Save a single cup, which the alderman retrieved, passing over several others.‘Please, sit.Have some goat’s milk to … ah … quench your thirst.’
The cup was cast iron.Raw.Dug from the earth, not retrieved from a relic of the First Folk or crafted by a spell.Trefor filled it from a pitcher on the table, then slid it towards Llewyn.‘Here we are.’
Bloody-damned iron cups.A fool superstition held that any liquid poured into an iron vessel would turn poison for the fae.The kind of stupid half-comprehension of magic one encountered far too often.
The iron itself hurt badly enough.
Llewyn smiled through his frustration and took the cup, ignoring the itch he felt through his lambskin gloves.A single, quick sip.His lip burned as if he had kissed hot coals.Difficult to keep the pain from his face, but his teachers had made him master many, many difficult things.He swallowed and nodded to the alderman.
‘My compliments to your goat.’
Trefor’s smile tightened.‘Pardon me, I’ll only be a moment fetching the records.’
Llewyn twisted his ring, winced at the pain of it, and of the lingering heat on his lips, while Trefor stepped behind one of the curtains.
‘Here we are.’Trefor returned with a thick, leather-bound book.He placed it on the table in front of Llewyn.‘You’ve only had the one sip of milk.’
Llewyn gave him a withering stare, then began flipping through the pages.He paused to make mental note of an oddity, subtly turning his ring with the brush of his forefinger.
He made a point of browsing the entire book, moving his lips as though he were, indeed, a surveyor committing lists and numbers to memory.When he felt he’d put on enough of a show, he shut the book and thanked the alderman.
‘Of course, Master… I’m afraid I did not get your name.’
‘Lyn son Phylip,’ Llewyn said.
‘Master Lyn, do give my regards to the—’
‘Papa!’A young girl of eight or nine years sprang through the door, a storm of swirling skirts and hair like wind-blown thatch.‘There’s tumblers at the common house!Joc says so, and he’s going with Wynn to see!Can I go?Please, Papa?’
‘Siwan, dear, you’ve nearly knocked over my guest!’
The girl spun around and bobbed a hasty curtsy.‘Sorry, master.Now, Papa,please.’
She beamed up at him.His hard face softened into a doting smile.‘Of course, darling,’ he said.
She leaped into the air, shrieking her thanks, as the alderman glanced at Llewyn.He felt awkward witnessing this moment between father and child.Like witnessing an echo of the childhood he should have had, but had been denied.Yet anything could become useful information, even if the alderman was only putting on a performance of kindness.
‘Off you go, and be back before dark,’ the alderman said, tying a paisley scarf to contain the sandy brush of her hair.Siwan squealed and darted from the house.
‘A charming girl,’ Llewyn said.‘Thank you for your cooperation, Master Trefor.Good day.’
‘Master Lyn?’
Llewyn paused in the doorway.
‘If you don’t mind… I’m simply curious.What is that you wear on your hip?’
Llewyn met the alderman’s steady, curious stare.The ghostwood sword held enchantments of its own.One would mask its true nature from mortal eyes.It should appear to the alderman as a cudgel, or a sheathed sword, or a dagger.But if he knew that gwyddien carried such a weapon, bearing such an enchantment, this might be another test.
‘A tool of my office,’ Llewyn said simply.‘Not all I deal with are as cooperative as you, Master Trefor.’
The alderman bobbed his head, and Llewyn left.Fresh fear sprouted in his chest.
Who are these people, that they should know so much?
