The Book of Deacon Page 4

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  As Myranda walked eastward, trying to put the anger of her confrontation out of her mind, she questioned her choice. The advice of a person who knew how she felt about the war had nearly cost Myranda her life the previous day, and here she was making the same mistake.

  Her father would have frowned on this. Her thoughts turned to him. It had been even longer since she'd seen his face than her mother's. She had to struggle to remember his features. He had been a soldier, never home more than a few weeks before he was off to another tour of duty. He still found time to teach her some of the most valued lessons she had ever learned, though. Even though she had not been more than six when she last spoke to him, he had made sure she knew something of the real world. He would tell stories of adventures he'd had, always with a piece of advice at the end. Above all, he'd taught her to pay attention and to learn from her mistakes.

  She shook the memories away. Those days were gone now, too painful to remember.

  With her reminiscing over, the infuriating words of the priest quickly returned. Again, she physically shook. What she needed now was distraction, anything to distance her mind from the pain and anger.

  "So, Bydell and Renack. Each the same distance from the church. What other towns have I been to that shared a church between them? Lucast and Murtock . . . Skell and Marna . . ." she thought aloud.

  She grimaced as the distraction proved inadequate to force the words of the priest from her mind.

  "Bydell!" she forced herself to consider. "Where did that name come from? I wonder if it is by a dell."

  Myranda continued to force her mind onto this and other suitably pointless subjects for the remainder of the cold and lonely trek. She had exhausted nearly every last meaningless avenue of consideration by the time she sloshed into the smoky, dark interior of the Bydell tavern. The sign over the door labeled this place The Lizard's Goblet, a name she wished she'd had to toss about in her mind on the trip. The reasoning behind such a name could have filled at least a few minutes. The smell of roasting meat and the tantalizing sound of wine being poured set her mind firmly on her empty stomach.

  The tables of the noisy room were all at least partially filled. As she scanned the establishment for a place to sit, she could feel eyes staring back. Myranda's eyes passed the faces of at least a dozen men far too young and healthy to be anywhere but the front line. They each had found some way, likely underhanded, to avoid their obligation to serve. Now they sat, drinking and laughing in this place, criminals for choosing life. Among the rogue's gallery of faces was a particularly suspicious-looking person in the dark far corner, still shrouded in his gray cloak. Nearly every man in the whole of the room wore a similar cloak, as the King had made them available for free as a favor to the downtrodden masses.

  When she finally located a seat she would be comfortable in, she moved quickly to claim it.

  The seat she chose was at the counter where the drinks were served. The odd plate and knife scattered about the bar assured her that she would be allowed to take her meal there as well. It was not the most luxurious of chairs, but with a handful of empty seats between herself and the nearest denizen of the bar to ease her nerves in such a rowdy place, it would do well enough. She sat and awaited the tavern keeper's service.

  Several minutes passed, punctuated by stomach rumblings reminding her of the fact she had yet to be served. A glance down the bar revealed the keeper to be in a very spirited conversation with a gruff customer he shared more than a casual resemblance to. She decided that they must be brothers, and chose not to interrupt their conversation. Surely he would take her order soon. As this thought passed through her mind, a particularly thick cloud of pipe smoke wafted past her face. It was all she could do to keep from gagging. She turned a watering eye to the source of the offending fumes.

  Behind her, an old man with a patch over his right eye let out a long, raking sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. The outburst lasted for a disturbingly long time, shaking his body as it progressed. The long, thin pipe he gnawed on was lodged securely between two of the only teeth left in his mouth. The half-rotten things had been used to clutch the stalk of the pipe so often they had parted to make room for it. She winced as a second, far more powerful outburst spread his lips far enough to confirm the solitary standing of the pipe-holding teeth. Another man sat at the table with him, staring intently at her. He looked as though he had not slept in days. On his shoulder was a scraggly bird of some kind. He whispered to it dementedly, prompting another long, raking laugh from his companion.

  Sneaking another scan of the patrons of the tavern, she realized that most of the other men were staring at her as well, a fact that made her more than a bit uncomfortable. Myranda turned back to the bar. A trio of flies were enjoying the remains of the meal left by the seat's previous occupant. It was seldom warm enough outside for flies to survive, so it was more than likely that these creatures had lived for generations due to the lackluster housekeeping skills of the Lizard's Goblet's staff.

  The flies drifted lazily off to their next meal when a particularly tipsy couple bumped into the bar on their way to the stairs that were at Myranda's right side. The collision nearly knocked her from her seat, but the couple merely stumbled up the stairs without so much as an acknowledgment of their rudeness. There were half a dozen similar bumps and jostles before the innkeeper reluctantly headed in her direction.

  "Make it fast, missy, I am in the middle of something," said the less-than-hospitable man.

  "What have you got over the fire?" she asked.

  He sighed heavily as he turned to the kitchen.

  "Goat," was his rather unappetizing description of the meal when he turned back.

  "I will have some of that and some wine," she said.

  "No wine," he said.

  "Why not?" Myranda asked.

  "Haven't had a drop in weeks. Very expensive stuff, you know," he said.

  Myranda turned to a nearby table where a man was pouring himself a tall glass of the very beverage she sought.

  "Are you certain?" she asked.

  "Wine is very expensive," he repeated. "People who cannot afford wine usually order ale."

  Now it was clear. The wine was reserved for the better-off of his customers. He did not think she could afford any. Judging by how this man did business, the price was surely prohibitive.

  "Ale will be fine," she said.

  He pulled a heavy tankard out from underneath the bar and held it below the tap of one of the numerous kegs that lined the wall between himself and the kitchen. He dropped it down in front of her, sloshing a good deal of it onto the sticky surface of the bar. Myranda wiped the rim and sampled the beverage as she watched the keeper shuffle into the kitchen in no particular hurry. His back was to the girl when the intensely bitter flavor of the ale struck her, sparing him the rather contorted face it brought about.

  In truth, it was not particularly a bad brew, as ales went, but she not been fond of the best of them, and this was not nearly as good as that. She briefly entertained the notion of skipping the drink and simply awaiting the meal, but the barrel clearly indicated that this was a home brew, and the owners of taverns tended to take great pride in their creations. It was best not to turn her nose up at it. For the sake of harmony, she took another swallow. At any rate, it was a darn sight better than the leathery rain water she had been living off of from her flask day in and day out, and she did not look forward to the flavor of the contents of the soldier's flask either.

  The plate of food was set before her: a slice of rather overcooked goat meat accompanied by a mound of boiled cabbage. A knife clattered to rest beside her plate. She carved a piece of the charred meat, speared it with the knife tip, and tasted it. The morsel required more than its share of chewing to render it fit to swallow. She followed the meat with a mouthful of the typically bland cabbage. Cabbage seemed to be the only vegetable that existed these days, and the flavor was always the same. Absent.

/>   Myranda's jaw ached by the time she had done away with the shoe leather of a main course. It was barely the equal of the disturbingly old provisions that were even now growing older in her pack, but it was thankfully enough to satisfy her appetite. When she pushed the pitted metal plate aside, she was greeted quite swiftly by the innkeeper.

  "Will that be all?" he asked insincerely, more interested in her money than her satisfaction.

  "Oh, yes. Thank you," she said.

  "Five coppers for the food, two for the ale," he said, holding out his hand.

  Seven copper coins. That was a bit more than she'd expected. If she recalled correctly, there had been twenty or so coppers in the soldier's bag. Her first thought as Myranda reached for the bag was whether she would have enough for a room that night. That worry was pushed aside by the chilling realization that the bag of coins was not hanging from her belt, where she had left it. She patted desperately about, hoping to hear the jingle of coins somewhere, but the only sound she heard was the impatient drumming of the fingers of the man waiting to be paid. Anxiety burned at the back of her mind as she rustled first one side then the other of her tattered cloak, shaking any pockets she had on her person. She knew she'd had it when she had come in. There had been the distinct clink of coins when she sat down. Her mind raced. Where could they be? As her panic grew, the bartender's patience wore thin.

  "Today, Missy. The other customers want service," he said sternly.

  "I--I just--" she stuttered, pulling her pack to her lap to search it.

  When she pulled the bag in front of her, the sudden shift knocked the heavy bundled sword free. It clanged to the ground. Quickly she bent to retrieve it. She plucked it awkwardly from the floor and sat up, finding she had been joined. It was the tall, cloaked figure she had noticed in the corner earlier. The hood was pulled forward, and in the dim light of the tavern his face was wholly hidden. He stood at least a full head taller than she, but the coarse cloak hid his build. He pushed the fold of the cloak aside to extend a lean, leather-gloved and gray-sleeved arm. As was nearly the requirement in the biting cold of the north, not an inch of skin was uncovered. The stranger opened his hand and a silver coin fell to the bar.

  "The young lady's meal is my treat," spoke the stranger in a clear, confident voice. "She and I are old friends. I do hope you will be staying until morning, there is so much to catch up on."

  "Oh, yes, well . . . I had planned to if I could afford it," she said.

  A second coin fell to the bar.

  "Your finest room, good sir," he said.

  The keeper pulled a ring of keys from his stained apron. Carefully, he selected the least worn of the keys, placing it on the table and sweeping up the coins. The stranger stopped him.

  "Not so swiftly, kind keeper. I think a bottle of wine would make a fine companion on a night such as this," the stranger added.

  "I am sorry to say that I have none," the innkeeper said, the silver apparently earning this newcomer the polite treatment.

  A third coin clattered to the table.

  "Do be sure, I am quite thirsty," he said.

  "Wish I could oblige, but you see . . ."

  A fourth coin dropped.

  "Perhaps a glance in the back would not hurt," the innkeeper said.

  He walked through the smoky doorway and returned immediately with a bottle.

  "As luck would have it, I have a single bottle left from last season. Drink it in good health," the innkeeper said with a wide smile as the equivalent of a large pile of copper coins was swept into his apron.

  "Thank you, and thank you very much. Good . . . to see you . . . again. I will just get up to my room now," Myranda said as she hurriedly gathered her things, as well as the key and the bottle.

  Bouts of luck like these were rare, and tended to turn sour quickly. She wanted to make sure she made it to the room before this one gave out. The warped stairs groaned as she rushed up them to a very poorly-lit hallway at the top. The left wall was lined with windows hung with heavy drapes drawn against the cold. A few of the last amber rays of the sunset found their way between the drapes to cast weak light on a row of thin, flimsy doors. They totaled seven, the last adorned with a fancier, arched top. She approached it, squinting to make out the number of the door and match it to her key. After pulling the drapes aside to shed light on the door, she tried her key.

  Though the key clearly matched the lock, it refused to turn. She turned the worn piece of metal every which way, but in the frustratingly dark hall she could not see what the problem was. She glanced at a candle holder on the wall and grumbled. Its candle had burned beyond the point of usefulness long ago without being replaced. Eventually she managed to force the key into the appropriate position, turning it and gaining entrance to the room.

  She closed the door behind her, mercifully finding it easier to lock than to unlock. It was a modest room, shrouded in near-complete darkness, but it may as well have been a palace. Sleeping in a half-collapsed tent next to a smoldering fire in the middle of a tundra had a way of improving one's appreciation of the lesser luxuries, such as walls that were thicker than her clothes. Without even lighting a lamp, she dropped her pack on one of the two chairs set at a small table on one side of the room.

  She dropped herself onto the second chair and released a sigh of satisfaction. With effort, she pulled her left foot to her right knee and undid the stiff laces of her boot. Slowly, she slid the boot from her aching foot for the first time in days and flexed her toes. The second foot had only just received the same treatment when she heard a knock at the door that startled her.

  "Who is there?" she asked, getting back to her feet.

  After the all-too-brief rest they had received, the sore extremities were reluctant to go back to work. She hobbled painfully as she stowed her things, particularly the sword, safely behind the bed.

  "Your friend from downstairs," answered a familiar voice.

  Myranda took two steps toward the door, but stopped. She wanted very much to thank him for all of his help. Unfortunately, it was more than likely that he had come with a particular form the gratitude should take in mind. In times like these, kindness was a rarity, but charity was nonexistent.

  "I . . . I am a bit tired just now," she said.

  "Tired? Well, I suppose we shall talk tomorrow then. Enjoy your rest," he said--disappointment in his voice, but no anger.

  Myranda placed her ear to the door to hear the light retreat of footsteps, followed by the scratch of a key in a similarly misshapen keyhole. His response was not what she had expected. There was not a hint of resentment or malice in his voice after he had been denied entrance to a room for which he had paid. He did not even try to convince her otherwise. It was contrary to every lesson she had learned in her years alone and every piece of advice she had ever received, but Myranda decided that she would let the man in. She would not allow the bitterness and cynicism that had infuriated her so in the past guide her own decisions.

  She limped to the door and turned the key, which was still in the lock. The door creaked open and she stuck her head out to see his darkened form still struggling with the temperamental lock. He turned his hooded head in her direction.

  "I am very sorry; you are welcome to come inside," she said.

  "Nonsense, I would not dare deprive you of a good night of sleep," he said.

  "I insist," she said.

  "Well, if I must," he said lightly.

  When she had allowed the cloaked stranger into the room, she shut the door, but left it unlocked. Just in case his intentions were less than pure, she wanted to be sure that she could usher him out quickly.

  "I am very sorry if I had seemed rude a moment ago," she said, pulling the second chair out for him.

  "Rude?" he said. "Am I to take it that you are not tired, then?"

  "Well, I am, but--" she began.

  "Then what is there to warrant apology?" the stranger asked.

  "I should have asked you in. The room is
yours, in all reality. You paid for it," she said.

  "You hold the key, the room is yours," he said, easing himself onto the chair. "Interesting, the fellow sells wine but has no wine glasses. No matter, it is not the glass but the contents, eh?"

  He placed two tankards on the table while Myranda found a lamp and managed to light it. She turned to her guest, who still had his heavy hood pulled entirely forward, hiding his face far back in its shadow.

  "You know, thanks to your generosity, this room is near enough to the chimney to provide a comfortable temperature. You do not need the cloak," she said.

  "I would just as soon keep it," he said.

  "Well . . . that is fine, I suppose," Myranda said, removing her own cloak and hanging it on the bed post.

  The stranger carefully poured out a third of a tankard of the wine for each of them.

  "Here's to you, my dear," he said, bringing the cup beneath the hood and sipping awkwardly.

  After getting a taste, he lowered his glass to the table, smacking his lips thoughtfully. Myranda sampled it herself, immediately startled by an intensity closer to brandy than wine. It was quite a bit stronger than she had expected. As it dripped down her throat, she felt the fiery heat spread, finally taking the lingering chill from her insides, just as she hoped it would.

  "Intriguing flavor," her guest commented.

  Myranda coughed a bit as the powerful drink seemed to hollow out her throat.

  "It does the job, though," she managed.

  "Admirably," he agreed, lifting the cup to his lips for a second awkward sip.

  "Wouldn't it be easier to drink if you pulled the hood back?" Myranda asked.

  "Drinking would be easier, I am sure, but things would become . . . uncomfortable," he said, tugging his hood even further forward.

  Myranda looked uneasily at her guest. There was something very unsettling about his rigid refusal to reveal his face. She sipped at the wine as the darker reasons for such a desire flooded her head. He might be self-conscious, or perhaps if he were to reveal his face, he would place her in some kind of danger due to some dark past that is haunting him.

  "Well, since we are here under the pretense that we are old friends, I think it would be best to learn your name," he said, breaking the uneasy silence and Myranda's train of thought.

  "Oh, yes, of course. My name is Myranda. And yours?" she asked.

  "Leo. A pleasure to meet you, Myranda," he answered, putting his hand out for her to shake. She did so graciously.

  "And a pleasure to meet you as well, Leo. I really cannot thank you enough for helping me. I have yet to meet another who would have done the same," she said.

  "I do not doubt it," he said, a bit of anger in his voice. "So tell me, how did you come to be in such a predicament?"

  "I had brought a bag of coins with me. It must have been stolen," she said.

  "Where you were sitting, you were asking for that to happen," he said.

  "I know it," she said. "Had I been thinking I never would have chosen that seat."

  A moment of silence passed. Myranda took another glance at the hood.

  "Is it because you are cold?" she asked.

  "Pardon?" said the stranger.

  "The cloak. Are you cold?" she asked again.

  "Not particularly," he said. "You do not strike me as a local. Where do you call home?"

  "Nowhere, I am sorry to say. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had spent more than a week or so in one place," she replied.

  "Really? We have something in common, then!" he said, pleased. "I spend most of my days on the road myself. In my case it is the nature of my career. Is it likewise with you?"

  "If only. My nomadic nature is strictly by choice," she said.

  "Hmm," he pondered. "You have chosen a life you hate. You will have to elaborate on that."

  "Well, suffice to say that those that I encounter tend not to be especially fond of those like myself," she said, immediately worrying that she had said a bit too much.

  "Oh? Another common trait," he said.

  "Really? Is . . . that why you have got your face hidden?" she asked.

  "Alas, I am found out," he said, throwing his hands up in mock despair.

  Myranda's imagination seized this new fact and constructed a new set of possibilities. What about his face could make him an outcast? He may be the victim of some terrible disease. Worse, he could be a wanted criminal. There were more than a few outlaws who would find themselves in a cell for life if they ever showed their faces again. She was even more uneasy now. What sort of man had she let into this room? Could the kindness have been nothing but a ruse?

  "What sort of man are you?" she said, her worry showing through. "I must know."

  "Now, now, Myranda, fair is fair. If you pull back your hood, and I will pull back mine," he said. "What are you hiding?"

  "Very well," Myranda sighed. It would seem tonight would be spent outside again. "I am . . . what you would call . . . a . . . sympathizer."

  She hung her head, awaiting a voice of disdain. She did not have to wait long.

  "A sympathizer!?" he said in a harsh whisper. "Oh come now! Is that all!?"

  "What?" she said, looking up.

  "You are a sympathizer. I would hardly place us in the same boat. Sympathy is nothing!" he said angrily.

  "You mean you don't care?" she said, a hint of a grin coming to her face.

  "I have got quite enough worries of my own. What do I care what side you root for? It hardly seems fair that I have to show you my face after a measly little confession like that," he complained.

  A full smile lit up Myranda's face and she let a bit of joy escape in the form of laughter.

  "You, Leo, are too good to be true. Generous, gentlemanly, and understanding," she said.

  "Well, let us see if you still think so highly of me in a few moments," he said, lifting his hands to his hood.

  "Leo, after all you have said and done tonight, I cannot imagination anything behind that hood that could keep you and I from being friends," she said.

  Leo's leather-gloved hands clutched the edge of the hood and quickly drew it back. The smile dropped from Myranda's face. A mixture of fear and revulsion spilled over her. It was no human that looked back at her. Protruding from the neck of the cloak was what appeared to be the head of a fox. It was in proportion to the body, with a deep orange fur covering all but the muzzle, chin and throat, which had a creamy white color. His eyes were larger and more expressive than an animal's, brown and the only remotely human feature. The corner of his mouth was turned up in a slight smirk as he read her expression.

  He twitched a pointed, black-tipped ear as he pulled a fiery red pony tail from inside the hood. It fell to nearly his waist, lightening along its length to the same color as his throat. Myranda couldn't keep a gasp from escaping her lips.

  "Not what you expected, eh?" he asked. "I told you things would become uncomfortable."

  Myranda closed her eyes and reached for the glass she had put on the table. Leo slid it to her searching fingers. Grasping it, she gulped down the contents hoping to settle her churning stomach and rattled nerves. When she lowered the glass, Leo filled it to the brim, then stood and began gathering up his ponytail.

  Myranda ventured another peek at her visitor.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Unless I have greatly misread your reaction, it would seem you do not much relish my presence," he answered as he tucked the hair inside his cloak and restored the hood.

  Now knowing the shape of the face that the hood had concealed before, Myranda wondered how she had not noticed earlier. Though a normal hood might conceal him, it would be perilously close to revealing the tip of his snout, even with the hood pulled comically far forward. Yet his face seemed to vanish into inky shadow the instant the hood was pulled into place. Leo was nearly to the door before she had finished sputtering and coughing from the powerful wine she had forced down.

  "Don't go!
" she coughed.

  He stopped.

  "Please--" Cough, cough. "--sit down, I should not have reacted so horribly. I was startled," she said.

  "Are you sure you do not want me to go?" he asked, turning to her.

  "I insist you stay for a while. Nothing has changed. I still owe you for all of this, and you have still treated me with more kindness than anyone I have met in years," she said.

  Leo returned to his seat. "Would you prefer me to keep the hood up?" he asked.

  "I want you to be comfortable," she said.

  Leo opened his cloak and removed it, tossing it to the bed. Now that it was no longer obscured, Myranda finally got a glimpse of his build. It was lean, bordering on gaunt, but healthy. His clothes were plain and gray, quite simple and very worn. He slipped the leather gloves from his hands, revealing a second pair of black gloves, these composed of his own fur.

  "You . . . you are a . . . m--a m--" Myranda stuttered.

  "A malthrope? Indeed. To my knowledge half fox and half human," he answered.

  "I was not sure if it was alright to call you a m-malthrope," she said, the word sticking in her throat.

  "Mmm, I understand. It is not exactly a term for mixed company. Certainly one saved for the end of an argument," he said knowingly.

  He was right, of course. The term carried the very most negative of connotations. Speaking it as a child was a sure way to a sound scolding. Malthropes were the thieves, murderers, and scoundrels of horror stories told to frighten children into good behavior. Half man and half some manner of beast, they were monsters and fiends. The kindness and consideration Leo had shown could not be farther from what she had been taught to expect from these creatures.

  "I thought there were no more m--no more of your kind left," she said.

  "You are not far from correct. I've more fingers on my hands than I have memories of others like me. Clearly we are not the most popular race," he said, his demeanor was somehow cheerful despite the loneliness and isolation he described.

  "How is it that you have made it for so long in a world so hostile to your kind?" asked Myranda.

  "Well, thanks in no small part to that little wonder I threw on the bed. I had to spend every coin I had and more than a year searching for a wizard willing to produce it for me. With it on, no one can see my face," he said.

  "But, how did--" she began.

  "Now, now. By this time you should know my policy. Money has its value, but information the greatest treasure of all. You must give to receive," Leo said.

  Myranda sipped at the wine again. She had consumed quite a bit of the powerful stuff and done so very quickly. Her judgment was a bit impaired. Had she her wits about her, she likely would not have said what she said next.

  "A trade then. I will tell you all you care to know about myself and my people, and you return the favor," she offered.

  "A fair proposition," he said, extending his now-bare hand.

  Myranda grasped it and gave it a firm shake. It was a peculiar experience shaking the hirsute appendage, but she was careful to appear as though she didn't notice.

  "Now, where to begin? I was born in a large town south of here called Kenvard," she said.

  "Kenvard . . . was that the old western capital?" he asked.

  "One and the same. My father was Greydon and my mother was Lucia. She was a teacher. The teacher, really. Because of that she knew every man woman and child in town by name and so did I. When I was about six years old, though, the front came very near to our walls. Father was away, serving in the army somewhere else as he often--no, usually was. I was in the garden with mother. The church bells started ringing, which at that time of day was the signal to meet in the town center during an emergency.

  "We had not even made it halfway there when the arrows started to fall. Flaming arrows. They fell like rain. In a heartbeat the whole town was aflame. Panic spread as it became clear that a force had surrounded the town, and siege was not their intention. A siege we were prepared for, but they wished to destroy us. To eliminate the town. My mother gave me to my uncle and sent us away to find safety. She went off to round up the screaming children that had been separated from their parents. Somehow, we found an exit clear of attackers and escaped the town. To this day I have not seen another familiar face from Kenvard," she recounted, tears welling in her eyes.

  "I had heard about the Kenvard massacre. Totally pointless. The city of Kenvard had no military value. It was filled with women and children. Perhaps ages ago, when it was the capital of the entire kingdom of Kenvard, such an attack would have made sense, but ever since it was merely made part of the Northern Alliance, there are dozens of cities that would have fallen more easily, and done more damage to the war effort. Needless destruction. Until now I had thought there were no survivors," Leo said.

  "There were at least two. My Uncle Edward and I spent a dozen years trying to find a place that would have us. It was not easy. Uncle never forgave the Alliance Army for failing us, and he could not quell his hatred for the men who had attacked either. He became a man consumed with hate. He was not shy about his feelings, either. Before we had been in any community for very long, something would trigger a rant about the uselessness of the Alliance Army. It did not matter to the townsfolk that his hatred for the enemy burned just as brightly--he was a traitor for speaking ill of the beloved army.

  "Then, when I was eighteen, we stayed just a bit too long. His words had been heard by a neighbor, and before we could gather our things to escape, an angry mob battered down our door. I do not even remember which village it had been, all I know is that for the second and final time a member of my family met their end due to this wretched war. Not by combat, but by the war itself. Since then, I have been on my own, going from place to place. I am a bit more discreet about my feelings for the war, but I am constantly on the move regardless, either because I misspeak, or I fear I might, or . . ." She trailed off.

  "Or what?" Leo asked.

  "No, it is just foolish," she said.

  "I would still like to hear it," Leo said.

  "Well . . . I saw the death of my mother and uncle with my own eyes. My father, he was a soldier, and by this time he would have been one for nearly thirty years. My head tells me that he must have been killed by now. Soldiers who make it past their first few years are few and far between, let alone their first few decades. My brain tells me he cannot be alive. My heart pleads me to believe that he still lives. Whenever I find a nice home, and I have been careful to behave as the other villagers do, it is the hope that my father might be in the next town that tears me from my place," she said.

  "Sometimes hope is all we have. Tell me, though, if the Tresson army stripped you of your home and loved ones, why do you feel sympathy for them?" he asked.

  "At first I didn't. I shared my uncle's blinding hatred for them. Years passed and slowly my eyes began to open. The men who performed that terrible deed, they were only soldiers. Our men have laid siege to targets to the south time and again. It is not through spite or malice that these men kill, but through tradition. This conflict started more than a century ago. None of us have ever known any other life. They kill because their fathers did, as did theirs before them. The war is to blame, and every man woman or child, regardless of which side, is a victim of it," she answered.

  "You are wise beyond your years," he said, and began to ask another question but she stopped him.

  "Uh, uh, uh. You know the rules. I give, you give. Time for you to answer one of my questions," she said.

  "Right you are, though I must warn you, yours is a difficult tale to follow. Let us see. I am not sure where I was born, but it was somewhere in the deep south. I spent the first ten years of my life in an orphanage for, shall we say, unfortunate children. It housed children of every race and background that were, for whatever reason, left behind. Be it due to injury, illness, deformity, or . . . species, none of us would ever see a home.

  "I would wager to say that there w
ere only two things that all of the other children shared. A longing to be a part of a normal family, and a healthy hatred for me. I am frankly shocked that I was allowed to live as long as I did. One of the caretakers was a softhearted old man who, for whatever reason, did not loathe me. I am certain it was only through his intervention that I was not murdered by the other orphans and caretakers.

  "By the way, you would think that if a child just so happened to be the spitting image of a story's villain, they would spare the child that tale. Not so. I heard so many stories of my kind performing unspeakable evils so many times that I know them all by heart. The others remembered the lessons taught by those stories as well. Never trust my kind," he said.

  "Now, clearly those were not the most ideal years one could hope for, but after I turned ten, things found a way to become remarkably worse. The old man who had protected me for so long died. His body was not even in the ground when the others proved once and for all that he had indeed been my savior for all of those years. They showed me what they thought of my kind in no uncertain terms.

  "I was forced to run away and go into hiding. As much as my differences had seemed a curse before, they began to show their blessing side when I was faced with life in the forest for months at a time. This nose may not win me any friends, but it can sniff out a rabbit half a forest away, that is for sure. It was years before I set foot in a town again--at least, during the day. I had managed to sneak into farmhouses and such to steal an easy meal on occasion, but I never let anyone see me.

  "To this day I wonder what made me decide to return to the world that had chased me away. I suppose the human in me has as much say in what I do as the fox, because one day I wandered into a small town. What was it named? . . . Bero. Well, I looked about as you would expect after years in the woods. I was wearing barely a shred of clothes, absolutely filthy. My hair was about so long," he remarked, indicating shoulder-length with his hand. "and a knotty, matted mess. As a matter of fact, I have yet to cut it since that day, so somewhere among these tresses are the very same locks I wore on that day."

  "At any rate, my return to civilization was not warmly greeted. I received what still stands as the worst beating of my life, and was thrown into a shed until the townsfolk could claim a live bounty. In those days you could turn in a live malthrope for one hundred-fifty silver pieces or the tail off of a dead one for seventy-five. Fortunately those fellows got neither, as I was able to escape that shed in time.

  "Had I a decent head on my shoulders, I would have learned my lesson, and returned to the forest until some hunter or woodsman killed me in typical fairytale fashion. Then at least my memory would have been passed on from generation to generation to scare children. Instead I let the vengeful instincts of youth guide my actions. I decided that if humans did not want me among them, then among them I would remain. Before long I found that during the winter I could bundle up enough to go unnoticed. The next clear step was to go to the place where such gear was commonplace in all seasons. And so I came to be a denizen of the Nameless Empire," he said.

  "Please, not that I mind, but we prefer to call it the Northern Alliance," she said, realizing how evil the alternative sounded.

  "I know," Leo said, drawing his vulpine visage into his peculiar little smirk. "I wanted to see how you would react. Besides, now it is my turn to ask you a question."

  "Go right ahead," Myranda said.

  "If you are so often on the move, how is it you manage to earn money enough to survive?" he asked.

  "Well, the money I had intended to buy dinner with was in a satchel I had found on the body of a dead man in the middle of a field north of here," she said smoothly. Now that the second glass of powerful wine was nearly empty, it did not even occur to her how strange and awful that must have sounded.

  "I see . . . so do you roam the wastes in search of expired aristocrats, or have you got a more conventional means of support?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "Oh, I do whatever I can. Help in a field, clean a house, that sort of thing. Anything anyone with money needs done. If the odd jobs in a town dry up, I move on. Yet another reason I never sit still," she said. "What about you? What do you do?"

  "That is a shade more difficult to explain. As you pointed out, the Perpetual War tends to get under the skin of the good people, north and south. It seeps into everything that they do. As such, battle is as much a matter of sport and pleasure as it is a matter of combating the enemy. Here and there, particularly in the north, arenas can be found. People gather there to watch various fighters clash in the name of entertainment," he said.

  "I have heard of those places," Myranda said with a sneer.

  "Well, it is in those places that I earn a living," he said.

  "You earn a wage by beating others to death?" Myranda said, shocked.

  "No, no. Not to death. We would run short of fresh talent rather quickly if that was the case, what with the army offering the same opportunities for far greater prestige. No, our matches last until the other fighter, or fighters, either submit or are unable to continue. When I fight, I wear a helmet with a face mask that completely conceals my face. Needless to say, a faceplate with a snout draws a bit of attention, but I have led the crowd to believe I am a man pretending to be a beast to gain a psychological edge over my opponents," Leo explained.

  "Clever," she said.

  "I hate the mask, though. The thing is practically a muzzle. I will wear it every day, though, so long as the prize money continues to flow. I just won a three-week-long tournament a few days ago. Placed a hefty bet on myself. All told, I took away more than two hundred silver pieces. That ought to last for some time. After all, I get most of my food, drink, and even shelter from the forest. Aside from medical and clothing, I have no expenses," he said.

  "I wish I could say the same. There are a few rather expensive purchases I need to make, but before I do, I will have to find a wealthier town," she said.

  "Why is that?" he asked.

  "Well, this town has a rather sparse market. I will need to find a town that has a store that buys and sells weapons or jewels," she said.

  "Jewels? Interested in buying jewelry?" he asked, raising the eyebrow again. "You do not strike me as the jewelry type."

  "Oh, no, that sort of thing does not appeal to me. I need to buy a tent and a horse," she said.

  Leo furrowed his brow and scratched his head. "You are aware that those are items not typically found at a gem dealer or a weapon smith," he said.

  Myranda laughed, covering her mouth and shaking her head. "I am sorry about that. I did not quite make myself clear, did I? You see, I have got something that I want to sell so that I can afford those things."

  "Ah, now I see. What did you have in mind? I thought I heard something clang right before I helped you out," he said.

  "Well, um, right you are," she said. She still had enough sense about her to know that she should not show off the sword to someone she barely knew, but he had seen it fall. It would be terribly rude and distrustful to hide it from him now. She would show it and hope for the best.

  She stood and quickly stumbled back down. The room was spinning.

  "Careful now, I think that the wine had a bit more of a kick than you had realized," Leo said, standing to help her.

  "It certainly did," she said. A tinge of fear raced through her as she worried that there might have been more than just wine in that glass. The dizziness and fear faded together after a few moments. "I must have stood too quickly."

  Myranda carefully pulled the sword from its hasty hiding place and placed it on the table, pulling the blanket off. Leo's eyes widened.

  "That is a fine weapon," he said.

  He leaned close and cast a gaze of admiration upon the mirror finish.

  "Excellent temper . . . clean edge," he said, scanning the weapon eagerly with his expert eyes. "Would you mind if I lifted it?"

  "Go right ahead," she said.

  He slipped his gloves on before touch
ing the elegant weapon, apparently fearful of smudging the surface. He then lifted it, carefully considering its weight and looking down the length of the blade, admiring its quality.

  "Superb balance, surprisingly light. I do not have much use for the long sword in my work, but I can tell you that this is a remarkable weapon," he said, placing it down and removing the gloves.

  "I was most interested in the handle," she said.

  "Why? There was nothing specifically remarkable about the grip," he said, puzzled.

  "What about the jewels?" she asked.

  "Oh, Oh. I had not even noticed. Cosmetic touches like that are the last things I look for," he said. "Those would raise the price a tad, I would say."

  "I should hope so," Myranda said, wrapping the sword and replacing it.

  "A word of advice. If you want the best price, see a collector, not a smith. Shop owners always pay less than what they think they can sell something for. Collectors pay what the piece is worth. As much as those jewels are worth, I would wager the workmanship and uniqueness of that piece would fetch a still higher price," he said.

  "I am not greedy. So long as this treasure earns me what I need, I will be more than satisfied. If it pays for a want or two, all the better," she said.

  "Trust me, you will have quite enough," he said.

  Putting the sword down again had disturbed the bandage. She adjusted it, frowning at its appearance. The filthy bar had lent more than its share of filth to the already tea-stained cloth, turning it black and greasy wherever it had touched the table.

  "What happened?" Leo asked, indicating the injury.

  "Oh. I burnt myself," she said--best not to be specific in this case, particularly considering the fact even she was unsure of exactly what happened.

  Leo nodded thoughtfully. "You will want to let the air at that. Burns heal better that way. Just a few hours a day ought to do. Less of a scar," he said.

  "Is that so?" she asked.

  "Trust me. I spend most of the year recovering from one injury or another," he said, placing his hand on his shoulder and working the joint until a distinct snap could be heard.

  "Why not see a healer, or a cleric?" she asked.

  "Aside from the fact that they are nearly impossible to find? Believe it or not, when those folks do their job, they tend to want a look at their patient. I would rather not have them find out what I am--and if a healer cannot tell at the first glance I would frankly think twice about allowing them to work on me," he explained.

  "Right, foolish of me to ask," she said.

  As the hours of the night passed, Myranda made up for an eternity of solitude. She spoke until her voice nearly failed her and drank in Leo's words as deeply as she did the wine. They were equally rare luxuries to her, and she would enjoy them as long as she could. Weariness and wine were a potent mix, though, and finally her eyes were too heavy to ignore. Even so, she fought to stay awake to share more tales with her friend. It was Leo, always the gentleman, who insisted that she get some rest. He stood to leave.

  "Before you go, I must ask you something," Myranda said.

  "Don't let me stop you," he said, slipping his gloves on.

  "You have every reason to be as bitter and angry as my late uncle. How is it that you have come to be so kind?" she asked.

  Leo threw his cloak about his shoulders as he answered. "Simple. Would you have let such a grim and angry person through this door?"

  "I suppose not," she said.

  "Of course not. You reap what you sow in this world. I do not mean to say that I have never been as you described. I spent the better half of my years hating your people with all of my heart and soul. Perhaps a part of me still does. The truth is, whether I like it or not, your people rule this world. I can either live a life of hate and solitude, or I can do what I feel is right and hope for the same in return. Until today, though, I'd had little luck. Meeting you serves to remind me that there is some good within everyone, even if you have to dig to find it," he explained.

  With that, the unique creature pulled his hood into place, instantly becoming one of the nameless, faceless masses again. He then pulled the door open, wished her a good night's rest, and shut it behind him.

  Myranda spent a long moment staring at the door. She had learned much in the past few hours. It shamed her, but she could not deny the fact that had she seen his face before she'd known his nature, she would have treated him with the same disdain and prejudice he had come to expect. All of her life, she had heard the horror stories of what these beast men did. To think that one of these "fiends" would show her the patience, warmth, and understanding that even the priest lacked . . . In short, Leo was everything that Myranda feared had been lost forever in the wake of this horrific war.

  Without his lively presence in the room, Myranda realized how tired she really was. She rose from her chair and sat on her bed. Doing so jostled a cloud of dust from the poorly-kept quilt. A glance at the bandage reminded her of Leo's words. Carefully, she removed it. The coarse, grayish material had absorbed only a drop or two of blood. Her palm had been entirely swollen the day before, but now there was only a stripe of redness along her palm and a single welt toward her fingers. She laid back and winced as the tightness in her back slowly eased away.

  Finally she shifted herself under the covers and stretched, prompting the odd crack or snap from her weary joints. She smiled as she lowered her head onto the greatest luxury of all, a pillow. Before drifting quickly to sleep, she placed her left arm over her head on the pillow, exposing the afflicted palm to some much-needed fresh air while she rested.