The Demon King. Cinda Williams Chima

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       CHAPTER FIVE OLD STORIES

      Han put off leaving Marisa Pines as long as possible. It was late morning the next day when he said his good-byes and descended Hanalea, following the Dyrnnewater toward the Vale.

      He’d sold or traded everything but the worthless snagwort, which would have to wait for the Flatlander Market. Coins jingled in his purse, and his bag bulged with trade goods—fabric and leatherwork he could sell at a profit, pouches of clan remedies, plus enough smoked venison to make a meal. And the amulet, hidden at the bottom.

      He still mourned the deer he might have taken, but all in all, he’d done well for this early in the season.

      He hoped Mam would agree.

      On the way down the mountain, he stopped off at several solitary cabins to see if there was mail to go or goods to be carried down to market or orders for supplies that he would carry up the next time. Many of the cabin dwellers were clan who preferred life away from the bustle of the camps. There were also former flatlanders who liked solitude or had reason to avoid the notice of the queen’s heavy-handed guard. Han earned a little money by carrying news and mail up and down the mountains and acting as agent for those highlanders who didn’t care to visit the Vale.

      Lucius Frowsley was one of those. His cabin stood where Old Woman Creek poured into the Dyrnnewater. He’d lived on the mountain so long, he looked like a piece broken off of it, with his craggy face and the clothes that draped his skinny body like juniper on a hillside. His eyes were opaque and cloudy as a winter sky—he’d been blinded as a young man.

      Despite his blindness, the old man owned the most productive still in the Spirit Mountains.

      Though Lucius could navigate the trails and ledges of the high country like a goat, he never went to Fellsmarch if he had a choice. So Han carried orders and containers and money up from the Vale, and product down. The containers were full when he carried them downhill and light and empty when he carried them up.

      The best part: Lucius had books—not as many as in the temple library, but more books than any one man had a right to. He kept them locked in a trunk to protect them from the weather. What a blind man needed with a library, Han couldn’t say, but the old man encouraged him to take full advantage, and he did. Some days he staggered down the mountain with half his weight in books.

      That was another mystery—Han should have read them all twice over by now. But Lucius always seemed to have new ones.

      Lucius was cranky and profane and maybe siphoned off a little too much of his own product. But he was fair to Han, and told the truth, and always paid on time, which was rare. No one had dared steal from Cuffs Alister, streetlord of Ragmarket. But since he’d left the life, Han had been cheated more times than he cared to remember.

      Lucius was also a nonjudgmental source of information. He knew everything, and, unlike Mam, he’d answer any question without a lecture.

      The hillside cabin was empty, as was the distillery shack behind, but Han knew where to look. He found Lucius fishing in Old Woman Creek, which he did daily three seasons of the year. It was an excuse to sit and doze on the creek bank and sip from the bottle he always kept at hand. His dog, a rough-coated shepherd named Dog, sprawled by his feet.

      As Han walked up the creek bed toward him, Lucius dropped his fishing pole and jerked around as if startled. The old man raised his hands as if for protection, his face pale and frightened, his blighted eyes wide under his wiry brows.

      “Who’s there?” he demanded, sleeves flapping around skinny arms. Like usual, he was dressed in mismatched clan castoffs and Ragmarket finds. Being blind, he wasn’t fussy about color.

      “Hey, Lucius,” Han called. “It’s just me. Han.”

      Dog raised his head and woofed approvingly, then rested his head on his paws, twitching his ears to drive off flies.

      Lucius’s hands came down, though he still looked wary. “Boy!” he said. Lucius always called him boy. “You oughtn’t to sneak up on folks that way.”

      Han rolled his eyes. He’d come along the water, same as always. Everybody was acting strange today.

      Han squatted next to Lucius, touching his shoulder so he’d know where he was, and the old man started violently.

      “Catching anything?” Han asked, beginning to feel aggravated.

      Lucius squinted his rheumy blue eyes like it was a hard question, then reached down and hauled a clan-woven fish basket out of the creek. “Catched all of four, so far.”

      “Those fish for sale?” Han asked. “I can get you a good price at the market.”

      Lucius considered this a moment. “Nope. Going to eat these fish m’self.”

      Han settled himself back against a tree and extended his long legs in their flatland breeches. “Need anything to go with?” he asked, patting his backpack. “I have dried peppers and Tamron spice.”

      Lucius СКАЧАТЬ