it. There were rat and mouse droppings on practically every surface, and the smell was a confused blend of every imaginable kind of decay. Ashes and clinker from the blackened fireplace had spread onto the floor like lava from a volcano, but a thin, straight plume of gray smoke rose up out of an extravagant heap of charcoal in the middle, and there was a full charcoal bucket nearby, next to a small table on which stood a fat, fresh loaf and a grimy earthenware jug. So somebody baked here, and kept the fire banked up, and fetched in the water.
'Like I said,' Framain muttered, 'it's just me. Sit down, I'll get you something to eat.'
He hacked a massive plank of bread off the loaf with an edged tool that Miel couldn't identify but which was never meant for the purpose; then he stood for a moment, frowning and indecisive, before reaching up into the rafters and pulling down the dustiest side of bacon Miel had ever seen. He wiped it with his sleeve before slicing off a chunk the size of his hand. Putting it on top of the bread, he handed it to Miel. 'There's water,' he said, 'or wine.' He picked up the jug and peered into it, then poured some into a horn mug he found on the floor. 'Better start with water if you're parched,' he said. The water was gray and muddy with dust. Miel didn't mind that, or the muddy taste of the bacon, although it was as tough as saddle-leather and he hardly had enough strength in his jaws to chew it. The bread was fine.
Framain let him eat for a while; then he cleared his throat and said, 'You're Miel Ducas.'
Miel nodded. 'You know me from somewhere.'
Framain shook his head. 'I've never seen you before,' he said, 'but it's not hard to figure out. You said you were heading for Cotton Cross when you got lost, but you'd never have heard the name unless you knew the area, and if you knew the area you wouldn't have got lost. I can tell from your voice that you're an Eremian of good family. When I asked you who you were you didn't answer, and you looked sheepish, so you're anxious to keep your identity a secret but you haven't had much practice at telling lies or pretending to be someone else. All this area used to be Ducas land, and it's common knowledge that the Ducas himself is leading the resistance. It wasn't terribly difficult to put it together.'
Miel thought about the sword; the hanger he'd stolen from the scavengers and used to kill the two men with. He didn't have it with him, so either it was hanging by its hilt-bow from his saddle-hook or he must have dropped it somewhere; in any case, even if he had the strength to fight, it was too far away to be any use to him. He couldn't see any weapons in the room, apart from the cutting thing (a thatcher's spar-hook, he realized) that Framain had sliced the bread and bacon with. Forget it, he told himself; if Framain wanted to hand him over to the Eremians, there was precious little he could do about it until he'd got his strength back.
'That's me, then,' he said. 'I'm sorry I didn't answer you earlier, it was very bad manners.'
'Understandable.' Framain wasn't eating or drinking. 'In case you're worried, I'm not-let's say, I'm not political. I like to stay out of everybody's way myself.'
'I see,' Miel said.
Framain laughed. 'It's not what you're thinking,' he said. 'I'm not a criminal or anything, I just like a little privacy. Especially these days, with the Mezentines charging about, and refugees, not to mention your lot, the resistance. No offense, but I tend to regard the whole human race as just a lot of different subspecies of pest.'
Miel smiled cautiously. 'In that case,' he said, 'I apologize for intruding. And of course I'm really grateful-'
Apparently Framain wasn't interested in gratitude. 'Anyway,' he interrupted briskly, 'you can stay here and feed yourself up until you're ready to move on, no problem there. You can call it repayment for arrears of rent, I suppose, since technically I'm a trespasser on your property. If you've finished your water, you might like a drop of the wine. You'll like it, it comes out of sealed bottles.'
Miel laughed awkwardly, and Framain knelt down and scrabbled about under the table for a while, finally emerging with a glass bottle wound round with swathes of filthy black cobweb. It turned out to be very good wine indeed.
'Wasted on me,' Framain said. 'Actually, it's stuff my father laid down, about forty years ago. There were a dozen cases or so left when I came here, and I brought them with me. I don't tend to drink the stuff myself. I don't like the taste much, and it gives me heartburn.'
Miel smiled politely, wondering how Framain's clothes came to be clean and respectable when he lived in such squalor. Then he remembered the barn, newly thatched and carefully locked.
'Can I ask what you do here?' he said.
'Can you ask?' Framain laughed. 'No, you can't. Here, have some more of this stuff. They tell me it doesn't keep once it's been opened.'
'I'm sorry,' Miel said. 'I didn't mean to cause offense.'
'Of course you didn't, and you haven't.' He stood up. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, time's getting on and I'd better get started. Help yourself to anything you want,' he added, gesturing vaguely at the surrounding squalor. 'Feel free to roam around the place if you want to stretch your legs. I'd stay put here for a day or so if I were you, but if you're in a desperate hurry to get somewhere, carry on. I'll see you this evening, if you're still here.'
Miel nodded. 'Thank you again,' he said. 'If you hadn't come along when you did-'
'Well, there you go,' Framain snapped, 'generous impulses and so forth. Tell you what: when the Mezentines have been driven out and you get your land and your money back, you can make it up to me. All right?'
He left, and a little later Miel caught sight of him through the window that looked out onto the yard; he was standing at the top of the barn steps, opening the massive padlocks with keys he carried on a chain round his neck. Miel looked away, in case Framain noticed him watching. The Ducas does his best to avoid information that he shouldn't have, and forgets it straightaway if he stumbles across it accidentally.
The food and the wine (he finished off the bottle, as instructed) made him feel sleepy, and he woke up with his head cradled on his arms on the table. As he stirred, he startled a rat, which scuttled away into a castle of abandoned, heaped-up sacks and boxes. To his mild surprise, he felt a little stronger, though his neck hurt and his knees were cramped. Feel free to roam about the place; well, it might ease the cramp.
He stood up, wobbled and grabbed the edge of the table. When he released it again, his hands were grimy with black dust, which didn't brush off easily. He made an effort and went exploring.
In the far corner of the room was a staircase, narrow and twisted into a tight spiral, so that Miel had to climb part of the way on his hands and knees. Upstairs there was only one small room, about the size of a hayloft. Apart from dust, and a carpet of crisp brown beech leaves, it was empty. The only other room in the house was back downstairs, at the opposite end of the main room: a pantry with a stone-flagged sunken floor, presumably used for storing root vegetables in the cool. It was empty too; there was a small pool of black water at the far end, where the floor wasn't level. Evidently, then, Framain didn't sleep in the house, unless he curled up under the table like a dog, and Miel couldn't picture him doing that.
A mystery, then; but the world is full of mysteries. Generous impulses, Framain had said; someone who pulled strangers out of quagmires and gave them food and water (albeit mixed with dust) couldn't be a total misanthropist. True, he'd figured out who Miel was with depressing ease, but he wouldn't have known that when he made the decision to rescue him, so it was unlikely that his actions had been prompted by hope of ransom, as the scavengers' had been. The bottom line was that Miel was probably safe, for now, provided that he kept to the rules and didn't go poking about and annoying his host. Small price to pay. That said, he found the place depressing and vaguely revolting. It would be nice to leave and go somewhere else.
That reminded him; he dragged himself out into the fresh air. It was just starting to get dark. The barn door was shut up and locked again, all three padlocks in place in their hasps. Beyond it, he saw a thick column of black smoke rising from the chimney of the overgrown-beehive building he'd noticed earlier. Conceivably it could be a smokehouse, for curing hams and bacon and sausage. Perhaps that was what Framain did for a living. Perhaps.
His horse wasn't where he'd left it; after a rather draining search (still a very long way from a full recovery, then) he found it in a stable, along with the horse Framain had been riding and two others. The stable was much cleaner and tidier than the house: fresh straw, full mangers, clean water in the drinking troughs. His saddle and bridle had been hung neatly on a rack at the far end. The hanger was there too.
That was a comfort; he still had transport and defense, which implied that Framain was sincere about letting him go if and when he wanted to. Not, he realized, that he'd be likely to get very far if he saddled up and left immediately. Quite apart from his sad lack of strength, he had no food and nothing to carry water in. Maybe Framain would provide them, too, but that remained to be seen. Until the issue was resolved, their absence would keep him here just as effectively as a shackle and chain.
