The boy thought for a bit, then held up his hands about two feet apart. “This much.”
“Hmmm,” Bast said. “How much on a scale from mouse to bull?”
The boy rubbed his nose for a while. “About a cat’s worth,” he said. “Maybe a dog’s worth. Not like Crazy Martin’s dog, though. Like the Bentons’ dogs.”
Bast nodded and tilted his head back in a thoughtful way. “Okay,” he said. “Piss in his shoes.”
The boy looked skeptical. “That don’t sound like a whole dog’s worth of revenge.”
Bast shook his head. “You piss in a cup and hide it. Let it sit for a day or two. Then one night when he’s put his shoes by the fire, pour the piss on his shoes. Don’t make a puddle, just get them damp. In the morning they’ll be dry and probably won’t even smell too much …”
“What’s the point?” the boy interrupted angrily. “That’s not a flea’s worth of revenge!”
Bast held up a pacifying hand. “When his feet get sweaty, he’ll start to smell like piss,” Bast said calmly. “If he steps in a puddle, he’ll smell like piss. When he walks in the snow, he’ll smell like piss. It will be hard for him to figure out exactly where it’s coming from, but everyone will know your brother is the one that reeks.” Bast grinned at the boy. “I’m guessing your Gretta isn’t going to want to kiss the boy who can’t stop pissing himself.”
Raw admiration spread across the young boy’s face like sunrise in the mountains. “That’s the most bastardly thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, awestruck.
Bast tried to look modest and failed. “Have you got anything for me?”
“I found a wild beehive,” the boy said.
“That will do for a start,” Bast said. “Where?”
“It’s off past the Orissons’. Past Littlecreek.” The boy squatted and drew a map in the dirt. “You see?”
Bast nodded. “Anything else?”
“Well … I know where Crazy Martin keeps his still …”
Bast raised his eyebrows at that. “Really?”
The boy drew another map and gave some directions. Then he stood and dusted off his knees. “We square?”
Bast scuffed his foot in the dirt, destroying the map. “We’re square.”
The boy dusted off his knees. “I’ve got a message too. Rike wants to see you.”
Bast shook his head firmly. “He knows the rules. Tell him no.”
“I already told him,” the boy said with a comically exaggerated shrug. “But I’ll tell him again if I see him …”
There were no more children waiting after Kale, so Bast tucked the leather book under his arm and went on a long, rambling stroll. He found some wild raspberries and ate them. He took a drink from the Ostlar’s well.
Eventually Bast climbed to the top of a nearby bluff where he gave a great stretch before tucking the leather-bound copy of Celum Tinture into a spreading hawthorn tree where a wide branch made a cozy nook against the trunk.
He looked up at the sky then, clear and bright. No clouds. Not much wind. Warm but not hot. Hadn’t rained for a solid span. It wasn’t a market day. Hours before noon on Felling …
Bast’s brow furrowed a bit, as if performing some complex calculation. Then he nodded to himself.
Then Bast headed back down the bluff, past Old Lant’s place and around the brambles that bordered the Alard farm. When he came to Littlecreek he cut some reeds and idly whittled at them with a small bright knife. Then he brought the string out of his pocket and bound them together, fashioning a tidy set of shepherd’s pipes.
He blew across the top of them and cocked his head to listen to their sweet discord. His bright knife trimmed some more, and he blew again. This time the tune was closer, which made the discord far more grating.
Bast’s knife flicked again, once, twice, thrice. Then he put it away and brought the pipes closer to his face. He breathed in through his nose, smelling the wet green of them. Then he licked the fresh-cut tops of the reeds, the flicker of his tongue a sudden, startling red.
Then he drew a breath and blew against the pipes. This time the sound was bright as moonlight, lively as a leaping fish, sweet as stolen fruit. Smiling, Bast headed off into the Bentons’ back hills, and it wasn’t long before he heard the low, mindless bleat of distant sheep.
A minute later, Bast came over the crest of a hill and saw two dozen fat, daft sheep cropping grass in the green valley below. It was shadowy here and secluded. The lack of recent rain meant the grazing was better here. The steep sides of the valley meant the sheep weren’t prone to straying and didn’t need much looking after.
A young woman sat in the shade of a spreading elm that overlooked the valley. She had taken off her shoes and bonnet. Her long, thick hair was the color of ripe wheat.
Bast began playing then. A dangerous tune. It was sweet and bright and slow and sly.
The shepherdess perked up at the sound of it, or so it seemed at first. She lifted her head, excited … but no. She didn’t look in his direction at all. She was merely climbing to her feet to have a stretch, rising high up onto her toes, hands twining over her head.
Still apparently unaware she was being serenaded, the young woman picked up a nearby blanket, spread it beneath the tree, and sat back down. It was a little odd, as she’d been sitting there before without the blanket. Perhaps she’d just grown chilly.
Bast continued to play as he walked down the slope of the valley toward her. He did not hurry, and the music he made was sweet and playful and languorous all at once.
The shepherdess showed no sign of noticing the music or Bast himself. In fact she looked away from him, toward the far end of the little valley, as if curious what the sheep might be doing there. When she turned her head, it exposed the lovely line of her neck from her perfect shell-like ear, down to the gentle swell of breast that showed above her bodice.
Eyes intent on the young woman, Bast stepped on a loose stone and stumbled awkwardly down the hill. He blew one hard, squawking note, then dropped a few more from his song as he threw out one arm wildly to catch his balance.
The shepherdess laughed then, but she was pointedly looking at the other end of the valley. Perhaps the sheep had done something humorous. Yes. That was surely it. They could be funny animals at times.
Even so, one can only look at sheep for so long. She sighed and relaxed, leaning back against the sloping trunk of the tree. The motion accidentally pulled the hem of her skirt up slightly past her knee. Her calves were round and tan and covered with the lightest down of honey-colored hair.
Bast continued down the hill. His steps delicate and graceful. He looked like a stalking cat. He looked like he was dancing.
Apparently satisfied the sheep were safe, the shepherdess sighed again, closed her eyes, and lay her head against the trunk of the tree. Her face tilted up to catch the sun. She seemed about to sleep, but for all her sighing her breath seemed to be coming rather quickly. And when she shifted restlessly to make herself more comfortable, one hand fell in such a way that it accidentally drew the hem of her dress even farther up until it showed a pale expanse of thigh.
It is hard to grin while playing shepherd’s pipes. Somehow Bast managed it.
The sun was climbing the sky when Bast returned to the lightning tree, pleasantly sweaty and in a state of mild dishevel. There were no children waiting near the greystones this time, which suited him perfectly.
He did a quick circle of the tree again when he reached the top of the hill, once in each direction to ensure his small workings were still in place. Then he slumped down at the foot of the tree and leaned against the trunk. Less than a minute later his eyes were closed and he was snoring slightly.
After the better part of an hour, the near-silent sound of footsteps roused him. He gave a great stretch and spied a thin boy with freckles and clothes that were slightly past the point where they might merely be called well-worn.