Cedar Vale (2/2)

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 5th May 2019

Characters: Lorican, Jilmon
Description: Lorican confronts his attacker
Location: Elsewhere on Pern
Date: month 10, day 7 of Turn 9
Notes: Notes: Occurs at Cedar Vale Hold

The lock clicked, and the door opened, enough to reveal a pale face in
the dim light of the corridor.

"Well? What do _you_ want?"

The man in the doorway was older, about fifty, with jowly cheeks and
thinning grey hair. His eyes were small, dark and suspicious, and he
looked as irritated as anyone would who'd just been roused from a deep
sleep.

Lorican backed up, his hand dropping to his side. "Sorry. I..." He
thought fast. "I was told someone up here wanted a harper?"

"Not me. You've got the wrong room." The man opened the door a little
wider, and gestured down the hallway. "That one. I'm not surprised he
needs a harper's advice. I caught the little runt trying my door this
afternoon. He pretended it wasn't what it looked like, but I know a
thief when I see one."

"Right. Thank you." Lorican glanced in the direction the man was
pointing. Sure enough, there was another door. It looked as though
Jilmon had taken one of the larger rooms; he wondered how much was left
from the sale of his runnerbeast. "Sorry for waking you."

The older man just huffed and slammed the door in his face. Lorican
hesitated for a moment. He might be wrong, again.

Then, before he could think about it too hard, he walked down the
corridor and knocked again.

This time, the door didn't open, but he heard a familiar voice from
inside, and suddenly, he was back on the road to the Weyr, footsore and
thirsty in the baking heat.

He'd halted the runnerbeast and was bending over one of the packs,
searching for a fresh water flask. And then there was the crunch of a
footstep on stony ground and a whisper of air, his only warning before
Jilmon struck and his head exploded into darkness. Then there were
confused memories of being on the ground, curled on his side, trying to
protect himself as the blows and kicks rained down, the thief grunting
with the effort...

"Is someone there?" the man in the room asked warily, his voice low.

Lorican swallowed, tried to make his voice deeper, his accent more like
that of the hill holders. "My name's Alim, I'm a journeyman harper. I
just got in and the barkeep said you wanted help with something?"

There was no reply for a moment. Then he heard the light padding of
footsteps, and again, the rattling of a lock.

"About time. I've been - " Jilmon opened the door and for a moment, he
stared at Lorican, aghast, his eyes bulging. Then he tried to slam the
door, but without thinking about it, the smith pushed his foot into the
gap between the door and frame, preventing it from closing. Turning, he
shoved at the door with his shoulder, his greater strength sending the
thief staggering back into the room.

Lorican stepped inside, closed the door behind him and turned the key in
the lock. "Where are those letters, Jilmon?"

The man cringed, backing up against the wall. "I - I - how are you..."
He looked terrible, his thin face unshaven and blotchy. Dirty plates
were piled on a table by the bed, along with several empty bottles. He
must have been holed up here for several days, indulging himself on the
ill-gotten marks.

"I survived. As you see." He advanced a step, keeping his voice low,
mindful of the guest in the other room. "Where - are - they?"

"I didn't mean to...I just thought..." Jilmon croaked. His eyes
glittered. "You can have them. Just please, don't hurt me." He pointed
at the chest at the end of the bed, also heaped with stained crockery.
"In there."

Afterwards, Lorican realised that he should have made Jilmon get them
for him. He should have remembered how fast the holdless man could move.
But he was too eager to get his hands on them again, he didn't care if
Jilmon got away, it would solve a problem as far as he was concerned. He
had forgotten that as well as his tools and his runnerbeast, Jilmon had
taken his knife.

He caught the flash of glowlight on metal and turned away by instinct,
just enough that the blade sliced across his left arm, up near the
shoulder, rather than his throat. The pain was sharp, intense and he
fell back against the wall, his free hand going to the wound and coming
away slick with blood.

Jilmon might have pressed the attack then, but perhaps having the man
he'd thought dead bursting into his room had unnerved him and he went
for the door instead. But his foot caught in the strap of the tool bag
that Lorican had dropped and he stumbled, spending precious moments
kicking himself free, and that gave the smith time to recover and lunge
for him before he could do more than wrench at the key in a panic.

Lorican gritted his teeth in pain as he got his left arm around Jilmon's
neck from behind, keeping the man's knife hand pinned between him and
the door as he struggled wildly. "Drop it!" He tightened his grip around
the thief's throat, bruised muscles screaming with the effort. "Drop it
or I'll..."

He heard the knife clatter to the floor, Jilmon sobbing and going limp.
Feeling with the toe of his boot, he managed to kick it into a corner.
With his right hand, he reached for his own knife. Blood from his wound
made his fingers slip and he wiped his hand on his trouser leg, making
sure he'd have a firm grasp.

"Right. Let's try again. Where are they?"

"I hid them...they're...under the mattress..." His voice was hoarse.
"Please...I can't breathe..."

Time seemed to slow for a moment. Lorican was aware of their harsh
breathing, almost in unison. The faint sounds of voices from the bar
below them, shouting and singing, the metallic scent of blood in the
air, the heat and sweat of Jilmon's body pressed against his. The man
who'd stolen from him, beaten him and left him for dead. Tried to kill
him, twice, and would again, given the slightest chance.

He could squeeze until his attacker choked, or force the neck back until
it snapped. Or use the knife. He could feel Jilmon's heart thudding
against his chest. He screwed his eyes shut, tightened his grip on the hilt.

Then, slowly, he relaxed his arm, enough that the man in his grasp could
breathe freely.

"Here's what's going to happen." He leaned close to Jilmon's ear, heard
the man whimper. "I'm going to take those letters where they need to go,
and then I'm going to tell the one I give them to exactly what happened
after we took them from that chest. By the time I do that, I'd advise
you to be far away from here. Take a ship to the North. Don't come back."

"Y-you're...going to let me go?" He sobbed again. "Why?"

**Because I can't - ** Lorican closed his eyes, suddenly feeling the
exhaustion of the past sevenday. He wanted, more than anything, to be
back on the beach at Dolphin Cove, feeling the clean sea air on his
face, knowing he was safe.

"Because I don't want to be found in this seedy room with your corpse,
covered in blood, having told at least one witness that I've a grudge
against you," he said wearily at last. "I don't want to end up with a
noose around my neck. I just want this to be over, to go back to my
life. But if I see you again, I will defend myself. Do you understand?"

Jilmon nodded frantically. "I understand."

"Good." He released him, cautiously. "Do you have the marks for your
passage?"

"Under the mattress."

"Get them." Lorican stepped back to let him pass, keeping a safe
distance. Jilmon peeled back the mattress, revealing the rolled-up
bundle of letters and a pouch of marks which he tossed to Lorican. As
best he could, one-handed since he couldn't let go of the knife, he
counted out what he guessed would be enough for a one-way trip North. It
didn't leave much, and he hoped Jilmon had paid for the room in advance.
"Now. Go."

Clutching the handful of marks as if he couldn't quite believe his luck,
the holdless man turned the key with a trembling hand and slipped out of
the room. Lorican heard him running down the hallway and his footsteps
on the stairs, and then he was gone.

He turned the key in the lock, not trusting that Jilmon wouldn't come
back later in the night. The room had been paid for with marks from his
runnerbeast, he might as well use it. He turned down the mattress and
sat down heavily. Slowly, he let his fingers loosen their grip on the
knife, placed it on the bed beside him.

There was a jug of water on the chest, still thankfully full. Lorican
pulled off his shirt, tore it into strips and did the best job he could
of cleaning and bandaging the knife wound, which wasn't deep, though it
stung fiercely. Then he washed his hands clean with the last of the
water and poured the bloodied remainder out of the window. He couldn't
do much about the stains on the floor, but he was willing to bet the
people at this hold had kept their mouths shut about such matters before.

He was beyond exhausted, but he knew he wouldn't sleep. His whole body
ached, his arm throbbed and every creak in the corridor made him flinch.
He would stay here till morning, then get a passage on the riverboat to
the coast, if it was possible. He might still be only a day or two late.
He'd get rid of the letters, and then it would be over.

His eye fell on them, lying on the grubby mattress beside the knife. All
he knew of them was that they were valuable, and therefore, almost
certainly dangerous. He should hide them in the bottom of his tool bag
and pretend they didn't exist.

But after all the trouble he'd gone to, the beating, the journey,
risking his life...he wanted to know.

He reached out, unrolled the bundle and flicked through them to find the
one that was dated earliest. Then, carefully and painfully as an old
grandfather with the joint-ail, he leant back against the pillow and
began to read.

Last updated on the May 10th 2019

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Cedar Vale (2/2)