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

kitchen, but they trailed off as I descended.
    Owin was studiously not looking at my bare legs. Alain leaned back in his chair, mirth still lingering in his eyes. Myra glanced at me and said “Good, you’re up. I was going to wake you soon, just to get some food down your throat.” And she busied herself readying me a plate. I wasn’t going to argue. Myra could cook. Of course, I would have eaten boot leather had it been presented to me just then.
    I sat down and a plate was put in front of me. If anyone was expecting conversation out of me just then, they were sorely disappointed. Beans, capon, black bread, boiled cloudroot with a rich mushroom gravy. I made it all disappear. I looked up. Myra was smiling, Owin stared, mouth agape, and Alain just shook his head.
    “What? You’ve never seen anyone eat?”
    “Is that what you call it?” asked Alain. “No one was going to take it away from you, you know. Did you have time to taste anything?”
    “Leave her alone,” said Myra. “She’s complimented the cook in her way.”
    Alain snorted, but laid off me. He changed the subject.
    “Someone’s been asking after you around town.”
    I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Violent type?”
    “No.”
    “Half-grown kid? Bald? Penitent’s robes?”
    He laughed. “Not hardly. But you do know all types, eh?”
    I growled. “Just tell me.”
    “Young woman. Very pretty. Very, very pretty.”
    “A strumpet,” injected Myra.
    “A pretty strumpet. There’s a thought.”
    “Black hair, green eyes, quality clothes.”
    “I don’t know any—” Wait. That girl from the Dream. Estra’s girl. “What’s she want?” Estra knew how to get hold of me if she needed to. Why was this girl wandering around asking after me?
    Alain shrugged. “She’s put it about that there’s a package for you at Locquewood’s shop.”
    “I’ve no idea what it’s about, and I don’t have time for, ah, strumpets at the moment,” I said, glancing at Myra, who rolled her eyes.
    Owin cleared the dishes and then Myra shooed both men out of the kitchen to check my wounds. She changed the bandages on my shoulder, applying that damned tincture once more, and rubbed in more liniment. Then she brought down a parcel from a shelf, frowning. Inside were my knives, a pair of trousers she’d obviously taken in for me, my old belt, cloth for bandages, another bottle of the tincture of torture and a jar of the horse liniment. My boots were cleaned and by the door. She helped me dress, and watched with disapproving eyes while I put various knives in various places. She was the first person who’d ever seen that particular ritual.
    Myra stood in front of me, hands on heavy hips, and glared. “I’ve done what I can. I forced some rest and food on you—well, maybe the food wasn’t forced—and I’ve tended your wounds. I know I can’t keep you longer. You’re like a damned cat, Amra. If I drag you in from the rain, you’ll just yowl to be let back out.”
    “Myra—”
    “You just be quiet until I’m done. I like you, Amra, and I owe you for my man’s life. You’re decent and kind, however hard you may be. But I don’t approve of what you do or how you live your life. Alain is the stubbornest man I ever met save my own father, yet even he doesn’t usually go looking for trouble. You’re going to end up dead in an alley, Amra Thetys, or swinging by your neck in Harad’s Square. But it doesn’t have to be that way. There’s a place for you under this roof, whenever you want it. But you have to want it. Now go.”
    I gave the big woman a brief hug, then left. Maybe ten, twelve years ago I could have taken her up on her offer. When I was cutting purses and stealing bread to survive. Now? It was far too late for me to think of taking up any other trade, living any other life. What would I do? Marry Owin, maybe, have children, tend to the kitchen and the washing and the finances?
    No, Myra. Thank you, but no. It was a good, safe, honest