Collected speeches of His Holiness, the Archmage Laius

Chapter 1

The sheet metal slave barn stunk of filth and sour straw, the close heat suffocating. Stale frying from a nearby food stall wafted into the row of barred pens, empty except for a young slave wearing only stained, tattered pants and lying on the concrete floor. The smell of the food no longer attacked him with painful longing. It made him ill. Flies busied themselves round his encrusted eyes and nose but he made no move to brush them away. Thirst burned his throat and tongue. The small gulp of tepid water and crust of bread a kind transpo, now sold, had risked giving him seemed a distant mirage. Even the bitter metallic condensation he had licked off the walls in the early dawn had vanished in the heat. Now that the others had been sold, would the trader shoot him? Put him out of his misery? The tiny spark of hope died. No food or drink for how long? He didn't know. Why not save a bullet by waiting. The slave gasped for a breath and let out a burning, scraping cough.

Voices echoed in the shed. He scrambled into position, cross-legged, shorn head bent, hands clasped in his lap. A wave of dizziness washed through him. No. Can't faint. He'll correct me if I faint.

"Your Grace has come late. Most of the lot went to Star Mines, the few remaining women went," the slave trader paused, "It's not polite to say."

"I'm well aware of the existence of brothels," the Lady said.

The lock jangled, the gate creaked open and three sets of feet stopped in front of him. He saw the slave trader's boots, dirty and cracked, and a woman's boots of fine leather, dusted with the street, the hem of a black robe brushing the uppers. Behind the noblewoman's boots were a girl's feet encased in red silk tea lady shoes, plump as glistening cherries.

The trader tapped the top of the slave's left arm with his correction rod. The slave managed not to flinch. "Notice his top tattoo. He's newly arrived, transported. Your Grace knows how obedient they are. You would be the first owner. No bad habits needing correction. Old World skills. It's rare for me to have one left this far down the line. I had another, skilled in surface blasting, but he was an order for Star Mines."

The slave stared down at his hands, large and bony against the thinness of his manacled wrists. Even if he could speak, he knew no one would believe or care that he had been kidnapped. On the transportation spaceship, he had seen shanghaied youths like him corrected for demanding a trial, protesting they knew nothing about street vendors' patronage, were only poor boys making a living singing or juggling or selling their art and jewelry.

The slave wondered if telling the noblewoman that he once played the piano, practiced for the love of it, would make her take him away from this place. He knew not to hope for better circumstances, but they would surely give him something to drink. Unable to speak or nod, with gestures that came with difficulty, he would never know.

"What's wrong with him? That's a deep scar across the top of his head," the Lady said. The slave felt her hand brush the stubble that had replaced his hair and he flashed back to the trader shaving off his curls, the screaming rage over the con job, then the brutal pain of the angry beating. AHave him stand and turn around. Head up."

The trader waved at the flies then prodded the slave with the butt end of his correction rod. The youth tensed and stood up, squinting through gummy eyes. The noblewoman wore cowled widows' weeds. Above a sharp nose, black eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

Behind her, close as she dared, stood a girl with the beginnings of breasts, dressed in a trim gray house servant's dress that seemed at odds with her colorful shoes and fingernails. Long gleaming black hair fell to past her shoulders, parting on either side of the face of a frightened angel. The slave swayed as he turned around, fighting not to stumble. The girl drew in her breath and he knew that once again his back, with its tree of correction scars overlaid by a fresh welt, meant he stayed in this pen.

"Boy, turn back to face me," the Lady said. He turned. She pulled up one of his pant legs with the end of her walking stick and examined the skinny limb beneath. "You beat him? He's stubborn as a donkey?"

"No, Your Grace," the trader said with a touch of anger. The youth held back a shiver.

The noblewoman took out a stethoscope and listened to the slave's chest and back. It sunk in that she was a healer. Maybe . . . No. No bright hope with its torturous letdown. Best to stick with tiny drops of water on metal, a bit of fresh straw to chew. Small wishes. When she asked for a deep breath, he glanced at the trader's gleaming correction rod and choked back his coughing.

"Starved, pink eye," the Lady said. "Strong heart beat. Lung congestion. That can be brought round if it's not resistant tuberculosis."

"He survived the months of travel by transport spaceship from the Old World, he's made of tough stuff," the trader said.

"The citizens of Botany and Windego snap up transpos," the Lady said. "The ones we see in the territories come preordered, not as the rejected end of a lot destined for mines and brothels. What are his special skills and talents? Let me see his papers."

"His, um, previous master suffered a fire. That's how this transpo got that scar on his head. From a falling beam. The papers were burned up," the trader said. "But he's well trained. A good worker."

The Lady snorted. "Look at me and tell me about yourself," she said to the slave.

He lifted his head and stared right through her, feeling nothing. A long time since he cared that his face presented a blank mask. This scene had repeated itself too many times.

"He can't speak," the trader said.

"I can see that," the Lady said. "What is he? A black market buy you got cheated over? Is he deaf? Without a tongue? Or an aggressive turned mad, waiting to cause havoc?"

"Open your mouth." The trader sent his damaged goods a look of irritation.

The slave dropped his jaw. The Lady pulled on a surgical glove and pulled his tongue this way and that, looking underneath before examining his throat. The slave held back a gag. She tsked.

"He understands what you say," the trader said. "Remember when you asked him to turn? He's not deaf or aggressive. Maybe the scar on his head is the cause of his silence. Think about it. He's the perfect slave. No stopping to chat. No carrying of servants' gossip. He's young. Look at his size, he'll be big and strong when he's grown. Many years of potential. He obeys. Kneel you and pick up the straw piece by piece."

The slave fell to his knees. The dizziness overcame him and he continued forward, his hands scraping the concrete. The world turned red. He willed the blackness away and began to gather the dirty straw, oblivious to the blood oozing down his palms. His wheezing filled the barn.

"He's a boy. Fourteen at most," the noblewoman said.

"Twenty shillings and I save the cost of the legal work for killing him. I'm not heading back with unsellable goods," the trader said. "He's a bargain, you'll see. And I reduce my loss. A good deal all round."

"He looks thin," the Lady said. "Since he's so unsellable how do I know you haven't stopped feeding and watering him? Perhaps he'll die right after I buy him."

"Oh, no, Your Grace," the trader said. "He's a tough little chigger. Without his problem, he would fetch a high price."

"I'll take him if he passes the litmus test," she said. "Ten shillings."

"Please, Madam. Don't buy him," the maidservant whispered. "Look how he's still gathering the straw. He's a zombie."

"Nonsense, Jean. There's no such thing as zombies," the Lady said.

"Stop, you," the trader said. "And drop the straw for Mordath's sake." The slave dropped the straw.

"Ten shillings," the Lady said. "The other ten off for the superstition this wretch will cause among my employees and servants."

The slave heard the Lady rustling around in her medical bag.

"I'll do it, thank you," she said. "No quick switch showing a clear test then diphtheria, TB, creep or Mason's anthrax decimating my holdings."

The Lady picked up the slave's hand and placed a paper against the scrapes. His blood turned the swab purple. He heard the clink of shillings. She bought him?

The trader unhooked the slave from the stall and dragged him stumbling to the outside. The sharp gravel of the yard poked at the slave's feet.

The maidservant squeaked. They passed a pile of refuse. Rotting vegetables. A pile of dead chickens and porcujettes in a box. One porcujette flapped a wing then stilled forever. A dead calf bloated in the heat.

Not me, thought the slave. I'm not there. I'm bought. Praise Gaia.

They entered the tattoo shed that echoed with chatting and shouting owners getting their new purchases marked. Dogs yipped. Hooves thudded. Lizards squealed. A horse snorted.

"Look! A hita," the maidservant said.

No hita on the Old World, just the Alexander pygmies at the zoo. The slave forgot and looked up. The crowd of men and beasts had parted to reveal a steel barred cage containing what looked like a small blunt-nosed croc with human legs and a horse's mane. A boy poked a stick in the cage. Two arms like elephant trunks snaked out to grab him. The boy jumped back with a scream. The animal's owner slashed at the trunks with his whip. The hita's jagged teeth snapped against the bars and the crowd laughed. The slave returned his eyes to the ground in front of him.

"A juvenile," the Lady said. "So dangerous. It shouldn't be in a public hall."

"Had a run in with a few of them in the back country. Barely escaped with my life," the trader said. He led them to a quieter corner.

"Lady Endor. An honor," the tattooer said. He brought up her family emblem on his computer screen then printed out the tracing paper.

"See that your needles are clean," the Lady said.

"Always," the man said. He filled small plastic paint pots. The slave kneeled and stretched his arms across the table. "Obedient. Can almost imagine that transpo mark is real."

"It's real," the trader said.

"It's well done."

A meaty hand squeezed the slave's left arm. Small pain pricked. It was nothing. Felt good. Felt like hope.

"Done," the tattooer said.

"Pledge you," the trader said.

"That is my place to say," the Lady said.

The slave didn't know what to do. Must not start off wrong. He remained frozen, his breathing shallow.

"Welcome to my house," Lady Endor said.

The slave turned swiftly, almost tangling in his chain, found her feet and kowtowed, placing his forehead on her shoes. He managed not to faint from the dizzy rush.

The trader led him back to a hovercraft truck sitting right outside the door to the slave barn. The slave crawled into the open back, sitting down with head bowed, legs crossed, ignoring the hot sun beating down on his bare head and the burning metal under his calves and ankles. Someone had bought him. A healer had bought him. Must not hope. He couldn't stop himself. His prayer of thanksgiving rushed off on its own.

Hail Gaia, full of grace. Blessed are You and blessed the fruits of the earth from Your womb. You who love the least of Your creatures, hear my thanks. You answered my prayer and know my needs. Forgive me. I never meant it when I cursed You. I'm not greedy. I won't ask for much. Like a healing. Please, a drink of water, a bit of food, maybe straw to lie on. Not too many beatings. Please, never it again. Never the rod. Hail Gaia, Blessed Gaia, Hail Gaia . . .

The trader removed the slaver shackles and moved towards the noblewoman's chains lying on the bed of the truck.

"I'll put the slave's manacles on for you," he said to the noblewoman. "A lady shouldn't do this job."

"That won't be necessary," she said. AAnd you should know. I'm Anharad the Healer, Lady Dowager of Endor, the local medical officer of health. Your shabby operation and the condition of the barn will prompt an official reprimand to the patron of this market. Nobles can pick up serious diseases from your disregard for public health. The abuse of this boy's a crime. I expect everything sold in this market to be in good condition. You clean up your act or you can forget a future stop in Mary Delight."

She snapped her own manacles around the slave's wrists before attaching his chain to the animal ring welded to the floor. "You can lean against the bags," she said.

The slave glanced at the trader storming back to the barn. Must not give his new master a reason to return him. The slave leaned back, his legs still crossed, his body stiff against the bulging sacks. Hard corners and edges from the various packages inside jabbed against his aching back. The Lady slammed the tail gate shut. The truck puffed out a cushion of air and rose slightly. They whooshed away from the market in a swirl of dust.

* * *

The late afternoon sun beat down as they left the town of Mary Delight behind them. The truck hovered over a grassy field and stopped with a sigh in a wind break. The shade felt good. Water burbled up a pipe from an underground spring. The slave smelt it, cool and wet and metallic. Agony.

If I could get loose, I could scramble to the spring and drink, thought the slave. His hands twisted carefully in the manacles.

The slave stared at the servant girl spreading a colorful tablecloth under the cool of a pyramid tree. She pulled a cooler from the cab and set out two cups and bowls. Nothing for him. He folded a hand and began to push it into its handcuff. She stirred lentils and couscous and filled the mugs from the spring. His eyes burned. The flies blown away by the wind as the truck traveled, returned. He crackled with a hacking cough. The girl glanced at him and shivered. He froze.

"Water and feed the transpo," the Lady said.

Please, please. Water, the slave thought.

"Madam." The maidservant hugged herself.

"Don't be a silly, superstitious ninny, Jean," the Lady said. "He's not a zombie. My educated guess is that he's autistic. From the looks of him, at death's door from abuse and neglect."

The maidservant slopped the lentils and couscous into a third bowl and filled a mug with water. She stood as far away as she could from the truck, stretched out her arms and placed the containers on the tail. The slave scrambled to the cup and gulped down the water. Cold and good on his burning throat. But not enough. Liquid in the food. He scooped up a handful of the beans and tried to stuff it down. His throat clenched in a coughing spasm and the mouthful sprayed over the bags. He lay scrunched on the truck floor, choking and wheezing, his face covered with mucus and spewed food, every skeleton rib standing out, suffering alone within himself.

The slave stopped, his chest heaving, and stared out at them staring back at him. The few flies frightened by his spasm returned with a buzz at the new feast. The maidservant turned away in disgust.

"Give him this bottle of sugar drink," the Lady said. The maid examined her feet, seeming unafraid of her mistress. The Lady rolled her eyes. "He's dehydrated. The sugar and salt in the Special Lemon will help him. There's still a bottle for you. We'll give him mine."

The girl took the bottle, twisted it open and set the drink on the tail of the truck. The slave reached out, his chains drawn tight, clutched the bottle with both hands and pulled it to him. Condensation cooled against his chest. He sipped until his throat calmed, then gulped the bottle. His hunger returned, raging. The slave attacked the lentils and rice, this time with success. He pushed the empty containers to the tail of the truck, leaned back into the feed sacks and closed his eyes.

Thank you Gaia for this day without hunger. Thank you for taking away my thirst with the holy spring of Your Word.

His filthy face itched.The flies bothered. His eyes scratched. He knuckled his swollen lids.

"Poor thing," the Lady said. "Still, pink eye puts many purchasers off. We may have a bargain yet."

Someone shook his shoulder. The transpo pulled apart his crusted lids. The Lady. He started to stumble into his cross legged position. She gently pushed him back.

"Lie still. I'm going to help your eyes," she said. A cold wet cloth cleaned his face and cooled his lids. "These drops will help."

He blinked a few times after the medicine fell in. The slave looked up at her and knew from her face that she expected gratitude. He couldn't provide it.

"Pay attention to me,"she snapped.

The transpo almost bowled her over as he struggled into a kneeling kowtow, forehead touching the metal floor. His wheezing chest heaved. He gulped and worked to hold it still.

His mind detached itself, and without fear, he wondered idly if the Lady would correct him with the agony of the rod, or whip him, or beat him, or, since she was a woman, slap his head and face. Slapping, he could live with that.

The Lady tsked. "I'm not going to punish you. I'm trying to help you. Lean back against the sacks."

He unfolded himself and lay against them, wary of a trick, his heavy head twisted down to stare at the floor, in case he might offend again by glancing at her.

"This has been trained into him, rote, like a circus act. He doesn't understand what he's doing." The Lady sighed as she tossed an empty sack over him. He flinched but she didn't notice. "Lying there as we traveled, not the sense to cover himself for protection from the sun. Not even the body language of an animal. It was only ten shillings."

* * *

The truck rambled along winding pot-holed roads, past fields, through alien forest and over swamp peppered with the skeletons of trees. The back draft of its wake blew the burlap off the slave's face. He turned his head and stared up at the tops of trees and the blue of the sky. Pink and gold washed the high billowing clouds, behind which the sun edged below the horizon. Odd pastel colors instead of the brilliant angry red, purple and orange of the polluted sunset at home.

In time, a spray of tiny moons scattered across the night in a white band thick as sticky milk. He had never seen so many stars. A gift from Gaia in the midst of his misery. The truck topped a hill then began to slow. The transpo glanced at the cab to make sure no one noticed, then in a daring movement, lifted himself up to stare over the bags and boxes.

Lights gleamed in the dell ahead. Perched atop steel poles, a row of fiery human skulls lit the night. A lumpy, gray wall ran to the left and right, as far as his eyes could see. Behind a wrought iron gate forged to resemble human bones, a small sentry house stood on bright orange chicken legs. Its door and curtained windows looked as if cut from a child's drawing. The doll's house paced up and down.

A bad witch had bought him. He shuddered. In the fairy tale, if a child couldn't finish Baba Yaga's impossible chores, she ate him alive.

The bad witch in Hansel and Gretel liked to fatten up boys. He wouldn't mind that, lots of good food and drink. What had he to live for? Perhaps the witch conducted a ceremony. He had heard that a bad witch ripped out your heart, but you died before it began to hurt. Laid out on a sacrifice stone, his blood fertilizing Gaia, maybe Seth's wonderful stars would shine down as the last thing he saw.

The gate opened and the sentry house bowed down. The truck whooshed up a tree-lined driveway to a large white house with a pale wood verandah, then turned to the right and around to the back. Light streamed through a screen door, over a porch floor and onto a gravel yard. Beyond the end of the porch, an addition with darkened windows sat set back in shadow. A tall, stooped man with a thick shock of white hair came out of a barn on the right. He limped across the yard, dogs clustered behind him. The truck lowered onto the ground. The man knelt as the Lady exited the cab. An overseer. The slave's heart banged against his ribs as he folded into the wait position.

"I've found the perfect assistant for you, Bill," the Lady said. "No goofing off or useless chatter. Jean thinks he's a zombie."

"He has a transpo mark. Would Madam let me examine his papers?" Bill asked.

"The trader told the truth," the Lady said.

"Respectfully, Madam, I didn't say that," Bill said.

"He has no papers. He's young and basically healthy. He doesn't speak, but he obeys. He was only ten shillings," a pause, "Don't give me that look. He's not a free kitten about to spread distemper. He'll just need these drops for a few days."

Her steps crunched across the yard and thudded over the porch. The screen door banged.

Warm cooking smells - meat, vegetables, stew - filled the slave's nostrils. His stomach, assuming that one meal meant another, ached with hunger.

"Dad," the maidservant said.

"Yes, Jean," Bill said.

"He stinks. He makes me gag. He's weird. You're going to put him in with the pigs or in the barn?"

In with the pigs. Pigs got slop and farmers gave them leftovers from their meals. Maybe later tonight or tomorrow morning they would put some of the supper the slave smelt into the hog trough. Better than chained in the barn. They might forget him in the barn. The slave gave a dry swallow, the gulped bottle of Special Lemon long sweated away by the heat of the trip. Please no Gaia. He fought the useless panic. There would be straw and dry cobs and water, surely water. He would manage.

A pair of hands grabbed the slave's manacles. The nails were dirty and broken, the fingers work-cracked.

"Dad?" the maidservant said.

"Take the cooler into the house and help Martha," Bill said. "And take off those whore shoes and that stuff on your nails. What was Madam thinking, to let you do that? You look like a tea lady."

Bill opened the cuffs. The transpo stumbled up, tottering toward the overseer then jerking back down to a squat. If he touched the man, it would mean a beating if not more. He crawled to the end then half-fell off the tail of the truck. The slave righted himself and hung his head, shivering in the cool night air, his arms limp at his sides. The maidservant snorted and crunched away across the yard. The screen door slammed.

The dogs sniffed around him with great interest. One of them whined. The slave froze.

"Get away with you," Bill said to the beasts. They moved back a few inches."Come on, lad. Into the house."

* * *

Martha heard the hiss of air as the truck settled in the yard. At last, she thought. Madam strode through the door and Martha knelt.

"Don't be shocked," Madam said. "Jean fell in love with the tea lady trainers and nail polish for her birthday present." Martha returned to a stand. She raised her eyebrows and Madam grinned. "Let her wear them awhile, she'll soon find her feet hurting. That'll take away any glamour. I'll give her some remover. I got all the spices, sugar, and the miller did a beautiful job on the flour. There's your chocolate drops in the cooler along with a package of hundreds-and-thousands."

"Thank you, Madam," Martha said. Madam gave a curt nod as she crossed the kitchen and disappeared down the hall to the main house.

The screen door slammed and a sullen Jean dumped the cooler in the middle of the floor. She wobbled on the oddly shaped wood shoes. Martha stared at her sister's delicate features and flawless skin, her soon-to-be buxom breasts.

What does she need fashionable shoes for? she thought

Martha glanced down at her own short nails where the dirt from the garden and the housework lived in half moons no matter how hard she scrubbed. She was thickened from the comfort of her own cooking. Madam brought her chocolate drops, not makeup.

"What's your problem?" Martha said.

"Madam bought a retard with a big scar on his head," Jean said. "He's awful. A zombie."

Martha smelt the slave before her father, Bill, opened the door. It wasn't hard to believe he had rotted from the grave. But no frightening man entered close behind Dad, it was a half-grown boy. He wrenched her heart. She had never seen anyone so thin, or so filthy. Forget a zombie. He looked like a walking skeleton.

"Make him take a bath before he sits down to supper with us," she said.

"I won't sit at the table with that," Jean said. "Look at that stain on the front of his pants. He peed himself."

"Did Madam stop on the way home or go bang out like usual?" Dad asked in a soft voice.

"We stopped for lunch. He drank all of Madam's Special Lemon," Jean said.

"She took him to a bush?"

AI don't remember."

Dad shook his head. "Never saw so many welts. The boy's supposedly a transpo but no papers."

"Like you were," Martha said.

"Am," Dad said, his face turning to stone. Jean examined the floor.

"Come on, Wordless," he murmured. Christened at that moment, Wordless shuffled behind Dad to the bathroom on the other side of the kitchen, just inside the hall.

"Madam wishes to eat in her study," Jean said.

As if Madam's assistant, Gretchen, had not looked up from the office computer and mentioned the same thing when Martha had taken the lunch trolley around to the clinic patients. Jean left the contents of the cooler piled on the set table, yanked open a drawer and pulled out a wooden tray. She filled the little tea pot and set up Madam's cutlery.

Through the half-open door of the bathroom, Martha heard the taps squeak shut as the water finished growling into the tub.

"This is a toilet," said Dad. "You can sit on it or lift up the seat when you stand. When you're done, you put the seat and lid down. It's respectful to the women. You do your business here or in the outhouse. Madam expects things to be clean. You understand? Show me." The seat squeaked. "Good."

Jean snorted and headed off down the hall. Martha gathered up the things dumped from the cooler. She opened the chocolate drops and gobbled a handful before placing them in a cupboard.

Her father strode out of the bathroom, his face grim, stinking rags bundled in his hands. "I'll bury these. Can you get a clean overall?" He sighed. "I'm too old for this. There's something very wrong with him."

"He all right in the bath?" Martha asked.

"He seems to know what to do. I showed him how to use the soap with a flannel." Dad pulled on his rubber boots and thumped out.

Martha walked across the kitchen and entered her father's room. She pulled open the bureau and took out an overall and a shirt. Martha walked the few steps down the hall to the bathroom.

A clean Wordless, towel tucked around his waist, stood hunched in front of the sink, seeming almost furtive. He turned on the cold tap, stuck his face sideways under the flow and gulped the water. Martha bit her lip. She hadn't offered him a cool drink after his long hot trip. He turned off the tap then wiped it with a dry washcloth, as if someone might notice he had touched it.

Wordless looked into the mirror over the sink. Dark shadows smudged under gray eyes too large for his thin face. He tilted his head forward and examined his scar then stared at himself, reaching out to touch the stranger in the mirror.

Dad came up beside her. Wordless caught sight of them and instantly folded down into the cross legged position.

"His welts are a lot worse than yours," Martha said.

"Yes." Her father placed the overall and shirt in Wordless's lap then rested a hand on the boy's head. "Put these on. No one's going to hurt you here."

Martha plodded back to the stove to dish up the dinner. Jean returned and thudded down in her seat. Dad brought in the new slave. The shirt flopped over Wordless's hands, the straps fell down his arms and the pant legs bunched at his bare feet.

"You look lost in that," Martha said.

He stared at the floor, motionless, shoulders tensed as she rolled up the overflowing material and knotted the straps together at the back so they stayed over his shoulders. Wordless stayed frozen until her father guided him to the table. Jean grimaced when the boy sat down across from her.

Dad joined hands with Martha who joined with Jean. Jean reached across the table and grabbed her father's hand before he could take hold of one of the limp hands resting in Wordless's lap. Wordless stared down at his plate. The family bowed their heads and sang the hymn, "Holy Gaia, Queen of Heaven".

"Thank you, Holy Gaia," Martha prayed. "For letting us partake of Your blessed food and drink. Thank you for this day without hunger. Thank you for taking away our thirst with the holy spring of Your word. Amen."

"Amen," the family said.

"I saw a hita in a cage at the market," Jean said. "It tried to attack a boy."

"I didn't think there were any around here anymore," Martha said.

"Captured down south and sold for baiting against men and beasts," Dad said. "Funny animals. Hermaphrodites." Jean wrinkled her brow. "Male and female in one body. A hita will never fight another hita, no matter how much they're goaded." He smiled at Martha. "There's none around here. Not for years since the hita wars."

The family started eating, cutting up their meat then using their forks to mash the dumplings, potatoes, gravy and vegetables together for easier handling with their spoons.

Wordless half-raised his head and stared at the label of the bottle of fruit drink sitting in the middle of the table. The outline of a shield bore a scorpion rampant under a crown of stars. Beneath it were the words:

Special Lemon

A fine product of

Bostroy and Eden, Co. purveyors of

Victuals and fine drink.

Under the patronage of His Holiness, the Archmage Laius.

"Would you like some soda?" Martha asked.

Wordless lowered his head and stared down at his untouched food.

"Rude," Jean said.

"He's retarded. Can't answer," Dad said. "Right now he's waiting for a cuff in the head, or worse."

"Oh, Wordless," Martha said. She poured Special Lemon into his glass. "I wouldn't hit you over soda."

He raised his head, gave her a blank stare then took a long drink of his Special Lemon.

"He likes that. Could drink it all day," Jean said.

Wordless put down his glass and ran his fingers along the battered knife, fork and spoon bunched at the side of his plate.

"Show him how to use them, Dad," Martha said.

Wordless picked up his utensils and began to eat. He used the style of the nobles: cutting a small piece of food then lifting it with his fork and eating it before cutting the next piece, taking pinches of salt and herbs from the cellars and sprinkling with his fingers instead of spooning a small pile onto the side of his plate.

"I can't believe it," Martha said.

"There's more to this lad than meets the eye," Dad said.

"He's a pig in a poke," Jean said.

Wordless ignored them, his only acknowledgment of their existence his staring at his empty plate until Martha refilled it and he began to work again at elegantly filling his starving stomach.