Vendegal arrived at that moment and sat down, removing his helmet and offering them all a grin while he explained his delay in a raised voice so all his men could hear. “The mayor had words with me at the door, gentlemen, to tell me that the city is paying for this breakfast. Eat well!”
“Hear hear!” the soldiers all shouted in unison, and Myra beamed at Ryan from across the table. Underneath and out of sight, she had snaked her foot over to him and played with the cuff of his pants, sliding up inside and down over and over. She kept her face passive and polite, a huge testament to her acting abilities. Here she was playing footsie with him under the table with a dozen soldiers present, and she acted like it was a normal every day occurrence.
The garrison commander signaled to a distant female server who dashed off, then turned his full attention to Ryan. “I've known Lady Myra since we were children. We grew up in the same district. You have no idea how happy I am that she found a worthy mate.”
Myra blushed at him. “Thank you, Lord Vendegal.”
“You're welcome, Lady Myra,” he replied to her with a generous smile, nodded deeply with respect. Then back to Ryan, “I overheard what my second in command there said to you as I walked up. I agree with him. You could have justifiably killed that guard, and I speak for all of us here that we're very happy you respect life. That you have honor.”
Ryan thought over his words carefully as he gave his response. “Our cultures are different, there is a lot about your people I don't like. Then again, if the situation were reversed, I'm sure you would find things about my culture you might not like. Respect for life, yes, we have that in common. The idea of killing anybody is repulsive to me. If given no choice, though, I know I could take life from somebody if they tried to harm my wife, or any other innocent for that matter.”
“Well said,” Legardo offered casually. “Better than I expected, to be honest, from a man who could intimidate half the country out of their purses by his presence alone.”
“Crime is for the weak,” Ryan replied quickly. “Honest work for a living is more to my liking.” Then to his wife, “Isn't that right, honey?”
“Yes, my lord,” Myra said, pleased he included her. This seemed to take some of the soldiers by surprise, as if she wouldn't normally be considered as a participant among men's affairs. They weren't about to make any displeasure known to the huge man's face though. “He carried four darkwood fence posts at once, to my own shock, as easily as he hauled a bushel of apples.”
This had a ripple effect of second glances from all the warriors in earshot, it was obvious to Ryan they knew the logs she was talking about. Then the table was surrounded by serving women, most of them with light red or light blue hair tied back into braids. As they set down the large platters with huge serving spoons, the soldiers smiled large and patted their bellies.
Some of the fare Ryan recognized from foods Myra had cooked for him. Hot spiced potatoes, baked apples, fried carrots, squash, shredded seasoned lettuce. Some of it was new to him as well. What seemed like a peach with a steaming hot stuffing looked interesting, grapes mixed in with black olives and a fuzzy looking sweet fruit. Something started to nag him that never seemed to come up before. Maybe it had something to do with being in a setting that wasn't isolated out near the woods where vegetables and fruit were the only fare available.
The female servers started to fill soldier's plates, and true to form, Myra picked up a spoon and started to fill Ryan's plate. Different culture, he had to remind himself, but something was missing. He could almost feel it. A few thoughtful moments later he realized what was out of place.
“Just fruits and vegetables?” Ryan asked out loud to nobody in particular.
“What else is there?” Vendegal replied, smiling as he brought a fork full of spiced mashed potatoes to his lips.
“I could do with some sausage,” Ryan suggested. Myra gave him a puzzled look as did everyone else. His own plate was now loaded with a variety of delicious foods, and Myra was serving herself as she voiced everyone's thoughts.
“What is this sausage made of, dear?” She cocked her head, her luminous lavender gaze highly curious.
“Pork and beef I think, blended together with seasonings,” he said, but they all just gave him more puzzled looks. They didn't recognize those words. His own eyes grew wide as he simplified his answer. “Meat.”
Everybody froze, including the servers and his darling wife.
If culture shock had been a falling tree that day, Ryan was the poor bastard who didn't see it coming until it was too late. They're all vegetarians, his thoughts yelled back at him as they mostly turned different shades of pale, and they're about to freak out on you. Say something!
“As I said earlier,” Ryan explained to Vendegal quickly. “Our cultures are different, and this is one of those things you might not agree on. Right?” He smiled at the garrison commander as wide as he could, trying his best to cover his blunder. What broke the spell and unfroze everybody was the overflowing of a cup. The young woman had been pouring with a serving vase when he said that terrible word as if it was food. She murmured an apology to the soldier and drew a fuzzy cloth from her belt, slapped it on the table to absorb the spill.
“I guess so,” Vendegal finally said, then resumed eating but slowly. Around a small bite of food, he asked carefully, “What kind of... meat... do your people eat? I never heard of this pork or beef.”
Ryan looked wistful for a moment, feeling the bits of memory stutter from the black hole of his mind in trickles until he found the names he felt good about. “Pigs and cows, animals raised on farms for food.” Then it dawned on him how complex that question really was and clarified. “Only animals, Vendegal.”
Myra was staring at Ryan like she was seeing him for the first time, but her foot still played with his ankle and leg under the table. It was Legardo who made their wishes clear.
“For the sake of our appetite, can we please change subjects?” Legardo looked almost pure paper white, the sign of getting a serious sick stomach for a naturally pale race.
“My apologies to everyone,” Ryan said, raising his baritone enough to be heard by all without shouting. “I'm still learning about your people, if I slip from time to time, it's not intentional that I shock you.”
“No harm done,” another soldier called from farther down the table. “We're still learning about you, too.”
The vegetarian breakfast was delicious and the rest of the event passed with only small talk between bites. Ryan briefly wondered what other things set him apart from these people, but his memory stayed stubbornly blank. It was a good thing he kept this problem hidden from everybody but Myra. He didn't know what sort of mischief might happen if rumor got about that his memory was broken, and he wasn't about to find out anytime soon.
Chapter Eight - The Threat
The mayor's office was a large chamber close to the center of town and the short pale elderly man hobbled to his feet and bowed to Ryan and Myra as they entered. He gestured them to a large couch, one among three that faced each other so people could sit comfortably and talk.
After they were seated a serving girl arrived with a silver platter filled with half full glasses of sweet pear juice. When they all had one in their hands, the mayor introduced himself.
“I'm Gar'Jarbin Isonates of Ocaza, and I must say I didn't believe the rumors one bit until I laid eyes on you.” The mayor himself had short cropped red hair and bright yellow eyes, almost a match for new minted gold coins. His robes were a dark blue flowing affair with a bright red outline, cinched at the waist. His smile was generous, inviting the audience to enjoy whichever good nature the practiced politician radiated.
“Lord Za'Ryan of House Ven'Krue,” Ryan offered back, feeling his own smile return even though he felt somehow that politicians couldn't be trusted. A mere gut feeling or something more from his distant and hidden memory? Unsure, he didn't let it slow down the rest of his introduction. “My wife, Lady Myra of House Ven'K
rue”
She beamed her own brilliant smile to Gar'Jarbin. “Pleased to be here, Mayor,” she replied with a light air to her musical accent. “Thank you for providing breakfast for us and the officers.”
Gar'Jarbin raised his hand and swatted gently at the air, brushing aside the compliment in a good natured way. “Think nothing of it, my dear. Your husband's arrival has been an event this town needed to break the dreary cycle of boredom.” Then his gold eyes focused on Ryan and there was a keen, hidden intelligence in them. “Would you be interested in a job?”
Myra's sudden intake of air didn't change Ryan's reaction. He relaxed, leaned back in the cushioned wooden chair and gestured broadly with his polite question. “What would you want with a big guy like me?”
“Quite a bit,” the mayor explained, suddenly all business. “Your strength is apparent and your size is a bonus. Our guards are all well practiced in combat, but you disarmed one of the best trained men in the area. Avrohom only pays for the best warriors when he trundles around with his collection wagon. I can afford to grant some small rank, armor and a weapon of your choice. You would report to the garrison commander, whom you already know.”
While the mayor had made his case, Ryan could see the ever so slight frown on Myra's face out of the corner of his eye. While he knew that he would have gladly taken the job before he met and married her, but things were way different. He's a farmer now and is truly happy with his home life. Yet he didn't want to disregard offers of any sort, so instead of giving an outright no, he saw his best chance in leaving the offer open.
“I like where I'm at on our farm,” he told Gar'Jarbin evenly, putting his large hand out and taking Myra's in his own. Before the mayor could register disappointment on his features, he continued. “I won't have the time for a full fledged job. But I understand you somewhat, Gar'Jarbin. Having somebody like me to keep the peace would go a long ways in keeping Ocaza feeling safe. How about we worry about my putting on armor and picking up a weapon when and if something serious threatens?”
The mayor drummed his fingers on the desk for a few moments, then nodded. “Less than I expected, more than I had hoped for,” the mayor commented to himself, but loud enough to politely share his musing. Then he nodded. “We'll do it your way, then. I'll order the garrison blacksmith to make the armor and weapon, but we'll keep it in the armory unless raiders hit. Which hopefully is never, but one can never tell anymore.”
“Raiders?” Myra asked, more than satisfied with her husband's choice, but clearly had never heard of this threat before.
“The southern kingdom,” Gar'Jarbin said, then sighed in genuine regret. “The queen there has incited animosity towards our great King Vorjon Zast'Hirame for refusing to erase toll fees on imports. Our merchants are banned from her country and her border patrols have attacked some smaller towns on our side. Nothing like this has happened for over three generations.”
Myra's look of outrage caught Ryan's notice. Three generations of peace meant that none of the current warriors or any of the locals had fought a real enemy before. No wonder he was able to disarm Avrohom's guard so easily. Thinking carefully, Ryan asked, “Have they already attacked close to Ocaza?”
“No,” the mayor admitted, smiled but thinly. “Not yet at any rate. We're not directly on the border but close enough if there's a serious push into our realm. Two days hard riding might get you there, or about a week of easy wagon travel. So the threat is minor. Still, would have been interesting to have you on patrol.”
Ryan shook his head and returned the thin smile, squeezed Myra's hand to reassure her. “Unless I'm told we're going to be attacked, you won't be getting me off our farm. I hope you understand.”
The mayor nodded expansively, spread his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Please see the blacksmith, he is expecting you.” He got up and bowed to indicate the audience was over.
As Myra and Ryan headed outside, his head buzzed with everything he had just learned. He never before heard the king's name, or the fact there were other kingdoms and that they were unhappy with the current government. It bothered him somewhat that these details seemed to be coming to him and he was more inclined to analyze it than react. His mind seized it with a mental hunger to process the information. It was almost like he was seeing things from afar, yet influenced in big ways by being involved with them. If he ever met anybody else who had suffered from memory loss, he would have to ask if that was a common side effect.
Heads started to turn as he passed on the streets, some staring, others mumbling but never loud enough to be heard by the huge man. Myra loved every second of it, again the center of attention where she had something nobody else could have ever imagined.
When they found the blacksmith in the trade quarter, he dropped his hammer and the red hot horseshoe sizzled on his anvil, forgotten. The small dark blue haired man was shirtless and ribboned with muscle, but it hugged his bones under the skin rather than bulge. His eyes were a dull red, though the whites were bright and healthy. When he spoke, his voice was the first low toned native he had heard. Not as deep as Ryan's baritone rumble but about halfway there.
“You must be the giant,” he told Ryan, who chuckled back with good natured humor. After a moment, the blacksmith chuckled with him.
“You must be the blacksmith,” Ryan replied, keeping his grin.
“Agumir Shad'Vato at your service.”
“Lord Za'Ryan Ven'Krue and my wife, Lady Myra.”
Agumir inclined his head in greeting and while Ryan returned the gesture, the hot horseshoe was quickly plucked up by a set of tongs and dropped into a bucket of cool water. It gave a loud hiss. Once the blacksmith was satisfied he had recovered from the initial jolt, he pulled out a tape with symbols on it and approached Ryan.
“I need measurements,” Agumir explained, almost apologetically. While he quickly ran the tape up and down Ryan's thick arms, he continued, “Do you wish a mace, sword or spear?”
The question almost caught Ryan off guard. He hadn't thought about it, but his mouth replied so quickly, he wondered for a moment if the choice came from the black hole in his mind or from a sudden impulse to be highly intimidating. “Can you make a large two handed sword?”
Agumir paused, nodded, then finished his measurements on the outside of his leg. He hadn't been writing the numbers down, years of practice at his trade had him memorizing the numbers the moment he saw them. “Yes, and that means no shield then. Considering your size and strength, such a large sword would have to be strapped across your back. Do you know how much you can lift?”
“I can carry between four and five hundred pounds on my back,” Ryan told him, and the red eyes got big for a moment.
“Can you pick up my anvil?” Agumir asked, tone numb. To prove he could, Ryan snatched up the small anvil with both hands, gave it an easy up and down toss. It weighed only a couple hundred pounds. Light to him but heavy as hell to the locals. He set it back in its original spot carefully with one hand, showing off a little. The blacksmith had been watching Ryan's muscles and his face for the level effort and was mightily impressed. Myra stood there and gave a silent supportive clapping motion. She enjoyed his showing off and he knew it.
“Anything else you want me to pick up?”
“No,” the blacksmith said quickly. “I guess I can make the steel a little thicker than normal for armor penetration. I might have you come by and pick it up a few times to make sure it isn't too heavy. We don't need you getting overly tired after three or four dozen swings. Would that be alright?”
“Absolutely,” Ryan told him, then flexed his chest muscles with a wicked grin. Agumir instantly got the idea if his big eyes were any indication of the silent message. Go ahead and make it thick and tiring, it might not matter to the Giant of Ocaza.
Chapter Nine - Meeting The Enemy
Duke Haz'Bolian watched the last corn loaded wagon pull away, his expression laced with approval. Then he turned to Myra and Ryan, took a second to readjust to t
he sight of the massive man yet again. No wonder the harvest had been so good to her, he must have been able to do the job of three able bodied workers let alone one. They stood there, smiling at the noble in front of their farm, expectant and proud of their accomplishment.
“That was far more produce than I expected,” Haz'Bolian slowly told them both, as if being forced to admit it. “I'm increasing the offer to seven gold, I don't want it said I took advantage of good farmers.”
Myra almost squeaked with joy, “Thank you, Duke Haz'Bolian!” She hugged her husband to show him how proud she was of everything he had accomplished.
Ryan's baritone almost startled the Duke again, who felt he would never get used to such a low voice from a man's throat. “Your generosity speaks well of you. If you like, I can reserve next year's harvest for you alone, for your honesty with us.”
The Duke's lean features lit up as he ran a hand through his short light blue hair, his gold eyes looking over the large field. He nodded and said, “That's a deal, Lord Za'Ryan. I get double the benefit from corn. My men eat it, but the shuck and cob go to our own horses for extra grub. The fee can remain the same as well, it lets me plan better if I know my future expenses.”
“Of course,” Ryan nodded as he replied graciously, respecting the Duke's wits. Then a phrase emerged from somewhere hidden in his mind and he couldn't disagree with it, so he tried it on the wealthy noble. “If you can't measure it, you can't manage it.”
Haz'Bolian's light blue eyebrows climbed his forehead in surprise. “I didn't think I would, but damn it, I like you Lord Za'Ryan. Such foresight is rare among farmers. I feel you may have been more than that at some point in your past.”
Myra had kept his loss of memory a secret, but the Duke had voiced a troubling whisper from the back of Ryan's darkened mind. The analytical thinking, knowledge that seemed to seep from nowhere, his view of the city and people as primitive... yet couldn't recall anything more than that. It bothered him more than he would admit even to himself. He was highly satisfied with making new memories with his wife until moments like this arose.
Passion of the Different Page 7