The Book of Deacon (12 page)

"The gravy. I'm not one for sauces, but this
place is an exception. I make sure to eat here each time I come
through town just to get it," he said. "You just wait, you'll
agree."

Myranda nodded. She looked at him. He was a
shade taller than she, white hair out of place, framing a young
face. His clothes were a refreshing--and practically
unique--departure from the ubiquitous gray cloak. It was a lighter,
almost white coat, with a bit of fur peeking out of the sleeve and
attached hood. Had he been outside, it would have been simple to
pick him out from a crowd. As she looked at him, she realized that
he was likely the last person she would be able to talk to,
possibly for the rest of her days, without pleading for her freedom
or her life. It would be best to take advantage.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"This and that. Yourself?" he replied.

"I seem to be limited to ‘that,'" she
said.

"It's just as well. 'This' can get boring
after a while," he said.

The stranger turned a page.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Desmeres Lumineblade," he said.

"That is a unique name," she said.

"Not particularly. My grandfather had it, as
did his. My guess is that they liked the name Desmeres and hated
the name junior," he said.

A moment passed.

"Don't you want to know my name?" she
asked.

"No need. There is only the two of us here.
After lunch we go our separate ways, probably never to meet again.
Until then, you talk to me, I talk to you. No cause for confusion,
no need for names. That's why people always do introductions when
they meet up with a third person," he said.

"Well, it is Myranda," she said. "Just in
case we meet a third person."

"Myranda. Lyrical," he said, his eyes still
trained on the book.

The food was set before Myranda and she
eagerly partook. He was right, it was delicious. When the edge had
been taken from her hunger, she decided to give the thought
swirling in her head a voice.

"What is that you've got there?" she asked,
indicating the book.

"One of the unfortunate consequences of
‘this.' Notes on dealers," he said.

"Dealers?" she inquired.

"Weapons dealers," he said.

Myranda frowned.

"You sell weapons," she said flatly.

Desmeres tipped his head and squinted an eye.
"Not sell--design . . . and collect."

"Really?" she asked.

"I detest people who lie to strangers," he
said.

"It was only a few days ago that I had even
heard that such a thing as a weapon collector existed, and now I
have met one," she explained.

"There happens to be another one just two
doors over. Waste of time though. The only thing of note in this
town is the gravy," he said.

"Why collect?" she asked.

"Why?" he repeated, closing his book. "Why
not? A good weapon is a tool. A great one is a masterpiece. Art,
plain and simple. Crafted with care, every detail lovingly shaped,
balanced, polished. If sculptures were crafted with such care, the
sculpture and the model who posed would be indistinguishable. Have
you got a knife?"

"No . . . well, yes, right here," she said,
remembering the stiletto that had been returned to her.

"There, you see. Straight, sturdy, sharp. A
tool. Here, have a look at this one," he said.

Desmeres pulled a sleek, curving blade from
his belt.

"Now, this? This is a blade! Look at the
curve. Look at the edge. Simple. Elegant. Organic. This could have
come from an animal. Based on the shape of a dragon's claw. And
watch this," he said.

He closed his fingers around the handle, then
opened all but the index finger. The weapon balanced on one
finger.

"The creator worked for months on this. It
would be at home in a gallery or in a foe's back. I challenge you
to find another work of art with that flexibility. Of course, this
particular blade has more than good breeding--it has a history," he
said. "They say it was used by none other than the Red Shadow."

Myranda respected his passion for the
subject, even though she didn't share it. It was rare to see such
interest in anything, save the news of the most recent battle. The
weapons he collected were the heart of the war, and so she despised
them, but here was a man who admired the form above the purpose. It
was a refreshing step aside from the prevailing obsession of her
country folk. She could see his point, as well. What he held was
truly a thing of beauty. As she looked at the piece, her thoughts
turned to the sword. It was every bit as lovely as the dagger, and
likely as well-crafted. She wondered how much this patron of the
arts would have paid for such a piece.

His mention of the Red Shadow bothered her,
though. Everyone had heard of the notorious killer, but Myranda had
always tried to convince herself that the tales of his
assassinations were fiction. The reality that the blade brought to
the subject chilled her. Stories told of a man who killed a wolf
with his bare hands and wore the bloodied skull as a helmet.
Whenever a man of high breeding was found dead, rumors of the Red
Shadow would flow anew. A tiny, nagging thought that there might be
a connection to her own life was quickly silenced in the back of
her mind. That thought was too much for her to consider right
now.

"A realization dawns. You know what brought
me here. I am now at a disadvantage," he said, interrupting her
thoughts.

"Pardon?" Myranda said, confused by the odd
phrasing.

"What are you up to on this fine day?" he
asked.

"Trying to decide what is next," she
said.

"Fair enough. Try not to strain yourself,
though. It will happen just the same," he said, putting his book
away and gathering his various bags together. "I've got to get to
Fort Wick by sundown."

"I've . . . never mind," she said, choosing
against mentioning her meeting with the old man who may or may not
have sent the soldiers her way.

"Right . . . well, until next time," he
said.

The young man pulled his shallow hood up and
stepped out the door. His form through the window in the unique
garb was comically different from the otherwise uniform clothing of
the others. A wave of sadness swept over her at the sight of a
dozen or so people outside in the ever-present gray cloaks. She had
always felt bothered by the fact that she could travel for days,
see a hundred or more people, and not be able to tell one from the
other. She suddenly felt pride in the tattered, bloodstained cloak
she wore. It may not be glamorous, but it was different. She, at
least, would be remembered for more than a moment.

The sadness turned to fear, though, at a
single thought. The murderer wore the very same cloak as everyone
else. Any one of the people on the street could be the man who had
captured her. She turned from the window. Worse! She was a
fugitive. The unique cloak she had prided herself on would be more
than enough of a description to seal her fate and assure her
capture. Best not to think about it. She would buy a new cloak, but
there was very little she could do. If the Alliance Army wanted
her, she would be found.

With great effort, she finished her meal
without succumbing to the anxiety eating at her mind. No sooner had
the last crumb been finished than the waitress reappeared, eager to
sell more.

"Anything else for you today?" she asked.

"No, thank you very much," Myranda said.

"Five coppers," she said.

Myranda dug into the satchel she had found on
the horse's reins and gave the waitress five of the coins. The
waitress lingered, jingling the coins in her apron. Myranda took
the less than subtle hint and fished out two more coppers and
dropped them on the table. The waitress widened her smile.

"Thank you, miss, and you have a perfectly
lovely day," she said.

"And to you," Myranda said.

Myranda remained in her seat for a time. What
was next? She was unsure who knew who she was, or what they thought
she did. Did they still think that she had the sword? If it had
belonged to a high-ranking military official, the penalty for its
theft would be equal to that of treason. The sentence was worse
than simple execution. An example would be made of her. Torture,
humiliation, and shame would fill her days until she was finally
put to death in as gruesome and public a manner as could be
managed.

She swallowed hard and looked to the
darkening scar on her left palm. That blasted sword had marked her
in more ways than one. Her life had been far from pleasant, but it
had gotten worse with each passing moment since the instant she had
touched the cursed blade. Perhaps the spell that had branded her
hand carried with it a hex that would plague her with such
misfortune for the rest of her days. Her heart sunk further. Magic
had always intrigued her, but she'd seen it at work only a handful
of times. Now it seemed that magic was at work, making her wretched
life into a positively abysmal one. She closed her hand.

"Pardon me?" she asked the waitress.

"Yes?" came her chipper reply.

"Do you have rooms to rent?" she asked.

"Not here. Look for Milin's Inn. Right across
the way." She pointed.

"Thank you," Myranda said.

She left the restaurant in search of a better
place to wash up and keep her horse until she had bought the
supplies she would need. She found the inn quite easily, and found
facilities for the horse alongside of it. She gave a few coppers to
the stable hand and directed him to see to it the horse was taken
care of. Inside the building, she found a well-lit, tidy lobby. A
man with an eye patch stood behind the counter, with a young boy
slouching in front of the door. Her entry provided the same degree
of excitement that it had in the restaurant earlier.

"Welcome to Milin's Inn. What can I do for
you today?" the owner asked.

"I need a room for the next few hours," she
said.

"I am very sorry, but we require that our
customers pay for at least one night. I assure you that once you've
seen our room, you will not want to leave," he said.

"That will be fine. Any room. Cheap, if
possible," she said.

"Our rooms start at twenty coppers a night,"
he said.

"That is a bit steep," she said.

"The best price in town for the best rooms in
town. You pay for quality," he said, in a well-rehearsed
manner.

Myranda reluctantly parted with one of the
silvers. The keeper gave her back a half silver and five coppers.
Two of the coppers found their way into the boy's pocket for
showing her to the room and giving her the key. The room was cozy
and clean, far more so than the one at the Lizard's Goblet.

Myranda locked the door behind her. As the
day had progressed, the afflicted shoulder had begun to throb and
stiffen.

She threw the stained cloak on the bed.
Rolling back her sleeve, which proved to be a particularly painful
experience, she found the bandage utterly saturated with blood.
Myranda clenched her teeth and winced in pain as she pulled it
away. The simple gash was swollen and red, crusted with the crimson
remains of the blood. It was not improving. She knew from
experience that wounds that took on this appearance seldom healed
on their own and never healed completely.

A testament to the quality of the inn, there
was a pitcher of clean water provided for her, along with a basin
and a stack of clean towels. She filled the basin and cleansed the
wound. Each time she wrung out the cloth the red tint of the water
deepened. When she was through, the water in the bowl had the look
of some terrible wine. The cloth was pink, stained for good. Since
she knew that the cloth would never come clean, she used it to
replace the bandage. The cool, moist cloth soothed the pain
slightly, but if she ever wanted full use of her right arm again,
she would need a healer.

After doing her best to clean the bloody
stain from the cloak, she left the room, locking the door behind
her.

The innkeeper gave her a smile, as did the
porter, as she left the inn. It was refreshing to be looked upon so
graciously, though she knew that the silver in her pocket was the
only thing that had earned her such treatment. In a way, she
preferred the disdainful stares she received when people found she
was a sympathizer. Those reactions, even though they were rooted in
ignorance, were at least rooted in honesty. These people would
treat her like a queen so long as she could pay her bill.

The cold air hit the moistened shoulder and
stung, stirring her to get through her errands quickly. She moved
from business to business, being served by elderly men and women,
children, the disabled, and anyone else unfit for the role of
soldier. These were the people who had populated the towns for as
long as she could remember. It wasn't long after childhood that she
herself had begun to feel the questioning stares of the townsfolk,
wondering why this healthy young lady was not on the front, putting
her life on the line for the war effort.

She had heard that women had not always been
obliged to go to war. They were to stay behind and tend to the
affairs of the home. Those years were long gone. Now the towns were
growing more and more sparsely populated as the generations of
people were being killed in battle before they could even spawn the
next crop of warriors. The faded bloodstain on her cloak was likely
the only thing keeping the people from questioning her presence in
this town, earning her the assumed status of injured soldier on
leave. Such were not uncommon in the larger towns until a few
months ago, when they stopped showing up.

#

After a day of spending, Myranda headed back
to the inn with a handful of essential items for the days to come.
A small, one-person tent was tucked under her one good arm, and a
sturdy new pack filled with provisions was slung onto her back.
Only a few pieces of copper remained in her pocket, but she had all
she needed. Her last errand was to seek someone to give attention
to the afflicted shoulder.