* * * * * * * * * *
The next several days passed much as the first had. Skif had originally been more than a little cautious around Bazie, especially when he found himself alone with the man. Crippled or not, Skif was in Bazie's control, and there was always the possibility that Bazie's interests in his boys went beyond the obvious. But Bazie never once showed anything but an honest friendliness that was both nurturing and practical. If Skif had ever known a real father, he would have recognized the odd feelings he was having now as being those of a son for a caring father — and he would have seen that Bazie's actions were like those of a caring father for his sons. He only knew that he liked Bazie enormously, and he trusted the man more and more with every moment. For his part, Bazie pretty much took care of his own needs, requiring only to be carried to and from the water closet. Skif was impressed by how calmly self-sufficient he was. He had guessed by now that Bazie was at least forty or fifty years old, and yet he never seemed old.
There was one thing, however, that Bazie always insisted on which seemed rather odd to Skif. One of his daily chores was to set a handful of wheat to soaking, and rinse the sprouting grains from previous days. When the sprouts got to a certain length, Bazie would eat them. He didn't seem to like them very much, but he doggedly munched them down.
“ ‘F ye don' like tha’ muck, why'd ye eat it ev' day?” Skif finally asked.
“ 'Cuz I like m' teeth,” Bazie said shortly. “ ‘F I don' eat tha' muck, seein' as I niver sees th' sun, 'twon't be long 'fore I lose m'teeth an' gets sick. Tha's wut Healer tol' me fust time m' teeth started bleedin' an' I got sick. Mucky grass's cheapest stuff 'round, so's tha's wut I eat in winter. Summer, 'course, they's good stuff i' market.”
As the days passed, Skif finally grew bold enough to voice some of his curiosity about this most curious of situations. Besides, getting Bazie to talk made a welcome break from being drilled in sums as he scrubbed or stirred the laundry kettle.
At first, his questions were about commonplaces, but eventually he got up the courage to start asking more personal things. And, finally, he asked the most important of all.
“Bazie — wut 'appened t' yer legs?” he ventured, and waited, apprehensively, for a hurt or angry reply.
But Bazie voiced neither. Instead, he gazed at Skif for a moment. “ 'Tis a long story, but 'tothers 'ave 'eard it, an' likely they'll figger it oughta be me 'as tells ye.” He paused. “Ye ever 'ear uv th' Tedrel Wars?”
Skif shook his head.
“Thought not.” Bazie sighed gustily. “Wuz back yon twenny yearn, easy, mebbe thutty. Well, I wuz in't. Tedrel mercs — tha's mercenaries, they's people wut fights wars fer money, fer them as don' figger on doin' the fightin' thesselves — they wuz paid t'come up from south, t' fight 'gainst Valdemar fer Karse. On'y 'twasn't t' be known thet they wuz doin' it fer Karse; they wuz a lot uv promises made 'bout Tedrels gettin' t' hev t'half uv Valdemar when they won.” He shook his head. “Daft. 'Course, I didn' know thet. I wuz young 'n dumb, didn' think about nawt but loot an' wimmin.”
“You wuz with 'em?” Skif asked, turning to look at him, mouth agape.
“Oh, aye. Stupid.” He shook his head. “Furst fight, practic'ly, got m' legs took off at knee. Didn' know then if 'twas good luck thet I lived, or bad. Got took up wi' rest uv prisoners, an' when war wuz over, didn' hev nowhere t' go. On'y I wuz in meres cuz I wuz caught thievin' an' had t' 'ide, so me'n a couple other young fools decided we stick t'gether an' see 'f I cud teach 'em wut I knew 'bout thievin'. So we did, an' I did.”
“Wut 'appened to 'em?” Skif asked.
Bazie shrugged. “Went back 'ome when they had th' glim, an' by then, I 'ad young Ames 'n Jodri, an' I reckoned I 'ad a good thing. I teach the young 'uns an' they share th' swag. Works out.” He smiled — a little tightly. “Sorta like gettin' some uv th' loot I wuz promised. Heh. Mebbe I ain't got part uv Valdemar, but Valdemar's still feedin' me. An’ I'm still alive, so I reckon I'm doin' all right.”
Skif pondered all of that; it was kind of interesting. “So, how come ye take sech good care uv us, eh?” he asked.
Bazie laughed aloud. “An’ ye'd do what if I didn'? Run off, right? 'Sides, I kinda like the comp'ny. 'Ad a good fam'ly an' I miss it. Me da wuz a good 'un, on'y 'e got 'urt, an' died, an' I 'ad t' do wut I culd fer me an' mum an' m' brothers — till they got sick an' died i' plague. Allus wished I'd 'ad family uv me own, on'y they's nuthin' but hoors wi' mere army, and wut wimmin 'ud hev a fam'ly wi' me now?” He shrugged. “So I reckon I make me own fam'ly, eh?”
“They sez, i' Temple,” Skif ventured, “thet friends is th' fam'ly ye kin choose. I sure's hellfires wouldn' hev chose m' nuncle, nor Kalchan. Reckon this way's a bit better.”
He was rewarded by a beaming smile from Bazie — and perhaps, just a hint of moisture in his eyes, hastily and covertly removed with a swipe of the hand. “Aye,” Bazie agreed. “Reckon tha's right.”
Skif quickly turned his questions to other topics, mostly about life as a mercenary, which Bazie readily answered.
