Tales Of Grimea by Andrew Mowere Page B

bottom and the top. That was the ventilation method of
choice in Lor, despite Indellekt’s advanced magicks and many
merchants being able to afford people to fan them constantly. Cold
air entered through the bottom holes and warm air left through the
uppers. Each was barely large enough for a child to poke a finger
through, to discourage theft.
    Hwosh went over to the room’s right corner,
returning to the rich stew with multiple bowls. He knew that it
wouldn’t be just the two of them eating today. When he was done
spooning food into about five, he heard a murmur behind him,
followed by a shuffling sound. “Accepted, uncle,” he stated in a
ritualistic manner.
    “Who knows?” answered Salim Qamar with a
voice just as creamy as the stew. Hwosh turned to him just in time
for the man to raise a hand and offer, “Me and you both, my child.”
He was well aware of Hwosh’s opinions on religion, and hadn’t
wanted the official response used on a nonbeliever.
    While Hwosh got the table ready for them,
Salim went over to the outside door, tugging at his long frizzy
beard as he went. “Children, I have four today!” he shouted to no
one in particular, and then went back inside, leaving the portal
with its peeled array of bright paints ajar. In less than a minute
four children burst through the door, one almost smacking her head
against its traditional metal studs. Noncommittally, Hwosh sat down
on one of the rugs with his plate while Salim asked each of the
children about his or her day. “Sufian,” he called out finally to a
boy hanging back from the rest. “I heard your father came down with
yellow cold. Is that true, child?” At that Hwosh’s ears perked, for
that was the same disease that had claimed his own parents years
back, setting him on course to meet with Salim.
    “…Yes, dad. He’d been working on northern
plum district, and a yella got him…”Uncle Salim looked at Sufian in
sympathy for an instant or two, but when he knelt down to look him
in the eye, he said, “Boy, I’m not that old yet. I’m still a young
man, call me uncle.” The boy nodded bravely, and the man added, “I
have some leftover medicine for the infection, you can have it if
you want.” The boy’s astonished face made his response clear for
all to see, and he rushed out the house to tell his family of the
good news. Salim grumbled to himself for a second about men not
being sensible around scorpions, and Hwosh could foresee him going
to find another child to feed in a few minutes. The old man hated
letting food go to waste.
    Halfway through the meal, Salim went out to
find someone else. While he was gone, the girl who had almost
knocked herself unconscious looked Hwosh in the eye and flatly
stated, “Uncle Salim doesn’t let the kids eat with strangers.”
    Her glare was about to get accusing when
Hwosh relented, admitting, “Yes, I’m one of his Baneen.” She
grinned at that and all four remaining children suddenly became
more open to the warrior’s presence here. After a few minutes,
however, they realized that Hwosh’s clumsy attempts with them were
more than an act and began to lose interest. This was fine with the
black haired man, as his awkwardness with children made him usually
prefer to be as far away from them as possible. Still, there was a
young one who persisted in wanting to hear about Hwosh’s latest
adventure, a blonde thing with dark eyes. His earnest face was
pointed towards the man, while he told his story, like a Regalian
crossbow. Under such duress, Hwosh was barely able to stammer
through the admittedly slightly exciting tale of serpents and
summer heat and Worg ambushes, but it seemed satisfactory and the
little boy nestled unwanted into his lap for a nap just before
Salim came back, dragging a rag wearing mess of a child by the
ear.
    “This one,” exclaimed he, “thought her clever
fingers could steal from me!” Hwosh could tell that the man’s mirth
was barely containable. This had less to