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.
He evaluated the noisy room with one long, sweeping stare, cataloging the exits, the layout of the tables, and the array of potential weaponry that littered the serving table and the kitchen behind.
“You alright, Lad? You look like --”
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and was slapped away before Lad could even think of his reaction to the unexpected physical contact. He was in a fighting stance before Flindle’s yelp of astonishment told him that he had overreacted. By that time, the rumble of conversation had stilled, and the eyes of every man at the nearest table were on him.
“Ayee! Damn it, Lad!” Flindle gripped his wrist in pained shock, his eyes staring in wonder at the diminutive boy. “Sorry I startled ya! Holy Horatio, you’re quick!”
“I did not intend to hurt you, Flindle” Lad said, relaxing his stance. “I was not aware that you were going to touch me, and reacted without thinking.”
“Oh, you didn’t hurt me none!” Flindle said with a smile, raising his injured hand and flexing his tingling fingers easily. “Just surprised me is all, ain’t it?” He stepped up to Lad and slowly placed his hand once again on the boy’s shoulder, turning him toward the table of staring lumberjacks.
“This here’s Lad,” he told them all, patting the boy’s shoulder carefully. “He’s workin’ for me, and doin’ a fine job, he is. He’s been on the road for a while, and he’s a bit jumpy is all. Ain’t it, Lad?”
“Yes,” Lad responded, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the men as well as Flindle’s hand on his shoulder. He had never in his life been touched in a capacity other than combat by anyone other than the Master. He was grateful when the smith’s hand finally lifted and swept in an arc, indicating the table of staring men.
“These louts are Jacks, Lad. And if any of ’em gives you trouble, you just tell me!”
This
“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.
He evaluated the noisy room with one long, sweeping stare, cataloging the exits, the layout of the tables, and the array of potential weaponry that littered the serving table and the kitchen behind.
“You alright, Lad? You look like --”
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and was slapped away before Lad could even think of his reaction to the unexpected physical contact. He was in a fighting stance before Flindle’s yelp of astonishment told him that he had overreacted. By that time, the rumble of conversation had stilled, and the eyes of every man at the nearest table were on him.
“Ayee! Damn it, Lad!” Flindle gripped his wrist in pained shock, his eyes staring in wonder at the diminutive boy. “Sorry I startled ya! Holy Horatio, you’re quick!”
“I did not intend to hurt you, Flindle” Lad said, relaxing his stance. “I was not aware that you were going to touch me, and reacted without thinking.”
“Oh, you didn’t hurt me none!” Flindle said with a smile, raising his injured hand and flexing his tingling fingers easily. “Just surprised me is all, ain’t it?” He stepped up to Lad and slowly placed his hand once again on the boy’s shoulder, turning him toward the table of staring lumberjacks.
“This here’s Lad,” he told them all, patting the boy’s shoulder carefully. “He’s workin’ for me, and doin’ a fine job, he is. He’s been on the road for a while, and he’s a bit jumpy is all. Ain’t it, Lad?”
“Yes,” Lad responded, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the men as well as Flindle’s hand on his shoulder. He had never in his life been touched in a capacity other than combat by anyone other than the Master. He was grateful when the smith’s hand finally lifted and swept in an arc, indicating the table of staring men.
“These louts are Jacks, Lad. And if any of ’em gives you trouble, you just tell me!”
This
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