by Robert Beers
“Sammel! It that you? Still alive after all these years?” A wide grin split Ethan's face, and he pushed forward to meet his old friend.
“Ha hah!” Sammel gripped Ethan's shoulders in joy. “Yes, it's me, you rapscallion. I'm much too ornery and far too rich to die. You should have known that.”
Ellona stood beside Ethan with the children gathered around her. “Is he a friend of yours, Ethan?”
“Ellona!” Ethan took her by the arm. “I want you to meet Sammel, an old, old friend of mine. He was the first one to treat me kindly after I received my Watchman commission.”
“That's because you were the only one not involved in some form of extortion, my boy.” Sammel took Ellona's hand, and bowed over it.
“So pleased to meet Ethan's beautiful lady. And of course, his children.”
Ellona blushed under the compliment, and chose not to correct the kindly old man.
“Who's he, mommy?” Jonas peered at Sammel from behind his mother's skirt.
“A friend of Ethan's, dear heart.” Ellona patted Jonas’ hand.
“He's ooold.”
Sammel threw back his head in a laugh. “Oh, he's a sharp one, he is. Of course I'm old, my dear. I've earned every one of these white hairs.” He pointed to his head. “Those that are left, anyway.”
He turned back to Ethan. “Where are you staying?”
Ethan shook his head. “We don't know yet. We've only been in the city for a little while, yet. Do you know of anything?”
Sammel beamed, creating a road map of creases in his face. “Such a question. Do I know of anything? You just follow me; I have a little place a few streets from here, over on Shilling street. You may remember the neighborhood, Ethan. It was part of the outer fringe of your watch territory at one time.”
Ethan frowned. “If I recall, that was not a good place to live, much less walk through.”
Ellona took hold of Ethan's arm. “Ethan ... the children.”
Sammel held up his hand. “No need to worry, dear lady. Things have changed greatly since Ethan left us. It has been nearly twenty years, Ethan. Those old storefronts and shops have been converted to homes and crafters studios. The thieves and bullyboys are long since gone. I had a small part to play in that, if I do say so myself.” He puffed out his chest at the last sentence.
The frown did not leave Ethan's face. “I don't know, Sammel. A neighborhood like that cleaned up ... doesn't seem possible.”
“I didn't say it was easy, Ethan.” Sammel's expression turned grave. “It took a lot of blood, and a number of good men died in the process.” He grimaced with the memory.
“You stormed the neighborhood?” Ethan was incredulous.
Sammel looked embarrassed. “Somebody had to.”
Ethan laughed out loud. “Sammel. You're a wonder! You should be the Mayor.”
Sammel held up his hands as if warding off a threat. “Oh, no. I want no part of that quagmire. I have enough troubles of my own without adding politics to the mix.”
Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. “I remember you being a wise man. I'm glad to see you haven't changed.”
“Who, me?” Sammel feigned innocent naïveté with wide blue eyes.
He clapped his hands, and rubbed them together. “Well, now. How about you folks follow me to your new home?”
Ellona looked at Ethan. “We haven't said we'd move in, yet, but we will look at it.”
“Good, good.” Sammel turned and began to part the crowd around them. “Come on, make way. Make way. Coming through here. Thank you.”
The crowds thinned rapidly once they were out of the main square. They followed Sammel along a street he called Candlewick lane. The cobblestones were tightly set with a few patches of moss showing green and amber at the joins.
He kept up a running commentary as they made their way along the streets, pointing out items and places of interest with an infective enthusiasm.
“Over there's Willum's Alehouse. Best pasties in this sector of town, bitter's a bit thin, though.
“That's where old lady Nanatette makes dresses. Pretty good still, for someone who's nearly old enough to be my mother.
“Remember this place, Ethan? Apperby's Toy Shoppe? You used to spend an hour or more, there every day.”
“I was just making sure he was safe, that's all.”
“Sure you were. I hear he had the old man teach him how to carve and work wood. Always interested in something new, Ethan was.”
With Sammel as tour guide, the walk to Shilling Street flew by, seemingly in no time at all.
Ethan looked at a neighborhood he remembered as being a place where good people just did not go, and the rats grew large enough to chase dogs.
Sammel was right. The place had changed. The buildings and storefronts were clean and whitewashed. Open shutters contrasted brightly against the clean walls, and flower boxes promised a riot of color when their buds finally burst, and the children! Children were playing openly in a street that used to display their broken bodies as a warning sign to interlopers. Their squeals of laughter echoed like bells in the open street.
Ellona stopped short and pointed. “Ethan! Look! She's spinning.”
The woman she pointed to was sitting in front of an open door, treading on a spinning wheel of ancient design. The wheel itself sat above a three-legged bench that tilted slightly forward. The gray wool she was spinning lay in a basket near her feet, next to a sleepy-looking dog with floppy ears and short reddish-brown hair. The creak of her wheel blended in with the shouts and laughs of the playing children.
“Her name is Nicoll. She sits here every day, when it isn't raining. She's quite a spinner, sells every skein she makes.”
“I know one even better.”
“Ethan!” Ellona shushed him.
“Look, mommy, spindling.” Sari noticed Nicoll at work.
“Spinning.” Jonas corrected his sister.
The dog noticed the attention being paid his owner, and wuffed at the children.
“Quiet, Red. No one is bothering you.” The woman spoke to the dog without taking her eyes off of her work.
“Afternoon, Nicoll. How're the children?” Sammel tipped an imaginary hat in greeting.
“Why, hello, Sammel. It's so good to see you. What brings you by the neighborhood?” She looked up and smiled at him while her feet and hands continued to work.
“I've an old friend and his family with me. They're moving into my old place.” He looked at Ethan and Ellona, with Sari and Jonas clinging to her skirts. “At least, I hope they are.”
The wheel stopped and Nicoll stood, brushing bits of wool off her skirts. She held out her hand to Ellona. “Well met, I'm called Nicoll, as this old gossip must have told you. I think I overheard your children recognize what I was doing. Do you spin?”
Ellona nodded. “Ethan taught me. He's originally from the Wool Coast.”
“Do you have a wheel?” Nicoll instantly regretted the question when she saw the sadness enter Ellona's eyes.
“She will again, soon.” Ethan stepped forward and held out his hand to Nicoll. “I'm called Ethan. This is Jonas, and the shy one there,” he pointed to where Sari was peeking out from behind her mother. “Is Sari.”
“And this strapping young fellow is called Circumstance.”
Nicoll rose several levels in Ethan's estimation when she made no sign of noticing Circumstance's obvious Elven heritage.
She nodded her head once in greeting. “Well met, Circumstance. Welcome to Berggren.” He nodded back, gravely.
“My name is Jonas, an’ this is Sari.” Jonas pulled his younger sister from behind her mother's skirts.
“Well met, Jonas. Well met, Sari. What do you think of my town?”
“This is your town? The whole place?” Jonas and Sari chorused their energetic reply.
Ellona rescued Nicoll. “We've bothered Nicoll enough for now, children. Thank you so much for your hospitality, Nicoll. I hope we can spin together someday.”
<
br /> Nicoll smiled back. “As do I.”
Sammel beamed. “What did I tell you, Ethan? Transformed!”
Ethan looked around at the neighborhood. If the buildings were any judge of the people living in them, then this was a good place to get a new start.
He turned to look at the old man. “All right, Sammel, show us our new home.”
* * * *
Flynn looked behind himself, and saw the line of trees fading into the distance. “We've come a fair piece already.”
Neely kept his eyes fixed on the ground in front of his horse. “I'm just glad to be out of that swamp.” He scratched a forearm where some midges had gotten a quick supper.
It was the fifth day since they had worked their way around the creek and through the swamp. The mire's southern end was mostly stagnant water, home to clouds of hungry midges, mosquitoes and a pervasive stench like that of something long dead. The flying pests found Charity, Flynn and Neely welcome fare, indeed, and the bites itched terribly.
Charity turned in her saddle, and saw Neely scratching. “They'll heal faster if you don't scratch, you know.”
Neely scratched a little harder. “I know. I know.”
Flynn's stomach entered the conversation with a loud rumble.
Neely turned his head just enough to catch his friend out of the corner of his eye. “You tryin’ to tell us somethin'?”
“I agree.” Charity laughed. “It's long past time for lunch.”
The cat seconded with a meow from her now familiar perch on the top of Charity's saddlebags.
Neely nodded. “All right, then. How about that spot over there?” He pointed to an elongated glen nestled into the flank of a rolling rise in the landscape to their right. Oak, Madrone and fragrant Oilwoods crowded against the back wall of the rise in a horseshoe shape. Soft grasses and wild alfalfa mixed in with blue cornflower provided forage for the horses.
The Oilwood's pungent aroma swept across their path on a stray breeze; Charity sniffed the air. “Ummm. I love that smell.”
Neely hurried his horse forward with a nudge of his heels. “So do I, Charity, but for different reasons. Them Oilwood leaves'll help with this itch.”
Charity stuck her heels into her Dapple Grey's flanks, and surged forward to pass by Neely. “You're right. I should have remembered that.”
She hit the ground running as soon as her horse was inside the glen. One of the Oilwood trees bore branches that drooped enough for her to tear away some of the leaves. The pungent resinous smell of the leaves welled up as she crushed them and began smearing the oils over her arms and face where the insects of the swamp had bitten her. The relief was almost instantaneous.
“Ohhhh.” Neely sighed, as he treated his bites. “That feels near as good as hittin’ the hay with Molly McFadden, maybe better.”
Flynn reined in his draft animal, and patted her on the rump as he dismounted. The action of the Oilwood leaves against the bites that covered his face brought a huge smile of relief, and he sat down in the tall grass with a thump. “Oh, yeahhhhh.”
“Feels good, don't it?” Neely sat down across from Flynn. Their horse walked across the glen, noses in the tall grass, grazing.
“Stand and deliver!” The harsh command shocked them to their feet. Flynn and Neely's long knives appeared in their fists. Charity saw with chagrin that her bow was out of reach, still fitted into its wrap on the saddlebag.
The owner of the voice stepped out from behind one of the Oilwoods, a baker's dozen of toughs appeared with him, each of them armed with a variety of edged weapons.
The chief highwayman matched Neely in height and build, but his nose had been flattened for him sometime years earlier, and allowed to heal unset. His deep brown eyes swept across them from beneath heavily ridged brows that sprouted hair resembling black wool. He smiled at the show of knives, revealing chipped and stained teeth.
“A weed chewer.” Thought Neely. “Probably buzzing even now. Dangerous.”
The highwayman gestured with his sword. As tattered and worn as his outfit was, the sword's edge glittered with the sign of competent care. “Ah, ahh, lads. Methinks the little lady there would rather see your guts stay where they are. Drop yer stickers, an’ we'll have usselves a little talk.”
Neely looked at Flynn, and nodded. Fourteen to three was stiff odds at best. They dropped their knives into the grass.
He looked back at the highwayman, and crossed his arms, feeling the smaller knife hidden beneath his vest. “All right, let's talk. What's your business here, if we didn't know already.”
The highwayman scratched the black wool on his head, dislodging a number of vermin. He laughed sarcastically as he looked back at his band. “His lordship wants ta know what our business is, lads. Shall we tell ‘im?”
The band hooted and howled at the joke. He spat into the grass, and sneered at his three victims. “We wants whatever it is you got, bucko.”
Charity stepped forward, her mind whirling with Morgan's lessons and the results of over a year's worth of practice. “But we have nothing besides what you see; our few supplies, weapons and clothes. If you're hungry, we'll be glad to share what we can, but you can't leave us with nothing!”
He sneered again, spitting before he answered. “Like I said, me fine bitch. What you gots, we wants. Start strippin’ or start dyin'.”
Charity shifted her stance, taking on a loose-jointed look. Neely saw her change, and thought, “Oh damn. Here we go.”
He whispered to Flynn. “Get ready. She's gonna do it.”
Flynn didn't answer, but a subtle shift of his bulk said he was ready.
The highwayman saw the change in Charity and Flynn, and readjusted the grip on his sword. “So, it's gonna be the hard way, eh? Fine with me. Ok, lads, take ‘em out!”
The four thieves closest to Charity rushed her as one. She stepped in to meet the one slightly in front of the others, and did something with her hands. He yelped in pain, and landed on his side in front of where his fellows’ feet were going to be. Two of the thieves became tangled in with their companion, and landed across him. The remaining member of the foursome was a bit more agile, and hurdled the obstruction, only to be met by a hard heel in the solar plexus. He landed on his butt, vainly trying to breathe.
Flynn gathered two of the group in a bear hug, and squeezed. They dropped to the ground, groaning.
A third thief came against him more warily, weaving the blade of his battered glaive in a snake-like motion. Numbers four and five fanned out in a flanking maneuver, their short curved swords held low.
Neely dove under a thrown blade, and retrieved his long knife while throwing the one hidden in his vest with a flick of his left hand. The blade sank hilt-deep into the throat of the knife thrower. The impaled thief's scream gurgled around the knife while he weakly attempted to reach its handle. His reaching hands trembled in place for a long moment, and then, as if in slow motion, the thief fell backwards onto the grass.
One of the band, with long dwarf-like braids hanging down his back, went after Charity's Dapple Gray. The mare shied and skipped backwards, striking outward with her forelegs. Another thief joined the one with braids, and tried to reach for the reins. She rewarded him for his trouble with a hoof to the knee. The other one heard bone crack.
Three of them encircled Charity, feinting in and out, swiping and jabbing at her with the points of their knives. She turned with them, keeping her front to the one closest to her at the time. One of them, a redhead with thickly matted hair and sallow skin, pushed his jab, trying to get inside her reach. He succeeded, and she wrapped her hand around the wrist, twisting it the wrong way against the joint. Charity then removed the knife as her left foot connected against the cheekbone of the one sliding in against her blind side. He tumbled to the ground, senseless.
She spun on her right foot, and faced the two left standing with the knife in her hand. “You want some more of this?”
They backed slowly out of her reach. The redhead
massaged his wrist and looked for reinforcements. The other one turned and looked for easier prey.
Their leader was practically dancing in his fury. “Take them, you fools! It's only the three of them, and only one real man among them. What does it take to handle a fat man and a girl?”
Flynn's four opponents closed in on him like terriers worrying a mastiff. The one with the glaive swept its blade in a fast arc, aiming at his chest. Flynn threw up his knife to block it, but the thief quickly reversed direction, and caught the big man a glancing blow with the spike end of his weapon.
The thief flanking Flynn's right side darted in as he flinched to avoid greater damage from the glaive's spike. He pulled back his arm to stab Flynn in the back, and his body followed that arm into the grass, a knife protruding from his chest.
Neely yelled at Flynn. “Keep yer bloody eyes open, thickhead. Don't be such a whittle, an’ you'll live longer!”
Flynn waved his thanks, and backhanded another of the flankers with it while he was distracted by Neely's yell. The angle the thief's head lay said he wouldn't be thieving much in the future.
Neely ran straight at two of the band while they were trying to decide who to attack, and clotheslined one of them. The other ducked and whirled to face him, knife held loosely and low. This one had the look of an experienced fighter.
The bandleader looked at the fight around him. The odds were becoming too even. That demon of a horse had killed or knocked out two more of his men, leaving him with just three beside himself. His best knife man was facing the skinny one, and Finn the Red had the girl. The fat one was facing down Rubert and his glaive, but he didn't hold much hope for Rubert. The fellow was too quick to take chances for his own good.
Charity crouched as she kept her eyes on those of the redhead. The eyes usually moved a split second before the body did. If you watched closely, they told you what was coming.
The redhead feinted right then left, then struck left again, expecting his quarry to have fallen into the trap of the rhythm but she wasn't there, and his wrist was trapped again in that devil's hold of hers. His second blade was taken from him.