The Path of the Sword (7 page)

“Father? There's something else.”

“What Jurel?”

“I...”

Words fled as he stared at his father's back. He suddenly no longer wanted to say anything. He regretted it, regretted opening his big, fat mouth even though just a moment ago, he had resolved to come clean. To tell about the soiled shirt. He kept his mouth shut. Maybe his father would let it go. But of course, it was too late. Once again he found himself the victim of a powerful stare. A stare that demanded truth. Right
now
.

“Come on boy. Out with it. Galbin's expecting us.”

He was certain that a rock slide could not sound more menacing.

“He...I-I...” Helplessly, he rummaged around in the attic of his mind for words that would be less damning. His lips worked soundlessly as he tried to coax moisture into his suddenly arid mouth. “His shirt,” he blurted.

“His shirt. What about his shirt?”

“It-I got it dirty.”

“And how did you do that?”

His father was not particularly a tall man but somehow, he managed to loom over Jurel like a black obelisk.

“I wiped my hands all over it.”

Of all the reactions Jurel expected, laughter would have been far down on his list. But that was what he got. Great booming laughter that reverberated through the night air and once again Jurel jumped.

“Boy, I don't imagine a little dust would have done much harm. I'm sure that-”

“It was grease. And butter.”

“Explain.” Rock slides and swords and flinty eyes. That was more like it.

So Jurel did. Haltingly to be sure, and mumbling, which did not help his father's temper. Three times, as Jurel told his story, his father had to bark out, “Speak up!” And Jurel spoke up only to lose his voice a few words later.

By the time he finished his story and stood silently awaiting judgment, he was dizzy with a mixture of terror at what his father would do, and relief that he had at least been honest. It was a dizziness that lasted for what felt an eternity even though it could not have been more than a minute, a few seconds, really, as his father stood silent, with arms crossed across his chest like a statue of an ancient king or an angry god, before drawing in a deep breath and sighing.

“I'm glad you told me lad,” he said. “It shows that I haven't completely done wrong by you. I will discuss this with Galbin later.”

They were near the house now and were just about to step onto the veranda when his father spun back and stuck a finger in Jurel's face.

“
You understand that I will see you work off your debt. Apparently your hands are too idle
and
need to be kept busy.”

His eyes softened then, and the slightest hint of a smile passed across his stern features.

“Still, I'm glad you told me, lad. It took courage to admit a wrong. It took honor.”

Before Jurel could respond, even before he could fully comprehend that his father was complimenting him—he was still stuck on the fact that he would be doing chores for
ever—
the front door flew open and Galbin's bulky form appeared in the light spilling from within.

“Well there you are,” he bawled out in his usual jovial way. “I was beginning to think we would be dining without you.”

He was a huge ox of a man, standing easily head and shoulders above Jurel's father and certainly he was nearly as wide—like a great big squishy square—but for all that, he moved with the easy grace of a man possessing untold amounts of strength hiding beneath the soft layers. He shooed them inside with massive hands that seemed carved from marble and his teeth glimmered white with his easy smile.

“Welcome Daved. Always welcome of course. Come in, come in. You too young Jurel. Come in and be welcome. Marta? Marta where are you? Our guests have arrived.”

From somewhere deep inside the house, a reply came followed by the bustling footsteps of old Marta, head of the household staff, co-conspirator in the attainment of illicit lunches, and unknowing abettor in the incident of the greasy shirt.

“You know where the dining room is. Make yourself at home. My dear wife and son will join us shortly.”

Galbin strode down the hallway and disappeared through a large arching doorway on the right still chattering over his shoulder at them. Jurel loved the man like an uncle but he never seemed to be able to keep up with him. Daved rolled his eyes and snorted; they were well used to Galbin's energy.

“Well, let's go lad.”

They entered the dining room and Jurel could not help but stare. The dark stained rectangular table dominated the center of the room but it was what was on top that riveted his attention. Illuminated by a dozen bees wax candles in the finely crafted chandelier hanging above the center were plates and bowls, all containing something that made Jurel's mouth water. Carrots, corn, peas, potatoes; it was all there and it all steamed. Delicate porcelain salt and pepper holders, each with their own dainty spoon, flanked bowls filled with creamy butter. They themselves were flanked by bowls of warm rolls that looked so soft, so scrumptious that Jurel was tempted to reach out and snatch one and gulp it down right then and there. Crystal goblets, each one reflecting the chandelier's light in a glittering rainbow, stood by each setting, waiting to be filled by one of the bottles of wine that were uncorked on the table. In the center of the table, a bare circle of wood was conspicuous only due to its being bare but Jurel was pretty sure by the succulent aroma coming from the kitchen what would fill that spot.

He had been to dinner here before but usually dinner was a modest affair. Not that dinner was ever forgettable at Galbin's table. On the contrary, the smells and tastes were to be remembered for months afterward. But that night seemed extravagant. Almost excessive.

“Sit, sit,” Galbin invited, indicating two chairs. “Daved, have you had a chance to rate the new man, Buril?”

Daved heaved a sigh. “Oh aye I have and I must say he's as stupid as he is lazy.”

Even as Galbin roared out his laughter, Jurel tuned them out. Farm business was not his thing. He was much more interested in his surroundings. The frenetic activity of earlier had died down, and the house was quiet. The hearth behind Galbin crackled pleasantly though not too brightly or hot that the dining room was uncomfortable. Soft light reflected from the darkly lacquered wood wainscoting that ran around the room at shoulder height giving the illusion that it was not wood at all but fine satin. His inspection was cut short though when he heard familiar voices drift in from the hallway.

In walked Valik, sullen as ever, wearing the same grimy clothes he had on earlier, the red smear turned rusty on his sleeve, and he stalked to his place directly across from Jurel. Ingirt entered right behind, her puffy yellow skirt swishing and whispering as she walked to her end of the table. Even as those already at the table rose to greet her, Valik plopped himself down and stared sourly at his plate over a nose that was still noticeably swollen, eliciting a sigh from his father.

“Hello dearest,” Galbin said. “Our guests have arrived.”

“Why thank you husband. I hadn't noticed.”

The scathing sarcasm almost made Jurel's eyes pop out but wisely, he kept his mouth shut.

“Good evening madam,” Daved said with a bow so gracefully done that any queen would have been satisfied.

“Well. Now that the pleasantries are past, why don't we eat?” Always ready for food, Galbin was. “Marta? Marta! If you could, please?”

Ingirt was a waspish woman at the best of times. More often than not, if the children of the farm were doing something they should not necessarily have been doing, it was invariably she who found them out. Her voice was high—some might say shrill—and she used it to good effect.

Jurel could well remember the incident with the cow patty two summers ago. Trig had suggested that they jump from the rafters into piles of hay. Always one of their favorite sports. “Look I already made the pile,” he had said and sure enough, there was a nice plump pile of hay as tall as Galbin. “You go first Darren.”

What he had neglected to mention was that the hay was actually a rather thin camouflage for a shoulder high pile of cow dung. Even as Darren jumped Trig had laughed and called out, “Pleasant landings!”

As Darren emerged like some creature from a nightmare, a troll or an ogre perhaps, spluttering and wiping his face, he hurled a fistful of brown goo at Trig who dove out of the way still laughing so hard Jurel had been certain his ribs would crack. The second fistful of gunk slammed into the barn wall mere inches from the door. Just as it opened. Just as Ingirt had walked in. Her eyes had bugged out and Jurel had been certain that at any moment, lightning would shoot out of them. Her lips were pinched; there was just a thin white gash like a scar across the bottom of her face—a strange counterpoint to the two bright red spots on her cheeks. When she started berating the whole lot of them, she sounded like an entire murder of crows angered by a fox who stole their meal. Men had come in from the fields to find out who had been murdered and Jurel had wiped his ears, absolutely certain they were bleeding.

With an expression that could have soured sugar, Ingirt clicked her teeth. “Perhaps it would be wise to dispense with some pressing issues first, dear.”

“No. We shall eat first. I'm starving.”

Marta entered at that instant as if Galbin's pronouncement of starvation was of far greater importance than his summons and she set a platter holding the most beautiful chicken Jurel had ever seen, cut into perfect slices, on the circle of bare wood in the center of the table. He suddenly found himself eternally grateful to Galbin's appetite.

“Thank you my dear Marta,” Galbin said and he breathed deep. “It smells absolutely splendid. Will you join us?”

Jurel barely even heard Galbin's praise or his invitation; his attention was firmly riveted on the meal in front of him and his belly began to grumble earnestly and loudly.

“No thank you Galbin,” Marta replied. “Dake awaits me. His joints ache so in this damp weather, you know. If you don't need anything else from old Marta, I'd like to take my leave and go to him.”

“Of course my dear,” Galbin said with a smile. “Give Dake my best and tell him to take care.”

“Oh Marta,” Ingirt called when the old maid reached the door. “Please be here early on the morrow. There will be quite a mess to clean up.”

Another sigh from Galbin. Marta's only response was that she closed the front door perhaps a little more firmly than was necessary. There was silence for a moment as expectant glances passed around the room, a tableau of courtesy as everyone tried to determine their turn to serve themselves until Galbin waved a hand meaningfully to the bounty laid out.

“Come on now. We're all family here. Dig in. Don't be shy.”

So they did. Well, all of them but Jurel who could not help but gawk at Galbin as the man ravaged his first plateful like a bear coming out of hibernation. He was not surprised to see spots of food appear on Galbin's clothes. He
was
surprised that the chandelier managed to avoid the splatter. He felt he witnessed a violent crime more than he saw a hungry man eating. It was not until his father nudged him, none too gently, that he remembered himself.

“Don't be rude boy,” he murmured even as he stuffed a forkful of chicken in his mouth. “Eat.”

Shrugging slightly, Jurel did as he was told and joined everyone in enjoying the wonderful feast.

For a time, they ate and the only sounds were the faint clinking of cutlery and snatches of mundane discussion that revolved around the weather, the quality of the fishing at the pond, and compliments to the cook. That suited Jurel just fine. It allowed him to give his food his undivided attention and he savored every bite. He and his father always ate well, but their meals were never this tasty, never so grand. Whereas he could expect a couple of slabs of meat fried in a skillet and sided by dried vegetables at home, or perhaps a hearty stew, here he dined as he was certain royalty dined. The chicken was so tender and juicy he could cut it with his fork, the mashed potatoes crackled with garlic, and the peas were so plump and juicy they popped in his mouth like sweet little fireworks. It was marvelous.

“I bet you don't get to eat like that in your little shack, eh new kid?”

He almost stabbed himself with his fork as his eyes snapped up to Valik's malicious smile. The food that had just a moment ago riveted him turned to ashes in his mouth.

“Valik!” Galbin roared in a voice well accustomed to traveling great distances over farm fields, and then more quietly, “I apologize for my son Jurel. Please enjoy your meal.”

“Enough Galbin. I want to know why Jurel assaulted my son today.”

He had to admire her strength of will. Even under her husband's withering gaze, a gaze that Jurel knew could send even the surliest of the hands bolting for the nearest cover, she managed to remain proud, managed to stare down her nose at Jurel like a judge pronouncing sentence on a vile criminal.

The room was a tapestry of tension. Daved had stiffened in offended outrage and Jurel could see the muscles in his neck trembling. Valik was grinning maliciously again, and Galbin and Ingirt continued their staring contest across the table. He was certain that the silent battle they waged was a brutal one. Jurel himself, wanted nothing more than to slide unobtrusively under the table.

“Daved, you've heard about what happened. What say you to my wife's accusations?” Galbin's voice grated with pent fury and he did not break off the glare he shared with his wife.

A whisper of skirts rustling broke the stillness. For all her outward calm, Ingirt was intimidated. No surprise there. Galbin was an easy going man, slow to anger. Jurel had only seen him truly angry twice since he had met the man. On the rare occasion when he did anger, it was like a fire in dry brush.

“If it suits you Galbin, I'd like to let my son speak for himself.” At least Daved did not seem fazed by Galbin's wrath.

His expression softened as he transferred his gaze to Jurel and he smiled encouragingly. “Worry not lad,” he said quietly. “Speak your piece and I, at least, will listen without bias.” A sharp glance was fired at his wife and she cleared her throat nervously. “My son and my wife will listen to you. Silently.”