Brute (10 page)

Gray’s body was frail and bony against Brute’s, with only the quilt between them. Brute hummed and rocked a little and tried not to think about how good it felt to hold someone in his arms, to have a few minutes of human contact.

After a time, Gray pulled away. He sniffled twice. In a little-boy voice with a hint of a lisp but not a trace of stammer, he said, “Sebbi Jonzac. He’s going to catch a terrible fever, so very fast. He’s going to die from it.”

Then he slumped to the floor.

This time, Brute didn’t try to wake him. Instead, he left the cell, bolted it shut, and pulled on a shirt and trousers. By the time he was fully dressed, Gray was sitting up again, shivering slightly under his blanket. “B-b-b-brute?”

“I’m going to give your message to the guard. Do you want some water first?”

Gray shook his head, so Brute padded down the hall and pounded on the door. The guard swore viciously when Brute told him what Gray had said. “Do you know— Who’s Sebbi Jonzac?” Brute asked.

“Coenred Jonzac is a member of the guard. Sebbi’s his only son. He’s six or seven years old.”

Brute’s stomach knotted uncomfortably. “What Gr—what the prisoner said. Is it true? Is the boy dying?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Fuck.” The guard sighed noisily. “Get back in. I have to get word to my captain.”

Although he wanted to ask more questions, Brute obeyed. He was slightly relieved when he returned to his chambers and saw that Gray had fallen asleep again. But it took a long time for Brute to follow suit, and when he did, he dreamed of dying children.

G
RAY
was more withdrawn than usual the following morning, turning away to face the wall as soon as he’d finished his breakfast. Brute honestly didn’t mind that much. He wondered whether the other man was aware that Brute had held him as he’d cried the night before.

Brute gathered the dirty dishes and brought them to the kitchens, where pot boys were busily scrubbing and most of the bakers and cooks rested before beginning the preparations for lunch. It took a small army of people to feed the palace’s population, and they all toiled very hard, with excellent results. Brute had already gained back some of the weight he lost while recovering from his injury. It helped that Alys seemed to have enlisted some coworkers in her endeavors to keep Brute well fed. Whenever he showed up at the kitchens, even if it wasn’t mealtime, people would hand him little tidbits of this and that. He suspected that some of what he was given was meant for the tables of the royal family, since he’d never dreamed of the existence of so many delicious things.

“You’re not hungry again already?” Alys asked him with a smile as she walked by, lugging a huge basket full of potatoes.

Brute scooped the basket away from her, cradling it in his arms and earning a grin. He followed her over to an enormous table, where several girls were chopping vegetables. “I was just stopping by,” he said, grinning back at her as he set the basket down and grabbed a bit of carrot to shove into his mouth.

“And what are you doing with yourself today? Aside from eating our cupboards bare.”

The answer was out of his mouth before he even realized he’d made a decision. “I thought maybe I’d walk around the city for a while.”

She tilted her head and gave him a long, considering look. “Sounds like a good idea,” she finally said. “Do you mind if Warin tags along? He knows his way around well enough, but I don’t like him out of the palace by himself.”

Slightly bemused at the idea of having company, Brute shrugged. “Sure.”

He didn’t know how Alys managed to get word to her brother—perhaps she used special magic, because the boy seemed to appear from nowhere almost immediately, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Hurry up, Brute! I have three coppers that are all my own, and there’s this sweet shop that has the best stuff in the world. I’ll take you there!”

Alys cuffed him gently on the head. “Brute might not want to visit sweet shops, brat.”

“A sweet shop sounds perfect,” said Brute, who’d never been to one.

Warin took Brute’s hand and tugged him impatiently out of the kitchens and to the palace’s front gates. A part of Brute still feared he might be a captive here—for what, he wasn’t sure; but then, did royalty really need a reason?—so he was pleasantly relieved when the guards at the gate simply scowled as he passed.

He and Warin were almost immediately thrust into the bustling crowds. Warin was very good at worming his way through clots of people, which Brute was far too large to do. He could have used his bulk to simply shove his way forward, but he didn’t want to cause offense. Several times he lost sight of the boy altogether, but fortunately, Warin had no troubles at all finding the towering Brute and always made his way back to pull at Brute’s hand and urge him on.

They were soon in a section of Tellomer that Brute had never visited. Men and women in fancy clothing strolled down clean pavement, stopping to eye the goods arrayed in shop windows. And what goods they were! Dishes painted in fanciful patterns, jewelry in gleaming silver and gold, rugs that must have taken someone a lifetime to weave, dresses and shirts of beaded and embroidered silk. One shopkeeper with an oiled mustache stood proudly before an array of little glass jars that filled the entire street with the scents of flowers and spices and musk. A short couple were rearranging their display of wooden musical instruments, most of which Brute had never seen before and couldn’t identify. One place sold yarns in a rainbow of colors, one was a stationer’s with beautiful papers, and another seemed to have nothing but beads and miniature figures made of blown glass.

It was a large shop on a corner that stopped Brute in his tracks, however, much to the annoyance of the women walking behind him. “Glorious gods,” he breathed.

Warin had continued walking, not noticing that Brute had stopped, and now he doubled back. “They’re just books,” he said when he saw what Brute was staring at.

“I didn’t think there were that many books in the whole world,” said Brute, who had caught glimpses of volumes now and then, usually in the hands of travelers who stopped at the White Dragon.

Warin waved his hands dismissively. “There are more books than that in the palace library.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Only about a thousand times. It’s not so great. Dusty. And you have to be quiet and sit still.”

“Why would
you
be sitting in a library?”

“Lessons, of course!” Warin huffed melodramatically. “I used to have them five mornings a week, and the schoolmaster would whack my head with his stick if I didn’t pay attention, but it was so boring! I don’t have to go anymore, though. I’m old enough.”

“So… you can read?”

“Of course I can read!” Warin squinted his eyes and looked up at him. “You can’t?”

“No,” Brute answered shortly, and resumed walking.

The sweet shop was only a block away. There were a few dainty tables outside, populated by women sipping tiny glasses of tea. The inside had a long wooden counter, behind which shelves of glass jars held candies of yellow, red, brown, black, and green. Tables were set off to the side, where two women with pink scarves over their hair poured drinks for the customers and set out delicate little plates of pastries. Warin wasn’t the only child in the shop. Several other boys and girls stood in a line along the counter, gazing up at the sweets avariciously. But they turned and gasped when Brute entered the shop. Warin puffed up his narrow chest and walked confidently forward.

The shopkeeper was an old man, not much bigger than Warin. “Yes?” he asked the boy, giving Brute a wary glance.

“One copper each of lemon, mint, and peach,” Warin immediately responded. Likely he’d been planning this purchase for some time.

The man nodded and scooped the brightly colored little balls and twists into a paper cone. Brute thought they’d leave the shop then, but instead Warin hurried across the floor and plopped himself into one of the chairs. Brute followed, eyeing the chair suspiciously before sitting down, relieved when it didn’t collapse beneath him. He felt ridiculous, though, perched on such a tiny seat.

Warin crunched happily for a few minutes before holding his cone toward Brute. “Have some.”

“I haven’t any money.”

“So? I already paid for them. C’mon. Alys’ll tan my hide if she thinks I ate this much on my own.”

The boy’s casual generosity stunned Brute more than anything he’d experienced since he came to the palace. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely and took a couple of candies between his fingers. He popped them in his mouth and sucked at them, savoring their sweetness.

“You’re here to keep tabs on me, aren’t you?” Brute said after a while.

Warin shrugged. “Sort of. But I really wanted to go. I hardly ever get out of the palace. Everyone’s too busy to take me, and Alys says I’m too young to go on my own. Which is
not
true, but there’s no use arguing with her.”

“Why do I need a minder?”

“’Cause they want to make sure you come back.” The boy looked suddenly concerned. “You
are
planning on going back, right?”

“Of course. But the other… the other people who’ve stayed in the Brown Tower, they haven’t?”

“Some of ’em stuck around for a few weeks. One guy was there for three or four months. But one man left after his first night!”

“Because of the dreams?”

Warin used a finger to dig compressed candy from his teeth. “Yeah. They got scared. He only dreams about people who are nearby, and I guess they were afraid he’d dream of them next.”

“Do his dreams always come true?”

“Nah. Sometimes they can be stopped. That’s how come you have to listen, to tell what he says.”

Brute was slightly relieved to learn that Gray’s prophesies weren’t infallible. “Warin, the things he dreams of… is he just seeing the future, or is he making those things happen?”

“Dunno.”

And that must have settled the matter in Warin’s mind, because he poured three candies onto the table in front of Brute, shoved the rest into his own mouth, and stood. “Let’s go. There’s lots more to see. Sometimes there’s jugglers over by the green market.”

So Brute slipped the candies into his pocket and followed the boy out into the street.

Brute was fairly certain that Warin’s chosen route was not the most direct one, but it was certainly interesting, at least from a child’s point of view. Brute didn’t mind; it wasn’t as if he had a particular destination in mind. After several blocks of posh houses, followed by more modest homes where dogs barked at them from front doors, they passed into a tradesmen’s district. Warin stopped to watch men hammering metal or cutting leather into various shapes. Even Brute was fascinated by the glassblowers sweating in front of their furnaces, and he enjoyed the scents of the breweries and distilleries. Then a terrible smell filled their noses as they reached the tanneries with their enormous vats of colored dyes. They didn’t stay there long, instead twisting and turning down narrow streets where the people looked tired and hungry and where some begged pleadingly with passersby. Brute saw a man—a young man, not much older than himself—who was slumped against a wall, a cracked bowl placed in front of him to receive coins. Both arms ended in angry-looking stumps at the elbows, and for the first time, Brute was thankful for his own misfortune.

Ramshackle hovels gave way to tiny shops and then to taverns that were raucous even at midday. On a street smelling of sour ale and urine, a man stumbled out of an inn and collided with Brute. Despite being two heads shorter, the man blocked Brute’s way, swaying slightly and staring blearily. “Not so tough,” he said. He drew out all the vowels as if the consonants were sticking on his tongue.

“Excuse me,” muttered Brute and tried to move around him.

But the man sidestepped too—clumsily—and wobbled closer. They were almost touching, and Brute could smell his foul breath. “Not so tough,” the man repeated.

A small crowd materialized, drunken men and women who were eager for a bit of entertainment, small boys who jeered and clapped. “I won’t fight you,” Brute said, as mildly as he could. He pulled the stump of his maimed arm out of his pocket, producing gasps and catcalls from his audience. “See? I can’t.”

His assailant poked him in the chest. “Coward.”

“I’m not. But you’re rat-assed and I’m damaged, and I haven’t any quarrel with you.”

Maybe the man would have come to his senses and stepped away, but Warin chose that particular moment to butt in, announcing grandly, “We’re the king’s men. Now stand aside!”

The crowd erupted in laughter and the man snorted. “King’s men, eh? Guttersnipe and his pet monster, more like. King wouldn’t have nothing to do with the likes of you.”

Warin’s face turned almost as red as his hair, and he kicked the man’s shin. The audience roared with laughter, but the man growled and backhanded Warin in the face. Warin went flying as blood spurted thickly from his nose. To the boy’s credit, he didn’t back down. He growled and lowered his head, butting into the man’s ample belly hard enough to make him grunt and stagger back a step. The man grabbed a fistful of Warin’s hair.

Brute didn’t know what the man had in mind to do next, and he didn’t wait to find out. He snarled, stepped forward, and brought his fist down directly on top of the man’s skull. The man crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut and lay motionless on the cobbles. Warin gave him a vicious kick in the side.

“Is he dead?” called an ancient crone with messy gray hair.

Warin dragged a sleeve under his nose. “Nah.”

Brute thought the crowd seemed disappointed at that. “Let’s go,” Brute said quietly to him, even as the bystanders surged forward with offers to buy them both drinks. Warin seemed slightly hesitant to leave the excitement, but he allowed himself to be hauled off.

By the time they were only a few blocks away, Warin was nearly giddy with enthusiasm. He retold their brief confrontation over and over, embroidering the details a little more each time, until it sounded as if the two of them had taken on a legion of enemies and Brute had slaughtered the lot of them with barely lifting a finger.