Enlightenment

CHAPTER THREE

Prin devoured the simple porridge Tom served for dinner, thinking it tasted better than the sweets she had served at the ball at the Earl’s Castle. The stale bread he apologized for was softer than the hard bread the cooks had provided for her morning meals her whole life. Sara didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm.

The young farmer, Tom, had answered questions as they ate dinner, and learned the city was called Indore. It sat on the banks of the River Otter. The port was busy with ships coming and going, and strangers were more the rule than the exception. He warned them to be wary of The Order of The Iron Ring, which he told them was a group of warriors originally formed to prevent petty crime, but some said they had grown as powerful as the king’s army and they made terrible enemies, but excellent allies.

They’d talked deep into the night, but his help was mostly second-hand because he’d only visited Indore twice, and much of his information was second, or third hand. They gleaned all they could get from him until they could remain awake no longer.

Sara woke Prin early, before sunrise, and they gathered their few belongings in the dark, well before Tom awoke and might delay them with his talk. The morning was darker than normal, and rain fell steadily. They pulled their blankets over their heads like hoods to shed some of the water, and to hide their faces, a fortunate coincidence with their bald heads. Both wanted to be well down the road on their way to the city before dawn.

Because of the rain, they decided to travel on the road where they could walk faster, and hopefully, nobody along the way would remember them amid others on the road. The few people outside were heading for Indore, most with small wagons filled with vegetables and fruits to sell that were home grown. It was the same everywhere. Selling at the local market was one of the few ways a farmer could earn coin instead of trading or bartering. While that worked out many times, there were still things only hard money could buy.

When they trudged up behind a pair of boys pulling a wagon, they slipped past them with a quick, “Morning.” Their pace was faster than most others on the road, but neither was willing to slow.

Later, nearing the edge of the city, they were still in a hurry to put more distance between them and the mountain pass, they approached a family of four from behind, each of them carrying sacks on their backs filled with apples. The younger ones, two boys about six and eight, struggled to walk under their loads, especially on the slippery, wet surface.

Sara held out her arm to bar Prin from walking so fast, as they watched. The youngest boy stumbled but caught himself before he fell. To Prin, all of them looked worn out, cold, and wet, as if they had traveled some distance. She whispered, “Follow my lead.”

Sara dropped her arm and hurried a few steps to catch up with the struggling family. She said, “Hey, why don’t you let us help?”

The father shook his head, his embarrassment clear. His wife stood aside, but her eyes held a plea. Prin stepped to the youngest boy and said for all to hear, “We would like a few apples but cannot pay. If we carry part of your load, will you give me two for our breakfast? We have not eaten today.”

Most of what she said was true, and it gave the father a way to accept their help instead of charity. Offering to work for apples allowed him to keep dignity, something Prin had learned early was often more important than money. Never strip a person of dignity, or there is nothing left.

The six of them knelt on the road and redistributed the loads to the relief of the boys, and mother. Prin and Sara used their blankets, with the ends tied together to form slings filled with apples. When done, each sling didn’t contain a lot of apples, but the smaller loads the boys carried allowed them to walk faster.

The wife hadn’t said a word, but she secreted a few thankful looks that said more. Even better, Prin realized, was that they now appeared to be a family of six, not two girls alone on the road, that someone might remember. She couldn’t think of a better way to hide where all could see her.

On the outskirts of the city stood shabby houses and small farms that didn’t look prosperous enough to support anyone. Even Tom’s ramshackle farm where they spent last night was better off than some houses they passed, and the few people venturing outside looked little better that vagabonds and thieves.

But the rain had temporarily ceased, and the clouds seemed brighter. Prin’s mood improved.

The mother of the boys said, “You can eat an apple before we get to market, you know.”

“How far is it?” Sara asked as the sun peeked through the clouds.

The mother seemed to be getting over her shyness. She said, “Oh, we’re going to the public market down by the waterfront, not the big bazaar in the center of town.”

“Why that one?” Sara asked as if she knew about both and wanted to know why one was better than the other.

“The men on ships always want fresh fruit and will pay more for them.”

Sara glanced at Prin. “I see. That’s good because we were going down that way, anyhow.”

The buildings became packed closer together, and there were more people walking, standing, or working, on the streets. Many had milk cows or goats, and each house seemed to have a full garden surrounding it. Others had rows of clothes hanging to dry in the wet air, while women washed more. A little rain couldn’t prevent them from earning their meager living.

They passed a small blacksmith shop with a huge man pounding out iron products on his anvil. Prin noticed her feet walked to the beat of the hammer ringing in the morning air, and she glanced at Sara to find the same. She wondered if the blacksmith speeded up his job, would they walk faster?

The edge of the city abruptly changed. The dirt road became a paved street that ran between buildings two stories high and joined one another at the sides. The norm seemed a small shop that made or sold products on the lower floor, while the family lived above.

Not many of the people they passed were friendly or even took the time to glance at them, which didn’t bother Prin at all. She walked with a sense of security as she carried her load of apples and ate one. Without noticing, she had eaten all the flesh and most of the core. She spat a few seeds and tossed the remainder to a thin pig.

It was as if they walked with a family of mutes until the older boy slowed and said, “Watch it.”

His eyes were looking at Prin. She turned to find a skinny, dirty-faced man of about thirty walking right at her heels. He snarled as he spun away, “Mind your business, boy.”

“That was my business,” he called after him, then he looked at Prin. “You better be more careful, or you won’t have anything.”

“Do you know him?”

“Nope. But he was trying to make a grab for that leather bag of yours.”

Prin said, “A grab?”

“Grab and run like hell,” the boy said.

“Watch your language,” the woman said, never even turning to look at him.

Prin walked and thought about the gold inside the bag, and wondered what her life would be if the man had been successful. She didn’t like the answer. “What should I do?”

The boy said, “If it were me, I’d hide it, but since it’s too late and too big for that, I’d twist the handles around my arms and carry it in front of me. Then I’d make sure nobody got close.”

“Good advice,” the father said as he paused and watched her do as the boy suggested. “Then you can walk in front of us where we can keep a good lookout for you.”

Sara said, “Are there that many thieves around here?”

“In this part of town there are,” the boy said. “You don’t want to be here unless you have to.”

The words were no more than out of his mouth when a boy of fourteen or fifteen darted out from a doorway behind them and sprinted to the youngest boy and his load of apples. He grabbed the edge of the bag the boy carried over his shoulder as he raced past. The intruder swung it around, spinning the boy with him. Apples fell out and rolled. More boys appeared from the corner of a house, racing to grab apples before they could be retrieved.

Prin’s hand went under the long skirt and came out with the thin knife. After leaping between the gang and young boy, she held it low and threatening, weaving a pattern in the air with the point. She snarled at them, “Who’s first?”

Five ruffians in rags pulled to a stop in a rough circle around her, just out of her reach, and out of reach of the apples. The small boy went to his knees and retrieved the ten or twelve that had rolled onto the street, while Prin waved the knife in figure eights and acted like she knew how to use it.

With all the apples back in his bag, the youngest boy said, “Sorry Dad. I shouldn’t have fallen for that.”

“You couldn’t have helped it.”

The older boy carrying apples said to Prin, “Where’d the knife come from?”

Prin noticed that Sara was also looking at her oddly. Sara knew about the knife between her shoulder blades because of watching Prin practice her throwing at the target called Treeman, a trunk of a tree used so many times the bark had come off in a circle the size of a man. As Prin’s throws became more accurate, the wood near the center showed the results of hundreds of knife cuts. But Prin had never mentioned the knife strapped to her thigh, the one she found in her father’s apartment. She lifted the skirt enough to slip it back into the scabbard.

“Someone told me to always have a weapon ready when you visit a new place,” Prin said before she noticed that Sara reacted with surprise to her statement. Why? Prin replayed the words in her mind.

She’d said, “visit a new place,” which was a slip of the tongue that never should have happened if she was careful. It said that she had never been to Indore. It was the sort of mistake she couldn’t afford.

Sara said quickly, making up for her mistake, “Well, your hidden knife paid off this time. I’ve never been to this part of Indore, either. We’ve always stayed near our home at the center of the city.”

Prin’s senses silently thanked Sara for rescuing her so efficiently, and at the same time warned her about how easily lying came to Sara. It was something to keep in mind, but the lie seemed to have been effective. She ignored the anxious glance Sara aimed her way.

The rain began to gently fall again. Prin wondered about the wash hanging on the lines to dry, but decided it was already wet so wouldn’t matter. Meanwhile, water soaked the strips of cloth wrapped around her bare head and dribbles ran down her forehead to her eyes and face. Trickles of water running down her back chilled her. Sara knew a magic dry-spell that would keep the rainwater off them, but she couldn’t use it with the apple family walking behind. She chuckled at the name, but it fit them perfectly.

They continued down the paved streets in the direction of the river. The tall masts of the ships poked above the highest roofs, a way to always know which direction they walked. Just before reaching the river-walk, they took a wooden walkway intended to keep feet out of the muddy banks of the river.

A wide area opened between buildings and piers. The square was far more than the usual market set aside for a few farmers to sell their crops. It was a city market, set up with narrow lanes between colorful tents and awnings where almost anything was sold, but especially goods intended for sailors and visitors. Food, clothing, tools, weapons and jewelry were for sale in the first few stalls. The apple family moved smoothly through the throngs of people to an area set aside for small vendors.

They placed their apples on a blanket for display. The rain began falling harder, and the family settled to sit behind the father in the shelter of an overhanging roof. He took his place right behind the apples where he could talk with prospective buyers. He thanked Sara and Prin for their help and held out two more apples for their efforts. Prin would have refused, but after a chance glance behind at the wife, she understood that refusing would offend him.

They left the apple family to sell their produce, and wandered up and down the rows of items for sale. Prin paused before one stall and said, “We need to buy some things. This is a good place to start.”

“Not too much because we must carry what we buy and we don’t know for how long,” Sara warned,

Prin walked under a canopy of red and white stripes, Sara following behind. She looked at sailor uniforms, shirts, wood carvings, and leather goods. A seller at one stall displayed weapons, some blades longer than her arm, wicked war axes, iron arrow tips, and more. But Prin ignored all of them in favor of the knives.

“Are you searching for kitchen knives? We have an excellent selection I’m sure you will like.”

She looked up at the tall vendor, a man with a nondescript hat that circled his head with a small brim that shed water equally to all sides. He was older, enough so that his beard had twin streaks of white on the sides of his mouth, and he was missing two upper teeth on one side. Probably knocked out when he didn’t have a weapon nearby to defend himself. She smiled at her small joke, refusing to scowl at his comment about cooking knives.

She pointed to three knives set to one side on a tray. “Are those all you have?”

“Throwing knives? Little Miss, those are dangerous weapons, not made for your everyday use, and not for children.”

She moved a step closer, bending to examine them better, but without touching. The seller again tried to urge her to look at knives suitable for use in a kitchen, but she noticed a small target hanging at the rear of the stall, the marks of blades clear in the soft wood. Four and a half steps away. She moved a full step closer as she examined the knives, the same distance she had learned to throw at Treeman.

She had thrown her blade more than a thousand times at the tree in the forest. No, that was far too few times, it must have been three times that number, maybe more. She said, “I want to examine Your throwing knives, if you please.”

“As I said, they are dangerous weapons. I will not forgive myself if you hurt yourself with one.”

Prin’s hand flicked to the back of her neck. Her fingers gripped the knife hidden there, and her arm shot forward in one motion. She released the blade and watched it spin and strike the target near the center, sticking into the target perfectly parallel to the ground.

His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. He hadn’t known she wore a throwing knife, let alone that she knew how to use it. But he recovered quickly and said, “I would love for you to look at my knives and give me your expert opinion, young miss.”

He lifted the small tray so she could better examine them. He held it in front of her as if serving sweets to hungry royals. She selected the closest, examined it, and set it back down. It was handle-heavy and unbalanced, the workmanship gaudy but crude. The second was far too pretty, the maker’s time spent on engraving scrolls, loops, and setting colored beads, but not on producing quality. However, the third knife was flat, lacking ornamentation, and the workmanship beautiful. She lifted it, felt the balance and admired the matte gray finish that made the blade almost black. That would prevent a stray shaft of sunlight from revealing it.

The shop owner motioned to the hanging target, almost as a challenge. She had learned to throw from three and a half steps before realizing that distance was too short for most circumstances. She had moved back to practice at five and a half, just under six paces. She’d thrown from there over and over, but not nearly as many times as the shorter distance.

Still, she was at the right distance, and if she missed, she could blame it on an unfamiliar knife. Without thinking, she flipped it end to end, then back again, several times until she held the throwing end of the knife near her right ear. In a forward motion using her shoulders and arm to propel the knife, she took a step forward and used her legs and back to help provide power, as if throwing a rock for distance.

The knife spun and struck the target two fingers away from the first knife, but with the additional speed, it went through the wooden target, and the point protruded from the back. Prin smiled sweetly and said in her most innocent little-girl voice, “But will it cut the carrots in my kitchen?”

The owner of the stall equaled her smile. “Perhaps if you stand the carrots in a row and throw the knife at them? Please, allow me to retrieve both of your knives, but only if you will accept the one I showed as a gift. I owe it to you for teaching a well-learned lesson to an old man about prejudging his customers.”

Prin saw the surprised expression Sara wore and ignored it as he returned the knives to her. Sara was not familiar with barter and trades in her small village. The man had apologized for his assumptions, and that took a brave, intelligent person. She said, “I will accept your generous gift if you allow me to overpay for a good scabbard to fit between the shoulders of my sister.”

“May I see yours?” he asked.

Prin turned and lowered her head so he could see down the back of her neck. His fingers traced the straps that held it in place.

“I know of this kind. An excellent leatherworker in the central bazaar makes them similar, but with thinner leather. I could have one here in two, perhaps three days.”

Prin said, “If you were to sell me another knife of the same quality, what would I pay?”

“Three large coppers. One more copper for the scabbard.”

She handed him a small silver coin and accepted seven large copper coins in change, along with her old throwing knife. She agreed to return in three days for the new knife and scabbard.

They left the stall, and Sara said, “I have never seen anyone wear two knives, let alone three.”

“Didn’t you hear me? That one is for you.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I’d love to learn to throw like you, but I thought, you wanted a third to wear. By the way, did you notice his strange hat?” Sara said.

“Of course. I don’t think he’s from around here. His speech was stilted and odd.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too. The hat gave him a foreign appearance. I’m wearing my green pants and shirt, and you your dress, plus the wraps on our heads. We don’t look like strangers to Indore. We need to find a place to buy different clothes.”

Prin glanced at her bare feet. “And shoes.”

“Yes, and the clothing should be odd, or foreign, to make us look like new arrivals, like the knife seller’s hat. You could tell right away he was from across the sea, or somewhere far away.”

“Easy enough,” Prin laughed, turning and walking back to his stall. She returned a few moments later and pointed. “That way. We’re looking for a green tent with a beautiful fat woman who is his wife. She sells hats.”

They found her, perhaps ten stalls away. She also wore a similar hat as the blade seller, not as tall, but the flat sloping brim effectively shed water, and would shield their eyes from the sun if it ever came back out, and protect their scalps from sunburn. They purchased four similar hats, in four colors. They exchanged them for the wraps of material around their heads, wraps that now looked like more like bandages than foreign dress. Prin wore a green, and Sara a blue hat. The hat seller said nothing about their white, bald heads, but had reacted with a wince when she saw them.

The fat woman with the huge smile then told them where to buy good shoes from a friend of hers. Soon they both wore soft, sturdy boots as they went looking for more clothing. Prin had worn simple shifts her entire life, which was two flat pieces of crude material sewn together with wide straps over each shoulder. As they strolled among the stalls, getting used to their new boots, a display of dresses caught Prin’s eye.

The dresses were simple shifts made of a durable material in various shades of brown and tan. They were longer than the knee-length she was used to, these hanging well below the knee, but with a skirt that made a slight flair so the legs could easily move. Many of the local women wore them. Some added a splash of color with a colorful belt, embroidered design, or flowers pinned to them.

The neckline was almost square, allowing for easy reach to the throwing knife while hiding it at the same time. They were perfect, and the stall had a changing room. When they left, the satchel Prin carried held two more shifts and the spare hats.

The rain had stopped. Now they only had to find a place to spend the day, and to sleep, avoiding inns if possible. They bought two hard rolls stuffed with soft cheese and stood at a short counter to eat them.

Sara said between mouthfuls, “Have you noticed him?”

“Who?”

“The man following us. Don’t turn to look yet, he’s moving to my left and just coming into your line of sight. The one with the bare sword.”

Prin glanced his way. He was studiously avoiding looking in their direction, but by that avoidance, he made himself known. His sword was longer than normal, his hand on the hilt tipping it up as he moved, but the blade was bare. No scabbard. The sharp edges of the sword threatened anyone nearby if he turned quickly, but people parted for him. They didn’t appear wary or scared, but they deferred all the same.

She looked at his belt and saw a large iron ring fastened around it. The sword went through the rusted iron ring to support it instead of wearing a scabbard. He wore a loose gray shirt made of thick material like homespun, with long sleeves. On the cuffs of the sleeves were two hash marks sewed side by side. It was a uniform of some sort.

“Tom, the farmer, warned us about them,” Prin said.

Sara said, “He’s been near us for a while. Watching.”

“Let’s move away and see what happens.”

“Down to where the ships are docked. I want to check a few things.”

Prin turned her back to him and followed Sara. They made a few turns as they left the bazaar, but each time she glanced behind, he still followed. Have they found me, already?