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Topiara - Chapter 30
"Olyn Chivan, eh?" Bright and beady grey eyes peered intently into Lyara's face. "How old 'ye be?"
"Nineteen i' the summer," Lyara answered as brashly as any young man that age and with a farm-boy's accent and inflection.
"Have 'ye practice wi' the blade 'ye wear, then?" Vinzen's man pointed to the short sword hanging at her side with a condescending and disbelieving look on his scarred face.
"Enough," Lyara snapped, offended despite herself.
"Hmph. We'll see abou' that." Craw jerked a thumb at the skiff moored at the end of the dock. "Get in."
Lyara didn't dare look at Jilan, but picked up her bundle and walked the length of the dock with the swagger of irrepressible young manhood. Jilan watched her covertly and had to admit to himself that she sported the mannerisms of a brash lad so well that he himself was barely able to recog nize her as a girl. Then it was his turn to be scrutinized.
"Yer name, sport!" Craw barked.
"Jil Torshan." Jilan could snap back in the same tone and did, wondering what aristocratic family had spawned this travesty. "I be twen'y-one too, if it be any o' yer biz ness."
"Shut yer tongue, or I'll shut it fer ye' ferever." Craw barked, raising his fist at the young man. This one had promise, even if he had a big mouth. "Now, ever use that?" Again, he pointed to the sword at Jilan's side.
"Once 'er twice," Jilan prevaricated smoothly. "Wanna see?"
Craw actually broke a grin. "I like yer mettle, lad. Get in." He jerked his thumb at the dock, and Jilan fol lowed Lyara's steps to the skiff, which looked even less serviceable than their own had.
Craw's eyes widened appreciatively as Sharin stepped up to his barrel. "Wha's this?"
"I hear Master Vinzen's in need of a good cook." Sharin's chin rose in the air proudly. "I be trained proper in the kitchens of a real Master Chef."
The old bandit looked the young girl up and down, the heat in his scrutiny making her hard pressed not to blush deeply in embarrassment. "Well," he admitted finally, "I s'pose you be good for other if 'ye end up bein' no cook. Wha' be yer name, lass?"
"Sharin." There was no way Sharin intended to name her family name, or even give a facsimile.
Craw noted the ommission with a chuckle that made the hackles on Sharin's neck to rise. "Sharin, eh? Well, get in. The grub there could use some fixin', I tell 'ye. If 'ye be not lyin', there be many to thank 'ye fer comin'."
The three friends sat next to each other without once meeting the other's gaze, as would any group of strangers. The skiff soon held four more, as there were enough disen chanted and dissolute youths more than willing to cross the line into outlawry. Seven plus the pilot was all the craft would hold safely, and soon they were sailing in the brisk breeze toward the island. Lyara's stomach was tight. If she hadn't been there the night before, landing on the island in the daytime would've been downright nerve-wracking.
In the light of day, with no storm to force them in side, the island was a madhouse of activity. The line of recruits walked briskly past the maze of cottages, each with a pack of dirty children playing at bandits in the mud with lobons and angchois squawking out of reach or nipping at their heels. Daytime also meant a little higher profile for the guard at the gate, which Lyara noted was now a well-seasoned older man with a canny wariness. The muddy court yard was filled with the other young recruits that had flocked to Vinzen's minions with the last winter hardships, each practicing swordplay with a partner. Lyara's mouth turned up disdainfully at the lack of skill demonstrated by both the recruits and their trainer. Even Jilan was better trained that that.
The bandit who had piloted the skiff stopped the line long enough to have quick words with another, who then motioned curtly to Sharin to follow him. Sharin wanted desperately to take one last look at her companions, but managed to restrain herself and follow her new leader toward the back end of the imposing-looking stronghold itself.
Lyara's stomach tightened even more. Even though the plan seemed to be moving along as expected, the further in they went the more concerned she grew. Topiara, ever in the back of her mind now, whispered caution and soothing in turns. The pilot now veered to the left, leading his line of recruits to the door of the dormitory.
"There be bunks a' th' back o' there," he barked in a bored voice. "Drop yer stuff i' there and be back out smar'ly fer practice." He watched as each of the six stepped into the dark interior of the building.
As if of one mind, Jilan and Lyara managed to find two bunks stacked one over the other empty and unclaimed at the back of the building, Lyara taking the lower bunk quickly. Jilan snorted, as if offended, but said nothing as he hefted his bundle onto the bed and turned with the others to return to the practice yard.
Back in the yard, Lyara was finally able to really study the inside courtyard of the stronghold. Several building such as their dormitory sat around the perimeter of the yard, building Farranby had said were used both for storage and living quarters, depending on the season and luck of the latest raids. Toward the center of yard stood a very sturdy-looking stone building with heavy metal doors, the armory of the estate. At the far end stood the strong hold hall itself, a low, sprawling building with small, defensible windows. What was behind that building was invisible, but Farranby had informed them that many fruit trees and a well-varied garden provided food for Vinzen's table alone.
Lyara was tempted to show the inept youth she was partnered with the fine points of meeting a Guides-trained opponent, but remembered in time that she was supposed to be a brash, talented youth instead. So she allowed her atten tion to stray from her practice to the point that she looked equally untrained but didn't give her partner the slightest opening. She could see that Jilan was practicing in truth, but had been partnered with a more experienced recruit so that his skills were being honestly honed. For him, the practice would prove useful.
oOoOo
Sharin grimaced at the taste in the sauce that was meant for Vinzen's roast angchois. Cook may be the power in the hall's kitchen, but she sure hadn't earned her way there by skill at seasoning. She looked around, finding Cook with her back turned to her nursing the spitted bird turning slowly over the fire. The little sack of herbs and bark Sharin had collected on the shore nestled in a hidden pocket of her skirt, and with little modesty she reached in and pulled a small amount of the chamfor leaves which she crushed between her palms and sprinkled in the sauce. There, she nodded to herself with the next taste, much better! She quickly rearranged her skirts before Cook could see.
"Hey!" The fat woman's surprise made her turn from kneading the dough and look back. Cook stared at the new helper from over the sauce spoon. "What did you do to this?"
"It needed something," Sharin announced earnestly, since it was the truth, "so I fixed it a little."
Cook's thick brows worked as she thought. This one would be a real addition to the kitchen. "Good work, Sharin. Vinzen'll be pleased."
"I'm glad," the girl answered, smiling inwardly. She had been relieved to find the stronghold's kitchens overseen by one whose intelligence only barely surpassed that of the somber drudges that turned the spits and butchered the meat. That had been her one dread -- that Cook would be smart enough to see through her. Now her task would be even easier, if she could stay away from that mystic.
"What else 'ye know how to make, girl?" Cook dropped the spoon back into sauce and came over to Sharin's side. "'Ye know to make skittled daranges?"
"Of course!" Every cook worth her larder knew that one. Then Sharin smiled. Here was her opening. "And I know how to make mulled wine."
That set Cook back a pace. "With what?" she demanded suspiciously.
"Oh, I have the proper ingredients with me," Sharin offered vaguely. "I thought it might be nice on a cold evening."
Cook rubbed her hands together gleefully. This Sharin was a real gift in return for all the offerings she'd been making to the god of the hearth lately. "Ooo, child! 'Ye don' know how tha' will be loved!"
Sharin rubbed her nose with the back of her hand to keep from getting the flour from her kneading all over her face. It never failed that her nose itched in the middle of kneading bread. "It's too late to start the wine for tonight," she commented drolly, knowing that Cook would accept this statement because it too was true. "But, I could make it for evening meal tomorrow night. How about that?"
"Yer a treasure, 'ye are," Cook bubbled happily. Sharin's skill was bound to make her look good in the eyes of her master, something that would mean much in the months ahead if she knew Vinzen's moods to those who pleased him.
oOoOo
The pleased slurping and murmurs of surprise of the other recruits told Lyara better than anything that Sharin was making her presence felt in the kitchens. She took a taste and rolled her eyes. Yes, there it was, that distinctive skill with flavoring that had so surpassed her own. Even the rough stew that was supper for the recruits tasted downright delicious. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jilan gobbling his stew with little regard for propriety; and it reminded her that she was no longer supposed to be a civilized lady here but a callow youth. It was good for a change, then, to down the stew with the same kind of enthusiasm so frowned upon in girls.
Her muscles ached, and she could use the rest. Even though her partner had been inept and outright comical in his attempts at swordplay, keeping him at bay without hurting him had taken some effort. The day of inactivity, on top of the sore muscles from a night of hard swimming, was catching up to her. Her rough wooden spoon sought and scooped all the remaining tidbits of stew from the wooden bowl, and then Lyara got up and took the bowl to the table where a small barrel of clean water waited to rinse the dish before it was stacked for the next day. It had been explained that each recruit was responsible for his own dish.
With a sigh, she settled herself on the bunk and found it a lot more comfortable than the rough ground that had been her bed for several days. Try as she might, there was no way she could keep her eyes open, and the sounds from the others around her told her that there were several in the same state. She could hear Jilan stirring in the bunk above her, trying to find a comfortable position for his lanky length in bunks made for smaller men.
Topiara warmed on her breast, instilling her with confidence. The vision of the flute which was the aim of this raid danced in her head until she could no longer focus her thoughts and slipped into her own dreams.
The next day passed much as the first afternoon had, only the lessons had been particularly interesting for Lyara and Jilan. Never before had they been drilled in the fine art of picking pockets and cutting pouch-strings. Lyara enjoyed herself despite feeling the tension of the upcoming evening in her stomach. Jilan proved himself an apt pupil; earning praise from the trainer early in the day and moving to more advanced lessons long before Lyara did. It amused him and made him proud to for once be better at something than she.
The afternoon was once more set aside for swordplay practice. Lyara, bored of being the raw recruit, allowed a glimmer of her true skill show through and keep her poor partner only a parry away from being injured half the time. Today, as the day before, more seasoned bandits would come to watch at the edge of the yard as the recruits trained. Several watched Lyara toy with her partner and chuckle appreciatively.
Cook, ever the lazy one, had turned the running of the kitchen over to Sharin and sat in a corner, sipping at the unmulled wine that she had kept hidden for special occasions, offering advice and telling stories of her own youth. Somehow Sharin doubted the claims that Cook had once been a desirable woman, but she just nodded to keep the woman talking about herself and not paying real attention to what her new helper was doing.
It was late in the afternoon, when Cook had left the kitchen in peace to make room for yet another heavy draught of wine that Sharin began the doctor ing of the wine. First went in the siliman bark, with the darathon left for just before serving. It wouldn't do for anyone tasting the wine beforehand to pass out in an untimely manner. Sharin found that the bark she had collected only barely stretched for the amount of wine she was expected to prepare.
She knew her moment had come when Cook began snoring, slumped in a drunken stupor in the corner. The supper hour was quickly approaching, and the skittled daranges Cook had promised Vinzen sizzling pleasantly in a huge skillet below the roasting kerum that was the evening's entree. Glad the drudges knew little about herbs and would be able to tell even less if questioned, she opened her little bundle and pulled the wilted darathom leaves out. She took a cleaver and quickly chopped the broad leaves into slivers that looked much like the green siliman bark, and then dumped them into the pot of wine heating on the hearth. There, you demons, she thought with a grim smile on her face as she stirred the leaves into the mixture.
There were exclamations of real pleasure when, after the stew vat had been removed, pottery mugs were dragged out from beneath the little table to hold the evening's treat: hot mulled wine, compliments of the new Cook's helper. The wine wasn't quite hot anymore, as the recruits were the last to be allowed to get their share. Jilan took his mug back to his bunk with his bowl of stew, raising the mug faintly in salute to Lyara and her planning. Olyn, he reminded himself.
Lyara sniffed at the wine, finding its spicy smell very tempting. She saw the real regret in Jilan's face as he put the mug to his lips and pretended to swallow, knowing he loved the drink so and was forced not to partake. She busied herself with the stew, watching furtively as one after another of the recruits downed the drink with happy slurps and several contented belches.
She and Jilan were the first to finish their meal. The wine had managed to be spilled down the wall behind their bunk without anyone being the wiser, so they could wash both dishes with impunity. Then, settling down once more into their bunks, they could watch the others.
A crash as the dormitory door flew open broke their relaxation. Lyara swallowed a gasp, and Jilan could only stare as a burly figure lurched into the building, still carrying his mug of wine. The other recruits stumbled out of his way as the drunken bandit gazed piercingly into one bunk after another.
Finally the swaying figure stood in front of Lyara, and the face crinkled into an ugly snarl. "Well, well, well. And in a room full of men too."
Lyara shrank back against the wet wall of her bunk, but could not escape when the man sat himself down next to her "What's the matter, decided you couldn't live without me after all?"
Lyara frowned in confusion. Here she had thought that the man had found out Sharin and was looking for the co-conspirators, and the fellow acted as if she should know him. With consternation she moved to get a better look at the man's face, only to be taken up into a rough embrace.
"Don't you remember me?" the brute demanded, then hauled her out of her bunk to stand and face him. "You should. Its your fault that I'm here and not my father's heir."
"Oh, gods," Lyara breathed, her heart sinking to her shoes. "Stepan!"
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