Off Center (The Lament) (9 page)

She
shuddered and made herself not even think about it, but Mara noticed and looked
like she was going to say something. Luckily Sam Milner limped out of the building
they were standing by, wearing a warm, but old looking, fur coat. Behind him in
the doorway was an equally old woman, who hadn't been in the mess the day before.
She closed herself outside, and was bundled well enough that it was clear she planned
to come with them, wherever they were going.

"This
is my wife, Mildred. She handles most of the store keeping records and actually
knows where everything is. I figured it would save some time. Besides, she told
me she was coming along, and you know how women are, right boy?" He winked
at Pran, who nodded, back, even as Mara smirked a little.

"Some.
Are we ready to start?" She didn't actually have any knowledge of how this
was done at all, but it turned out not to be that hard.

They
were led to the main storehouse, which was filled with barrels, bins and sacks,
and then Pran had to climb around and verify that each thing had what was claimed
on the label in it. The inside of the place wasn't well lit, and it was decent sized.
Still, Mara seemed happy enough with what she was finding.

"Given
the population here, of two hundred and seven, this is enough for winter. You have
three storehouses?" No one had mentioned that, but the older man nodded.

Then
he walked toward the front, with his wife looking a bit annoyed for some reason.

"This
way. How did you know it was three, and not two? The third is a ways back into the
woods."

Mara
smiled and followed along, going slowly, since the man had an obvious stomachache.
He was still occasionally holding himself there at least.

"We
saw them from the air when we came in. It's normal for us to do an aerial assessment
before we land, when possible. You'd be shocked about how many places try to lie
to us about what they have. It's foolish of course, because we
aren't
the
tax assessors. I guess they think it will net them more from the emergency supplies?
Sometimes it probably does, but taking more than you need doesn't help anyone, does
it?" She sounded almost innocent as she spoke, rather than like an adult woman
in her thirties. Pran got it and smiled a bit, turning away so that the others wouldn't
see her doing it.

Mildred,
the old woman, still got it and frowned at her.

She
didn't say anything, because sassing a Guardian was poor form. So she left that
part to Sam the old man, as they went to the next warehouse set-up. This one had
mainly grains and potatoes in sacks, but a section of dried fruit as well. The last
section held odds and ends, and meant Pran was all over the place by noon, when
the old woman finally looked at them all bitterly. She seemed to be pretty good
at that, being disgruntled.

"We
should stop for a meal, I suppose. What are you going to do about the Butcher's
place? He holds most of the meat for the village, salted and sugar packed for the
cold times. We have food, but nothing like that, unless we can use it?" Her
sharp words seemed out of place, even after Pran remembered that the Butcher was
accused of touching her granddaughter.

Mara
however, didn't seem to think anything of it at all.

"We
can wait a few days, for the trial. If he's not guilty, well, then we'll see what
he says. If he is, his goods will be distributed to his closest family. They can
do with it what they will, but there's no reason for them not to work with you.
Especially if they're not from this area. You normally trade with each other, rather
than use coins or script?" She said the words lightly, but the older couple
both frowned.

The
old man looked suspicious and sort of glared at Mara.

"Aye.
That's so."

That
earned him a shrug at least.

"Again,
the Guardians don't collect taxes. Even
we
occasionally trade goods and services
to avoid the tax man. I was just thinking about what kinds of things might be needed
if you have to ship goods out a long ways. That costs, since room on an airship
isn't free, especially this time of year. Wagons run about the same price, unless
you can take things on your own."

That
wouldn't help them with meat soon enough though.

Pran
watched the older woman closely. There was something about her that seemed off.
Not "Techno-cult spy" out of place, maybe, but something was wrong. She'd
been way too concerned about the stored meat, rather than about the men that would
be taken away for abusing a prisoner in their care. That couldn't be right, could
it?

"We
really should do something with that meat. Mayhaps we could buy it, then hold the
coin for Will, for when he gets out of prison?" The old woman was staring so
hard at Mara, as they sat at the wooden table in her daughter's kitchen, that the
Guardian didn't dare look away.

It
was the fourth time she'd come back to the topic. Pran didn't even bother looking
at her this time, focusing on Lyse, the woman's daughter, who was across the warm
room, standing at the stove, near where a loaf of fresh bread sat. Her back was
turned and she was stirring some soup in a pot, which was the standard mid-day meal
here, they'd been told. It smelled better than decent, but what got her attention
was how the woman stiffened, as the topic was brought up again.

The
little girl was helping to set the table, and didn't seem beaten down or abused,
like the kids at the Grange always had. Pran knew that she'd been the same way,
and had learned to fake being normal at school in her first weeks.

She
seemed perky and lively, to be honest about it all. She also had dark hair. Kevin,
who was the girl's father sat across from them. He was lighter in color. An ash
blond. Lyse had a nice long head of strawberry colored tresses in a single braid.

But
little Hadis? She could have passed for having black hair, in the right light. Like
Will the butcher? It was hard to tell by the set of the eyes, but it was clear to
Pran that
Kevin
wasn't her father. She didn't mention it however, since it
wasn't her part in things. She was there to sing, play some songs and, apparently,
be called a boy.

Kevin
did the honors this time, trying to change the subject. He was smart enough to get
that harping about looting someone's storerooms might not be the best way of doing
things. Especially since he was, apparently, going to be going to a work camp himself,
for his abuse of power.

"I
hear that you and your Master are going to be playing for us tonight, boy. Are you
any good?" The man winced and took a sip of the warmed cider from the clay
mug that was in front of him. It was over spiced, but not that horrible. Pran was
halfway through her own. The gesture wasn't over his calling her a boy even, since
no one there seemed to have picked up on that yet. She was nearly bursting to tell
them too, but held her tongue for some reason. "Forgive me. Not trying to say
you
wouldn't
be good. Most Bards have to be, or they don't get no training.
You've been through the school? You look young for it."

That
was at least an attempt at being polite, so she nodded, making her face look considering.

"Bard
Benjamin isn't actually my Master. I'm traveling to meet her, but we stopped here
for a time. He's very good however. Hopefully I'll be good enough that Sam won't
feel the loss of the materials he's trading for it." She looked down and tried
to seem humble. It nearly worked, but the older woman coughed ruining it.

"None
o'that now. Two things I ain't never seen. A cow what's could jump worth a berry
stain, and a humble Bard. No e'en a youngster. I bet you want us to hurry with the
food, being a growing lad and all. Lyse, honey, how's that coming?" The accent
was being laid on a bit more richly than before, and Pran took note of it. The day
before, when he was worried, Sam had done much the same thing with Clark. It was
a deflection, meant to mislead them from something.

Probably
a realization that they were smarter than they seemed, and at least some of them
were up to something.

The
blondish woman at the large metal stove stirred for a bit. When she spoke, it was
clear that she wasn't overly bright. Pretty enough, but slow. It showed a lot more
in her voice than on her face, which was decently attractive, by country standards.
Not made up or anything, but cute, in a slightly round and well fed way. She wasn't
stocky however, so it was all about her bone structure.

"Almost
done, mother. I think. Should we get jam out? I like jam. The strawberry is good."
There was a little child's kindness to the words, but no one explained that the
woman wasn't bright, which was good. That would be insulting to her, and she seemed
to be getting along fine enough. Her daughter was bright, it seemed. At least she
knew where the good preserves were and looked at her grandmother for permission
to get them, seeming eager.

"All
right, love. Don't eat too much though. I don't want to see you making yourself
sick." This came from Sam, who got a smile from his wife and a slightly annoyed
look from his son-in-law.

Kevin
just shook his head and made a disgruntled sound.

"We
have to be careful with the sweets. Else Hadis will be up half the night and refuse
to settle. These two don't have to deal with it, so'as like as often they feed her
up with treats and send her back here for the night. Well, nothing's too good for
my little girl." The happy demeanor faded on the last line, and he glanced
at his daughter. It wasn't a mean look, but there was less pleasure in it than she
would have expected. Maybe because Will Butcher had touched her? Kevin could be
feeling bad over that, having failed to protect her.

Or
maybe it was something else?

Pran
didn't know for certain, but didn't think
he
was harming the girl at all.
She acted completely happy, and skipped into the little room at the back of the
kitchen. The pantry. When she came back there was a small ceramic pot in her hands,
which had both a lid and a cap of wax on it, for freshness. It was well made and
rather cute. With a brown glaze on the outside.

Sam
saw her looking at it and nodded once, understanding that she was looking at the
pot and not the promised treats inside.

"We
have a nice clay bank down by the east river. Three times a year or so we run the
wood kiln, and the whole town gets what we need as to cups, bowls and pots then.
It's a huge old thing, but it works. This one was done..." He seemed lost for
a second and looked at his wife, who picked it up and glanced at the bottom of the
thing.

"It
has the owl mark." It was still sealed, but she put the lid back on and turned
it so that everyone could see the little design scratched into the clay on the flat
and unglazed bottom of the thing. "That would be six years ago now?"

Sam
made a face.

"There
was a time when I would have known that without looking. Six years. It doesn't seem
that long ago. Well, anyway, we do the work locally." This was clearly directed
at Mara, who instead of insisting she wasn't the tax man looked at it closely, taking
it from the older woman's hands from across the table.

"A
wood fired kiln used a few times a year shouldn't be a problem. If I can look at
it after the meal? Just to check for energy use and all that. Any mills, or factories
you have too. We might as well do the whole thing, since we've already got the main
inventory out of the way. I like your organization by the way. Half the places we
go just throw things in any old way. This was a lot more efficient." She sipped
her own drink, and then looked at it considering.

Pran
didn't nod, but it was a close thing. There hadn't been any cider in the warehouses.
It could be a private thing, of course, or even something they'd paid for themselves,
but this area would
grow
apples. Part of the planks she'd traded for were
apple wood. They had a lot of dried ones too, and some fresh. No pressed cider though?
Not for the whole village to use, if things got tight? What were they doing with
it?

She
held the question off her face, trying to work it out. It seemed like an obvious
thing, but she didn't have the context needed for it all to work in her head. Mara
would probably know, this kind of thing being part of her job. Maybe they'd traded
it all away, except a small bit for personal use? Or turned it into hard cider and...

She
wanted to roll her eyes, but didn't.
That
made sense. It wasn't illegal to
make hard cider, but it was heavily taxed. All hard beverages were. They seemed
really concerned with avoiding all the payments to the government they could, so
it was probably hidden away.

Lyse
may not have been brilliant, but she was a good cook, doted on her daughter and
was polite to everyone. The only bit of trouble with her came near the end of the
meal, when she tried to pass more of the jam to Pran, being a good hostess.

"Would
you like more, miss?" Holding it out, she seemed pleased. It was actually very
good, so Pran could see that being fair. It was fine to take reasonable pride in
work well done.