Weapon of Flesh (20 page)

T
he last of the five bundles thumped into the bed of the ramshackle cart.  The axle creaked alarmingly, but Forbish didn’t seem to notice.  The man was still nervous, his orders to Lad and Wiggen curt and as sharp as his kitchen knives.  Lad didn’t understand why Forbish was so keyed up; the thugs were dead, the storeroom was clean after hours of scrubbing, and the bodies were now securely wrapped in old saddle blankets and stowed in the borrowed cart.  They would take them down to the river late at night and slip them into the dark water when nobody was watching.  The stones they’d wrapped in with the corpses would ensure that the bodies remained undiscovered.  They were out of danger.

“Well, that’s that!”  Forbish dusted his hands on his apron, although they weren’t really dirty.  Lad had done most of the lifting, though the portly innkeeper had helped him carry the heavy half-ogre.

“Yes,” Lad agreed.  He didn’t understand how ‘that’ could be anything else, but it seemed logical.

“Well, since all of the guests have left, thanks to these noisy bastards, we’ve got a nice quiet night ahead of us.”  He dusted his hands again and waved Lad toward the inn.  “Let’s get in and cleaned up, and have a nice early dinner.  It’s going to be a long night.”

“How can this night be any longer than last night, Forbish?” he asked as they left the barn.  Sometimes people said things that really made no sense.

“Oh, well, it’s just a figure of speech, Lad.”  The older man looked at him and shook his head.  “Tonight will
seem
longer, because we’ll be workin’ half way ’til morning.”

“I understand.”  It seemed to Lad that people often said things that meant other things.  These ‘figures of speech’ that Forbish was talking about were nothing but confusing; if you wanted people to understand what you wanted to say, why not just say it?

“Here we are,” the innkeeper said unnecessarily as he opened the inn’s front door.  As usual, the smell of well-cooked food was overwhelming.  Wiggen backed out of the kitchen door with a platter of bread and cheese in one hand, and two foaming tankards of ale in the other.

“There you are!”  She smiled at the two and put her burdens down on one of the tables.  Lad noticed that there were three plates set out, with eating utensils and cups of water.  “Dinner’s ready, so wash up.”

“What’s all this?”  Forbish picked up one of the tankards and sipped.  “Hmm, Highland Summerbrew, my favorite, but --”

“Just you go and wash up, Father.  We’ve no guests.  The roast was already on for tonight, so we’re having a little celebration, just the three of us.”  Josie had gone home with a splitting headache and a bandage, with orders from the healer not to get out of bed for a day.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Forbish said, taking a healthy gulp of ale.

“That’s
supposed
to be for dinner, Father,” Wiggen scolded good-naturedly, swatting at him with the dishtowel.  She took the tankard from him and scooted back toward the kitchen.  “I’ll refill it, but just this once!  Now go and wash.”

“Women!” Forbish said with a laugh.  “Come on, Lad.  We’d better get washed up, or she’ll feed our dinner to the chickens.”

“Would the chickens eat --”  Lad stopped as Forbish led the way to the bathing rooms.  “A figure of speech.  You didn’t
mean
that the chickens would really eat our dinner.  You meant something else.”

“Ha!  Now you’re gettin’ it, Lad!  Come on.”

“What did you mean?”

“I meant that my daughter is becoming a fussbudget!  Now, hurry up and wash.  I’m hungry!”

Lad had no idea what a ‘fussbudget’ was, but decided not to ask.  He hoped fussbudgets weren’t dangerous.  He couldn’t imagine Wiggen becoming something dangerous.

The two men washed quickly, scrubbing hands, arms and faces with the hot water and fragrant soap that Wiggen had put out for them.  They were back in the common room in a matter of minutes and the table was fully laden when they arrived.

A steaming platter of roast beef, yams and onions lay among lesser dishes of stewed greens, spicy peppers, sliced tomatoes, cheese and a huge loaf of freshly baked bread.  A cup of wine sat before one of the place settings.  Forbish indicated one of the chairs with a wave, and the two men sat, but the innkeeper didn’t touch the food.  Lad wondered why.  Was there something wrong with it?  Was there some custom he was missing?  Forbish had never paused before eating when they took their dinner in the kitchen.  Perhaps things were different when dinner was in the common room.

Wiggen entered, taking off her apron and smoothing her dress.  Forbish was watching her, his face strange.  Lad began to wonder if something was wrong.

“Dessert’s on the sideboard cooling.”  She sat down and looked at her father, her head cocking in question.  “What?”

“You just reminded me of your mum there for a bit, Wig.”  He smiled and reached out to take her hand.  “You’re very like her, you know.”

“Oh, stop it, Father.”  She gripped her father’s hand firmly then let go.

“I’m very lucky to have you, Wiggen.  I won’t put you at risk like that any more.  Even though Urik and his mob are dead, someone’ll come for their payment, and I’ll have it ready.”

“Oh, Father...”

“Which leads me to something else.”  He raised his tankard and looked at Lad.  “Here’s to our young savior, Lad.  I don’t know how you did it, but I’m thankful to you.”

Lad watched as Wiggen raised her cup of wine and touched it to Forbish’s tankard.  This was a custom he’d seen some of the patrons perform while they ate their dinners.  It was called a toast.  He didn’t know if he should join them, so he just watched.

“To Lad,” Wiggen said, sipping her wine.  Her eyes glittered strangely in the lamplight.  “Now, eat, before this all gets cold.”

They feasted.

Lad ate more than he ever had before, encouraged to have second and even third helpings if he wished.  Everything was delicious, as always, but there was a different feeling about this dinner than any of the others he’d had with Forbish and Wiggen.  The conversation was sparse, mostly concerning the food or the delicious ale, which was new to Lad.  When they’d all eaten their fill, Wiggen excused herself to the kitchen, and returned with a tray of small bowls and cups of steaming blackbrew.  The bowls were filled with a sweetened mixture of baked apple and spices, drenched in fresh cream.  They ate slowly, savoring the flavors between sips of the stimulating black beverage.

“Everything was delicious, Wiggen,” Forbish said, pushing his chair back a few inches and loosening his belt a notch.  “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said with a blush.  She fiddled with her hair that draped over the left side of her face.

“And thank you again, Lad, for saving my daughter’s life.  Though where you learned to fight like that, and that magic that healed your wounds...  I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“I learned to fight from my Master and the teachers he brought to train me.  The Master gave me the magic, too.”  He traced a finger up his forearm, over the invisible lines of power that resided under his skin.  “Every day.”

“Was he a wizard, then, this master of yours?”

“A wizard?”  Lad didn’t know what a wizard was, but he’d heard the word before from people that stayed at the inn.  “He was skilled.  He made me and gave me magic and taught me the skills I have.”

“He
made
you?”  Wiggen’s voice trembled slightly.  “What about your family?  Your mother and father?”

“I do not remember a mother or father.  Only the Master.”  Lad’s voice was as calm as ever, but he saw the fear that his words elicited from the two.  He wanted to calm their fears, but he didn’t know how.

“So this Master of yours; did he have a name?”  Forbish took a sip of blackbrew, but his eyes never left Lad’s.

“I do not know.  If he did, I never heard it.”

“Did you run away?” Wiggen asked.

“No.”  This was the same question that the others had asked.  He didn’t want to make them laugh, and maybe instigate a fight as a result, so he skipped the next part, and said, “He was dead, killed by men that came out of the forest while we were traveling.  I didn’t know where we were going, but he had said that my destiny was somewhere down the road.”

“Your destiny?”  Forbish’s eyes widened.

“Yes.  I walked down the road, and eventually came here.  I think that my destiny is somewhere here, in Twailin.”

“And what exactly is your destiny, Lad?”  He could hear the strain in Wiggen’s voice.

“I do not know.”  Lad thought for a moment, wondering if they could, perhaps, help him find his destiny.  Maybe, if they knew more about him, they could.  “I am a weapon.  I think that --”

“What?  You’re a what, Lad?”  Forbish’s cup clattered into its saucer.

“My Master said that I am a weapon.  I was taught to fight, run, climb, use and defend against weapons, move quietly without leaving a trace, order my thoughts through meditation, discipline my body, and channel and focus the power of mind and body.  The Master gave me magic to make me strong, fast and heal my wounds.”

“But why?”  Wiggen’s voice was a trembling whisper.

“Why is any weapon made?”  He paused, but they did not answer.  “A weapon is to be wielded, used for combat.  I feel sure that my destiny is to be used by someone, as a weapon is used.  To kill.”  He watched their faces slacken and wondered if fear had overcome them.  He didn’t understand their fear.  Surely they knew that he was no danger to them.

“Do not fear me.  I will not hurt either of you.  You have given me much here.  Food, a place to stay, and...”  He stumbled over his thoughts.  He didn’t know how to say what he felt for these people, how to describe what they had given him. 

But Wiggen did.

“Friendship.”  She reached out, but Lad withdrew his hand.  The withdrawal was automatic, the aversion to be touched that had been drilled into him for years.  Wiggen stopped, her hand frozen, and he could see the pain in her eyes.

“I did not mean to --”

“It’s all right.”  She smiled, looked to her father, then back to Lad, and carefully put her hand on top of his.  “You have never had friends, have you?”

“I... do not know.”  He did not know precisely what a friend was.  He had heard the term used many times, sometimes even between those in heated debate.  He was finding it hard to concentrate with her hand resting on his.  It felt cool, comfortable against his skin; but there was the underlying desire to withdraw, to defend himself.  “Friends are people who you do not want to hurt?  Like you and Forbish?”

“Well, kind of.”  Forbish grinned.  “We’re family, Lad, and that’s more than friends.  Though I’ve heard of families that weren’t very friendly to one another.  I guess we’re both, family and friends.  Friends are just people you like.”

“I understand.”  Lad looked at Wiggen’s hand atop his own.  The compulsion to withdraw swelled within him, but he didn’t want to.  Fighting the urge was playing on his nerves like a bow on overly taut fiddle strings.  His temples began to pound with his pulse, though there was no pain.  “Friends aid one another, like allies in combat combine their skills against a common foe.  I helped you against Urik and his men.  That makes us friends, right?”

“Close enough.”  Forbish pushed himself up from the table and started clearing the dishes.  “You go and get some sleep, Lad.  You’ve done enough work already today.  I’ll wake you later for our little trip to the river.  I’ll wash these up, Wig.”

“Oh, I’ll help, Father.  I know you don’t like to --”  She got up and reached for a dish, but Forbish pulled it out of her reach.

“Tut, tut!  You just go have a rest.  You’ve been through enough today.”  He loaded the dishes onto the platter and backed through the door to the kitchen.  Lad could hear the man whistling tunelessly while pots and dishes clattered and splashed.

“I will go.”  Lad got up.

“Do you mind if I walk out to the barn with you?”  Her voice was pitched low and she glanced at the kitchen door, her lower lip clenched between her teeth.  “I want to talk to you, Lad.”

“Yes.  I would... like you to talk to me, Wiggen.”  She smiled and followed him out the front door of the inn.

Jingles wasn’t happy.  And as a general rule, when Jingles wasn’t happy, people got hurt.

“Hit him again, Burke”

Burke hit him; a sharp jab straight to the nose with a satisfying wet crack.

The shopkeeper’s head snapped back, flecks of blood and sweat spattering the floor.  The man moaned through split and bleeding lips.  He was learning a difficult lesson, one that needn’t have been so painful.

“Are we learning yet, Mister Joanis?”  Jingles rattled the golden chain that wrapped his wrist, enjoying the sound that had earned him his nickname.  The chain was linked with tiny silver rods, each as long as his thumbnail; they made a very pleasing sound when he jingled them.  There was a significance to these silver rods that only his associates within the Assassins Guild knew.  He might add another today, but he hoped this lesson would not have to go that far.  It was hard to get money from a dead man.  Joanis moaned incoherently, and Jingles grabbed the man’s hair.