His unease grew as he realized that there were no trees nearby. Instead he was in a grassy meadow, a ring of beaten earth showing that other travelers had used the spot. But how had he gotten there? The last thing he remembered was a wretched day spent traveling through the rain and mud. He remembered making camp for the night, when he could no longer go on.
And he remembered trying to summon the old magic. Failing again and again, then at last reluctantly trying to summon anger. After that, there was nothing.
It was as if he had been asleep, but clearly he had not been. He had journeyed, and by the feel of his hands he had spent a day or more laboring. Was the chicken burning on the spit the fruits of his labors or of his newfound skill at thievery?
His belly knotted with sickness as he wondered how long he had journeyed unaware. Had it been one day? Or two? Or even longer? Where was he? What had he done? What strange spirit had possessed his body?
The chicken blackened and scorched unheeded as horror washed through him. What madness was this that had taken possession of his soul? He had blamed the breakbone fever for his shattered memories, but what if his illness was not the cause? What if this was not the first time that madness had seized him in his grip?
Everything that he knew to be true about himself was being stripped from him, one piece at a time.
He had started this journey seeking answers, believing that it was better to know the truth regardless of the cost. Now he was no longer certain that he wanted to find answers to his questions. Perhaps the monks were wrong. Perhaps there were things that were best left unknown.
And there was another grim possibility. What if he already knew the truth, and it had broken his mind? The part of him that commanded fire, and had ruled his body for the past days, perhaps that was his true self. Crushed by the weight of some terrible knowledge, he had taken refuge in unknowing. These hours were the illusion, this self the delusion, while his true self slept, protected from the consequences of his deeds.
If that was true, then finding the answers would surely destroy him.
Chapter 9
Holding her headstall with his left hand, Myles risked stroking the mare’s nose with his right. “Easy girl,” he said.
The mare flared her nostrils and danced a few steps sideways, making it plain she was in no mood for his clumsy reassurances. Cart horses he could handle, and a stout stick was all it took to make a balky mule see sense. But this mare was no ordinary horse. Bred to carry imperial messengers, her bloodline was far more distinguished than his own, and she demanded the respect due to her breeding, just as if she were a noble lady.
Myles tugged the headstall again, trying to get her to walk. Her flanks were dappled with drying sweat, and she needed to be walked to cool off, then carefully rubbed down. Not that her rider had shown any interest in her condition. He had simply dismounted and tossed her reins in Myles’s direction, confident that they would be caught. His imperial tabard meant that the rider was above such petty concerns as the care of his horse, and indeed once he had dined he would expect to find a new mount saddled, waiting to take him on the next leg of his journey.
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Myles looked up and saw a man standing at the entrance to the stableyard. He was tall and whipcord-thin, a tattered cloak hung loosely on his frame, and his unkempt beard spoke of weeks of rough living.
“Excuse me,” the man repeated. “Do you have any chores I can do in return for a meal? I am willing to do anything.”
Myles was not used to such politeness in a beggar. And indeed he could use help. The previous stable owner had employed two stable hands, but both had refused to work for Myles, and as of yet he had found no replacements. Most days he was able to do the work himself, but at times like this he felt the lack. One man could not take care of a hard-driven mount and simultaneously saddle another so that the messenger could leave without delay.
But unskilled help was worse than none at all, and he allowed his frustration to color his voice as he replied. “I have no time for idlers. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll see.”
He tugged the headstall sharply, which was a mistake as it twisted out of his grasp, and the mare sidled away.
The stranger approached. “Here, girl, he’s only trying to help,” he said.
The mare watched, her ears pricked forward, as the stranger walked toward her. He kept talking softly, a constant stream of reassurances, until he reached her and caught her headstall. “There, now, you’ve done well. You know you need to walk first, then we’ll feed you and let you rest.”
Myles watched with amazement and a trace of envy, for when the stranger tugged her headstall, the mare began to walk.
“She needs to be walked, yes?”
“Yes,” he replied. “A half hour, then bring her to me to be unsaddled, and I’ll show you which stall to put her in.”
Myles kept one eye on the stranger as he went into the stables. There were two post-horses stabled within, as specified in his contract. The roan gelding had not been used in a fortnight, so he let the gelding out of his stall and tied him to the fence rail as he began the elaborate process of tacking him up.
Each post-horse had its own saddle, custom-fitted to the contours of the horse’s back. Unlike an ordinary saddle with its single girth, a post rider’s saddle had three girths, plus a breastplate. In many ways it was similar to a war saddle, although much lighter in weight, for it did not need to serve as armor.
Before the half hour was up, the post rider had returned. He checked the roan’s tack himself, grunting in approval when it proved to his satisfaction. Then he vaulted into the saddle and rode off without offering thanks or even a backward glance.
When the stranger judged the mare had cooled off, he tied her to the same post that Myles had used. Then, without a word, he began to unsaddle her. Myles watched, eyebrows raised, but there was no fumbling, and not a single wasted motion. He shrugged his shoulders, then went into the stable and emerged with cloth rags and a brush. He handed those to his newfound helper and accepted the tack in return. After she had been wiped down, and the grime of the road brushed off her, the mare was led into an empty stall, where water and grain were waiting.
“If you like, I could clean the tack,” the stranger offered.
He turned to face him, and for the first time Myles had a good view of his face.
Myles drew in a sharp breath. Prolonged hunger had pared the man down till his features were mere skin stretched across bone, but he knew that no peasant had sired those sharp cheekbones, nor the piercing blue of his gaze. Even if his accent had not given him away as a stranger, his face surely would have.
He had never expected to see one of the old blood again—far less to find one standing as beggar in his yard.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Josan.”
He waited, but no more details were forthcoming.
“I am Myles, a former soldier lately turned stable owner,” he said. “You know your way around horses.”
Josan, as he called himself, merely shrugged. “So it seems.”
Despite his obvious need there was still some pride left in him, for Josan did not beg. He merely waited, motionless, while Myles made his decision.
“You’ll find what you need to clean the tack by the racks at the far end,” he said, indicating the direction with a jerk of his chin. “Then shovel out the first stall and get it ready for the next horse. Do that, then come find me, and we’ll see about getting you a meal and a place to sleep for the night. Agreed?”
Josan nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until you’ve seen what you earned. You may not like the bargain you’ve made,” Myles said, in a rare moment of honesty. Josan might not know what he was worth, but Myles did, and he had every intention of getting full value out of the prize that had just fallen into his lap.
Myles retired to the small room at the front of the stables that served as his offic
e. He took down the logbook and added two entries, one to show the newly arrived mare and another to record the number of the imperial messenger who had taken the roan gelding and the direction in which he traveled. Stabling the post-horses provided a generous monthly stipend, but he would lose that stipend if his records could not withstand the scrutiny of an imperial auditor. Then, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of another at work in his stable, he laboriously began to pore over his accounts. Reckoning numbers did not come naturally to him, so he added each sum twice as he calculated the amount of grain he had used thus far, and determined that he had just enough to last the winter if he was careful.
When Josan announced that he was finished, Myles inspected his work. The mare’s tack gleamed, the leather carefully oiled and the metal polished until it could have passed inspection by the strictest sergeant in the imperial guard.
“The edges of the saddle blanket are beginning to fray, see?” Josan said, indicating where several stitches in a row had come loose. A half dozen stitches in a row of two hundred, only the most eagle-eyed would have noticed the flaw.
Myles stared at him, wondering if Josan was somehow mocking him, or if he was indeed so desperate for work that he would do anything to impress a potential master. But he stood his scrutiny without comment, neither unnerved nor defensive.
“You sew?” he asked.
“No.”
“Neither do I.” Myles could stitch up a wound, but his rough technique would hardly serve here. Perhaps Carmela would be able to help. A servingwoman at the inn across the road, she could sometimes be persuaded to lend a hand, eager to earn a few coppers that her master knew nothing about.
With one last check on the mare, who was resting quietly in her stall, Myles barred the stable doors, then led the way down the street to the tavern where he took his meals. He paused for a moment on the threshold, eyes blinking as they accustomed themselves to the dark interior. A dozen tables were crowded into the small room, and a long counter served to separate the diners from the cooking area. Smoke hung in the air, and he sniffed appreciatively.
As it was just before sunset, there were only two other diners present. Myles nodded cordially to them, knowing better than to expect a response as he led the way to a table in the rear corner. Tucked up near the fire bed, it was the warmest spot in the tavern, except for that of the cook laboring over the grill.
The owner’s son Guilio came over, bearing a dish of black olives and a plate of bread. “It’s fish tonight,” he said, in a tone of supreme disinterest.
The menu at the tavern varied by what was cheap in the marketplace and the mood of the cook. When Guiliano had been fighting with his wife, his customers had eaten savory barley for a week. Tonight it appeared that domestic tranquility once more reigned.
“Fish for two. And wine, with two cups.”
“Yellow or the red?”
“Yellow,” Myles decided. “And a pitcher of water to mix it with.”
That got Guilio’s attention, and his eyes flicked to Josan, then back again before nodding.
In a few moments the boy returned, with two wine cups, and two pitchers, one of yellow wine and one of water. Mindful of his guest’s privation, Myles liberally mixed the water into the wine before serving them both.
They ate the olives and the bread, Myles being careful to eat enough so it was not obvious that he was giving his guest the larger share. By the time these were done, Guilio returned and set in front of each of them a wooden platter containing smoked fish wrapped in vine leaves, accompanied by seasoned broad beans.
Josan’s manners were impeccable, cutting the fish into neat bites rather than devouring the meal with a few gulps as a beggar might. Still he cleared his platter before Myles had barely begun.
“More?”
Josan shook his head regretfully. “No, but thank you.” Only then did he begin to drink his wine, toying idly with the cup as Myles ate his dinner in a far more leisurely fashion than his guest.
Guilio gave every appearance of disdaining his father’s customers, but as soon as Myles set down his fork, he reappeared, taking away their platters and replacing them with two small bowls of honeyed quinces. Guiliano must be feeling very good indeed, since normally his guests made do with mere figs or sweetened cakes if the cook was in a generous mood.
Despite his earlier protests, Josan managed to eat his share of the treat. Around them the tables had filled with other bachelors like Myles, and servants enjoying a rare evening off. He wondered if Josan noticed that no one greeted him, nor indeed approached their table.
He waited to see if the wine would loosen Josan’s tongue, but his guest seemed content to eat in silence.
“You did a good job today,” Myles said, at last, when it became clear that Josan would not speak on his own.
“I know a bit about horses,” Josan said.
“I could use a man who knows a bit about horses,” he said.
Josan leaned back in his chair. “Why? What happened to your last helper?”
There spoke the confidence that came from having a full belly. This afternoon Josan had begged to be allowed to perform any task. Now he was asking questions, as if he could truly afford to turn down this opportunity. It showed a resilience of spirit and a sharp mind—both qualities Myles admired.
“I haven’t been able to hire help. You may have seen that I am not the most popular of men in this town.”
“I had noticed.”
“It is none of my doing,” he hastened to explain. “When the former owner died, his nephew Florek expected to inherit the business. He was furious when he realized that his uncle had sold the business to me just a few weeks before his death. My ownership is unquestionable, but Florek is a popular man in this town, and a powerful one. The former stable hands refused to work for me, and I have had no luck in finding replacements.”
“Wouldn’t Florek have inherited the money from the sale of the stable? Surely that would have appeased his temper.”
“It would have, if he had found it. But his uncle had a comely young servingwoman…who left town the day he died.”
No doubt if the servant woman was ever found, she would claim that the money had been a gift to her, and indeed it might well have been. Not that she had any hope of convincing the aggrieved nephew or his friend the magistrate of her tale. She had shown uncommonly good sense in taking to the road so swiftly.
“What would you have me do?” Josan asked.
“Tend the horses, shovel the stalls, ensure that the post riders’ mounts are taken care of. Can you ride?”
Josan hesitated a moment, then nodded.
“I’ll have to see you up on a horse, but if you’re any good, you can exercise the post-horses. I take my noon and evening meals here, and you will do so as well. There’s a partitioned corner of the hayloft where the last hands slept, and you can have that. I’ll pay your meals here, and”—he hesitated, not wanting to give away too much, but knowing that he could not afford to let Josan walk away—“I’ll give you a week’s trial. If you work out, it will be five coppers a week for you.”
Josan drank down the last of his wine. Myles wondered if he should raise his offer to six coppers, or if that would tip his hand.
“A week’s trial,” Josan said. “And if we both agree, I’ll stay till spring. I cannot promise any more.”
“Agreed,” Myles said.
Josan’s shoulder muscles ached as he pushed the muck-laden barrow to the alley behind the stables. When he reached his destination, a fragrant barrel surrounded by buzzing flies, he stopped. Picking up the shovel that rested on the top of the barrow, he unloaded the manure into the barrel, doing his best to breathe shallowly to avoid the stench. Fortunately, it was not allowed to rot for long, for every third day the dung collector came by to collect the full barrel and replace it with an empty one.
Such an arrangement would not have been necessary in a village or even a small town, where a stable would have land enough for a dun
g heap. But Utika was large enough that space was at a premium. There was barely room for the stable and the small exercise paddock. Dung heaps were the domain of the farmers who lived on the outskirts of the town.
Given a choice, he would not have ventured into Utika. Not only was it a large town, nearly the size of a city, but it was also on the main imperial road that connected this province with its neighbors. Official messengers passed through with regularity, and if there were news of a renegade monk being sought for murder, then surely the inhabitants of Utika would know of it.
But hunger was a far crueler master than mere logic, and it had been hunger that had driven him to venture into the place. He had not planned on staying longer than the time it took to earn a meal, but fate had intervened. And so far it seemed that his fears had been groundless. Many looked on him with suspicion, but it was his association with the outsider Myles that drew their ire rather than any rumored misdeeds of his own.
When the barrow was empty he placed the shovel inside it and wheeled it back to the front of the barn, putting it in its accustomed spot under the overhanging roof, where it was protected from the rain. Returning the shovel to its hook beside the door, he turned as he heard footsteps.
For the past six days Myles had watched him like a hawk, as befit a man who had entrusted valuable horses to a stranger. Today was the first time that Myles had left Josan alone with his charges, and he wondered if this was an omen for good or for ill.
He held himself still, his features deliberately calm. No matter what happened, he was far stronger than he had been a mere week ago. Regular meals had filled his belly, and uninterrupted sleep had banished the dull exhaustion that had haunted him for so long.
He would leave if he must, but he wanted to stay. True, there were no answers to be found here, but there was food, shelter, and the opportunity to earn honest coin. He was still not certain if he dared return to Karystos, but there were other cities, and other libraries that might hold the answers that he sought. They would not open their doors to a beggar, but a wandering scholar with coins in his purse was another matter.
The First Betrayal Page 12