“Captain, are you-?”
“Fine,” he said, eyes still closed. “I am fine.”
“Is it-?”
“Of course it is. Whatever else could it possibly be? The dreaded plague?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed off the wall, took a hesitant step, shook his head once, and then kept walking.
A short time later we stopped in front of a nondescript timber building, the only one besides the manor house that was two stories. Unlike in a large city, every inhabitant in this small village had surely known what each and every building was, and any visitors from the main road would have had little chance of getting lost, so there was almost no signage. This building was the lone exception-it had a faded, warped sign hanging from one iron loop that had an image impossible to misinterpret: a flagon of ale.
Even though there were no wenches, pretty or ugly, no ale, fine or muddy, and no other attraction, overt or covert, the Syldoon seemed to have difficulty resisting the allure of a tavern or inn. But as I stopped at the door, it struck me that it might not just have been familiarity or affinity-the beds here had been home to countless people. The beds in the homes up in the village had only belonged to the dead or the heartbroken who’d left them behind. It was probably easier to bunk down in a place like this.
Of course, when you stopped to consider how many people had stayed a night here on the way to Alespell and carried the plague with them, it didn’t seem like such a safe place. But it was where we were staying, so again, there was little to be gained from mediating on it too long. For good or ill, we were in the village and in the inn, so there it was.
The place looked as it must have before the plague ravaged the village, generally undisturbed, trapped in time. While the innkeeper, if he survived, must have taken valuables and whatever he could carry to start over, the tables and chairs were still here, covered in a patina of dust, and several tables still had plates or cups strewn across them. There was a rag here, a spoon carved from horn there, a black iron poker hanging in front of the empty fireplace. Messy, yes, evacuated in some haste, but not looted or vandalized. Simply abandoned, like every other building in the hamlet.
I stood there watching the Syldoon make themselves at home, admiring the way they seemed mostly oblivious to the fact that they had killed so many Hornmen, and were now pushing benches and tables aside to bed down in a dead community. They seemed to focus on the immediate and the known and little else, trusting their captain and his lieutenants to make the decisions regarding anything beyond that. I wondered how they did it.
I saw Vendurro chatting with another soldier I only vaguely recognized, and Skeelana off to the side and watching it all, much like I was, and Mulldoos barking an order at a younger soldier, and tried to decide which direction I would head in or if I would find my own secluded spot. I had to admit, the largest part of me was drawn to approach Skeelana, but I wasn’t sure if that was because she was the most appealing or the least threatening. She was half as physically beautiful as Soffjian and twice as attractive. I felt myself warming to her whenever we spoke, even as she gently chided me.
Hewspear was sitting at a table by himself, away from the other others, back rigid, breathing shallowly, his brow deeply lines as he carved away at a flute with a very small blade.
For some reason, I decided to approach, hoping I wasn’t interrupting. Hewspear looked up at me, and then pointed to a spot on the bench. “Sit, Arki. If you are so inclined.”
Hewspear didn’t seem the kind of man to make his own space awkward by placating others, so I sat and looked closer at the flute. It was a little shorter than his forearm, and he’d made remarkable progress since I’d seen him start whittling several days back. Before, it was rough in shape and form and devoid of anything resembling a flourish, but now it was covered in intricate strands of vines, sharp-edged leaves, and delicate flowers scattered among them. It was quite fine, really, and the level of detail he’d achieved was far greater than I would have expected. I had no carving skills to speak of, so perhaps I was easier to impress than most, but I’d known a student at university who was exceptionally skilled, and Hewspear’s work was easily a match, possibly surpassing it.
He noticed me staring and smiled. “Not expecting a veteran killer to have a light touch, eh, Arki?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “That is, I mean, I don’t consider you a veteran killer.”
He went back to his fine work, still smiling. “You are as ingenuous as they come, young scribe. And if you aren’t yourself convinced of the lies you spin, you can be sure your audience will be equally skeptical.”
I started to respond, caught myself, and then started again, “Obviously you are a soldier. And clearly a seasoned one. No offense,” I hastily added.
“None taken,” he replied, smiling.
“And I know soldiering technically involves killing, but ‘veteran killer’ seems to imply… someone who commits the acts wantonly. Or with malice. Or enjoys them too much. I don’t see you like that.” I paused, and then asked, “Is that naïve?”
The tiny knife nicked away a thin curl of wood and he blew it off the blade, watched it float, undisturbed by any breeze, turning of its own accord, spinning gently to the floor. “Are not all the Syldoon bloodthirsty killers?”
I looked over at Mulldoos on the other side of the room. He had his arms folded behind his head, leaning his chair back against a post, calm, possibly asleep. And still somehow seeming like coiled danger. “No, I don’t think all. That is, for your cause, I don’t think you’d hesitate to use whatever means were necessary. But it seems more…”
I struggled to find the right word or phrase.
“Yes?” Hewspear blew another tiny shaving away, following its twirling path to the floor.
“Pragmatic, maybe?”
He looked up. “I wouldn’t argue that point. And while I wouldn’t presume to tell you what context means to you, or argue the semantics of the thing, all I’ll say is, I have killed men. Less than some, but more than many. On account of my advanced years and crafty nature.” He winked at me, but the good humor seemed to drain away as quickly as it appeared. “But a man who kills is a killer, no matter the cause or circumstance, regardless of whether it is a pitched battle among troops who are aware of the risks, or after too many ales in a tavern. So, a veteran killer is a veteran killer, no matter how you dress it up or embroider it.”
Hewspear held the flute up, blew down its length and dusted it off with his dark hand, before examining it closely by the light of a nearby lantern. While it wasn’t perfectly sanded or polished as yet, and he hadn’t finished his carving, the craftsmanship was exemplary. “Let me assure you, they were not all righteous kills that allow me to sleep like a babe.”
I was struck by the juxtaposition of his words with the wooden art he had worked so nicely in his hands. They seemed completely incongruous, and yet, somehow fitting. So very… Syldoonian.
“That is a beautiful flute.”
“Many thanks. It will probably sound like a strangled bird-I’m a far better woodworker than musician-but it is quite nice to look at, I will grant you that.”
“Who is it for?”
Hewspear’s face clouded over, but only for a moment. “For my grandson. Luhosiba.”
I waited, but that seemed the sum total of the answer. “I’m sure he’ll love it. It is a fine gift.”
Hewspear turned the flute over in his hands, still inspecting. “It will be, once it is finished and stained and lacquered. Assuming it plays. But I’m not sure I’ll have the chance to give it to him.”