Free Weapon of Flesh by Chris A. Jackson

festival?”
    Mya almost smiled at her master’s manner; having seen it dozens of times, she knew the magic he worked on such people as these.  This, even more than his ability to track any living creature anywhere in the world, was Targus’ most valuable skill.  He could blend into any surroundings like a native and often talked the locals out of everything up to and including their daughters’ virginity.  But right now there was no time for fun; he was working, and his only goal was their quarry.  She marveled at his skill, memorizing every movement, every nuance of his voice, learning his skill of persuasion with every move he made.
    “’Tis no festival that put my arm in splints, good Sir,” the innkeeper stated, lifting his injured limb for all to see, as evidence to his claim.
    “I thought it may have been a simple scuffle, as often breaks out when spirits are high, that resulted in your injury, good Innkeeper.”  He placed a gold crown on the bar.  “We would have a sip of your ale before dinner, and listen to the tale of what happened to put you, such a capable man, into such a state.”
    “A madman came through here not a week ago and did this damage you see, good Sir,” the innkeeper said, motioning his nearest barmaid to fill three tankards for the new arrivals.  “Or mad boy I should say, for no older than your young lass there was he.”
    “Oh, now I’ll not believe a mere boy could lay a hand on you, much less deal such a blow as to put your arm in splints!”  Targus quaffed a swallow of ale and smiled winningly.  “The fellow must have been wielding a fair length of stout oak to mark you thus.”
    “Nay!  And that’s the weird of it, Sir, for ’twas naught but a boy, and dressed like a slave, he was.  No boot on his foot, nor knife on his belt, I say.”  The entire common room had gone silent, all of the locals listening intently to the tale that they had all undoubtedly heard before.  “It was well into the night, and myself and the two girls were seein’ to the needs of six good customers, when in comes a boy no older, as I’ve said, than your own girl here.  He just walks in and stands at the door, dirty and smellin’ like he’d rolled in one of Master Fensford’s sties.  I asks him what he’s about, and he says he needs food.  Well, I figured him for a common beggar, and told him that without money, he wasn’t gettin’ nothin’ from me!”
    “A fair assumption, I say,” Targus said with a nod and another swallow of ale.
    “And so I thought, but it wasn’t so, for it was like he didn’t even know what money was, and asked me outright ‘what’s money?’.  Well that got a laugh from the customers, it did, along with the rest of his cock-and-bull story, and I was beginnin’ to think that the poor lad was wrong in the head.  Then he comes out and says ‘then give me some money’!”
    “The audacity!”  Targus had them in his pocket now, and Mya could see that the entire room was rapt with the retelling of the tale.
    “Exactly what I said!” the innkeeper agreed, thumping his good hand upon the bar.  “I would have offered him work if he’d asked for it, but to come right out and tell me to give him money, well, I made to throw him out like I would any good-for-nothin’ beggar, but that was what set him off.”
    “Set him off?  How do you mean?”
    “Well, I made to push the lad, but he grabbed my hand and pulled it near right off, I tell ya!”  Murmurs raked the crowd as the scene was replayed by the innkeeper’s clumsy movements.  “Then, bare handed, he snaps my arm like a stick of kindling, clean as you please!  Just crack !   And my arm’s bent like a horseshoe from elbow to wrist!”  Some of the patrons made comments of disbelief at this, but both of the maids corroborated the story to the letter, silencing the crowd.
    “And he’d have done worse, but for Marra pleading with him to hold,” the innkeeper continued, nodding to