Mordecai

  Mordecai

  By

  Michael G. Manning

  Cover by Amalia Chitulescu

  Editing by Grace Bryan Butler and Keri Karandrakis

  © 2018 by Michael G. Manning

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781943481118

  For more information about the Mageborn series check out the author’s Facebook page:

  https://www.facebook.com/MagebornAuthor

  or visit the website:

  http://www.magebornbooks.com/

  Chapter 1

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I walked into Camlin. It was a small village in my mind, but by most standards it was perfectly average. A communal well occupied the center space, between the dwellings of its citizens. More people lived outside of course, in the surrounding area, farmers and herders mostly. The village proper was mainly composed of the small portion of the population that made their living through trade and craft. There was a cooper, a chandler, a weaver, and a carpenter.

  The village wasn’t quite large enough to support a smithy, which made it perfect for Tom the Tinker, I thought. Without a smith, people would be wanting their scissors and knives sharpened, their pots mended, and perhaps a bit of glue. Glue was always popular in small villages.

  I had other small sundries for trade as well, salt, a few spices, several balls of twine, and a small roll of linen cloth. A tinker does well when he can anticipate the needs of those he visits. That was probably the main reason that tinkers were often associated with good luck.

  A tinker appears at random, always an unexpected guest, and carries with him small goods that people frequently need but are often out of. For that we are usually welcomed with a smile. The fact that we also carry gossip and news from other places makes us almost as popular as a traveling minstrel—almost.

  Again, I wished I had learned to play an instrument, but I had never had the opportunity. It might have made things even easier.

  Glancing down, I gave myself a once over before I approached the woman I had spotted by the well. Appearances were important. I didn’t want to give the wrong impression.

  My beard was of medium length, well-kept but not overly neat. My clothes were worn and patched, but relatively clean, other than the understandable road dust. The cloth pack slung over my shoulder was in good condition and visibly bulging with hidden treasures and unexpected surprises.

  I put on a friendly smile as I approached, stopping a respectful distance away, “Excuse me madam, but is there a place hereabouts where a hungry man could get a meal? I can pay.” I shook a modestly small purse, making the coins jingle to prove my words.

  The woman was of middling age, her features weather-worn and her hands rough from honest labor. She gave me wary look, which was perfectly reasonable, since I was a stranger. Setting down her water jar she answered, “Harold runs the pub, such as it is.” She jerked a thumb toward a modestly sized building behind her. Then her eyes lit on my pack, “Are you a tinker?”

  I grinned and nodded, “Yes ma’am, I have that honor. Folks call me Tom—Tom the tinker. Do you have aught that needs mending?”

  “I do,” she replied. “My best pot has lost its handle, but I doubt you can fix it with what tools you might have carried.”

  “I might surprise you,” I said with a chuckle. “Ol’ Tom is known for his cleverness at fixin’ things. Let me take a look, and maybe there something I can do for you.”

  The pot in question was a moderately large stew kettle made of iron. It was sturdily built, but age and metal fatigue had not been kind to the handle on one side. The metal had snapped loose where a weld had rusted over the intervening years since it had been made. It wasn’t something a tinker’s hammer could fix, and glue was definitely not going to do the trick. By all rights, it would need a smith with a forge and proper tools to fix.

  “I think I can remedy this,” I told her. “If you let me have it this evening, I can give it back to you tomorrow.”

  Her eyes narrowed, “You’d steal a woman’s only good pot?”

  “No ma’am, I can fix it. Just trust me with it for a little while.”

  Suspicious, she returned, “I don’ think you can fix it with what you got. If you’re still in town tomorrow, I might let you. I’ll wait to see if you rob someone else first.”

  I sighed, “All right. I’ll visit Harold’s then.” I didn’t plan on staying that long, and she was clearly too wary to let a stranger have her prized pot. “How’s his food?”

  “Terrible,” she said, spitting on the ground. “His ale’s good, but I wouldn’t touch the stuff he calls ‘meat’.”

  Touching my hat and giving her a nod, I thanked her, “I appreciate the advice.” Then I made my way over to Harold’s pub.

  Unlike most taverns, it had no sign. The village wasn’t quite prosperous enough for such niceties. I had been considering whether I should knock first or simply enter, since there was no outward clue that it was a public building, but I was saved from the decision by the fact that there was no door. The entrance was filled only by a short length of dirty wool. Pushing it aside, I looked in.

  Two men, who were probably farmers, sat to one side of a common room that probably wouldn’t hold more than six or seven people at most. There was no bar, merely another table and a doorway that led to another room. This doorway was fortunate enough to have an actual door hanging in it.

  I nodded a greeting at the two men, “Evenin’.”

  They nodded back but said nothing. As I took a seat at the other table one of them barked, “Hey, Harold! You got another customer.”

  I gave the farmer a thankful look, since I hadn’t known the proper etiquette for the establishment. After a moment a large man with a balding pate peeked through the doorway. He grinned when he saw me, displaying a wide mouth that was missing several teeth. “Hello! What can I get ya?”

  Following the woman’s advice, I answered, “Just a cup of ale, and maybe a place to rest for the night.”

  “Ale, I can do,” he said, “but I don’t have beds for travelers. This is just a simple tavern, not an inn.”

  “Just ale then.”

  Harold left, and a moment later came back with a large clay cup filled to the brim. He placed it in front of me and then helped himself to a chair. “What news from the road?” he asked.

  I took a sip and found that the woman’s advice was sound. The ale was solid. When traveling, you never knew what you’d find. I wondered at the contrast, though, good ale but bad food, at least if the rest of her counsel was to be believed. Was it simply that Harold cared more about drink than cooking? From the size of his belly, it was hard to believe.

  “They’re opening a magical road in Halam,” I told him.

  “No!” exclaimed Harold. “Are you sure?”

  “They were breaking ground on the foundation when I passed through,” I replied. It was simple truth, and I had indeed seen it with my own eyes.

  “That never would have happened if Darogen was still king,” Harold expounded in a sage voice.

  The two farmers were leaning over, listening carefully to our words. New was a highly valued commodity, and in some cases you could even trade it for food. I might have traded it for the ale, but since I didn’t mind paying, I hadn’t bothered.

  “The new king seems to favor a more open relationship with Lothion,” I observed.

  “They named one already?” Harold’s eyes were wide.

  I took another sip and nodded, “Mm hmm. Just last week. The lords met and proclaimed Gerold, the Baron of Ingerhold to be the new king.”

  Harold frowned, “A baron?” He wasn’t familiar with the name, but it seemed strange to him that a mere baron had been named.

  “Duke Anselm had the best claim,” I cla
rified, “but he renounced his claim in favor of Ingerhold. Apparently, the baron was a great hero in the battle and made a great name for himself with the people. The lords declared for him unanimously. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about it already.”

  One of the farmers piped up, “We haven’t seen any travelers in weeks.”

  Harold was more interested in the magic road, though, so he returned to the topic, “I’m not so sure this road thing is a good idea for Dunbar.”

  I raised my brows, “How so? Everyone stands to profit from the increased trade.”

  “Trade is well and all, but I don’t sees how it will do us folk much good. The lords will take most of the harvest and they’ll make a tidy profit from it, but won’t be much of it going into our pockets,” said Harold.

  “You run a tavern,” I countered. “More trade ought to mean more people coming to buy ale. Especially since it’s a good brew.” I took a long swallow to show my appreciation.

  He grunted, “I am proud of the ale, but my customers are all farmers, like Tad and Lumley there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the other two men, who smiled back at us vaguely. “They ain’t going to see much profit from it, so I won’t neither. Other men get rich, but common folk like us don’t see much of it from down here at the bottom of the barrel.”

  Sadly, I couldn’t fault his logic, but I made a mental note of it. A word in the right ear might do them some good.

  The conversation went on for an hour or more and then I offered to sharpen his knives. Harold accepted and paid me with another two cups of ale. Afterward he offered me a suggestion, “As I said before I don’t offer beds, but if you need a place to sleep, Widow Timmley has extra room, and I’m sure she needs the coin. She might even have something that needs attention.”

  The tone in his voice made it clear that he was suggesting I might be able to share the widow’s bed instead of sleeping alone. It was a crude remark, and would have earned scorn in more polite company, but behind his words I could sense something else. Was it concern? It gave me the impression that perhaps he genuinely hoped I would hit it off with the woman.

  If she was indeed a widow, then she might be in need of help. A woman living alone faced many challenges, of which financial support was only one, and not necessarily the most important.

  “In any case, it sounds better than sleeping on the ground, or in someone’s shed,” I agreed.

  He gave me directions to her home, which was easy to find, since it was just outside the center of the tiny village. I gathered up my pack and made my way.

  Of course, I had no intention of trying to inveigle the woman into sharing her charms with me. I was married, but Harold hadn’t known that. It was rare for a traveling tinker to have a family, after all.

  I considered not bothering her, since I didn’t really need a place to sleep, but something made me call out anyway, “Hello? Mrs. Timmley? Harold at the tavern said I should ask if you might have a bed I could use. I don’t mind paying.”

  It was a small house, so I had no doubt she would be able to hear me, and I already knew she was inside. After a moment she looked out the door at me. She said nothing for a long minute while she sized me up. For a woman living alone, a strange man, or any man was a risk to bring into her home.

  In higher circles, it was unheard of, but here, among the peasants of Dunbar the practicalities of survival were more important. Being a widow, and with no prospects for a new husband, she had little to fear from developing a reputation as a ‘loose woman.’ She had much more to gain from my coin.

  I was surprised by her age. She was awfully young to be a widow. At a guess I would have placed her age in the late twenties or early thirties. Dark brown hair peeked out from the edges of the cloth covering her head, and her looks were marred only by a bend in her nose. It had probably been broken at one time and had healed poorly.

  Finally, she answered, “Come in.” Stepping back, she let the door swing wide.

  Something about the plain response bothered me. She should have been more suspicious, asked a few questions, or given me a warning. Assuming she was only hoping to sell me a place to sleep for the night, that is. Her response didn’t make sense if she were actually a wanton woman, either. She would have put on some false charm if that were the case. No, this was the empty response of a woman who simply didn’t care anymore.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I replied, entering the house. “How much will you take for the bed?”

  “What can you pay?” she said, returning the question.

  “Is two pennies enough?” I asked. I honestly wasn’t certain, but I guessed it was an appropriate amount.

  She shrugged, “That’s fine.”

  The room was small, and while it wasn’t quite nice enough to call cozy, snug would do for a description. It appeared well kept, for a villager of small means. A pot hung over the fire and a chair was drawn up before it. The smell coming from it was tempting, far better than the odors in Harold’s tavern.

  “The bed’s in there,” she said, pointing to the only other door leading from the room, which meant it was probably her bedroom.

  “Oh, I couldn’t take your bed, ma’am,” I told her, removing my hat and assuming an humble expression. “The floor in here will do me just as well.”

  At last her features shifted slightly, showing mild surprise as she arched one brow, “You paid for a bed. I can sit by the fire tonight.”

  The words brought me a sense of mild relief, she was definitely not offering herself for the evening. “No, ma’am. I’m not used to a bed. The fire’s enough and my pack will make a fine pillow.” Both statements were pure lies. I hadn’t slept on the ground in years, and I was pretty sure the pack I carried would leave me with a cramped neck if I tried to use it in such a manner.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, her features regaining their former blandness. “I was about to have supper. Did Harold feed you?”

  Now this was a quandary, I hadn’t intended on eating, but it was perhaps a chance to talk to her for a while. I decided I could deal with the consequences later. I gave her a broad grin, “A lady by the well warned me about his food, so I’m still a bit peckish.” That was an understatement, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  She went to a well-made cupboard and opened it, taking out two wooden bowls. Whoever had furnished her home had been good with his hands. She ladled each of them full and handed one to me, then went to fetch a couple of wooden spoons.

  There was only one chair, so I crossed my legs and sat on the floor before she could offer it to me. My nose had already decided the stew would be worth eating.

  Looking down on me, she frowned. “I was going to offer you the chair.”

  “That’s all right, ma’am.” I punctuated the answer by shoveling in the first bite and promptly burned my tongue.

  As I huffed and blew, trying to cool my mouth, a faint smile crossed her lips, then she sat down. She blew on her first bite carefully before depositing it in her mouth.

  “You have a nice home,” I said while waiting for my next spoonful to cool down. “I can see some care went into it.”

  She stared into her bowl, “That was Dan, he didn’t do anything by halves. Took his time.”

  “It’s more than that,” I suggested. “I can see your hand in it too.”

  “Maybe,” was all she said.

  We ate in silence for a while then, but when I was almost finished I put in, “The stew was wonderful. Best meal I’ve had in ages.” That was a half-truth. The stew was excellent, but I was no stranger to good food.

  “Better’n what Harold serves up, that’s for sure,” she said with a snort. “It would be better still, but I’m running short on salt and other things. I’ve had to be more frugal since…” Her words ran dry.

  It was cruel, but I wanted to know more, so I finished the sentence for her, “Since you lost your husband?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking. What happened
?”

  “Halam,” was her response.

  Understanding struck me then. He must have been in the capital when the recent ‘civil war’ had taken place. Not that it had really been such, but it was the best description anyone had found for it. “He worked in the city?”

  She shook her head, “No, he was just making a delivery. Rotten luck was all it was, bein’ there on the wrong day.”

  I didn’t say anything for a while after that, until after she had taken up the bowls and cleaned them. She put them away carefully and then made her way toward the bedroom door. She started to bid me goodnight when I interrupted her on impulse, “What’s your name?”

  She gave me a severe look, “I’m not looking for a new husband.” Asking her first name was an unwelcome attempt to cross into more familiar terms.

  I held up my hands, “I didn’t mean anything by that. You just seemed like a nice lady. Thought I’d ask.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and then she opened the door and stepped inside. Before it closed I caught her reply, “Suzanne.”

  “Goodnight, Suzanne,” I said, unsure if she would hear me through the door.

  I waited half an hour before I checked on her. I wanted to be sure she was in her bed before I did anything, but by the same token I didn’t want to accidentally observe her undressing. It was a matter of respect, though she would never have known if I had watched her preparing for sleep.

  Could have been the world’s greatest peeping tom, I thought to myself, then chuckled at the irony, since I had assumed the name Tom the tinker.

  She appeared to be sleeping in the bed, but I wanted to be sure, so I softly whispered a word, “Shibal.” The spell would ensure that whether she had been asleep initially or not, she wouldn’t wake up for at least an hour. Then I released my illusion with a sigh of relief.

  My worn clothes vanished, replaced by supple black hunting leathers. The simple knife at my waist was now a masterful dagger, produced by one of the finest smiths in Albamarl and adorned with the emblem of my family, a gold hawk set in maroon enamel, with a gold border around it. The enchantment on it was of my own devising, of course. The edge was sharper than any razor, and it never dulled.