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

something got hold of you. You’ve got bruises on your bruises. Is that a claw mark?”
    “No, it’s a pimple.”
    Myra glanced up at her husband. “Make yourself useful and put water on to boil. Then bring me the tincture your cousin gave us, the one for unclean cuts, and that horse liniment you’re always going on about. Then get me one of Owin’s old shirts, in the cupboard at the top of the stairs. And then go take care of the custom.”
    “All right. But what about breakfast?” He cast an eye at the half-cooked bacon.
    “Chew your beard, old man.”
    Alain did as he was told while Myra cleaned the wound, and then lumbered off to the morning’s work. He paused at the door and cast one last glance in my direction.
    “Will trouble be following you, do you think?”
    “I don’t think so, but it’s possible.”
    He nodded and pulled down a gnarled cudgel from the wall, where it hung by a leather thong on a hook. He tucked it into his wide belt and went outside.
    Once all the blood was off and the wound cleaned, Myra poured a liberal amount of some cloudy, innocuous looking tincture into each of the furrows in my shoulder. Gods, it burned. When I complained, she said “Talk to me about pain after you’ve birthed a child. Honestly, Amra Thetys, you sound like a man, whining about a little discomfort.”
    There is mercy and then there is mercy, I suppose. But her hands were deft and gentle as she rubbed the liniment on. That burned too, but in a strangely cold way that wasn’t entirely painful.
    She helped me into Owin’s old, oft-mended shirt. I swam in it. Then she demanded my trousers.
    “There’s no need, Myra. Nobody will notice stained trousers. The shirt is enough. I’ll be on my way and out of your hair. Thank you.” I made to rise, and a meaty hand pushed me back down.
    “You’re on your way up to Owin’s room, and nowhere else. Now out of those bloody pants, Amra.”
    “The longer I stay here, the more likely it is I put you and your men in danger.”
    “And you were in no danger at all when you pulled Alain out of that rookery where they’d drugged his ale and robbed him, and were about to cut his throat. I’ve waited near four years to pay that bill. Now off with your pants, or I warn you, I’ll have them off myself.”
    “Myra, my mother died twenty years ago!”
    “Isin love her soul. But at least she can’t see you acting the fool now.”
    One more knife joined the five on the table. She clucked her tongue, but otherwise made no comment. It turned out that I needed her help to get my boots off. I couldn’t bend down that far.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    I slept like the dead. Through the day, and into the night. I think the only reason I woke was because I was so hungry. I was disoriented for a moment, surrounded by Owin’s things, in Owin’s bed. I reached for a knife that wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It was a spare looking room, lit only by moonlight. A cloak hung on a peg. There was a pitcher and a bowl on a rickety stand, and a razor with a leather strop. There was a solid-looking wardrobe. There was a low table by the window, with little carvings resting on it. Creakily, I picked one up and studied it in the moonlight. It was a horse. It was beautiful. It wasn’t something Owin would have bought, I didn’t think. I suspected he had carved it himself. He had a master’s eye, if I was right. He’d carved it in such a way that the grain of the wood flowed and accented the mane, the powerful haunches. I picked up another, a kestrel perched on a branch. It was just as lovely. He’d caught the air of regal, predatory menace in its eyes perfectly. I wondered if he even knew he was wasting a rare talent on building and repairing wagons. Or if he cared. I’d have traded the damned golden toad for one of his carvings in a trice.
    The stairs were a challenge. I kept one hand on the wall and the other on my ribs. The sounds of laughter and good-natured bickering floated up from the