Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  But rumor or no, Bast’s eyes were sharp. Cheek and jaw. A darkness all around one skinny wrist. And when he bent to take a drink from the stream, Bast glimpsed the boy’s back …

  “So,” Bast said as they sat beside the stream. “What exactly do you want? Do you want to kill him, or do you just want to have him gone?”

  “If he was just gone, I’d never sleep again for worry he’d come slouching back.” Rike said, then was quiet for a bit. “He went gone two span once.” He gave a faint smile. “That was a good time, just me and my ma. It was like my birthday every day when I woke up and he wasn’t there. I never knew my ma could sing …”

  The boy went quiet again. “I thought he’d fallen somewhere drunk and finally broke his neck. But he’d just traded off a year of furs for drinking money. He’d just been in his trapping shack, all stupor-drunk for half a month, not hardly more than a mile away.”

  The boy shook his head, more firmly this time. “No, if he goes, he won’t stay away.”

  “I can figure out the how,” Bast said. “That’s what I do. But you need to tell me what you really want.”

  Rike sat for a long while, jaw clenching and unclenching. “Gone,” he said at last. The word seemed to catch in his throat. “So long as he stays gone forever. If you can really do it.”

  “I can do it,” Bast said.

  Rike looked at his hands for a long time. “Gone then. I’d kill him. But that sort of thing ent right. I don’t want to be that sort of man. A fellow shouldn’t ought to kill his da.”

  “I could do it for you,” Bast said easily.

  Rike sat for a while, then shook his head. “It’s the same thing, innit? Either way it’s me. And if it were me, it would be more honest if I did it with my hands rather than do it with my mouth.”

  Bast nodded. “Right then. Gone forever.”

  “And soon,” Rike said.

  Bast sighed and looked up at the sun. He already had things to do today. The turning wheels of his desire did not come grinding to a halt because some farmer drank too much. Emberlee would be taking her bath soon. He was supposed to get carrots …

  He didn’t owe the boy a thing, either. Quite the opposite. The boy had lied to him. Broken his promise. And while Bast had settled that account so firmly that no other child in town would ever dream of crossing him like that again … it was still galling to remember. The thought of helping him now, despite that, it was quite the opposite of his desire.

  “It has to be soon,” Rike said. “He’s getting worse. I can run off, but ma can’t. And little Bip can’t neither. And …”

  “Fine, fine …” Bast cut him off, waving his hands. “Soon.”

  Rike swallowed. “What’s this going to cost me?” he asked, anxious.

  “A lot,” Bast said grimly. “We’re not talking about ribbons and buttons here. Think how much you want this. Think how big it is.” He met the boy’s eye and didn’t look away. “Three times that is what you owe me. Plus some for soon.” He stared hard at the boy. “Think hard on that.”

  Rike was a little pale now, but he nodded without looking away. “You can have what you like of mine,” he said. “But nothin’ of ma’s. She ent got much that my da hasn’t already drank away.”

  “We’ll work it out,” Bast said. “But it’ll be nothing of hers. I promise.”

  Rike took a deep breath, then gave a sharp nod. “Okay. Where do we start?”

  Bast pointed at the stream. “Find a river stone with a hole in it and bring it to me.”

  Rike gave Bast an odd look. “Yeh want a faerie stone?”

  “Faerie stone,” Bast said with such scathing mockery that Rike flushed with embarrassment. “You’re too old for that nonsense.” Bast gave the boy a look. “Do you want my help or not?” he asked.

  “I do,” Rike said in a small voice.

  “Then I want a river stone.” Bast pointed back at the stream. “You have to be the one to find it,” he said. “It can’t be anyone else. And you need to find it dry on the shore.”

  Rike nodded.

  “Right then.” Bast clapped his hands twice. “Off you go.”

  Rike left and Bast returned to the lightning tree. No children were waiting to talk to him, so he idled the time away. He skipped stones in the nearby stream and flipped through Celum Tinture, glancing at some of the illustrations. Calcification. Titration. Sublimation.

  Brann, happily unbirched with one hand bandaged, brought him two sweet buns wrapped in a white handkerchief. Bast ate the first and set the second aside.

  Viette brought armloads of flowers and a fine blue ribbon. Bast wove the daisies into a crown, threading the ribbon through the stems.

  Then, looking up at the sun, he saw that it was nearly time, Bast removed his shirt and filled it with the wealth of yellow and red touch-me-nots Viette had brought him. He added the handkerchief and crown, then fetched a stick and made a bindle so he could carry the lot more easily.

  He headed out past the Oldstone bridge, then up toward the hills and around a bluff until he found the place Kostrel had described. It was cleverly hidden away, and the stream curved and eddied into a lovely little pool perfect for a private bath.

  Bast sat behind some bushes, and after nearly half an hour of waiting he had fallen into a doze. The sharp crackle of a twig and a scrap of an idle song roused him, and he peered down to see a young woman making her careful way down the steep hillside to the water’s edge.

  Moving silently, Bast scurried upstream, carrying his bundle. Two minutes later he was kneeling on the grassy waterside with the pile of flowers beside him.

  He picked up a yellow blossom and breathed on it gently. As his breath brushed the petals, its color faded and changed into a delicate blue. He dropped it and the current carried it slowly downstream.

  Bast gathered up a handful of posies, red and orange, and breathed on them again. They too shifted and changed until they were a pale and vibrant blue. He scattered them onto the surface of the stream. He did this twice more until there were no flowers left.

  Then, picking up the handkerchief and daisy crown, he sprinted back downstream to the cozy little hollow with the elm. He’d moved quickly enough that Emberlee was just coming to the edge of the water.

  Softly, silently, he crept up to the spreading elm. Even with one hand carrying the handkerchief and crown, he went up the side as nimbly as a squirrel.

  Bast lay along a low branch, sheltered by leaves, breathing fast but not hard. Emberlee was removing her stockings and setting them carefully on a nearby hedge. Her hair was a burnished golden red, falling in lazy curls. Her face was sweet and round, a lovely shade of pale and pink.

  Bast grinned as he watched her look around, first left, then right. Then she began to unlace her bodice. Her dress was a pale cornflower blue, edged with yellow, and when she spread it on the hedge, it flared and splayed out like the wing of a great bird. Perhaps some fantastic combination of a finch and a jay.

  Dressed only in her white shift, Emberlee looked around again: left, then right. Then she shimmied free of it, a fascinating motion. She tossed the shift aside and stood there, naked as the moon. Her creamy skin was amazing with freckle. Her hips wide and lovely. The tips of her breasts were brushed with the palest of pink.

  She scampered into the water. Making a series of small, dismayed cries at the chill of it. They were, on consideration, not really similar to a raven’s at all. Though they could, perhaps, be slightly like a heron’s.

  Emberlee washed herself a bit, splashing and shivering. She soaped herself, dunked her head in the river, and came up gasping. Wet, her hair became the color of ripe cherries.

  It was then that the first of the blue touch-me-nots arrived, drifting on the water. She glanced at it curiously as it floated by and began to lather soap into her hair.

  More flowers followed. They came downstream and made circles around her, caught in the slow eddy of the pool. She looked at them, amazed. Then sieved a double handful from the
water and brought them to her face, drawing a deep breath to smell them.

  She laughed delightedly and dunked under the surface, coming up in the middle of the flowers, the water sluiced her pale skin, running over her naked breasts. Blossoms clung to her, as if reluctant to let go.

  That was when Bast fell out of the tree.

  There was a brief, mad scrabbling of fingers against bark, a bit of a yelp, then he hit the ground like a sack of suet. He lay on his back in the grass and let out a low, miserable groan.

  He heard a splashing, and then Emberlee appeared above him. She held her white shift in front of her. Bast looked up from where he lay in the tall grass.

  He’d been lucky to land on that patch of springy turf, cushioned with tall, green grass. A few feet to one side, and he’d have broken himself against the rocks. Five feet the other way and he would have been wallowing in mud.

  Emberlee knelt beside him, her skin pale, her hair dark. One posy clung to her neck—it was the same color as her eyes, a pale and vibrant blue.

  “Oh,” Bast said happily as he gazed up at her. His eyes were slightly dazed. “You’re so much lovelier than I’d imagined.”

  He lifted a hand as if to brush her cheek, only to find it holding the crown and knotted handkerchief. “Ahh,” he said, remembering. “I’ve brought you some daisies too. And a sweet bun.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the daisy crown with both hands. She had to let go of her shift to do this. It fell lightly to the grass.

  Bast blinked, momentarily at a loss for words.

  Emberlee tilted her head to look at the crown; the ribbon was a striking cornflower blue, but it was nothing near as lovely as her eyes. She lifted it with both hands and settled it proudly on her head. Her arms still raised, she drew a slow breath.

  Bast’s eyes slipped from her crown.

  She smiled at him indulgently.

  Bast drew a breath to speak, then stopped and drew another through his nose. Honeysuckle.

  “Did you steal my soap?” he asked incredulously.

  Emberlee laughed and kissed him.

  A good while later, Bast took the long way back to the lightning tree, making a wide loop up into the hills north of town. Things were rockier up that way, no ground flat enough to plant, the terrain too treacherous for grazing.

  Even with the boy’s directions, it took Bast a while to find Martin’s still. He had to give the crazy old bastard credit though. Between the brambles, rockslides, and fallen trees, there wasn’t a chance he would have stumbled onto it accidentally, tucked back into a shallow cave in a scrubby little box valley.

  The still wasn’t some slipshod contraption bunged together out of old pots and twisted wire, either. It was a work of art. There were barrels and basins and great spirals of copper tube. A great copper kettle twice the size of a washbin, and a smolder-stove for warming it. A wooden trough ran all along the ceiling, and only after following it outside did Bast realize Martin collected rainwater and brought it inside to fill his cooling barrels.

  Looking it over, Bast had the sudden urge to flip through Celum Tinture and learn what all the different pieces of the still were called, what they were for. Only then did he realize he’d left the book back at the lightning tree.

  So instead Bast rooted around until he found a box filled with a mad miscellany of containers: two dozen bottles of all sorts, clay jugs, old canning jars … A dozen of them were full. None of them were labeled in any way.

  Bast lifted out a tall bottle that had obviously once held wine. He pulled the cork, sniffed it gingerly, then took a careful sip. His face bloomed into a sunrise of delight. He’d half expected turpentine, but this was … well … he wasn’t sure entirely. He took another drink. There was something of apples about it, and … barley?

  Bast took a third drink, grinning. Whatever you care to call it, it was lovely. Smooth and strong and just a little sweet. Martin might mad as a badger, but he clearly knew his liquor.

  It was better than an hour before Bast made it back to the lightning tree. Rike hadn’t returned, but Celum Tinture was sitting there unharmed. For the first time he could remember, he was glad to see the book. He flipped it open to the chapter on distillation and read for half an hour, nodding to himself at various points. It was called a condensate coil. He’d thought it looked important.

  Eventually he closed the book and sighed. There were a few clouds rolling in, and no good could come of leaving the book unattended again. His luck wouldn’t last forever, and he shuddered to think what would happen if the wind tumbled the book into the grass and tore the pages. If there was a sudden rain …

  So Bast wandered back to the Waystone Inn and slipped silently through the back door. Stepping carefully, he opened a cupboard and tucked the book inside. He made his silent way halfway back to the door before he heard footsteps behind him.

  “Ah, Bast,” the innkeeper said. “Have you brought the carrots?”

  Bast froze, caught awkwardly midsneak. He straightened up and brushed self-consciously at his clothes. “I … I haven’t quite got round to that yet, Reshi.”

  The innkeeper gave a deep sigh. “I don’t ask a …” He stopped and sniffed, then eyed the dark-haired man narrowly. “Are you drunk, Bast?”

  Bast looked affronted. “Reshi!”

  The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Fine then, have you been drinking?”

  “I’ve been investigating,” Bast said, emphasizing the word. “Did you know Crazy Martin runs a still?”

  “I didn’t,” the innkeeper said, his tone making it clear he didn’t find this information to be particularly thrilling. “And Martin isn’t crazy. He just has a handful of unfortunately strong affect compulsions. And a touch of tabard madness from when he was a soldier.”

  “Well, yes …” Bast said slowly. “I know, because he set his dog on me and when I climbed a tree to get away, he tried to chop the tree down. But also, aside from those things, he’s crazy too, Reshi. Really, really crazy.”

  “Bast.” The innkeeper gave him a chiding look.

  “I’m not saying he’s bad, Reshi. I’m not even saying I don’t like him. But trust me. I know crazy. His head isn’t put together like a normal person’s.”

  The innkeeper gave an agreeable if slightly impatient nod. “Noted.”

  Bast opened his mouth, then looked slightly confused. “What were we talking about?”

  “Your advanced state of investigation,” the innkeeper said, glancing out the window. “Despite the fact that it is barely three bells.”

  “Ah. Right!” Bast said excitedly. “I know Martin’s been running a tab for the better part of a year now. And I know you’ve had trouble settling up because he doesn’t have any money.”

  “He doesn’t use money,” the innkeeper corrected gently.

  “Same difference, Reshi,” Bast sighed. “And it doesn’t change the fact that we don’t need another sack of barley. The pantry is choking on barley. But since he runs a still …”

  The innkeeper was already shaking his head. “No, Bast,” he said. “I won’t go poisoning my customers with hillwine. You have no idea what ends up in that stuff …”

  “But I do know, Reshi,” Bast said plaintively. “Ethel acetates and methans. And tinleach. There’s none of that.”

  The innkeeper blinked, obviously taken aback. “Did … Have you actually been reading Celum Tinture?”

  “I did, Reshi.” Bast beamed. “For the betterment of my education and my desire to not poison folk. I tasted some, Reshi, and I can say with some authority that Martin is not making hillwine. It’s lovely stuff. It’s halfway to Rhis, and that’s not something I say lightly.”

  The innkeeper stroked his upper lip thoughtfully. “Where did you get some to taste?” he asked.

  “I traded for it,” Bast said, easily skirting the edges of the truth. “I was thinking,” Bast continued. “Not only would it give Martin a chance to settle his tab. But it would help us get some new stock in. That’s h
arder, the roads as bad as they are …”

  The innkeeper held up both hands helplessly. “I’m already convinced, Bast.”

  Bast grinned happily.

  “Honestly, I would have done it merely to celebrate you reading your lesson for once. But it will be nice for Martin, too. It will give him an excuse to come by more often. It will be good for him.”

  Bast’s smile faded a bit.

  If the innkeeper noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll send a boy round to Martin’s and ask him to come by with a couple bottles.”

  “Get five or six,” Bast said. “It’s getting cold at night. Winter’s coming.”

  The innkeeper smiled. “I’m sure Martin will be flattered.”

  Bast paled at that. “By all the gorse no, Reshi,” he said, waving his hands in front of himself and taking a step backwards. “Don’t tell him I’ll be drinking it. He hates me.”

  The innkeeper hid a smile behind his hand.

  “It’s not funny, Reshi,” Bast said angrily. “He throws rocks at me.”

  “Not for months,” the innkeeper pointed out. “Martin has been perfectly cordial to you the last several times he’s stopped by for a visit.”

  “Because there aren’t any rocks inside the inn,” Bast said.

  “Be fair, Bast,” the innkeeper continued. “He’s been civil for almost a year. Polite even. Remember he apologized to you two months back? Have you heard of Martin ever apologizing to anyone else in town? Ever?”

  “No,” Bast said sulkily.

  The innkeeper nodded. “That’s a big gesture for him. He’s turning a new leaf.”

  “I know,” Bast muttered, moving toward the back door. “But if he’s here when I get home tonight, I’m eating dinner in the kitchen.”

  Rike caught up with Bast before he even made it to the clearing, let alone the lightning tree.

  “I’ve got it,” the boy said, holding up his hand triumphantly. The entire lower half of his body was dripping wet.

  “What, already?” Bast asked.

  The boy nodded and flourished the stone between two fingers. It was flat and smooth and round, slightly bigger than a copper penny. “What now?”