The Book of Deacon (9 page)

"Ah, hello, little lady. What can I do for
you?" he said, in a voice to match his withered features. "Have you
lost your way?"

"Do you sell these weapons?" she asked.

"I do," he assured her.

"Then it would seem I have found my way," she
said.

"I see. My apologies, miss. I don't get many
young ladies through here. Truth be told, haven't had many people
at all through here," he said.

"Then I would think you would be happy to see
me," she said.

"Oh, that I am, miss. As a matter of fact,
I've got just what you'll be wanting right here," he said.

The feeble old man tottered to one of the
cases behind the counter, mumbling all the way.

"Just the thing for dainty hands. Nice and
light . . . and small," he muttered.

He hobbled back to the counter with a leather
pad with an array of small knives arranged on it. The eager
salesman placed it down, beside where Myranda had placed the
cloth-wrapped sword while he walked. The hidden prize drew a
curious glance from the old man.

"Did I put this here?" he asked, scratching
his head.

"No, sir, I did," she assured him.

"Oh . . . why?" he asked, the years having
taken their toll on his mind, it would seem.

"I would like to sell it to you," she
said.

"Oh, well, we can settle that later," he
said, shifting quickly back to his sales pitch. "First, take a look
here. A stiletto, and a fine one, you can be sure of that. Nice and
thin, but tough. Toughest metal made. Won't bend, not one bit, you
can be sure of that. Someone tries to bother you, young lady, you
just put this little knife right through their ribs. Won't take
hardly any effort, you can be sure of that. Push it in right up to
the hilt. Won't have any trouble from that troublemaker any more,
you can be sure of that."

"That is very nice, but I would really like
to show you this sword," Myranda said.

"Now, now, miss, I am not in the habit of
picking up rusted relics from the public, even from those as lovely
as yourself," he said with a wink.

Myranda weathered the unwelcome compliment
for the sake of the deal she hoped to make.

"I think this sword will pique your
interest," she said.

Myranda pulled the ragged cloth from her
prize and carefully watched the merchant's face. His eyes widened
briefly in astonishment, but dropped quickly back to their cool and
sullen state. Now the game would begin. Uncle Edward's advice often
echoed in the place of her mother's in Myranda's head, and when it
came to haggling, he had a wealth of advice to give: "The only
difference between a ten-copper price and a five is confidence. You
can give them the most unreasonable of prices, but if you are
confident about it, that price will not move an inch."

For Myranda an additional requirement arose
that made her perhaps a bit less of a skilled bargainer. Certainly
confidence was essential--but, for Myranda, honesty was required
for confidence. She was an excellent liar, but she simply
functioned better with the truth on her side. As such, she had
become something of an artist at sculpting the truth into something
she could use.

"Where does a little lady get such a big
sword?" asked the old man.

"It was left to me by a very dear friend,"
she said. That soldier in the field had saved her by leaving the
sword. That made him a dear friend in her book.

"So it is old, then . . ." he said, searching
for a reason to drop the price.

"The age has no bearing. This blade is
immaculate and in perfect condition," she said, careful not to fall
for his trick.

A few words crept up from her memory.

"Note the clean edge and excellent temper,"
she added, quoting Leo's observations.

The two haggled back and forth for the better
part of an hour. In the end, he bargained her down to fifty silver
pieces, plus the stiletto and a sheath. Rather, she bargained him
up from five. Both knew that the sword was worth ten times what he
was paying, but she wasn't greedy. If she was equally skilled in
her dealings with the other merchants, she would walk away with all
she needed, and even some change in her pocket.

"Now, I don't have all of the money right
here. I deal mostly in coppers, so unless you want to carry around
a few thousand of those, I will have to get some exchanged with my
supplier," he said.

"Of course," she said. "How long?"

"Three days. Nearest inn is Bydell," he said,
pointing a shaky finger in the direction from which she came.

She'd had enough of that town, and decided on
a second option.

"Is there a church nearby?" she asked.

"A churchgoer, eh? Good to hear it. These
days, folks don't pay the reverence to the good word like they
ought to. Particularly you young folks. To tell the truth, I
haven't found the time to make it up there myself. The spirit is
willing, but these old legs won't get me there. Time was I could .
. ." he rambled.

The old man attempted to regale her with a
painfully long tale of his athletic exploits of youth. After the
third off-topic story, Myranda cut in to request directions to the
church. He indicated that there was a fork in the road a half-hour
south. If she took a left there, she would find the church about an
hour down the road. She thanked him, and, after getting the less
than generous offer in writing, headed down the road.

The sky had an unfriendly look to it. Myranda
quickened her step. Snow came suddenly and severely this time of
year, and to be caught in it would be very treacherous indeed. As
the minutes wore on, the air became colder, and stinging pieces of
ice were hurled into her face by a swiftly stiffening wind. She
pulled her tattered hood forward and leaned into the wind, which
blew out of the southeast. She had only just reached the fork when
the wind began to carry not only snow from the ground, but also
fresh flakes from the sky. She took the left turn and exposed her
right cheek to the blustery assault that the left had thus far
endured. The cold bothered her little, her mind locked instead on
the consequences it brought with it.

A snowfall alone would slow her, so long as
there was little wind. Likewise, wind alone was more an annoyance
than a threat. Together, though, they were deadly. The wind and
snow were growing in intensity with equal ferocity. If she did not
get a roof over her head soon, all of that bargaining would have
been wasted. Periodically, a gust came so strong it stopped her in
her tracks. Myranda closed her mouth and breathed through her nose,
longing to gasp but knowing that air this frigid could tear at her
insides if she didn't warm it first.

The sun was still high in the sky, but the
curtain of snow blocked its rays, making early afternoon seem like
dusk. The road in front of her was a wall of white. In these
conditions, she could pass within an arm's length of shelter
without seeing it. Finding what her eyes told her useless, Myranda
closed them to spare them the stinging wind. Now she had only the
sound of her feet to guide her. Even under layers of snow, the
crunch of a road had a different timbre than that of the turf of
the field. Before long, she was not so much walking as wading
through snow that had already drifted to knee height in some
places. With each passing step and each icy flake, the hope of
reaching the church seemed to fade.

A streak of ice beneath the snow caused her
to slip. She stumbled forward to catch her balance, but instead
caught a sharp blow to the shoulder from an unseen obstacle. Sparks
swirled against the black of her closed eyes as she reeled from the
impact. She opened her eyes a sliver to see what had happened, and
nearly cried out in joy at the sight of the frosted over shingles
of the church. Feeling along the wall with what little sensation
her fingers had left, she came to the door. Eagerly she pushed the
gateway to savior, but after only a few inches it stopped and would
not budge.

"Hello?" Myranda said, banging desperately at
the door. "I need help! Please let me in!"

Even if there had been an answer, she could
not have heard it over the howling wind. She shoved the door with
all of the strength she could muster. It slid open a bit more. One
more valiant push allowed just enough of a gap for her to slip
through. She angled herself through the opening, a task greatly
complicated by the large pack and long sword she carried. When she
finally tumbled inside, she heaved the door shut against the biting
wind.

After spending several minutes catching her
breath and brushing the caked snow from her clothes, she inspected
the clearly unoccupied church. A pale white light filtered through
the snow-encrusted windows, dimly illuminating what little there
was to see. Aside from the odd broken chair or pew strewn about the
floor, there was nothing in the way of furniture. It was clear that
this place had been ransacked long ago and stripped of anything of
value, leaving a large, empty room with a raised platform at one
side and a fireplace.

Myranda slid to the ground with her back
against the door. Even with little more than the wind and snow out
of her face, she could feel her cheeks redden with warmth. She sat
for a time, letting her heart slow to a more normal pace and
listening to the wind rattle what few shutters remained on the
windows. When she finally recovered from the onslaught, her
trembling having subsided somewhat, she rose to inspect the
fireplace. The flue was clear, so at least a fire would be safe.
She gathered together some wood from a broken pew and carefully
arranged it in the hearth.

Eventually, she was able to get a fire
started. After basking in the much appreciated warmth, she pulled
her provisions from her pack. The last of the purloined food would
have to serve as her meal for the day. In truth, it might have been
wiser to ration the precious stuff, as this blizzard had the
potential to block her way for days, and there was no other food to
be had. The meat was old already, though, and only getting older.
She would rather have a full stomach today than an upset one
tomorrow. She dropped all of the salted meat into the pot and put
it over the fire.

The fire was weak and not nearly able to heat
the whole of the empty church, but, huddled near it, Myranda
finally began to feel like herself again. The smell from the food
was not exactly appetizing, and stirred memories of her uncle's
hideous attempts at cooking. It seemed that whenever he tried
anything more complicated than applying heat to a pot of water, the
results were sickening. Myranda's father would kid that if he
churned out one more concoction, he would ship him over to the
enemy.

That had been one of the last times she'd
seen her father. Myranda tried to push the unwelcome memories away,
but a tear came to her eye when she pictured the two of them
together. It was foolish, but something inside her refused to
believe that her father was gone. Somehow, after all of these
years, she would still ask after him in each new town, even though
every answer thus far had been one of ignorance or doubt.

A draft from one of the several broken
windows whisked through the largest hole in Myranda's worn cloak,
reminding her once again that it needed to be replaced. Of course,
she could never do that. Links to what little past she had were too
precious to give up simply because they had lost their usefulness,
and this cloak was the last thing she owned that had belonged to
her Uncle Edward. She pulled the blanket from her sword and wrapped
it around her. As she recalled the history of the cloak, she
vaguely remembered relating it to that Leo fellow she had met.
Quietly, she wished he were here to keep her company again.

The light of the fire danced on the
mirror-like finish of the blade. She stared at the pristine edge.
It had likely been used in battle, certainly left to the elements,
and yet the edge looked to be as keen as the day it was forged. Her
eyes drifted to the grip. The jewels there were like none she had
seen before, though, in truth, she had seen very few. Gazing into
the deep blue gem at the hilt's center, she swore that she could
see on forever, like looking into an endless dark tunnel.

Myranda reached for the magnificent weapon,
but stopped. She turned her palm up, the very same one she had
risked to touch it with the first time. It had healed quickly. Now
all that remained was a thin pink scar running across her palm,
with a single red mark just below her middle finger. The longer
scar, centered on her palm, was a long, curving line that twisted
back and forth on itself. It resembled a pair of smooth waves with
a trough between. The red mark was centered above this trough. It
was the very same mark that adorned the blade. The blade, not the
handle.

Carefully, she touched the scabbard and
flipped the sword to its other side. There was no mark anywhere
near where her hand had touched the sword. How could such a scar
have been formed?

"Magic," she decided aloud. The owner had
some sort of spell cast on the sword to brand the would-be thief
with the mark of the rightful owner. For such a fine blade as this,
a security measure of that type would hardly be out of place.

Satisfied with her own explanation, she
looked back to the fire. Using the corner of her blanket to shield
herself from another burn, Myranda pulled her pot from the flames.
The heat had done little to improve the flavor of the food, but the
ration was nonetheless filling. With the meal gone, she realized
that so long as the storm raged, she would have nowhere to go. Her
weary muscles made it quite clear how they felt she should spend
the spare time. She sought out perhaps the only unbroken chair in
the church and sat upon it. Sitting on the cold floor was one
thing, but sleeping on it was quite another. Once properly
situated, she wrapped herself all the more securely in her blanket
and drifted quickly off to sleep, regardless of the fact that there
were still hours of sun left.