She stepped away, gathering the boy to her side. Kaspar ate the stew and before asking for another bowl, he looked at the motionless pair. Quegan didn’t seem to be working, but it was the closest language to what he had heard the nomads speak. He pointed to himself and said, ‘Kaspar.’
The woman didn’t react. Then he pointed to them and said, ‘Names?’
The woman might be frightened, he thought, but she wasn’t stupid. She said, ‘Jojanna.’
‘Joyanna,’ Kaspar repeated.
She corrected him. ‘Jojanna,’ and he heard the soft sound of an ‘h’ after the ‘y’ sound.
‘Joy-hanna,’ he said, and she nodded as if that were close enough.
He pointed to the boy.
‘Jorgen,’ came the reply.
Kaspar nodded and repeated the boy’s name. He started to help himself to more stew and judged he had consumed most of their evening meal. He looked at them and then poured the content of the bowl back into the pot. He contented himself with another hunk of bread, then pointed to them. ‘Eat.’ He motioned for them to come to the table.
‘Eat,’ she repeated, and Kaspar realized it was the same word, but with a very different accent. He nodded.
She carefully ushered the boy to the table and Kaspar got up and moved over to the door. He saw an empty bucket so he picked it up and turned it over to use as a makeshift stool. The boy watched him with serious blue eyes and the woman kept glancing at him as she put food on the table for the boy.
When they were both seated, Kaspar said, ‘Well, Jojanna and Jorgen, my name is Kaspar, and until a few days ago I was one of the most powerful men on the other side of this world. I have fallen to his low estate, but despite my scruffy appearance, I am as I have said.’
They looked at him uncomprehendingly. He chuckled. ‘Very well. You don’t need to learn Quegan. I need to learn your language.’ He hit the bucket he sat on and said, ‘Bucket.’
The woman and her son were silent. He stood up, pointed to the bucket and said the word again. Then he pointed at them and gestured at the bucket again. ‘What do you call this?’
Jorgen understood and spoke a word. It was unlike anything Kaspar had heard. He repeated it and Jorgen nodded. ‘Well, it’s a start,’ said the former Duke of Olasko. ‘Maybe by bed-time we can speak enough for me to convince you not to cut my throat while I sleep.’
KASPAR AWOKE ON THE FLOOR OF THE SMALL HUT.
He had slept in front of the door to prevent Jorgen or his mother from fleeing. Levering himself up on one elbow, he peered around in the early morning gloom. There was only a small window near the chimney to his right, so it was still quite dark in the room.
The boy and woman were both awake, but neither had moved from their respective sleeping pallets. ‘Good morning,’ Kaspar said as he sat up. He had confiscated their crossbow and any sharp utensil he judged capable of inflicting serious injury and had piled them up out of their reach. He trusted his instincts, as a hunter and a warrior, to awaken him should either of his reluctant companions attempt to harm him, so he had slept well.
After rising slowly, Kasper started returning the implements to their proper locations; the woman would have work to do. He had spent the balance of the previous afternoon and evening pointing at objects and asking their names: slowly unravelling this new language. He had learnt enough to surmise that their dialect was related to ancient Keshian, spoken in the Bitter Sea region a few centuries before. Kaspar had studied Empire history as much as any noble boy was forced to and vaguely remembered references to a religious war which had sent Keshian refugees fleeing west. Apparently some of them must have landed nearby.
Kaspar always had possessed a flair for languages, though he now wished he had spent a little more time speaking Quegan – an offshoot of the same Keshian dialect these people’s ancestors had spoken. Still, he was getting along well enough if he ever decided to stay and farm around here.
Kaspar looked at the boy and said, ‘You can get up.’
The boy rose. ‘I can get out?’
Kaspar realized his inaccuracy and corrected it. ‘I mean get up, but if you need to go outside, do so.’
Despite his early behaviour towards them, Jorgen had expected to be beaten or killed, and Jojanna had expected to be raped. Not that she wasn’t attractive enough in a weather-beaten fashion, Kaspar conceded, but he had never acquired a taste for unwilling women – not even for those who feigned willingness because of his wealth and power.
The woman rose and pulled aside the small privacy-curtain while the boy rolled up his bedding and stowed it under the table. Kaspar sat on one of the two stools. She went to the banked fire in the hearth and stirred the embers, adding wood. ‘You need wood?’ Kaspar asked.
She nodded. ‘I will cut some more this morning, after milking one of my cows. She lost her calf to a mountain cat last week.’
‘Is the cat troubling you?’
She didn’t understand his question so he rephrased it, ‘Is the cat returning to take more calves?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘I’ll cut the wood,’ said Kaspar. ‘Where is the axe?’
‘In the …’ he didn’t recognize the word, and asked her to repeat it. Then he realized it was an oddly pronounced variant of the Keshian word for ‘shed’. He repeated it, then said, ‘I will work for my food.’
She paused, then nodded and started to prepare the daily meal. ‘There is no bread,’ she said. ‘I make it the night before.’
He inclined his head, but said nothing. They both knew why she had not baked last night. She had sat fearfully, waiting for him to assault her, while he repeatedly asked odd or pointless questions about the names of things.
Slowly, he said, ‘I will not harm you or the boy. I am a stranger and need to learn if I am to live. I will work for my food.’
She paused, then looked into his eyes for a moment. As if finally convinced, she nodded. ‘There are some clothes that belonged to my …’ she spoke a word he didn’t understand.
He interrupted. ‘Your what?’
She repeated the word, and said, ‘My man. Jorgen’s father.’
The local word for husband, he gathered. ‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Three …’ Again a new word, but he didn’t bother to interrupt; he’d find out later if she meant days, weeks, or months. ‘… ago he went to market. He never came back.’ Her voice remained calm and her face emotionless, but Kaspar could see a sheen in her eyes. ‘I looked for three …’ Again a word he didn’t understand. ‘Then I came back to care for Jorgen.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Bandamin.’
‘A good man?’
She nodded.
Kaspar said nothing more; he knew she must be wondering what would have happened if Bandamin had been home when he had shown up. Kaspar said, ‘I’ll chop wood.’
He went outside and found the axe in the shed next to a small pile of logs. He saw Jorgen feeding some chickens and waved the boy over to him. He motioned to the dwindling pile and said, ‘Need more soon.’