House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(96)
“A bat that young, means it’ll have a dam out there,” Oncle says, as the fire light bounces across the faces of the crowd. “Stupid bint, letting its young go off hunting like that.” He shakes his head. “Come on, Jek, we’d best leave ‘fore the crowd turns ugly.”
He’s in a rush to get home. This last week he hasn’t wanted to spend much time in the house. Fair enough – neither have I. It’s too damned empty, for starters.
*
We trip through the Digs, taking the long route back to ours. It’s best I don’t cut through Marlon’s territory, even though he’s probably up on the Common, spitting in the ashes. He runs Wend with an iron hand, an he’ll burn anyone what crosses him. Far as he thinks, the Wend brats are his own to do with what he wants. He’s not the forgiving sort neither, an he took my move to running the Digs pack like a slap to the face.
The Digs are quiet, the little sandy roads bare. No sign of anyone ‘fore we turn up the low hill to where Oncle’s hut leans in the shade of a cone-tree.
Most of the houses down this way are built of whatever junk we can get off the Lam-filth heaps - the crap that the Lammers cart here, as far from their precious city as possible. But Oncle’s a dab hand with stone an bone, so his hut, while it might be all stolen planks an broken brick, is one of the biggest – two rooms; one for us, one for the pig. The old scrounger raises his snout when we come in. He’s been rooting in the filth an his whiskered face is red with mud.
I stop to give the pig a scratch behind his hairy ears, making him grunt an rub his head ‘gainst my leg, leaving a smear of spit. Pig-kisses. The pig is long past his killing-day, an though Oncle says nothing, I know he’s keeping the old bugger alive a bit longer because of Prue. Every year, it’s the same thing. We get ourselves a little squealer for the bacon, an I get too attached to the damn thing. Killing day, I always head as far from home as I can get. Most-times I go down as far as the irthe orchards an sit watching the windle-silk tents flap in the hot wind.
Pigs scream when they die.
Of course, I don’t tell no-one about it, an I’m happy for the bacon an the sausages, but it still wouldn’t do if Hobs knew Jek Grinningtommy got all sentimental over breakfast. I thump the scrounger’s back quick-like, an step up to our room.
There’s still three cots up here, although Prue’s stuff has mostly been sold off already. In the low thatch, a mouse scritches. The thatch is looking ragged. Come summer, I’ll have to head down to the banks of the Casabi to see what good reeds I can bring back, an help Oncle mend it.
“Here,” says Oncle. He’s digging through a small kist what he’s drug out from under his bed. “This’ll see you.” He stands an drops two bits in my hand. They’re bright as moons in the dark room. I stare at him – that’s more money than I ever seen in my life – two silver bits – you could buy half the pub with this.
“It’s your mam’s,” he says. “It’s what the Lammer paid her.”
I don’t right understand, an Oncle must see it, ‘cause he claps one iron-scarred hand on my shoulder. It’s heavy enough that I just ‘bout buckle under the weight. Working with iron makes the scrivvers strong, an not in ways the Lams with their heads stuffed full of magic dust would ever understand. “You keep that tight, Jek. One day may be that you can buy your way free out of this mess.”
His words don’t make no sense, but they’re making my chest feel prickly with nerves. All my muscles tighten, readying me to run.
Someone raps on the wooden door frame, just before the scrounger squeals below. I follow Oncle through the mud an pig-shit, my fingers tight around those coins as I slip them into a sneak’s pocket inside my jacket. At any minute now I’m gonna have to fly, I can feel it in my bones. There’s summat not right in the air. No-one in the Digs would bother knocking, an my heart stops-an-starts, because the sharif might, but there’s no way they can know about that barrow me an Mik cleaned out, less the little worm turned tattle.
Outside stands a wooden cart, two shaggy dun nillies shifting in their traces, glaring about with slitted yellow eyes. A tall Lam‘s standing at their heads, one hand on the nearest one’s ruff. He’s just a low-Lam but he stares down at us like we was no more than shite on his spit-shiny shoes.
Well, at least it’s not a sharif pack. I breathe slow, watching the Lam careful-like in case he makes any kind of move. Though why a low-Lam‘s out here in the Digs is anyone’s guess. He best run that cart back home ‘fore my pack rumbles him.
The cart’s a simple thing fit only for a servant. Although there’s a thistle crest on the side, so he’s working for money. Stupid low-Lam, should’ve covered that up.
Oncle clamps one hand down on my shoulder again, holding me fast.
“Is that the boy then?” The low-Lam talks through his nose. He’s no toff, though. Just works for one, if that silver sash he’s wearing means anything. He’s round-shouldered in the way that tall an skinny people get from stooping all the time, an he squints at me over a nose that would do a carrion-crow proud.
“So he is.”
“Doesn’t he even have decent shoes?”
“Oncle?” I try pull out from his grip, but he holds me still an tight with his hard miner’s hands.