Assassin's Quest

We came to one village that was almost worthy of the name. It had sprouted up like a fairy ring of mushrooms around a deepwater spring. It had an inn, a tavern, and even several stores, all catering to travelers, with a scattering of houses surrounding it. We got there at midday, and Madge declared that we would have a rest, and not move on until the following morning. No one really objected. Once we'd watered our animals, we moved our beasts and wagons to the outskirts of town. The puppeteer decided to take advantage of the situation, and announced in the tavern and inn that his troupe would stage a performance for the whole town, with gratuities cheerfully accepted. Starling had already found a corner of the tavern to call her own and was introducing this Farrow town to some Buck ballads.

I was content to stay with the sheep on the outskirts of the town. I was soon the only one at our encampment. I did not especially mind. The horses' owner had offered me an extra copper, if I'd keep an eye on them. They scarcely needed watching. They were hobbled, but even so, all the animals were grateful to stop for a bit and search out whatever grazing they could find. The bull was staked out and likewise occupied with scavenging grass. There was a sort of peace to being still and alone. I was learning to cultivate an emptiness of spirit. I could now go for long stretches without thinking of anything in particular. It made my endless waiting less painful. I sat on the tail of Damon's cart and stared out over the animals and the gentle undulating of the brush spotted plain beyond them.

It did not last for long. In the late afternoon, the puppeteer's wagon came rattling into camp. Only Master Dell and the youngest apprentice were in it. The others had stayed in town to drink and talk and generally enjoy themselves. But the shouting of the master soon made it apparent that his youngest apprentice had disgraced herself with forgotten lines and incorrect movements. Her punishment was to stay in camp with the wagon. To this he added several sharp cuts with his strap. Both the snap of the leather and yelps of the girl were clearly audible across camp. I winced at the second one and was on my feet by the third one. I had no clear idea of my intention, and was actually relieved to see the master go striding off away from the wagon and back into town.

The girl wept noisily as she went about the task of unhitching the team and pegging it out. I'd noticed her before in a casual way. She was the youngest of the troupe, no more than sixteen, and seemed most often to be under her master's lash. Not that that was unusual. It was not uncommon for a master to have a lash to keep his apprentices devoted to their tasks. Neither Burrich nor Chade had ever taken a strap to me, but I'd had my share of cuffs and raps, and an occasional boot from Burrich if I wasn't moving fast enough to suit him. The puppeteer was no worse than many masters that I'd seen, and kinder than some. All of his underlings were well fed and well clothed. I suppose what irritated me about him was that one snap of his lash never seemed enough for him. It was always three or five or even more when he was in a temper.

The peace of the night was gone. Long after she'd finished staking out the horses, her deep sobbing rent the stillness. After a time I could not stand it. I went to the back of their traveling wagon and rapped on the small door. The weeping paused with a sniff. "Who is it?" she asked hoarsely.

"Tom the shepherd. Are you all right?"

I'd hoped that she'd say she was and tell me to go away. Instead the door opened after a moment and she stood peering out at me. Blood was dripping from her jawline. I saw at a glance what had happened. The end of the strap had curled past her shoulder and the tip had bitten wickedly into her cheek. I didn't doubt that it hurt badly, but I suspected the amount of blood was scaring her even more. I saw a looking glass set up on a table behind her and a bloody cloth beside it. For a moment we looked at one another wordlessly. Then, "He's ruined my face," she sobbed.

I couldn't think of words to say. Instead I stepped up into the wagon and took her by the shoulders. I sat her down. She'd been using a dry rag to poke at her face. Had she no sense at all? "Sit still," I told her tersely. "And try to be calm. I'll be right back."

I took her rag and damped it in cool water. I went back in and dabbed the blood away. As I suspected, the cut was not large, but it was bleeding profusely as cuts to the face or scalp often do. I folded the rag into a square and pressed it against her face. "Hold that there. Press on it a bit, but don't move it. I'll be back." I looked up to find her eyes fastened to the scar on my cheek as tears brimmed over from her eyes. I added, "Skin as fair as yours doesn't scar all that easily. Even if it leaves a mark, it won't be large."