Weapon of Flesh (7 page)

The sun had moved to its highest point when the boy reached the crossroads.  He approached cautiously, moving along the edge of the road where the concealing underbrush was only a step away.  If those who sought him lay in wait, he could vanish into the undergrowth in the blink of an eye.

He had never seen a crossroads before.  He knew not what to expect.  Would someone live here, tend the well and the simple structure that served as shelter to any traveler who felt the need to stop for the night?   He listened for several minutes and knew that no one hid in wait, so he moved into the open to better assess the choices that lay before him.  The well yielded enough cold, sweet water to sate his thirst, but the crossing roads left him with another decision.

Life since the Master had been killed seemed to be nothing but one decision after another, and he felt that every one he made hung over his head like a great weight, ready to crush him if he chose poorly.  This decision was not without some information to guide him at least, and he stood quietly for some time, weighing his three options.  The tracks from the six horsemen were plain, and it took no skill to see that his pursuers had stopped for water, then continued west.  If they sought him, which seemed likely, they would return by the same road.  To the west, the road was no longer girded by stone walls, but rather split-rail fences and open fields that would offer him no cover if he encountered the horsemen.  That made the northern and southern roads more attractive simply in the interest of avoiding his pursuers.   He looked to the north where the road rose into hilly, forested country.  To the south lay low, rolling hills and empty pastures.  If the horsemen returned to the crossroads and took the same track as he, either by design or chance, he would rather be in rougher country that offered cover.

The boy took a bit of bread and a hunk of cheese from his dwindling bag of supplies and turned to the north, eating as he walked and wondering if he’d made the right decision.

 Chapter
V

“S
o, what do they call ya, then?” the portly man asked, shoving a wheelbarrow of coal onto the pile that fed the forge.  He dumped the load and let the wheelbarrow drop, turning to the boy and dusting off his hands.

“They call me Lad,” the boy answered, not knowing how else to reply.  The Master had only ever called him Boy, but the people at the inn had called him Lad, and he thought the latter sounded more like a name.

“Well, Lad then, is it?”  The man rubbed his beard with a hand blackened with soot and coal dust, his broadly set eyes narrowing with scrutiny.  “Well, I guess a man’s name’s his own business, ain’t it?  And ya need money, do ya?”

“Yes.  I need money for food.”

“Well, yer skinny enough, that’s plain to see, and half the blokes in this gods forsaken hole give some phony name, don’t they?  No matter to me, is it?”  The man’s gaze raked up and down the boy appraisingly.  “I can’t see what you can do for me, though, can I?  Yer too skinny to heft a load of coal, and I doubt you could even swing a hammer.”  He looked around the small smithy dubiously then shrugged.  “Sorry, Lad.”

The boy did not understand.  All he had told the man was that he needed money.  Now he was talking about things he could and could not do for him.  Did the man mean that if he did these things, he would give him money?  There was only one way to discover the truth.  “I can swing a hammer, and I can lift that cart loaded with coal.”

“Oh, ya can, can ya?  Well, you’ll just have to show me then, won’t ya?”  He pointed to the wheelbarrow, then to the wagon he’d been unloading.  “Shovel that cart full and bring it over here to the pile near the forge then.”

“Yes, M --”  The boy stopped; this was not his Master.  The Master was dead.  He didn’t know what to call the man, but he’d heard others use another term that was respectful, and used that now.  “Yes, Sir.”

He retrieved the wheelbarrow and, though he had never seen a contraption like it, mastered the simple balance of it easily.  At the wagon he hopped up and took the broad-bladed shovel.  This was another implement he was unaccustomed to wielding, but it was not difficult.  In short order the wheelbarrow was brimming full.  He hopped down and took the two handles.

“Careful now, Lad,” the man warned.  “I don’t want ya hurtin’ yerself.”

“How could I hurt my
self
?” he asked, lifting the load easily and wheeling it over to the large pile.

“Well, I uh --”  The man stared as Lad emptied the cart and set it aside exactly where he had picked it up.  “Well, I guess yer stronger than ya look, aren’t ya?”

“I do not look strong?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to--  I mean you’re kind of skinny, so I thought --”  The man gave a snort of laugher, which clicked as a warning in Lad’s mind.  “Well I guess you’re just wiry strong, not beefy strong like me.”  He flexed his huge shoulders.

“I guess,” Lad said, still not really understanding, but feeling that it was best to agree.  He did not want trouble.

“Fine then, I’ll pay you two pennies a day, and feed ya.  You can sleep behind the forge; it’ll be warm enough for ya there, won’t it?”  The man looked at Lad as if there would be an answer forthcoming, but Lad hadn’t the slightest idea what to say.  He didn’t know if he was supposed to agree, disagree, name a different amount, or stand mute.

“Will that be acceptable?” The man finally finished.

“Yes,” Lad said immediately.

“Good!  You can start by unloadin’ the rest of that coal and shovelin’ the dung heap there into the wagon.  If you finish that before supper, you can muck out the stables.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Lad got right to work. 

He grabbed the cart and brought it back to the wagon, while the man attended his forge and the huge horseshoes that he was beating into shapes more likely to fit the plate-footed draft horse waiting patiently in the stall.  Lad took a moment to wonder how long he would have to work to afford enough food to make it back to the crossroads.  Just one glance around the logging camp where this branch of the road ended told him that this was not where his destiny lay.  His long-belabored decision at the crossroads had been wrong, and the mistake had cost him time, but there was no way he could have known which of the three choices led to his destiny.  Now he needed more food, for his supplies were gone, which would cost him more days.  The concept of working for money with which he could buy food to continue his journey settled well with him.  He hadn’t caused any trouble here, and the smith seemed pleased with his work.  He could work here for a few days, buy food, and continue his journey without worries about having to evade the clumsy pursuit that had dogged him out of the first town.

His only worry was about his destiny.

He’d already been on the road for five days since the Master was killed; he hoped his destiny would wait for him.  It was another day and a half back to the crossroads, then who knew how far, to his destiny, if he even would know it when he saw it.

“Grandfather.”  The young apprentice’s voice cut through the silence of the vast chamber that was the guildmaster’s private suite.  The apprentice stood at the open door, his toes half a step back from the aperture.  The door had been open, as it often was, but woe to the lowly apprentice who broke that intangible barrier without consent.  There were no guards at the door to the suite; there didn’t need to be.  And a lock would have been even more superfluous.  This was the abode of the most deadly assassin in the city of Twailin.  Guards and locks would have been ridiculous.

Shadows fluttered within the blackness of the balcony and the Grandfather of Assassins strode through the open arched doors, his stride fluid, his countenance assured.  This was his domain; no one was foolish enough to attack him here.

“What news, Sereth?” he snapped, striding across the priceless rugs toward the uncomfortable apprentice.  “Has anyone spotted Corillian?”

“There is no news from the east road, Grandfather.”  The youth bowed low, presenting an easy and hopefully painless target to his master.  If the lack of news enraged his lord, it was better to be killed quickly than to survive to endure the master’s torments.  “A three-wagon caravan of wool arrived from Melfey this evening, and brought no news at all of anything unusual.”

“Blast!”  The guildmaster whirled and strode back across the room to his broad desk.  “If Corillian has one trait, it is punctuality.  If he can calculate the exact time required to complete a sixteen-year project, I grant he has the faculties to estimate the travel time from Krakengul Keep!”

Sereth risked a glance then straightened.  The master was not in a homicidal mood, as was evidenced by his own continued heartbeat, but Sereth did not want to push his luck.  He stood silently while the Grandfather scratched a lengthy note upon a sheet of parchment.  “I want you to hand-deliver this to Master Targus.  He’s doing some hunting, so he may be difficult to find.  Check the taverns down by the wharves first, but don’t come back without putting this in his hand.”  He sanded the scroll dry, then rolled it, sealed it with wax and pressed his signet into the seal.  He crossed the space from the desk to his apprentice in seven long strides, his black robes fluttering to reveal the glitter of steel, silver and gold within the ebony folds.

“Go!” the guildmaster said flatly, handing over the scroll.

“At once, Grandfather!”  Sereth tucked the scroll into his tunic and turned to go, grateful for having been given a task without enduring any punishment for bringing bad news.  He had no idea where to find Master Targus, but at least he knew where to start looking.

“Here we are!”  Flindle pushed open the heavy bark-plank door and ushered Lad into the long low structure of the mess hall.  “The rewards of a hard day’s labor!”  The aromas of the long line of tables heavily laden with food and the sound of sixty hungry men all eating and talking at once washed over them in a palpable wave.

Lad froze in his tracks.

He had never seen so many people crowded into one room, and his combat-honed reaction was to assess the danger of the situation before proceeding.  These men were the same he’d seen come in upon the three huge wagons less than an hour ago.  Flindle had called them “the Jacks,” and their arrival had heralded the official end of the workday.  At the time, Lad had noticed with professional concern that half of the men carried dangerous-looking double-bitted axes of a type he had not seen before.  They looked lighter and quicker than battle axes, and Lad had wondered if they were weapons or tools.  Now they all sat unarmed, shoveling food into their bearded faces with a frenzied intensity.