Stonefather

Silently he finished drinking, watching her closely. Watching her face, how she cocked her head to watch him drink, how there were tiny changes in her face reflecting whatever thought she was thinking. He realized that he had always been able to judge other people’s moods by what their faces showed. It had never occurred to him that nobody could judge his.

He thought of the stupid man at the doorway. How did Runnel know the man was stupid? Because of the slack-looking face, the way his grin seemed to have no purpose in it. From his size, he might have been set at the door to guard it. But from the apparent lack of wit, he was there just to open and close it, this being the full extent of his skills.

What if he wasn’t stupid? What if his face simply was slack, and he was actually quite keen-witted?

The stupid man’s face showed him a lackwit; Runnel’s own face showed him proud and aloof. Lark’s face showed her to be friendly, quickwitted, but also earnest.

“So when you look at me like that,” she said, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that I wish I knew how to make my face as clever and generous as yours.”

She blushed. “I would slap a man if he said such a thing to me,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because when a man says such things to a woman, he wants something from her.”

“I don’t,” he said. He held up the half-empty beaker. “Already got what I wanted.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and immediately began to drop toward the ground, so when this person shoved him down he wouldn’t fall so far.

But the hand didn’t shove him, and Lark greeted the owner of it with a smile. “Demwor,” she said, “I want you to meet this lad. His name is Runnel, he’s from the mountain village of Farzibeck, he carried a full jar for me the whole way without spilling any, and he doesn’t want to get under my skirt.”

“Yet,” said a soft, deep voice. Runnel tried to turn to see the face from which it came, and found that the hand held him fast.

“He’s a different sort,” she said. “I think he might be worth it.”

“I think he must be a fool,” said Demwor, “to let you talk him into carrying a full jar.”

Only now did Runnel realize that she must have meant to spill out some of the water before carrying it herself. He glared at her, then realized that perhaps it didn’t look like a glare. Perhaps none of the looks he gave people meant anything. What if he always looked the same.

But she smiled benignly at him. “I didn’t know you then,” she said. “And besides, you were strong enough to carry it full, because you did.”

“Who told you we were looking to hire someone?” asked Demwor.

“What, are we?” asked Lark.

“No,” said Demwor.

“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t promise him anything except a drink of water and an introduction to you.”

So that was it. Another trick. Only now he had water in him, so it wasn’t as bad as the first one. Except he was even wearier now, and still had to go out and find a meal and a job.

“You don’t like him?” asked Demwor.

“Of course I like him,” she said. “Do you think I’d bring somebody I hated? What if you did 

hire him?”

“What I’m asking,” said Demwor, “is whether the two of you are going to make a baby here at Lord Brickel’s expense.”

Lark looked at Runnel with a cocky smile. “I told you that’s what men always think of.”

“Sir,” said Runnel, “I work hard, and I learn as fast as anyone, and I keep my word.”

“Whom did you run away from?”

“Nobody that will miss me,” said Runnel.

The hand tightened on his shoulder. “The name of your master.”

“No master, sir,” said Runnel. “My father and mother. But I’m the ninth son. As I said, I’ll not be missed.”

“No mother will come weeping at the gate, complaining we kidnapped her little boy?”

“No one will notice I’m gone, sir.” Except Father, Runnel thought. He won’t have anyone to beat. Still, there was no point in saying that. If he mentioned that he had ever been beaten, Demwor would think it was for good reason and assume he was a troublemaker.

“So why did you come here?”

“Because where else does a ninth son go?” he asked. And realized, finally, that it was true. No one had ever explained it to him, but that, as much as his proud face, was why none of the village girls ever looked at him. What did he have? The farm would go to one of his older brothers. His sisters would be married out. One of his brothers had married a girl with a prosperous father — the dowry was his farm. But the next brother would expect to get Father’s farm, in due time. What would any of the younger boys have? He had known this without knowing he knew it.

Was that why he had taken it into his head to walk over the Mitherkame to this place? It must have been.

The hand on his shoulder relaxed. “It’s not a light thing, serving a mage,” he said, as Runnel turned to face him. The man was tall and swarthy — a man of the south, like some of the travelers that had passed through Farzibeck.

“So you’re no man’s prentice?” asked Demwor.

“We’re all farmers in Farzibeck,” said Runnel.

“No smith? No harness maker?”