A Tapestry of Spells Read Free Page A

nuggets lying in the sun on dark soil. The wench who had served him was one of those, as was the master brewer who had come in from his workroom, but the barkeep didn’t qualify, nor did most of the patrons. Well, save that gawky farmhand who had stumbled into the pub and was asking for watered-down ale, if the barkeep wouldn’t mind seeing to it for him.
    The alemaster elbowed the barkeep aside and saw to the deed himself. Urchaid frowned thoughtfully. The man pushing the glass across the wood seemed familiar, though he couldn’t fathom why. He considered a bit longer, then shrugged. Perhaps he had frequented so many pubs in a search for something decent to drink that all the alemasters had begun to look alike. Such was the hazard of a very, very long life, apparently.
    The alemaster waited until the boy was well watered, then slid a jug across the counter to him.
    “Best hurry home, Ned, lad. I heard tell that Lady Higgleton is off to see your mistress this morn.”
    The lad looked nervously over his shoulder out the window, as if he fully expected to see a legion of black mages clustered there with his death on their minds. “She wants a spell, do you think?”
    “What I think, lad,” the alemaster said with a wry smile, “isn’t fit for speaking most of the time.” He started to say something else, then looked up and stiffened. He reached out and pulled the boy around the counter. “Go out the back, Ned, and run home. Keep Sarah safe.”
    The lad clutched his jug of ale and did as he was told without hesitation.
    Urchaid turned to see what had spurred the alemaster into such abrupt action. A man stood in the doorway, clutching it as if it were all that held him up.
    He lurched inside and stumbled over to a table where he cast himself down into a chair for only so long as it took him to rid himself of his cloak. He bounced back up as if he was simply too full of energy to sit. He walked over to the bar and demanded a meal first from the alemaster, who merely favored him with a sour look and turned away, then from the barkeep, who apparently had a stronger stomach. That, or the barkeep had noted the fatness of the restless one’s purse, a purse that made a copious noise when he moved.
    Urchaid caught the elbow of his serving maid the next time she passed by him. “Who is that lad eating as if he hasn’t in a fortnight?” he asked casually.
    Her gaze flicked to the man and back quickly, then she hesitated. Urchaid fished a gold sovereign out of his purse and laid it on the table. There was no use in being frugal when information was to be had.
    “He’s the brother of the village witch up the way,” she said promptly. She leaned over and wiped the table with her cloth, deftly scooping the coin into her hand at the same time. “He’s an unpleasant sort.”
    “He certainly seems to be,” Urchaid said, depositing more money onto the table. “Does he weave spells, or is it just his sister with all the common magic?”
    “Oh, he wouldn’t bother with useful spells,” she said, pocketing the new offering with alacrity. “ ’Tis beneath him.”
    “Is he so powerful, then?” Urchaid asked, tracing his finger idly around the rim of his glass.
    “So he says, though I wouldn’t know.” She shivered. “Thought we were rid of him.”
    She turned and headed without hesitation to the back of the pub. Urchaid looked at the local witch’s brother and decided that perhaps he could pass a bit of time in conversation with the lad—just for the sake of being polite, of course.
    Urchaid rose and picked up his ale. He nodded at the barkeep on his way across the room, then sat himself down at the table next to the newcomer’s. He wasn’t one for seeing things, but he could certainly smell them. A stench clung to the man, much like the smell of charred meat that lingered in the house even after it had been thrown to the pigs.
    The smell of something the lad before him definitely shouldn’t have been up