Free The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids by Michael McClung

retched, as quietly as I could. Nerves. The sour taste of bile filled my mouth again, and I quietly spat it out. At least I was breathing.
    Making my way across the overgrown garden was payment for all my sins. I hadn’t realized I’d committed so many. I took it slowly, everything in me just wanting to get somewhere safe, to stop moving, to still the waves of pain from my shoulder and head. At one point I started trembling uncontrollably and I was forced to lay there until it subsided, praying the roving guard wouldn’t be attracted by the sound of the rattling brush. 
    Eventually I made it to the ditch. About halfway to the copse where I’d hidden Kram, I passed out again. I must have lain there for a long time, because when I came to, my clothes were damp with dew. I looked up at the sky. A couple of hours before dawn. I had to hurry. I pushed myself hard, and made it into the copse and to the waiting horse. He looked at me with liquid eyes that seemed to say that all life was suffering.
    “Shove it,” I whispered, and untied him and climbed into the saddle.
    The ride back was its own brand of suffering. Every plodding footfall sent a jolt of pain through shoulder and head.
    By the time I got back to Alain’s, grey-fingered dawn was creeping up on the horizon. I half-fell off the horse and banged on the gate to the work yard attached to his house. After a few moments I could hear the bar being lifted, and then Alain’s son Owin poked his head out. He looked at me and his mouth gaped.
    “What, you’ve never seen blood before?”
    “No. I mean yes, but not that much. Not on anybody alive.”
    “Are you gonna let me in?”
    He opened the gate and I led Kram into the yard. Owin was exaggerating, but my shirt was ruined. If I went back out into the increasing morning traffic I would be noticed. I hate to be noticed.
    “I’m going to need a change of clothes, Owin. Is there anything around that will fit?” Alain’s entire family was large. I am not.
    “Uh. I’ll ask Mum. Just let me get Kram into the stable. Maybe you should sit down?”
    “I might not get back up.”
    He took the horse into the narrow stable on one side of the yard, and then led me to the kitchen door of the house. I could smell bacon frying. I realized I was ravenous.
    Myra, Alain’s wife, was a huge woman. She had one of those handsome faces that seemed almost incongruous compared with her bulk. Huge wide eyes and perfect brows and full lips. Lustrous brown hair. She took one look at me and pulled the pan off the fire.
    “What in Isin’s name happened to you?”
    I shrugged, which wasn’t a great idea.
    “Sit down. Looks like your shoulder’s been torn to ribbons. And that smell! We’ll have to burn those clothes. Strip out of that shirt.”
    Normally I would have bristled at anyone ordering me about. Not with Myra. As soon tell the rain to stop falling. Myra was Myra, an unstoppable force.
    Five knives went onto the table. Myra made no comment. I had a hard time getting the tunic and undershirt off by myself. Caked blood glued them to the wound, and my abused muscles shrieked pain in protest when I raised my arms over my head. Tried to raise them. Myra helped, clucking her tongue and muttering all the while. She glanced at her son, still standing at the kitchen door.
    “Owin, don’t you have something to do? Whatever it is, it’s not in here.”
    He blinked and blushed. “Ah. Yes.” And he disappeared, ruddy cheeks and all. For all that he was only a few years younger than me, there was much that was still boyish about Owin.
    A minute or so later I heard Alain’s heavy tread come down the stairs, and put an arm across my breasts. I was in no mood or condition to be ogled by both father and son.
    “Forget your modesty, Amra. There’s not enough of you for me. I like my women with a little meat on their bones. And I like ‘em tender, not tenderized.”
    I glared at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
    “Great Gorm, but