PDCOO Chapter 4

War.

The word, and a wooden bowl hit the floor.

Anna flinched back. Karlah's voice cracked the air.

"War, war, war! The war ended—so when does the talking stop?"

"Mama..."

"The war took everything from me. My husband too. Who gives that back, tell me! When they handed me this echoing mess hall after the ceasefire and I had to stand there and act grateful—I was rotting inside. The war is, damn it, like a mad dog. You have to forget it. We wouldn't have seen a sack of flour even if we'd won. We got nothing."

Anna had no answer. She'd heard her mother curse before. She had never heard her curse like that. Her eyes went wet.

Karlah saw it. She took hold of herself and forced the register back down.

"...Anna. I'm sorry for shouting. Just—don't bring the war up again."

"I'm sorry. I won't..."

"Good. Feeding people who have nothing—that's your business, I won't interfere. But don't try to keep them here. Understood?"

"Yes."

"And..."

Karlah hesitated.

"Don't go falling for that one."

Anna's voice stopped entirely.

Romance. A pink, ticklish sort of word. Applied to a man she'd primarily registered as hollowed-out cheeks—a man who could taste nothing, feel nothing, and had just apologized with perfect sincerity for not enjoying her cooking.

The two things collided and came out as laughter.

"Ahaha—romance? Ha, oh—" She pressed a hand over her mouth. "What do you take me for, Mama?"

"A woman who picks up dangerous men and tries to save them."

"Don't make it sound dramatic. He's not my type. He's too tall. And honestly, all I felt looking at him was pity."

"Pity is the most dangerous starting point of all. 'Just one meal, oh, he really likes my cooking, I suppose he needs me'—and before you know it, you're sharing a table every morning."

"He didn't even like my cooking."

"That's not the point and you know it. Fine. Do as you like. Just don't come crying to me later."

Karlah retreated to the kitchen with the wooden bowl. From inside came: "Oh—who on earth has peeled this mountain of onions—?"

Anna heard nothing. She was looking in the direction Bertram had gone.

He'd already walked too far to see. Those long legs had carried him entirely out of sight.

Like a real wolf, she thought, absently. That disheveled black hair falling to the back of his neck. Those alarming blue eyes.

She'd been too busy noticing his hollow cheeks to pay attention to the rest of him.

Quite handsome, actually.

She stopped herself immediately.

'What am I going to do with "quite handsome"? Fall in romance like Mama said? And besides, how would you even manage something like that with a man who can't thank you for the food he eats for free?'

There was the height issue too. Standing up, his voice had tickled the top of her head every time he spoke. Her own height was on the shorter side, but she suspected any woman would find it uncomfortable.

Though then her thoughts went somewhere she hadn't intended.

'...Wait. I'm just—I'm just curious, purely. People with that much height difference between them—how exactly does kissing work? There's a limit to how much you can stretch onto your toes. Does the man have to crouch down? That seems terribly unromantic.'

In the kitchen, Karlah poked her head out to ask about the onions.

She stopped.

Her daughter's expression was extremely serious.

Did I go too hard on her? Karlah thought. I should have at least fed him dinner before sending him off.

She pulled her head back in and began working silently through the mountain of onions.

She never found out what her daughter was worrying about.

Bertram walked.

And walked.

Wet earth crushed under his leather boots, crumbling white in the moonlight. He looked down at it and thought of bones.

The bones he had broken without number, in the war.

There had been rumors that enemy mages could reanimate the dead. So he had been unable to grant proper treatment to corpses—allied or enemy alike. When there was no time to transport them to the rear, the bodies had to be crushed and burned. It had been necessary. It was the only answer available.

The soldiers' morale had been as low as it could go.

To die here meant leaving no proof of having fought. No threadbare honor of dying for the nation. So men fled in the dark of night, and were killed with spears in their backs for it.

Bertram remembered those terrified targets.

...All he was doing was walking a quiet road at night.

A faint, formless pool opened somewhere at the center of his chest.

But he had forgotten even the name for it.

His stomach made a sound.

'Ah,' he thought. 'Hunger.'

There was no one to tell him that was the wrong answer.

He opened the coin purse Karlah had pressed on him. A considerable sum.

'I should save this. Return it to Anna.'

Karlah could refuse a hundred times. It made no difference. He would repay Hans Burthe's debt.

He had been sixteen when he made the trade. Win the war, and everything would return to its proper order—that was what he'd believed. So he had given his emotions away. He had killed countless enemies. He had, sometimes, gotten his own men killed. He had requisitioned the seeds desperate farmers had saved for next year's planting, taking the last of everything from people who had nothing.

The stacks of requisition forms had whispered I'll repay it someday, and he had let them.

The war ended in defeat. His family was gone. The throne passed to his uncle.

Bertram suffered nightmares even awake.

The emotion he had forgotten even the name of remained as symptoms, pulling tight around his throat.

The mage had watched this for some time, then told him: 'the curse could not be lifted. But the suffering could be lessened.'

'Repay all your debts, Your Highness.'

He had left the palace that day.

Crossing former battlefields on foot to gather remains and identification tags for the families. Tracking down each individual requisition note he had issued and settling every one.

Only this debt remained. Hans Burthe. One more, and this journey would end.

He would not retreat.

At first light, he would return to Anna's restaurant and settle what was owed.

He needed food and sleep. He was searching for provisions when someone approached.

"Excuse me—you're Bertram, aren't you?"

Three village youths, holding their smiles in place with visible effort.

"Do you remember us?"

"Two of you threatened me in front of the restaurant earlier. The third I don't know."

"...Ha ha. You do remember. Sorry about that. We're just—not used to strangers."

A ridiculous excuse. But Bertram had noticed the clubs tucked at their waists, and nodded.

"So it seems. I understand."

The blood rose visibly in their necks.

But there was nothing to say to that. When the man you'd threatened turns around and tells you he understands—what exactly do you do with it?

The eldest of the three stepped forward.

"We heard about the debt business. But if Karlah says there's nothing owed, that's the end of it, isn't it? Why are you still here?"

"I intend to speak with both women again tomorrow morning."

"So you're not leaving."

"No."

The three exchanged a look.

'Words won't work on this one.'

But they weren't, at their cores, the sort to raise a weapon unprovoked. So they reached for the most universally available and goodwill-suggesting option:

"Have you eaten? Getting thrown out of the only restaurant in the village—you must be starving."

"I was going to go hunting."

"Hunting? There's nothing worth hunting around here. Even rabbits are hard to spot at night."

"I confirmed there was something edible on my way in. I'll manage."

The mage's curse had, among its various effects, rendered his digestive system thoroughly indiscriminate. He had meant this completely literally.

The three young men looked at each other.

'Is he eyeing our livestock?'

A quiet agreement passed between them. This large person needed to be removed from the village, and if mushrooms could accomplish it bloodlessly—

They closed in helpfully from both sides.

"Why go to all that trouble? We know where to find something easy."

"You slept outside last night, didn't you? I know a sheltered spot—come along."

Bertram felt the small hands trying to steer him from either side. He looked down at the trembling fingertips, and understood.

These men said they were afraid of me, he recalled.

A small, closed village. An unknown person wandering through it at night. Of course the residents would be frightened. These men were self-appointed, doing what they could for their village.

Bertram collected what remained of his social judgment and applied it carefully. He decided to cooperate.

"Understood. I'll hold off on hunting. Tell me where to find food and shelter."

The three brightened considerably.

"You're not completely impossible after all!"

"I understood that your weapons would be ineffective against me. I would prefer to cooperate where possible."

"...You really would do better to leave certain things unsaid. Here—take this for now."

One of them pressed hardtack into his hands. The kind that would break an ordinary man's teeth on first contact.

"Up on that ridge, there's a patch of light brown mushrooms—small ones. Flip them over and heat them just a little and the broth runs right out. Soak the hardtack in it and it's excellent. Do you have a flint?"

"I have basic cooking equipment."

"Then you're all set. After the mushrooms, keep going up the mountain—there's an abandoned building halfway. Stay there tonight."

"Thank you for your hospitality. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Bertram bowed and broke into a run in the direction they'd indicated.