closed the door. Despite almost a lifetime spent in Fardohnya, Warak Mariner spoke the language like a newly landed tourist. It was always better and easier to speak to him in Hythrun.
“How’s your headache?” Only his grandfather seemed to appreciate the pain Rory had been suffering of late.
“It’s gone.”
“Is it now?” his grandfather asked, suddenly curious. “How?”
“I don’t know.” The small house reverberated with the snores of its sleeping occupants. Rory’s younger brothers slept in this room. His father and uncles slept in the small bedroom at the rear. Patria, when she was home, occupied the small lean-to out back. Rory sat on the edge of his grandfather’s pallet near the window. The significance of his headache disappearing hadn’t really sunk in yet. “I followed Patria tonight.”
Warak shook his head sadly. “That was something you probably didn’t need to see.”
Rory stared at his grandfather in surprise. “You knew?”
The old man’s face was etched with sadness. “No fifteen-year-old girl brings home that sort of money sweeping tavern floors, lad. Why do you think your uncles and your father are so upset? They know what she’s doing, and it burns them to allow it.”
“They could stop her.”
“And watch the rest of you starve?”
Rory shook his head, wishing life wasn’t so full of unpalatable choices. “There must be some other way, Grandpa.”
“Your father would’ve found it by now if there were, Rory. Or her father. Did you want to tell me what happened?”
Rory nodded, glad of the chance to unburden himself! His headache might be gone, but he was still in pain. “I followed her. She was working the corner of Restinghouse and Victory. A man came up to her, gave her money, and they went into a lane . . . and . . .”
“And what?”
He shrugged, still not sure he believed what he’d seen. “And then an anvil came through the wall and knocked the man down.”
Warak Mariner sat up a little straighter on the pallet and stared at his grandson. “A what came through the wall?”
“An anvil.”
“I see.”
Rory frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Warak didn’t answer his question. Instead, for no apparent reason, he asked about the headaches again. “And now the pain in your head is gone, you say? Did that happen before or after this stray anvil came flying through the wall?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged, wondering what the old man was on about. “I guess it happened around the same time. Why?”
Warak placed a weathered old hand on his grandson’s shoulder and frowned. “Unless there was an anvil-chucking contest going on behind that wall, my guess is that you’ve inherited some of the family talent, Rorin, my lad.”
Rory smiled sceptically as he recalled what Patria had said about their grandfather’s far-fetched stories. “The only talent I have, Grandpa, is finding trouble. You ask my pa.”
“That may be truer than you think, lad. Did anybody besides Patria see you in that lane?”
Rory shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Then you’re not to admit you were there. I’ll speak to your cousin when she gets home.
Hopefully, there’ll be no more trouble about this.”
Rory shrugged uncertainly. “You make it sound like it was my fault, somehow.”
“If it was, Rorin lad, then we’re in way more trouble than your cousin turning tricks.”
“I don’t understand.”
Warak smiled at him sympathetically. “I know you don’t, Rorin, but that’s all right. You just forget about flying anvils and what your poor cousin is up to, eh? In the meantime, I’ll write a letter to your cousin in Hythria.”
“The rich one?” Rory asked, humouring the old man. Patria might think his stories wild and unbelievable, but they were often the only escape Rory had from the drudgery of his existence and he wasn’t quite as ready to dismiss them as flights of fancy.
“Aye,” the old
“How’s your headache?” Only his grandfather seemed to appreciate the pain Rory had been suffering of late.
“It’s gone.”
“Is it now?” his grandfather asked, suddenly curious. “How?”
“I don’t know.” The small house reverberated with the snores of its sleeping occupants. Rory’s younger brothers slept in this room. His father and uncles slept in the small bedroom at the rear. Patria, when she was home, occupied the small lean-to out back. Rory sat on the edge of his grandfather’s pallet near the window. The significance of his headache disappearing hadn’t really sunk in yet. “I followed Patria tonight.”
Warak shook his head sadly. “That was something you probably didn’t need to see.”
Rory stared at his grandfather in surprise. “You knew?”
The old man’s face was etched with sadness. “No fifteen-year-old girl brings home that sort of money sweeping tavern floors, lad. Why do you think your uncles and your father are so upset? They know what she’s doing, and it burns them to allow it.”
“They could stop her.”
“And watch the rest of you starve?”
Rory shook his head, wishing life wasn’t so full of unpalatable choices. “There must be some other way, Grandpa.”
“Your father would’ve found it by now if there were, Rory. Or her father. Did you want to tell me what happened?”
Rory nodded, glad of the chance to unburden himself! His headache might be gone, but he was still in pain. “I followed her. She was working the corner of Restinghouse and Victory. A man came up to her, gave her money, and they went into a lane . . . and . . .”
“And what?”
He shrugged, still not sure he believed what he’d seen. “And then an anvil came through the wall and knocked the man down.”
Warak Mariner sat up a little straighter on the pallet and stared at his grandson. “A what came through the wall?”
“An anvil.”
“I see.”
Rory frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Warak didn’t answer his question. Instead, for no apparent reason, he asked about the headaches again. “And now the pain in your head is gone, you say? Did that happen before or after this stray anvil came flying through the wall?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged, wondering what the old man was on about. “I guess it happened around the same time. Why?”
Warak placed a weathered old hand on his grandson’s shoulder and frowned. “Unless there was an anvil-chucking contest going on behind that wall, my guess is that you’ve inherited some of the family talent, Rorin, my lad.”
Rory smiled sceptically as he recalled what Patria had said about their grandfather’s far-fetched stories. “The only talent I have, Grandpa, is finding trouble. You ask my pa.”
“That may be truer than you think, lad. Did anybody besides Patria see you in that lane?”
Rory shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Then you’re not to admit you were there. I’ll speak to your cousin when she gets home.
Hopefully, there’ll be no more trouble about this.”
Rory shrugged uncertainly. “You make it sound like it was my fault, somehow.”
“If it was, Rorin lad, then we’re in way more trouble than your cousin turning tricks.”
“I don’t understand.”
Warak smiled at him sympathetically. “I know you don’t, Rorin, but that’s all right. You just forget about flying anvils and what your poor cousin is up to, eh? In the meantime, I’ll write a letter to your cousin in Hythria.”
“The rich one?” Rory asked, humouring the old man. Patria might think his stories wild and unbelievable, but they were often the only escape Rory had from the drudgery of his existence and he wasn’t quite as ready to dismiss them as flights of fancy.
“Aye,” the old
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