Stonefather

“We make our own harnesses. We work in stone and wood. We drink the water Yeggut gives us, and we eat what Yeggut makes to grow from the earth. I’ve heard of prentices because some of the travelers have them, but I couldn’t figure how they were different from slaves.”

“The difference,” said Demwor, “is that the master pays for the slave, but to take a prentice, the father pays the master to take him. That’s how useless prentices are, and why Master Brickel will never, never, never take a prentice.”

“That’s good news to me,” said Runnel, “because I’d never want to be taken for a prentice.”

“Just so you understand,” said Demwor. “We’d hire you as a servant only. Base labor, you understand. There’ll be manure, there’ll be slops, there’ll be backbreaking work with stone, there’ll be burdens.”

That described the life of everybody in Farzibeck, including the stones, which they had to haul out of their fields every spring, after the winter heaved them up to snag the plow. “I’m not afraid of work, sir.”

“Then I have only one more question,” said Demwor. “How do you feel about stone?”

Feel? About stone? What was he supposed to feel about it? “I’m in favor of it for walls,” said Runnel, “and against it for soil.”

Demwor chuckled. “You have a proud face,” he said, “but a humble wit.”

“The face is not my fault,” said Runnel. “Nor is my wit, since I was born with both, and both are humble enough, sir.”

“What I ask about stone is simple. Have you worked in stone? Have you built with stone? Have you shaped it?”

“Is it required? Because I can learn if you want. But no, I’ve never worked stone. We just find it and make barriers sometimes, to slacken the floods of spring in a heavy snow year. And the foundations of our hovels are of stone pressed into the earth. But I’ve never actually helped to build such, since no hovel has been built since I’ve been big enough.”

“It is not required,” said Demwor, “and we don’t want you to learn it.”

“Then I won’t,” said Runnel.

“Because if you think you can try to learn magic from Master Brickel, I can tell you that you will be detected, and it will go hard for you.”

“Magic?” said Runnel. “How can I learn magic? I’m no mage.”

“Just remember that,” said Demwor, “and you won’t get this house into trouble.”

“The house? Your master is a stonemage.”

“No, lad,” said Demwor. “My master is the stonemage. The only one permitted to enter Mitherhome. The only one allowed within this whole valley. And he is sworn never to learn new magics, beyond what he knew when he came here. Stonemage he is, but not a rockbrother, and especially not a stonefather. He’s a cobblefriend, which is all the power needed for the work he does here. That is why the watermages of Mitherhome pay him so handsomely, and provide him this house — because he hasn’t the power to do us harm.”

And suddenly it became clear to Runnel. Demwor didn’t work for Brickel, he worked for the Mithermages. Yes, he saw to the affairs of Brickel’s household and hired the servants and paid for the food, but he was also Brickel’s overseer, making sure Brickel did not break the terms of his oath. Without even meeting him, Runnel felt a little sorry for Brickel.

But not too sorry. Because here the man lived with wealth — servants, a garden courtyard ten times larger than the hovel where Runnel’s huge family slept, all the food he needed.

“Sir,” said Runnel, “my aim in life is to earn enough to eat and a place to sleep and maybe a little of this money everyone wants so much. So Lark is safe, and you are safe, and your master is safe, and your city is safe from my ambition, because I’m little and ignorant and hungry and tired. But if you take care of the hungry and tired, you’ll find me big enough to do whatever work you need, and I’ll only get bigger, because all my older brothers are as tall as soldiers, and so is my father, and my mother isn’t tiny by any measure.”

Demwor burst into laughter. “I’ve never heard such a sales pitch — and from such a serious face, too. I take you at your word, boy. What’s your name again?”

“Runnel, sir.”

“Start thinking of what you want to change it to,” said Demwor.

“I won’t, sir.”

“We can’t have the stonemage’s servant with a watername, lest the people think he’s mocking them.”

“He’s not my father, he hired me is all,” said Runnel. “So no one with half a wit will think he’s responsible for my name.”

“But he hasn’t hired you, and he won’t, with a name like that.”

“Then I thank you for the water, sir,” said Runnel. “But I didn’t come here to be any man’s slave, nor to give up my name neither.”

“Who said anything about a slave?”

“It’s the owner of a slave who gets to change his name, sir,” said Runnel. “I know that because the three old servants in Farzibeck were given new names when they were taken captive in war.”

Demwor shook his head. “So that pride in your face isn’t all illusion, is it? Too proud to change your name in exchange for a job.”