The Singing Stones of Rendor, page 21
part #1 of Eidolon Series
Chapter Twenty-one
Bustle BeRry Pie
On the road to Kerner, the tinkers met the crew as they were finishing their repair of the road across Kerner Creek. Hewn stone for a half-built retaining wall lay piled by the creek bank. Willim stopped to make sure they could cross and told them of Jon’s injuries.
Little Tommy Collins, who had been fishing and watching the repair work, eagerly volunteered to run ahead and tell Jon’s wife. He, his fishing pole and his wild red hair soon disappeared over a low rise heading to the village.
The wagons rumbled across the creek, made their way past a few farms and along the outer stone walls of the village. A crowd of villagers streamed through the south gate as they drove into a broad clearing.
“Hi ho, Willim,” a villager called. “Li’l Tommy tells us Jon’s all busted up and yer bringin’ him home. How’s he farin’?”
“Yes, he’s in the back and doing well.” He thumbed over his shoulder to where Jon lay. The man hurried by Willim to the rear of the wagon. The crowd enveloped them, asking about Jon and bringing them to a stop.
Jon greeted folks as they drew near, asking about his health and saying he looked better than they were told. The sound of Beth’s panicked voice was soon heard over the milieu.
Beth raced to the back of the crowd. The villagers let her and Tommy Collins through. When she came into view of her injured husband, she stopped. Tommy, just tall enough to rest his chin on the open tailgate, stood beside her.
She cocked her head and squinted a suspicious eye at Jon as she placed her hands on her hips. The crowd went silent.
Beth stared at Jon for a moment, looked to B’Tris, to Willim and to K’Las before returning her gaze to Jon. She bent toward Tommy and wagged a fierce finger at him. “What yeh got to say for yerself, young man?”
Tommy’s unshorn red hair seemed to flail as wildly as the finger he pointed at Willim. “But . . . but . . . that’s what Mr. Campanill said.”
“Tommy, Mr. Campanill would never use words like mashed and mangled unless it was true.” Beth turned him around and gave him a quick swat on the butt. “Now, you git home.”
Tommy jumped, rubbed his hind quarter and ran off though gaps in the chuckling crowd.
Beth climbed in next to her husband, crowding B’Tris aside.
Jon took Beth’s hands. “Yeh know, mashed and mangled weren’t far from the truth.”
~~~
The villagers brought a stretcher and carried Jon home. Bert and Maynard offered to help the tinkers set up their camp outside the south gate, but B’Tris pressed them to begin the search for the tuning fork. “I’ll have some food and beer ready for you when you return. Dare I say better beer than you’ll find at the Feisty Wench Pub.”
Maynard’s eyes lit up. “One hour.”
“If I smell beer on either one of you the deals off and I do my own search.” She pursed her lips and thrust a finger towards Bert. He jumped. She pointed to Maynard. “And, that goes for you too.”
Maynard grabbed the shoulder of Bert’s tunic, spun him around and began walking. The two men made their way through the village gate and headed to Grindall’s home.
“Yeh know, ‘nard, I got me a fine bruise right about where she was pointin’.” Bert rubbed a tender spot on his ribcage. “Yeh don’t suppose…”
“Yer darn right I ‘spose, and yeh better be ‘sposin’, too.”
“But, I don’t remember her doin’ nothin’ like that.”
“Well, yeh done the right thing when she pointed at yeh.” Maynard laughed. “When she points, yeh best jump.”
~~~
Bert gaped as he backed out of Becka’s home.
Becka Sykes picked up a Bustle Berry pie cooling on a porch bench, held it out to Bert as she leaned over, drew her elbows together and lifted her bosom, revealing a deep cleavage. “It’s yers if yeh want it, Bertie dear.”
Her flirtatious blinking and lilting voice left little doubt in Maynard’s mind what she was really offering. Maynard had to yank his own beard to pull his eyes off the rippling mounds. He didn’t know much about women, but he knew a dangerous one when he met her. Becka might even be more dangerous than B’Tris.
“Wake up, Bert.” Maynard backhanded his friend across the chest. Bert staggered backward, still gawking. “We’ll take that pie, Becka, and thank yeh for tellin’ us about Grin.”
Maynard scooped up the warm pie. Becka took the time to throw a daggered stare at the giant, but quickly returned to enticing Bert. Maynard handed the pie to Bert who managed to collect his mind enough to stare at the one sweet treasure he was allowed to touch.
“There’s more sweetness where that come from, Bertie.” Becka batted her eyes and glanced at her breasts with a demure smile, drawing Bert’s attention, once again.
Bert continued to gawk. Maynard licked a finger and stuck it in Bert’s ear. Bert jumped and slapped his ear, nearly dropping the pie. He fingered out the dripping spittle and shuddered. “Uh, gotta go.”
Becka’s demeanor changed from sweet to sour. She picked up a clay flower pot and reared back to hurl it at Maynard. He raised a hand and caught hers as it came forward. He wrapped his fingers around both the pot and her hand, and pulled her to him.
An all too familiar anger crept from the back of his mind. Other women had tried to hurt him—beat him. He lowered his brow and narrowed his eyes as thunder rolled from his mouth. “I near killed a woman I wanted to love for doin’ things like that.” He drew her closer. “I don’t even like yeh.”
Becka paled to white ash. Her jaw slacked and her breathing stalled. Maynard took the pot from her hand and crushed it with his. Becka kept her eyes on Maynard and stepped back to the door of her house. She paused, found the latch to the door and disappeared inside.
Bert and Maynard began walking back to the tinker’s camp. A scream and the sound of breaking pottery erupted from the home behind them. They both walked in silence. Maynard brooded about his anger.
~~~
Jon had made good his promise to replenish the tinker’s larder. Dried peas, taters, carrots, sausage, bacon, salted pork and other necessities filled their stores. As more villagers became aware of what they had done for Jon, the more gifts they received. Even the bartering for their dry goods and ironware was easier and more profitable.
Willim thanked a villager as he completed another deal. He handed the matronly woman a brass windproof lantern in exchange for a handmade quilt.
“Mrs. Conger, are you sure you won’t take another bolt of cloth or lantern for this beautiful quilt?”
“No, Mr. Campanill.” She pushed the offered lantern away and waved a finger at him. “What yeh’ve done for Kerner is more than I can ever repay. I shouldn’t even be takin’ this lantern.” Her hands trembled as she began setting it back on the makeshift countertop. “I’m embarrassed to take it.”
“Please, Mrs. Conger—”
“Call me Bessie. I insist you call me Bessie.”
“Bessie, please keep it. I’d be appalled if you didn’t. I’m going to have trouble sleeping because of all the generosity of folks like you. We didn’t do that much. Bert and Maynard deserve most of the credit.”
“Yes, they have become much more than they used to be, yeh know.” Her expression went from a frown to a smile. “A couple of years ago, Jon woulda been a dead man, for sure. Now, them two are like our own kin. Still troublesome sometimes, but good men just the same.” Bessie nodded twice and smiled. “I thank yeh now. Good bye.” She took her lantern and walked away.
“That Bessie Conger’s a real nice lady, ain’t she.” Willim jumped at the unexpected voice behind him. B’Tris ducked and jostled the bowl of soup in her hands. They both turned and found Maynard standing behind them.
“She gave Bert a big ol’ quilt when he and Fancy got married.
“Yep, real nice lady.”
“Where’s Bert?” Willim looked behind the big forester.
“Oh, he’s sittin’ over there.” Maynard pointed to the campfire. “Becka Sykes gave us a pie. She done pinched some Bustle Berries from the King’s own forest, so she was eager to get rid of it when we pointed out the error of her ways.” Maynard scanned the campsite. “Where’s K’Las?”
“He’s getting reacquainted with the kids in the village. Alara Warden and the twin Baker girls are cooing over him at the moment.” B’Tris handed him the bowl of soup. “Here, taste this. If you like it there’s more in the kettle. I was going to start more pottage, but this sounded better.”
Maynard lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped. He smiled and swilled the rest of it down. “Yeah, if yeh can spare more, I’m for eatin’ it.”
Willim led the way to the campfire. He got another spoon from the camp kit and ladled up more soup into Maynard’s wooden bowl. “Did you learn anything from Mrs. Sykes?”
“Yeah, Grin’s gone off to sell the fork.” Maynard took a spoon and a loaf of bread offered by B’Tris and sat on the ground. “He’s gonna try the farms here ‘bouts, but they ain’t likely to want somethin’ they don’t know nothin’ about. Stefan Windhammer is workin’ out at Bartle’s Nook. Becka said Grin’s headin’ that way, and I figure that’s who’s gonna buy it, if anyone does.”
“That’s the Squire’s son, right?” Willim prepared his own bowl of soup. “Why him?”
“He’s a smart man. One of King Gerald’s master carpenters. Him and the Squire are on good speakin’ terms with the King, himself. If yeh wanna know somethin’, or get a favor from the Royal court, Stefan’s the one to ask.”
“How long will it take us to get to Bartle’s Nook?” B’Tris stifled a yawn.
“Us bein’ who?” Maynard tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in his soup.
Willim moved to B’Tris and sat on a stool beside her. “You or me?”
“Me, of course. I’m tuned to the fork. If I’m close enough I can find it, even if it’s hidden.”
“We’ve never met the Squire’s son. Are you sure you can deal with this? You haven’t had much rest. If he’s that well connected he may have some strong weaving skills.”
B’Tris cradled her head in her hands. “How far is it, Maynard?”
“If we set a strong pace, we can be back by sundown.” Maynard served himself a bite of creamed taters and peas from his bowl. “If he has yer fork.”
Willim didn’t like the undertone in Maynard’s voice. “Is there someone else who may buy the fork?”
Maynard grimaced and shifted. “Maybe. Yes. I hope not.”
“What does that mean?” B’Tris gripped Willim’s hand. “You aren’t thinking of that old henge keeper are you?”
“Yeah, I am.” Maynard shook his head. “I ain’t too sure Grin’ll take a chance of losin’ the fork to that old coot. Thad can talk yeh outta yer sanity if he gets the notion. But, if Grin don’t come back with a profit, Becka will boil him down to a pot of suet.”
“I think we should find Grindall as soon as possible.” Willim stood and paced slowly. “If he doesn’t have the fork, he can tell us where it is. Bee, that means I go. You stay here and get some rest. With some luck we can have the fork back tonight, or tomorrow. Hopefully, Grindall will still have the fork when we find him.”
“That means another day the fork is exposed. The more who learn of it, the greater the chances of things going terribly wrong.”
“I’d prefer both of us attend to Mr. Thaddeus Stonebreaker. We don’t know him well enough to deal with him cold. We’ll need an edge.” Willim stopped pacing and turned to Maynard. “Who knows Mr. Stonebreaker well enough to know what he likes and dislikes?”
“Stefan prob’ly knows him best. Him and Thad build stuff together. I reckon Stefan’s the old man’s only friend.” Maynard dished up another portion of soup.
“There’s the Squire.” Bert belched as he stared at the remaining half of the pie. “Thad’s been seen visitin’ the Squire’s Manor.” He slowly took another bite of pie.
“Is there someone else at the manor, besides the squire?”
“Will, we don’t have time for this.” B’Tris stood and straightened her kirtle. “You’re right. Go find Grindall. We’ll worry about who knows who when we know where the fork is. I’ll see what I can find out while you’re gone.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Get out, TinkeR
Midafternoon, Willim and Maynard set out at a brisk pace for Bartle’s Nook. Since Grindall had at least an eight hour head start, they decided to try to intercept him at the tiny village in hopes of finding him or Stefan Windhammer with the fork. Bert set off toward Pete Turner’s home and Greens-by-the Hill just in case Grindall was able to sell the fork to a farmer.
An hour later Willim and Maynard crested a low rise. The road fell into a shallow dell with a brook meandering through it and the eastern outcropping of the great henge rising in the distance. On the far side of the brook, Grindall sat on the ground with an unfixed gaze.
Maynard brought Willim to a stop. “I’ll get him.”
He left the road and walked down the grassy slope and quietly snared the hapless thief from behind. When Maynard signaled, Willim trotted down to join them.
“What’d I tell yeh?” Maynard stood with his fists on his hips and nodded to Grindall. “Thad done talked him outta his wits. Grin’s as barmy as Bert in a brewery.”
As Willim approached, he began to notice the scratches and bruises intermingled in a disparate weave across the thief’s face. “Looks like he’s had a rough time since last we saw him.”
Willim stepped close to Grindall, set his travel kit on the ground and searched the forester’s kit and clothing. The basket held nothing but straw and eggs.
Grindall sat, glassy eyed, humming incoherently. Willim moved closer. Weaves. He’s covered with them. Probably a layered Distraction Weave.
A chill rippled up Willim’s spine at the thought of someone with that much talent. It would take me and Bee an hour or more to weave anything close to what I . . . Willim sat up straight. . . . to what I can see. How much of this do I see? They looked a lot like K’Las’ weaves. Some of the weft and waft seemed to be missing, or . . . interrupted.
Willim patted Grindall’s clothing to see how tightly the weaves were bound to the cotton. Loosening the laces of Grindall’s tunic, he checked to see if the weave had penetrated through to the skin. He cupped his hands under Grindall’s ears and moved the forester’s head from side to side and examined the invasive threads lacing into the man’s mouth, ear canals, tear ducts and nose.
“Fascinating.” He sat back on his heels and regarded the stricken forester. “Masterful. I’m impressed.” He met Maynard’s confused gaze and pointed to Grindall. “That, my friend, is the cleanest, most intricate Distraction Weave I’ve ever seen, and I can’t see the half of it, I’m sure.”
Maynard shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Whatever. What good is he now? Look, now he’s droolin’. We ain’t gettin’ nothin’ outta him. Let’s haul him back to Kerner.”
Willim lifted a corner of Grindall’s tunic and wiped the drool away. “Yes, you’re right. I’m going to need help unraveling that weave. If we can even do it.” Willim considered his own words for a moment. He turned and regarded the giant who began backing away.
Maynard stopped. “What’s the matter? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
“No, no. But, I am wondering about something. What do you know about weaves . . . about magic?”
“Nothin’. And, I don’t wanna know nothin’.”
“You’ve never been taught anything about weaving?”
“Just stuff like sewin’ up my own britches.”
“Not the same.” Willim got to his feet and faced Maynard.
“Have you ever been taught anything about sound, touch, taste, smell or light?”
“I ain’t never had no real schoolin’. Just stuff Bert and Jon taught me, like readin’ and writin’.”
“Were you ever given the Imbuement ceremony?”
“Only ceremony I ever had was bein’ swore in as a forester?”
“Anyone ever make you listen to bells?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard bells before. Who ain’t? Yeh got yer cowbells and barge bells and such, but yer talkin’ somethin’ else, ain’t yeh?” Maynard stroked his beard in thought. “Come to think on it, me and Bert had to listen to some bells once a few years back. We was in the stocks. A couple of people come by and stuck something on my head. I couldn’t see what they was doin’, but they rung bells, one right after another. Took a while, but they kinda gave up.”
“What did they say?”
“They said I was deaf.” Maynard threw his arms up. “Can yeh figure that? I hear better’n most folks.”
“I think they meant tone deaf.” Willim began to pace, wondering how someone who was tone deaf could possibly affect a weave. Few people are truly without any ability to hear some tone. I wonder. Haegatess was supposed to be tone deaf.
“Are you willing to do an experiment?” Willim took Maynard by the sleeve. “Bee and I have noticed you can do things we can’t explain. I’d like to see if it’s true.” He tugged on the sleeve to lead Maynard to Grindall. The giant didn’t budge.
“Whaddya want me to do?”
“Just touch Grindall’s forehead and let’s see what happens.”
“I ain’t touchin’ him unless I’m stranglin’ him.”
“Why?”
“I just ain’t, that’s all.”
“You touched Jon’s forehead. What’s the difference?”
“Jon’s my friend. He was sick. I got no reason to be touchin’ Grindall’s forehead.”
Willim regarded Maynard’s stance and expression. “I see. Well, if you’re willing to strangle him, would you touch his throat?”
Maynard stood quietly for a moment before shifting his weight. “How ‘bout I just grab him by the neck.”
