Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

“Hmm. Or it might belong to the other odd fellow what’s been hanging about…”

“Another one? Tell me!”

Jacopo rolled the dagger in a cleaner rag. “Found Graeme havin‘ a pint at the Heron. He was low about Barti Gesso’s thievin” Mistress Jennai’s flour. Barti did it no question, but he’s got seven little ones to feed and his hold’s got the blight. Mistress Jennai wants half the flesh off Barti’s back, and Graeme’s got to do it, so—“

“Spare me the sheriff’s moral dilemmas, Jaco. With two floggings and an eviction within three days, I don’t think I can muster any sympathy for him.”

Sheriffs were constable, judge, and hangman in most Leiran towns and villages. They were charged to enforce the king’s law, to support the king’s whims, and to prevent interference with the conscript gangs, tax collectors, and quartermasters who ensured the unending supplies of lives, money, food, and horses for the king’s wars. But such duties had been acquired only in the past century. The badge sewn on a sheriff’s coat was scarlet, fashioned in the shape of a flaming sword, for the office had been created to enforce the extermination laws—to root out sorcerers in every corner of the realm and burn them.

“You’re still hard on Graeme, Seri. He’s a fair man and does his job well. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”

“I won’t argue it again. So what else did he say?”

“He talked of the king’s men come riding through yesterday looking for the missing servant. They told him no more’n they told you. But then he said another fellow come through here a few days ago, an odd one, dressed as a nob from Kerotea, but his look was not such as would fit his clothes. Said the man was telling how his groom run off with a prize horse, and he was offering a reward for either the groom or the beast.”

“Aeren is no—”

“Now just haul in your jib. Graeme believes the man wasn’t looking for no horse, neither. The fellow couldn’t even describe the horse other than it was big and white.

Right odd, Graeme said. For certain, he was no king’s man. This Kerotean is staying down to Grenatte, and he wants Graeme to let him know right off if there’s any word of the horse or the groom, but not tell anyone else that might be asking. Says the groom is tall, light-haired, about twenty and some years, fair in the face, but with a testy temper. The boy’s not quite right in the head, he says. Might be talkin‘ wild.“

“He’s lying. If I’d not seen Aeren’s hands or feet, perhaps, or noted his manner. Or if I’d not learned how intelligent he is, I might have believed it. But he’s no groom, and he’s not incompetent.” No groom practiced the kind of martial exercises Aeren had been doing that morning. The more I thought of the whole matter, the odder it was.

“It’s a mystery, for sure. Graeme says he plans to look into it. And after hearing all this and knowing this little trinket is involved”—Jaco tapped the bundle on his hand— “I don’t know but what we’d best get you out of it as quick as we may.”

“I’m not getting involved in anyone’s problems. I’m going to give Aeren the clothes and send him off to Montevial. Could I take the dagger back with me?” Seeing Aeren’s reaction to it might be interesting.

“Surely. But I think I’ll come along with it and get a look at your new friend myself.”

I hefted the bundle of clothes, Tim Fetterling’s gray cloak, and my bag of eggs and butter, while Jacopo found an unused knife sheath, bundled it with the knife, and grabbed his walking stick. We strolled in quiet companionship past the clay statues of the Twins, glaring from their unkempt shrine, across the fields, and up the trail into the woods. The shadows were already lengthening.

My breath stopped when I glimpsed the still form sprawled on the grass under the eaves of the forest. Stars of night, was he dead? I sped across the meadow and dropped to my knees beside the body, but I had scarcely noted that Aeren was only sleeping when I found myself face down with my arms pinned painfully behind my back, my nose in the dirt, and not a breath left in my lungs.

“A blight on your thick head,” I said, gasping. “It’s only me and a friend.”

At my first word, Aeren released me. By the time I had dragged myself to my knees and reassured myself that neither arms nor neck were broken, he stood ten paces away from me, taut, wary, and watching Jacopo limp across the meadow.

“Demons! The rascal didn’t hurt you?” said Jacopo, no longer leaning on the sturdy length of hickory, but gripping one end of it fiercely.

I crept across the grass and leaned my back against a tree, rubbing my shoulder and neck and brushing the leaves and dirt from my skirt. “Easy, Jaco. I’m fine. Just a second layer of bruises.”

“He’s been trained to fight,” said Jacopo, glowering at the young man. “No doubt of that. Quick and smooth. Strong, too, I’ll be bound. What’s he done to you, little girl?” Jacopo bent over to take a look at my neck.

“Ouch!” The old sailor was a ham-handed nursemaid.

Before Jacopo could apologize, Aeren grabbed his collar and shoved the old man away so forcefully that Jaco crashed into the dead lower branches of a pine tree. When the young man dropped to his knees beside me and reached for my neck, I flinched. To my surprise, his fingers brushed my skin quite gently. His brow was creased, as if he couldn’t understand how the marks had come about.

“I’ll live,” I said, trying to calm the situation before he got more agitated. “We startled you.”

His frown deepened, and he moved in closer, his bulk pressing me against the tree as he tugged at the tie that would loosen the gathered neck of my shift.

“Get away from me.” With an ungentle hand to his chest, I managed to squirm out from between him and the tree. But he removed my hand and moved closer again, yanking the cloth down to bare my throat. With a stiff forearm I knocked his hand aside, while with the other hand, I reached through my pocket, drew my knife, and pointed it at his belly. I knew where to hurt a man, and I knew how to talk to a brute, whether he spoke the same language or not. “Get. Away. From. Me.”

Face a deep scarlet, he let go of my clothes. Then, baring his teeth, he grabbed my forearm and twisted it until the knife dropped to the ground. For a moment I thought he might break my wrist or snatch up the weapon and turn it on me. But instead, he pushed me to the ground, stood up, and walked away.

Jacopo gave me a hand up, stood close by my shoulder, and raised his stick to Aeren’s back. “May the good god Jerrat drown you, you filthy devil—”

“Wait, Jaco.” No point in letting things get out of hand. I retrieved my dagger and sheathed it. “Aeren”—I repeated his name several times and waited until he turned around again to lay my hand on Jacopo’s shoulder—“this is my friend Jacopo from Dunfarrie. Jaco, this is… Lord Aeren of somewhere.” Jaco was busy mopping his forehead with a kerchief, and his grudging bow was less than gentlemanly.

Aeren ignored both Jacopo and my introduction. With a sour expression, he gestured to his stomach and his mouth and pointed to the cottage.

“I’ve better things to do, you wretched beast. Time to fend for yourself a bit.” I rummaged amid the eggs and butter in my pack and pulled out a well-bruised wild plum, left from my morning on Poacher’s Ridge. I threw the plum at Aeren. Hard.

He caught it in one hand, deftly enough to prevent the soft fruit from splattering on him. As he bit into it, one corner of his mouth twitched. Smug little bastard.

I tossed the clothes bundle at his feet. Once he had finished the plum and flipped the stem into the trees, he squatted down beside the pile and, one by one, lifted the items by the tip of one finger. He examined each carefully, then gave me such a look of scornful disbelief that, despite all my annoyance, I could do nothing but burst out laughing. It seemed like a century since I had laughed, and finding myself doing so at an unpleasant brute of a man who had come near throttling me twice within a week was strange indeed. Aeren flushed, snatched the bundle of clothes, and disappeared into the trees.