The Path of the Sword (22 page)

“Jurel! You're so awful,” Erin gasped, swatting him on the arm.

“What do you know of plowing boy?” Valik asked. “I'd imagine you only ever tried your own hand at it.”

“
His hand
is
the field,” Shenk hooted.

“
Oh that's very clever Shenk,” Jurel retorted with a wry smile. “A fine echo of your master
there. I assume that your hand is
his
field?”

Stunned laughter from his friends rewarded his off color jest. That, and glares that could have melted stone from the three across the table.

“That's very funny boy,” Valik snarled. “Perhaps later, when we're alone, I'll show you how funny.”

“Lay off Valik,” Darren said at the same time that Jurel retorted, “Oh no, I wouldn't want to get between you and Shenk. What would my father say?”

“You too Jurel. Lay off,” Trig warned. “We're all just fooling around, right? No harm done. Besides, Jurel is drunk. He won't be able to remember what he said tomorrow.”

Tension lay like a pall in the air so thick, even Jurel noticed through the haze of alcohol, like a bitter taste in the back of his throat as he and Valik glared at each other. There was an unspoken dare in each of their eyes:
go ahead, try it
.

And somehow, Jurel won that contest. Abruptly, Valik stood.

“Come on fellas. Lets leave these children to their foolery,” he sneered arrogantly and walked away, followed closely by his two cronies.

Jurel leaned toward Trig conspiratorially and said, quite loudly, “Going to find a field to plow no doubt.”

But no one laughed.

“You know what he's going to do to you for that, don't you?” Trig demanded.

After that, the mood was more somber but with Valik gone, the tension disappeared and they stayed and enjoyed each others's company in a way that they had not done in years, until deep into the small hours of the night.

When Daved stumbled up to their table, owl-eyed and flushed, his hair tousled comically, and his shirt buttons mismatched so that the left side hung down three inches farther than the right, Jurel rose and slurred something he thought might pass for “Good night” to his friends. Arm in arm, father and son staggered out, holding each other up, and carefully navigated their way to their cabin. They sang a song, a tuneless thing that shattered the peace of the deep night, and one that Jurel would never be able to put a name to.

At a point near their front door, Daved halted, would have fallen if Jurel was not holding on to him, and turned, inspecting his son with bleary eyes.

“You're drunk,” he proclaimed. “I tole you not to drink too much.”

“Well, you're drunk too,” Jurel laughed.

“Am I?” Daved blinked in surprise and blew a breath through numb lips. He looked like a horse. He wavered, stumbled a step, and slurred, “Well would you look at that. I guess I am. Now how did that happen?”

By the time they picked their way carefully to their little front door and fell into their chairs, Jurel's gut started to tie itself into unpleasant oily knots. Closing his eyes was a mistake; the room began to tilt and wobble, spinning round and round until he was absolutely positive that when he vomited, the walls would need a good cleaning.

He put his head between his legs and breathed very carefully, very deeply.

The sound of his father's chair scraping on the floor was sudden, and his head snapped up, words
of reprimand sprouting on his tongue for making so much racket, when he noticed Daved's fixed stare, a mixture of confusion and anger, aimed at the floor across the room. The words died in his throat.

“What's this then?” Daved asked and took a step toward the ladder leading up to the loft above.

Following his line of sight, Jurel felt his own confusion and a renewed coiling in his sodden belly. On the floor was a muddy footprint. He scrutinized the floor all the way to the front door but in their drunkenness, they had tracked in their own mud. That was no use. On top of that he supposed he would be the one to clean it up in the morning.

Climbing the ladder quickly, his intoxication apparently forgotten, Daved searched the loft while Jurel followed a little more carefully, trying not to misstep. At the top, he stepped to his father's side in front of his own cot, where two more footprints were visible on the floor. His brain felt spongy and full of worms. Was he seeing right? He shook his head to clear the greasy gauze that filled his brain and immediately regretted it.

“Did you come home at all tonight Jurel?” his father asked as softly as silk passing over steel.

He shook his head and again regretted it, still staring at the confusing sight in front of him. “No. I only left a few times to visit the jakes and then went right back.”

In a sudden motion, Daved gripped Jurel's blanket and pulled it back almost convulsively. Both men gasped in shock. In the center of Jurel's bed, they saw a mound of excrement, like a black eye. His belly roiled and the room lurched fitfully. He spun and clambered down the ladder, missed a step, and fell heavily to the floor. Scrabbling, he lurched for the door, willing his food to stay down for just one more moment. Cool night air blasted him and then he was on his hands and knees in the wet grass heaving and heaving until his sight grayed out and pinpricks of light flashed painfully.

When it passed, he sat back, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, grimacing at the rancid taste and the burning in his throat. His father had joined him, knelt beside him—and a little behind—and patted his back.

“There you go lad,” Daved said and even though he was still enraged, a hint of amusement colored his tone. “Maybe next time you'll listen to your old man's advice.”

Jurel nodded, staring at the puddle of his meal on the ground before him. “I promise,” he croaked, “I will never drink again.”

His father chuckled knowingly. “We all make that promise. And we all break it. Now if you're quite finished fouling up our front yard, we have a mystery to investigate.”

Deadly serious again, Daved pulled him to his feet and his features were lit with a shrewd glint. “Though somehow I think you might be able to shed some light on who the dirty bastard is who did this.”

Jurel knew who had done it. Of course he did. There was only one person on the entire farm who would think it funny. He went back over the evening haltingly, trying to pull together his sodden thoughts, beginning with the tainted ale, and focusing on one event, one exchange of words in particular. When he finished, he sat in his chair silently regarding his father.

He sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight. He did not utter a single word, only stared at his son with terrible eyes that could have leveled a town. Under that terrible scrutiny, Jurel began to quiver ever so slightly. He waited. His father stared with lips pinched until they were a white gash and vibrated like a plucked lute string. He drew a breath to speak, to break the stillness before the world tore itself apart when his father, in a lightning quick motion slammed his fist on the table. Jurel heard the distinctive snap of wood, as he jerked back in shock.

“And this is how he repays the foolish jests of a drunken man?” Daved roared. “This goes too far.”

As if his anger energized him, Daved rose and paced the small room, apoplectic with rage, his face mottled red, his eyes depthless pits that glittered fiercely. “Your words were unwise, unkind, but
this?
No. This is no silly prank. This is villainous. I will speak to Galbin about his vile son. I will ensure that this
never
happens again.”

He started for the door, his decision made.

“I can discuss this with Valik, father,” he offered and somewhere deep inside, he was surprised to realize that he meant it.

But Daved spun and regarded his son through slitted eyes. “No. It is good that you offer, but no,” he said as calmly as he could. “This is an intrusion against both of us. He entered my house—
my house
—unbidden and shit in your bed. No. I will speak with Galbin.”

He wrenched open the door, nearly pulling it free of its hinges and turned again to his son. “Do nothing now. I am certain that Valik will be more than happy to clean up his mess. God help him if I see him before I reach his father.”

And then he was gone into the night.

Jurel sat, shaken by his father's reaction. He would have expected anger or contempt but the rage that Jurel had seen had been near apocalyptic. Perhaps it was the drink that drove his father to such an extreme. He took a deep calming breath and closed his eyes. Perhaps it was the drink but Jurel thought there might be more to it.

First the trip to town and the odd meeting with Kurin, then the birthday gifts and subsequent explosion, a lesson harshly taught, and now this. He did not think the rest of the night would go much better either.

And so, with a resigned sigh on the Day of Shadows, Jurel, sixteen years old and a man as of that very day, situated himself as comfortably as he could, resting his throbbing head on his arm, and he waited yet again for his father's return.

Chapter 17

On a cold winter evening, the day before the New Year's celebration, as the wind howled its mournful dirge and blew pinprick snow in front of it, making the cabin seem to shiver, Jurel and Daved sat before their stove warming up after a long day spent at the silo reorganizing stock. There had been a lot to do. When the merchants came to buy produce, they often found the best choices were at the bottom of the piles. Of course.

They chattered idly about this and that, hopping from topic to topic like a sparrow hops from branch to branch while Daved kept their brandy cups full.

“Maybe in the spring, we can talk to Galbin about expanding the cabin,” Daved mused.

With a chuckle, Jurel nodded. “Yes. That would be greatly appreciated.” He took a sip of the warming amber liquid.

He had grown to immense proportions, easily topping six and a half feet, and with a muscular frame to match. His tiny cot was no where near adequate to hold him anymore. His feet stuck out the bottom to his knees and it creaked alarmingly whenever he settled his bulk on it. Thoughts of a larger sleeping area—that did not threaten to collapse whenever he looked at it the wrong way—had become a prime concern to the young man.

“If I grow much more,” he opined with a grin, “we may need to ask Galbin to trade homes with us.”

He was rewarded with a quiet chuckle and Daved turned to face his son, craning his neck as he looked up.

“I bloody hope you've stopped growing,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “You're huge boy and I still can't afford to buy you new clothes every day. It might be cheaper to buy a whole bloody cow and drape it over your shoulders.”

It was Jurel's turn to chuckle quietly. That topic of conversation was as familiar as old shoes to
them though he thought the day was quickly approaching when they would no longer mention it. He was still wearing the same clothes he had received some months ago for his eighteenth birthday and that was surprising. Up until his birthday, he had needed new clothes almost every month.

“How are the preparations coming for tomorrow's celebration?”

“Oh, they're coming along.” Daved leaned back with a stretch. “The adornments are all hung and the tables are already set up. The hands aren't too happy about it. Their cots are all pushed up against the walls and they're crammed in there so close that some are complaining they might as well be married. Can you imagine Kearn and Goss married?”

Jurel could not help but smile at the thought of the two cantankerous old men as a married couple. Religious and legal issues aside, they would kill each other within a fortnight.

“So the party is still being held in the general quarters then.” He grimaced. “It's too cold in there. There's so much draft that I'm always afraid to blow away.”

Daved reached up and cuffed his son upside the head. “You're spoiled boy. We've got our pleasant little fire in our tight little cabin and we're warm, eh? How do you think the hands feel? Besides, what do you want to do? We can't fit nearly sixty people in here. Then there'd definitely be a need for marriages. And I'm sure that the ladies are hard at work preparing plenty of food—they know you and Galbin will both be there after all—so you'll have something to concentrate on besides the draft.”

“I know, I know,” Jurel sighed.

Rubbing a hand over his bristly chin, he figured he could use a shave but that could wait until morning. It was just too pleasant sitting there with his old man, drinking and talking. He did not know how many more occasions they would have to do this; thoughts of leaving the farm crowded his mind always, and he imagined that come spring, he might see what he could see. He had been open with Daved about his ideas and to his father's credit, he had taken it all in stride. “If it happens then it happens,” he always said when Jurel brought it up, and though there was always a hint of sadness, a dimming of his eyes when he said it, he tried his best to conceal it.

“More brandy, Jurel?” Daved broke into his thoughts.

He glanced up and saw his father holding the jug with a raised eyebrow and, eying his cup, he realized with some surprise that he had managed to drain it. He hesitated, considering. He had already had two shots—or was it three?—and he could feel a warm numbness spreading up his fingers and toes. It was very cold outside though. And his father was being so polite. It just would not do to offend him by refusing. So he nodded and held out his cup.

“One more, and that's it,” he promised.

Daved paused with the jug suspended over his cup and gave his son an amused grin. “I heard that one before. 'Just one more.' Uh-huh.”

And they both laughed.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Daved asked as he poured.

New Year was the one day when no one was expected to work. On other major holidays—the Day of Shadows in the fall, the Day of Light in the spring—they worked half days, quitting early to enjoy an afternoon and evening of feasting and pleasure. On the lesser holidays, everyone worked full days, contenting themselves with smaller celebrations after sunset. They generally worked only half the day after a major holiday too but that was more because most of the workers were in no shape to lift their throbbing heads let alone a shovel, and Galbin was generous enough to allow it—usually because he could not lift his own throbbing head. Those that did work on New Year, did so voluntarily, like the kitchen staff, seeing the time spent as a chance to mingle and chat more easily than on other days. No duties were assigned, no tasks set; it was all about enjoying the day as they would.