Weapon of Flesh (15 page)

“See that copies are made of this and distributed to all the district supervisors,” he said, handing the sketch back to the artist while never taking his eyes off Mya’s.  “Come sit with me for a while, my dear.  We must discuss your role in the coming hunt.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” she said, bowing slightly, more in an attempt to break his discomforting scrutiny than as a sign of any reverence she felt.

They moved to a small table set by the windows, and servants immediately brought an array of food and drink.  Mya suddenly realized that she was famished; the luscious aroma of sausage, egg, bread and steaming blackbrew started her stomach to growling.  At that moment another servant entered the morning room and bowed before making his announcement.

“M’lord Grandfather, one of your operatives, a young apprentice named Sereth, has returned.  He wishes to speak with you.”

“Send him in,” the Grandfather said, his eyes leaving his guest for a moment while the apprentice entered and bowed low.  Mya kept her gaze lowered, trying to silence her tumultuous stomach by clenching the muscles of her midriff.

“Grandfather, I have found some evidence that your weapon entered the city through the east gate some time in the early morning hours.”  The apprentice’s voice was steady, but there was a faint timbre of fear beneath the placid surface.  Years under the tutelage of Targus had taught Mya to recognize such signs, so she knew the underlying dread for what it was.

“What evidence?” the Grandfather asked, his own tone heavy with foreboding.

“I spoke with the morning watchman at length, Grandfather.”  As he spoke, the Grandfather filled his plate from the platters on the table.  He did not give Mya leave to touch the food, however, and her plate remained empty.  “He is not one of ours, but enough silver loosened his tongue.  I asked if a lost boy had entered the city though his gate and he finally remembered a scrawny youngster who’d come through in the early morning hours, a couple of glasses before first light.  He remembered because it was well before the normal morning traffic started.  Just a peasant lad, or so he thought, with no baggage and no shoes.”

“Thank you Sereth, you may go, but stay in the compound.”  The Grandfather’s voice sweetened like honeyed wine as he said, “You have shown resourcefulness in this, Sereth.  I may have need of your services soon.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” the youth stated flatly, turning on his heel and quick-stepping out of the room.  Mya watched him leave with professional scrutiny, then returned her gaze to her host and found him watching her again.

“You find him interesting, Mya?” he asked, watching her watch him as he picked up knife and fork, cut off a piece of sausage and dredged it through an egg yolk.  He brought the bite slowly to his mouth, chewed carefully and swallowed.

“No, Grandfather,” Mya said, swallowing.  She had not eaten a real meal since the inn at Thistledown; her mouth watered at the smell of food and the sight of him eating.  “I have never seen him before this day.”  He knew she was hungry, she realized, and was using it as a distraction to reveal any hidden motives she might have.  It made her slightly angry, but she refused to let it show. 

“But your eyes followed him with more than a passing glance.”  He tore the corner off a slice of steaming bread and methodically dabbed it into the egg.

“You told him that you might need his services soon, and he had been searching for information about your weapon.”  She licked her lips, trying to ignore the food.  “I was memorizing him, as I have been taught to do.”

“Ahh, yes.  Targus has taught you well.”  He poured a dollop of cream into his blackbrew and swirled it with a tiny spoon, then brought the cup to his lips.  When the cup touched the table again he smiled at her thinly.  “I wonder why Targus has not brought you to my attention before.  You are most capable for your age, more steady of nerve than many trained guild members; you show remarkable fortitude and self control.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she said, again forcing herself not to react as he thought she would.  “I often thought that Master Targus deemed me too brash.”

“Are you hungry, Mya?” he asked.

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“But you have not asked me for food.  That is not the manner of a brash young woman.”

“It is not my place to ask, Grandfather.  You have already shown me much kindness,” she nodded to the still steaming tub, and fingered the lapel of her luxurious robe.

“Yet you are hungry.  If I offered those things, should I not also offer a simple meal?”

“I am your servant, Grandfather.  It is not for me to say what you should or should not offer.”  She clenched her jaw and swallowed again, hiding her annoyance at this ridiculous sparring.  “I do not take you for a fool, Grandfather.  You know I have not eaten.  You know Targus’ opinion of my temperament.  You are testing that assessment, offering me one indulgence, then not offering the next.”  She let the corner of her mouth quirk upward slightly.  “I am not so brash that I would be rude to my master’s master simply because I am hungry.”

“You may eat,” he said evenly, his wizened features unreadable.

“Thank you, Grandfather.”  She promptly filled her plate and began eating in relaxed, controlled movements, relishing each bite, but refusing to show her bliss.

“Yes, I think Targus may have underestimated you, dear Mya.  And since you are the only person in my employ who has actually seen my weapon, I will require your services in directing the search for him.”  He continued eating, still watching her, still trying to read her reactions.  “You will, of course, require some kind of rank within the guild other than apprentice in order to supervise such an endeavor.”

“Of course, Grandfather.”  She sipped blackbrew, black and strong, watching him watch her over the rim of the cup.  “And if I may be so brash as to ask, what might that rank be?”

“Junior Journeyman, I think will be sufficient.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she said, bowing her head in gratitude.  “Will I still be under Master Targus’ supervision?”

“I don’t think that would be prudent, Mya.”  He paused, reached, and refilled her cup from the silver pot.  “You will report directly to me.  Sereth will be at your disposal.  Any disposition of manpower will require my approval, but you will have much autonomy as well.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she said, bringing the cup once again to her lips, thinking that both Targus and Jax were going to be positively furious with her promotion to Journeyman.  She
should
have been an apprentice for at least two more years and Jax was in his
fifth
year of apprenticeship.  When her eyes met the Grandfather’s once again, however, her stomach clenched upon the few bites of food she’d eaten.  His gaze had turned hard, cruel and infinitely malicious.

“Do not fail me in this, Mya.”

“I shall not, Grandfather.”  She forced her eyes away from his, hearing her own fear in her voice and hating herself for that weakness.  She picked up her fork and took another bite, but the delicious food seemed to turn to ashes in her mouth.

Wiggen hefted the heavy bucket with a sigh and headed off toward the barn.  It had been a long day and they had more guests than usual, six merchants, one with his young son, and a man who was traveling alone.  She’d spent half the morning showing their strange new stable hand how to do his job, which had put her behind in her other chores.  Granted, if he’d done all she told him to, he had cut her work in half, but she had her doubts about him.  His manner was odd, as if he knew nothing at all.  She remembered his question when they’d first met, “What is a father?” and shook her head. 
He must be an escaped slave or something
, she thought, her fear and suspicion easing into cautious pity for his obviously inadequate upbringing.  Granted, her own childhood had not been exactly easy, but at least she had a father.

She stepped into the barn and stopped, her eyes widening slightly at the state of the place.  Everything was spotless, or as spotless as a barn could be.  The floor was swept clean, the tools were all put away, there was no clutter at all and every stall was strewn with a fresh layer of straw.  The four saddle horses, and the team of two matched bays were all stabled, groomed, fed and watered, the merchant’s heavily laden wagon was moved to the back and looked to have been scrubbed.  She certainly hadn’t expected such a thorough job, not on the first day with the small amount of instruction that she’d given him.  But now he was nowhere to be seen.

“Probably off sleeping somewhere,” she mused, her frown tugging at her scar, which always made her frown the more.  “Lad?” she called toward the tack room.

“Yes, Wiggen.”

She turned in time to see him plummeting from the hayloft and almost let out a cry of alarm, but he landed as light as a feather.  She tried to hide her startlement as he looked at her with that curious askance tilt of his head and placed the broom he’d been using carefully aside.

“Why do you do that?” she asked, putting the bucket down to rest her aching shoulder.

“Do what?”

“Leap down like that.  You could hurt yourself, and there’s a ladder right over there.”

“Jumping is quicker and easier.  I could not hurt my
self
.”

“Well, be careful anyway.”  She turned her head partially away to hide the scar and inspected him sidelong.  He certainly looked like he’d been working all day; he was grimy to the elbows, sweat streaked his tunic and bits of straw riddled his hair and clothing.  His bare feet were nothing short of filthy.  She nodded to the bucket.  “I thought you might want to wash up before supper, so I brought you water, some soap and a towel, and there’s some of Tam’s old clothes in here, too.”  He took the bundle from her without a word and placed it on the nearby workbench.

“The guests have eaten, so you can come in whenever you like.”  She watched curiously as he sorted the pile of clothes and picked out the towel and soap.  “We usually all eat in the kitchen after the guests have finished, so just come in the back way when --”  She stopped suddenly as he stripped off his filthy tunic and began working on the knotted rope belt of his trousers.  “What are you
doing
?”

“I am washing.” He stopped instantly, his face a blank question.  “You were correct that I wanted to wash.  Should I not?”

“Not
here
!”  Didn’t this boy have any decency at all?  Why, he was standing in plain view of the courtyard and she was three feet away!  Her eyes lingered on the layers of corded muscle that his tunic had covered; he was not as skinny as she’d thought, and all of his weight was muscle.  His skin was tan beneath the sweat and grime of a day’s work, and so thin that she could see the individual fibers playing in waves along his abdomen and chest.

“Why not here?”

“Uh... because!”  She snapped her eyes away, hating the rush of heat that washed over her face.  “It’s not decent!  People can see!”

“Where should I wash, then, Wiggen?”

She looked back to him, taken aback at the utter lack of scorn, sarcasm or spite in his voice.  On his face was nothing but complete trust, curiosity and the concern that he had done something wrong.  She nodded toward one of the stalls, thinking again what a bleak childhood Lad must have had.

“You can wash in one of the stalls for now.  We have bathing rooms in the inn, but you’re a little too dirty to be walking through the common room.”  She turned her back as he took the soap and towel and stepped into the first stall.  “We like to keep the inn as clean as we can, Lad.  The customers like it that way, which means more customers and more money coming in.”  She heard him splashing and scrubbing and kept her attention on the courtyard.  “If one of our own walks through all dirty and tracking filth from the stables, word might get out that the whole place was dirty, even the kitchen, and then we wouldn’t have any customers at all, see?”

“I understand,” he said, and she heard one more great splash as he dumped the rest of the bucket over his head in a final rinse.

“Do you need more water?” she asked.  “I can get another bucket from the well if you do.”

“I do not think I need more water, Wiggen.”  She heard the flutter of the towel as he dried himself.  “But I forgot the clothes that you brought.  I do not want to stand where people can see.”

“Oh, well here.”  She stepped to the workbench and picked out a pair of trousers and a nice blue tunic that she had always liked when Tam wore them.  “These should fit closely enough.”  She stepped to the stall door, fully expecting him to be wrapped in the towel.  She stopped with a gasp, her eyes popping wide at the sight of him standing there amid the damp straw, the towel flung casually over his shoulder.

“Am I not clean enough?” he asked, looking down at himself and turning a circle before her.  “I could not see my back, but I tried to wash well.”

“No.”  Wiggen gaped, forcing herself to turn away and hold out the clothes.  “You’re clean.”  He lifted the clothes from her hand and she stepped out of the stall, her eyes still wide but focusing on nothing, her hands clenching her apron.  Well, he was
definitely
older than he looked.  Earlier she’d thought he might be a tall, lanky thirteen or so; now she knew she’d underestimated by at least three years, which made him only a year or so younger than she.  She shook her head sharply and clenched her eyes closed, but she felt as if the sight of him standing like that would be burned into her eyes forever.