“Ah, my good sir, you are looking in need of some new clothings!” The weaselly man spoke hurriedly with the occasional brief pause. He eyeballed the two of us like the other vendors had, but though I could see some disappointment in his swollen gaze, he quickly donned his greasy smile again.
“Yes, yes, why else would you come here but if you had money! Come, we shall get those rags off and suit you until you are suited, yes?” It almost seemed like he would forget what he was saying mid-sentence, remember again, and hurry to say it in case he forgot once more. He clasped his hands together, nodding feverishly as he began to turn towards a rack covered in strange, brightly colored robes.
“Fern, don't treat me like one of your hustle jobs,” said Hawke, looking a little annoyed. The man started at the name 'Fern,' turning with a look like he had been caught doing something terrible.
“That name, it does not fit me, no? I am, ah, Banca, yes! No? Kazul? Bill?” he continued to list names as he nervously scratched his cheek, as if hoping to find one that pleased Hawke, but the once nameless man continued to simply stare at him.
“Fern, it's me, Hawke,” he said in exasperation. The sniveling man named Fern squinted hard, almost like he was seeing this customer for the first time, then suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth.
“Impossible!” he muttered. “Yet the face, and the tone, and the nose! Yes, the nose, that is where the truth lies!” He leaned in close to take a good look, I suspect, at Hawke's nose.
“Enough of this,” Hawke snapped at him. “Let's go to the back and talk business.”
Hawke walked around behind the stall, beckoning me to follow as he went. Fern looked around nervously for several moments before he followed a good distance behind me.
The space between the market stalls and the buildings that stood behind them was like a small, secluded alleyway. With all the tents and the shouts of the merchants trying to attract customers, it seemed the ideal place to have a conversation where no one would be privy to eavesdropping.
“I suppose I should apologize for appearing without notice and so, er, disheveled,” Hawke apologized, scratching his head.
“No no no!” argued Fern as he scratched his cheek again. “Not disheveled! How can you be disheveled, when I know not the word? You are seemed messed up a bit, though! And where has seen the Chief?”
“I'm still trying to piece that together myself.” Hawke gave a small sigh. “But all things in due time, Fern. First, I need some things, as you can plainly see.” He made a motion towards the sad towels he called clothing.
“Oh, I'd love to just give, Chief,” said Fern, his voice dripping with what I assume he thought was pity, “but the family has fallen on hard times. With you gone, our best items also went! Best items gone means best fences gone! Hard times arrived, and now–”
“–Now you're selling cheap knockoffs in a bazaar full of people much smarter than you,” Hawke finished for him.
“Yes,” Fern agreed without a hint of indignation. “The family might be familiar with Chief, but we have little to spare, even for who as you still might be.”
“Calm down, Fern, I didn't come for a handout. Here,” he handed a long bundle of dirty rags to the sniveling man, “This should fetch a fair price for your trouble.”
Fern unwrapped the parcel and nearly dropped it on his unwashed bare feet. It was the sword that Hawke had taken with him from the manor, which he had concealed in a strip from his own threadbare robe before we started our ride to Changirah. He had made sure to clean it when we had rested prior, so the silver blade shone with a beautiful luster, even in the dingy light that broke through the tent canopies. The gems in the hilt and on the sheath were dazzling as ever, and I had thought they must have been heavier than I remembered, for Fern's hands shook as he held it.
“This – this is real?” he could hardly get the words out of his mouth, which concerned me. He already seemed to suffer from that problem just speaking normally.
“Every inch of it. Got it from a lord who lives just down the way. I was an unwilling guest of his for several years, and I considered this, shall we say, fair payment for the duties I performed.” Hawke leaned in and placed an arm around Fern.
“So, here's the deal: You give me what I need from whatever stores you guys have left – and I'm sure you still have enough left to meet my simple demands – and in return, I give you this sword, and I'll do what I can to send more like it your way in the future. It'll be just like old times. Sound fair?”
“Oh, this is the best, Chief, the best!” Fern jumped up and down as he hugged the ornate blade and sheath tightly. “With news of Hawke Morau's return to the family, we will be back in business before I know it! Oh, and the girl,” he turned a cheery eye towards me, “is she for sale too? We were talking before about expanding to the servants' market, no?”
Hawke struck a fierce backhanded blow across Fern's ugly mug, leaving a terrible welt where he made contact. It did little to improve his twisted features. He almost dropped his prize, but even the odd little merchant was smart enough to know that it was more valuable than his discomfort at that moment. The glare Hawke gave Fern made him wince more than the strike did.
“She was just freed from her bonds, and you dare to speak of putting her back in them? Watch your tongue, Fern, or you'll be looking for a new one.” Fern tried to stammer something akin to an apology, but Hawke waved it away. “Next time, think before you speak for a change. Now, about what I need…”
I couldn't help but feel a little bad for the spindly man. He had no idea where I came from, so I didn't see how it was fair to hit him for something he didn't know. Still, seeing someone stand up for me so boldly was something I was still rather unaccustomed to. Hawke couldn't see how I beamed at him as he spoke to Fern, reeling off a list of odds and ends that he wanted.
He spoke so quickly I couldn't make out half of what he was asking for, and for a moment I wondered how Fern would possibly remember the demands made to him. He had already proven to be more than a little dimwitted. However, after only being told once, Fern nodded furiously, his eyes darting around as I suspected he was using every ounce of his brainpower to recall what he had just been told, and without another word, he bundled up his new treasure and scurried off at incredible pace.
“We'll stick around here and pretend to run to the stall while he's off procuring what I want,” Hawke said as he turned back to me. “Stay put for a moment.”
Hawke walked around to the front of the tent, leaving me alone. I badly wanted to explore the marketplace and see all the knick-knacks and such that I had only gotten a glimpse of, but a life of servitude had also taught me well the dangers of wandering in strange places. He returned after only a moment, holding a bundle of robes.
“It'd be better for us to not look like we just crawled out of a privy,” he said, handing me the smaller of the two robes. “Sorry, it probably won't fit terribly well, but it was the smallest size I could find.”
The robe was indeed a couple sizes bigger than what I normally wore, but it cinched up well enough that it made little difference. It was a vibrant orange color, and while Hawke commented on how gaudy the clothing was (as he put on a robe of bright blue with a slight grimace), I was ecstatic to put on something that shimmered the way that cloth did. It was almost like getting to wear something straight from Master Morau's old cabinet.
Thinking of the manor we had just come from the other day reminded me of a question I had meant to ask Hawke. He led me around to the inside of the tent, where he flung himself into a folding chair Fern had been using and kicked his feet up on the baubles that sat on the counter. Several of them were sent clattering to the ground, yet not a single market-goer spared any of them more than the briefest glances.
I sat down beside the chair cross-legged and watched the crowd meander by as I worked up the nerve to ask him.
“Hawke, why do you use the same name as Master Morau?”
I turned to look up at him, an
d he gave a great sigh, his eyes sliding out of focus as he fell into deep thought.
“Mmm, I wish there was a quick and easy way to explain that,” he said as his gaze wandered aimlessly around the market. “I'm still trying to piece together everything that's happened that led me to where we are now. I guess the easiest way to put it for the time is that the Master Morau you knew was an impostor pretending to be me.”
“But he's been Hawke Morau for as long as I can remember,” I said. “You just started calling yourself that today.” Hawke raised an eyebrow at me, but he let out a low chuckle and gave me one of his soft smiles.
“I suppose that it would be confusing to you, then,” he agreed. “Come to think of it, I was just the nameless man to everyone there up until yesterday. It would seem strange that anyone would want to pretend to be me, wouldn't it?” He leaned his cheek against a calloused hand.
“Still, I was Hawke Morau long before that fake was even born. Like I said, it's all a little complicated to explain right now.” He tousled my hair a bit with his free hand. “Once Fern comes back and we have a little time to rest and recover a bit more, I'll try to explain it better. Hopefully, by then I'll have a better idea of how to put it.”
We didn't speak again until Fern's return. He was carrying a small knapsack that he held onto tightly, but that didn't stop it from clinking musically the few times it bounced. I also noticed he had a bundle similar to the one holding the sword he had left with, though the tough hide that hid its contents and the belts that secured it made it clear it wasn't the same one. He was out of breath and sweating quite a bit, but he seemed pleased to see us tending to his booth.
“Ahaha, feel free to rest your toesies on what you wish, Chief,” said Fern as he glanced sideways at Hawke's makeshift footrest. “Rubbish, they are, now that you're back! I see you picked out the two finest robes I had on stock. Fine choice, fine choice! You have good taste, and without your tongue even–”
“Just give me the loot please, Fern,” Hawke interrupted as he held out his hand. Fern winced at the gesture, hastily shoving the bag and bundle he had brought with him at my companion. Hawke snatched both up in one arm and flicked the knapsack open with his free hand. He spent a few moments rummaging through the contents, nodding every so often before finally closing it again and giving the now jittering Fern a tiny smirk.
“See, Fern? I knew it wouldn't be too hard for you to fulfill such a paltry request. The family has my thanks. I'll let you get back to your business. Micasa and I have our own to attend to.”
The squirrely man had a confused look on his face, as though Hawke had just spouted gibberish at him. Nonetheless, he got enough of it that he knew his patron was satisfied and nodded enthusiastically as he scratched nervously at his cheek once more. It was only then that I happened to see the spot that Fern constantly scratched had a strange mark: a single black line drawn straight down just below his left eye. I wanted to ask about it, but before I could, Hawke led me to the back of the tent again.
“Here, Micasa, it isn't much better than what you have right now, but then again anything is a step up from the dregs Fern is pawning here.”
From the knapsack Fern had given him, Hawke unearthed a robe of a deep plum color, with a sash to tie it off at the waist. I had been quite enjoying the orange robe he had already given me, but this was also the first time I had ever had more than one change of clothes in my life, and the idea of getting choices on what to wear was too tempting. I changed quickly while Hawke was standing watch at the entrance to the alley, making sure to fold my orange robe as neatly as I had the old Master Morau's clothes and set it gingerly on the bag where it wouldn't get dirty.
My new robe wasn't quite my size either, but fit better than the other one did and was made from a much softer material that felt blissful against my skin. I imagined that this was what lords and the wealthy must feel like all the time. It was exhilarating to think I got to experience the same.
“Heh, that's a big step up from those rags we came here in,” said Hawke when I showed him my new robe. While I had been changing, Hawke had slipped on a pair of plain glasses with silver rims.
“I didn't know you had trouble seeing,” I said. He pressed the glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger and looked away.
“Yes, well, it's just a slight astigmatism. It's no big deal… oh, don't cinch up your new robe too tightly just yet. We're both still rather scruffy from the trip here, and it'd be a shame to dirty your new clothes right after getting them. Come on, I need a hot meal and a hotter bath.”
Considering how much Hawke had been complaining about the bright blue clothing he was wearing, I had expected him to change first as well, but instead, he took me by the hand and started leading me gently through the bazaar. I had instinctively flinched when he took hold, but it was nothing like when the overseers had apprehended me so they could drag me off to be punished. His touch was strong, undoubtedly, but also kind, and he didn't force me along so much as he did coax me to follow him. I felt bad for flinching, but if he had noticed he made no sign of it.
Our second trip through the marketplace saw a dramatic drop in the number of dirty looks we got, though there were plenty of people who snickered as they passed by Hawke, pointing to his bright robe. I thought it looked fine on him; he stood out more than anyone else on that street, and the bright shade of red he was turning complimented it well. Still, he picked up the pace as he looked up and down the buildings. His expression relaxed as he caught sight of a particular sign and led me to the door of a large wooden building that was emitting some delicious aromas.
Hawke didn't knock as we entered the door, but rather than being reprimanded, a large woman looked up from behind a counter and waved us into the room. It was much like one of my former lord's old sitting rooms: large and comfortable, with several candles illuminating a number of large comfy chairs surrounding a fireplace that would likely be roaring if the weather had been colder outside.
A couple men sat in two adjacent chairs, a board laden with several stone pieces sitting on a table between them; at the moment, they seemed to be having an argument over the arrangement of the pieces. I had seen such parlor games played by the old Master Morau at the estate when he had guests over and was sorely tempted to ask the gentlemen how it was played, but I quickly noticed that Hawke had already walked up to the counter to speak with the woman, leaving me to hurriedly return to his side lest I be scolded.
The woman spoke with a thick accent I hadn't heard before, but this didn't seem to bother Hawke, who was asking something about 'room rates.'
“Tventy roopulls per night, mai deer,” said the woman in her strange drawl.
“Acceptable, as long as the room has a private bathroom so we can wash up,” replied Hawke. “We've come quite a ways and need to scrub off the weariness of the day.” He reached into his bag, where I heard the clinking of coins.
“Prayveet bafroom is fife extra, deery,” the woman replied, sounding a bit harsher than she had before. Hawke flashed her a smile, though, and jingled the coins in his bag a bit more.
“I'll tell you what, I'll give you thirty-five for one night, but I want a hot bath drawn immediately and a hotter meal ready for us when we've tidied up. How's that for a deal?”
The woman's eyes glittered as she put on a smile that showed off teeth whiter than any I had seen before, even the old lord's. Hawke looked satisfied with her silent response, pulling a large handful of coinage from the bag and setting it on the countertop without so much as checking how much he had just put down.
The innkeeper double-counted very quickly, something she looked well practiced in, before snapping her fingers. A tall, lanky boy in a plain linen robe appeared from a door underneath the staircase that led to the second floor.
“Bostwick, geet ze bafwater drawn for rewm tvelve und tell Roscoe to vhip up sumtink for our new guests!” she barked at the wiry lad as she swept the payment off the counter and into a purse she produced from
thin air. Without so much as a glance at us, the boy named Bostwick nodded fervently and, strangely, ducked back into the closet he had just stepped out of.
“Room twelve it was?” asked Hawke, to which the innkeeper replied by flicking a key at him as she walked towards a door towards the back of the building. The purse she had shoved our payment into still jingled merrily in her hands.
“Hawke,” I spoke up, “outside you said you wanted the bath hotter than the food, but just now with the lady, you said you wanted the food hotter. Which is it?”
Hawke looked at me for a second with a puzzled look before giving another chuckle, something he seemed to be in a habit of doing when I asked him questions. “I did say both, didn't I? Well, I like surprises, so let's see how it turns out. Now come on, if I don't scrub up and change out of this silly robe soon, I might go crazy.”
The room was on the second floor, yet another wonder in my young eyes; I thought only lords and the like got the privilege of having rooms upstairs. The furniture was modest in comparison to my old master's bedroom, but still far more extravagant than anything I was accustomed to. A curtain hung on the far side of the wall that could be drawn to effectively cut the room in two for privacy.
I was more interested in the beds, which looked much softer and more comfortable than my dirty cot I used to spend my nights in. I was all ready to go test that theory when Hawke grabbed my shoulder and gave a soft shake of his head.
“I think the lady downstairs would be rather cross with us if we jumped into the bed before we washed up,” he explained. “Why don't we see how that scraggly boy is doing with our bathwater.”
As it turned out, the small private bathroom in the side chamber already held a sizable tub nearly full to brimming with steaming hot water. It seemed that Bostwick was far more competent than he looked. Apparently, Hawke thought so too because he looked around with his brow furrowed for several seconds, scratching his chin as he looked back at the tub over and over. Finally, he shook his head and shrugged.
Broken Soul (The Scholar's Legacy Book 1) Page 3