Chapter 23 Valley of the Vale Blues #2
“If you don’t have a plan, you can tell me,” Brim said softly, which surprised him, because the man was usually all about hard hits and boisterous tones.
“You’ve carried us this far, so I understand if you’re burned out in the idea department.
Let me make a few suggestions if needed. You’ve done so much already.”
I have done a lot, he thought. Perhaps he ought to just hand over one of the plans that involved him the least and then ditch them on the eve of battle with Beni and the kids.
But no. He was doing this so he wouldn’t feel the crushing guilt of a thousand deaths on his back.
It was better that he stay for the majority of the fight.
Once it was clear they’d taken the cities, and they could bring down Ravana on their own, then he’d flee.
Morfran set a hand on Brim’s shoulder. “Thank you, Brim. You’ve been a good friend.” And he meant it, too. Ravana was right. He was changed. “But I’ve got a plan I’ll share tomorrow morning. Just need to work out the finer details.”
I’m going to be up all night.
Brim didn’t look entirely convinced, but still he gripped Morfran’s shoulder in return, passing him a quiet smile.
When was the last time one of his generals looked at him like that?
Not as a ruthless warlord who’d lead them to victory, but as a friend-at-arms, with all the trust in the world?
It made him feel warm inside—and dead inside, as he had no intention of helping them kill Ravana.
She’d expose him for who he was if it was the last thing she did.
“Thank you, Bernard,” Brim said. “I know we forced you into this at the start, and that you really did want to catch a ship south. But I am glad to have you on our side. You’ve given this kingdom back its hope.”
He squeezed Morfran’s shoulder and left him to stare down at the bloodied warning from his ex-wife.
Morfran had written through thirty sheets of paper, frustratingly kneaded all of them into little balls and tossed them over his shoulder, gnawed through four quills, cursed himself, cursed Ravana, and cursed his conscience, and still no plan came to him.
It was late, and the evening chatter around the fire had given way to the nibbling of flames licking charred logs.
Most had turned in for the night, and he heard the low tones of conversations come and go—most on the topic of theorizing what exactly the plan was for the march on Warshire.
They were waiting on him. Depending on him.
“I don’t know what to do,” he murmured, burying his hands in his hair as he gaped down at Benjamin. She was up as well, drowsily chewing on his discarded papers.
Do what you’re best at, Morfran, her droopy eyes seemed to say.
And what is that? Beheading people? Inflicting fear into men’s hearts?
No. Feeding me.
He was beginning to wonder if sleep deprivation was affecting his sanity.
Just as he fixed up a new quill and put the tip to paper, he heard it: something akin to the sound of twenty possessed llamas simultaneously hacking up phlegm at once.
Morfran’s first instinct was to tear his sword from its scabbard and take up arms against the noise. Then his ears adjusted, and he realized what it was.
The elusive Pete making a racket on his old lute.
Morfran shoved himself out of his tent. The lute was a reminder of what he’d lost when he’d been forced into the rebellion: anonymity, a carefree life where he was free to indulge in whatever hobbies he wished, and a life away from having to think about anyone other than himself and a few select goats.
This stupid Pete fellow was probably as ugly as he sounded on the instrument. Awkward and boil skinned, with eyes of different sizes and a bulbous growth on his nose. He likely had twelve clawed fingers, since one person alone couldn’t make such a hellish noise—
Sitting alone before the dwindling fire was a slight boy no older than eight. In his arms was Morfran’s lute.
I’ll be. It was Toothless the kid. Morfran had had no idea his actual name was Pete. His siblings just called him “Hey, don’t” and “Be quiet” and “Go over there and stay put.”
The boy was clearly frustrated with the instrument, as he was gingerly plucking the strings, trying to make sense of them, only to lose his patience and claw at them in such a way that it sounded like a hog being hauled off to the slaughter.
If he’d been making a racket like this back at Castle Atrago, he’d have had the kid strung up in the stocks. But Morfran was a better man now. He’d just leave him, perhaps make fun of him behind his back later—
There was a line of tears on the boy’s cheeks.
Morfran internally groaned. Then he dragged himself towards the kid. “Stop everything.” Toothless Pete startled from his log seat. “You’re damaging not just the lute but my ears as well.”
“S-sir Bernard! I didn’t know you were lis-stening!” Toothless Pete stammered, exposing his lack of an entire front row of teeth. It made his S’s whistle adorably, which made Morfran want to gag.
“What did you just call me?”
“S-sir? Because you’re a knight?”
Morfran shuddered. “What demonic entity from the bowels of hell possessed you to believe that?”
“Because Gueldefore ditched the job, and there’s an opening to fill, isn’t there?”
“I’d rather eat my spleen than fill that position.”
“Why?” He looked terribly confused, wiping at his cheeks. “You’re everyone’s hero here.”
The strangest twinge of pleased panic erupted in his chest at hearing that. Morfran scowled, suddenly anxious. “Look, kid. If you’re going to be precocious and over-the-top cute, I’ll ensure you’ll be missing your bottom row of teeth as well. You understand?”
Toothless Pete clammed his mouth shut and nodded his head up and down.
“Now show me what you’re doing to my lute.”
The kid obeyed, placing his fingers on the strings in a way only an eight-year-old with no musical talent at all would.
Morfran was tempted to wretch the instrument from his hands. “Your fingering sucks, and the lute is simply too big for you. But if you’re going to keep me awake at all hours playing the wrong chords, I want it to at least sound tastelessly bad,” Morfran said. “Hold it thumb under.”
Pete blinked at him.
“Thumb under.” Morfran repeated.
The kid’s face went red with panic. “I don’t know what that is.”
Morfran yanked the lute out of his hand, positioned it horizontally, wrapped his arm around the bottom, and waggled his thumb so he could see why it was called “thumb under.” “This is an eight-course lute, so it has fifteen strings. You understand?”
Pete nodded vigorously.
“Now, the string system is fairly complex. But this lone string here is called a chanterelle, and it’s usually the note on which the melody is sung. Got it?”
Again, the vigorous nodding.
“And the way you’ll read music is based on a notation based on your finger position…”
Even more nodding.
Morfran lowered the lute, annoyed. “You’re just nodding to appease me, aren’t you?”
“Appease?”
“Trying to convince me not to punch you in the head.”
“Oh,” Pete said, to which he responded by nodding.
Morfran sighed. “All right. I won’t punch you. Just walk what I just said backwards.”
To his surprise, Toothless Pete was able to recite it, with only one or two mistakes. The kid was rather perceptive, and in quick time Morfran deemed him semi-worthy to touch the lute. He passed it back over only after demanding Toothless Pete show him how to properly hold it.
“Like this?” the boy asked.
“Exactly.” Morfran gave Toothless Pete a polite round of applause at not being a complete sack of crap at holding it, then turned to go back to his planning crisis. But before doing so, the question flitted to his mind. “Why were you crying?”
“I overheard some of the men talkin’.” The boy looked down, self-conscious. “They say Lord Morfran’s men captured thirty of us during the battle over the Valley of the Vale. They plan to hang them inside Warshire in three days.”
He froze. A public execution. Another warning from Ravana.
A knot of fear tightened below Morfran’s chest as he remembered Bronwen telling him about the three Fleet Foot children’s parents who were away in battle.
“Tell me you were only crying because you’re an overly sensitive baby and not because your parents were among those captured. ”
At this mention, tears brimmed the kid’s eyes again, and Morfran cursed. Of course. Ravana, ex-dear, you’re an exceptional pain in my—
“It ain’t fair, is what it is.” A voice interrupted his thoughts.
It was Hugh, walking across the campsite, flapping a paper at Owain and Bill, who were studiously ignoring him.
“I’ve been in every fight you’ve been in, and you lot get to be on the posters?
I want to have a gold price on my head, too! ”
The man was complaining about the Wanted: Dead or Mostly Dead posters again. Everyone else was notoriously acknowledged except Hugh.
“You mean you’ve cowered in every fight,” Bill replied. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Morfran’s men don’t even know you exist.”
At that, everything in Morfran’s head clicked. Hugh. The lute. Warshire’s Jam Convention. Public executions.
Morfran looked down at Toothless, feeling suddenly light-headed, the same way he did when a grand thought was forming in his head.
“Get back to bed with your sister and brother. And don’t fret about your parents—it’s all according to plan.
” Or he’d make it according to plan. He strode in the direction Hugh and the others had gone.
Owain and Bill had vanished into the tents, but Hugh was still standing alone beneath the waning light of the moon, looking down at the poster in his hands with deflated shoulders.
“Hugh,” Morfran called out. The man turned, blinking and pointing at his chest as if confused that Morfran was speaking to him. “Yes, you, Hugh. You’re just the man I need. Come back to my tent. I want to run an idea by you…”