Sarran, son of Mirran, wipes at his bloodied nose, pulls his red-smeared hand away from his face to inspect it and then sighs heavily. His ribs are smarting, but his eye and nose are throbbing the worst. A tear slips down to sting in the cut splitting his lip and he dashes it away angrily.

  “I’m not a runt,” he exclaims, though quietly in case someone hears him. “One day I’ll be able to beat them all and then they’ll be sorry!” Hearing the sounds of feet through leaves, he flinches and shifts to duck behind the fallen log on which he’s sitting. Angry he might be at the beating he recently suffered; he’s still wise enough not to tempt another one this soon.

  The figure that reveals itself to his searching eyes is a slight youth, probably close to his own age of ten. Maybe a little older. He’s kicking up the leaves angrily, his fists clenched. Dark-haired and faintly-tanned skin meets his eyes with…are those ears slightly pointed? Is this some sort of spirit of the forest? Yet his clothes look too well-made for that – though scruffy, Sarran knows enough about quality clothing to know what he’s looking at here.

  Sarran shifts slightly to get a better view and then freezes when the object of his observations looks his way. He meets eyes with a pair of unnaturally purple ones, feeling suddenly ensnared in them. And then the moment passes and he turns away to run like a hare before hounds.

  “Wait! Don’t go!” The voice freezes him in his tracks, full of command as it is. Who is this boy? Sarran doesn’t dare to disobey. Even at ten he knows the consequences of disobeying those with power – or getting on the bad side of their sons. Instead, he turns around apprehensively, fearing another beating at the hands of a boy taller and stronger than he is, though promising himself that this time he won’t go down without a fight. It’s only one boy, not five – this time.

  The boy is looking at him curiously, the anger he was displaying when Sarran first saw him now nowhere to be found.

  “Who are you? I don’t know your face.”

  “Sarran, sir,” Sarran answers, automatically tacking on the respectful address, for all that this youth can’t be much older than he is. “Son of Mirran.”

  “Oh, the trader?” the other boy asks with a sense of recognition. Sarran dips his head in agreement. The other boy looks at him searchingly. “So what brings you here, Sarran Mirransson. Especially so…bloodied.”

  Sarran can’t help but look away, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles crack.

  “I…” He doesn’t want to explain. But this youth has an air of command that he doesn’t dare disobey either. “My father…some of the village men didn’t like his bargains. And their sons didn’t like how…small I am.”

  “You mean they saw a good target and wanted to take out the anger that their fathers probably brought home with them, right?”

  Sarran looks back at the boy, surprised to see so much understanding on the purple-eyed youth’s face. He nods silently.

  “Why didn’t your father step in for you, then?” the boy asks next, completely reasonably. Sarran gives a mirthless chuckle.

  “He doesn’t. Says that it might toughen me up, learn to take advantage of my size. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that when I can’t even get a blow in, or know how to throw one even if I could!” he complains with frustration.

  Sarran is grateful when the boy doesn’t comment on that apart from giving a thoughtful huff. He’s surprised when the boy, after measuring him with his gaze, makes an offer.

  “Well, how about I teach you, then?”

  “What?”

  The purple-eyed boy shrugs.

  “I know a few things about fighting. How about I show you some?”

  Sarran gazes at him as if he’s an angel in disguise.

  “Would you?” he breathes, his suspicions of the other boy having some powerful father put to one side. The boy shrugs.

  “Sure. I’m playing truant from my lessons and my tutor anyway, so I might as well do something fun with my time.”

  “If you could teach me how to fight, I’d…I’d do anything for you, I promise!”

  The boy chuckles, though it sounds a touch uncomfortable.

  “Be careful what you promise. I’ll teach you because it will be fun for me – no need for you to do anything in return, alright?” Sarran nods eagerly, not really caring what the boy says if he will finally learn to fight – his father refuses to spend ‘good money’ on lessons for someone who’s never ‘earned’ them. “Great. Put up your fists. No, not like that, like this.”

  The boy demonstrates a posture which Sarran does his best to copy. As he’s correcting Sarran’s position, the boy finally introduces himself.

  “My name’s Nicolas, by the way.”

  *****

  He’s there. Sarran’s eyes go wide as he sees a face that even the passage of years hasn’t been able to blot from his memory. That almost fey youth with purple eyes and black hair that glints with blue and green like a raven’s wing when the light falls on it. The first to ever show interest in helping Sarran, just for his benefit and not theirs. The one who showed him how to throw a punch properly – and how to dodge one without giving ground.

  Sarran can’t help himself from inspecting how the youth he knew has changed. Like Sarran himself, Nicholas has grown taller, his shoulders broader – a fifteen or sixteen year old body is significantly different from a ten year old one. He has a sword at his waist now and its presence along with the fine-tailored clothing he wears confirms what Sarran had suspected – Nicholas is someone important. Or is at least the son of someone important.

  When they last met, Nicholas’ clothes had been well-made, but were clearly used. He could have been the son of a high-ranking servant for a House, someone who might be given the hand-me-downs of the lord’s children. But the clothes he’s wearing now are no hand-me-downs.

  He’s nursing a beer and gazing almost wistfully into the crowd. Sarran realises how the people seem to be avoiding him, for all that they duck their heads or drop a quick bow whenever they catch his eyes. Just more evidence that Nicholas is different from the rest of them.

  Sarran is surprised by the dismay that floods him at the thought. He’s never met a lord before – his father’s business doesn’t reach so high – but he’s met a few high-ranking merchants and a couple of city councillors. And their sons. And even though several of them seem to wish that they were different from the common folk, their roots still show through, despite their best efforts.

  His feet draw him forwards almost without his permission. When he gets within a few feet of the young man, those purple eyes snap to lock on his. For all that they are slightly unfocussed from the effects of the alcohol, Sarran suspects that he would be capable of reacting faster than most people would suspect if something happened. And the way the man’s hand slips down to the hilt of his sword makes it clear that he is ready for anything.

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  Sarran swallows dryly. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Getting involved in House business never is. But it’s too late to back out now. He’d look a coward if he just ran away without a word now. And Nicholas has been haunting his thoughts for years. It would be good to discover if he had just been remembering a figment of his own imagination.

  “Nicholas, I mean,” Sarran hesitates, “Lord Nicholas?” The intense look the purple-eyed young man is giving him softens slightly. His gaze becomes searching for a long moment before it clears up, as if he was trying to remember from where he recognised the face before him.

  “I remember you – the boy in the woods, right? The one who needed some teaching on how to throw a punch?”

  “That’s right,” Sarran replies, heartened that Nicholas clearly recognises him, even if he might not remember his name, and full of relief that the dangerous edge seems to have disappeared. Nicholas’ hand has moved away from his sword hilt and he’s looking a lot more friendly. Considering that that afternoon was probably significantly more impactful for Sarran, he’s surprised that Nicholas recognises him at all. “And I just wanted to say-” He cuts himself off as a glint of steel kicks the speed of his thoughts up a notch. “Watch out!”

  Nicholas turns in the direction of Sarran’s gaze, but it feels like the world is moving through molasses – Nicholas is moving too slowly even as the blade stabs towards him.

  Sarran is moving before he has time to think. Not away from danger, but towards it. His hands make contact with Nicholas, pushing him away from where the blade is aiming.

  It all happens so fast. A line of searing fire opens up across his ribs, and an explosion beneath his fingers sends his whole body flying backwards.

  The landing knocks the air from his lungs and his head impacts with something hard, stars exploding before his eyes. The moment extends for what feels like an impossible amount of time before his lungs finally relax enough for him to take in the breath they’re screaming for.

  Even once he’s able to breathe, the knock to his head leaves him dazed and groggy. It takes a moment for him to realise that hands are touching him. He glances up to see an unfamiliar face, the lined, disapproving visage of an old woman. She tuts even as her fingers gently test the back of his head.

  “Violence at the harvest festival? Whatever next?” she harrumphs. Once she’s finished inspecting his injury, she lays on a poultice which Sarran feels immediately starts to work, numbing the pain radiating from that starburst of damage.

  She next moves to work on the injury to his side which he’d almost forgotten about but which roars back into his awareness with a vengeance at her touch. With her out of the way, Sarran becomes aware of a pair of boots moving into his view. Excellently-made boots. Expensive. Lifting his head – carefully so as not to disrupt the poultice – he follows the line of leg with its well-made breeches, body clothed in an ornate waistcoat covering a finely-woven tunic, neck and then finally head of the owner of the lavish outfit.

  He immediately knows who this has to be – the older face contains the same shade of purple eyes as his son. Not to mention the same slightly pointed ears, though his skin colour is a shade darker than Nicholas’. And from the richness of his clothes, it’s very clear that this is a true lord of a House.

  “My lord?” Sarran croaks, wincing when the vibrations of his own voice rattle through his head. But he cannot just ignore this man standing before him. “What can I do for you?”

  “Why did you save my son?” the lord asks, his eyes piercing. Sarran almost has a fancy that the man can see straight through to his soul. He gulps and doesn’t even consider lying. Not that he needs to, fortunately.

  “I acted from reflex,” he admits. “I saw the dagger, and the obvious target and…reacted.”

  The lord eyes him silently for a long moment and Sarran almost starts sweating under the piercing nature of that gaze.

  And then the lord looks to his side and Sarran almost collapses in relief.

  “Nicholas, what do you know of this young man? Is he a stranger to you or have you encountered each other before?”

  “Once,” Nicholas admits. “Years back.” A cheeky look appears on his face as he looks up at his father with an affection that makes Sarran’s heart ache. Especially when he sees the affection being returned in the eyes of the lord. “You remember I went through a period of playing truant on my tutors?”

  “I remember,” the lord practically growls, looking baleful enough to make Sarran quail back slightly. Nicholas just grins a little more.

  “Well, on one of those outings, I came across Sarran in the woods and we both determined that he needed a few pointers on how to fight.”

  “That was your only interaction?”

  “It was.”

  The lord hums, looking speculatively at Sarran.

  “Sarran, is it?” he asks.

  “Sarran Mirransson, my lord,” Sarran offers slightly uncomfortably – he knows his father has a reputation for driving hard bargains, regardless of who they’re with. People cursing his name after making a deal with him is far more common than them blessing the merchant’s arrival. It’s possible that this lord may have heard of him even if they haven’t had any direct dealings.

  “The merchant?”

  Sarran lowers his eyes in shame. Apparently he has.

  “Yes, my lord,” he confirms quietly, then hisses in pain as the herb-woman presses something against the gash in his side which stings painfully. She just tuts again at him and mutters for him to hold still.

  “You have acted with honour this night, Sarran Mirransson. You pushed my son out of an assassin’s path, earning a wound for your troubles. It is my regret that you earned even more when the explosive ward around my son registered you as a threat, and sent you flying backwards. Should you be inclined to follow your father’s footsteps and become a merchant, you will find custom with my House.” Even Sarran could hear the capitalisation there, not that he had thought any differently, not with the aura of power that this man carries with him like a mantle. The clothes could have been bought by a wealthy merchant; the power and authority stems from a different source entirely.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sarran thinks that he might spot his father in the crowd. Imagination or not, he doesn’t need to think hard about how his father would take this news. The possibility of becoming a supplier to a House…. Yet he can’t help but ask the next question, driven by a need to become something other than what his life has directed he become.

  “And if I am not, my lord?” he ventures, almost sure that he can see his father’s face purpling. But perhaps it is just his imagination. Hopefully it’s just his imagination.

  “If you are not what?”

  “If I am not…inclined to become a merchant?” Sarran asks, then swallows nervously. He knows full well what even asking the question will cost him, sure that news of it will reach his father whether or not the man truly is watching the events. Though surely he is not – if he were, he would have stepped forwards already, eager to gain the acquaintanceship of a lord through his son’s efforts. A beating lies in Sarran’s future, sure as the fact that his head already aches fit to burst. But if he can somehow open up a different future, the pain will be worth it. He’s already suffered far more for far less, after all.

  The lord’s eyes pierce him once more, sharp enough to make Sarran barely dare to breathe.

  “Well, my son is looking for a manservant,” the lord muses quietly.

  “I am?” Sarran hears Nicholas mutter. If it wasn’t his future at stake, Sarran might actually be amused at the tone which it seems any young man of their age uses when one’s father is making unilateral decisions about one’s future, lord or merchant.

  The lord turns to fix Nicholas with a look and Sarran has to admit that he’s glad he’s not the subject of that piercing gaze.

  “After only one meeting, this young man was willing to throw himself between you and an assassin, heedless of the risk to himself. Even if it’s not our usual way of doing things, I can think of none better to serve and protect you for years to come. If he is amenable, of course.” At that, he looks questioningly at Sarran.

  Sarran feels his heart rise into his mouth as hope sparks within him. Although some might hold the position of merchant to be higher than that of a servant, being manservant to the son of a lord, most likely the heir, is a position that is not to be disregarded. And honestly, Sarran is tired of the life of constant travel that is a merchant’s lot. He’s tired of pressing coins out of poor old ladies, tired of wheedling with farmers to sell stock at the lowest price possible so that they can make a better profit margin, tired of extolling the virtues of their products when he knows it’s defective in one way or another, doing their best to outshout the merchants selling around them.

  And perhaps as a manservant, he could have a home. Perhaps even a couple of friends who he doesn’t have to constantly leave. And even if Nicholas hasn’t exactly received the idea with joy, he doesn’t look completely opposed to it, thoughtful rather than rebellious.

  Refusing to look at the area which might or might not contain his father, Sarran locks eyes with the lord, braving that piercing gaze as he makes the decision which will change his life.

  “My lord, I would be honoured to become your son’s manservant,” he declared clearly.

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