By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (7 page)

         “You are lucky…living in a building where
you can have a stove.  Costs extra doesn’t it?”

         “Yes.  Though I guess in the long run I
might save money cooking my own food.  It is expensive to eat in the market, I
have learned.  And the food isn’t that good,” she said with a chuckle.  “You
don’t have a stove?”

         “Oh no.  I can’t cook and can’t afford a
room with a stove.”

         “Is it that much more?” she asked.

         “Oh yeah,” he scoffed.  When she still
looked puzzled he continued.  “All these old wooden buildings with stoves and
such have been treated with some kind of magic.”  Again Melissa looked
puzzled.  “To help make them resistant to flames.”

         “That’s dumb.  People where I live all
have stoves and fireplaces and…”

         “Well, we have some stupid and careless
people here.  Even with the precautions we still have fires.  They are pretty
horrible.”

         “Wow.  You know a lot,” she marveled.  When
Dirk realized she was being honest he smiled.  “You must have lived here a long
time to learn about this place.  It’s so huge,” she said, pushing the fingers
of both hands through her hair, then holding the back of it up, letting her
neck cool.

         “My whole life.”  Dirk went back to his
seat on the bed.

         “Sorry I don’t have any furniture.  I’ve
only been here a few days and I’m out of money.  I think I’ll buy some wood and
make some someday.”

         “That’s okay.  You don’t need anything
but a bed,” and when the words had left his mouth he shuddered, but despite how
lascivious he sounded, Melissa seemed not to notice.

         “I guess you’re right,” she said, “but it
would be nice to have a chair or two.”   Melissa briskly walked to the chest,
opened it and produced a plate, a mug and a fork, all of battered pewter, then
set them on the table top nearer the chest than the bed.  “Here.  Come sit,”
she pleaded.  Dirk rose again and ambled over, sitting down on the trunk while
Melissa sat on the bed across from him.

         “Don’t you have another plate?” he asked.

         “No.  I’ll eat out of the pot.  I do it
all the time.  Guess I didn’t plan on having any guests when I set up here,” she
added, another brief but forlorn expression passed her tan face.  Both then fell
silent and looked around:  at the table, the dusk outside the window, dinner on
the stove, even each other.  “I’m from Stoneheim.  It’s a long way from here,”
Melissa said to break the long silence.

         “The mining town?”

         “Yes.  My mother and father own a farm there.” 
Again, there was silence.  “What’s the matter?” she finally asked, wondering if
Dirk’s silence was due to something she had done wrong.

         “Nothing,” he answered pleasantly,
actually smiling slightly.

         “Where do your parents live?” she then
asked, desperately hoping for a genuine answer from him, a spark that might
start a true conversation, rather than the awkward questions and answers they then
stumbled through. 

         Dirk looked hurt, but quickly replied.  “I
don’t have any.  I was raised in a church orphanage.”

         “Oh,” said Melissa, feeling badly for
him, but realizing then that there was nothing she could say to ease his pain,
nor anything she could likely talk to him about. 

         Dirk was not purposely trying to be
uncommunicative, he simply had nothing to say; conversation was not that
important to him.  He had had very few meaningful discussions in his life:  his
focus—and thus is conversations—involved weather, trade, work and small-talk. 
But Dirk was happy to be in Melissa’s company.   Her friendliness—that country
simplicity she exuded—made him more comfortable than any other time in his
life.  And that night he felt as if he was in a home of a friend he had known
for years.  “Do you like my bow?” she asked, desperately trying to strike some
emotion in him.

         “Yes.  It’s nice.”

         “Do you want to learn how to shoot?” she
asked.  Dirk was embarrassed, knowing he must have looked awkward when he held
the weapon, lest she would not have known of his ignorance.

         “Yes, I’d like to,” he said nonetheless. 
Melissa rose and retrieved it. 

         “Get up,” she said, patting his
shoulder.  Dirk stood and was hit in the backside as Melissa threw open the
chest lid.  Not bothered by Dirk’s partial blocking of her way, she quickly
pulled out a quiver of long arrows.  It was not until after she had let the lid
fall back down that Dirk moved out from his cramped space between the chest and
the table. 

         Melissa handed Dirk the bow, it was
nearly as tall as he, and standing behind him, she positioned his arms.  “Now
pull it slowly back,” she said.  “Hold it there.  Hold it!” she continued. 
“Hold it while you sight:  until you’re ready to shoot.”  The bow had a heavy
pull, and although it did not fatigue Dirk, he thought that it must have been
near impossible for Melissa to hold like that for any length of time.

         “There’s nothing to shoot,” he
complained.

         “Pretend,” Melissa urged.  “Pretend
there’s a trophy stag with a rack a man’s height across.”

         “Why would I want to shoot a deer?”

         “We all don’t live on sausages, Dirk. 
It’s food.”  Melissa repositioned Dirk’s pulling arm just a bit and felt the
iron of the muscles in his shoulder and in the back of his arm.  “I don’t know
how you have the muscles you do, eating all that slop,” she scoffed.  Melissa
then put an arrow into his hands, correctly placing it between the string and
his fingers.  “It’s ready.  Let it go.”

         “Where?” Dirk asked, growing nervous.

         “At the wall,” said Melissa impatiently.

         “Okay...” Dirk sighed with apprehension,
finally releasing the shaft.  The arrow sped across the tiny room and slammed
into the wall, wobbling after it had struck.

         “My turn,” Melissa said, deftly grabbing
the bow and twirling it in her fingers.  In one fluid, effortless motion, she
pulled forth a shaft, knocked it to the string and drew it back, steadily.  She
held it for one, two seconds at most.  With a twang, the shaft raced on the
same path that Dirk’s had traveled.  It thudded right next to his; motionless. 
Dirk walked over:  her arrow had come to rest touching his, tip to tip.

         “You’re good,” he said.  “Pretty strong,
too.”  He looked from the arrows to the girl, and nodded his appreciation.

         “Thanks.”  Melissa pulled the arrows free
with a grunt.  “Not like you,” she admired with a tinge of blush Dirk mistook
for exertion. 

         A pounding came from the other side of
the wall.  “Knock it off,” sounded the muffled yell.  Melissa ignored it. 
Dirk, however, was used to living with rude neighbors. 

         “Shut up!” he called back.  Soon the
shutters next door flew open, striking the wall, so Dirk moved to the window
and looked outside.  A man was already yelling threats of physical harm to
whomever challenged him, and then he saw Dirk:  his size, his scowl, and his
muscles.

         “Well...” the man stuttered, “let’s be
civil. 
Try
to be quiet,” he said hurriedly, then ducked back inside,
slamming his shutters closed. 

         Dirk smiled with satisfaction, and when
he turned around he saw Melissa placing the chicken onto the stove top.  One
pot was already on the table.  She moved her athletic form agilely around the
room, her stocking-ed feet making not a sound.  She found a couple of rags to
use as napkins; a loaf of bread and a bottle of cheap wine three-quarter full
in the chest.  She used her knife, in concert with the fork, to scoop out an
array of vegetables from the pot onto Dirk’s plate.  It was a tremendous
helping compared to the fare to which he was accustomed.  Melissa retrieved the
bird and set it in the middle of the table, then whisked to the door and opened
it, allowing a breeze to blow through the warm room.

         “Come on,” she said, sitting on the bed. 
Dirk walked over.  If he had just arrived, he would never have recognized the
mess the room had recently been.  Everything looked very nice to him then, and
to top it all off the chicken was tremendous, more like a turkey.  Dirk had
never seen so much food at one meal for just two people.

         “Do you always eat like this?” he asked,
digging into his vegetables, a mix of beans, peas and some kind of sprouts that
hung out his mouth as he chewed his first eager bite.

         “See?  You need a stove,” she surmised
with a grin.

         “I don’t know.  I guess I don’t know how
to prepare it.  Too much trouble.”  He tore off a leg, as big around as his
fist, and took a ravenous bite. 

         “Oh, I could show you.  It’s easy.” 

         “No wonder you don’t have any money
left,” Dirk marveled.

         “This is more thrifty than eating in the
market or at an inn, I tell you,” Melissa argued.

         “I suppose you could be right.  I just
don’t know how to cook, or have the means to do it.”

         “Well, you can eat with me whenever you
like.  It’s just as easy to cook for two.”  Dirk nodded eagerly, then continued
eating, the thought of her company every dinner reassuring to him. 

         Dirk was amazed:  Melissa ate nearly as
much as he did.  She was not feminine, nor was she the crude opposite.  She
just seemed natural to him: normal.  But he didn’t mind, it was just that her
mannerisms were so very different than the women he had known.  To Melissa,
he
was certainly different. 

         Melissa liked him; handsome, strong,
quietly nice, and he had not attempted to bed her since she’d known him, nor
made any wisecracks about her aggressiveness or lack of femininity, her appetite
or innocent friendliness toward men.  But Melissa viewed being feminine as
being helpless.  Being feminine could not stop a man from taking what he
wanted.  Being feminine could not harvest the crops, put meat on the table, or
birth a calf.  Maybe city life was different:  “People don’t have to do those
things here,” she thought as she watched Dirk eat.  She began to worry that
maybe he was not interested in her as a woman, but watching Dirk made her feel
good.  He clearly enjoyed his meal; the first emotion she had seen him show all
day or night.  Melissa began to worry that the man she had invited up to her
room to show him her gratitude for employment, was growing more attractive in
her eyes.  All she could do was wait and see.  Certainly she could not exist in
Andrelia without any acquaintances.  Melissa decided to worry later about any
repercussions.  Besides, he hardly seemed interested.

         With the passing of the meal, the
conversation picked up and they were soon enjoying themselves as if they were
friends, which both hoped they would become.  They parted late that night with
a brief farewell:  they would see each other in the morning for their first full
day of work together.

         It whirled through the streets like the
first gust of a coming storm, speeding past the darkened windows, yet creeping
through the shadows cast by glowing lamps; gas lamps there in the poorest
district in Andrelia that often flickered and went out in Its passing, unlike
the magically glowing, un-extinguishable orbs of the noble heights.  It passed
unseen through the city:  looking, searching, hunting.  The Fiend came out of
hiding most nights to sate its evil hunger on the fear of humanity.  It would
race down this alley and up that street on the endless search to quench Its
fire of wicked depravity.

         Akeen tried to get the lock open; money
was low and Barlow the tailor had a profitable business, thus a loaded coffer. 
“A few more minutes,” he thought, “and it will be open.”  But Akeen kept losing
his concentration:  there were children playing in an abandoned building across
the dark alleyway.  Akeen sat huddled, hidden deep in the recesses of the back
doorway to Barlow’s, trying to gain entrance, safely out of sight of any
passing watchman.

         The youths were screaming, calling for
each other, playing some game of hide-and-seek.  Akeen tried again, this time
he was disturbed, he thought, by the wind.  But when he turned he noted no sign
of any gusts, just the smell of a dusty draft.  He hadn’t noticed before, but
as he peered into the alley behind him he saw the door across the way standing
ajar.  Returning to his work, Akeen tried the lock yet another time, but to no
avail:  he felt something, a distracting, stale stillness.  He drew a deep
breath and tried again. 

         The children continued to call out.  This
time it sounded as though it was an end to the game.  “Damned kids,” he said to
himself.  “Maybe I’ll go scare them off.  Why don’t their parents watch them
better?  It’s getting so a thief can’t make a living anymore.  We used to be
the only ones out at this time of night.  Now, no telling who or what is out
and about,” he grumbled. 

         “Darcy.  Darcy!” at least half-a-dozen
light voices were calling, so Akeen slid his pick back into its case,
muttering.  “That’s it.  Those kids have had it.”  He stood and spun around,
intent on driving them off.  Akeen was out from under the overhang and into the
alley before he looked up.  In the warehouse doorway ahead was a shadow; a
darkness.

         Akeen stopped, puzzled, and reached his
hand out, gingerly, to touch the disturbance.  There was a movement of blinding
speed.  Akeen’s arm was jerked aside so forcibly that he was flung, spinning,
into a pile of wooden crates, dazed, his arm numb and hanging limply at his
side as he sat up.  The shape dropped a sack, tied closed at its top.  Inside,
something wiggled, struggling, and Akeen heard muffled whimpers.  The shadow,
manlike, but taller and much broader, glided toward him.  Akeen struggled to
his knees and with his uninjured arm, pulled forth his knife.  He held it,
trembling, as immense fear crept over him.  The small blade shone in the
moonlight, but gave him no security. 

         As he tried to stand, Akeen saw the glint
of steel arcing sideways toward him and he opened his mouth to scream, raising
his arm to fend off the blow.  Neither happened.  His forearm, then head, fell
to the ground, followed by his body falling backwards into the crates with a
crash.  The Fiend threw the sack over Its shoulder and disappeared again into
the shadows, speeding back to Its lair.

         Cinder replaced the stopper to the
crystal vial and deftly set it back on the shelf already overladen with dozens
of bottles, all different sizes, colors and shapes: flagons, flasks, jars,
decanters, ewers, phials and vials, some jeweled and some crystal, some plain.   “Is
there nothing in which I can interest you?” she asked Jiles Anderson, watching
the smile come over his face.  “You have been in three times this week and yet
you have bought nothing.  Ms. Sanders will think that I cannot sell her
perfumes.”  Cinder looked at him pleadingly, holding up yet another bottle. 
Her childlike face drooped into an irresistible pout.

         “I know what I’m interested in,” Jiles
replied.  “I’ll take that,” he said pointing at the jar in her hand, “and the
last three you held as well.”

         “But you did not even smell this one.”

         “I trust your judgment.”  He moved close
to Cinder, smelling her neck.  “I like that, too,” he finished.  Cinder giggled
and backed away.  She picked up the last three she had shown him, the one she
was wearing, along with that she already held and took them over to her desk
where she sat down.  She tallied the price and showed it to Jiles.  A look of
astonishment crossed his face and Cinder chuckled, thinking, as she rarely did
anymore, of how her father would be proud of some of the things she did; and
not so proud of others.

         “You’re an expensive girl, Cinder,” he
said.

         “I’m not.  The
perfume
is,” she
whined politely but with a gorgeous smile.

         “Yes, that’s what I meant,” Jiles said as
she placed the bottles in a small box and handed them to him.  “It would be a
shame if you did not accompany me to dinner now,” he pressed, “I mean, after
helping you keep your job.  Besides, you need to come and pick up your
fragrances,” he said, holding up the small box and rattling it from side to
side quickly.  Cinder stepped forward nervously, hands up to stop him from
shattering the delicate jars.  “Dinner tonight?  At seven bells?”

         “For me?” Cinder asked, her sarcasm noted
by the man.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I can’t tonight.”

         “Tomorrow?”

         “No,” she said.

         “Anytime?” he asked, this time more
impatiently.  Cinder thought for a few moments.

         “Yes,” she said.  “This Fornday, at eight
bells.”  Jiles Anderson, spice merchant, smiled as he handed Cinder the money
for his costly purchase, pressing a healthy tip firmly into her palm. 

         Cinder cast him a big, friendly smile. 
“Thank you.”

         “I’ll see you on Fornday, then,” he said.

          Cinder had worked at the perfume shop
Winds
of Spice
, Andrelia’s most famous, for just a week.  Darlene Sanders,
proprietor, had been drawn to Cinder, as had most of the prospective employers
she had attracted in the single hour as she stood stunningly beautiful in the
market place.  After a brief discussion regarding pay and benefits, foremost of
which was the permission to use any of the fragrances in the store, Cinder
accepted the offer of needed employment.  Perfume was such a human concept that
Cinder could not resist, and the aroma’s tickled her elven senses heavily. 

         Ms. Sanders hoped that Cinder’s
personality and beauty would charm many a customer into purchases, and the
half-elf did in fact prove good for business.  Not only did the male clientele
return more often that first week, ostensibly to buy scents for their loves,
but Cinder was even liked, and her opinion valued, by the women who shopped
there.  The job did not pay well, but it was a good atmosphere and Cinder was
able to meet many people; exactly what she had wanted.  Her research was
progressing at quite a satisfactory pace.  Just as Jiles Anderson had gone out
the door, Ms. Sanders came in from the back room, carrying several bottles of
perfumes.   Not an overly attractive woman, Ms. Sanders gave the appearance of
one with her tasteful attire, soft flowing brown hair, and heavy, but skillful
use of cosmetics.

         “Ms. Sanders?” Cinder pressed, almost
giggling.

         “Yes Cinder?” she asked, turning around
to look at her assistant.

         Cinder raised her brows curiously and
lightly said “Ding.”  Almost simultaneously, the great clock sounded ‘gong’. 
Ms. Sander’s eyes narrowed and she tried not to smile, though Cinder’s
playfulness would have been a delight to even the most dour citizen.

         “I told you...”

         “Ding,” Cinder repeated in unison with
the tower.

         “...I told you not to do that,” Ms
Sanders urged.  “People will think you’re a witch, and besides, it makes me
uncomfortable.  What do you do, sit and count the seconds?”  Cinder simply
smiled.  Ms. Sanders sighed and turned to continue stocking her shelves with the
new perfumes, unaware that her new clerk was half-elven and unaware what that
would even entail had she known.

         Cinder was fascinated with the clock and
the humans’ need to have time measured so precisely.  “It’s so...so
human
”
she thought.  Time was just a natural rhythm, the pulse of the earth, and all
those of elven blood were well aware of this beat and could judge it
infallibly, subconsciously,  if they could manage to interest themselves in
something so human long enough just to give it a thought.  Time measured in
hours and minutes, increments that passed so quickly for a being with an
extended lifespan, was extremely interesting to Cinder.  Elves, especially
Cinder’s mother, never used hours or minutes and, in general, never seemed
concerned with time other than to mark the passing seasons.

         Dirk and Melissa walked up to the bar and
Barnabus set two mugs of ale down for them.  “Hi Busy,” Dirk said, smiling. 
“This is Melissa.  She’s a friend of mine.  Melissa, this is Barnabus.  We call
him Busy.”

         “Hello,” said Busy, a smile on his simple
face.

         “Hi,” Melissa said, shaking hands with
him.

         “Where’s Malchor?” asked Dirk.  “Is he
still around?”

         “Yeah,” Busy said.  “He’s a-round...doin’
books and things.  You want me to get him for ya, Dirk?”

         “No, that’s all right.  I just wanted him
to meet Melissa.  We’ll see if he comes out in a little bit.”  Melissa gazed
around at the interior of the
Grizzly Bar
, her ale half-finished as Busy
rushed to the other end of the counter to fill another order.

         The two, Dirk and Melissa, had been
working together for four days, and though Melissa’s job was primarily in
helping Dirk make his deliveries, she did also care for the horses, arranging
their exercise, rest and diets.  She enjoyed being with the animals:  it was
one of the few things she enjoyed in her life before the city.  Each night Dirk
dined in Melissa’s room, and before coming to the
Grizzly Bar
that
night, they had eaten leftovers from a large chunk of beef Melissa cooked the
day before.  Just as Melissa began to tell Dirk that she thought the
Grizzly
was a nice place, a commotion at the far end of the bar sent Dirk hustling
away.  Melissa watched as Dirk helped Busy apologize for a spilled drink.

         “You buffoon,” chastised the angry
patron.

         “I’m sorry.  I really am,” Busy said as
he tried drying the liqueur from the man’s shirt.

         “Be nice,” Dirk said to the man.  “He
really didn’t mean to do it.”

         “Who are you, his brother?” he said
knocking Busy’s hands away.  The room grew quiet as the crowd of regular patrons
knew that the stranger was treading on dangerous ground.

         “No.  I’m his friend, and he didn’t mean
it,” Dirk said angrily.

         “Well, you’d better teach your friend
some deftness.  How many shirts do you think I own?” the man snapped.

         “You’d better watch it, friend,” warned
an ancient and long-retired sailor named Gregory, a frequent customer and
witness to Dirk’s nature.

         “I’m not your friend,” the doused patron
snarled, himself a sailor whose accent indicated he was from lands far to the south.

         “All I think is that you need some
manners taught to you,” Dirk said, grabbing the man by the shirt.  Melissa ran
forward, urging Dirk to stop.

         “Who’s gonna teach me?  You?  Maybe the
moron behind the bar?” the man asked, finally looking up from his stained shirt
to gaze on the angry deliveryman and realize perhaps he had been a bit hasty in
his chastisement:  while Dirk was not as hirsute as Busy, his demeanor was much
angrier.  Dirk raised his broad fist to pummel the man when Melissa grabbed his
wrist.  Just the night before, the two of them had slugged their way out of a
fight which had erupted around them and each was pleasantly surprised by the
other’s skill.  But Melissa knew that this was not the time to be fighting.

         “Don’t Dirk,” she said and Dirk let the
man go with a shove.

         “It’s okay,” Busy said.  “Don’t fight
because of me, Dirk.”  Dirk took a deep breath and patted Busy roughly on his
broad back.

         “I know, Busy,” said Dirk, still glaring
at the rude patron, as if still weighing the value of a beating. 

         It was then that Malchor came out. 
Malchor was a short, swarthy, dark-haired foreigner with a large moustache.  “Dirk,”
he said, his hands out, silently beseeching him to be peaceful.  “No fighting,”
he said with a heavy accent.

         “I know,” said Dirk.  “I can’t help it.” 
He looked at the floor like a scolded child.  Malchor reached up and smacked
Dirk lightly on the face several times.