"Come along, Stork," the man said. "You cannot avoid your duties."
Bransen lifted the room's chamber pot with one hand and offered his free arm to accept Reandu's guiding hand, and he shuffled along beside the monk toward the room's open door. Not willing to let go of this rare encounter with Reandu-at least, rare when they actually had time for a few words-Bransen stuttered out the name of his father and protector.
He made sure that he watched Reandu closely as he spoke Garibond's name, knowing, as was detailed in the Book of Jhest, that a man's initial reaction was often more telling than his subsequent words.
And, indeed, Brother Reandu's eyes did flash and widen for just an instant before he got himself steadied.
"Garibond?" Reandu echoed. "Ah, yes, old Garibond! A good man. A good man."
He was stalling, Bransen could tell, given his initial reaction.
"He went to the south, I believe. Yes, yes, to Ethelbert, from what I have heard. The sea air would be gentler on his aching bones, so he said."
Bransen wasn't entirely convinced, and he only half listened, focusing instead on the man's expressions and inflections as Reandu continued to tout the healing aspects of salty air and went on about the better, warmer, and sunnier climate of Ethelbert compared to Pryd.
Of course, Bransen knew, the monks could simply have offered Garibond healing sessions with their gemstones.
He didn't press the point, and he showed no outward sign of his doubt as he and Reandu exited the room and moved along toward the next door in the hallway. But then monks were rushing all around, responding to a commotion down the hall the other way, near the main chamber of the chapel's first floor. Immediately Reandu reversed direction, pulling Bransen along with him. They came to the end of the corridor to see many of the brothers assembled in line before Master Bathelais in the main chamber, with Laird Prydae himself and several soldiers facing them.
"Stay here," Reandu told him, and he rushed out to join Master Bathelais.
Bransen watched as Bannagran moved along the line of monks, lifting and inspecting their hands. The young man's eyes widened as he realized what was transpiring here, and he lurched over, placing the chamber pot down hard, then dipping his hand into its brown contents. He came back up as fast as he could, holding the pot once more in his filthy, shit-covered fingers-fingers that had been cut by Bannagran's knife the night before. How glad was Bransen that Brother Reandu had not apparently noticed the scar, the cut healed by the stolen soul stone and the meditation of Jhest, but still visible.
Bannagran finished with the monks then, and noticed Bransen as he turned back to his liege. He paused and studied the damaged young man.
He thinks I am the right size, Bransen thought, and he immediately staggered and lurched, accentuating his infirmity.
Bannagran started to approach and Bransen fought hard to remain calm. He wished that he had his soul stone with him, that he could become the Highwayman, if need be, and flee this place. He thought he was surely trapped.
But Bannagran stopped suddenly and looked down at Bransen's hand and the chamber pot. The large man crinkled his nose in disgust and gave the Stork a dismissive wave, then went back to join Prydae, Bathelais, and Reandu.
Bathelais dismissed the monks then, and they began to disperse, talking among themselves.
Bransen used the distraction to shamble along the general direction of the leaders, and he perked up his ears as he neared.
"Surely you do not believe any of the brothers hold any complicity in this theft," he heard Master Bathelais say.
"There was no rope," Bannagran answered, his voice low and grave. "No sign of a rope."
"It is hard to believe that anyone could steal the sword and so easily flee the forty feet down the side of the tower," Laird Prydae added, "unless of course the thief had the aid of a magical gemstone."
"Malachite," said Brother Reandu. "We have but two, I believe, in all of Chapel Pryd."
"And where are they?" asked the laird.
Reandu looked at Bathelais.
"I will order a complete inventory of all of our gemstones," the master said. "All of them, and I assure you that if any are missing, our aid will prove invaluable to you. There are ways to detect the usage of gemstone powers, my laird."
Laird Prydae nodded slowly, but he didn't seem very happy at that moment. "Are you so careless with your sacred gemstones that you know not even where all of them are now placed?"
Bransen took note of the embarrassed scowl on Master Bathelais's face. Of course, Father Jerak's unorganized ways were legendary among the brothers of the chapel, and the implication now was that perhaps Bathelais was not only inheriting but furthering the carelessness. That possibility seemed not to sit very well with him at that moment.
"We are no less vested in our gemstones than you are in your magnificent sword, my laird," Bathelais declared suddenly, with renewed vigor in his voice. "We will account for all of them, I assure you. If an outside contraband stone has been brought into the region by this man, this…"
"Highwayman," Bannagran spat.
"This Highwayman creature," Bathelais agreed. "There is no tolerance for this within our order. Any man found with a contraband gemstone will suffer the full wrath of the Church of Blessed Abelle."
"A man not of the Church in possession of a stolen gemstone is declared a heretic and burned at the stake," Brother Reandu added.
Bransen heard the contents of the chamber pot sloshing below his trembling fingers.
"Perhaps I will allow you that pleasure, if indeed this thief holds such a stone," Prydae said. "But not until I am finished with him. And know that he will welcome the consuming flames when I have shown him my wrath!"
Bransen nearly tumbled to the ground and felt as if he would throw up. Somehow he managed to get out of the room without attracting any more attention to himself.
What was he to do? Had he gone too far? Could he possibly explain to the brothers why he had borrowed the soul stone?
Unsure of himself, not knowing what to do next, the terrified man continued with his duties. The guise of the Stork would protect him, he tried to convince himself. How could they suspect him of anything when he could hardly walk?
He knew then that he had to be very careful. He could bring no attention to himself, and could not give any of them, not even Reandu, any reason to believe that there was any kind of intelligence inside his damaged physical form. And he had to take care in using the soul stone, apparently, if Master Bathelais's claims of being able to detect such magic were to be believed.
He had to be the Stork-just the Stork. His frailty would protect him, he hoped.
He desperately hoped. Several days passed before Bransen dared to go out as the Highwayman again, days made longer by his burning desire to test his mother's magnificent sword. Now that he had it firmly in hand, moving through the training movements he had learned in the Book of Jhest, Bransen began to understand just how wonderful the weapon truly was. It felt as if it were an extension of his arm as he swung it; its balance remained perfect at nearly every angle, making it seem even lighter than it was-and although it was much longer than the average Honce bronze or iron sword, the thin steel blade of SenWi's creation was far lighter.
Bransen spent an hour and more playing with the blade, weaving cuts against imaginary opponents, defeating attacks and quickly countering with killing strikes.
Even when he finished the most taxing of practice routines, he was full of energy and brimming with eagerness. He had no destination in mind this night, so he glided through the shadows, taking in the sights, the sounds, and the smells of Pryd Town. It was generally quiet: a bird calling, some cattle lowing, a mother shooing her children into the house, an owl hooting. But Bransen stopped when he heard a sharp cry among the soothing sounds of the town winding down.