Bast paused, hand on the latch. He frowned at the door, hardly a handspan from being closed. He hadn’t made any noise. He knew it. He was familiar with all the silent pieces of the inn, which floorboards sighed beneath a foot, which windows stuck …
The back door’s hinges creaked sometimes, depending on their mood, but that was easy to work around. Bast shifted his grip on the latch, lifted up so that the door’s weight didn’t hang so heavy, then eased it slowly closed. No creak. The swinging door was softer than a sigh.
Bast stood upright and grinned. His face was sweet and sly and wild. He looked like a naughty child who had managed to steal the moon and eat it. His smile was like the last sliver of remaining moon, sharp and white and dangerous.
“Bast!” The call came again, louder this time. Nothing so crass as a shout, his master would never stoop to bellowing. But when he wanted to be heard, his baritone would not be stopped by anything so insubstantial as an oaken door. His voice carried like a horn, and Bast felt his name tug at him like a hand around his heart.
Bast sighed, then opened the door lightly and strode back inside. He was dark and tall and lovely. When he walked he looked like he was dancing. “Yes, Reshi?” he called.
After a moment the innkeeper stepped into the kitchen; he wore a clean white apron and his hair was red. Other than that, he was painfully unremarkable. His face held the doughy placidness of bored innkeepers everywhere. Despite the early hour, he looked tired.
He handed Bast a leather book. “You almost forgot this,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.
Bast took the book and made a show of looking surprised. “Oh! Thank you, Reshi!”
The innkeeper shrugged and his mouth made the shape of a smile. “No bother, Bast. While you’re out on your errands, would you mind picking up some eggs?”
Bast nodded, tucking the book under his arm. “Anything else?” he asked dutifully.
“Maybe some carrots too. I’m thinking we’ll do stew tonight. It’s Felling, so we’ll need to be ready for a crowd.” His mouth turned up slightly at one corner as he said this.
The innkeeper started to turn away, then stopped. “Oh. The Williams boy stopped by last night, looking for you. Didn’t leave any sort of message.” He raised an eyebrow at Bast. The look said more than it said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what he wants,” Bast said.
The innkeeper made a noncommittal noise and turned back toward the common room.
Before he’d taken three steps Bast was already out the door and running through the early morning sunlight.
By the time Bast arrived, there were already two children waiting. They played on the huge greystone that lay half-fallen at the bottom of the hill, climbing up the tilting side of it, then jumping down into the tall grass.
Knowing they were watching, Bast took his time climbing the tiny hill. At the top stood what the children called the lightning tree, though these days it was little more than a branchless trunk barely taller than a man. All the bark had long since fallen away, and the sun had bleached the wood as white as bone. All except the very top, where even after all these years the wood was charred a jagged black.
Bast touched the trunk with his fingertips and made a slow circuit of the tree. He went deasil, the same direction as the turning sun. The proper way for making. Then he turned and switched hands, making three slow circles widdershins. That turning was against the world. It was the way of breaking. Back and forth he went, as if the tree were a bobbin and he was winding and unwinding.
Finally he sat with his back against the tree and set the book on a nearby stone. The sun shone on the gold gilt letters, Celum Tinture. Then he amused himself by tossing stones into the nearby stream that cut into the low slope of the hill opposite the greystone.
After a minute, a round little blond boy trudged up the hill. He was the baker’s youngest son, Brann. He smelled of sweat and fresh bread and … something else. Something out of place.
The boy’s slow approach had an air of ritual about it. He crested the small hill and stood there for a moment quietly, the only noise coming from the other two children playing below.
Finally Bast turned to look the boy over. He was no more than eight or nine, well dressed, and plumper than most of the other town’s children. He carried a wad of white cloth in his hand.
The boy swallowed nervously. “I need a lie.”
Bast nodded. “What sort of lie?”
The boy gingerly opened his hand, revealing the wad of cloth to be a makeshift bandage, spattered with bright red. It stuck to his hand slightly. Bast nodded; that was what he’d smelled before.
“I was playing with my mum’s knives,” Brann said.
Bast examined the cut. It ran shallow along the meat near the thumb. Nothing serious. “Hurt much?”
“Nothing like the birching I’ll get if she finds out I was messing with her knives.”
Bast nodded sympathetically. “You clean the knife and put it back?”
Brann nodded.
Bast tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You thought you saw a big black rat. It scared you. You threw a knife at it and cut yourself. Yesterday one of the other children told you a story about rats chewing off soldiers’ ears and toes while they slept. It gave you nightmares.”
Brann gave a shudder. “Who told me the story?”
Bast shrugged. “Pick someone you don’t like.”
The boy grinned viciously.
Bast began to tick off things on his fingers. “Get some blood on the knife before you throw it.” He pointed at the cloth the boy had wrapped his hand in. “Get rid of that too. The blood is dry, obviously old. Can you work up a good cry?”
The boy shook his head, seeming a little embarrassed by the fact.
“Put some salt in your eyes. Get all snotty and teary before you run to them. Howl and blubber. Then when they’re asking you about your hand, tell your mum you’re sorry if you broke her knife.”
Brann listened, nodding slowly at first, then faster. He smiled. “That’s good.” He looked around nervously. “What do I owe you?”
“Any secrets?” Bast asked.
The baker’s boy thought for a minute. “Old Lant’s tupping the Widow Creel …” he said hopefully.
Bast waved his hand. “For years. Everyone knows.” Bast rubbed his nose, then said, “Can you bring me two sweet buns later today?”
Brann nodded.
“That’s a good start,” Bast said. “What have you got in your pockets?”
The boy dug around and held up both his hands. He had two iron shims, a flat greenish stone, a bird skull, a tangle of string, and a bit of chalk.
Bast claimed the string. Then, careful not to touch the shims, he took the greenish stone between two fingers and arched an eyebrow at the boy.
After a moment’s hesitation, the boy nodded.
Bast put the stone in his pocket.
“What if I get a birching anyway?” Brann asked.
Bast shrugged. “That’s your business. You wanted a lie. I gave you a good one. If you want me to get you out of trouble, that’s something else entirely.”
The baker’s boy looked disappointed, but he nodded and headed down the hill.
Next up the hill was a slightly older boy in tattered homespun. One of the Alard boys, Kale. He had a split lip and a crust of blood around one nostril. He was as furious as only a boy of ten can be. His expression was a thunderstorm.
“I caught my brother kissing Gretta behind the old mill!” he said as soon as he crested the hill, not waiting for Bast to ask. “He knew I was sweet on her!”
Bast spread his hands helplessly, shrugging.
“Revenge,” the boy spat.
“Public revenge?” Bast asked. “Or secret revenge?”
The boy touched his split lip with his tongue. “Secret revenge,” he said in a low voice.
“How much revenge?” Bast asked.