Read Online Husk: A Maresman Tale by D.P. Prior - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D.P. Prior
Tags: A Maresman Tale
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receptionist she would be breaking her fast on the patio.
Jeb was partially inclined to do the same himself, only he had no idea what the heck a patio was.
13
T HE ROOM WAS in better taste than the one at the Crawfish, and there was quality to the furnishings. It didn’t matter squat to Jeb; way he looked at things, it was somewhere to sleep when the need took him, and if his aches died down enough to let his natural inclinations assert themselves, it would be more than serviceable for a spot of entertaining.
He didn’t linger there long; he needed to make his move soon, otherwise the husk would be gone, if it wasn’t already. With an amulet hiding the blood trail, it would take mundane tracking skills to find it again, and Jeb doubted he had the time for that. Already, he was running it a bit close. The other Maresmen would expect a result soon, else they’d come looking. If Jeb was a corpse, if the husk had gotten the better of him, well, they’d bury him and go after it themselves; but if it wasn’t dead, and Jeb still drew breath, questions would have to be answered, most likely at the tip of a blade.
Problem was, it wasn’t just the husk he had to worry about: there was Boss and all those guards around his house. That’s why he needed help, and his best bet right then seemed the sheriff. News of what looked like somnificus being shipped out from Boss’s land ought to get his interest.
He left Tubal in the care of the stablehand, a chubby lad who showed a care for his charges. Time Jeb set off down the high street, the colt was thoroughly groomed and had his nose buried in a bag of oats.
Sheriff’s office was back a couple of streets, overlooking a public square the seagulls used as a toilet. The benches round the sides were caked with white and gray, and if anyone chanced sitting there, they’d most likely end up the same way. Even the painted signs that said “Don’t Feed the Birds” were covered in it. Made Jeb think putting them up was a bit like locking the front door after the burglar was inside.
Beyond the ragged bushes that defined the square, rundown hovels spread out toward a broad cove in one direction, boats that were more holes than wood littering overgrown yards, like no one had time to fix them, or no one could be bothered. The other way, the homes were even worse, little more than tents surrounded by drystone walls. Children ran wild between the dwellings, and women were hanging washing out on strings tied between the tent poles. It was a contrast to the high street, and it even made parts of Malfen look salubrious.
The sheriff’s office was locked up, and all Jeb’s banging and hollering aroused was a bunch of cursing from the cell round the back. He was halfway to the barred window to try his luck asking the prisoners what was up, when he caught sight of Davy Fana finishing his business against a tree, then shuffling back to an upturned hull and crawling in through a sizeable gap in the planks.
Jeb went to call out but then remembered the response he’d gotten earlier.
Struck him the old wreck must’ve been what Davy called home, right on the fringes of the shanty town, and a stone’s throw from the hub of security the sheriff’s office represented.
It was more effort than Jeb anticipated to walk over there, what with his aching limbs, and so he guessed his rap on the wood of the hull was harsher than it needed to be.
Davy squealed from within, then Jeb heard him crawl toward the stern, sniffling and whimpering. It took a deep breath for Jeb to compose himself and try a gentler tack.
“Davy,” he said, putting his face to the gap.
The stench made him recoil. Guessed he was right about Davy living there. Seemed he didn’t place much stock in hygiene.
The whimpering picked up some, turned frantic. Next thing Jeb knew, Davy was snarling like a wolf. Thought struck Jeb the lad could’ve become infected during the wolf pack’s incursion, and he half drew his saber.
Jeb was partially inclined to do the same himself, only he had no idea what the heck a patio was.
13
T HE ROOM WAS in better taste than the one at the Crawfish, and there was quality to the furnishings. It didn’t matter squat to Jeb; way he looked at things, it was somewhere to sleep when the need took him, and if his aches died down enough to let his natural inclinations assert themselves, it would be more than serviceable for a spot of entertaining.
He didn’t linger there long; he needed to make his move soon, otherwise the husk would be gone, if it wasn’t already. With an amulet hiding the blood trail, it would take mundane tracking skills to find it again, and Jeb doubted he had the time for that. Already, he was running it a bit close. The other Maresmen would expect a result soon, else they’d come looking. If Jeb was a corpse, if the husk had gotten the better of him, well, they’d bury him and go after it themselves; but if it wasn’t dead, and Jeb still drew breath, questions would have to be answered, most likely at the tip of a blade.
Problem was, it wasn’t just the husk he had to worry about: there was Boss and all those guards around his house. That’s why he needed help, and his best bet right then seemed the sheriff. News of what looked like somnificus being shipped out from Boss’s land ought to get his interest.
He left Tubal in the care of the stablehand, a chubby lad who showed a care for his charges. Time Jeb set off down the high street, the colt was thoroughly groomed and had his nose buried in a bag of oats.
Sheriff’s office was back a couple of streets, overlooking a public square the seagulls used as a toilet. The benches round the sides were caked with white and gray, and if anyone chanced sitting there, they’d most likely end up the same way. Even the painted signs that said “Don’t Feed the Birds” were covered in it. Made Jeb think putting them up was a bit like locking the front door after the burglar was inside.
Beyond the ragged bushes that defined the square, rundown hovels spread out toward a broad cove in one direction, boats that were more holes than wood littering overgrown yards, like no one had time to fix them, or no one could be bothered. The other way, the homes were even worse, little more than tents surrounded by drystone walls. Children ran wild between the dwellings, and women were hanging washing out on strings tied between the tent poles. It was a contrast to the high street, and it even made parts of Malfen look salubrious.
The sheriff’s office was locked up, and all Jeb’s banging and hollering aroused was a bunch of cursing from the cell round the back. He was halfway to the barred window to try his luck asking the prisoners what was up, when he caught sight of Davy Fana finishing his business against a tree, then shuffling back to an upturned hull and crawling in through a sizeable gap in the planks.
Jeb went to call out but then remembered the response he’d gotten earlier.
Struck him the old wreck must’ve been what Davy called home, right on the fringes of the shanty town, and a stone’s throw from the hub of security the sheriff’s office represented.
It was more effort than Jeb anticipated to walk over there, what with his aching limbs, and so he guessed his rap on the wood of the hull was harsher than it needed to be.
Davy squealed from within, then Jeb heard him crawl toward the stern, sniffling and whimpering. It took a deep breath for Jeb to compose himself and try a gentler tack.
“Davy,” he said, putting his face to the gap.
The stench made him recoil. Guessed he was right about Davy living there. Seemed he didn’t place much stock in hygiene.
The whimpering picked up some, turned frantic. Next thing Jeb knew, Davy was snarling like a wolf. Thought struck Jeb the lad could’ve become infected during the wolf pack’s incursion, and he half drew his saber.
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