In the morning, Caewen dragged herself out of the warm, if slightly scratchy, bed linens with profound reluctance. She had given up counting the cockerel crows. Somewhere outside the bird had been blustering away with its little lungs for what seemed like hours.
It was with a groggy, half-aware, sleep-gritty vagueness that Caewen went about doing her usual morning things: dressing and going to the privy, washing and waking herself up with yawns and splashed of cold water. Throughout, Fetch refused to come out of his satchel. He remained with the rest of her gear in the rented little box room with its modest bed and cosy shadows.
Towards the end of her morning wanderings and routines, Caewen stopped and looked out a window. The rains had passed and left behind them a cloud-stained sky that was such a pale luminous grey that it looked as if a bowl of smoked glass had been placed over the world. It was a moment of beauty.
She looked at the world outside with an almost longing wistfulness. Everything seemed so motionless and so peaceful. She wondered if she would ever know that same sense of quiet stillness within herself.
Caewen eventually tore her gaze from the window and took herself downstairs to locate something for breakfast. As she stepped off the last stair, a man turned to look at her. He was seated on a long bench, very close to the stairs, but with his broad well-tailored back leaning against the table. He smoked a short, black clay pipe, wore his hair in a curly yellow-brown mass and had two impressive pork-chop sideburns running down to a beardless chin. She had seen him last night and taken him for an affluent farmer, but now, looking at him, he seemed too well dressed. His shirt was very delicately striped with dove grey and purple, buttoned with silver, and his coat was a velvety buff leather. The boots he wore were clearly expensive, tall, sturdy and dyed a deep crimson red. A thin brocade like fire ran along the tops of them. At his paunch, a large glinting red stone decorated his belt buckle.
“Have a seat,” the man said. His voice was plain-speaking, amiable even, but there was an edge to it that did not expect to be disobeyed. He patted the bench beside him. “I’ve already had toast and eggs, some white pudding and fried greens, but I’ll order a plate for you. If you are hungry?”
Caewen nodded and sat down beside him, doing her best not to leap to what seemed the most conclusion. Without Fetch, Caewen herself had no clear sense of who might or might not be a worker or spells and arts. She inwardly but not very vehemently cursed the little shadow-thing for staying in the room. Perhaps Fetch even knew there was a surprise waiting downstairs and wanted to avoid it. So, not quite sure yet, she tried throwing a few words to him, lightly, testing the waters. “Are you a local farmer?”
“No. Of course not. And you don’t think that either. Or you’re a fool.”
“I see. The spirits in the night-woods?”
“Those are mine.” He eyed her, but after a moment remembered that he had offered to order food. He called for the ale-wife, gave her a breakfast order without consulting Caewen, then turned back to her. “Now, but, I don’t know what to make of you. What manner of sorceress are you? Whom do you serve? Do you mean to cause trouble in my little corner of the world?”
She had not broken her gaze from the man. At least she knew now he was a local, or claimed to be. That made him less likely to be an outright servant of The Winter King, but he might still be a spy. “I am something of an accidental magician, and not a very expert one. I serve no one but my own intentions, which I hope are good. I do my best to be so. I certainly do not wish to cause trouble–for you or anyone else–but you may find that trouble is coming, There are armies moving in the northern hills. I’ve passed through empty villages not more than five days hard walk distant. I’ve smelled burnt-out wagons and cottages. If your corner of the world has any strong walls to hide behind, or spears to take up, then I would suggest such things might be sensible.”
He nodded, curtly. “You know, a smile would do you good. A grim face is a poor travelling companion.”
“I haven’t had many smiling days of late.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps we can change that. The land is pleasant. You may find it restful to walk here.” He waved his pipe about rather dismissively, making weary knots of smoke. “And, by the way, we are already quite aware of the rumours that abound.” He got up and wandered over to the hearth. She wasn’t sure what he was doing at first. He fiddled with his pipe, picking at some ash with his fingertips. Satisfied, he tapped the contents straight onto stone hearth before stamping out the embers. He really twisted his boot-toe, giving a very clearly intentional impression of snuffing out something unwanted. “Where are you going?”
“East, then some way south I think.”
“How far? Where to?”
That gave her pause. “I’m not sure. I’m following a path. I don’t know where the path leads.”
He had to consider her answer. “An honest answer. I expected you to lie. I know that you carry something of potency, and for honesty, I shall reply in kind: I don’t know what it is. An oracle perhaps? Maybe that is what you follow? Or it might be carrying a talking magus-wrought thing? Or a charmed compass? Such artifices exist, though I have never seen one. Or something else again.” He returned and sat down again beside her. They sat for only a few moments wordless regarding each other before he looked over his shoulder with a slow twist of his head. “Food cometh, and the stomach stands before all other pleasures and needs.” His smile seemed quite genuine as the plate was placed before Caewen. “Oh, and, two pots of smallbeer, thank you, Elta.”
“Much a pleasure,” said the woman. She smiled. Presumably, this stout, well-dressed magician liked that.
Caewen began to eat. No point in wasting a good hot meal.
“So, by what ought I call you?” said the man.
“My name is Caewen.”
His eyebrows arched up into his forehead like startled hairy caterpillars. “A name? How bold of you. How reckless. Well, a name for a name then. About here, they call me Matty Nutch.”
“Thank you,” mumbled Caewen through a half-full mouth. “Not many magicians answer a name with a name.” She swallowed. “So little trust.”
“Manners, manners.”
“H’m?”
“Talking with your mouth full.”
She gave him a rather under-whelmed glance as she popped a piece of white pudding in her mouth. It was a mixture of fat, egg white and dried grapes as far as she could tell, and it was delicious. “So,” she said, being sure not to fully empty her mouth first, “to what do I owe the honour of your inquisition?”
“Someone of some moderate charms is travelling through my little piece of the earth. Hereabouts folks expect me to keep an eye on that sort of thing. That is all. If you are travelling west, then I will accompany you, at least as far as the Village of Whittawer, where I am expected at a wedding. That way, you shall have no trouble with folks who might be suspicious of a stranger and I will have no trouble with a stranger of whom I am suspicious.”
“I see.” She chewed some more, considering this, as he eyed her in his own assessing way. At last she a said, “I don’t see that I have any choice. Not sensibly, anyway.”
“No.”
“I should warn you that travelling with me may be dangerous. I have been hunted in the past. I have enemies.”
“Well. All the more reason for me to go along with you. I should warn you, as it happens, that I may be dangerous too.”
And he smiled, jovially, before stuffing his pipe and lighting with with three quick sucks. Caewen noticed that he used no tinder from the hearth, nor taper. The spark simply lit in the bowl of the pipe as he puffed at it.