Otlee frowned and clicked his tongue at Sov, urging him away from Serian.
“Diddy boy?” Lars asked, pulling Gerald to a halt. Gerald tossed his head and rumbled a sigh.
Serian spat onto the ground. “Peg, Lars, dragging us Goddess knows where is bad enough, but to bring along a baby—”
“I’m not a baby,” Otlee grumbled.
“Here we go again,” Trumble muttered, riding past.
Lars moved his heel and Gerald backed up. “Excuse me?”
Serian spat again. “I ain't changing his diddy, that’s all I’m saying. It’s insane to drag a baby clear the hells to Gattol.”
“You’re an idiot,” Moergan remarked as he rode by.
“I’m the only one with the guts to face the truth. The kid is too frigging young and you all know it. For Goddess sake, they’ve had cobble trouble in Welldin for summers and we gotta pass through Welldin to get to Gattol. We can’t watch out for the kid and cover our asses at the same time.”
“Otlee’s earned the right to come, cobbles or no cobbles,” Lars said. “It doesn’t matter how old he is.”
Serian hacked up a wad of phlegm. After spitting again, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stared at Lars as his horse pranced. “He’s earned it my ass. He’s just Dubric’s pet project. A commoner brat, that’s all he is, trying to be something he’s not. So what if he can cypher faster than the rest of us or fill out forms in his sleep? There’s more to being a decent page than being brainy. Even you know that.”
Lars’ eyes narrowed. “When’s the last time you got passing marks in mathematics or history?”
Serian grumbled. “The marks don’t matter. You don’t make squire by your marks, you make it by your back and your sword.”
“That’s why you’re the oldest page in the castle,” Moergan called over his shoulder.
“Watch it, loverboy, or I’ll send you crying home to papa, just like the commoner baby.”
Moergan’s hand rose in an obscene gesture, but he said nothing. He kicked his horse and trotted after Trumble.
“I’ve never ran home crying to my father,” Otlee muttered. “And I’m not a baby. I’m twelve summers old, for Goddess sake, not three, and I’m not afraid of cobbles.”
“Tell me that when they’re ripping your guts out and munching on them, diddy boy.”
“Stop it, both of you,” Lars said. “Otlee is coming and if you don’t like it, too frigging bad.”
“Fine. But who’s gonna tend to him? Change his diddy and tuck him in at night?”
Lars glared and spoke slowly in an effort to control his anger. “Serian, I never wanted to bring you along anyway. You’re often a pompous, smelly, rude, uncultured pain in the ass. But you’re also good with a sword. I don’t give a peg what you think of me or Otlee, but this is my mission, and we’re going wherever we need to go to get the frigging job done. If you don’t think you can handle the possibility of a few stinking cobbles then turn your horse around and go back. Otherwise shut your mouth.”
Serian’s eyes narrowed and he nodded once. “Yes sir, Milord Squire.” He kicked his horse and galloped down the hill, past Moergan and Trumble to take the lead position.
Lars glanced at Otlee and turned Gerald to follow the rest of the group.
Village of Caria
The digger’s home was little more than a wretched hovel, but Dorjan entered with a smile. She had cooked for her guests. Soup, it smelled like. “A gracious good morning to you, ma’am,” he said as he waddled his loose bulk through her narrow door and pulled his hat off his bald head. “I truly hope I haven’t arrived too early.”
Blasia sat with a handful of other women, all thin and haggard like moldering bones, and she stood and offered a hesitant smile. “Nah, Mister Dorjan. Ye be right on time.”
He passed a quiet nod with the few men standing about the pitiful room. Two young girls, perhaps twelve and ten summers, tended the pot simmering over the fire. No one was eating. Even better. “Well then, let’s get started, shall we?” He smiled reassuringly to Blasia and held out his hand. “Will you walk with me to the cemetery, ma’am?”
She nodded and accepted his offered hand. He patted it and set it upon the crook of his arm as he led her from her little home. The others followed.
“Let us remember,” he said, “that even death is a journey. A journey we all must take. But we take a far shorter journey today, just down the road, to pay our respects to Maur the digger. Praise be, it is a beautiful day for such a journey, is it not?”
Mumbled agreements followed him as he led Blasia down the road. Caria was quite small, only seventeen homes snuggled together betwixt fields belonging to Lord Garai. All in all, the village of Caria held fifty seven hard working, tired souls, including its new undertaker and his hired man. One narrow building served as general store, miller, and whatever other use the town might have. The tattered and rusty remnants of an ancient ruin surrounded a small parcel of useless land near the creek. It had been set aside for the community’s more somber needs, and nearly as many people had been married in its sparse grass and weeds as had been buried beneath.
Dorjan let his voice rumble on about paradise awaiting and other encouraging blather. He had arrived in Caria less than a moon before, much to the amusement of the people. No one was sick, and the only elder—a thin, hard-eyed-and-hard-of-hearing woman named Tiryns—was reputed to be too mean to die. They had no work for him here, not in their tiny, quiet village. He had nodded and smiled and remained pleasant. Sooner or later, his services would be of use.
He led them through town and their numbers increased until every grown man and most of the women walked with them. He saw his push cart standing in the ruins and the thin, stooped shape of his assistant, Anguir. Dorjan hid his smile. He never stopped talking, although he had little idea of what he said. It didn’t matter anyway.
As they paraded between two crumbling stone-and-iron columns, Dorjan stopped his encouraging nonsense and said, “Anguir! I thought you were supposed to have Maur the digger in his hole?”
Anguir shuffled forward, crushing his hat in his filthy hands, his back stooping more and more by the moment. “I tried, sir, honest and truly I did, but I cannot carry him by meself.”
Dorjan frowned and reached for the box. Four of the other men did as well. Grunting, he helped carry the load to the hole and lower it in. He made certain to get the knees of his fine trousers muddy.
After thanking the men for their help, and giving a scathing glance to Anguir, he started in. He thanked everyone for coming to see Maur off on his final journey, he thanked Blasia for the honor of serving her, and, as requested, he said a few kind words about Maur the digger.
Belendin heard the funeral walk off and he wiped tears from his cheeks as he peered through a crack in the wall. “Ma!” he cried, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry. Please don’t! Please! I just wanna bury my pa!”
If his mother heard she made no sign, and Belendin sniffled and sat on the cold, clay floor. His stomach grumbled and his heart ached but there was nothing he could do to make either go away.