The Broken Man

by Hawkings Austin

  It looked a bit clumsy, but Brea smiled at him, so he took the hint and left it alone. He reached out and pulled free a chunk of meat direct from the bone.

  “This was excellently cooked,” he stated.

  “My compliments, Master Guillem,”said Brea. “If Master Waylaid’s apprentice deems the meat well prepared, it has a Master’s touch.”

  Piju studied Guillem’s face, searching for any comparison to Buck’s. Roe had been his slave when she had become pregnant. Her son’s birth was one of the causes of the riots; Guillem had denied any responsibility. Roe didn’t contradict him, she had never named a father. Buck’s hair was black, so he’d never be accepted among the Ruad, but he didn’t much resemble Master Guillem either.

  The slaves came again with a serving dish; the bowl contained a mix of ground mustard and finely sliced and grilled root and leaf vegetables similar to turnip, radish and purple cabbage. Brea didn’t recognize it, but she hadn’t cooked anything in her entire life; soldier’s fare was usually quite simple.

  Piju received a dollop on his plate and looked up into Roe’s eyes. She held his gaze for a moment. Her smile warmed as their eyes met. She turned and stepped around the table, having served everyone. She stopped by her owner and whispered lightly in his ear.

  “Why,” said Guillem, “it is not surprising that our good Bolg recognizes this cooking style. I have been informed that it is an ancient Bolg recipe, handed down from generation to generation.”

  Guillem raised his cup.

  “Welcome to my Midsummer Feast!” Guillem’s voice carried easily over the gathering. “A toast!” His guests responded directly, lifting their cups. They awaited the Ruad formula of threes. “The King!” he shouted. They drank. “The King provided these wonderful slaves!” They drank. “The slaves have prepared this wonderful meal!” They drank.

  Brea was impressed; it was a lovely display of the Ruad art of balance. This philosopher, for as little as she liked the breed, provided an excellent example of their arts.

  “Well spoken,” she said. “Truly sir, you are a man of erudition and wealth. How many servants do you have at this time?”

  Guillem was pleased with her interest.

  “I have five slaves at this time, four women and one man. I also support five servants and three daughters.”

  Brea was impressed, as this was equivalent to perhaps half of the support she had to provide every year, and she was provided the tax of a hundred fields. Philosophers had no fields, so must depend on their work for the King to supply their funding.

  “I can only bond my slaves for seven years; it appears Ruad may keep their slaves indefinitely, and their children as well.”

  “That is true,” said Caeshy. “His Majesty hopes that his philosophers may develop wealth through breeding and care of their slaves. It puts them, us, on the same playing field as the nobles, who he believes do essentially the same thing with the workers on their lands.”

  “No people are truly free,” Brea replied, “but eternal and familial slavery is abominable. People must pay their taxes but are given fair recompense if their obedience is required. Perhaps I have been lax in supporting the Ruad nobles in their fight against this injustice.”

  Guillem was most affronted, but Caeshy understood both sides a bit better. His father had supported similar positions in the past. The King was not able to build the wealth of his philosophers, save by taxing the land of the nobles, and slavery appeared justified for the Bolg. There were differing opinions, but the king was kind in allowing different opinions; or perhaps he enjoyed playing his philosophers against each other.

  Guillem did not choose to fight the issue; he raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “Yes, yes, perhaps you should have. I’ll admit I profit greatly from the Bolg and may do even better in the future.” He looked a bit concerned. He did not wish to say something that might offend the king in front of one of his advisors. “I perceive your concern, but His Majesty believes that this is for the good of the Ruad. I’ll not dispute that.” He thought for a moment and then nodded sharply.

  “Perhaps we could find a more agreeable topic?” he asked.

  Brea frowned at him but took his recommendation seriously.

  “I do appreciate your invitation to feast, I was dropping from hunger.”

  She thought for a moment for a different topic. Caeshy discussed a poem about the weather. Brea didn’t catch the title. Piju ate mechanically, his gaze fixed elsewhere, past the shoulder of their host. Even in his distracted state, the food before him vanished at an astonishing pace.

  Guillem looked at him and then glanced over his shoulder. His lip twisted for a moment, an ugly look. Then the philosopher calmed himself.

  “See one you like, Bolg?”

  Piju started, as though shocked awake.

  “My pardons, Master, you are correct that I have an interest in the Bolg here. I don’t mean to intrude on your rights or obligations, and I assure you that you are held in the highest esteem within the barracks.”

  Piju lied fluently, with a grace instilled in him by Master Waylaid’s lessons and the back of his hand when his manners faltered. He remembered clearly his rules. Among them were: “Always speak precisely to Masters, for they will measure you by your speech,” and “Greedy men want flattery and money. They don’t forgive you for holding back, so give whichever is easier to give.”

  The Ruad were surprised, as though doubting that a dog could speak and then hearing it quote poetry.

  “That was well said,” from Guillem, and “Well spoken,” from Caeshy blurted forth together.

  Mistress Brea cleaned her hands and was well pleased by Master Waylaid’s apprentice. It was rare to see one so well trained. She had to admit that at every trial, the boy had surprised her. In this the boy didn’t impress her so much as the teacher. She had taught a few boys, and none had turned out so well as this one. She didn’t feel that the boy was better than her own, only that the teacher was a better one than she.

  One of the older philosophers had risen from his seat and approached the high table. He wore his four stripes on a simple cloth which hung from his belt. He had not risen high and apparently didn’t intend to rise higher. Brea noted his fingers, which were stained with ink. A scribe is rarely highly ranked but often well liked.

  “Master Guillem, may I speak with you?” he asked.

  “Of course, Duffan. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, Master. I just wanted to tell you that I honestly respect this move of yours.” He waved a hand to indicate Brea and Piju. “A Bolg at high table is unprecedented. This was bravery and forward thinking at its finest.”

  Guillem nodded, as if expecting this praise, but Brea watched his hands knotting in the table linen. Bravery wasn’t one of his attributes. The scribe lifted a hand to forestall speech by Guillem. He moved his lips as though firming up a decision.

  “My backers wouldn’t have approved of you, didn’t approve of me coming today. I expect they’ll see reason in the future.” He turned to go. “I just wanted you to know.”

  Duffan didn’t return to his seat but said his goodbyes at the table and returned to the house. Guillem sat silent for a long time, while others ate, and considered what politics must have just occurred.

  Guillem finally spoke, “That was honestly unexpected.” He looked at Piju, blinking his eyes as if to see him as a person, not a wild animal.

  “I apologize if we caused any harm, Master Guillem,” said Brea.

  “No, I don’t think so; or at least probably not. You may have done me a good deed, for which I will be obligated to apprentice Piju of all people.” His hand had started to rise into the High Ruad marker of slightly less than but he held it back. He gave Brea a wry look.

  “Yes, I knew his name. I get all the gossip out of the slave quarters. I am a bit possessive of my girls, but I do mean to keep them safe.” He shook his head, his thoughts muzzy with the complexity of the day. “Are we all satisf
ied?”

  The table chorused with various combinations of, “Absolutely,” “Yes,” and, “Well satisfied.” Guillem stood, and faced the other three tables.

  “I must end this little get-together, as I need to continue my business in court today. Feel free to remain as long as you wish, as my guests.” He bowed to them and thanked each for coming as he went for the door. Caeshy motioned for Piju and Brea to remain seated; it was apparently good form to let the host enter and leave by himself.

  Oren entered, passing the host in the doorway. The young girl escorted him to the high table, and everyone retook their seats while Oren grabbed meat and bread.

  “Group Leader Berin Half-hand sent Seth and Waylaid out of town and is aware that they left safely. He has dispersed the crowd and is organizing his forces to continue to do so. More farmers continue to trickle in. They apparently believe that Waylaid is the sorcerer behind these murders.”

  Brea dropped her head into her hands.

  “Blessed Mother save me from fools and idiots. The one man who can certainly help them is run off.” She controlled her anger before she pounded the table. “I’d curse them to the Lair, but I know they are just scared farmers.”

  “Old Half-hand has sent his runners out to the colonies. In two days, you’ll have code Sky.”

  “What is code Sky?” Caeshy asked.

  Brea looked at him, blank faced.

  “Code Sky just means that I’ll have some friends over for dinner, and we’ll discuss the season for the local farms.”

  Brea knew that she lied terribly. She should really have a servant to lie for her.

  Oh, wait; that’s why I have Oren.

  Oren shrugged at Caeshy while spreading the vegetables on his meat; he paused with a chunk of mustard-smeared meat next to his mouth.

  “Sky just means that I was worried about mob violence. I expect Berin and his men can handle it, but it doesn’t hurt to warn the Daen farmers to stay out of their fields. That way, if the mob hits a Daen farm, the workers won’t get hurt.”

  Caeshy nodded along with the explanation and it sounded convincing enough. Piju had determined beforehand that whatever words came out of Oren’s mouth would be untruthful, so he just nodded along. It was noted among the Blessed Folk that listening to Oren was a study in technique: Oren’s gaze was clear and direct at Caeshy’s face. His voice was smooth and unstressed, his tone modulated as though he were discussing interesting weather, and he smiled. Piju found it most educational.

  Brea worked to control her expression. After Oren’s explanation she wanted to make sure that ‘Sky’ meant what she thought it meant. She hoped that a hundred men would be encamped outside the walls in two days. She would hate to have to overthrow the Ruad, but would hate worse to want to overthrow the Ruad and not be able to.

  “Still, no way to find Waylaid?” she asked, changing the subject slightly.

  “The runners are heading out as we speak. If he’s on a road, they will find him. With those ponies, he’s probably half-way to the coast by now. He will be protected, don’t worry.”

  Brea nodded. She still worried about her Fomor and her Bolg. She hadn’t worried about her Blessed Folk. When Berin Half-hand was in charge, she didn’t worry about anything at all. She knew he was always at her back. She had recommended him to the Warlord’s service nearly a year ago. His promotion could come through at any time, and it was going to have her crying for days. She wouldn’t let him know, of course, but it would be hard adapting to Seth. She dabbed at her mouth and eyes.

  “Are we done here?”

  Oren nodded, the bread dropping into his pouch, a quick drink of wine-less water, and the meat stuffed into his mouth.

  “Eh-Muff” nodded Oren.

  “I’ll catch up,” said Piju.

  “We’ll wait at the door,” said Brea, “don’t be long.”

  Piju moved to the kitchen, trying not to look like he was hurrying, Roe met him at the door. She was positively beaming.

  “They LOVED your recipe!” Roe gushed. She hopped up and down several times, and Piju found he was again without any words. She handed him a bundle of waxed linen.

  “I made some for you, when I didn’t know you would get to eat with the Owner! I’m so proud of you. You are so amazing!”

  Piju didn’t know what to say, so he smiled and took the package.

  “I …” he said.

  He didn’t get anything else out. Roe was just so beautiful that she took up all his available thoughts. He felt he should say something, but he just didn’t have any words left in his mind.

  “Your Priestess Judge is waiting.” She punched him in the shoulder, “Catch that murderer! I know you can track him down.”

  Murderer? Is that what this is about?

  Roe gave him a quick hug, it was barely a brush of her front against his, and a sudden suggestion of her hands on his back. But he was so dumbstruck, he wasn’t sure how to turn around. She looked him levelly in the eyes.

  “Go, be amazing.” She winked. “And they LOVED your recipe.”

  “Eh, nothing important,” he laughed, turning away. “I’ve smoked a lot of pig. I’m just glad you liked it.”

  “GO!” she said.

  He kept laughing, the happiness welling up inside him like bubbles escaping from new beer.

  They met him at the door, as promised, and pointed to his package significantly. He raised it up.

  “More food,” he said.

  “Blessed Mother, Piju,” said Brea. “I don’t know how you manage it, but you know how to get invited to the best parties.”

  Oren unhooked Answerer from under Piju’s vest and slid the tip hooks into the baldrick hook at the top of his shoulder. The hilt brushed his hip, but the sword was secure.

  “Shall we see the body?” he said.

  The four of them set off for the West Gate, thankfully a trip mostly downhill, which rested their full bellies and allowed a slower, swinging, gait.

  Brea continued to worry about Waylaid, though there seemed no purpose to it. He was certainly capable of watching out for himself. In time, she became more interested in worrying about why she was thinking about Waylaid. This was a sheep of a different color, altogether.

  Caeshy leaned over to Piju, “Best warrior in Ard?”

  Piju nodded.

  Caeshy looked skeptically over at the High Priestess and Master Judge, but was unable to see a warrior. Maybe Brea was easily a better swordsman than most Ruad. She was a head taller than even one of the noble warriors of the Ruad army. But, she looked, frankly, like an attractive woman, not a warrior.

  Piju smiled at him. “I have spoken with Mistress Brea on this in the past, and I do have a story I can share with you, should you like.”

  Oren and Brea walked ahead but slowed a bit; the Judge might complain about Piju’s stories, but who could resist hearing their own exploits? Oren had heard it before, twice, and decided that it was good to get her mind off of worrying. He could keep his eyes open for all of them.

  Caeshy thought for a moment and then nodded.

  “I’d love to hear a story, it should make the walk most enjoyable.”

  Piju began, “The Blackwater Lake, as I’m sure you know, is seven days’ march up the North Road from Ard and Coscar’s Pass is a day’s march to the west from the south end of the lake. It was winter, two and a half years ago...”

  INTERLUDE 2 BREA AND COSCAR

  Ten days after Winter’s Moon, Year Twenty-Five of King Cail’s Reign

  Within my cave

  Embracing feeble warmth,

  The wind taunts me,

  Playful and cruel;

  It shreds the clouds

  With the claws of the mountains.

  Tossing birds high,

  It pulls them down

  To strike against the rocks.

  Cold wind calls me,

  “Come out and play,

  I will cast you far.

  Fly from your past,

  Fall in
the snow,

  We shall be at peace.”

  -Prince Bron niFomori

  The winter snows had come, not the light dusting that they’d been having every morning, but a storm which covered sky and land with the same thick grey cloth. The mountains, the valley, the pass and the sky were all of one fabric, there was no gap to be seen between them. There was no reference for distance anywhere in all she could see but for the stand of giants, their black and gold armor muted in the swirling snow, just a few hundred paces away.

  Brea looked down the pass at the Fomor rebels. For all of Coscar’s efforts, they had not managed to kill that damned Count. His army was small, yet he hadn’t been able to reinforce his five hundred with King Brennen’s thousands. But those five hundred were fanatically loyal to the Count. They had given up their lives and worldly possessions in the hope of a Fomor rebellion, that Fomor would once again reign in Pywer. These were the greatest fighters of their race, and they would not stop till they were dead.

  King Brennen still slept in Blackwater Castle, unaware that the rebels had effectively stripped the garrison that kept him imprisoned. It only took one messenger to get that information to the keep. One messenger and the thirty-year peace with the Fomor nation would come to a sudden and violent end.

  They were greatly weakened, having tried to pass this point twice in the night. The warriors of the Blessed Folk had set upon them and driven them back down the snow-filled pass. But several hundred Fomor soldiers were regrouping, despite their losses.

  “They are coming again,” said Brea.

  Warlord Coscar wet his lips and tried to rise, but could not; he stayed on his knees and looked out past the storm. He was still rage-blinded, but it had cooled over the last hour. His strength was gone.

  “Water,” he croaked.

  Brea, his wife, handed him the skin. She had kept it warm within her coat, and he drank it down.