Stonefather

I’m supposed to catch an owl? Or is there a tame one?

“Outside,” said Sourwell. “Blew off in the last storm.”

He went out and walked almost all the way around the kitchen building before he found a carved stone owl leaning against a wall. It was cunningly shaped, and it had been daubed with paint to make it more convincing to birds and mice, though Runnel wondered whether those beasts were really that stupid.

The owl was also very heavy. He realized at once that they expected him to be too small to manage it.

But the end walls of the kitchen were stone all the way up, gables and all, the thatch of the roof resting between them like hay in a manger. The owl must rest on the peak of the stone gable — and now that he looked, he could see that another owl rested on the peak of the other end of the kitchen.

Tucking the owl against his body, Runnel had a tough go of it, climbing up the stone wall one-handed, but with bare feet he managed it well enough, and within two minutes after picking up the owl, he was back down, with the owl perched menacingly atop the crest of the kitchen.

He went back inside. “What next?” he asked.

“We didn’t ask you to find 

the owl,” said Sourwell. “We need it put atop the roof.”

“Did it,” said Runnel. “What else?”

As if it were part of her regular routine, Sourwell swept out of the kitchen and in a moment came back in and resumed her cooking. In a perfectly mild voice she said, “Singe my sockets, but the boy must fly.”

“Bet he left the ladder outside to rot,” said Nikwiz.

“Ladder?” asked Runnel.

Their smooth dance of food preparation finally came to a halt, as both of them looked for a long moment at Runnel, then at each other. “Break eggs much?” asked Nikwiz.

“Prone to spilling things?” asked Sourwell.

“No more than most,” said Runnel. “I’m not careless, but I’m not perfect.”

“We wanted perfect,” said Nikwiz, visibly disappointed.

“Best use me for jobs that can be done by the less-than-perfect,” said Runnel.

“Here,” said Sourwell, slapping a knife down on a cutting stone and pointing to a pile of peppers. “Don’t cut yourself.”

For the next hour, Runnel chopped and minced peppers and onions on smooth-cut slabs of granite. He quickly learned not to rub his eyes. He cried a lot and sneezed now and then. His eyes burned. He was useful. He was earning his keep.

Then they kicked him out of the kitchen with orders to wash his hands with soap three times before washing his face — again with soap — to clear the last of the onion and pepper residues from his face. “Scrub,” said Sourwell. “Hard,” said Nikwiz. “Never a soapmage where you need one,” added Sourwell.

“I never heard of soapmages,” said Runnel.

“Me neither,” said Nikwiz. “Go wash.”

He found a washbasin outside the kitchen, made of stone, of course. He rocked the small cistern and filled the basin with water, then lathered his hands with one of the cakes of hard soap. He was scrubbing his face, including especially his closed eyes, when he heard voices.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said an old man.

“Isn’t much,” said Demwor. “But he made himself useful in the kitchen this afternoon without being ordered.”

“All arse and elbows,” said the old man. “And what is he wearing?”

“The latest in mountain village fashions,” said Demwor.

It had to be Lord Brickel himself that Demwor was talking to, and Runnel wanted to see him, but he couldn’t see anything until he rinsed his face, and thoroughly. By the time he was able to towel himself on his shirt and turn around, he could just see them disappearing into the house.

He didn’t see him at supper, either. Lord Brickel ate with company in his dining room; Runnel ate at the big table in the kitchen with the other servants, of whom there were only the ones he’d already seen: Demwor, Nikwiz, Sourwell, and Ebb, the stupid man from the doorway. Demwor, Nikwiz, and Sourwell kept up a constant conversation about the business of the house and gossip in the neighborhood. Ebb said nothing, which was what Runnel said as well.

Lark was waiting table tonight so she was in and out of the kitchen, and she certainly didn’t speak to Runnel.

“Going to buy the new one something respectable to wear?” asked Sourwell.

“Wasn’t thinking of it,” said Demwor. “He’s not naked. He’s not going out on errands for the house.”

“He’ll have to wear something when she washes his clothes,” pointed out Sourwell.

The mentioned “she” had to be Lark. Runnel was sure Lark would be thrilled to know she’d be doing that chore.

“I can wash my own,” said Runnel. “If you show me where.”

“It talks,” said Nikwiz.

“With its mouth full,” said Sourwell.

They didn’t smile, and nobody laughed, but Runnel knew he was being teased, and with good humor. It felt good.

“Take him to market with you tomorrow,” said Demwor, “and buy him something that fits. I’ll take it out of his earnings. But if he runs off and takes the new clothes before they’re earned out, I’ll dock your wages.”

“Just try it,” said Nikwiz.

“When we prepare every bite of food you eat,” said Sourwell.