A Hidden Skill

Previously: Asked to recount what made her decide to become a Falcuhn, or freelance historian, Esmiralda tells of a day in her early childhood, while on a ill-fated hunt with her father. After investigating a desolated village, they realize their mistake....

The forest had gone silent, save for the swishing of the leaves above us and the slow crackling of the dying fire. Broo-Fang Tane had melted into the shadows, unseen and unheard; I had barely registered his movement. Seymuhr had his back to us and was relieving himself of all the ale he had consumed earlier that night and, from the sounds of it, then some. Merrick gave me a sympathetic look that I brushed off.

"We were too late, of course," I said. "Maybe if we had...as soon as I saw the smoke, but..."

He cleared his throat. "There was no way of knowing. You could have suffered the same fate. Was she...?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. We didn't find her. We never found her, although we searched and searched. My father...well. Enough of that. What of you? How did an educated man come to be traveling with this brute?"

Seymuhr glanced over his shoulder, correctly assuming I had referred to him, and gave me a lecherous smile. The man must have a bladder the size of an ox.

Merrick chuckled. "In these times, a man who knows how to fight as well as he does isn't such a bad companion, you know."

I had to acknowledge that simple wisdom. It was a large part of why I was still in the clearing, and not clawing my way through the forest.

"But the fight is not all he knows. And, besides, I couldn't refuse an apprentice."

That surprised me. "An apprentice? Him? What could you possibly be teaching him."

Seymuhr hiked up his trousers, turned and sat on a log.

"Why, one of the Arts, of course. Seymuhr is a bit of a poet, and would build on that skill."

I gaped and looked back and forth between the two, looking for the hint of a smile. I saw none, although I thought I detected a twinkle of mischief in Merrick's eye. It could have been a tear. My guess was that someone with arms as thick as Seymuhr's could claim to be whatever or whoever he wanted. It wasn't too much to assume, then, that Merrick had little choice in the matter.

"Oh, yes," Merrick went on. "He is a poet all right."

"I admit, I find that hard to believe," I said.

Merrick shrugged. "If you are attacked and are forced to defend yourself, are you not a fighter? Thrown into the ocean, are you not a swimmer?" He paused and then tapped the side of his forehead. "If you jump from a tree, do you not—however briefly—fly? So it is with him."

He settled back, arms crossed, a satisfied look on his face. Did he think he had just imparted some life-changing wisdom? I hoped not. That would mark him as a follower of Aphor, who was known for the simplistic truths he passed along to his disciples during his time wandering the territories. The problem with Aphorists was that they were never as intuitive as the divine being they emulated. Their truths, therefore, tended to be a bit one-dimensional.

No matter what Merrick's personal beliefs were, I remained skeptical--both of Seymuhr's ability as a poet and Merrick's argument. "If I set a cow on fire, it does not make me a cook," I told him.

But Seymuhr got to his feet, dusted off his hands and cleared his throat. He leaned his head from side to side, stretched his arms and flexed his muscles.

"Would you like to hear a verse or two?" He asked, his voice raspy.

I glanced at Merrick, who was smiling now, and then back at Seymuhr, taking in his sturdy legs, thick chest and powerful arms and the maces that hung from his belt on either side of his hips. I guess I had to.