Free Glimpses by Lynn Flewelling Page B

market stalls at Cirna. By the
Light, how long ago? Two years? Three? The aroma reminded him
suddenly of Nysander, too. His old master had always had good
sausage like that at breakfast, and toasted cheese. And soft white
bread with honey and jam.
    He ached with hunger now, and something else,
too. Something that made his throat tighten and his eyes sting.
    It was almost certainly a trick, he thought,
blinking away the smoke that had blurred his vision for a moment.
He flexed the fingers that had gone stiff around the rock. This was
no bandit. This man knew how to wait, how to bait his prey. That
was warning enough.
    All the same, he could just as easily have
come after him. The man knew where he was, and assumed he was
dealing with a defenseless girl. Why all the calling and
courting?
    Seregil wrestled with his doubts a little
longer, but the smell of hot food weighted the argument against
caution. At last he called out, “What do you want with me?”
    His voice came out hoarse as a rook’s; he
hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.
    “Nothing,” the man replied, lifting the meat
and cheese from the fire and examining them closely. “This is about
ready.”
    Still not looking in Seregil’s direction, he
reached into his bundle again and threw something into the steaming
pot. A moment later Seregil smelled the sharp, rich tang of tea.
Real tea from Zengat by the smell, not the stinking mess of boiled
leaves and roots they brewed up here in the wilderness.
    “I’ve an extra mug here somewhere, girl.
You’re welcome to it.”
    That decided it. Either this was a civilized
fellow, or he knew enough to steal from such. Seregil stood up
slowly, braced to run if the man proved treacherous after all. “I’m
not a girl,” he croaked.
    The man looked over at him and his moustache
twitched in what might have been a grin. “So you’re not. My
apologies, lad. You ran off so fast I didn’t have time to make a
proper study of you. You won’t be needing that, though you’re
welcome to hang onto it if it makes you feel any safer.”
    Seregil glanced down and saw that he was
still clutching the rock. No doubt he looked ridiculous to the big
swordsman, but he kept it anyway.
    “Come on if you’re hungry,” the man urged.
“I’m not getting up to serve you.”
    Seregil pulled himself free of the thorny
canes and limped to the fire, giving the stranger a wide berth and
keeping the fire between them. The man stayed where he was, but
leaned over to hand Seregil the toasting stick.
    He took it, and watched warily as the man
found a cup and tossed it over to him. He caught it easily and set
it down beside him.
    “Welcome. My name’s Micum,” his host said,
resting his large hands on his knees where Seregil could see them,
clearly a calculated move to show he meant no harm. Seregil ignored
the expectant pause that followed. He gave his name to no Tír.
    “I don’t have a knife,” he said at last. In
fact, it was all he could do not to gnaw the meat and cheese
straight off the toasting stick, but that would have been common,
and poor thanks for the hospitality offered.
    The stranger drew the knife from his belt and
held it out, handle foremost.
    Seregil tensed again. If he reached for it,
distracted with food and one hand busy with the stick, it would be
a simple matter for the other man to grab for his wrist.
    He’d hardly finished the thought when Micum
placed the knife on the ground between them and sat back. “You’re a
cautious one, aren’t you? Though from the looks of you, maybe you
have good cause to be.”
    It was nearly dark now, but the firelight
shone full on his face and for the first time Seregil was able to
look him in the eye at close range. Light eyes, he had, bright at
the moment with friendly amusement. Seregil snatched up the knife
and cut the purse string from his wrist, then carved himself a
portion.
    “You’ll want this, too.” Micum tossed a chunk
of stale brown bread neatly over the fire and into