Терри Брукс - The Talismans of Shannara

The boy studied him for a long time, gaze level and fixed, body still. He stood behind the serving counter like a statue, and Morgan had the uneasy feeling that he was poised between fleeing and attacking. Morgan watched the eyes and the hands for a hint of which way the boy would go, but there was no movement at all. From outside, the sounds of the street drifted in through the open doors and hung shrill and intrusive in the silence.

“I’m Matty Roh,” the boy said.

Morgan Leah stared. He almost laughed aloud, almost said something about how ridiculous that was. But something in the boy’s voice stopped him. He took a closer look at the other—the fine, delicate features, the slim hands, the lean body concealed beneath the loose-fitting clothing, the way he held himself. He remembered how the boy had moved. None of it seemed quite right for a boy. But for a girl...

He nodded slowly. “Matty Roh,” he said, his surprise still evident. “I thought you were a... that you were...”

The girl nodded. “That’s what you were supposed to think.” Her hand did not move off the sword. “What do you want with me?”

For a moment Morgan did not respond, still grappling with the idea that he had mistaken a girl for a boy. Worse, that he had let her make him look like such a fool. But you mustered the defenses available to you when you lived in a place like Wyvern Split. The girl was clever. He had to admit her disguise was a good one.

He reached into his tunic pocket and drew forth the ring with the hawk emblem and held it out. “Recognize this?”

She took a quick look at the ring, and her hand tightened on the sword. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Morgan Leah,” he said. “We both know who gave me the ring. He told me to come to you when I needed to find him.”

“I know who you are,” she declared. Her gaze stayed level, appraising. “Do you still carry a broken sword, Morgan Leah?”

An image of Quickening as she lay dying flashed in his mind. “No,” he said quietly. “It was made whole again.” He pushed back the pain the memory brought and forced himself to reach over his shoulder and touch the sword’s hilt. “Do you want to have a look?”

She shook her head no. “I’m sorry I gave you such a bad time. But it’s difficult to know who to trust. The Federation has spies everywhere—Seekers more often than not.”

She picked up her own sword and slipped it back under the counter. For a moment she didn’t appear to know what to do next. Then she said, “Would you like something to eat?”

He said he would, and she took him through the swinging doors in back into a kitchen where she seated him at a small table, scooped some stew into a serving bowl from a kettle hung over a cooking fire in the hearth, cut off several slices of bread, poured ale into a mug, and brought it all over to where he waited. He ate and drank eagerly, hungrier than he had been in days. There were wildflowers in a vase on the table, and he touched them experimentally. She watched him in silence, the same serious expression on her face, studying him with that frank, curious gaze. The kitchen was surprisingly cool, with a breeze blowing in through the open back door and venting up the chimney of the fireplace. Sounds from the streets continued to drift in, but the Highlander and the girl ignored them.

“It took you a long time to get here,” she said when he had finished his meal. She carried his dishes to a sink and began to wash them. “He expected you sooner than this.”

“Where is he now?” Morgan asked. They were taking great pains to avoid saying Padishar Creel’s name—as if mention of it might alert the Federation spies set at watch.

“Where did he say he would be?” she countered.

Still testing, Morgan thought. “At Firerim Reach. Tell me something. You’re being pretty careful about me. How am I supposed to know I can trust you? How do I know you really are Matty Roh?”

She finished with the dishes, set them to dry on the counter, and turned to face him. “You don’t. But you came looking for me. I didn’t come looking for you. So you have to take your chances.”

He rose. “That’s not very reassuring.”

She shrugged. “It isn’t meant to be. It isn’t my job to reassure you. It’s my job to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

“And are you sure?”

She stared at him. “More or less.”

Her stare was impenetrable. He shook his head. “When do you think you might know?”

“Soon.”

“And what if you decide I’m lying? What if you decide I’m someone else?”

She came forward until she was directly across the table from him, until the blue of her eyes was so brilliant that it seemed to swallow all the light.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to find out the answer to that question,” she said. She held his gaze challengingly. “The Whistledown stays open until midnight. When it closes, we’ll talk about what happens next.”

As she turned away, he could have sworn she almost smiled.

Morgan spent the rest of the day in the kitchen with an old woman who came in to do the cooking but devoted most of her time to sipping ale from a metal flask and stealing food from the pots. The old woman barely gave him a glance and then only long enough to mutter something undecipherable about strange men, so he was left pretty much to himself. He took a bath in an old tub in one of the back rooms (because he wanted to and not because Matty Roh had suggested it, he told himself), carrying steaming water in buckets heated over the fire until he had enough to submerse himself. He languished in the tub for some time, letting more than just the dirt and grit soak away, staying long after the water had cooled.

After the Whistledown had opened for business he left the kitchen and went out into the main room to have a look around. He stood at the serving counter and watched the citizens of Varfleet come and go. The crowd was a well-dressed one, men and women both, and it was immediately clear that the Whistledown was not a workingman’s tavern. Several of the tables were occupied by Federation officers, some with their wives or consorts. Talk and laughter was restrained, and no one was particularly boisterous. Once or twice soldiers from Federation patrols paused long enough for a quick glance inside, but then passed on. A strapping fellow with curly dark hair drew ale from the casks, and a serving girl carried trays of the foaming brew to the tables.

Matty Roh worked, too, although it was not immediately apparent to Morgan what her job was. At times she swept the floor, at times she cleared tables, and occasionally she simply went about straightening things up. He watched her for some time before he was able to figure out that what she was really doing was listening in on the conversations of the tavern patrons. She was always busy and never seemed to stand about or to be in any one place for more than a moment, a very unobtrusive presence. Morgan couldn’t tell if anyone knew she was a girl or not, but in any case they paid almost no attention to her.

After a time she came up to the counter carrying a tray full of empty glasses and stood next to him. As she reached back for a fresh cleaning rag she said, “You’re too obvious standing here. Go back into the kitchen.” And then she turned back to the crowd.

Irritated, he nevertheless did as he was told.

At midnight the Whistledown closed. Morgan helped clean up, and then the old cook and the counterman said good-night and went out the back door. Matty Roh blew out the lamps in the front room, checked the locks on the doors, and came back into the kitchen. Morgan was waiting at the little table for her, and she came over and sat down across from him.