long enough to notice," Bray retorted.
Ezekiel laughed, a cracked, bitter sound from deep in his throat.
"What can you give me for them?" Bray asked.
Ezekiel placed the pile of skins on top of the display he was working on. He unbuttoned a large pocket in his tunic, digging a shaky hand inside. "The price has gone down some since the last time you were here," the old man said, his eyes shifting back and forth. "Local policy has changed to match the other townships. We were told yesterday."
"What the hell for?"
"The General is readying the troops. That's the rumor, anyway. The men are preparing to be called in, least ways, the ones that haven't already gone to Brighton. And regular folks, too. All ordered to Brighton. Lots of 'em left already."
"For what? Demons?" Bray blew an angry breath through his nose. He didn't care about the General's battles, but a decrease in silver was a different matter.
"An expedition of some sort. No one knows the full story."
"I wonder if they're heading south."
"I couldn't tell you." Ezekiel shrugged, counting the coins he'd removed from his pocket. "I just do what I'm told. That's why the town is celebrating more than usual. Most of the men are expecting they won't be here much longer."
Ignoring the plight of the townsfolk, Bray asked, "How do they expect the Wardens to eat?" His anger roiled. "If they keep killing my take, there'll be nothing left."
"I just do what I'm told. You want your coin or not?"
Bray rolled his eyes and extended his hand. Ezekiel slapped his palm with the money, and Bray tucked it into his bag. He let his anger subside, distracted by the other reason he was here. He felt an unexpected stab of nerves as he thought of Samantha. He swallowed before he spoke.
"Were there a lot of deaths at The Cleansing?"
Ezekiel furrowed his brow as if he'd already forgotten. "Not many, if I recall. It wasn't as grave as others."
"Do you remember the names of the ones who were burned?"
"Not offhand. Some men." Ezekiel thought on it. He added, "A few women."
Bray felt a cramping pain in his gut when he heard the word 'women.' Ensuring his face remained calm, he said, "I'm glad many were spared."
"You know how it goes. A week after The Cleansing, people forget what happened, and they start drinking. And then the next Cleansing approaches, and the dread hits all over again."
"That's the way of things." Bray stuck his thumb toward the center of town. "How's the ale these days?"
"Same as it always is. Overpriced. Watered down." Ezekiel laughed again.
"I'm going to head to the Watering Alley."
"Don't spend all your silver before you hit The House. If you don't have a coin for a tip, the housemother will give you a toothless ugly one."
Bray gave a sly grin. "You know me. I won't."
Chapter 30: Oliver
A cold wind whipped out of the north, and everybody Oliver passed in town had their cloaks pulled close around their bodies, hats on their heads. Those without the means to buy or trade for warm enough clothes shivered and sniffled as they went about their business.
Militiamen, hiding their foreboding behind boisterous words and quick fists, were standing in groups talking and laughing, or coming to and from merchant's shops and alehouses. In every direction Oliver looked, there they were. The good thing about them, though, was that with so many on the streets, Oliver was largely ignored. All he had to do was avoid getting bumped to the ground and trampled.
When he finally walked into a shop owned by a blacksmith, his skin had gotten used to the cold, and he felt uncomfortable in the warmth of the fire. Oliver opened his coat and loitered, doing his best to stay out of the way while the blacksmith showed a long-handled axe to two interested militiamen.
"Run along, boy," scolded the blacksmith.
Oliver looked up at the smith, then past him at a wall covered with weapons made of steel and wood. Puffing himself up with his false confidence, the cloth of his shirt rubbing across the raw wounds on his back, Oliver said, "I'm Novice Oliver. I'm here on business for Father Winthrop."
The blacksmith's mouth fell open. His two customers glanced over their shoulders. Quick mumbling followed. Coins passed between hands, and the two customers rushed out with the axe, neither daring to look Oliver in the eye.
Oliver smiled and nodded at them. He cocked his head back, another gesture of superiority that he'd learned from watching Father Winthrop. The difference was that Oliver knew he was putting on a disguise. For Winthrop, that oversized maggot in fine clothes, the gesture was a reflection of his squirmy, dark little soul. He believed he was superior to all others.
"What is it Father Winthrop requests of me?" asked the Blacksmith, covering his grudging anger with an obsequious smile.
Oliver quietly looked over the items on the wall again as he walked past the blacksmith, knowing that by keeping silent, he was subtly asserting his control. He reached out and
caressed the steel of a big knife with a beautifully carved handle. The blade was as long as his forearm, and could almost be used as a short sword for a boy his size. With a little creativity, it could even be concealed.
"My cousin does the woodwork." The Blacksmith walked over to the wall and pointed at the knife, his face showing his pride in the workmanship. Scooting over to vaguely gesture at much smaller knives, he asked, "Is Father Winthrop interested in a weapon?"
Oliver glanced at the small knives.
The blacksmith said, "With all of the militiamen in town and the army preparing to leave, metals and weapons are in short supply." He looked at the small knives again, laying a hand on one with a particularly ornate handle. "Surely Father Winthrop understands this."
Oliver suppressed a smile, well aware that anything the clergy asked for was provided free of charge. He also understood that the blacksmith had paid for the metals, had worked them into fine blades, and had hoped to gouge high prices out of the militiamen in town, most of whom were going out to face the demon hordes for the first time.
Taking a risk, Oliver copied something he'd seen Franklin do so well. He stepped close to the blacksmith, laid a comforting hand on the man's arm, and smiled as though he truly cared about the man's problems. "Father Winthrop understands your dilemma."
The blacksmith relaxed and smiled. "I'm so pleased to have such a kind Bishop at the head of our church."
"Yes," Oliver agreed. "What is your name?"
"Kilburn."
"I am pleased to meet you, Kilburn." Oliver gently pulled Kilburn's arm and turned his hand over so that his calloused palm was facing up. Holding the strong hand in place, Oliver reached into his pocket, took out what he guessed was more than enough coins. "That long knife I was just looking at, how many coins would you sell that for to one of these militiamen?"
"I, uh..." The blacksmith rubbed his face nervously, smearing black soot that had accumulated on his brow. "Times being what they are…" He paused. "Prices go up. You understand?"
Oliver nodded, though he didn't understand. Prices seemed like arbitrary things to him, but no matter of concern. He'd heard the merchants grumble about prices when he'd been in the market with Franklin. He understood that prices varied from day to day. He never accepted that a rabbit worth one price yesterday should be worth twice that price the next.
Kilburn meekly uttered out a number of coins.
Oliver nodded, took that number of coins, and counted them out into Kilburn's hand. Then he added the same number again as the blacksmith's eyes grew wide.
"Do you have your numbers, young Novice?" Kilburn asked.
"I do," Oliver confirmed.
"That is worth more than the knife," said Kilburn as though he was choking on a gob of phlegm in his throat.
Oliver nodded again and then cocked his head back. "Father Winthrop understands the times as they are, and wants you to be treated fairly. More than fairly."
"Thank you," said Kilburn, closing his hand over the coins and stuffing them into his pocket. "And please, thank Father Winthrop for me personally. No, I shall go and thank him myself."
"Don't," Oliver said, scolding the man. "Father Winthrop is busy these days. I'll pass your thanks and your name to him. He does require something more of you, however."
Nodding vigorously, obviously thinking of more coins, Kilburn said, "Anything."
"He intends to go out with the army when they march. He wants that knife for protection, should it be required. Do you have a belt and a sheath to hold it?"
"Of course," said Kilburn, hurrying over to a wooden storage cabinet. "They all come with a custom sheath."
"Good," said Oliver. "As Father Winthrop will be taking me with him, I'll need something small, perhaps one of these." Oliver looked at the small blades Kilburn had tried to distract him with earlier.
Kilburn spun around, hurried back to his place by the wall, and reached for the small knife with the ornate handle.
Oliver shook his head. "Nothing that special. That's for a merchant's son, I think. Perhaps more for display than use."
"Of course," said Kilburn. "That is what I thought when I was making it."
Oliver pointed at a small blade, as long as his fist, with a handle to match. A weapon that could easily be hidden under his clothes and carried all the time. No one would ever know he had it until he pulled the smooth, sleek thing out and surprised them. "That one."
Nodding, Kilburn smiled and told Oliver the price.
Again, Oliver paid the man twice its worth. "I have one other request of you." Oliver looked around the shop. "It may sound unusual, so please don't laugh."
Chapter 31: Bray
During the time Bray had spent with Ezekiel, the streets of Coventry had started to fill. Doors and windows swung open, revealing hung-over, groggy faces. Men took up their pushcarts and wheeled them unsteadily. Women cradling babies led packs of children on the day's errands.
Bray strolled through the townsfolk, trying to repress the fear he'd felt while talking to Ezekiel. The fact that women were burned wasn't a surprise to him. But he couldn't suppress the fear that Samantha had been one of them.
He tried to enjoy the happy sensation of a man with silver in his pack, a man who had once again provided for himself. But his thoughts kept circling back to Samantha.
He took a few turns, ending up in a particularly foul-smelling alley. The street was narrow and lined with buildings on either side, the stones painted with piss and puke. The Watering Alley. Several men lay propped against the walls, having taken their bed in the streets for the night. Empty flasks lay near them. None stirred as he walked past. If they'd been out in the wild, Bray would've taken the opportunity to sift through their pockets.
He wouldn't do that today. He'd been in enough trouble lately.
He stepped past several closed, beaten doors, inhaling the odor of spilled beer. Men's and women's sweat wafted from a small alleyway. He didn't have to witness the carnal antics to know what went on there. The third door on the right was open. He stepped through. The lighting was dim, and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. He maneuvered around several toppled chairs, his boots contending with broken flagons and putrid puddles.
He searched for a familiar face in the gloom, but the tavern was empty. When he reached the long wooden bar at the back of the room, he brushed off a chair, took a seat, and waited.
Outside, a man hacked up a throat full of snot. Most of the patrons had been kicked out into the alley before night's end. Some would wait for sunup so they could sneak another drink before going to the fields or whatever trade earned them coin.
After a minute of waiting, unable to restrain himself, Bray called, "Samantha?"
He swallowed the uneasiness that crept back inside him. If Samantha had been burned, he convinced himself he would've seen something. A sign. A notice on the door. Something. The bar would be closed, right? He pictured Conrad's weasely, coin-lusting face. Conrad wouldn't have cared if his wife died. He'd probably spend the next day searching for another, making sure he had someone to run his business. Conrad's top priorities were sucking off local leaders and flaunting his power, not selling drinks to the farmers.
An uttered curse in the back room tipped Bray off that someone was here. Clearing his throat loudly, he waited for the person to notice. Footsteps clapped the floor. A few seconds later, a woman emerged.
His heart skipped.
"Bray?" Samantha squinted at him in surprise. Her long, red hair flowed over her bare shoulders, barely covering the top of her revealing dress. She looked gorgeous, as always.
Bray concealed his relief. "Am I too late for a drink?"
"No. You're early." Samantha dusted off the counter in front of him, unable to hide her smile. "Shouldn't you be out hunting?"
She reached below the counter and fetched an empty cup.
"I've earned a break," Bray said. "I was hoping you'd still be here."
"Where else would I be?" Saman
tha smiled, but he could see the effects of another Cleansing buried in her expression.
"Hung-over, like everyone else."
"You know I can't do that. I have to work. This place never closes."
"Except on Sundays," Bray reminded her.
"Of course."
"That's the best day of the week. I hear there's an empty room in the back that the vagrants duck into." Bray grinned widely. "Some of them have been known to shed their pants."
"If I find any, I'll kick them out. What would you like?" she asked.
"Get me the strongest thing you got," Bray said.
"I suppose I already knew that."
He watched as Samantha dipped below the counter to fill his order. Her dress fell further down her arms, and he leaned over to get a better look. Catching him, she swatted at his arm.
"Don't let Conrad catch you doing that," she whispered.
"I wish he would," Bray muttered. "I'd teach the son of a bitch a lesson."
"You'd end up on the pyre before that happened."
Bray shrugged. It was no secret he despised the man. Conrad was not only the owner of the bar, but also the owner of several other buildings. Because his family was in a position of wealth, Conrad had influence in town. He normally used his power to sway town policy, ensuring his businesses benefitted. He was selfish and corrupt, as were most of his kind.
Samantha watched Bray sip his drink. Although she'd never admit it, she was checking him for injuries. Her face darkened as she noticed his leg.
"A flesh wound," he said, setting down his cup.
"From demons?"
"I wish. If it were demons, at least they'd be worth a few silver." He smirked. "I could tell you stories, but I won't."
"I don't want to know about it," Samantha said, smiling.
They locked eyes for several seconds. If Bray had been a different man, he might've considered running off with Samantha. But he knew better than that. A woman and child were burdens he didn't need. The wild was his mistress. He had other obligations.
"How are things?" Bray asked, sipping his drink.