Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  “I am, as it happens,” Dirk said.

  She nodded. “You share a look.”

  “So I've been told,” Dirk said, pushing a spoonful of the thick slurry into his mouth. It was hot and heavy, but he detected a dash of honey, and a touch of something else. A sweet spice he couldn't put a name to. The girl leaned a hip against the table, studying him for a long moment. Dirk looked up from his breakfast, a question on his face.

  “You're bigger than Teller,” she said. She pulled a cloth from the front pocket of her dress, and wiped at the tabletop. It was clean, as far as Dirk could tell, but she kept talking without looking at him. “Mostly in the shoulders. Is it because you're older?”

  “Some is the years,” Dirk said, taking another bite of the porridge. “The rest is how I’ve used them.”

  The blonde girl laughed a bit, throwing a glance at Mistress Cedron. It was as if she were afraid the older woman might chew her up for letting so much as a giggle pass her lips when she was supposed to be tending the day's work. The Mistress was still talking to the bearded man, though, examining the bottle and its contents. She tugged the top free, and carefully sniffed what was inside, nodding approvingly.

  “Are the two of you close?” the serving girl asked, scrubbing at a spot of dirt that wasn't there.

  “I've known her a few years,” Dirk said, slurping at his porridge. “Mistress Cedron has seen me come through a time or two, though.”

  “No, I meant you and Teller,” the girl said. “Are you close?”

  Dirk lifted one of the sausages, and took a bite. It was thick, juicy, and delicious. He looked the girl over as he chewed, and this time made himself really see her. She was young, pretty, and even though her dress was cut for modesty, it was hard to miss the full shape of her figure. There was a fine dusting of freckles across her nose, and a few strays along her collarbones. Her eyes were an intense green, like candle glass when the wick inside was burning hot and bright. She wore a woven leather bracelet on one wrist, made from scraps of cast-off cord.

  “With each other? Not as such,” Dirk said, popping the rest of the first link into his mouth as he reached for a second.

  “Has he said anything about me?” she asked, glancing at Dirk from behind her hair. Her eyes had a hungry look to them he was more than passingly familiar with.

  “Not that I recall,” Dirk said, swallowing. “Then again, you haven't shared your name.”

  “Aster. My name is Aster.” She blushed. It was a pretty sight, and in that moment she was almost beautiful. “It's a-”

  “Starwort,” Dirk said, nodding. “What color were you named for?”

  “Pink,” she said, surprise on her face. Her hand rested on the table, but she was no longer pretending to wipe it clean. “It was the flower my mother wore in her hair on her wedding night.”

  “A hard bloom to find out here,” Dirk said. “She must have walked far, or been fortunate, to find one.”

  “My grandmother knew a grove, less than a day's walk into the hills,” Aster said. “Or that's the story she told me, at least.”

  Dirk nodded, and continued eating. Aster regarded him, as if he were a puzzle that needed solving. He waited for her to give voice to what was on her mind. After the pause had grown pregnant, she cleared her throat.

  “Teller hasn't told me much about his family,” she said. “Are you Hunter?”

  “No, Hunter is a cousin to us both,” Dirk said. “Did you see Teller, when he was here last?”

  “I did,” Aster said, her smile returning. “He placed his victory wreath on my head, and named me his queen of spring.”

  “Did he tell you where he was bound for when he left?” Dirk asked.

  “I asked, but he wouldn't tell.” Aster frowned, chewing at her lower lip. “It was as if he didn't want me to know.”

  “Or didn't know, himself,” Dirk said. “Were I to make a wager, that would be my reckoning.”

  “Perhaps.” Aster nodded, dislodging a small sweep of hair. “Still, I think he had some intent. I kept asking, but all he gave me was a smile and a kiss.”

  Color pricked Aster's cheeks, as if she hadn't heard the words until she'd spoken them. Before she could say anything else, though, Mistress Cedron turned toward her.

  “Aster,” she said. “Fetch a trencher for this young man. Half-filled, mind you, and be quick.”

  “Yes ma'am,” Aster said, spinning on her heel and heading for the kitchen. She paused at the doorway, and glanced back at Dirk before she ducked into the steamy cook room. Dirk returned to his food, but Mistress Cedron was already on her way over to his table.

  “She wasn't a bother, I trust?” Mistress Cedron asked.

  “Furthest from,” Dirk said.

  “Good.” The innkeep folded her arms across her chest, and looked down at Dirk. He took another spoonful of porridge. “The girl has a fever. I know boys like Teller, and I knew what would happen if she decided she had a taste for him. I told her what would happen, but she didn't mind me. She's been little more than a moony dog ever since the festival. She finally picked up her head a few days ago, and the last thing I need her doing is switching from wine to hard spirits. Are you hearing me?”

  “Yes, missus,” Dirk said. “I hear you just fine.”

  “Good,” she said. “How long will you be staying?”

  “Not long,” Dirk said, spooning up the remains of his meal. “I'll be on the road, once the heat's let go.”

  “Fine enough,” Mistress Cedron said. “Before you go, talk to that young man. He traveled with Teller for a time, and would know more than I do about where he went and what he did.”

  “Much obliged,” Dirk said, nodding to her.

  “That you are,” Mistress Cedron said. She took Dirk's empty dish, collected his spoon, and walked back toward the kitchen. Dirk stood, took his cup, and crossed the room to where the bearded man was just starting to tuck into his meal.

  Up close, he wasn't as young as Dirk had first taken him for. Though his hair and beard were both dark, well-oiled, and finely trimmed, there were smile lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. His jacket was made from common canvas, but cut in a fashion favored by river jakes and traveling men. His boots were sturdy, polished leather, though they looked to have been re-soled several times. A peddler's pack sat on the floor near his chair, and to judge from the way it sagged it was not as full as it had once been. The man looked up at Dirk's approach, swallowed, and gave him a wide smile. His teeth were polished white, and as well-kept as the rest of him.

  “May I be of help, friend?” he asked.

  “Is that seat taken?” Dirk asked, nodding toward the empty chair.

  “Fill it, if you have need,” the bearded man said, gesturing toward the seat. Dirk noticed the man's nails were cut clean and short, buffed to a shine.

  “My thanks,” Dirk said, sitting down. He offered his right hand. “Dirk Crier.”

  “Ignarian Swift,” the man said, clasping Dirk's wrist in the lowland fashion. “Would you be kin to a boy named Teller?”

  “I am,” Dirk said.

  “Do you seek him?” Ignarian asked.

  “I do,” Dirk said.

  Ignarian nodded, and lifted a spoonful of porridge to his mouth. He ate it neatly, then patted his beard with a kerchief afterward. He sniffed, coughed, and regarded Dirk for a quiet moment.

  “Talk is free,” he finally said. “But it becomes thirsty work, after a time.”

  Dirk turned, and raised a hand to the young boy bustling about the room. The boy wiped his sooty hands on his scrap of apron, and came over cautiously.

  “Yes?” the boy asked.

  “Go get beer for this man,” Dirk said. He held out his water cup to the boy, who took it automatically. “And bring me some more water. Tell Mistress Cedron I'll settle with her before I leave.”

  The boy nodded, and headed back to the kitchen. Dirk returned his gaze to his table mate, who was smiling his wide, white smile again.

 
; “Wheat country has the best brew,” Ignarian said. “You are a man of fine taste.”

  “Will you tell me of my cousin?” Dirk asked. “I know he was here for the spring fest. I know he headed for Ox Crossing before it was done. I would know more of his journey, if you have more to share.”

  “Surely,” Ignarian said, wiping his hands again and pushing his mostly empty trencher away.

  Before he could begin his tale in earnest, Ignarian glanced over Dirk's shoulder. The tow-headed boy arrived at their table, setting Dirk's cup at his elbow, and holding a foaming mug out to Ignarian with both hands. The bearded peddler took it carefully, and sipped at the contents.

  “My thanks, young sir,” he said, licking a dab of foam from his upper lip. The serving boy bobbed his head, and before he could be given any other tasks, scuttled away from their table. Ignarian took a longer, slower sip of his brew, then sighed in appreciation. “Were it not so heavy, I would barter a barrel of this to take home with me. I misgive it would make the journey back, though. One should never peddle something they have a taste for, my friend, you may mark me on that.”

  “Did you meet Teller here?” Dirk asked.

  “After a fashion,” Ignarian said, setting his mug down. “I walked past the story fire on my way out of town. There was plenty of light still, despite the blaze, and I heard his tale. I doubt that anyone who could hear him well would have walked on without pausing to hear the rest of the tale. It was a lovely thing, full of life and pretty lies. The sort of telling that made you forget, at least for a time, that most of a man's days are trudging, hauling, sweating, and swearing.”

  “He has a Talent,” Dirk said.

  “That he does,” Ignarian agreed, nodding. “Once he finished his telling, and the spell broke, I took myself over the bridge toward the western cut. I am not a rugged man, as you can see, but I am a tightfisted one. I was not willing to part with any of my wealth for a night beneath even a fine roof, and especially not with my pack nearly full, and the spring winds coming warm from the south.”

  Dirk nodded, and took a sip of water. Ignarian drank a swallow of his beer, savoring it. He dabbed his beard to make sure it was clean, and drew a small box from his jacket pocket. He took a pinch of powder, and sniffed it into his left nostril. He offered the box to Dirk, but Dirk shook his head.

  “I was on the road a handful of days, and by luck managed to get a ride from a farmer heading on his cart to Ox Crossing,” Ignarian said, closing the small box and putting it back in his pocket. “I walked into the Black Tree, and sitting at the hearth yarning away was Teller. He had his feet up, a glass in his hand, and everyone in the room was hanging on his every word.”

  “He cut through the fields,” Dirk said. “He knows this countryside as well as most who live in it, and better even than some of them.”

  “So he said when I asked him what sorcery had allowed him to travel so far so fast,” Ignarian agreed. “Night was already pawing at the door, so I begged a room under the eaves. I stayed up most of the night talking with Teller, though if I am an honest man, I should tell you that I did more than my share of listening.”

  “What did you speak of?” Dirk asked.

  Ignarian shrugged one shoulder. He took another drink of his beer, swirling it around his mouth before answering. “Everything, and nothing, truth told. We talked of the spring rains, the roads we had walked, and the towns we had seen. We talked of stories and songs, women and wooing.”

  “And you left together?” Dirk asked.

  “The road is a lonely place, and a safer one with a companion beside you,” Ignarian said. “Teller agreed with me. So we traveled from there to Hillsbrook, then on to Stone Glen. The names blur together from there, but I know we continued along north roads for the most part. Also, Teller would stop from time to time to put his mark on a tree, or a post.”

  Ignarian jerked his thumb at the wooden sliver bearing Teller's trail blaze above the fireplace. Dirk nodded, and took a drink of his water. He waited. Ignarian fidgeted for a moment, opened his mouth to speak, but instead took a deeper pull on his beer.

  “How far did you travel together?” Dirk asked.

  “Further than I would, had I know what lay ahead,” Ignarian said, shrugging. “The summer was settled in by the time we parted ways. We were walking near sundown when we saw fires peering out from a hillock. When we came closer, we found it was an old lodge. The place bore no name, and it was built right into the hillside. There was so much moss on the stones that, without the candles in the windows and the fire in the hearth, we never would have seen it at all. And even lit, it looked like more like a haunted hole than a home where men lived.”

  “What lay inside?” Dirk asked, when Ignarian ceased speaking.

  “Some stone stumps, and a few tables,” he said at last. “There were three men, brothers if I had to say, and another man I took to be their father who stood behind a bar. He was gray, but his hands were near as rough as his words. I could scarce understand him when he spoke. Teller knew well enough what he said, though, and they bargained until a price was struck. Teller told me we would be fed, and allowed to rest beneath the roof for the night.”

  “And then?” Dirk asked.

  “It all grew strange,” Ignarian said, scratching the underside of his chin. “Teller brought out his flute, and played a tune or two. The old man smiled, but the others sat their seats, dour as judges. When he finished, the old man poured us each a drought from a dusty crock. Before either of us could drink a drop, though, Teller stumbled into me and knocked both our drinks to the floor.”

  “Teller took a tumble?” Dirk asked.

  “So it seemed. He begged pardon, refusing to let anyone get a word in, and before anyone could nay say him, he took a bottle out of his own bag. He snatched down several cups from behind the bar, and handed them all around. He toasted the humble hole, he toasted the men, and he toasted the fire. He never poured me a taste, and I never saw him drink any of his own. When it was done, he refilled their cups, and sat by the fire. He set his own glass nearby, and started a telling I knew, but didn't.” Ignarian sipped his beer, and cleared his throat. “I knew the story as Gretta and the Mouseling, but to hear him tell the tale it was Sanovar and the Rats.”

  “A story full of drinking,” Dirk said. “What color was the bottle Teller pulled from his pack?”

  “It was an earthenware bottle,” Ignarian said, his brows drawing down in thought. “It was held with a red cork, and there was a finger loop on one side of it.”

  Dirk nodded. He twirled his right hand, motioning for Ignarian to continue his story.

  “By the time Teller had finished his yarn, the men had loosened in their skins. One of the younger ones fell asleep with his head propped on his hand. His brother, a big bastard with a face like bad weather, fell out of his seat and cracked his head on a rock. The old man was nodding in his chair, snoring from time to time. Teller kept talking, but he cut his eyes to the door. I got up, stretching as if I had been a doze as well, and eased the door open. My pack was right near it, and I was out in the night a moment later.”

  “And Teller?” Dirk asked.

  “I am no cur to slink into the night while a friend waits behind me.” Ignarian sat up straighter, and there was challenge in his face. “I stepped to the side of the door, and fumbled for the well-dipping bucket. I waited, and in time I heard silence from within. When the door creaked open the only man who came out was Teller. He had a little smile on his face, and he urged me back onto the road with him. In a whisper he told me the men had meant us harm, and that I should go back the way we had come as fast as I could go. He was going to continue north. By the time they came to their senses, there would be no way to know which of us had gone where. And even if they could track us, they would cut themselves in half to do it.”

  Dirk nodded, mostly to show he was still listening. He leaned his forearms on the table, focusing on Ignarian's face. The peddler returned his look, but after several
moments of silence his eyes started to wander.

  “Tell me how you got to that place,” Dirk said.

  “I do not rightly remember it all,” Ignarian said.

  “Tell me what you do remember, then,” Dirk said.

  Ignarian spoke, easily at first, then haltingly. His pauses grew more frequent, and he had to muddle his way through several branches on his journey. Dirk didn't interrupt. He sat, and he listened. When the peddler had told him all he could, Dirk stood, and patted him on the shoulder.

  “My thanks,” he said, turning his head toward Aster as she headed by on an errand. “Aster, refill this man's tankard, and give him something hearty to put in his belly before he gets back on the road.”

  Dirk crossed to the fireplace, and took down the marker Teller had left behind. He wiped the dust away with his palm, drew his simple knife, and carved his own symbol in the wood next to it. When his dagger stood next to Teller's lips, he leaned the marker back against the mantle, and returned the blade to his hip.

  Hopefully no one else would have to come down the mountain to follow him. But if they did, he wanted to make the task of finding him as easy for them as he could.

  Chapter Five

  Teller's trail was easy enough to follow. In Ox Crossing and Stone Glen, people remembered the young man who told long, rambling tales by the firelight. There were even a few who knew Teller by name from his past travels. In Gallows Ridge and Sheep's Pan, they recalled the traveler with the ebony walking stick, and his charming companion with his bottles of beard tonic and fine scent. There were blazes carved into trees and fence posts marking which way Teller had gone when the roads forked, and every time Dirk stopped in a village asking after his cousin there was always a piece of wood, or a small stone with an etching of his pursed lips on it. Every time Dirk found one, he always left his own mark next to it to show how far his journey had come. Even after Dirk had traveled far enough that the names of the places and roads were no longer familiar to him, and the cadence of the town folks' language sat strangely in his mouth, they still remembered the handsome stranger with the secret smile and the knowing wink.