Chapter 9

Holding her headstall with his left hand, Myles risked stroking the mare’s nose with his right. “Easy girl,” he said.

The mare flared her nostrils and danced a few steps sideways, making it plain she was in no mood for his clumsy reassurances. Cart horses he could handle, and a stout stick was all it took to make a balky mule see sense. But this mare was no ordinary horse. Bred to carry imperial messengers, her bloodline was far more distinguished than his own, and she demanded the respect due to her breeding, just as if she were a noble lady.

Myles tugged the headstall again, trying to get her to walk. Her flanks were dappled with drying sweat, and she needed to be walked to cool off, then carefully rubbed down. Not that her rider had shown any interest in her condition. He had simply dismounted and tossed her reins in Myles’s direction, confident that they would be caught. His imperial tabard meant that the rider was above such petty concerns as the care of his horse, and indeed once he had dined he would expect to find a new mount saddled, waiting to take him on the next leg of his journey.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Myles looked up and saw a man standing at the entrance to the stableyard. He was tall and whipcord-thin, a tattered cloak hung loosely on his frame, and his unkempt beard spoke of weeks of rough living.

“Excuse me,” the man repeated. “Do you have any chores I can do in return for a meal? I am willing to do anything.”

Myles was not used to such politeness in a beggar. And indeed he could use help. The previous stable owner had employed two stable hands, but both had refused to work for Myles, and as of yet he had found no replacements. Most days he was able to do the work himself, but at times like this he felt the lack. One man could not take care of a hard-driven mount and simultaneously saddle another so that the messenger could leave without delay.

But unskilled help was worse than none at all, and he allowed his frustration to color his voice as he replied. “I have no time for idlers. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll see.”

He tugged the headstall sharply, which was a mistake as it twisted out of his grasp, and the mare sidled away.

The stranger approached. “Here, girl, he’s only trying to help,” he said.

The mare watched, her ears pricked forward, as the stranger walked toward her. He kept talking softly, a constant stream of reassurances, until he reached her and caught her headstall. “There, now, you’ve done well. You know you need to walk first, then we’ll feed you and let you rest.”

Myles watched with amazement and a trace of envy, for when the stranger tugged her headstall, the mare began to walk.

“She needs to be walked, yes?”

“Yes,” he replied. “A half hour, then bring her to me to be unsaddled, and I’ll show you which stall to put her in.”

Myles kept one eye on the stranger as he went into the stables. There were two post-horses stabled within, as specified in his contract. The roan gelding had not been used in a fortnight, so he let the gelding out of his stall and tied him to the fence rail as he began the elaborate process of tacking him up.

Each post-horse had its own saddle, custom-fitted to the contours of the horse’s back. Unlike an ordinary saddle with its single girth, a post rider’s saddle had three girths, plus a breastplate. In many ways it was similar to a war saddle, although much lighter in weight, for it did not need to serve as armor.

Before the half hour was up, the post rider had returned. He checked the roan’s tack himself, grunting in approval when it proved to his satisfaction. Then he vaulted into the saddle and rode off without offering thanks or even a backward glance.

When the stranger judged the mare had cooled off, he tied her to the same post that Myles had used. Then, without a word, he began to unsaddle her. Myles watched, eyebrows raised, but there was no fumbling, and not a single wasted motion. He shrugged his shoulders, then went into the stable and emerged with cloth rags and a brush. He handed those to his newfound helper and accepted the tack in return. After she had been wiped down, and the grime of the road brushed off her, the mare was led into an empty stall, where water and grain were waiting.

“If you like, I could clean the tack,” the stranger offered.

He turned to face him, and for the first time Myles had a good view of his face.

Myles drew in a sharp breath. Prolonged hunger had pared the man down till his features were mere skin stretched across bone, but he knew that no peasant had sired those sharp cheekbones, nor the piercing blue of his gaze. Even if his accent had not given him away as a stranger, his face surely would have.

He had never expected to see one of the old blood again—far less to find one standing as beggar in his yard.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Josan.”

He waited, but no more details were forthcoming.

“I am Myles, a former soldier lately turned stable owner,” he said. “You know your way around horses.”

Josan, as he called himself, merely shrugged. “So it seems.”

Despite his obvious need there was still some pride left in him, for Josan did not beg. He merely waited, motionless, while Myles made his decision.

“You’ll find what you need to clean the tack by the racks at the far end,” he said, indicating the direction with a jerk of his chin. “Then shovel out the first stall and get it ready for the next horse. Do that, then come find me, and we’ll see about getting you a meal and a place to sleep for the night. Agreed?”

Josan nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve seen what you earned. You may not like the bargain you’ve made,” Myles said, in a rare moment of honesty. Josan might not know what he was worth, but Myles did, and he had every intention of getting full value out of the prize that had just fallen into his lap.

 

Myles retired to the small room at the front of the stables that served as his office. He took down the logbook and added two entries, one to show the newly arrived mare and another to record the number of the imperial messenger who had taken the roan gelding and the direction in which he traveled. Stabling the post-horses provided a generous monthly stipend, but he would lose that stipend if his records could not withstand the scrutiny of an imperial auditor. Then, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of another at work in his stable, he laboriously began to pore over his accounts. Reckoning numbers did not come naturally to him, so he added each sum twice as he calculated the amount of grain he had used thus far, and determined that he had just enough to last the winter if he was careful.

When Josan announced that he was finished, Myles inspected his work. The mare’s tack gleamed, the leather carefully oiled and the metal polished until it could have passed inspection by the strictest sergeant in the imperial guard.

“The edges of the saddle blanket are beginning to fray, see?” Josan said, indicating where several stitches in a row had come loose. A half dozen stitches in a row of two hundred, only the most eagle-eyed would have noticed the flaw.

Myles stared at him, wondering if Josan was somehow mocking him, or if he was indeed so desperate for work that he would do anything to impress a potential master. But he stood his scrutiny without comment, neither unnerved nor defensive.

“You sew?” he asked.

“No.”

“Neither do I.” Myles could stitch up a wound, but his rough technique would hardly serve here. Perhaps Carmela would be able to help. A servingwoman at the inn across the road, she could sometimes be persuaded to lend a hand, eager to earn a few coppers that her master knew nothing about.

With one last check on the mare, who was resting quietly in her stall, Myles barred the stable doors, then led the way down the street to the tavern where he took his meals. He paused for a moment on the threshold, eyes blinking as they accustomed themselves to the dark interior. A dozen tables were crowded into the small room, and a long counter served to separate the diners from the cooking area. Smoke hung in the air, and he sniffed appreciatively.

As it was just before sunset, there were only two other diners present. Myles nodded cordially to them, knowing better than to expect a response as he led the way to a table in the rear corner. Tucked up near the fire bed, it was the warmest spot in the tavern, except for that of the cook laboring over the grill.

The owner’s son Guilio came over, bearing a dish of black olives and a plate of bread. “It’s fish tonight,” he said, in a tone of supreme disinterest.

The menu at the tavern varied by what was cheap in the marketplace and the mood of the cook. When Guiliano had been fighting with his wife, his customers had eaten savory barley for a week. Tonight it appeared that domestic tranquility once more reigned.

“Fish for two. And wine, with two cups.”

“Yellow or the red?”

“Yellow,” Myles decided. “And a pitcher of water to mix it with.”

That got Guilio’s attention, and his eyes flicked to Josan, then back again before nodding.

In a few moments the boy returned, with two wine cups, and two pitchers, one of yellow wine and one of water. Mindful of his guest’s privation, Myles liberally mixed the water into the wine before serving them both.

They ate the olives and the bread, Myles being careful to eat enough so it was not obvious that he was giving his guest the larger share. By the time these were done, Guilio returned and set in front of each of them a wooden platter containing smoked fish wrapped in vine leaves, accompanied by seasoned broad beans.

Josan’s manners were impeccable, cutting the fish into neat bites rather than devouring the meal with a few gulps as a beggar might. Still he cleared his platter before Myles had barely begun.

“More?”

Josan shook his head regretfully. “No, but thank you.” Only then did he begin to drink his wine, toying idly with the cup as Myles ate his dinner in a far more leisurely fashion than his guest.

Guilio gave every appearance of disdaining his father’s customers, but as soon as Myles set down his fork, he reappeared, taking away their platters and replacing them with two small bowls of honeyed quinces. Guiliano must be feeling very good indeed, since normally his guests made do with mere figs or sweetened cakes if the cook was in a generous mood.

Despite his earlier protests, Josan managed to eat his share of the treat. Around them the tables had filled with other bachelors like Myles, and servants enjoying a rare evening off. He wondered if Josan noticed that no one greeted him, nor indeed approached their table.

He waited to see if the wine would loosen Josan’s tongue, but his guest seemed content to eat in silence.

“You did a good job today,” Myles said, at last, when it became clear that Josan would not speak on his own.

“I know a bit about horses,” Josan said.

“I could use a man who knows a bit about horses,” he said.

Josan leaned back in his chair. “Why? What happened to your last helper?”

There spoke the confidence that came from having a full belly. This afternoon Josan had begged to be allowed to perform any task. Now he was asking questions, as if he could truly afford to turn down this opportunity. It showed a resilience of spirit and a sharp mind—both qualities Myles admired.

“I haven’t been able to hire help. You may have seen that I am not the most popular of men in this town.”

“I had noticed.”

“It is none of my doing,” he hastened to explain. “When the former owner died, his nephew Florek expected to inherit the business. He was furious when he realized that his uncle had sold the business to me just a few weeks before his death. My ownership is unquestionable, but Florek is a popular man in this town, and a powerful one. The former stable hands refused to work for me, and I have had no luck in finding replacements.”

“Wouldn’t Florek have inherited the money from the sale of the stable? Surely that would have appeased his temper.”

“It would have, if he had found it. But his uncle had a comely young servingwoman…who left town the day he died.”

No doubt if the servant woman was ever found, she would claim that the money had been a gift to her, and indeed it might well have been. Not that she had any hope of convincing the aggrieved nephew or his friend the magistrate of her tale. She had shown uncommonly good sense in taking to the road so swiftly.

“What would you have me do?” Josan asked.

“Tend the horses, shovel the stalls, ensure that the post riders’ mounts are taken care of. Can you ride?”

Josan hesitated a moment, then nodded.

“I’ll have to see you up on a horse, but if you’re any good, you can exercise the post-horses. I take my noon and evening meals here, and you will do so as well. There’s a partitioned corner of the hayloft where the last hands slept, and you can have that. I’ll pay your meals here, and”—he hesitated, not wanting to give away too much, but knowing that he could not afford to let Josan walk away—“I’ll give you a week’s trial. If you work out, it will be five coppers a week for you.”

Josan drank down the last of his wine. Myles wondered if he should raise his offer to six coppers, or if that would tip his hand.

“A week’s trial,” Josan said. “And if we both agree, I’ll stay till spring. I cannot promise any more.”

“Agreed,” Myles said.

 

Josan’s shoulder muscles ached as he pushed the muck-laden barrow to the alley behind the stables. When he reached his destination, a fragrant barrel surrounded by buzzing flies, he stopped. Picking up the shovel that rested on the top of the barrow, he unloaded the manure into the barrel, doing his best to breathe shallowly to avoid the stench. Fortunately, it was not allowed to rot for long, for every third day the dung collector came by to collect the full barrel and replace it with an empty one.

Such an arrangement would not have been necessary in a village or even a small town, where a stable would have land enough for a dung heap. But Utika was large enough that space was at a premium. There was barely room for the stable and the small exercise paddock. Dung heaps were the domain of the farmers who lived on the outskirts of the town.

Given a choice, he would not have ventured into Utika. Not only was it a large town, nearly the size of a city, but it was also on the main imperial road that connected this province with its neighbors. Official messengers passed through with regularity, and if there were news of a renegade monk being sought for murder, then surely the inhabitants of Utika would know of it.

But hunger was a far crueler master than mere logic, and it had been hunger that had driven him to venture into the place. He had not planned on staying longer than the time it took to earn a meal, but fate had intervened. And so far it seemed that his fears had been groundless. Many looked on him with suspicion, but it was his association with the outsider Myles that drew their ire rather than any rumored misdeeds of his own.

When the barrow was empty he placed the shovel inside it and wheeled it back to the front of the barn, putting it in its accustomed spot under the overhanging roof, where it was protected from the rain. Returning the shovel to its hook beside the door, he turned as he heard footsteps.

For the past six days Myles had watched him like a hawk, as befit a man who had entrusted valuable horses to a stranger. Today was the first time that Myles had left Josan alone with his charges, and he wondered if this was an omen for good or for ill.

He held himself still, his features deliberately calm. No matter what happened, he was far stronger than he had been a mere week ago. Regular meals had filled his belly, and uninterrupted sleep had banished the dull exhaustion that had haunted him for so long.

He would leave if he must, but he wanted to stay. True, there were no answers to be found here, but there was food, shelter, and the opportunity to earn honest coin. He was still not certain if he dared return to Karystos, but there were other cities, and other libraries that might hold the answers that he sought. They would not open their doors to a beggar, but a wandering scholar with coins in his purse was another matter.

“It’s been seven days,” Myles said.

He nodded.

Myles waited, apparently waiting for him to speak, but there was nothing for Josan to say. He knew enough to know that Myles had already made up his mind, and whatever his decision, Josan would not demean himself by begging.

One corner of Myles’s mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. Reaching his right hand into the pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a small leather sack and tossed it toward Josan, who plucked it out of the air.

“Five coppers, as I promised,” he said. “You’ll stay then?”

“Until spring,” Josan replied, only then aware that he had been holding his breath.

Myles’s gaze swept over him, lingering for a moment on the borrowed boots that Josan wore to keep his feet clean from the filth that inevitably accompanied a stable.

“The bootmaker Salvo has his shop at the corner of the third alley, just past the green fountain. When you’re done here, go see him. He’s expecting you.”

“But—” Josan began. Five coppers would not cover the cost of new boots, or even remade ones. Ten coppers would not be enough.

“You can barely walk in those,” Myles pointed out.

Josan’s boots had belonged to the former owner of the stables. Made for a man with feet both longer and far broader than his own, he had stuffed them with rags to keep his feet from sliding around. Still, even as ill fitting as they were, they served him better than his tattered sandals.

“I will deduct the cost from your future wages,” Myles said.

“Agreed.”

Though Josan wondered if Myles would indeed remember to deduct the cost of the boots from his wages, or if this was simply a ruse to cover his charity.

He had known Myles for a week, but for all Myles’s seeming openness, he could still not puzzle him out. Indeed, within the first day of their acquaintance, Myles had told Josan the story of his life. The youngest of six sons, he had chafed at the lot of a farmer’s son, and when barely more than a boy had run away, eventually winding up in Karystos, the imperial capital.

There his choices had been simple. A boy with neither trade nor family could choose between a life of petty crime or prostitution, or he could enlist in the imperial army, which in those days had been hungry for recruits to fight in the endless campaigns against Vidrun. Myles had chosen the army, rising through the ranks to sergeant. After twenty years he had taken his pension and retired, using his carefully hoarded wages to buy the stable, sight unseen.

It was not done for a master to confide in a servant in this way. Nor was it seemly that the two should eat their meals together, as if they were equals. Josan had never played the part of servant before, but he knew the protocols as well as any. You did not try to make a friend out of one who was scarcely better than a slave.

But it was hard not to feel a bit sorry for Myles, who clearly had no one else to turn to. Florek, the late stable owner’s nephew, not only owned the large inn that stood immediately across the street from the stableyard, he also owned a smaller inn on the opposite side of town, and three taverns. By the standards of Utika he was a wealthy man indeed, and he was not used to having his will crossed. Especially not by a foreigner, one who had neither ties of blood nor birth to this province.

Without Florek to stir their anger, the others in Utika might well have come to accept the newcomer in their midst, for Myles was a likable enough man, and from what Josan had seen so far, he was scrupulously honest in his dealings with others.

But until Myles found a way to win Florek over, or his enemy found a new target for his wrath, it was unlikely that any would choose to befriend Myles and thus risk inciting the anger of one who held the ear of the local magistrate.

Not for the first time, he wondered why Myles did not simply sell the stable to his rival and settle somewhere else. Perhaps one day he would ask. But for now Josan was careful to ask no questions of Myles, so that he would not be obliged to answer any of Myles’s questions in return.

The small pouch containing the five coppers was fastened to the inside of his tunic, ensuring that if he had to flee he would not do so penniless. He took himself off to the bootmaker, who traced his feet, then bade him come back in three days. He did so, and found himself the owner of a pair of plain but serviceable boots, and he gladly set aside the ill-fitting pair he had borrowed.

On the day he took possession of his new boots, Myles instructed him to saddle the post rider’s mare and bring her to the paddock. The intricacies of the tack posed no challenge to him, and he hoped that this boded well for the other skill he had claimed. In his travels, Josan had ridden on horseback on a few occasions, but always in the company of a guide who had ensured that the monk was given a placid beast well used to the antics of a novice rider.

When Myles had asked him if he rode, it had been on the tip of his tongue to say no. But some strange instinct had prompted him to say yes. The same instinct, he supposed, that had told him he could handle a highbred horse. Where he had gained these skills was a question he did not wish to examine too closely. Like his unexpected talent for combat, it was something he could not remember learning. And yet, this skill too, had saved his life. Myles would never have offered employment to a scholar who did not know one end of a horse from another.

He was aware that such deliberate blindness was a form of cowardice, but he brushed aside that thought as he had done many times before. The precepts that had governed his life as a scholar had taken on less and less meaning as he was forced to battle for survival.

Josan led the mare to the paddock and at Myles’s command swung himself up into the saddle with ease. Banishing from his mind the memory of his last jouncing, awkward ride, he guided the mare around the paddock at a slow walk, then at a trot, using only the pressure of his knees as he guided her in a circle, first one way, then the other. The mare was restless, having spent the last three days in the stable because of the autumn rains. He could feel her impatience to run, but he controlled her with ease.

After several circuits, Myles called a halt.

“You’ll do. Take her out through the south gate, and you can give her a run in the campground. The dirt there is hard-packed, but keep an eye out for holes left by tent pegs and the like. An hour, no more, then cool her down before bringing her back, understood?”

“Understood,” Josan said, offering a half salute, as if he were a novice soldier.

For the convenience of travelers arriving from the southern province, the stables were located close to the gate, as was Florek’s inn. Once the two had been owned by the same man, since most travelers at the inn arrived by horseback or in carriages. Those who arrived on foot stayed at the cheaper lodgings outside the town proper. When the owner had died he had split his properties between his two sons, but at least they were still owned by the same family. Now Florek was reminded of his lost inheritance every day as the guests at his inn were forced to patronize his enemy across the street in order to provide stabling for their horses and shelter for their carriages. Florek had been heard to speak of building his own stables, but that would require buying and demolishing one of his neighbor’s properties, and so far he had found no takers.

If Josan were in his place, he would have tried to win over his rival and convert Myles from rival into business partner. Florek had a daughter, after all, of the right age and as yet unmarried. She could do worse for herself than a man of property who had no other claims on his purse. And, if in a few years Myles were to fall victim to a mysterious ailment, few would question his death. Nor would they question the right of his widow to manage her children’s inheritance. With the help of her father, of course.

Perhaps it was best for Myles that Florek lacked the cunning to implement such a plan. Or perhaps he had already tried and failed before Josan had arrived.

Such thoughts provided a diversion as he guided the mare through her paces. He exercised her lightly, enough to work up a sweat but not enough to hinder her if she should be needed within the day. There was a fresher mount back at the stables who would be the next to be taken, but Myles had warned him that sometimes two imperial riders passed through on the same day. It was rare, but not unheard of.

It crossed his mind that Myles had shown great faith in entrusting the horse to him. The mare was worth more than he could hope to earn in years of labor as a stable hand. But she was imperial property, and stealing her would set a price on his head—if there wasn’t one already.

Besides, he was not a thief by nature. He had stolen only when he had to, when stealing meant the difference between life and death by starvation. He could not claim such necessity now.

Josan returned the mare to the stables when she was thoroughly cooled down, and groomed her carefully before returning her to her stall. If Myles was relieved by their return, he gave no sign, merely grunting when he caught sight of Josan refilling the hay bags in each stall.

His days fell into a rhythm. Up at dawn to exercise the post-horses if they had not been ridden in the last three days. Then the horses were fed and turned loose in the paddock if the weather was fine, while he mucked out their stalls. If guests had stabled their horses or carriage overnight, Myles would be there to ensure that all was ready when they wished to depart and that the guests paid their fees without quibbling.

Afternoons were for cleaning tack, restacking hay, shifting grain from the barrels in the storeroom into the bin in the stables, and whatever other task Myles could think up for him. Then at the end of the day the horses had to be fed and watered again before he joined Myles for dinner at the tavern. The city gates closed at dusk, but such rules did not apply to nobles or imperial messengers, and so Josan learned to sleep with one ear listening for the ringing of the bell that announced a late arrival.

Myles was a generous master, allowing Josan a free hour each afternoon if there was no pressing business at the stable. With his second week’s wages Josan took himself to the market. There he bought tinder and flint to replace those he had lost. With his last coin he paid a barber to shave him and trim his hair.

His hair had grown long enough that it fell into his eyes and brushed the top of his shoulders. Strange sensations for a man who had shaved his skull since he was a boy; they had made him feel like a stranger in his own body. Now he felt more himself, as the barber held up a polished tin mirror so Josan could admire his work. His hair was shorter than most men wore it, but the even crop made it clear that this was a choice. But what startled him most about his reflection was not his hair, but rather his face. It was far more angular than he remembered, with grim lines around his mouth. Even his eyes had changed. They were a stranger’s eyes—the eyes of a man who had killed an assassin and tamed a fractious horse with the touch of his hand.

“I only did as you asked,” the barber said, apparently unnerved by Josan’s long silence. No doubt he was expecting a complaint.

“You did fine,” Josan assured him. Hastily, he handed over the copper and took his leave.

He shivered, but not from the cold. It was nothing, he assured himself. It had been years since he had seen his reflection in anything other than a pool of water, or the curved distortion of the lighthouse mirrors. It was no wonder that he did not recognize himself, after all he had been through in the last months.