Behind Klin and to one side easily loped the Tall Boy, unconcerned and never slipping.
As the pack came into the Town Square, Klin slid to a stop and held out his arms, keeping the others behind him. Then he anxiously strode ahead.
A black riding-beast draped with a strangely rich red-and-gold cloth stood neighing quietly to itself outside the Vassal’s quarters. Renky the Idiot, who served as the Vassal’s stableboy, was leading two smaller black beasts up beside it. Then from the small doorway, Grumo the Mason and Torstein the Wheelwright emerged. Their strong workers’ hands awkwardly clasped pikes, and feathery, rusted helmets were perched atop their simple heads. They were acting as the Vassal’s personal guard. Klin took a step towards them, but Torstein let him know with a worried glance that they had all better stay back.
They stood, shuffling their feet.
Yordenko the Vassal stepped from his door and surveyed the Square, then turned and ushered out a lean, dark man in a green tunic-the Baron himself. A stirring of excitement went through the boys at the sight of the rapier at his side. Some of their fathers kept ancient heirloom weapons sealed beneath wedding gowns and pewter in family chests. The Vassal had taken his Sword on occasion from its wrappings and shown it to each of them, letting them trace their fingers along the cold steel Blade, the white emblem of its hilt, a crenelated wall. But seldom would a man be seen in town who had reason to carry such weapons at his side.
The Baron’s lip was twisted with arrogance and with each step his heel twisted into the mud of the town, as if to grind some bit of foul food underfoot. He was flanked by two men of his guard, also armed, who looked strong but slouched carelessly as if this were their day off. The boys in the back of the group exchanged awed whispers. Vassal Yordenko cast a sidewise glance at the boys, and from the anguished expression on his face it looked like he knew there might be some trouble.
Klin pelted the Baron in the back of the head with a pebble. Some of the boys giggled a little but most were too frightened. There was a sliding of metal. The Baron had spun about and held his sword in the air ready to strike. Yordenko cringed to one side and the men of the Baron’s Guard reached for their weapons. The Baron, seeing nothing but the pack of boys, sneered, then sheathed his rapier and leapt onto his riding-beast. The mount kicked wildly beneath his harsh mastery but in a moment submitted. Frightened, it carried him downward from the Square, its rear legs buckling as it slipped through puddles. The two men of the Baron’s Guard mounted their beasts more clumsily and followed quickly.
Klin broke out laughing and the older boys started poking him and laughing also once the Baron was gone. The younger boys were in awe, some of them turning to friends and whispering anxiously, C’mon, let’s go home now….
Yordenko did not so much as look at any of them. Aron thought he looked very tired and knew that it was very strange that the Vassal did not even come to reprimand them. Yordenko’s face was drawn in resignation as Aron had never seen it before. His green eyes moist and empty, the Vassal retired to his quarters.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Klin-I think something’s really wrong….” Aron said quietly, looking after the Vassal.
“Are you gonna start telling me when to throw rocks now? Uh?”
Their eyes locked. The other boys got quiet.
Klin came up to Aron, chest out, fists balled, and stood tall to look down on him. He was about five centimeters taller. The other boys cleared out. Klin gave Aron a shove. Aron kept his gaze but did nothing. Klin advanced again and gave another shove.
“You’re just afraid of those fools. Yeah, that’s what you are, afraid!”
Aron leapt on him and began pounding with his fists.
They tumbled to the ground and the other boys started cheering. Aron took a hard punch in the cheek then pummeled Klin’s stomach. They got back to their feet and started boxing again. Klin gave Aron one quick kick in the teeth, nearly sending him into a rage. But through the blur of his teary eyes and through the pain in his mouth, which he was sure was bleeding now, Aron’s eyes met those of the silent woman of the town. She stood on the far side of the Square, bastard child clinging at her breast. Crying, Aron took Klin down, hit him twice hard in the face, then ran downwards because that was the fastest way he could go.
Aren-Nath behind him, his quick feet followed the hoof-chumed trail to where it met the base of the High Road where he would have to stop running and start climbing, climbing far back up into the fat trees amongst which his parents had built their home. He took the final turn downward, and though darkness had not yet set felt fleeting fears of bandits and hooligans. His heart would not slow, it thumped hard, then he was almost there. He could see the base of the High Road just below.
He was tumbling down the hill. Something had grabbed his leg from behind, and he was falling now, and there was another body falling and rolling through the mud with him, over him, then under him. He fought it off. It was Klin. At the bottom of the hill, Aron got himself untangled, stood, and started walking and slipping along the path again.
“C’mon, Aron,” Klin called, getting up and running to his side. Aron felt a hand clap him on the shoulder and rest there. Silently they turned up onto the High Road together. “That was a pretty good fight. You still got some blood on your chin, though. Don’t let your mom see that I did that….”
They talked. Aron said something was wrong with the Vassal, and Klin shouldn’t be messing with him right now. Klin said maybe he was right, but he had no idea what was wrong with the Vassal. “Beats me,” he said, shrugging.
Aron knew that despite his foolery, Klin had a heart greater than those of the other boys and worshiped the Vassal with all of it. But Klin’s attention was elsewhere, he had forgotten the whole issue and was telling some story about what had happened in the workshop this afternoon, how so-and-so had ripped the hammer off from the smith and so-and-so was selling it…. Aron wasn’t listening. He was wiggling his teeth gingerly, wondering if they’d stay in place. He was still angry about the fight but at the same time glad to have his friend back.
When they got up to the fork that headed back toward town, Klin stopped Aron firmly and looked him over for a moment in silence.
“Tonight…” he breathed. Then he told Aron his plan. Always before had Aron refused to go on their nighttime excursions. He didn’t like the things they did. He was afraid. But he would never let Klin tell him so again.
Aron lay in his bed that afternoon thinking about the girls in his class. There was one girl he thought about quite a bit more than the others. He had been hoping somehow he could be alone with her for a while, but then he heard one of the other boys talking about how ugly she was and he figured that he had better stay away because he didn’t want to be seen with her.
Aron’s house had only two rooms, the beds and the kitchen in one and Father’s workbench in the other. The boards creaked under the thin stuffed mattress as he shifted around and opened his eyes a little to see what Mother was doing. She was at a stool by the window testily pulling handfuls of feathers out of a dark, dead bird and stuffing them into a bag. She was still young, her face just beginning to harden. Her thin but strong shoulders and arms had once been soft. She set the limp bird down on the floor and got up to ladle herself a cup of water from the waterbarrel.
At her feet beneath the table huddled sister Cainy, three years old, quiet, blonde, and with eyes that held a deep understanding. She was carving something into the floor with Father’s pocketknife, as she occasionally would. At first the family had tried to stop her. Then they discovered it was useless. If they took the knife away she scratched with her fingers until they bled, and such a look of anguish came into her eyes that it made them worry more about not giving her the knife than giving it to her. They watched her carefully at first, but she had never hurt herself. Some of her carving was magnificent. Father would pick her up, take the knife gently from her grasp, and shake her up and down proudly. “At least we don’t have to worry about what craft she’ll choose,” he would say, smiling.