Among the Dead and Dying Page 6

Chapter Three

  “Yes, Evanly, I’ll make sure to do that,” said Ward as he walked around the counter to bring the lady her bread. She wouldn’t normally be seen in a lower-class establishment such as this, but Jacob Third-Baker’s shop was closed due to a family emergency, and Ward was the only other option she had without resorting to the market.

  Most First-Bakers owned carts in the Central Market, but Ward came from a prestigious family and had amassed a generous amount of pel that he used to purchase a former flower shop along the Tennerblane River in the North District where several of the more well-established businesses resided. His neighbor was a fourth generation cobbler, and Brendan Sixth-Butcher’s famed shop was only four doors down. This was the area of town where the wealthy came for their goods, avoiding the dour and oftentimes treacherous Central Market. Yet, despite his location, the haughty patrons of the North District rarely chose to frequent first generation shops.

  It’d caused quite a bit of commotion when he purchased the storefront, with several of his neighbors complaining that allowing a first generation shop to open would degrade the quality of the area as a whole. It was Ward’s father, Ellebrin Fifth-Sword, who facilitated the sale and convinced the court to allow it.

  Ward had earned the title of Sixth-Sword when he was young, but a regrettable incident had stripped him of that honor, much to the shame of his family. He took up an apprenticeship as a baker, studying under a friend of the family, and earned the title of First-Baker. When his father had paid to open the shop in the North District, the plan had been for Ward to teach his son the trade and then pass the shop on to him as early as possible. It would be less shameful for the district if the shop belonged to a Second-Baker.

  However, things hadn’t turned out the way Ward had planned. His wife left him, proclaiming that she was not fit for the life of a baker’s wife, and she married into a Third-Barrister home. She took Ward’s son with her, leaving him alone and without an heir. Not long after, his ex-wife and her new husband moved to Golden Rock, leaving Ward behind, lonely and depressed. Ward made frequent trips out to Golden Rock to visit with his son, but soon discovered that he’d taken to the life of the elite, and had no desire to admit his father was a mere First-Baker.

  After a year alone, Ward announced to the counsel that he wasn’t interested in taking a second wife and having an heir, which meant that he had to be assigned an apprentice who he would teach his trade to. He agreed, and a young girl by the name of Saffi was put in his care. He loathed the responsibility at first, confident that he would never learn to love a child as much as he did his estranged son. This didn’t prove true, and Saffi became very important to him, breathing new life into what had turned into a depressing existence.

  It was when the court wanted to test Saffi’s ability, and then announce her as a First-Baker, that Ward decided to adopt her. This meant that she wouldn’t be tested yet, and wouldn’t achieve the title of First-Baker, instead going on to be known as Saffi Apprentice-Baker with the hope of achieving the more vaulted title of Second-Baker at a later date. When that happened, this would be her shop, and Ward was excited by the prospect. For the past few months, Ward and Saffi had been working hard to prepare her for the trials, where the guild’s most established bakers would judge her abilities and decide whether or not she’d earned the title.

  Evanly, Wife of Moor, stood near the entrance of the shop, her decorative fan held up over her nose as she scanned the variety of bread and cakes laid out. She fanned herself, distressed by the heat of the oven in the back, and continued to complain. “I’ll not have my guests choking on cornmeal, or bits of clump, or any such nonsense. They have refined tastes, you know? Oh, I do wish Brendan’s shop was open. He makes the most delicious cakes. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “He sure does,” said Ward, cheery despite her gibes.

  “The ladies of the West Aviary Collection are just going to be sick about this. I’ll be hearing about it for months, no doubt. Curse my folly. I should’ve set out yesterday to get this, but I’m nothing if not a sucker for fresh pastries. I like them still warm, fresh out of the oven.”

  “Me too, my lady,” said Ward as he scurried to collect her order. He was laying each of the miniature raisin cakes she’d bought on a board that he’d cover in paper and wrap for her when he was done. He didn’t stock the pastries that she was speaking of, and she’d been plenty distressed when forced to lower her standards to mere cakes instead.

  “I suppose you must eat all day in here,” she said, her tone disparaging as she looked down at his gut.

  He caught her gaze, and happily slapped his ample belly, causing a puff of flour to erupt from his apron. “Never trust a skinny baker.”

  She grimaced and said, “Don’t let Brendan hear you saying that. He’s as skinny as a pigeon pel, and if your cakes are even half as good as his I’ll count myself lucky.”

  “Right,” said Ward, cheerfully nodding. “I didn’t mean any offense to Brendan. I’d do anything to be half as good as he is on his worst day.”

  “Where’s that girl of yours with the scones?” asked Evanly, scanning the back of the shop where Saffi had disappeared several minutes ago.

  “She’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Probably just warming the scones for you, Ma’am.”

  Evanly sighed and said, “Not that it matters. I’ve got a thousand things yet to do and you’re wasting all my time here.” She pointed at Ward with her fan and snapped, “Watch yourself!”

  “What?” asked Ward as he raised his hands and stepped away, frightened that he’d offended one of his only customers of the day.

  “You’ve got a face full of sweat about to drip off that honking snout of yours and onto the cakes. By the Nine, were you never taught how to handle food? Do they skip those lessons for the First-Bakers?”

  Ward took a rag from a pocket on the front of his apron and used it to wipe his brow. His dome was nearly bald, with the exception of a tuft of red hair on either side that hid his even redder ears, and he normally wore a hat to catch his perspiration. Today, however, was particularly warm, and he was sopping wet. He was wearing a long sleeve, linen shirt, which was now soaked through and nearly dripping on its own.

  “I apologize, Ma’am,” said Ward as he put the cloth away and went back to loading the woman’s board with cakes. “I’d be happy to pack this up for you and have it ready to go if there’re other places you need to get to before heading home.”

  Evanly turned to look back out onto the street, and then said, “I do need to visit the cobbler.” She lifted her long, purple, ribbed skirt to show Ward her shoe. It was black leather, laced with purple twine, and had a long heel that was popular among the upper class. “These beasts he sold me are tearing my ankle to shreds. Forty pels he charged me for these, if you can believe it. The things we’re forced to endure for fashion.”

  “Forty pels?” asked Ward, making banter as he iced the cakes for her. “You could buy everything in my shop for that.”

  “As if I’d ever do that,” she said with a quick and sharp laugh. “I’ve got plenty of food for the livestock as is.”

  Ward grinned, but clenched his jaw as he nodded politely.

  “Tell you what,” said Evanly. “I’ll take you up on your offer to go get my shopping done. Perhaps you’ll have my food ready by the time I get back?”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Ward as he continued to ice the cakes.

  Evanly stalled at the door, looked back at Ward, and then cleared her throat.

  Ward realized his folly, and set the bladder of icing on the counter as he said, “My apologies, Ma’am. Let me get that for you.” He opened the door, and the bells above rang as Evanly walked primly out. “See you in a bit.” He smiled and waved, and then closed the door.

  Ward’s smile faded, and he wiped the sweat from his brow again. “Saffi,” he called out to his apprentice. “She’s gone.”

  “Finally,” said the girl as she appeared from the back room and walked
up to the counter. A curl of her auburn hair fell down in front of her eyes and she put it back in place behind her ear as she sighed. “I don’t know how you can put up with women like her.” She had short hair, but Ward still made her keep it tied up when she was working. That was another rule that the Guild of Bakers enforced strictly.

  “If we had more women like her coming in this shop we’d be set for life, kid.”

  “Wouldn’t be worth it,” said Saffi.

  “Those scones ready?”

  Saffi nodded and said, “Yes, been ready since I went back there.”

  “Thought you had them in the oven to warm up.”

  “Nah, they’re on the window sill. Darn near as hot as an oven in there anyhow, even with the sun going down. I wasn’t about to light another fire on account of that broad.”

  Ward stopped his work and looked reproachfully at his daughter. “By the Nine, child, I don’t know where you’ve picked up such manners. Not from me, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh yeah, not from you,” she said in jest. “You’ve got nothing but compliments about those garish tarts as they strut down the street, their umbrellas shielding their pale cheeks and wearing gloves on the hottest days of summer.” She mimicked one of the regal women walking along with a straight back, and used a long loaf of sourdough as a prop to replace the umbrella. She twirled the bread and then dropped it back into the basket where it belonged.

  Ward snickered and shook his head before starting to ice the cakes again. “You missed your calling, girl. Should’ve sent you down to the theater, turned you into a bard or an actor. With hair that short, you would’ve been snagged by a bloke there, no doubt. They’re always looking for tomboys like you to play the young men.”

  “Watch it, Dad,” said Saffi as she headed for the back room to get the scones. “You’re not winning any favors talking like that.”

  Ward focused on his work, carefully spiraling the frosting to create the pattern the customer had requested. Next he would sprinkle the cakes with candied raisins and cinnamon, and then carefully wrap the package with the board and silk that Evanly requested. She had specific instructions about the bow, but Ward was certain she’d complain about his work even if it was done perfectly. In the early days of owning the shop, Ward had assumed that when the ladies complained about the quality of his work it was an attempt to haggle. It took him several months of declining sales to realize that the patrons in this district didn’t care about price, but complained merely because it was the proper way to treat a First-Baker like him. The fact that he’d lowered his prices only confirmed the women’s suspicion that his goods were of poor quality. It wasn’t until he raised his prices in accordance with the other shops that he finally started to get business. Nowadays he earned a living by enticing the local ladies in with his exorbitant prices. They would come in, prattle amongst themselves, and scoff at the audacity of a First-Baker charging such prices for his low-quality foods. Then, inevitably, one of the women would choose to prove her surplus wealth by jokingly purchasing a cake, claiming she might as well throw the poor baker a few pels.

  Ward finished the cakes, and looked down at them with appreciation. Saffi returned with the scones as well as a stick of cinnamon that she handed to him along with a file. He sprinkled on the candied raisins and then dusted the cakes liberally with the cinnamon.

  “You treat them too good,” said Saffi as she shook her head, upset with how much of the expensive spice her father deigned necessary. “They’re taking advantage of you.”

  “Prices like these, they can take advantage of me all they like.”

  “I’d just as soon drag a cart out to the square,” said Saffi. “Those people might be rough, and ready to steal faster than they are to pay, but at least with them you know what you’re getting. These stuffy types talk out of both sides, saying one thing but meaning another.”

  “You’re going to have to learn to put up with them when you take over the shop.”

  It was a sore subject, and one Saffi didn’t want to discuss. “I’d better get the oven cleaned out. One of the loaves of pumpernickel fell back off the grate. It’ll flavor the breads in the morning if we forget to snatch it out of there.”

  “Saffi, hold up a second,” said Ward as he stopped packaging up Evanly’s order. He walked closer to the counter that she was behind and asked, “You always walk away whenever I start talking about handing this shop over to you. Why is that?”

  “No I don’t,” said Saffi. “You’re letting your imagination get the better of you again.”

  “I am not. Stop and talk to me.” He waited until she looked up at him before he said, “I’ll be handing this shop over to you as soon as the guild gives you your name. That’s been the plan all along, and I always thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “It was,” said Saffi, and then she quickly corrected herself. “It is, but…” She trailed off, unwilling to continue the thought.

  “But what?” asked Ward.

  “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t like thinking about running this place without you. It won’t be the same. I won’t have anyone to deal with the dowry queens if you’re not here.”

  Ward nodded and said, “I know, but they won’t give you a hard time like they do me. You’ll have yourself a second generation name. Wasn’t long ago it was Brendan’s dad down the street, baking up bread as a second, gaining the respect of the district. That’ll be you soon.” He recognized his daughter’s forced smile and added, “Unless you don’t want to be a Second-Baker.”

  “It’s not that,” said Saffi.

  “I’d understand,” said Ward. “Me of all folks. Your granddad never understood why I struggled as a Sixth-Sword. You would’ve thought the sky had fallen the day I lost my post. I’m not going to be like that with you, kid. If you don’t want to be a baker, then so be it. We’ll sell this shop back to a florist or some other up-and-comer from the market and we’ll be done with it. Won’t break my heart one bit.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not that I don’t want to be a baker. I’ve got no problem with that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Saffi looked out at the street beyond the shop’s window and at the gentry in their posh suits and grand dresses. The glow of the oil lamps hanging from the street posts cast an amber hue that complimented the setting sun’s warm rays. Potted plants decorated the road, separating the walkways on either side from the cart path in the center, and the flowers were in full bloom, a mixture of reds, yellows, blues, and purples that were a wonder to anyone wandering here from any other part of the city. Nowhere else but the North District had the resources to be concerned with the beautification of the roads and walkways, but here it was like they were living in a different city.

  “I’m not sure,” said Saffi honestly.

  “Wanderlust?” asked Ward.

  His daughter grimaced and said, “Wanderlust? Where do you think I’d want to go? The plains aren’t safe these days.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Ward. “The merchants will look for any excuse they can find to tell you the roads aren’t safe, and that they’ve got to increase their prices. If you listened to Gelldren he’d have you believing there’s a parade of dead marching with swords and spears, lighting fires and casting spells.” Ward snickered and shook his head as he went back to wrapping Evanly’s package. “Truth is, the biggest threat on the roads are the bandits, and they’re not likely to bother most folks.”

  “What about Everglen?” asked Saffi. “Aren’t you afraid of The Scholar?”

  “Not sure I believe he even exists,” said Ward.

  “You don’t?” asked Saffi, incredulous. “What about the survivors who saw him? You think they were lying?”

  “Did you talk to one of the survivors?” asked Ward, although he already knew the answer.

  “No,” said Saffi. “But Murien and Abraham had to increase their patrols, and I heard some of the ladies talking…”

  “T
he ladies always talk,” said Ward. “And you’re better off not listening to a word they say unless they’re placing an order with you. As for Abraham, that boy’s been telling stories since he was knee-high to a dwarf.”

  The shop door opened and Ward turned, expecting Evanly. “Oh, hello,” he said, surprised to see a tall, dark stranger at the door instead of Lady Evanly. The new customer was thin, and wore a long traveler’s cloak with a variety of pockets on the front. He had on brown leather gloves that looked weathered, and his pants and boots were equally grimy, unlike most of the people who walked the North District. His shirt had a series of decorative rings on it, each with a strip of leather wrapped around it. His nose and mouth were covered by a leather mask created to mimic the basic shape of a man’s lower face, and his eyes were so black it was hard to distinguish his pupils.

  “What can we do for you?” asked Ward. “Looking for something good to eat tonight?”

  The stranger shook his head, and Ward heard the crinkle of leather. He suspected the stranger was wearing armor beneath his cloak, an unnerving revelation. Ward was familiar with all sorts of armor because of his former livelihood as a Sixth-Sword, and knew that traveling with even the relatively light encumbrance of leather became tiresome after long. The only reason to wear it inside of the walls would be if you were on duty, or expecting a fight.

  Ward stopped fiddling with Evanly’s ribbon and walked back around the counter. He motioned at Saffi to go to the back room as he picked up a serrated blade from beside a cutting board. Saffi sensed something was wrong and scowled at Ward, telling him that she wasn’t leaving, before grabbing a blade of her own. Her weapon was a short, dull knife that she accidentally pinged against the counter, causing it to ring.

  The stranger stopped and regarded them both, but didn’t say a word.

  “How can we help you today, sir?” asked Ward, pretending that nothing was amiss, but ready to defend himself if needed.

  “I’m not here for trouble, Sword,” said the stranger, his voice low and rasping.

  Ward looked back at Saffi, his expression commanding her to leave, but she sneered back at him in defiance. He tried to allay the rising tension, “I’m not sure who you’ve been talking with, but I haven’t been a Sword for an awful long time.”

  “Right,” said the stranger as if he knew something that Ward wasn’t admitting.

  “This is a bakery,” said Ward, his tone tinged by anger now. “If you’re not going to buy anything, then you should be on your way, stranger.”

  The man reached into his cloak and Ward tensed. Then the stranger pulled forth a small leather pouch that he dropped onto the counter separating them. The pouch jangled, and the stranger said, “There’s about fifty pel in there.”

  “Fifty pel?” asked Ward, although it didn’t ease his apprehension. “What’re you buying?”

  “Her.” The stranger pointed at Saffi.

  Ward raised his blade and pointed at the door. “I think you’d better leave, and take your pel with you.” He flicked the pouch off the counter with the tip of his blade and it opened when it hit the ground. A wealth of golden pellets spilled out, rolling to their flat side and then stopping on the wooden floor. The pels were short, thin rods of gold that were cut in uniform segments and then flattened on one side to keep them from rolling away from their owners. Most shops accepted a variety of payments, ranging from silver to other bartered goods, but only pels were a universally accepted currency throughout The Five Walls and beyond.

  “I’m buying her safety,” said the stranger. “It’s time to get her out of here. You knew this day would come”

  “What’s he talking about?” asked Saffi, as confused as she was perturbed.

  “Nothing,” said Ward. “Get back there.” He pointed to the back room with his knife, commanding her to leave.

  “No,” said Saffi defiantly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Saffi, do as I say!” Ward growled with uncharacteristic gravity. Saffi cowed to his command, and sulked off. Ward moved closer to the stranger and spoke quietly, “Are you one of Kessel’s Drakes?”

  “It’s not safe here anymore,” said the stranger, ignoring the question. “The Scholar’s coming.”

  “Here?” asked Ward.

  The stranger looked at Ward and then pointed in the direction that Saffi had retreated as he said, “Get her out of here. The Courts are judging tomorrow, and there’ll be a group of exiles sent out to the plains. Go with them. I’ll meet you out by the crossroads, past the Robber’s Spine.”

  “Who are you?” asked Ward as the stranger headed for the exit.

  “The only one you can trust now.”

  The door opened before the stranger got to it, and Lady Evanly came inside. She stopped, surprised by the sight of another customer in the shop, and then said, “Oh my. You startled me.”

  The stranger walked around Evanly without responding. The proper lady scoffed after he’d left, and then looked down at the pels on the floor. “What happened?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” said Saffi as she peered into the front of the shop from the doorway that separated it from the back room.

  “Quiet,” said Ward as he glared at his daughter. Then he turned to Evanly and said, “Sorry for the trouble. Your order’s ready. Let me just get the scones packed up for you.”