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THE LIGHTNING TREE

by Patrick Rothfuss


Morning: The Narrow Road

Bast almost made it out the back door of
the Waystone Inn.
He actually had made it outside, both
feet were over the threshold and the door
was almost entirely eased shut behind
him before he heard his master’s voice.
Bast paused, hand on the latch. He
frowned at the door, hardly a handspan
from being closed. He hadn’t made any
noise. He knew it. He was familiar with
all the silent pieces of the inn, which
floorboards sighed beneath a foot, which
windows stuck...
The back door’s hinges creaked
sometimes, depending on their mood, but
that was easy to work around. Bast
shifted his grip on the latch, lifted up so
that the door’s weight didn’t hang so
heavy, then eased it slowly closed. No
creak. The swinging door was softer than
a sigh.
Bast stood upright and grinned. His face
was sweet and sly and wild. He looked
like a naughty child who had managed to
steal the moon and eat it. His smile was
like the last sliver of remaining moon,
sharp and white and dangerous.
“Bast!” The call came again, louder this
time. Nothing so crass as a shout, his
master would never stoop to bellowing.
But when he wanted to be heard, his
baritone would not be stopped by
anything so insubstantial as an oaken
door. His voice carried like a horn, and
Bast felt his name tug at him like a hand
around his heart.
Bast sighed, then opened the door
lightly and strode back inside. He was
dark, and tall, and lovely. When he
walked he looked like he was dancing.
“Yes, Reshi?” he called.
After a moment the innkeeper stepped
into the kitchen; he wore a clean white
apron and his hair was red. Other than
that, he was painfully unremarkable. His
face held the doughy placidness of bored
innkeepers everywhere. Despite the early
hour, he looked tired.
He handed Bast a leather book. “You
almost forgot this,” he said without a hint
of sarcasm.
Bast took the book and made a show of
looking surprised. “Oh! Thank you,
Reshi!”
The innkeeper shrugged and his mouth
made the shape of a smile. “No bother,
Bast. While you’re out on your errands,
would you mind picking up some eggs?”
Bast nodded, tucking the book under his
arm. “Anything else?” he asked dutifully.
“Maybe some carrots too. I’m thinking
we’ll do stew tonight. It’s Felling, so
we’ll need to be ready for a crowd.” His
mouth turned up slightly at one corner as
he said this.
The innkeeper started to turn away, then
stopped. “Oh. The Williams boy stopped
by last night, looking for you. Didn’t
leave any sort of message.” He raised an
eyebrow at Bast. The look said more than
it said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what he
wants,” Bast said.
The innkeeper made a noncommittal
noise and turned back toward the
common room.
Before he’d taken three steps Bast was
already out the door and running through
the early-morning sunlight.
By the time Bast arrived, there were
already two children waiting. They
played on the huge greystone that lay
half-fallen at the bottom of the hill,
climbing up the tilting side of it, then
jumping down into the tall grass.
Knowing they were watching, Bast took
his time climbing the tiny hill. At the top
stood what the children called the
lightning tree, though these days it was
little more than a branchless trunk barely
taller than a man. All the bark had long
since fallen away, and the sun had
bleached the wood as white as bone. All
except the very top, where even after all
these years the wood was charred a
jagged black.
Bast touched the trunk with his
fingertips and made a slow circuit of the
tree. He went deasil, the same direction as
the turning sun. The proper way for
making. Then he turned and switched
hands, making three slow circles
widdershins. That turning was against the
world. It was the way of breaking. Back
and forth he went, as if the tree were a
bobbin and he was winding and
unwinding.
Finally he sat with his back against the
tree and set the book on a nearby stone.
The sun shone on the gold gilt letters,
Celum Tinture. Then he amused himself
by tossing stones into the nearby stream
that cut into the low slope of the hill
opposite the greystone.
After a minute, a round little blond boy
trudged up the hill. He was the baker’s
youngest son, Brann. He smelled of sweat
and fresh bread and... something else.
Something out of place.
The boy’s slow approach had an air of
ritual about it. He crested the small hill
and stood there for a moment quietly, the
only noise coming from the other two
children playing below.
Finally Bast turned to look the boy over.
He was no more than eight or nine, well
dressed, and plumper than most of the
other town’s children. He carried a wad
of white cloth in his hand.
The boy swallowed nervously. “I need a
lie.”
Bast nodded. “What sort of lie?”
The boy gingerly opened his hand,
revealing the wad of cloth to be a
makeshift bandage, spattered with bright
red. It stuck to his hand slightly. Bast
nodded; that was what he’d smelled
before.
“I was playing with my mum’s knives,”
Brann said.
Bast examined the cut. It ran shallow
along the meat near the thumb. Nothing
serious. “Hurt much?”
“Nothing like the birching I’ll get if she
finds out I was messing with her knives.”
Bast nodded sympathetically. “You
clean the knife and put it back?” Brann
nodded.
Bast tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You
thought you saw a big black rat. It
scared you. You threw a knife at it and
cut yourself. Yesterday one of the other
children told you a story about rats
chewing off soldier’s ears and toes
while they slept. It gave you
nightmares.”
Brann gave a shudder. “Who told me
the story?”
Bast shrugged. “Pick someone you
don’t like.”
The boy grinned viciously.
Bast began to tick off things on his
fingers. “Get some blood on the knife
before you throw it.” He pointed at the
cloth the boy had wrapped his hand in.
“Get rid of that, too. The blood is dry,
obviously old. Can you work up a good
cry?”
The boy shook his head, seeming a little
embarrassed by the fact.
“Put some salt in your eyes. Get all
snotty and teary before you run to them.
Howl and blubber. Then when they’re
asking you about your hand, tell your
mum you’re sorry if you broke her knife.”
Brann listened, nodding slowly at first,
then faster. He smiled. “That’s good.” He
looked around nervously. “What do I owe
you?”
“Any secrets?” Bast asked.
The baker’s boy thought for a minute.
“Old Lant’s tupping the Widow Creel...”
he said hopefully.
Bast waved his hand. “For years.
Everyone knows.” Bast rubbed his nose,
then said, “Can you bring me two sweet
buns later today?”
Brann nodded.
“That’s a good start,” Bast said. “What
have you got in your pockets?”
The boy dug around and held up both
his hands. He had two iron shims, a flat
greenish stone, a bird skull, a tangle of
string, and a bit of chalk.
Bast claimed the string. Then, careful
not to touch the shims, he took the
greenish stone between two fingers and
arched an eyebrow at the boy.
After a moment’s hesitation, the boy
nodded.
Bast put the stone in his pocket.
“What if I get a birching anyway?”
Brann asked.
Bast shrugged. “That’s your business.
You wanted a lie. I gave you a good one.
If you want me to get you out of trouble,
that’s something else entirely.”
The baker’s boy looked disappointed,
but he nodded and headed down the hill.
Next up the hill was a slightly older
boy in tattered homespun. One of the
Alard boys, Kale. He had a split lip and
a crust of blood around one nostril. He
was as furious as only a boy of ten can
be. His expression was a thunderstorm.
“I caught my brother kissing Gretta
behind the old mill!” he said as soon as
he crested the hill, not waiting for Bast to
ask. “He knew I was sweet on her!”
Bast spread his hands helplessly,
shrugging.
“Revenge,” the boy spat.
“Public revenge?” Bast asked. “Or
secret revenge?”
The boy touched his split lip with his
tongue. “Secret revenge,” he said in a low
voice.
“How much revenge?” Bast asked.
The boy thought for a bit, then held up
his hands about two feet apart. “This
much.”
“Hmmmm,” Bast said. “How much on
a scale from mouse to bull?
The boy rubbed his nose for a while.
“About a cat’s worth,” he said. “Maybe a
dog’s worth. Not like Crazy Martin’s dog
though. Like the Bentons’ dogs.”
Bast nodded and tilted his head back in
a thoughtful way. “Okay,” he said. “Piss
in his shoes.”
The boy looked skeptical. “That don’t
sound like a whole dog’s worth of
revenge.”
Bast shook his head. “You piss in a cup
and hide it. Let it sit for a day or two.
Then one night when he’s put his shoes
by the fire, pour the piss on his shoes.
Don’t make a puddle, just get them damp.
In the morning they’ll be dry and
probably won’t even smell too much...”
“What’s the point?” the boy interrupted
angrily. “That’s not a flea’s worth of
revenge!”
Bast held up a pacifying hand. “When
his feet get sweaty, he’ll start to smell like
piss.” Bast said calmly. “If he steps in a
puddle, he’ll smell like piss. When he
walks in the snow, he’ll smell like piss. It
will be hard for him to figure out exactly
where it’s coming from, but everyone
will know your brother is the one that
reeks.” Bast grinned at the boy. “I’m
guessing your Gretta isn’t going to want
to kiss the boy who can’t stop pissing
himself.”
Raw admiration spread across the
young boy’s face like sunrise in the
mountains. “That’s the most bastardly
thing I’ve ever heard,” he said,
awestruck.
Bast tried to look modest and failed.
“Have you got anything for me?”
“I found a wild beehive,” the boy said.
“That will do for a start,” Bast said.
“Where?”
“It’s off past the Orissons’. Past
Littlecreek.” The boy squatted and drew
a map in the dirt. “You see?”
Bast nodded. “Anything else?”
“Well... I know where Crazy Martin
keeps his still...”
Bast raised his eyebrows at that.
“Really?”
The boy drew another map and gave
some directions. Then he stood and
dusted off his knees. “We square?”
Bast scuffed his foot in the dirt,
destroying the map. “We’re square.”
The boy dusted off his knees, “I’ve got
a message too. Rike wants to see you.”
Bast shook his head firmly. “He knows
the rules. Tell him no.”
“I already told him,” the boy said with a
comically exaggerated shrug. “But I’ll
tell him again if I see him...”
There were no more children waiting
after Kale, so Bast tucked the leather
book under his arm and went on a long,
rambling stroll. He found some wild
raspberries and ate them. He took a drink
from the Ostlar’s well.
Eventually Bast climbed to the top of a
nearby bluff where he gave a great stretch
before tucking the leather-bound copy of
Celum Tinture into a spreading hawthorn
tree where a wide branch made a cozy
nook against the trunk.
He looked up at the sky then, clear and
bright. No clouds. Not much wind. Warm
but not hot. Hadn’t rained for a solid
span. It wasn’t a market day. Hours
before noon on Felling...
Bast’s brow furrowed a bit, as if
performing some complex calculation.
Then he nodded to himself.
Then Bast headed back down the bluff,
past Old Lant’s place and around the
brambles that bordered the Alard farm.
When he came to Littlecreek he cut some
reeds and idly whittled at them with a
small bright knife. Then brought the
string out of his pocket and bound them
together, fashioning a tidy set of
shepherd’s pipes.
He blew across the top of them and
cocked his head to listen to their sweet
discord. His bright knife trimmed some
more, and he blew again. This time the
tune was closer, which made the discord
far more grating.
Bast’s knife flicked again, once, twice,
thrice. Then he put it away and brought
the pipes closer to his face. He breathed
in through his nose, smelling the wet
green of them. Then he licked the
freshcut tops of the reeds, the flicker of
his tongue a sudden, startling red.
Then he drew a breath and blew against
the pipes. This time the sound was bright
as moonlight, lively as a leaping fish,
sweet as stolen fruit. Smiling, Bast
headed off into the Bentons’ back hills,
and it wasn’t long before he heard the
low, mindless bleat of distant sheep.
A minute later, Bast came over the crest
of a hill and saw two dozen fat, daft sheep
cropping grass in the green valley below.
It was shadowy here, and secluded. The
lack of recent rain meant the grazing was
better here. The steep sides of the valley
meant the sheep weren’t prone to straying
and didn’t need much looking after.
A young woman sat in the shade of a
spreading elm that overlooked the valley.
She had taken off her shoes and bonnet.
Her long, thick hair was the color of ripe
wheat.
Bast began playing then. A dangerous
tune. It was sweet and bright and slow
and sly.
The shepherdess perked up at the sound
of it, or so it seemed at first. She lifted her
head, excited... but no. She didn’t look
in his direction at all. She was merely
climbing to her feet to have a stretch,
rising high up onto her toes, hands
twining over her head.
Still apparently unaware she was being
serenaded, the young woman picked up
a nearby blanket, spread it beneath the
tree, and sat back down. It was a little
odd, as she’d been sitting there before
without the blanket. Perhaps she’d just
grown chilly.
Bast continued to play as he walked
down the slope of the valley toward her.
He did not hurry, and the music he made
was sweet and playful and languorous all
at once.
The shepherdess showed no sign of
noticing the music or Bast himself. In fact
she looked away from him, toward the far
end of the little valley, as if curious what
the sheep might be doing there. When she
turned her head, it exposed the lovely line
of her neck from her perfect shell-like
ear, down to the gentle swell of breast
that showed above her bodice.
Eyes intent on the young woman, Bast
stepped on a loose stone and stumbled
awkwardly down the hill. He blew one
hard, squawking note, then dropped a few
more from his song as he threw out one
arm wildly to catch his balance.
The shepherdess laughed then, but she
was pointedly looking at the other end of
the valley. Perhaps the sheep had done
something humorous. Yes. That was
surely it. They could be funny animals at
times.
Even so, one can only look at sheep for
so long. She sighed and relaxed, leaning
back against the sloping trunk of the tree.
The motion accidentally pulled the hem
of her skirt up slightly past her knee. Her
calves were round and tan and covered
with the lightest down of honey-colored
hair.
Bast continued down the hill. His steps
delicate and graceful. He looked like a
stalking cat. He looked like he were
dancing.
Apparently satisfied the sheep were
safe, the shepherdess sighed again, closed
her eyes, and lay her head against the
trunk of the tree. Her face tilted up to
catch the sun. She seemed about to sleep,
but for all her sighing her breath seemed
to be coming rather quickly. And when
she shifted restlessly to make herself
more comfortable, one hand fell in such a
way that it accidentally drew the hem of
her dress even farther up until it showed
a pale expanse of thigh.
It is hard to grin while playing
shepherd’s pipes. Somehow Bast
managed it.
The sun was climbing the sky when Bast
returned to the lightning tree, pleasantly
sweaty and in a state of mild dishevel.
There were no children waiting near the
greystones this time, which suited him
perfectly.
He did a quick circle of the tree again
when he reached the top of the hill, once
in each direction to ensure his small
workings were still in place. Then he
slumped down and at the foot of the tree
and leaned against the trunk. Less than a
minute later his eyes were closed and he
was snoring slightly.
After the better part of an hour, the nearsilent
sound of footsteps roused him. He
gave a great stretch and spied a thin boy
with freckles and clothes that were
slightly past the point where they might
merely be called well-worn. “Kostrel!”
Bast said happily. “How’s the road to
Tinuë?”
“Seems sunny enough to me today,” the
boy said as he came to the top of the hill.
“And I found a lovely secret by the
roadside. Something I thought you might
be interested in.”
“Ah,” Bast said. “Come have a seat
then. What sort of secret did you stumble
on?”
Kostrel sat cross-legged on the grass
nearby. “I know where Emberlee takes
her bath.”
Bast raised a half-interested eyebrow.
“Is that so?”
Kostrel grinned. “You faker. Don’t
pretend you don’t care.”
“Of course I care,” Bast said. “She’s the
sixth prettiest girl in town, after all.”
“Sixth?” the boy said, indignant. “She’s
the second prettiest and you know it.”
“Perhaps fourth,” Bast conceded.
“After Ania.”
“Ania’s legs are skinny as a chicken’s,”
Kostrel observed calmly.
Bast smiled at the boy. “To each his
own. But yes. I am interested. What
would you like in trade? An answer, a
favor, a secret?”
“I want a favor and information,” the
boy said with a small smirk. His dark
eyes were sharp in his lean face. “I want
good answers to three questions. And it’s
worth it. Because Emberlee is the third
prettiest girl in town.”
Bast opened his mouth as if he were
going to protest, then shrugged and
smiled. “No favor. But I’ll give you three
answers on a subject named beforehand,”
he countered. “Any subject except that of
my employer, whose trust in me I cannot
in good conscience betray.”
Kostrel nodded in agreement. “Three
full answers,” he said. “With no
equivocating or bullshittery.”
Bast nodded. “So long as the questions
are focused and specific. No ‘tell me
everything you know about’ nonsense.”
“That wouldn’t be a question,” Kostrel
pointed out.
“Exactly,” Bast said. “And you agree
not to tell anyone else where Emberlee is
having her bullshittery Kostrel scowled at
that, and Bast laughed. “You little cocker,
you would have sold it twenty
times, wouldn’t you?”
The boy shrugged easily, not denying it,
and not embarrassed either. “It’s valuable
information.”
Bast chuckled. “Three full, earnest
answers on a single subject with the
understanding that I’m the only one
you’ve told.”
“You are,” the boy said sullenly. “I
came here first.”
“And with the understanding that you
won’t tell Emberlee anyone knows.”
Kostrel looked so offended at this that
Bast didn’t bother waiting for him to
agree. “And with the understanding that
you won’t show up yourself.”
The dark-eyed boy spat a couple words
that surprised Bast more than his earlier
use of “equivocating.”
“Fine,” Kostrel growled. “But if you
don’t know the answer to my question, I
get to ask another.”
Bast thought about it for a moment, then
nodded.
“And if I pick a subject you don’t know
much about, I get to chose another.”
Another nod. “That’s fair.”
“And you loan me another book,” the
boy said, his dark eyes glaring. “And a
copper penny. And you have to describe
her breasts to me.”
Bast threw back his head and laughed.
“Done.”
They shook on the deal, the boy’s thin
hand was delicate as a bird’s wing.
Bast leaned against the lightning tree,
yawning and rubbing the back of his
neck. “So. What’s your subject?”
Kostrel’s grim look lifted a little then,
and he grinned excitedly. “I want to
know about the Fae.”
It says a great deal that Bast finished his
great yawp of a yawn as if nothing were
the matter. It is quite hard to yawn and
stretch when your belly feels like you’ve
swallowed a lump of bitter iron and your
mouth has gone suddenly dry.
But Bast was something of a
professional dissembler, so he yawned
and stretched, and even went so far as to
scratch himself under one arm lazily.
“Well?” the boy asked impatiently. “Do
you know enough about them?”
“A fair amount,” Bast said, doing a
much better job of looking modest this
time. “More than most folk, I imagine.”
Kostrel leaned forward, his thin face
intent. “I thought you might. You aren’t
from around here. You know things.
You’ve seen what’s really out there in the
world.”
“Some of it,” Bast admitted. He looked
up at the sun. “Ask your questions then. I
have to be somewhere come noon.”
The boy nodded seriously, then looked
down at the grass in front of himself
for a moment, thinking. “What are they
like?”
Bast blinked for a moment, taken aback.
Then he laughed helplessly and threw up
his hands. “Merciful Tehlu. Do you have
any idea how crazy that question is?
They’re not like anything. They’re like
themselves.”
Kostrel looked indignant. “Don’t you
try to shim me!” he said, leveling a finger
at Bast. “I said no bullshittery!”
“I’m not. Honest I’m not.” Bast raised
his hands defensively. “It’s just an
impossible question to answer is all.
What would you say if I asked you what
people were like? How could you answer
that? There are so many kinds of
people, and they’re all different.”
“So it’s a big question,” Kostrel said.
“Give me a big answer.”
“It’s not just big,” Bast said. “It would
fill a book.”
The boy gave a profoundly
unsympathetic shrug.
Bast scowled. “It could be argued that
your question is neither focused nor
specific.”
Kostrel raised an eyebrow. “So we’re
arguing now? I thought we were trading
information? Fully and freely. If you
asked me where Emberlee was going for
her bath, and I said, ‘in a stream’ you’d
feel like I’d measured you some pretty
short corn, wouldn’t you?”
Bast sighed. “Fair enough. But if I told
you every rumor and snippet I’d ever
heard, this would take a span of days.
Most of it would be useless, and some
probably wouldn’t even be true because
it’s just from stories that I’ve heard.”
Kostrel frowned, but before he could
protest, Bast held up a hand. “Here’s
what I’ll do. Despite the unfocused nature
of your question, I’ll give you an answer
that covers the rough shape of things and
...” Bast hesitated. “... one
true secret on the subject. Okay?”
“Two secrets.” Kostrel said, his dark
eyes glittering with excitement.
“Fair enough.” Bast took a deep breath.
“When you say fae, you’re talking about
anything that lives in the Fae. That
includes a lot of things that are... just
creatures. Like animals. Here you have
dogs and squirrels and bears. In the Fae,
they have raum and dennerlings and...”
“And trow?”
Bast nodded. “And trow. They’re real.”
“And dragons?”
Bast shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever
heard. Not anymore...”
Kostrel looked disappointed. “What
about the fair folk? Like faerie tinkers
and such?” The boy narrowed his eyes.
“Mind you, this isn’t a new question,
merely an attempt to focus your ongoing
answer.”
Bast laughed helplessly. “Lord and
lady. Ongoing? Was your mother scared
by an azzie when she was pregnant?
Where do you get that kind of talk?
“I stay awake in church.” Kostrel
shrugged. “And sometimes Abbe Leodin
lets me read his books. What do they look
like?”
“Like regular people,” Bast said.
“Like you and me?” the boy asked.
Bast fought back a smile. “Just like you
or me. You wouldn’t hardly notice if they
passed you on the street. But there are
others. Some of them are... They’re
different. More powerful.”
“Like Varsa never-dead?”
“Some,” Bast conceded. “But some are
powerful in other ways. Like the mayor is
powerful. Or like a moneylender.” Bast’s
expression went sour. “Many of those...
they’re not good to be around. They like
to trick people. Play with them.
Hurt them.”
Some of the excitement bled out of
Kostrel at this. “They sound like
demons.”
Bast hesitated, then nodded a reluctant
agreement. “Some are very much like
demons,” he admitted. “Or so close as it
makes no difference.”
“Are some of them like angels, too?”
the boy asked.
“It’s nice to think that,” Bast said. “I
hope so.”
“Where do they come from?”
Bast cocked his head. “That’s your
second question then?” he asked. “I’m
guessing it must be, as it’s got nothing to
do with what the Fae are like...”
Kostrel grimaced, seeming a little
embarrassed, though Bast couldn’t tell if
he was ashamed he’d gotten carried away
with his questions, or ashamed he’d been
caught trying to get a free answer.
“Sorry,” he said. “Is it true that a faerie
can never lie?”
“Some can’t,” Bast said. “Some don’t
like to. Some are happy to lie but
wouldn’t ever go back on promise or
break their word.” He shrugged. “Others
lie quite well, and do so at every
opportunity.”
Kostrel began to ask something else,
but Bast cleared his throat. “You have
to admit,” he said. “That’s a pretty
good answer. I even gave you a few
free questions, to help with the focus of
things, as it were.”
Kostrel gave a slightly sullen nod.
“Here’s your first secret.” Bast held up
a single finger. “Most of the Fae don’t
come to this world. They don’t like it. It
rubs all rough against them, like wearing
a burlap shirt. But when they do come,
they like some places better than others.
They like wild places. Secret places.
Strange places. There are many types of
fae, many courts and houses. And all of
them are ruled according to their own
desires...”
Bast continued in a tone of soft
conspiracy. “But something that appeals
to all the fae are places with connections
to the raw, true things that shape the
world. Places that are touched with fire
and stone. Places that are close to water
and air. When all four come together...”
Bast paused to see if the boy would
interject something here. But Kostrel’s
face had lost the sharp cunning it had held
before. He looked like a child again,
mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide with
wonder.
“Second secret,” Bast said. “The fae
folk look nearly like we do, but not
exactly. Most have something about them
that makes them different. Their eyes.
Their ears. The color of their hair or skin.
Sometimes they’re taller than normal, or
shorter, or stronger, or more beautiful.”
“Like Felurian”
“Yes, yes,” Bast said testily. “Like
Felurian. But any of the Fae who has
the skill to travel here will have craft
enough to hide those things.” He
leaned back, nodding to himself. “That is
a type of magic all the fair folk share.”
Bast threw the final comment out like a
fisherman casting a lure.
Kostrel closed his mouth and swallowed
hard. He didn’t fight the line. Didn’t even
know that he’d been hooked.
“What sort of magic can they do?”
Bast rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh
come now, that’s another whole book’s
worth of question.”
“Well maybe you should just write a
book then,” Kostrel said flatly. “Then you
can lend it to me and kill two birds with
one stone.”
The comment seemed to catch Bast off
his stride. “Write a book?”
“That’s what people do when they know
every damn thing, isn’t it?” Kostrel said
sarcastically. “They write it down so they
can show off.”
Bast looked thoughtful for a moment,
then shook his head as if to clear it.
“Okay. Here’s the bones of what I know.
They don’t think of it as magic. They’d
never use that term. They’ll talk of art or
craft. They talk of seeming or shaping.”
He looked up at the sun and pursed his
lips. “But if they were being frank, and
they are rarely frank, mind you, they
would tell you almost everything they do
is either glammourie or grammarie.
Glammourie is the art of making
something seem. Grammarie is the craft
of making something be.”
Bast rushed ahead before the boy could
interrupt. “Glammourie is easier. They
can make a thing seem other than it is.
They could make a white shirt seem like
it was blue. Or a torn shirt seem like it
was whole. Most of the folk have at least
a scrap of this art. Enough to hide
themselves from mortal eyes. If their hair
was all of silver-white, their glammourie
could make it look as black as night.”
Kostrel’s face was lost in wonder yet
again. But it was not the gormless, gaping
wonder of before. It was a thoughtful
wonder. A clever wonder, curious and
hungry. It was the sort of wonder that
would steer a boy toward a question that
started with a how.
Bast could see the shape of these things
moving in the boy’s dark eyes. His damn
clever eyes. Too clever by half. Soon
those vague wonderings would start to
crystallize into questions like “How do
they make their glammourie?” or even
worse. “How might a young boy break
it?”
And what then, with a question like that
hanging in the air? Nothing good would
come of it. To break a promise fairly
made and lie outright was retrograde to
his desire. Even worse to do it in this
place. Far easier to tell the truth,
then make sure something happened
to the boy...
But honestly, he liked the boy. He
wasn’t dull, or easy. He wasn’t mean or
low. He pushed back. He was funny and
grim and hungry and more alive than any
three other people in the town all put
together. He was bright as broken glass
and sharp enough to cut himself. And
Bast too, apparently.
Bast rubbed his face. This never used
to happen. He had never been in
conflict with his own desire before he
came here. He hated it. It was so
simply singular before. Want and have.
See and take. Run and chase. Thirst
and slake. And if he were thwarted in
pursuit of his desire... what of it? That
was simply the way of things. The
desire itself was still his, it was still
pure.
It wasn’t like that now. Now his desires
grew complicated. They constantly
conflicted with each other. He felt
endlessly turned against himself. Nothing
was simple anymore, he was pulled so
many ways...
“Bast?” Kostrel said, his head cocked to
the side, concern plain on his face. “Are
you okay?” he asked. “What’s the
matter?”
Bast smiled an honest smile. He was a
curious boy. Of course. That was the
way. That was the narrow road
between desires. “I was just thinking.
Grammarie is much harder to explain. I
can’t say I understand it all that well
myself.”
“Just do your best,” Kostrel said kindly.
“Whatever you tell me will be more than
I know.”
No, he couldn’t kill this boy. That
would be too hard a thing.
“Grammarie is changing a thing,” Bast
said, making an inarticulate gesture.
“Making it into something different than
what it is.”
“Like turning lead into gold?” Kostrel
asked. “Is that how they make faerie
gold?”
Bast made a point of smiling at the
question. “Good guess, but that’s
glammourie. It’s easy, but it doesn’t last.
That’s why people who take faerie gold
end up with pockets full of stones or
acorns in the morning.”
“Could they turn gravel into gold?”
Kostrel asked. “If they really wanted to?”
“It’s not that sort of change,” Bast said,
though he still smiled and nodded at the
question. “That’s too big. Grammarie is
about... shifting. It’s about making
something into more of what it already
is.”
Kostrel’s face twisted with confusion.
Bast took a deep breath and let it out
through his nose. “Let me try something
else. What have you got in your
pockets?”
Kostrel rummaged about and held out
his hands. There was a brass button, a
scrap of paper, a stub of pencil, a small
folding knife... and a stone with a hole
in it. Of course.
Bast slowly passed his hand over the
collection of oddments, eventually
stopping above the knife. It wasn’t
particularly fine or fancy, just a piece of
smooth wood the size of a finger with a
groove where a short, hinged blade was
tucked away.
Bast picked it up delicately between two
fingers and set it down on the ground
between them. “What’s this?”
Kostrel stuffed the rest of his
belongings into his pocket. “It’s my
knife.”
“That’s it?” Bast asked.
The boy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What else could it be?”
Bast brought out his own knife. It was a
little larger, and instead of wood, it was
carved from a piece of antler, polished
and beautiful. Bast opened it, and the
bright blade shone in the sun.
He laid his knife next to the boy’s.
“Would you trade your knife for mine?”
Kostrel eyed the knife jealously. But
even so, there wasn’t a hint of hesitation
before he shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s mine,” the boy said, his
face clouding over.
“Mine’s better,” Bast said matteroffactly.
Kostrel reached out and picked up his
knife, closing his hand around it
possessively. His face was sullen as a
storm. “My da gave me this,” he said.
“Before he took the king’s coin and went
to be a soldier and save us from the
rebels.” He looked up at Bast, as if daring
him to say a single word contrary to that.
Bast didn’t look away from him, just
nodded seriously. “So it’s more than just
a knife.” he said. “It’s special to you.”
Still clutching the knife, Kostrel
nodded, blinking rapidly. “For you, it’s
the best knife.” Another nod.
“It’s more important than other knives.
And that’s not just a seeming,” Bast said.
“It’s something the knife is.”
There was a flicker of understanding in
Kostrel’s eyes.
Bast nodded. “That’s grammarie. Now
imagine if someone could take a knife
and make it be more of what a knife is.
Make it into the best knife. Not just for
them, but for anyone.” Bast picked up his
own knife and closed it. “If they were
really skilled, they could do it with
something other than a knife. They could
make a fire that was more of what a fire
is. Hungrier. Hotter. Someone truly
powerful could do even more. They could
take a shadow...” He trailed off gently,
leaving an open space in the empty air.
Kostrel drew a breath and leapt to fill it
with a question. “Like Felurian!’ he said.
“Is that what she did to make Kvothe’s
shadow cloak?”
Bast nodded seriously, glad for the
question, hating that it had to be that
question. “It seems likely to me. What
does a shadow do? It conceals, it protects.
Kvothe’s cloak of shadows
does the same, but more.”
Kostrel was nodding along in
understanding, and Bast pushed on
quickly, eager to leave this particular
subject behind. “Think of Felurian
herself...”
The boy grinned, he seemed to have no
trouble doing that.
“A woman can be a thing of beauty,”
Bast said slowly. “She can be a focus of
desire. Felurian is that. Like the knife.
The most beautiful. The focus of the most
desire. For everyone...” Bast let his
statement trail off gently yet again.
Kostrel’s eyes were far away, obviously
giving the matter his full deliberation.
Bast gave him time for it, and after a
moment another question bubbled out of
the boy. “Couldn’t it be merely
glammourie?” he asked.
“Ah,” said Bast, smiling. “But what is
the difference between being beautiful
and seeming beautiful?”
“Well...” Kostrel stalled for a moment,
then rallied. “One is real and the other
isn’t.” He sounded certain, but it wasn’t
reflected in his expression. “One would
be fake. You could tell the
difference, couldn’t you?”
Bast let the question sail by. It was
close, but not quite. “What’s the
difference between a shirt that looks
white and a shirt that is white?” he
countered.
“A woman isn’t the same as a shirt,”
Kostrel said with vast disdain. “You’d
know if you touched her. If she looked all
soft and rosy like Emberlee, but her hair
felt like a horse’s tail, you’d know it
wasn’t real.”
“Glammourie isn’t just for fooling
eyes,” Bast said. “It’s for everything.
Faerie gold feels heavy. And
a glamoured pig would smell like roses
when you kissed it.”
Kostrel reeled visibly at that. The shift
from Emberlee to a glamoured pig
obviously left him feeling more than
slightly appalled. Bast waited a moment
for him to recover.
“Wouldn’t it be harder to glamour a
pig?” he asked at last.
“You’re clever,” Bast said
encouragingly. “You’re exactly right.
And glamouring a pretty girl to be more
pretty wouldn’t be much work at all. It’s
like putting icing on a cake.”
Kostrel rubbed his cheek thoughtfully.
“Can you use glammourie and grammarie
at the same time?”
Bast was more genuinely impressed this
time. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
Kostrel nodded to himself. “That’s
what Felurian must do,” he said. “Like
cream on icing on cake.”
“I think so,” Bast said. “The one I
met...” He stopped abruptly, his mouth
snapped shut.
“You’ve met one of the Fae?”
Bast grinned like a beartrap. “Yes.”
This time Kostrel felt the hook and line
both. But it was too late. “You bastard!”
“I am,” Bast admitted happily.
“You tricked me into asking that.”
“I did,” Bast said. “It was a question
related to this subject, and I answered it
fully and without equivocation.”
Kostrel got to his feet and stormed off,
only to come back a moment later. “Give
me my penny,” he demanded.
Bast reached into his pocket and pulled
out a copper penny. “Where’s does
Emberlee take her bath?”
Kostrel glowered furiously, then said,
“Out past Oldstone bridge, up toward the
hills about half a mile. There’s a little
hollow with an elm tree.”
“And when?”
“After lunch on the Boggan farm.
After she finishes the washing up and
hangs the laundry.”
Bast tossed him the penny, still grinning
like mad.
“I hope your dick falls off,” the boy said
venomously before stomping back down
the hill.
Bast couldn’t help but laugh. He tried to
do it quietly to spare the boy’s feelings
but didn’t meet with much success.
Kostrel turned at the bottom of the hill,
and shouted, “And you still owe me a
book!”
Bast stopped laughing then
as something jogged loose in his
memory. He panicked for a moment
when he realized Celum Tinture wasn’t
in its usual spot.
Then he remembered leaving the book
in the tree on top of the bluff and relaxed.
The clear sky showed no sign of rain. It
was safe enough. Besides, it was nearly
noon, perhaps a little past. So he turned
and hurried down the hill, not wanting to
be late.
Bast sprinted most of the way to the little
dell, and by the time he arrived he was
sweating like a hard-run horse. His shirt
stuck to him unpleasantly, so as he
walked down the sloping bank to the
water, he pulled it off and used it to mop
the sweat from his face.
A long, flat jut of stone pushed out into
Littlecreek there, forming one side of a
calm pool where the stream turned
back on itself. A stand of willow trees
overhung the water, making it private
and shady. The shoreline was
overgrown with thick bushes, and the
water was smooth and calm and clear.
Bare-chested, Bast walked out onto the
rough jut of stone. Dressed, his face and
hands made him look rather lean, but
shirtless his wide shoulders were
surprising, more what you might expect
to see on a field hand, rather than a
shiftless sort that did little more than
lounge around an empty inn all day.
Once he was out of the shadow of the
willows, Bast knelt to dunk his shirt in the
pool. Then he wrung it over his head,
shivering a bit at the chill of it. He rubbed
his chest and arms briskly, shaking drops
of water from his face.
He set the shirt aside, grabbed the lip of
stone at the edge of the pool, then took a
deep breath and dunked his head. The
motion made the muscles across his back
and shoulders flex. A moment later he
pulled his head out, gasping slightly and
shaking water from his hair.
Bast stood then, slicking back his hair
with both hands. Water streamed down
his chest, making runnels in the dark hair,
trailing down across the flat plane of his
stomach.
He shook himself off a bit, then stepped
over to dark niche made by a jagged shelf
of overhanging rock. He felt around for a
moment before pulling out a knob of
butter-colored soap.
He knelt at the edge of the water again,
dunking his shirt several times, then
scrubbing it with the soap. It took a while,
as he had no washing board, and he
obviously didn’t want to chafe his shirt
against the rough stones. He soaped and
rinsed the shirt several times, wringing it
out with his hands, making the muscles in
his arms and shoulders tense and twine.
He did a thorough job, though by the time
he was finished, he was completely
soaked and spattered with lather.
Bast spread his shirt out on a sunny
stone to dry. He started to undo his pants,
then stopped and tipped his head on one
side, trying to jog loose water from his
ear.
It might be because of the water in his
ear that Bast didn’t hear the excited
twittering coming from the bushes that
grew along the shore. A sound that could,
conceivably, be sparrows chattering
among the branches. A flock of sparrows.
Several flocks, perhaps.
And if Bast didn’t see the bushes
moving either? Or note that in among the
hanging foliage of the willow branches
there were colors normally not found in
trees? Sometimes a pale pink, sometimes
blushing red. Sometimes an illconsidered
yellow or a cornflower blue. And while
it’s true that dresses might come in those
colors... well... so did birds. Finches
and jays. And besides, it was fairly
common knowledge among the young
women of the town that the dark young
man who worked at the inn was woefully
nearsighted.
The sparrows twittered in the bushes as
Bast worked at the drawstring of his pants
again. The knot apparently giving him
some trouble. He fumbled with it for a
while, then grew frustrated and gave a
great, catlike stretch, arms arching over
his head, his body bending like a bow.
Finally he managed to work the knot
loose and shuck free of his pants. He
wore nothing underneath. He tossed them
aside and from the willow came a squawk
of the sort that could have come from a
larger bird. A heron perhaps. Or a crow.
And if a branch shook violently at the
same time, well, perhaps a bird had
leaned too far from its branch and nearly
fell. It certainly stood to reason that some
birds were more clumsy than others. And
besides, at the time Bast was looking the
other way.
Bast dove into the water then, splashing
like a boy and gasping at the cold. After
a few minutes he moved to a shallower
portion of the pool where the water rose
to barely reach his narrow waist.
Beneath the water, a careful observer
might note the young man’s legs looked
somewhat... odd. But it was shady there,
and everyone knows that water bends
light strangely, making things look other
than they are. And besides, birds are not
the most careful of observers, especially
when their attention is focused
elsewhere.
An hour or so later, slightly damp and
smelling of sweet honeysuckle soap, Bast
climbed the bluff where he was fairly
certain that he’d left his master’s book. It
was the third bluff he’d climbed in the
last half hour.
When he reached the top, Bast relaxed
at the sight of a hawthorn tree. Walking
closer, he saw it was the right tree, the
nook right where he remembered. But the
book was gone. A quick circle of the tree
showed that it hadn’t fallen to the ground.
Then the wind stirred and Bast saw
something white. He felt a sudden chill,
fearing it was a page torn free from the
book. Few things angered his master like
a mistreated book.
But no. Reaching up, Bast didn’t feel
paper. It was a smooth stretch of birch
bark. He pulled it down and saw the
letters crudely scratched into the side.

I ned ta tawk ta ewe. Ets
emportant.
Rike

Afternoon: Birds and Bees

With no idea of where he might find
Rike, Bast made his way back to the
lightning tree. He had just settled down in
his usual place when a young girl came
into the clearing.
She didn’t stop at the greystone and
instead trudged straight up the side of the
hill. She was younger than the others, six
or seven. she wore a bright blue dress and
had deep purple ribbons twining through
her carefully curled hair.
She had never come to the lightning tree
before, but Bast had seen her. Even if he
hadn’t, he could have guessed by her fine
clothes and the smell of rosewater that
she was Viette, the mayor’s youngest
daughter.
She climbed the low hill slowly,
carrying something furry in the crook of
her arm. When she reached the top of the
hill she stood, slightly fidgety, but still
waiting.
Bast eyed her quietly for a moment. “Do
you know the rules?” he asked.
She stood, purple ribbons in her hair.
She was obviously slightly scared, but
her lower lip stuck out, defiant. She
nodded.
“What are they?”
The young girl licked her lips and began
to recite in a singsong voice. “No one
taller than the stone.” She pointed to the
fallen greystone at the foot of the hill.
“Come to blacktree, come alone.” She put
her finger to her lips, miming a shushing
noise.
“Tell no—”
“Hold on,” Bast interrupted. “You say
the last two lines while touching the tree.”
The girl blanched a bit at this but
stepped forward and put her hand against
the sun-bleached wood of the long-dead
tree.
The girl cleared her throat again, then
paused, her lips moving silently as she
ran through the beginning of the poem
until she found her place again. “Tell no
adult what’s been said, lest the lightning
strike you dead.”
When she spoke the last word, Viette
gasped and jerked her hand back, as if
something had burned or bitten her
fingers. Her eyes went wide as she looked
down at her fingertips and saw they were
an untouched, healthy pink.
Bast hid a smile behind his hand.
“Very well then,” Bast said. “You know
the rules. I keep your secrets and you
keep mine. I can answer questions or help
you solve a problem.” He sat down again,
his back against the tree, bringing him to
eye level with the girl. “What do you
want?”
She held out the tiny puff of white fur
she carried in the crook of her arm. It
mewled. “Is this a magic kitten?” she
asked.
Bast took the kitten in his hand and
looked it over. It was a sleepy thing,
almost entirely white. One eye was blue,
the other green. “It is, actually,” he said,
slightly surprised. “At least a little.” He
handed it back.
She nodded seriously. “I want to call her
Princess Icing Bun.”
Bast simply stared at her, nonplussed.
“Okay.”
The girl scowled at him. “I don’t know
if she’s a girl or a boy!”
“Oh,” Bast said. He held out his hand,
took the kitten, then petted it and handed
it back. “It’s a girl.”
The mayor’s daughter narrowed her
eyes at him. “Are you fibbing?”
Bast blinked at the girl, then laughed.
“Why would you believe me the first time
and not the second?” he asked.
“I could tell she was a magic kitten,”
Viette said, rolling her eyes in
exasperation. “I just wanted to make sure.
But she’s not wearing a dress. She
doesn’t have any ribbons or bows. How
can you tell if she’s a girl?”
Bast opened his mouth. Then closed it
again. This was not some farmer’s child.
She had a governess and a whole
closetful of clothes. She didn’t spend her
time around sheep and pigs and goats.
She’d never seen a lamb born. She had an
older sister, but no brothers...
He hesitated; he’d rather not lie. Not
here. But he hadn’t promised to answer
her question, hadn’t made any sort of
agreement at all with her. That made
things easier. A great deal easier than
having an angry mayor visit the
Waystone, demanding to know why his
daughter suddenly knew the word “penis.”
“I tickle the kitten’s tummy,” Bast said
easily. “And if it winks at me, I know it’s
a girl.”
This satisfied Viette, and she nodded
gravely. “How can I get my father to let
me keep it?”
“You’ve already asked him nicely?”
She nodded. “Daddy hates
cats.” “Begged and cried?”
Nod.
“Screamed and thrown a fit?”
She rolled her eyes and gave an
exasperated sigh. “I’ve tried all that, or I
wouldn’t be here.”
Bast thought for a moment. “Okay.
First, you have to get some food that will
keep good for a couple days. Biscuits.
Sausage. Apples. Hide it in your room
where nobody will find it. Not even your
governess. Not even the maid. Do you
have a place like that?”
The little girl nodded.
“Then go ask your daddy one more
time. Be gentle and polite. If he still says
no, don’t be angry. Just tell him that you
love the kitten. Say if you can’t have her,
you’re afraid you’ll be so sad you’ll die.”
“He’ll still say no,” the little girl said.
Bast shrugged. “Probably. Here’s the
second part. Tonight, pick at your
dinner. Don’t eat it. Not even the
dessert.” The little girl started to say
something, but Bast held up a hand. “If
anyone asks you, just say you’re not
hungry. Don’t mention the kitten.
When you’re alone in your room
tonight, eat some of the food you’ve
hidden.”
The little girl looked thoughtful.
Bast continued. “Tomorrow, don’t get
out of bed. Say you’re too tired. Don’t eat
your breakfast. Don’t eat your lunch. You
can drink a little water, but just sips. Just
lie in bed. When they ask what’s the
matter—”
She brightened. “I say I want my
kitten!”
Bast shook his head, his expression
grim. “No. That will spoil it. Just say
you’re tired. If they leave you alone, you
can eat, but be careful. If they catch you,
you’ll never get your kitten.”
The girl was listening intently now, her
brow furrowed in concentration.
“By dinner they’ll be worried. They’ll
offer you more food. Your favorites.
Keep saying you’re not hungry. You’re
just tired. Just lie there. Don’t talk. Do
that all day long.”
“Can I get up to pee?”
Bast nodded. “But remember to act
tired. No playing. The next day, they’ll be
scared. They’ll bring in a doctor.
They’ll try to feed you broth. They’ll try
everything. At some point your father
will be there, and he’ll ask you what’s the
matter.”
Bast grinned at her. “That’s when you
start to cry. No howling. Don’t blubber.
Just tears. Just lie there and cry. Then say
you miss your kitten so much. You miss
your kitten so much you don’t want to be
alive anymore.”
The little girl thought about it for a long
minute, petting her kitten absentmindedly
with one hand. Finally she nodded,
“Okay.” She turned to go.
“Hold on now!” Bast said quickly. “I
gave you what you wanted. You owe me
now.”
The little girl turned around, her
expression an odd mix of surprise and
anxious embarrassment. “I didn’t bring
any money,” she said, not meeting his
eye.
“Not money,” Bast said. “I gave you
two answers and a way to get your kitten.
You owe me three things. You pay with
gifts and favors. You pay in secrets...”
She thought for a moment. “Daddy
hides his strongbox key inside the
mantel clock.”
Bast nodded approvingly. “That’s one.”
The little girl looked up into the sky,
still petting her kitten. “I saw mama
kissing the maid once.”
Bast raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s
two...”
The girl put her finger in her ear and
wiggled it. “That’s all, I think.”
“How about a favor, then?” Bast said. “I
need you to fetch me two dozen daisies
with long stems. And a blue ribbon. And
two armfuls of gemlings.”
Viette’s face puckered in confusion.
“What’s a gemling?”
“Flowers,” Bast said, looking puzzled
himself. “Maybe you call them balsams?
They grow wild all over around here,” he
said, making a wide gesture with both
hands.
“Do you mean geraniums?” she asked.
Bast shook his head. “No. They’ve got
loose petals, and they’re about this big.”
he made a circle with his thumb and
middle finger. “They’re yellow and
orange and red...”
The girl stared at him blankly.
“Widow Creel keeps them in her
window box,” Bast continued. “When
you touch the seedpods, they pop...”
Viette’s face lit up. “Oh! You mean
touch-me-nots,” she said, her tone more
than slightly patronizing. “I can bring you
a bunch of those. That’s easy.” She
turned to run down the hill.
Bast called out before she’d taken six
steps. “Wait!” When she spun around, he
asked her. “What do you say if somebody
asks you who you’re picking flowers
for?”
She rolled her eyes again. “I tell them
it’s none of their tupping business,” she
said. “Because my daddy is the mayor.”
After Viette left, a high whistle made
Bast look down the hill toward the
greystone. There were no children
waiting there.
The whistle came again, and Bast stood,
stretching long and hard. It would have
surprised most of the young women in
town how easily he spotted the figure
standing in the shadow of the trees at the
edge of the clearing nearly two hundred
feet away.
Bast sauntered down the hill, across the
grassy field, and into the shadow of the
trees. There was an older boy there with
smudgy face and a pug nose. He was
perhaps twelve and his shirt and pants
were both too small for him, showing too
much dirty wrist at the cuff and bare
ankle below. He was barefoot and had a
slightly sour smell about him.
“Rike.” Bast’s voice held none of the
friendly, bantering tone he’d used with
the town’s other children. “How’s the
road to Tinuë?”
“It’s a long damn way,” the boy said
bitterly, not meeting Bast’s eye. “We live
in the ass of nowhere.”
“I see you have my book,” Bast said.
The boy held it out. “I wann’t tryin’ to
steal it,” he muttered quickly. “I just
needed to talk to you.”
Bast took the book silently.
“I didn’t break the rules,” the boy said.
“I didn’t even come into the clearing. But
I need help. I’ll pay for it.”
“You lied to me, Rike,” Bast said, his
voice grim.
“And din’t I pay for that?” the boy
demanded angrily, looking up for the first
time. “Din’t I pay for it ten times over?
Ent my life shit enough without having
more shit piled on top of it?”
“And it’s all beside the point because
you’re too old now,” Bast said flatly.
“I aren’t either!” the boy stomped a foot.
Then struggled and took a deep breath,
visibly forcing his temper back under
control. “Tam is older’n me and he can
still come to the tree! I’m just taller’n
him!”
“Those are the rules,” Bast said.
“It’s a shite rule!” the boy shouted, his
hands making angry fists. “And you’re a
shite little bastard who deserves more of
the belt than he gets!”
There was a silence then, broken only
by the boy’s ragged breathing. Rike’s
eyes were on the ground, fists clenched at
his sides, he was shaking.
Bast’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
The boy’s voice was rough. “Just one,”
Rike said. “Just one favor just this once.
It’s a big one. But I’ll pay. I’ll pay triple.”
Bast drew a deep breath and let it out as
a sigh. “Rike, I—”
“Please, Bast?” He was still shaking,
but Bast realized the boy’s voice wasn’t
angry anymore. “Please?” Eyes still on
the ground, he took a hesitant step
forward. “Just... please?” His hand
reached out and just hung there aimlessly,
as if he didn’t know what to do with it.
Finally he caught hold of Bast’s
shirtsleeve and tugged it once, feebly,
before letting his hand fall back to his
side.
“I just can’t fix this on my own.” Rike
looked up, eyes full of tears. His face was
twisted in a knot of anger and fear. A boy
too young to keep from crying, but still
old enough so that he couldn’t help but
hate himself for doing it.
“I need you to get rid of my da,” he said
in a broken voice. “I can’t figure a way. I
could stick him while he’s asleep, but my
ma would find out. He drinks and hits at
her. And she cries all the time and then he
hits her more.”
Rike was looking at the ground again,
the words pouring out of him in a gush.
“I
could get him when he’s drunk
somewhere, but he’s so big. I couldn’t
move him. They’d find the body and then
the azzie would get me. I couldn’t look
my ma in the eye then. Not if she knew. I
can’t think what that would do to her, if
she knew I was the sort of person that
would kill his own da.”
He looked up then, his face furious, eyes
red with weeping. “I would though.
I’d kill him. You just got to tell me
how.” There was a moment of quiet.
“Okay,” Bast said.
They went down to the stream where they
could have a drink and Rike could wash
his face and collect himself a little bit.
When the boy’s face was cleaner, Bast
noted not all the smudginess was dirt. It
was easy to make the mistake, as the
summer sun had tanned him a rich nut
brown. Even after he was clean it was
hard to tell they were the faint remains of
bruises.
But rumor or no, Bast’s eyes were
sharp. Cheek and jaw. A darkness all
around one skinny wrist. And when he
bent to take a drink from the stream, Bast
glimpsed the boy’s back...
“So,” Bast said as they sat beside the
stream. “What exactly do you want? Do
you want to kill him, or do you just want
to have him gone?”
“If he was just gone, I’d never sleep
again for worry he’d come slouching
back.” Rike said, then was quiet for a bit.
“He went gone two span once.” He gave
a faint smile. “That was a good time, just
me and my ma. It was like my birthday
every day when I woke up and he wasn’t
there. I never knew my ma could sing...”
The boy went quiet again. “I thought
he’d fallen somewhere drunk and finally
broke his neck. But he’d just traded off a
year of furs for drinking money. He’d just
been in his trapping shack, all
stupordrunk for half a month, not hardly
more than a mile away.”
The boy shook his head, more firmly
this time. “No, if he goes, he won’t stay
away.”
“I can figure out the how,” Bast said.
“That’s what I do. But you need to tell me
what you really want.”
Rike sat for a long while, jaw clenching
and unclenching. “Gone,” he said at last.
The word seemed to catch in his throat.
“So long as he stays gone forever. If you
can really do it.”
“I can do it,” Bast said.
Rike looked at his hands for a long time.
“Gone then. I’d kill him. But that sort of
thing ent right. I don’t want to be that sort
of man. A fellow shouldn’t ought to kill
his da.”
“I could do it for you,” Bast said easily.
Rike sat for a while, then shook his
head. “It’s the same thing, innit? Either
way it’s me. And if it were me, it would
be more honest if I did it with my hands
rather than do it with my mouth.”
Bast nodded. “Right then. Gone
forever.”
“And soon,” Rike said.
Bast sighed and looked up at the sun. He
already had things to do today. The
turning wheels of his desire did not come
grinding to a halt because some farmer
drank too much. Emberlee would be
taking her bath soon. He was supposed to
get carrots...
He didn’t owe the boy a thing, either.
Quite the opposite. The boy had lied to
him. Broken his promise. And while Bast
had settled that account so firmly that no
other child in town would ever dream of
crossing him like that again... it was still
galling to remember. The thought of
helping him now, despite that, it was
quite the opposite of his desire.
“It has to be soon,” Rike said. “He’s
getting worse. I can run off, but ma can’t.
And little Bip can’t neither. And...”
“Fine, fine...” Bast cut him off, waving
his hands. “Soon.”
Rike swallowed. “What’s this going to
cost me?” he asked, anxious.
“A lot,” Bast said grimly. “We’re not
talking about ribbons and buttons here.
Think how much you want this. Think
how big it is.” He met the boy’s eye and
didn’t look away. “Three times that is
what you owe me. Plus some for soon.”
He stared hard at the boy. “Think hard on
that.”
Rike was a little pale now, but he
nodded without looking away. “You can
have what you like of mine,” he said.
“But nothin’ of ma’s. She ent got much
that my da hasn’t already drank away.”
“We’ll work it out,” Bast said. “But it’ll
be nothing of hers. I promise.”
Rike took a deep breath, then gave a
sharp nod. “Okay. Where do we start?”
Bast pointed at the stream. “Find a river
stone with a hole in it and bring it to me.”
Rike gave Bast an odd look. “Yeh want
a faerie stone?”
“Faerie stone,” Bast said with such
scathing mockery that Rike flushed with
embarrassment. “You’re too old for that
nonsense.” Bast gave the boy a look. “Do
you want my help or not?” he asked.
“I do,” Rike said in a small voice.
“Then I want a river stone.” Bast
pointed back at the stream. “You have to
be the one to find it,” he said. “It can’t be
anyone else. And you need to find it dry
on the shore.”
Rike nodded.
“Right then.” Bast clapped his hands
twice. “Off you go.”
Rike left and Bast returned to the
lightning tree. No children were waiting
to talk to him, so he idled the time away.
He skipped stones in the nearby stream
and flipped through Celum Tinture,
glancing at some of the illustrations.
Calcification. Titration. Sublimation.
Brann, happily unbirched with one hand
bandaged, brought him two sweet buns
wrapped in a white handkerchief. Bast ate
the first and set the second aside.
Viette brought armloads of flowers and
a fine blue ribbon. Bast wove the daisies
into a crown, threading the ribbon
through the stems.
Then, looking up at the sun, he saw that
it was nearly time, Bast removed his shirt
and filled it with the wealth of yellow and
red touch-me-nots Viette had brought
him. He added the handkerchief and
crown, then fetched a stick and made a
bindle so he could carry the lot more
easily.
He headed out past the Oldstone bridge,
then up toward the hills and around a
bluff until he found the place Kostrel had
described. It was cleverly hidden away,
and the stream curved and eddied into a
lovely little pool perfect for a private
bath.
Bast sat behind some bushes, and after
nearly half an hour of waiting he had
fallen into a doze. The sharp crackle of a
twig and a scrap of an idle song roused
him, and he peered down to see a young
woman making her careful way down the
steep hillside to the water’s edge.
Moving silently, Bast scurried
upstream, carrying his bundle. Two
minutes later he was kneeling on the
grassy waterside with the pile of flowers
beside him.
He picked up a yellow blossom and
breathed on it gently. As his breath
brushed the petals, its color faded and
changed into a delicate blue. He dropped
it and the current carried it slowly
downstream.
Bast gathered up a handful of posies,
red and orange, and breathed on them
again. They too shifted and changed until
they were a pale and vibrant blue. He
scattered them onto the surface of the
stream. He did this twice more until there
were no flowers left.
Then, picking up the handkerchief and
daisy crown, he sprinted back
downstream to the cozy little hollow with
the elm. He’d moved quickly enough that
Emberlee was just coming to the edge of
the water.
Softly, silently, he crept up to the
spreading elm. Even with one hand
carrying the handkerchief and crown, he
went up the side as nimbly as a squirrel.
Bast lay along a low branch, sheltered
by leaves, breathing fast but not hard.
Emberlee was removing her stockings
and setting them carefully on a nearby
hedge. Her hair was a burnished golden
red, falling in lazy curls. Her face was
sweet and round, a lovely shade of pale
and pink.
Bast grinned as he watched her look
around, first left, then right. Then she
began to unlace her bodice. Her dress was
a pale cornflower blue, edged with
yellow, and when she spread it on the
hedge, it flared and splayed out like the
wing of a great bird. Perhaps some
fantastic combination of a finch and a jay.
Dressed only in her white shift,
Emberlee looked around again: left, then
right. Then she shimmied free of it, a
fascinating motion. She tossed the shift
aside and stood there, naked as the moon.
Her creamy skin was amazing with
freckle. Her hips wide and lovely. The
tips of her breasts were brushed with the
palest of pink.
She scampered into the water. Making a
series of small, dismayed cries at the chill
of it. They were, on consideration, not
really similar to a raven’s at all. Though
they could, perhaps, be slightly like a
heron’s.
Emberlee washed herself a bit,
splashing and shivering. She soaped
herself, dunked her head in the river, and
came up gasping. Wet, her hair became
the color of ripe cherries.
It was then that the first of the blue
touch-me-nots arrived, drifting on the
water. She glanced at it curiously as it
floated by and began to lather soap into
her hair.
More flowers followed. They came
downstream and made circles around her,
caught in the slow eddy of the pool.
She looked at them, amazed. Then sieved
a double handful from the water and
brought them to her face, drawing a deep
breath to smell them.
She laughed delightedly and dunked
under the surface, coming up in the
middle of the flowers, the water sluiced
her pale skin, running over her naked
breasts. Blossoms clung to her, as if
reluctant to let go.
That was when Bast fell out of the tree.
There was a brief, mad scrabbling of
fingers against bark, a bit of a yelp, then
he hit the ground like a sack of suet. He
lay on his back in the grass and let out a
low, miserable groan.
He heard a splashing, and then
Emberlee appeared above him. She held
her white shift in front of her. Bast looked
up from where he lay in the tall grass.
He’d been lucky to land on that patch of
springy turf, cushioned with tall, green
grass. A few feet to one side, and he’d
have broken himself against the rocks.
Five feet the other way and he would
have been wallowing in mud.
Emberlee knelt beside him, her skin
pale, her hair dark. One posy clung to her
neck—it was the same color as her eyes,
a pale and vibrant blue.
“Oh,” Bast said happily as he gazed up
at her. His eyes were slightly dazed.
“You’re so much lovelier than I’d
imagined.”
He lifted a hand as if to brush her cheek,
only to find it holding the crown and
knotted handkerchief. “Ahh,” he said,
remembering. “I’ve brought you some
daisies too. And a sweet bun.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the daisy
crown with both hands. She had to let go
of her shift to do this. It fell lightly to the
grass.
Bast blinked, momentarily at a loss for
words.
Emberlee tilted her head to look at the
crown; the ribbon was a striking
cornflower blue, but it was nothing near
as lovely as her eyes. She lifted it with
both hands and settled it proudly on her
head. Her arms still raised, she drew a
slow breath.
Bast’s eyes slipped from her crown.
She smiled at him indulgently.
Bast drew a breath to speak, then
stopped and drew another through his
nose. Honeysuckle.
“Did you steal my soap?” he asked
incredulously.
Emberlee laughed and kissed him.
A good while later, Bast took the long
way back to the lightning tree, making a
wide loop up into the hills north of town.
Things were rockier up that way, no
ground flat enough to plant, the terrain
too treacherous for grazing.
Even with the boy’s directions, it took
Bast a while to find Martin’s still. He had
to give the crazy old bastard credit
though. Between the brambles,
rockslides, and fallen trees, there wasn’t
a chance he would have stumbled onto it
accidentally, tucked back into a shallow
cave in a scrubby little box valley.
The still wasn’t some slipshod
contraption bunged together out of old
pots and twisted wire, either. It was a
work of art. There were barrels and basins
and great spirals of copper tube. A great
copper kettle twice the size of a washbin,
and a smolder-stove for warming it. A
wooden trough ran all along the ceiling,
and only after following it outside did
Bast realize Martin collected rainwater
and brought it inside to fill his cooling
barrels.
Looking it over, Bast had the sudden
urge to flip through Celum Tinture and
learn what all the different pieces of the
still were called, what they were for. Only
then did he realize he’d left the book back
at the lightning tree.
So instead Bast rooted around until he
found a box filled with a mad miscellany
of containers: two dozen bottles of all
sorts, clay jugs, old canning jars... A
dozen of them were full. None of them
were labeled in any way.
Bast lifted out a tall bottle that had
obviously once held wine. He pulled the
cork, sniffed it gingerly, then took a
careful sip. His face bloomed into a
sunrise of delight. He’d half expected
turpentine, but this was... well... he
wasn’t sure entirely. He took another
drink. There was something of apples
about it, and... barley?
Bast took a third drink, grinning.
Whatever you care to call it, it was lovely.
Smooth and strong and just a little sweet.
Martin might mad as a badger, but he
clearly knew his liquor.
It was better than an hour before Bast
made it back to the lightning tree. Rike
hadn’t returned, but Celum Tinture was
sitting there unharmed. For the first time
he could remember, he was glad to see
the book. He flipped it open to the chapter
on distillation and read for half an hour,
nodding to himself at various points. It
was called a condensate coil. He’d
thought it looked important.
Eventually he closed the book and
sighed. There were a few clouds rolling
in, and no good could come of leaving the
book unattended again. His luck
wouldn’t last forever, and he shuddered
to think what would happen if the wind
tumbled the book into the grass and tore
the pages. If there was a sudden rain...
So Bast wandered back to the Waystone
Inn and slipped silently through the back
door. Stepping carefully, he opened a
cupboard and tucked the book inside. He
made his silent way halfway back to the
door before he heard footsteps behind
him. “Ah, Bast,” the innkeeper said.
“Have you brought the carrots?”
Bast froze, caught awkwardly
midsneak. He straightened up and
brushed self-consciously at his clothes.
"I... I haven’t quite got round to that
yet, Reshi.”
The innkeeper gave a deep sigh. “I don’t
ask a...” He stopped and sniffed, then
eyed the dark-haired man narrowly.
“Are you drunk, Bast?”
Bast looked affronted. “Reshi!”
The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Fine
then, have you been drinking?”
“I’ve been investigating,” Bast said,
emphasizing the word. “Did you know
Crazy Martin runs a still?”
“I didn’t,” the innkeeper said, his tone
making it clear he didn’t find this
information to be particularly thrilling.
“And Martin isn’t crazy. He just has a
handful of unfortunately strong affect
compulsions. And a touch of tabard
madness from when he was a soldier.”
“Well, yes...” Bast said slowly. “I
know, because he set his dog on me and
when I climbed a tree to get away, he
tried to chop the tree down. But also,
aside from those things, he’s crazy too,
Reshi. Really, really crazy.”
“Bast.” The innkeeper gave him a
chiding look.
“I’m not saying he’s bad, Reshi. I’m not
even saying I don’t like him. But trust me.
I know crazy. His head isn’t put together
like a normal person’s.”
The innkeeper gave an agreeable if
slightly impatient nod. “Noted.”
Bast opened his mouth, then looked
slightly confused. “What were we talking
about?”
“Your advanced state of investigation,”
the innkeeper said, glancing out the
window. “Despite the fact that it is
barely three bells.”
“Ah. Right!” Bast said excitedly. “I
know Martin’s been running a tab for the
better part of a year now. And I know
you’ve had trouble settling up because he
doesn’t have any money.”
“He doesn’t use money,” the innkeeper
corrected gently.
“Same difference, Reshi,” Bast sighed.
“And it doesn’t change the fact that we
don’t need another sack of barley. The
pantry is choking on barley. But since he
runs a still...”
The innkeeper was already shaking his
head. “No, Bast,” he said. “I won’t go
poisoning my customers with hillwine.
You have no idea what ends up in that
stuff...”
“But I do know, Reshi,” Bast said
plaintively. “Ethel acetates and methans.
And tinleach. There’s none of that.”
The innkeeper blinked, obviously taken
aback. “Did... Have you actually been
reading Celum Tinture?”
“I did, Reshi.” Bast beamed. “For the
betterment of my education and my
desire to not poison folk. I tasted some,
Reshi, and I can say with some authority
that Martin is not making hillwine. It’s
lovely stuff. It’s halfway to Rhis, and
that’s not something I say lightly.”
The innkeeper stroked his upper lip
thoughtfully. “Where did you get some to
taste?” he asked.
“I traded for it,” Bast said, easily
skirting the edges of the truth. “I was
thinking,” Bast continued. “Not only
would it give Martin a chance to settle his
tab. But it would help us get some new
stock in. That’s harder, the roads as bad
as they are...”
The innkeeper held up both hands
helplessly. “I’m already convinced,
Bast.”
Bast grinned happily.
“Honestly, I would have done it merely
to celebrate you reading your lesson for
once. But it will be nice for Martin, too.
It will give him an excuse to come by
more often. It will be good for him.”
Bast’s smile faded a bit.
If the innkeeper noticed, he didn’t
comment on it. “I’ll send a boy round to
Martin’s and ask him to come by with a
couple bottles.”
“Get five or six,” Bast said. “It’s getting
cold at night. Winter’s coming.”
The innkeeper smiled. “I’m sure Martin
will be flattered.”
Bast paled at that. “By all the gorse no,
Reshi,” he said, waving his hands in front
of himself and taking a step backwards.
“Don’t tell him I’ll be drinking it. He
hates me.”
The innkeeper hid a smile behind his
hand.
“It’s not funny, Reshi,” Bast said
angrily. “He throws rocks at me.”
“Not for months,” the innkeeper pointed
out. “Martin has been perfectly cordial to
you the last several times he’s stopped by
for a visit.”
“Because there aren’t any rocks inside
the inn,” Bast said.
“Be fair, Bast,” the innkeeper
continued. “He’s been civil for almost a
year. Polite even. Remember he
apologized to you two months back?
Have you heard of Martin ever
apologizing to anyone else in town?
Ever?”
“No,” Bast said sulkily.
The innkeeper nodded. “That’s a big
gesture for him. He’s turning a new leaf.”
“I know,” Bast muttered, moving
toward the back door. “But if he’s here
when I get home tonight, I’m eating
dinner in the kitchen.”
Rike caught up with Bast before he even
made it to the clearing, let alone the
lightning tree.
“I’ve got it,” the boy said, holding up his
hand triumphantly. The entire lower half
of his body was dripping wet.
“What, already?” Bast asked.
The boy nodded and flourished the
stone between two fingers. It was flat and
smooth and round, slightly bigger than a
copper penny. “What now?”
Bast stroked his chin for a moment, as if
trying to remember. “Now we need a
needle. But it has to be borrowed from a
house where no men live.”
Rike looked thoughtful for a moment,
then brightened. “I can get one from Aunt
Sellie!”
Bast fought the urge to curse. He’d
forgotten about Sellie. “That will do...”
he said, reluctantly, “but it will work best
if the needle comes from a house with a
lot of women living in it. The more
women the better.”
Rike looked up for another moment.
“Widow Creel then. She’s
got a daughter.”
“She’s got a boy, too.” Bast pointed out.
“A house where no men or boys live.”
“But where a lot of girls live...” Rike
said. He had to think about it for a long
while. “Old Nan don’t like me none,” he
said. “But I reckon she’d give me a pin.”
“A needle,” Bast stressed. “And you
have to borrow it. You can’t steal it or
buy it. She has to lend it to you.”
Bast had half expected the boy to grouse
about the particulars, about the fact that
Old Nan lived all the way off on the other
side of town, about as far west as you
could go and still be considered part of
the town. It would take him half an hour
to get there, and even then, Old Nan
might not be home.
But Rike didn’t so much as sigh. He just
nodded seriously, turned, and took off at
a sprint, bare feet flying.
Bast continued to the lightning tree, but
when he came to the clearing he saw an
entire tangle of children playing on the
greystone, doubtless waiting for him.
Four of them.
Watching them from the shadow of the
trees at the edge of the clearing, Bast
hesitated, then glanced up at the sun
before slipping back into the woods. He
had other fish to fry.
The Williams farm wasn’t a farm in any
proper sense. Not for decades. The fields
had gone fallow so long ago that they
were barely recognizable as such, spotted
with brambles and sapling trees. The tall
barn had fallen into disrepair and half the
roof gaped open to the sky.
Walking up the long path through the
fields, Bast turned a corner and saw
Rike’s house. It told a different story
than the barn. It was small but tidy.
The shingles needed some repair, but
other than that, it looked well loved
and tended-to. Yellow curtains were
blowing out the kitchen window, and
there was flower box spilling over with
fox fiddle and marigold.
There was a pen with a trio of goats on
one side of the house, and a large
welltended garden on the other. It was
fenced thickly with lashed-together
sticks, but Bast could see straight lines of
flourishing greenery inside. Carrots. He
still needed carrots.
Craning his neck a bit, Bast saw several
large, square boxes behind the house. He
took a few more steps to the side and eyed
them before he realized they were
beehives.
Just then there was a great storm of
barking and two great black, floppyeared
dogs came bounding from the house
toward Bast, baying for all they were
worth. When they came close enough,
Bast got down on one knee and wrestled
with them playfully, scratching their ears
and the ruff of their necks.
After a few minutes of this, Bast
continued to the house, the dogs weaving
back and forth in front of him before they
spotted some sort of animal and tore off
into the underbrush. He knocked politely
at the front door, though after all the
barking his presence could hardly be a
surprise.
The door opened a couple inches, and
for a moment all Bast could see was a
slender slice of darkness. Then the door
opened a little wider, revealing Rike’s
mother. She was tall, and her curling
brown hair was springing loose from the
braid that hung down her back.
She swung the door fully open, holding
a tiny, half-naked baby in the curve of her
arm. Its round face was pressed into her
breast and it was sucking busily, making
small grunting noises.
Glancing down, Bast smiled warmly.
The woman looked fondly down at her
child, then favored Bast with a tired
smile. “Hello Bast, what can I do for
you?”
“Ah. Well,” he said awkwardly, pulling
his gaze up to meet her eye. “I was
wondering, ma’am. That is, Mrs.
Williams—”
“Nettie is fine, Bast,” she said
indulgently. More than a few of the
townfolk considered Bast somewhat
simple in the head, a fact that Bast didn’t
mind in the least.
“Nettie,” Bast said, smiling his most
ingratiating smile.
There was a pause, and she leaned
against the doorframe. A little girl peeked
out from around the woman’s faded blue
skirt, nothing more than a pair of serious
dark eyes.
Bast smiled at the girl, who disappeared
back behind her mother.
Nettie looked at Bast expectantly.
Finally she prompted. “You were
wondering...”
“Oh, yes.” Bast said. “I was wondering
if your husband happened to be about.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Jessom’s off
checking his traps.”
“Ah,” Bast said, disappointed. “Will he
be back anytime soon? I’d be happy to
wait...”
She shook her head, “I’m sorry. He’ll do
his lines then spend the night skinning
and drying up in his shack.” She nodded
vaguely toward the northern hills.
“Ah,” Bast said again.
Nestled snugly in her mother’s arm, the
baby drew a deep breath, then sighed it
out blissfully, going quiet and limp.
Nettie looked down, then up at Bast,
holding a finger to her lips.
Bast nodded and stepped back from the
doorway, watching as Nettie stepped
inside, deftly detached the sleeping baby
from her nipple with her free hand, then
carefully tucked the child into a small
wooden cradle on the floor. The darkeyed
girl emerged from behind her mother and
went to peer down at the baby.
“Call me if she starts to fuss,” Nettie
said softly. The little girl nodded
seriously, sat down on a nearby chair, and
began to gently rock the cradle with her
foot.
Nettie stepped outside, closing the door
behind her. She walked the few steps
necessary to join Bast, rearranging her
bodice unself-consciously. In the sunlight
Bast noticed her high cheekbones and
generous mouth. Even so, she was more
tired than pretty, her dark eyes heavy with
worry.
The tall woman crossed her arms over
her chest. “What’s the trouble then?” she
asked wearily.
Bast looked confused. “No trouble,” he
said. “I was wondering if your husband
had any work.”
Nettie uncrossed her arms, looking
surprised. “Oh.”
“There isn’t much for me to do at the
inn,” Bast said a little sheepishly. “I
thought your husband might need an
extra hand.”
Nettie looked around, eyes brushing
over the old barn. Her mouth tugging
down at the corners. “He traps and hunts
for the most part these days,” she said.
“Keeps him busy, but not so much that
he’d need help, I imagine.” She looked
back to Bast. “At least he’s never made
mention of wanting any.”
“How about yourself?” Bast asked,
giving his most charming smile. “Is there
anything around the place you could use
a hand with?”
Nettie smiled at Bast indulgently. It was
only a small smile, but it stripped ten
years and half a world of worry off her
face, making her practically shine with
loveliness. “There isn’t much to do,” she
said apologetically. “Only three goats,
and my boy minds them.”
“Firewood?” Bast asked. “I’m not
afraid to work up a sweat. And it has to
be hard getting by with your gentleman
gone for days on end...” He grinned at
her hopefully.
“And we just haven’t got the money for
help, I’m afraid.” Nettie said.
“I just want some carrots,” Bast said.
Nettie looked at him for a minute, then
burst out laughing. “Carrots,” she said,
rubbing at her face. “How many carrots?”
“Maybe... six?” Bast asked, not
sounding very sure of his answer at all.
She laughed again, shaking her head a
little. “Okay. You can split some
wood.” She pointed to the chopping
block that stood in back of the house.
“I’ll come get you when you’ve done
six carrots’ worth.”
Bast set to work eagerly, and soon the
yard was full of the crisp, healthy sound
of splitting wood. The sun was still strong
in the sky, and after just a few minutes
Bast was covered in a sheen of sweat. He
carelessly peeled away his shirt and hung
it on the nearby garden fence.
There was something different about the
way he split the wood. Nothing dramatic.
In fact he split wood the same way
everyone did: you set the log upright, you
swing the axe, you split the wood. There
isn’t much room to extemporize.
But still, there was a difference in the
way he did it. When he set the log
upright, he moved intently. Then he
would stand for a tiny moment,
perfectly still. Then came the swing. It
was a fluid thing. The placement of his
feet, the play of the long muscles in his
arms...
There was nothing exaggerated.
Nothing like a flourish. Even so, when he
brought the axe up and over in a perfect
arc, there was a grace to it. The sharp
cough the wood made as it split, the
sudden way the halves went tumbling to
the ground. He made it all look somehow...
well... dashing.
He worked a hard half hour, at which
time Nettie came out of the house,
carrying a glass of water and a handful of
fat carrots with the loose greens still
attached. “I’m sure that’s at least six
carrots’ worth of work,” she said, smiling
at him.
Bast took the glass of water, drank half
of it, then bent over and poured the rest
over his head. He shook himself off a bit,
then stood back up, his dark hair curling
and clinging to his face. “Are you sure
there’s nothing else you could use a hand
with?” he asked, giving her an easy grin.
His eyes were dark and smiling and bluer
than the sky.
Nettie shook her head. Her hair was out
of her braid now, and when she looked
down, the loose curls of it fell partly
across her face. “I can’t think of
anything,” she said.
“I’m a dab hand with honey, too,” Bast
said, hoisting the axe to rest against his
naked shoulder.
She looked a little puzzled at that until
Bast nodded toward the wooden hives
scattered through the overgrown field.
“Oh,” she said, as if remembering a
halfforgotten dream. “I used to do
candles and honey. But we lost a few
hives to that bad winter three years back.
Then one to nits. Then there was that wet
spring and three more went down with
the chalk before we even knew.” She
shrugged. “Early this summer we sold
one to the Hestles so we’d have money
for the levy...”
She shook her head again, as if she’d
been daydreaming. She shrugged and
turned back to look at Bast. “Do you
know about bees?”
“A fair bit,” Bast said softly. “They
aren’t hard to handle. They just need
patience and gentleness.” He casually
swung the axe so it stuck in the nearby
stump. “They’re the same as everything
else, really. They just want to know
they’re safe.”
Nettie was looking out at the field,
nodding along with Bast’s words
unconsciously. “There’s only the two
left,” she said. “Enough for a few candles.
A little honey. Not much. Hardly worth
the bother, really.”
“Oh come now,” Bast said gently. “A
little sweetness is all any of us have
sometimes. It’s always worth it. Even if it
takes some work.”
Nettie turned to look at him. She met his
eyes now. Not speaking, but not looking
away either. Her eyes were like an open
door.
Bast smiled, gentle and patient, his
voice was warm and sweet as honey. He
held out his hand. “Come with me,” he
said. “I have something to show you.”
The sun was starting to sink toward the
western trees by the time Bast returned to
the lightning tree. He was limping
slightly, and he had dirt in his hair, but he
seemed to be in good spirits.
There were two children at the bottom
of the hill, sitting on the greystone and
swinging their feet as if it were a huge
stone bench. Bast didn’t even have time
to sit down before they came up the hill
together.
It was Wilk, a serious boy of ten with
shaggy blond hair. At his side was his
little sister Pem, half his age with three
times the mouth.
The boy nodded at Bast as he came to
the top of the hill, then he looked down.
“You hurt your hand,” he said.
Bast looked down at his hand and was
surprised to see a few dark streaks of
blood dripping down the side of it. He
brought out his handkerchief and daubed
at it.
“What happened?” little Pem asked
him.
“I was attacked by a bear,” he lied
nonchalantly.
The boy nodded, giving no indication of
whether or not he believed it was true. “I
need a riddle that will stump Tessa,” the
boy said. “A good one.”
“You smell like granda,” Pem chirruped
as she came up to stand beside her
brother.
Wilk ignored her. Bast did the same.
“Okay,” said Bast. “I need a favor, I’ll
trade you. A favor for a riddle.”
“You smell like granda when he’s been
at his medicine,” Pem clarified.
“It has to be a good one though,” Wilk
stressed. “A stumper.”
“Show me something that’s never been
seen before and will never be seen again,”
Bast said.
“Hmmm...” Wilk said, looking
thoughtful.
“Granda says he feels loads better with
his medicine,” Pem said, louder, plainly
irritated at being ignored. “But Mum says
it’s not medicine. She says he’s on the
bottle. And granda says he feels loads
better so it’s medicine by dammit.” She
looked back and forth between Bast and
Wilk, as if daring them to scold her.
Neither of them did. She looked a little
crestfallen.
“That is a good one,” Wilk admitted at
last. “What’s the answer?”
Bast gave a slow grin. “What will you
trade me for it?”
Wilk cocked his head on one side, “I
already said. A favor.”
“I traded you the riddle for a favor,”
Bast said easily. “But now you’re asking
for the answer...”
Wilk looked confused for half a
moment, then his face went red and
angry. He drew a deep breath as if he
were going to shout. Then seemed to
think better of it and stormed down the
hill, stomping his feet.
His sister watched him go, then turned
back to Bast. “Your shirt is ripped,” she
said disapprovingly. “And you’ve got
grass stains on your pants. Your mam is
going to give you a hiding.”
“No she won’t,” Bast said smugly.
“Because I’m all grown, and I can do
whatever I want with my pants. I could
light them on fire and I wouldn’t get in
any trouble at all.”
The little girl stared at him with
smoldering envy.
Wilk stomped back up the hill. “Fine,”
he said sullenly.
“My favor first,” Bast said. He handed
the boy a small bottle with a cork in the
top. “I need you to fill this up with water
that’s been caught midair.” “What?”
Wilk said.
“Naturally falling water,” Bast said.
“You can’t dip it out of a barrel or a
stream. You have to catch it while it’s
still in the air.”
“Water falls out of a pump when you
pump it...” Wilk said without any real
hope in his voice.
“Naturally falling water,” Bast said
again, stressing the first word. “It’s no
good if someone just stands on a chair
and pours it out of a bucket.”
“What do you need it for?” Pem asked
in her little piping voice.
“What will you trade me for the answer
to that question?” Bast said.
The little girl went pale and slapped one
hand across her mouth.
“It might not rain for days,” Wilk said.
Pem gave a gusty sigh. “It doesn’t have
to be rain,” his sister said, her voice
dripping with condescension. “You
could just go to the waterfall by
Littlecliff and fill the bottle there.”
Wilk blinked.
Bast grinned at her. “You’re a clever
girl.”
She rolled her eyes, “Everybody says
that...”
Bast brought out something from his
pocket and held it. It was a green
cornhusk wrapped around a daub of
sticky honeycomb. The little girl’s eyes
lit up when she saw it.
“I also need twenty-one perfect acorns,”
he said. “No holes, with all their little hats
intact. If you gather them for me over by
the waterfall, I’ll give you this.”
She nodded eagerly. Then both she and
her brother hurried down the hill.
Bast went back down to the pool by the
spreading willow and took another bath.
It wasn’t his usual bathing time, so there
were no birds waiting, and as a result the
bath was much more matter-of-fact than
before.
He quickly rinsed himself clean of
sweat and honey and he daubed a bit at
his clothes too, scrubbing to get rid of the
grass stains and the smell of whiskey. The
cold water stung the cuts on his knuckles
a bit, but they were nothing serious and
would mend well enough on their own.
Naked and dripping, he pulled himself
from the pool and found a dark rock, hot
from the long day of sun. He draped his
clothes over it and let them bake dry
while he shook his hair dry and stripped
the water from his arms and chest with his
hands.
Then he made his way back to the
lightning tree, picked a long piece of
grass to chew on, and almost immediately
fell asleep in the golden afternoon
sunlight.

Evening: Lessons

Hours later, the evening shadows
stretched to cover Bast, and he shivered
himself awake.
He sat up, rubbing his face and looking
around blearily. The sun was just
beginning to brush the tops of the western
trees. Wilk and Pem hadn’t returned, but
that was hardly a surprise. He ate the
piece of honeycomb he’d promised Pem,
licking his fingers slowly. Then he
chewed the wax idly and watched a pair
of hawks turn lazy circles in the sky.
Eventually he heard a whistle from the
trees. He got to his feet and stretched, his
body bending like a bow. Then he
sprinted down the hill... except, in the
fading light it didn’t quite look like a
sprint.
If he were a boy of ten, it would have
looked like skipping. But he was no boy.
If he were a goat, it would have looked
like he were prancing. But he was no
goat. A man headed down the hill that
quickly, it would have looked like he
were running.
But there was something odd about
Bast’s motion in the fading light.
Something hard to describe. He almost
looked like he were... what?
Frolicking? Dancing?
Small matter. Suffice to say that he
quickly made his way to the edge of the
clearing where Rike stood in the growing
dark beneath the trees.
“I’ve got it,” the boy said triumphantly,
he held up his hand, but the needle was
invisible in the dark.
“You borrowed it?” Bast asked. “Not
traded or bargained for it?” Rike nodded.
“Okay,” Bast said. “Follow me.”
The two of them walked over to the
greystone, Rike following wordlessly
when Bast climbed up one side of the
half-fallen stone. The sunlight was still
strong there, and both of them had plenty
of space to stand on the broad back of the
tilted greystone. Rike looked around
anxiously, as if worried someone might
see him.
“Let’s see the stone,” Bast said.
Rike dug into his pocket and held it out
to Bast.
Bast pulled his hand back suddenly, as
if the boy had tried to hand him a glowing
coal. “Don’t be stupid,” he snapped. “It’s
not for me. The charm is only going to
work for one person. Do
you want that to be me?”
The boy brought his hand back and
eyed the stone. “What do you mean
one person?”
“It’s the way of charms,” Bast said.
“They only work for one person at a
time.” Seeing the boy’s confusion written
plainly on his face, Bast sighed. “You
know how some girls make come-hither
charms, hoping to catch a boy’s eye?”
Rike nodded, blushing a little.
“This is the opposite,” Bast said. “It’s a
go-thither charm. You’re going to prick
your finger, get a drop of your blood on
it, and that will seal it. It will make things
go away.”
Rike looked down at the stone. “What
sort of things?” he said.
“Anything that wants to hurt you,” Bast
said easily. “You can just keep it in your
pocket, or you can get a piece of cord—”
“It will make my da leave?” Rike
interrupted.
Bast frowned. “That’s what I said.
You’re his blood. So it will push him
away more strongly than anything else.
You’ll probably want to hang it around
your neck so—”
“What about a bear?” Rike asked,
looking at the stone thoughtfully.
“Would it make a bear leave me alone?”
Bast made a back-and-forth motion with
his hand. “Wild things are different,” he
said. “They’re possessed of pure desire.
They don’t want to hurt
you. They usually want food, or safety. A
bear would—”
“Can I give it to my mum?” Rike
interrupted again, looking up at Bast. His
dark eyes serious.
“... want to protect its terr... What?”
Bast stumbled to a halt.
“My mum should have it,” Rike said.
“What if I was off away with the charm
and my da came back?”
“He’s going farther away than that,”
Bast said, his voice thick with certainty.
“It’s not like he’ll be hiding around the
corner at the smithy...”
Rike’s face was set now, his pug nose
making him seem all the more stubborn.
He shook his head. “She should have it.
She’s important. She has to take care of
Tess and little Bip.”
“It will work just fine—”
“It’s got to be for HER!” Rike shouted,
his hand making a fist around the stone.
“You said it could be for one person, so
you make it be for her!”
Bast scowled at the boy darkly. “I don’t
like your tone,” he said grimly. “You
asked me to make your da go away. And
that’s what I’m doing...”
“But what if it’s not enough?” Rike’s
face was red.
“It will be,” Bast said, absentmindedly
rubbing his thumb across the knuckles of
his hand. “He’ll go far away. You have
my word—”
“NO!” Rike said, his face going red and
angry. “What if sending him isn’t
enough? What if I grow up like my da? I
get so...” His voice choked off, and his
eyes started to leak tears. “I’m not good.
I know it. I know better than anyone. Like
you said. I got his blood in me. She needs
to be safe from me. If I grow up twisted
up and bad, she needs the charm to... she
needs something to make me go a—”
Rike clenched his teeth, unable to
continue.
Bast reached out and took hold of the
boy’s shoulder. He was stiff and rigid
as a plank of wood, but Bast gathered
him in and put his arms around his
shoulders. Gently, because he had seen
the boy’s back. They stood there for a
long moment, Rike stiff and tight as a
bowstring, trembling like a sail tight
against the wind.
“Rike,” Bast said softly. “You’re a good
boy. Do you know that?”
The boy bent then, sagged against Bast
and seemed like he would break himself
apart with sobbing. His face was pressed
into Bast’s stomach and he said
something, but it was muffled and
disjointed. Bast made a soft crooning
sound of the sort you’d use to calm a
horse or soothe a hive of restless bees.
The storm passed, and Rike stepped
quickly away and scrubbed at his face
roughly with his sleeve. The sky was just
starting to tinge red with sunset.
“Right,” Bast said. “It’s time. We’ll
make it for your mother. You’ll have to
give it to her. River stone works best if
it’s given as a gift.”
Rike nodded, not looking up. “What if
she won’t wear it?” he asked quietly.
Bast blinked, confused. “She’ll wear it
because you gave it to her,” he said.
“What if she doesn’t?” he asked.
Bast opened his mouth, then hesitated
and closed it again. He looked up and saw
the first of twilight’s stars emerge. He
looked down at the boy. He sighed. He
wasn’t good at this.
So much was so easy. Glamour was
second nature. It was just making folk see
what they wanted to see. Fooling folk was
simple as singing. Tricking folk and
telling lies, it was like breathing.
But this? Convincing someone of the
truth that they were too twisted to see?
How could you even begin?
It was baffling. These creatures. They
were fraught and frayed in their desire. A
snake would never poison itself, but these
folk made an art of it. They wrapped
themselves in fears and wept at being
blind. It was infuriating. It was enough to
break a heart.
So Bast took the easy way. “It’s part of
the magic,” he lied. “When you give it to
her, you have to tell her that you made it
for her because you love her.”
The boy looked uncomfortable, as if he
were trying to swallow a stone.
“It’s essential for the magic,” Bast said
firmly. “And then, if you want to make
the magic stronger, you need to tell her
every day. Once in the morning and once
at night.”
The boy nodded, a determined look on
his face. “Okay. I can do that.”
“Right then,” Bast said. “Sit down here.
Prick your finger.”
Rike did just that. He jabbed his stubby
finger and let a bead of blood well up then
fall onto the stone.
“Good,” Bast said, sitting down across
from the boy. “Now give me the needle.”
Rike handed over the needle. “But you
said it just needed—”
“Don’t tell me what I said,” Bast
groused. “Hold the stone flat so that the
hole faces up.” Rike did.
“Hold it steady,” Bast said, and pricked
his own finger. A slow bead of blood
grew. “Don’t move.”
Rike braced the stone with his other
hand.
Bast turned his finger, and the drop of
blood hung in the air for a moment before
falling straight through the hole to strike
the greystone underneath.
There was no sound. No stirring in the
air. No distant thunder. If anything, it
seemed there was a half second of perfect
brick-heavy silence in the air. But it was
probably nothing more than a brief pause
in the wind.
“Is that it?” Rike asked after a moment,
clearly expecting something more.
“Yup,” Bast said, licking the blood from
his finger with a red, red tongue. Then he
worked his mouth a little and spat out the
wax he had been chewing. He rolled it
between his fingers and handed it to the
boy. “Rub this into the stone, then take it
to the top of the highest hill you can find.
Stay there until the last of the sunset
fades, and then give to her tonight.”
Rike’s eyes darted around the horizon,
looking for a good hill. Then he leapt
from the stone and sprinted off.
Bast was halfway back to the Waystone
Inn when he realized he had no idea
where his carrots were.
When Bast came in the back door, he
could smell bread and beer and
simmering stew. Looking around the
kitchen he saw crumbs on the breadboard
and the lid was off the kettle. Dinner had
already been served.
Stepping softly, he peered through the
door into the common room. The usual
folk sat hunched at the bar, there was Old
Cob and Graham, scraping their bowls.
The smith’s prentice was running bread
along the inside of his bowl, then stuffing
it into his mouth a piece at time. Jake
spread butter on the last slice of bread,
and Shep knocked his empty mug politely
against the bar, the hollow sound a
question in itself.
Bast bustled through the doorway with
a fresh bowl of stew for the smith’s
prentice as the innkeeper poured Shep
more beer. Collecting the empty bowl,
Bast disappeared back into the kitchen,
then he came back with another loaf of
bread half-sliced and steaming.
“Guess what I caught wind of today?”
Old Cob said with the grin of a man who
knew he had the freshest news at the
table.
“What’s that?” The boy asked around
half a mouthful of stew.
Cob reached out and took the heel of the
bread, a right he claimed as the oldest
person there, despite the fact that he
wasn’t actually the oldest, and the fact
that nobody else much cared for the heel.
Bast suspected he took it because he was
proud he still had so many teeth left.
Cob grinned. “Guess,” he said to the
boy, then slowly slathered his bread with
butter and took a big bite.
“I reckon it’s something about Jessom
Williams,” Jake said blithely.
Old Cob glared at him, his mouth full of
bread and butter.
“What I heard,” Jake drawled slowly,
smiling as Old Cob tried furiously chew
his mouth clear, “was that Jessom was out
running his traplines and he got jumped
by a cougar. Then while he was legging it
away, he lost track of hisself and went
right over Littlecliff. Busted himself up
something fierce.”
Old Cob finally managed to swallow.
“You’re thick as a post, Jacob Walker.
That ain’t what happened at all. He fell
off Littlecliff, but there weren’t a cougar.
Cougar ain’t going to attack a full-grown
man.”
“It will if he’s all smelling of blood,”
Jake insisted. “Which Jessom was, on
account of the fact that he was baggin’ up
all his game.”
There was a muttering of agreement at
this, which obviously irritated Old Cob.
“It weren’t a cougar,” he insisted. “He
was drunk off his feet. That’s what I
heard. Stumbling-lost drunk. That’s the
only sense of it. ’Cause Littlecliff ent
nowhere near his trapline. Unless you
think a cougar chased him for almost a
mile...”
Old Cob sat back in his chair then, smug
as a judge. Everyone knew Jessom was a
bit of a drinker. And while Littlecliff
wasn’t really a mile from the Williams’s
land, it was too far to be chased by a
cougar.
Jake glared venomously at Old Cob, but
before he could say anything Graham
chimed in. “I heard it was drink too. A
couple kids found him while they were
playing by the falls. They thought he was
dead, and ran to fetch the constable. But
he was just head-struck and drunk as a
lord. There was all manner of broken
glass too. He was cut him up some.”
Old Cob threw his hands up in the air.
“Well ain’t that wonderful!” he said,
scowling back and forth between Graham
and Jake. “Any other parts of my story
you’d like to tell afore I’m finished?”
Graham looked taken aback. “I thought
you were—”
“I wasn’t finished,” Cob said, as if
talking to a simpleton. “I was reelin’ it
out slow. I swear. What you folk don’t
know about tellin’ stories would fit into a
book.”
A tense silence settled among the
friends.
“I got some news too,” the smith’s
prentice said almost shyly. He sat slightly
hunched at the bar, as if embarrassed at
being a head taller than everyone else and
twice as broad across
the shoulders. “If’n nobody else has
heard it, that is.”
Shep spoke up. “Go on, boy. You don’t
have to ask. Those two just been
gnawing on each other for years. They
don’t mean anything by it.”
“Well I was doing shoes,” the prentice
said, “when Crazy Martin came in.” The
boy shook his head in amazement and
took a long drink of beer. “I ain’t only
seen him a few times in town, and I forgot
how big he is. I don’t have to look up to
see him. But I still think he’s biggern me.
And today he looked even bigger still
’cause he was furious. He was spittin’
nails. I swear. He looked like someone
had tied two angry bulls together and
made them wear a shirt!” The boy
laughed the easy laugh of someone who’s
had a little more beer than he’s used to.
There was a pause. “What’s the news
then?” Shep said gently, giving him a
nudge.
“Oh!” the smith’s prentice said. “He
came asking Master Ferris if he had
enough copper to mend a big kettle.” The
prentice spread his long arms out wide,
one hand almost smacking Shep in the
face.
“Apparently someone found Martin’s
still.” The smith’s prentice leaned
forward, wobbling slightly, and said in
hushed voice. “Stole a bunch of his drink
and wrecked up the place a bit.”
The boy leaned back in his chair and
crossed his arms proudly across his chest,
confident of a story well told.
But there was none of the buzz that
normally accompanied a piece of good
gossip. He took another drink of beer, and
slowly began to look confused.
“Tehlu anyway,” Graham said, his face
gone pale. “Martin’ll kill him.”
“What?” the prentice said. “Who?”
“Jessom, you tit,” Jake snapped. He
tried to cuff the boy on the back of his
head and had to settle for his shoulder
instead. “The fellow who got skunk
drunk in the middle of the day and fell off
a cliff carrying a bunch of bottles?”
“I thought it was a cougar,” Old Cob
said spitefully.
“He’ll wish it was ten cougars when
Martin gets him,” Jake said grimly.
“What?” The smith’s prentice laughed.
“Crazy Martin? He’s addled, sure, but he
ain’t mean. A couple span ago he
cornered me and talked bollocks about
barley for two hours.” He laughed again.
“About how it was healthful. How wheat
would ruin a man. How money was dirty.
How it chained you to the earth or some
nonsense.”
The prentice dropped his voice and
hunched his shoulders a bit, widening his
eyes and doing a passable Crazy Martin
impression. “You know?” he said, making
his voice rough and darting his eyes
around. “Yeah. You know. You hear what
I’m sayin?”
The prentice laughed again, rocking
back on his stool. He had obviously had a
little more beer than was good for him.
“People think they have to be afraid of
big folk, but they don’t. I’ve never hit a
man in my life.”
Everyone just stared at him. Their eyes
were deadly earnest.
“Martin killed one of Ensal’s dogs for
growling at him,” Shep said. “Right in the
middle of market. Threw a shovel like it
was a spear. Then gave it a kicking.”
“Nearly killed that last priest,” Graham
said. “The one before Abbe Leodin.
Nobody knows why. Fellow went up to
Martin’s house. That evening Martin
brought him to town in a wheelbarrow
and left him in front of the church.” He
looked at the smith’s prentice. “That was
before your time though. Makes sense
you wouldn’t know.”
“Punched a tinker once,” Jake said.
“Punched a tinker?” the innkeeper burst
out, incredulous.
“Reshi,” Bast said gently. “Martin is
fucking crazy.”
Jake nodded. “Even the levy man
doesn’t go up to Martin’s place.”
Cob looked like he was going to call
Jake out again, then decided to take a
gentler tone. “Well yes,” he said. “True
enough. But that’s ’cause Martin pulled
his full rail in the king’s army. Eight
years.”
“And came back mad as a frothing dog,”
Shep said.
Old Cob was already off his stool and
halfway to the door. “Enough talk. We
got to let Jessom know. If he can get out
of town until Martin cools down a bit...”
“So... when he’s dead?” Jake said
sharply. “Remember when he threw a
horse through the window of the old inn
because the barman wouldn’t give him
another beer?”
“ A tinker?” the innkeeper repeated,
sounding no less shocked than before.
Silence descended at the sound of
footsteps on the landing. Everyone eyed
the door and went still as stone, except for
Bast, who slowly edged toward the
doorway to the kitchen.
Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief
when the door opened to reveal the tall,
slim shape of Carter. He closed the door
behind him, not noticing the tension in
the room. “Guess who’s standing a round
of bottle whiskey for everyone tonight?”
he called out cheerfully, then stopped
where he stood, confused by the roomful
of grim expressions.
Old Cob started to walk to the door
again, motioning for his friend to follow.
“Come on Carter, we’ll explain on the
way. We’ve got to find Jessom double
quick.”
“You’ll have a long ride to find him,”
Carter said. “I drove him all the way to
Baden this afternoon.”
Everyone in the room seemed to relax,
“That’s why you’re so late,” Graham
said, his voice thick with relief. He
slumped back onto his stool and tapped
the bar hard with a knuckle. Bast drew
him another beer.
Carter frowned. “Not so late as all that,”
he groused. “I’d like to see you make it
all the way to Baden and back in this
time, that’s more’n forty miles...”
Old Cob put a hand on the man’s
shoulder. “Nah. It ain’t like that,” he said,
steering his friend toward the bar. “We
were just a little spooked. You probably
saved that damn fool’s
Jessom’s life by getting him out of town.”
He squinted at him. “Though I’ve told
you you shouldn’t be out on the road by
yourself these days...”
The innkeeper fetched Carter a bowl
while Bast went outside to tend to his
horse. While he ate, his friends told him
the day’s gossip in dribs and drabs.
“Well that explains it,” Carter said.
“Jessom showed up reeking like a rummy
and looking like he’d been beat by twelve
different demons. Paid me to drive him to
the Iron Hall, and he took the king’s coin
right there.” Carter took a drink of beer.
“Then paid me to take him to Baden
straight off. Didn’t want to stop off at his
house for his clothes or anything.”
“Not much need for that,” Shep said.
“They’ll dress and feed him in the king’s
army.”
Graham let out a huge sigh. “That was a
near miss. Can you imagine what would
happen if the azzie came for Martin?”
Everyone was silent for a moment,
imagining the trouble that would come if
an officer of the Crown’s Law was
assaulted here in town.
The smith’s prentice looked around at
him, “What about Jessom’s family?” he
asked, plainly worried. “Will Martin
come after them?”
The men at the bar shook their head in
concert. “Martin is crazy,” Old Cob said.
“But he’s not that sort. Not to go after a
woman or her wee ones.”
“I heard he punched the tinker because
he was making some advances on young
Jenna,” Graham said.
“There’s truth to that,” Old Cob said
softly. “I saw it.”
Everyone in the room turned to look at
him, surprised. They’d known Cob all
their lives and had heard all his stories.
Even the most boring of them had been
trotted out three or four times over the
long years. The thought that he might
have held something back was... well...
it was almost unthinkable.
“He was getting all handsy with young
Jenna,” Cob said, not looking up from his
beer. “And she was younger still back
then, mind you.” He paused for a
moment, then sighed. “But I was still old,
and... well... I knew that tinker would
give me a hiding if I tried to stop him. I
could see that plain enough on his face.”
The old man sighed. “I ain’t proud of
that.”
Cob looked up with a vicious little grin.
“Then Martin came round the corner,” he
said. “This was off behind the old
Cooper’s place, remember? And Martin
looked at the fellow, and at Jenna, who
wasn’t crying or nothing, but she
obviously wasn’t happy either. And the
tinker has hold of her wrist...”
Cob shook his head. “When he hit him.
It was like a hammer hitting a ham.
Knocked him right out into the street. Ten
feet, give or take. Then Martin eyed
Jenna, who was crying just a bit then.
More surprised than anything. And
Martin stuck the boot in him. Just once.
Not as hard as he could, either. I could tell
he was just settling up accounts in his
head. Like he was a moneylender
shimming up one side of his scale.”
“That fellow wasn’t any kind of proper
tinker,” Jake said. “I remember him.”
“And I heard things about that priest,”
Graham added.
A few of the others nodded wordlessly.
“What if Jessom comes back?” the
smith’s prentice asked. “I heard some
folk get drunk and take the coin, then turn
all cowardly and jump the rail when they
sober up.”
Everyone seemed to consider that. It
wasn’t a hard thought for any of them. A
band of the king’s guard had come
through town only last month and posted
a notice, announcing a reward for
deserters.
“Tehlu anyway,” Shep said grimly into
his nearly empty mug. “Wouldn’t that be
a great royal pisser of a mess?”
“Jessom’s not coming back,” Bast said
dismissively. His voice had such a note of
certainty that everyone turned to eye him
curiously.
Bast tore off a piece of bread and put it
in his mouth before he realized he was the
center of attention. He swallowed
awkwardly and made a broad gesture
with both hands. “What?” he asked them,
laughing. “Would you come
back,
knowing Martin was waiting?”
There was a chorus of negative grunts
and shaken heads.
“You have to be a special kind of stupid
to wreck up Martin’s still,” Old Cob said.
“Maybe eight years will be enough for
Martin to cool down a bit,” Shep said.
“Not likely,” Jake said.
Later, after the customers were gone,
Bast and the innkeeper sat down in the
kitchen, making their own dinner from
the remainder of the stew and half a loaf
of bread.
“So what did you learn today, Bast?”
the innkeeper asked.
Bast grinned widely. “Today, Reshi, I
found out where Emberlee takes her bath!”
The innkeeper cocked his head
thoughtfully. “Emberlee? The Alards’
daughter?”
“Emberlee Ashton!” Bast threw his
arms up into the air and made an
exasperated noise. “She’s only the third
prettiest girl in twenty miles, Reshi!”
“Ah,” the innkeeper said, an honest
smile flickering across his face for the
first time that day. “You’ll have to point
her out to me.”
Bast grinned. “I’ll take you there
tomorrow,” he said eagerly. “I don’t
know if she takes a bath every day, but
it’s worth the gamble. She’s sweet as
cream and broad of beam.” His smile
grew to wicked proportions. “She’s a
milkmaid, Reshi,” he said the last with
heavy emphasis. “A milkmaid.”
The innkeeper shook his head, even as
his own smile spread helplessly across his
face. Finally he broke into a chuckle and
held up his hand. “You can point her out
to me sometime when she has her clothes
on,” he said pointedly. “That will do
nicely.”
Bast gave a disapproving sigh. “It
would do you a world of good to get out
a bit, Reshi.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “It’s
possible,” he said as he poked idly at his
stew.
They ate in silence for a long while.
Bast tried to think of something to say.
“I did get the carrots, Reshi,” Bast said
as he finished his stew and ladled the rest
of it out of the kettle.
“Better late than never, I suppose,” the
innkeeper said his voice was listless and
grey. “We’ll use them tomorrow.”
Bast shifted in his seat, embarrassed.
“I’m afraid I lost them afterwards,” he
said sheepishly.
This wrung another tired smile from the
innkeeper. “Don’t worry yourself over it,
Bast.” His eyes narrowed then, focusing
on hand that held Bast’s spoon. “What
happened to your hand?”
Bast looked down at the knuckles of his
right hand, they weren’t bloody anymore,
but they were skinned rather badly.
“I fell out of a tree,” Bast said. Not
lying, but not answering the question,
either. It was better not to lie outright.
Even weary and dull, his master was not
an easy man to fool.
“You should be more careful, Bast,” the
innkeeper said, prodding listlessly at his
food. “And with as little as there is to do
around here, it would be nice if you spent
a little more time on your studies.”
“I learned loads of things today, Reshi,”
Bast protested.
The innkeeper sat up, looking more
attentive. “Really?” he said. “Impress me
then.”
Bast thought for a moment. “Nettie
Williams found a wild hive of bees
today,” he said. “And she managed to
catch the queen...”

END


Dated June 17, 2014
From Rogues Anthology
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