The Thief's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Page B

remember you were still fouling your diapers and playing in the mud.” 
    “You should pay better attention,” said Jager.
    He took a moment to catch his breath, admiring the view. In all directions he saw cleared fields alternating with patches of forest and pasture. The village of Caudea filled the shallow valley below the domus, smoke rising from its chimneys. Beyond, far to the north, Jager saw the vast blue-gray mass of the Lake of Mourning itself. The Northerland touched the lake’s northern shore, as did the orcish kingdom of Mhorluusk and the vast uncharted reaches of the Qazaluuskan Forest.
    Suddenly he wanted to see those places so badly it felt like a thirst.
    “Do you ever think about leaving?” he heard himself say. 
    “What?” said Dagma with a frown. “To do what?” 
    Jager shrugged, uncomfortable. “To see the realm, I suppose. The great cities and the High King’s court. Do you ever want to see them?”
    “No,” said Dagma. “It is a dangerous world out there. The dark elves and the pagan orcs would make us slaves again, and the urdmordar and the kobolds would just eat us. Sir Alan protects us. And why would we want to leave? We have everything we need in the domus and the village.” 
    “I suppose you are right,” said Jager. And yet…
    “Oh, you’ve got that look again, all those silly ideas from those silly books,” said Dagma, tugging a loose thread from the sleeve of her dress. “When we race again and I thump you soundly, that will give you something proper to worry about it.”
    “Oh, will it?” said Jager. “Then let’s make it interesting! We’re on the western side of the house. I’ll run to the northern face of the domus, and you’ll run to the southern face. Whoever climbs down and makes it to the fountain in the atrium first wins.”
    “You’re on!” said Dagma, and she started running toward the southern edge of the roof, keeping her balance perfectly. Jager shouted and ran for the northern edge, rolling over the lip and getting a grip on the handholds. The handholds would take him past Sir Alan’s quarters and then to the kitchen. From the kitchen, he could cut through into the atrium and reach the fountain long before Dagma ever…
    A low, grunting moan came from the window to Sir Alan’s rooms.
    Jager froze in alarm. It sounded like someone was in pain. Sir Alan was old and not in the best of health. What if he had fallen and injured himself? Or if he had been overcome by some sickness? He might need help.
    The race forgotten, Jager moved to the windows and pulled open the shutters. Within he saw Sir Alan’s bedroom, dominated by the massive bed. Sir Alan lay facedown and nude upon it, his weight supported on his arms as he grunted and heaved. Beneath him sprawled a naked human woman, her hair pooling beneath her head, her eyes closed as she moaned. She was the unwed oldest daughter of the miller in the village, and sometimes Jager saw her when he went with Hilder to buy flour for the domus. 
    The sight was so bizarre that Jager could not look away.
    Then the miller’s daughter turned her head and saw him. Her heavy-lidded eyes popped wide, and she let out a shriek and tried to scramble away, but Sir Alan’s bulk held her fast. The old knight scowled, his face red and sweaty behind his bristling mustache, and turned his head.
    He glared at Jager.
    “Hilder!” he roared, pounding the bed with a meaty fist. “Get in here!”
     
    ###
     
    “But they are not married!” said Jager.
    He sat in his father’s room, the chamber dominated by a huge desk where Hilder kept the household accounts. A pair of stools sat before the desk, and Jager occupied one. Hilder stood next to the other, his expression pained. He looked angry, and Jager felt guilty over that.
    Yet his father also looked…ashamed? But that made no sense. Hilder had done nothing wrong. 
    “Yes, I am aware of that,” said Hilder.
    “Are they getting married, then?” said Jager, stunned.