“I hope the same,” Dirk said.
Dirk had his mouth open to say something else, when the silence from the street caught his ear. He frowned, turning to face the door as he stood. Nothing moved on the street. No children laughed, and no hammers fell. The wind blew a shutter, and its slow, squeaky clap was loud in the stillness. Dirk walked toward the door, his steps quiet and his hands low. Caddell hissed something, but Dirk wasn't listening.
Outside, the street was nearly deserted. Porches stood empty, and the folk who had been working in the sun had all disappeared. Cups still sat on tables, and axes were stuck in chopping blocks, but every single door on the street had closed. The windows remained open, though, watching the empty afternoon. A trio of white ponies were gathered near the well, each with a coarse blanket across its back instead of a saddle. None of the beasts were shod, and their coats were dingy from their time spent in the field. Their riders stood nearby, passing the gourd dipper and drinking thirstily.
The riders, like their horses, were all dressed in dirty white. They wore sheepskin tunics, white boots, and dark wool leggings. Each had a cape across their shoulders to keep off the chill, and a broad, black belt around his waist. Two of the riders were younger, the third older. One of the younger riders was clean-shaven, with a gold ring in one ear. The other had a patchy beard, and thick, dark hair on his arms. The older rider was bald, with a thick roll of skin at the base of his skull, and a graying, plaited beard. All three men wore heavy knives at their hips, the blades curved and angled to strike more like a hatchet. The younger men wore their knives on their left hips, the older one carried his on the right.
“What are you doing?” Bea asked from just behind Dirk's left shoulder. “Get back in here before they see you.”
“Those men out there,” Dirk said. “They are Hann She'lah?”
“Worse,” Bea said. “Those are Hann Dak'ham riders.”
Dirk nodded. “Good.”
“The only thing good about them is when they show us their backs,” Bea said. “Now come in here. The last thing you want is to draw their attention.”
Before Bea had finished giving her warning, Dirk stepped out of the doorway, and into the street. He made no effort to hide himself, but he had nearly reached the well before the bearded young man looked up, and saw him. He nudged the other young rider, and jerked his chin at Dirk. The older rider turned, and glared. None of them said anything.
“A good day to you,” Dirk said, when he was in hailing distance. “Be you men of the Hann Dak'ham?”
The older man spoke in a language Dirk didn't know. The bearded rider replied in the same tongue, before stepping around the well and walking toward Dirk. The rider rested his hand on the pommel of his weapon, and did his best to look down his nose at Dirk when he spoke.
“What business have you addressing us, ba-swamm?” he asked.
Dirk didn't know the word, but he could guess its meaning from the way the man spat it at him. Dirk offered him a small smile, and gestured over his shoulder toward the inn with one hand.
“You seem to have been on the trail for a time. Long rides can give a man a powerful hunger,” he said. “I seek answers to some simple questions. If you would grant me some of your time, and share your knowledge, I would pay for your meals.”
The old man spoke rapidly in their strange language again. The man with the earring smirked, revealing two missing teeth. The bearded man nodded to show he'd heard, but did not take his eyes off Dirk.
“We need no charity from such as you, ba-swamm,” he said. “All in this town know they are to give us what we want. But we are generous, and courteous, so we ask for little.”
“I seek a man,” Dirk said. “He came through this place a season past. He called himself Glynn, or perhaps Teller. He stayed here a few nights, then rode north. None have seen him since, and I would know if he passed into your lands.”
The riders fell silent, all three of them staring at Dirk with flat, unfriendly expressions. The two younger riders turned, looking at the elder. The man with the graying beard watched Dirk for a long moment, then shook his head, and turned back to the well. He made a dismissive gesture with one thick, scarred hand as he dipped water for himself, and drank. The bearded rider turned back to Dirk, his lips parting in a thin, cruel smile.
“Ba-swamm are not to approach us. They are not to address us, nor are they to question us. This place is here only because we allow it.” The young man gestured around at the town, then backhanded Dirk across the mouth. It was a solid blow, splitting Dirk's lip, and turning his head. “Let this be a lesson. Remember it when next we ride to this place.”
The words had barely left the rider’s lips when Dirk sank a fist into his stomach. The breath whooshed out of him, and before he could back away Dirk hooked a second punch into the side of the man's jaw. The blow jerked his head hard to one side, and made his eyes roll. He fell into the dirt with a graceless thump, rolling over on all fours to retch. Dirk touched his thumb to his lip, glancing at the blood before regarding the other two riders. They stared at him. The older man with quiet calculation, and the younger one with mottled fury.
“I take lessons poor, and give them well,” Dirk said. “Now answer my question.”
“Here is your answer, dog!” the rider with the earring shouted, snatching his blade from its sheathe and rushing toward Dirk. His charge had force behind it, and the knife whistled as he brought it down, but Dirk pivoted, ducking out of the blade's path. The young man stumbled, recovered, and rushed in again. This time he slashed at Dirk's neck. Dirk snatched the man's wrist, and turned with the blow, flinging the rider hard. The young man stumbled, barely keeping his feet as he fetched up against a nearby wall.
“Stand and fight, cur,” the rider hissed, pushing himself away from the wall and trying to find his balance once more. His bearded companion shook his head from the ground, and took a slow, shaky breath. He stood, and drew his blade as well.
“Just answer my question,” Dirk said, keeping one eye on the two Hann Dak'ham riders, and another on the older man who hadn't moved from the well. “And this will be over.”
“This will be over when you bleed,” the bearded man rasped.
The two men split, circling Dirk. They held their blades with the points presented, crouching and putting their weight on the balls of their feet. They held their free hands wide, fingers splayed and ready to grasp. Dirk held his ground, drumming the fingers of his left hand on his knife's sheathe.
“Pull your steel, ba-swamm,” the man with the earring snarled. “Then maybe you will die like a man instead of a dog.”
“Let it be on your head, then,” Dirk said.
The two men came at him as one. The bearded man stabbed for Dirk's face, while the other slashed for his belly. Dirk slid beneath the high thrust, stepping away from the low blow in the same movement. He rammed his shoulder into the bearded rider, pushing him back. There was a grunt, a gasp, and the rider's bent-bladed knife fell in the dust. Blood dripped from his fingertips, and he clutched his wrist. A long slash ran from his palm, nearly to his elbow. Dirk flicked blood from the edge of his knife, and regarded the man with the earring.
“Your friend's cut is deep,” Dirk said, gesturing with his head toward the other rider, who was busy wrapping his cape around his bleeding forearm. “Yours will be deeper.”
The unhurt warrior snarled, and shrugged out of his cape. He wrapped it twice round his empty arm, and started swirling what was left. He snapped the cloth at Dirk's face, and swept it at his knife hand. Dirk didn't move; his gaze remained steady on his opponent's shoulders. The next time the young man lashed out, Dirk snatched the cape in his free hand, and yanked. Unable to let go of the cloth, the rider tried to bring his knife to bear. Dirk caught the blade with his own, then smashed his forehead into the bridge of other man's nose. There was a loud crack, and the young man cried out. He tried to pull away. Dirk refused to let him go, holding tight to his cape. He batted the blade ou
t of the rider's hand, then brought the pommel of his own knife down hard onto the young man's broken nose. Blood spurted from where the headbutt had split the skin, and it ran into the rider's eyes. Dirk let go of the cape, and shoved. The young man sprawled in the dirt, sitting down hard. He swayed like a broken stalk, a dazed expression on his swelling face. His breathing was thick with blood as he gently touched his nose.
“You said you were going to cut me!” he wheezed, trying to wipe away the blood running across his lips, and dripping from his chin.
Dirk raised his knife, his index finger pressed into the fuller, and pointed it at the man. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Both of the wounded riders slunk back, teeth bared like wounded animals. Dirk kicked their blades aside, then turned to the older man. He still stood at the well, his thick arms folded across his barrel chest.
“What about you?” Dirk asked. “Will you answer my question?”
“You will suffer for this,” the older man said. His voice was thick and slow, but the words were clear enough.
“Take my words to Lannisara,” Dirk said. “I will await her at the Sheltered City. If I have not had word in three days, I will come north to ask my question again. If I must do that, I will not be as kind as I was this day.”
The old man bared his teeth at Dirk, then shoved the bucket over the edge of the well. It fell with a splash. He threw a leg over his mount, turned the horse's head north, and kicked the animal to a gallop. He did not look back. The bearded rider took a step toward his knife, and Dirk put his foot on the blade.
“These are mine now,” Dirk said. When the bearded rider took another step forward Dirk gave him the same tight, toothy smile he’d showed his grandmother the day he left home. “You lost a knife, friend. What else are you willing to lose before this day is done?”
The man growled something in his own tongue, then stalked toward the horses. The other rider followed, glancing back at Dirk. His left eye was swelling shut, and his right didn't look far behind. They mounted up, and headed north as well. When they were out of sight, Dirk took his kerchief, and wiped the blood from his blade. He slid the knife back into its sheath, and retrieved the weapons he'd taken from the Hann Dak'ham. Faces were appearing at windows, and a soft buzz followed in Dirk's wake. One or two voices called out, but Dirk didn’t turn to see who it had been. Caddell leaned against one of the support beams on the inn's porch, panting and shaking. Bea stood next to him, her hand under Caddell's arm.
“Do you need aid to get back inside?” Dirk asked as he approached.
“I will be fine, of a moment,” Caddell said, waving one hand. He was grinning, an expression that seemed both painful, and ecstatic. “Bea, would you do me a kindness and bring me my stick?”
Bea nodded, but didn't say anything as she ducked back inside. She returned a moment later with Caddell's ugly, knobbled cane. She helped Caddel grip the blackthorn, and took some of his weight as he pushed himself off the beam. Caddell armed sweat from his brow, and chuckled.
“My thanks,” he said, hobbling back inside with Bea's help. “Been some time since I had cause to move that fast.”
“What was the cause?” Dirk asked, following the innkeep. Dirk tossed the two knives onto the table next to his breakfast dish. The clatter of the blades made the apprentices at the bar jump, both of them staring at Dirk with spooked eyes that showed a lot of white before they made their way out the door.
“I was trying to stop you from going out there,” Caddell said, sighing as he lowered himself into his comfortable chair near the fireplace. “All told, I am pleased I was too slow.”
“Tis a wonder you did no harm to yourself,” Bea said, though there was no heart to the reproach. She looked at Dirk for a long moment, her lips pursed. Then she nodded once. “You, sit yourself at the table there, and let me have a look at that love gash.”
Dirk sat, and Bea crossed the room toward the door under the stairs she'd entered the previous evening. She was gone no more than a moment before she emerged with a small jar in one hand, and a clean cloth in the other. She placed both of them on a table, then lit a taper. Once the candle was burning steadily, she cupped Dirk's chin and tilted his head back. She gently pressed her thumb to Dirk's bottom lip, pulling it forward slightly. She made a tutting sound, clucking her tongue.
“Open your mouth,” she said. Dirk did so, and she gently touched the inside of his cheek. She pressed against his teeth one by one, then nodded. “Nothing seems loose, and there are no other cuts. I doubt it needs stitched.”
“Are you a healer?” Dirk asked, once Bea had taken her fingers out of his mouth.
“By need, if not skill,” Bea said, opening the small jar. A sharp, harsh smell wafted out of it, stinging Dirk's nose. “This may burn, and it will taste foul. Do your best to keep your tongue in your cheek.”
Dirk did as she asked. Bea dipped a finger into the thick, yellow ointment. She spread it on his split lip, dabbing gently at the bruised flesh. Dirk grunted, but kept still while she did her work. When she was satisfied, she wiped her hands clean on the cloth, and pressed the lid back into the jar.
“Why did you do that?” Bea asked.
“Do you mean why did I seek those riders?” Dirk asked. “Or why did I let him hit me?”
“Both,” Bea said.
Dirk shrugged a shoulder. “I asked the folk here where Teller went, and none had a full answer. So I sought men who might know.”
“And why did you let him strike you?” Bea asked.
“So there would be no doubt about why he was sent home with a scarring wound,” Dirk said. “One cannot repay, until one has a debt. And words alone are not enough for blood.”
Bea looked at him oddly for a long moment. A knot popped in the fire. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Instead she shook her head, and slipped both the rag and the jar into her apron pockets.
“Let the crust flake off on its own,” she said, blowing out the candle and setting it on the table. “Drink water for the next few days, and avoid spirits.”
Dirk nodded. Bea walked back into the kitchen, letting the door swing closed behind her. Dirk rose, and joined Caddell at the hearth. The innkeep was smiling, though not as broadly as he had been earlier.
“Does something amuse?” Dirk asked.
“I think she likes you,” Caddell said, readjusting his shoulders. “She was never so gentle with my hurts.”
Dirk nodded. He slipped his whetstone from the small pocket on the side of his sheathe, drew his knife, and began honing a small nick in the edge. The fire crackled, indifferent to the doings of men and women alike.
“They will come back,” Caddell said.
“I do hope,” Dirk said. He set aside the whetstone, and tested the edge of his knife. A small bead of blood wept from the ball of his thumb. He slid the blade back into its sheathe, and smiled a painful smile. “Else I wasted time and blood alike.”
Chapter Thirteen
The tavern was quiet the night after the fight. The next day, some of the town's bolder residents set foot over the threshold. Most of them lingered at the bar, keeping one eye on the street outside. A few spoke with Caddell, taking pains not to look at the table against the wall where Dirk sat. At least until one old man Dirk had never met shouldered through the gawkers, and came right up to him. He looked Dirk in the eye, and thanked him for what he'd done. Dirk clasped the man's work-calloused hand, and nodded. The graybeard returned the nod, then went back the way he'd come.
Others came after him. There was an olive-skinned young woman with dark eyes and darker ringlets who gave Dirk a small pouch of herbs. She said that if he placed them beneath his pillow they would bring him protection and good fortune. A bearded man with a farmer's tan came after her, and handed Dirk a swatch of pipe weed wrapped in a rough cloth, along with a simple, cherry wood pipe. The two of them together were better than either apart, he claimed. His daughter, who shared both her father's wide nose and crooked smile, gave Dirk a
bright red apple. She smiled proudly, and told Dirk it was the first she'd grown from her own tree. Later that day one of the smith's apprentices who'd watched the whole thing from the window nervously told Dirk that as a gesture of thanks he'd like to re-shoe his horse before he left town. Men and women alike offered to buy him drinks, and all of them wanted to talk to him about the scuffle with the Hann Dak’ham riders. Some just came near, staring at the bent-bladed daggers Dirk had taken from the men. They sat on a cloth near his right hand, the blades crossed like a battle trophy. A few of the onlookers tried to touch them, but when he naysayed them, they didn't push. Though his reproaches were gentle, they winced away from him as if afraid he'd do the same to them as he had to the blades’ previous owners. Or perhaps worse.
More people came on the second day. Some of them brought thanks for Dirk as well, but more of them brought him their questions and worries. Marren came, her gray hair in a tight bun, and asked Dirk if he'd thought through what his actions might do to the town, and to the people who lived in it. She asked if he thought brawling with the Hann Dak'ham was the right way to do things. He asked her if she thought it would have been more politic to kill the two younger ones, and to send the older rider away with their heads. She blanched at that, and left when it was clear he was not japing her. Retta's older son, who'd lost all of his baby teeth though not all of his baby fat, worried that more of the bad men would come to town to hurt people. Dirk told him he wouldn't let that happen, then leaned in and in a conspiratorial whisper told the boy to keep a sharp eye out. The boy smiled, winking to show they shared a secret before he ran off. Most of the people who sought him had the same question on their minds, though they asked it a dozen different ways. Would Dirk fight the Hann Dak'ham if they came for him? Every time they asked, he told them the same thing.
“I am here to bring my cousin home,” he said. “With blood or without, I care not.”
The crowds vanished by the dawn of the third day. The street wasn't empty, but people moved furtively as they completed their tasks, heading back indoors as soon as they were able. A bare handful of men sat around in the Sheltered City, talking about nothing very much and glancing at the door every time a stiff breeze made it creak. There were no children playing games in their yards, and if animals barked they were quickly shushed. Chickens strutted and cawed, but even their squawks seemed hollow. The day was holding its breath, wondering what would come next.
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