Chapter 7: A Blackbeard

   The child watched that back go away. For the first time, it noticed that the priest's back was crooked a little to the left. Maybe it was like that from the beginning. Maybe he got it somewhere. It prayed to never find out from the man himself.

 

 

   The priest turned around, just to see the child. He didn't know what took over him as an uncharacteristic thought flew by. 'What a shame.' His brows furrowed deeply. What shame? That the child couldn't speak? That it suffered from seipsy? That its destiny was to become his pet, a toy?

 

 

   He decided not to think of it anymore, knowing that no answer from the sky would come to him. After all, those who believed were fools. And those fools served him well. He jumped into the four-wheel wagon and sat on a barrel full of wine he procured from the landlord for a forgiven sin.

 

 

   Quiet watched the priest become a dot down the road. Suddenly, a hand landed on its shoulder.

 

 

   "Donnut worry, babe. He ain't gonna be here for some time, y'know? I saw the look in yer eyes. I guessed he ain't generous as he seems to be. It smells, y'know? S'metim' people just donnut smell good. He reminded me of a man with a rotten wound. Pungent, thick smell, 'nuff to make ya barf. Why he calling you quiet? That a nickname? A shitty one. No imagination, prob'ly no fate too. Alrighty, lil' one. Y'need some 'quipment fo' that stunt o'yours."

 

 

   Quiet stared blankly. A man with a stomach as big as a barrel stood behind him and had no presence. A big, red hand on his shoulder was the weight of a feather, a sign of no threat. While he blabbed in a strange accent, he looked him over.

 

 

   An ugly black beard with a couple of knotty braids, nose crooked in three directions, big doleful eyes that went against the convention of fatty men, bald head and miserly white eyebrows. The man dyed his beard... He wore a wide shirt fastened by a belt below his stomach, showing his curves. Black slacks with black boots complemented his beige shirt and overcoat.

 

 

   "Ay, what're ye lookin' at me fer? Come with me, I'd be willing to bet 30 kals you're gonna need what I haf." The man pulled the child, stretching his other hand towards a boot in the middle of the square. The biggest boot.

 

 

   Under a grass-green tent were a dozen of foldable tables made of lightweight wood, and around them double the number of workers scuttled around. Unpacking merchandise, already negotiating with potential big customers, bartering with a woman with two children at her waist, haggling with a hag over a bottle of parrot's blood. If the child didn't remember wrongly, the man pulling him was a merchant. A big one. And his name was...

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   "Oi, Murdock, you better bring your arse here before I teach you what it means to abandon your own spot in the middle of renting it, you bald eagle!"

 

 

   His name was Murdock Bailey. Wealthiest merchant on this side of Bailey Kingdom. The Southern wine he was so proud of sold like wheat in the midst of a famine. The rumour was, he was heading farther south. To the milder climates. The child let itself be pulled like a kite, feeling that this man would not bring hurt.

 

 It could not describe it, but it was like an instinct at this point. A wounded animal would know who would bring it more hurt than not, and this man who looked like he belonged rather the bandits than with the merchants even in his fancy suit just radiated some jolly and skip in his step. He lacked three teeth, the child noticed in passing.

 

   They came before a shrivelled, stick-like man. Dressed impeccably, down to the hankie in his breast pocket, the man looked like a butler from occasional stories the child heard, but he had no temperament of one. Fiery orbs already shined in his eyes, ready to burn Murdock to the ground like a scarecrow.

 

 

   "Goddamnit, Murdock, you can't disappear however you please! You know that with you by my side we'd get a better price for the central spot, and I swear if you do it aga-" the tirade stopped momentarily. Wary eyes scanned the child whose hand was in Murdock's palm. "Murdock, care to explain?" The icy tone bit the child.

 

 

   "Sure, sure, m'dear Locker. I picked 'im - her? Him? Anyway, I picked the child up jus' twenty steps from 'ere."

 

 

   "And why is that so?" The tone became a little milder, though it still had that bite. The child figured it was a personality trait rather than pointed maliciousness.

 

 

   Reddish eyes looked at the child that was obviously completely lost in this ruckus and got caught up in the barrel-man's pace. Pale skin, curly black hair with a couple of white locks, eyes of muted gold with specks of chestnut brown. Old clothes, though still fitting. Traces of mud here and there, shoes with soles on the verge of falling off. The face was way too angular, too skinny. Veins were purplish on the child's neck. And a bruise above the collarbone.