The Landlady: Family Fiction Contest
Title: The Landlady
Author: mortalasabee
Thanks to my sister, gentlest_sin , for her last minute editing and for being generally lovely.
Disclaimer: mwt is the best, and it sometimes distresses me that I will never be that cool. This all belongs to her.
Author's note: I saw this prompt and, not being one to read or write fanfic, thought little of it. Then the day before the deadline this story popped into my head, very nearly fully formed. What could I do but give in?
I have always liked the landlady in The Thief who gives Gen a bundle of food to set him on his journey. This is her story, as I imagine it.
I'm not sure if this adheres strictly to the rule of keeping the focus on the canon characters, but the book characters are all in it, and there is only one character who is entirely made up. This is the story of a grieving mother, and the effect that our charming little thief has on her.
The landlady stood in the doorway beside her husband, arms crossed, fingers drumming impatiently on her elbow. The wealthy landholder they had been preparing for had finally arrived, and her husband wanted her with him as he greeted them.
They had run themselves ragged in the past week, sick with worry. The landlord handled the stress by throwing himself into his work at their inn, frantically trying to please guests in the vain hope of raising enough money in the next year to pay their son's fine. His wife had not slept for a week. She was haggard, and in her weary fear she became cold and shrewish.
She had better things to do now than pander to a single small landholder who fancied himself quite high and mighty, but she held her polite smile steady as they trooped in; the landholder first, his quick eyes above the arched nose surveying the room dispassionately, then two boys, apprentices by their identical uniform, the elder haughty and displeased by everything and the younger exuding a puppyish desire to please everyone.
After him came the smell. The landlady wrinkled her nose. It was the smell of dank, small spaces, of misery and pain and desperation. It floated in with another boy, smaller than the others, who was being marched in by a tall, blank soldier. As the boy reached the door she raised a hand in protest.
"That one," she said, pointing an accusing finger at the boy. "It's that one that smells so awful, and he's not coming into my wineroom and I won't have him sleeping in any of my clean beds." Her husband's terrified eyes met hers, and he tried to hush her while simultaneously reassuring and apologizing to his guests. But she would not be quelled.
"No, I won't have it. Not if he's your lordship's son," she said to the wealthy man, and then, her tongue speaking faster than her good sense usually allowed she added, "Although I hope he's not." She glanced at the subject of their argument. He looked like he wanted the paving stones of the courtyard to discreetly open and swallow him up. For a moment she felt some sympathy for the poor thing, but she was resolved.
"I have my other patrons to think of, sir," she said. "I can give him a place in the barn." The man protested, and slipping a silver coin into her hand he promised that he would wash the boy immediately, and he would sleep on the floor.
"There's a pump in the courtyard round back," was all she said before turning to usher the rest of her guests up to their rooms.
When she had seen to their every comfort she trudged back down to the dining room, where she made the rounds of hospitality, bringing dishes, wiping tables, and making sure everyone was settled. The elder apprentice entered the room and sauntered up to the bar. The landlady watched out of the corner of her eye as he leaned nonchalantly on the counter and looked the barkeep up and down with hungry eyes. He spoke to her, every movement of his body dripping with flirtation. With an icy look and a disdainful word, the barkeep sent him leaping back as if struck. The landlady almost smiled.
The apprentice's younger copy chose that moment to come in, rushing eagerly to his friend's side. His elder brushed passed him, making a motion as if to shove him into the wall, but was stopped by the entrance of their master who gave them a stern look and directed them to a table in the middle of the room.
The landlady moved behind the bar, and in a quiet moment she touched the barkeep's head, caressing her hair and tucking a rebellious strand back into the clasp. Then she leaned down to kiss her daughter on the cheek. In her exhausted, tremulous state she found herself caught in a fleeting sense of wonder and fear at the delicate bonds that held her family together. That this surprising, capable young woman was her very own daughter. That she could love her children so much, only to risk having them torn away. Her daughter turned wide eyes to her mother, and looked unsurprised to see tears there. She embraced her mother, unable to offer any words of comfort or reassurance.
When the landlady came back to herself and commenced her work, the soldier and his charge were sitting at the table with their companions. As she set bowls of stew before them he took a lamp from the wall and set it on the table, and took one of the boy's hands in his, examining the festering sores on his wrists. She inhaled sharply and hurried away, returning with soap and clean water, her empathy and curiosity rising. The boy's damp hair clung to his sallow face in matted tendrils, and with the shadow of dirt gone she could see how young and gaunt he was. She felt the tears pricking again, and she hurried upstairs to prepare a room for another guest. By the time she descended again, the group was gone.
*****
The landlady rose early the next morning and prepared breakfast. In a rare solitary moment, when the servants and family were occupied elsewhere in the house, she let the hot stabbing weight overtake her. Sinking onto a bench at the kitchen table she gave into the wave of grief. She was a woman used to bustling and scolding, not crying, and was startled by the dry, racking sobs emanating from a hidden place deep inside of her. She tried to quiet herself, but the more she tried to suppress the sobs the more frantic and desperate the sounds became. She pressed a towel to her face, trying in vain to muffle the frightening sounds that were jerked out of her.
One week. One long, tortuous, unbearable week since her son was taken away. Her son, too old for such stupid, childish tricks. But old enough to be carted away and imprisoned for them. They could not afford to pay his fine, nor could they afford the bribe the jailer hinted at as he stroked his oily beard, his damp doughy hand resting lightly on the keys at his belt. Fingering them casually, suggestive of his ease with such power. Her son, her baby, stuck mouldering in Sounis' prison for the foolish theft of an amphora of wine. The landlady laid her head on the table, shaking.
Strong arms enfolded her from behind, and she leaned back into the embrace of her oldest son who had quietly entered the house. He said nothing. Like his sister, he had no words that could relieve his mother's suffering. He hesitated to speak, for the news he brought her would only cause more grief.
"Did you see him?" she whispered. She heard his sigh in her ear, and felt him shake his head.
"They would not let me in," he said, sliding around to sit backwards on the bench next to her. He placed a bundle on the table. "And they would not let me send this in." The jailer had leered at him, offering to take the package in to the prisoner himself, but the image of the fat man gorging on his mother's meat pies had sickened him and he had refused, returning home in defeat. "I'm sorry."
She took his hand in hers, laying her head on her son's shoulder. The coarse fabric of his army tunic scratched at her cheek as she worked to bury her fears. After a long minute she rose, smoothed her skirts and hair, and touched her son's face.
"We must must keep hoping, my eldest," she murmured. Her eldest son. She tried not to think that he was now her only son. He stood and took both her hands in his and kissed the top of her head. When he was little he used to clamber up on the table to kiss his mother on the head, just as his father always did. Now he had to stoop to reach her, his indomitable mother. Now he seemed to look at her from a great distance, and saw she was not as unbreakable as he had always thought.
He left her there, carrying his sword and helm as he clattered off down the alley.
She went back to work, but the bundle on the table kept drawing her attention; accusing her, blaming her.
Their family had been through hard times. When their old inn burned to the ground there were several unsteady years, and when her husband was ill she had done the work of two and gone to her bed every night weeping with fatigue. But through it all she had always been able to feed her family. She could not bear to think of her failure, of her son growing thinner and sicker in the prison when here before her there was food. Finally she pushed the bundle to the far end of the table went out to see to her guests.
She dredged up some of her usual vigor and bustled up to the table where the wealthy landholder was breakfasting with his party. She started to ask if they would like a packed lunch, but her voice trailed off as the smelly boy turned to look at her.
The last traces of dirt were erased, and he now smelled pleasantly of lavender and soap. He had forced his hair into some semblance of submissive order, and his revealed face was bright, his eyes clear. He was eating an orange, digging out the pips before popping the whole wedge into his mouth at once and chewing, open-mouthed, with rapturous delight. He reminded her so strongly of her own young son with his wild hair, cheerful face and dedication to culinary appreciation that she faltered and stared at him. He grinned back.
"I clean up nicely, don't I?" he said.
She smiled back, seeing her lost son in his face.
"Yes, you do. Where did you get so dirty?"
"Prison," he said.
"Ah," she said. People went to prison all the time. Probably his family had not bribed the tax collector enough. "I expect you're glad to get out," she added lamely.
"Yes, ma'am, especially because the food is so good."
She laughed at that, and remembering herself turned back to the landholder's frowning countenance. "Was there anything else that you needed, sir?"
"No, we'll stop in Evisa for lunch, thank you."
She walked away, glancing back several times to look at the boy sitting at the table with the landholder as their companions went out to see to the horses and gear. He looked so small, and despite his companions he seemed very, very alone.
*****
The landlady watched through the kitchen window as the party mounted their horses, smiling as the boy lurched up into the saddle, almost falling off the other side before the old soldier steadied him. She wished she could do something for him, protect him, or at least show him one small bit of kindness. As they walked their horses toward the gate into the alley she spun around and stared at the bundle of meat pies still sitting on the table. She hesitated only a moment, then snatched it up and ran to the front door. She met them just as the boy rode out of the gate, and she reached up to stop his horse.
"A little something to eat while you're riding. It's a long way to Evisa." She handed him the bundle and added, by way of explanation, "My youngest is down in the prison."
"Oh," was all he said. She searched his face, looking for reassurance, for some hint of her own son to come to her again through this boy. As she gazed at him hungrily the landholder grabbed the boy's horse jerked him away. No, please don't take him from me again, she thought wildly, reaching out instinctively for his hand.
"Don't worry too much," the boy said as he was led off. "It's not so bad." And he gave her a slow, sweet smile.
It was just the sort of outrageous lie her own son would tell. In her mind she saw him, finally released from prison in many years' time, coming home to her dirty and sick and telling her that it was really not so bad after all. She held onto this vision of the future, of her son returning to her just the same as he left, and her smile lit up her face.
The boy grinned back. Then he was gone.
That boy had a mother somewhere. She wondered if his mother was worrying about him, weeping through the night and struggling to hold her life together through the day, waiting for the time he would return, fearing the day she would hear that he never could return. She wondered if his mother knew that he was being led away by unfriendly strangers. She wondered if his mother would ever get to see her son again.
She stood in the street as the sun rose above the houses, watching until the boy and his companions wound out of sight. Closing her eyes, she sent a wordless prayer to the god of mothers, to Earth the mother of all. She prayed for her own son and for this boy whose name she never even knew. She thanked the mother god for bringing him to her when she needed him most, and prayed that someone somewhere was watching over her own son. Thinking back to the boy's smile she felt a serene strength flow into her, and knew her prayer had been heard.
She lifted her head, turned, and went back into the inn.
fine
Author: mortalasabee
Thanks to my sister, gentlest_sin , for her last minute editing and for being generally lovely.
Disclaimer: mwt is the best, and it sometimes distresses me that I will never be that cool. This all belongs to her.
Author's note: I saw this prompt and, not being one to read or write fanfic, thought little of it. Then the day before the deadline this story popped into my head, very nearly fully formed. What could I do but give in?
I have always liked the landlady in The Thief who gives Gen a bundle of food to set him on his journey. This is her story, as I imagine it.
I'm not sure if this adheres strictly to the rule of keeping the focus on the canon characters, but the book characters are all in it, and there is only one character who is entirely made up. This is the story of a grieving mother, and the effect that our charming little thief has on her.
The landlady stood in the doorway beside her husband, arms crossed, fingers drumming impatiently on her elbow. The wealthy landholder they had been preparing for had finally arrived, and her husband wanted her with him as he greeted them.
They had run themselves ragged in the past week, sick with worry. The landlord handled the stress by throwing himself into his work at their inn, frantically trying to please guests in the vain hope of raising enough money in the next year to pay their son's fine. His wife had not slept for a week. She was haggard, and in her weary fear she became cold and shrewish.
She had better things to do now than pander to a single small landholder who fancied himself quite high and mighty, but she held her polite smile steady as they trooped in; the landholder first, his quick eyes above the arched nose surveying the room dispassionately, then two boys, apprentices by their identical uniform, the elder haughty and displeased by everything and the younger exuding a puppyish desire to please everyone.
After him came the smell. The landlady wrinkled her nose. It was the smell of dank, small spaces, of misery and pain and desperation. It floated in with another boy, smaller than the others, who was being marched in by a tall, blank soldier. As the boy reached the door she raised a hand in protest.
"That one," she said, pointing an accusing finger at the boy. "It's that one that smells so awful, and he's not coming into my wineroom and I won't have him sleeping in any of my clean beds." Her husband's terrified eyes met hers, and he tried to hush her while simultaneously reassuring and apologizing to his guests. But she would not be quelled.
"No, I won't have it. Not if he's your lordship's son," she said to the wealthy man, and then, her tongue speaking faster than her good sense usually allowed she added, "Although I hope he's not." She glanced at the subject of their argument. He looked like he wanted the paving stones of the courtyard to discreetly open and swallow him up. For a moment she felt some sympathy for the poor thing, but she was resolved.
"I have my other patrons to think of, sir," she said. "I can give him a place in the barn." The man protested, and slipping a silver coin into her hand he promised that he would wash the boy immediately, and he would sleep on the floor.
"There's a pump in the courtyard round back," was all she said before turning to usher the rest of her guests up to their rooms.
When she had seen to their every comfort she trudged back down to the dining room, where she made the rounds of hospitality, bringing dishes, wiping tables, and making sure everyone was settled. The elder apprentice entered the room and sauntered up to the bar. The landlady watched out of the corner of her eye as he leaned nonchalantly on the counter and looked the barkeep up and down with hungry eyes. He spoke to her, every movement of his body dripping with flirtation. With an icy look and a disdainful word, the barkeep sent him leaping back as if struck. The landlady almost smiled.
The apprentice's younger copy chose that moment to come in, rushing eagerly to his friend's side. His elder brushed passed him, making a motion as if to shove him into the wall, but was stopped by the entrance of their master who gave them a stern look and directed them to a table in the middle of the room.
The landlady moved behind the bar, and in a quiet moment she touched the barkeep's head, caressing her hair and tucking a rebellious strand back into the clasp. Then she leaned down to kiss her daughter on the cheek. In her exhausted, tremulous state she found herself caught in a fleeting sense of wonder and fear at the delicate bonds that held her family together. That this surprising, capable young woman was her very own daughter. That she could love her children so much, only to risk having them torn away. Her daughter turned wide eyes to her mother, and looked unsurprised to see tears there. She embraced her mother, unable to offer any words of comfort or reassurance.
When the landlady came back to herself and commenced her work, the soldier and his charge were sitting at the table with their companions. As she set bowls of stew before them he took a lamp from the wall and set it on the table, and took one of the boy's hands in his, examining the festering sores on his wrists. She inhaled sharply and hurried away, returning with soap and clean water, her empathy and curiosity rising. The boy's damp hair clung to his sallow face in matted tendrils, and with the shadow of dirt gone she could see how young and gaunt he was. She felt the tears pricking again, and she hurried upstairs to prepare a room for another guest. By the time she descended again, the group was gone.
*****
The landlady rose early the next morning and prepared breakfast. In a rare solitary moment, when the servants and family were occupied elsewhere in the house, she let the hot stabbing weight overtake her. Sinking onto a bench at the kitchen table she gave into the wave of grief. She was a woman used to bustling and scolding, not crying, and was startled by the dry, racking sobs emanating from a hidden place deep inside of her. She tried to quiet herself, but the more she tried to suppress the sobs the more frantic and desperate the sounds became. She pressed a towel to her face, trying in vain to muffle the frightening sounds that were jerked out of her.
One week. One long, tortuous, unbearable week since her son was taken away. Her son, too old for such stupid, childish tricks. But old enough to be carted away and imprisoned for them. They could not afford to pay his fine, nor could they afford the bribe the jailer hinted at as he stroked his oily beard, his damp doughy hand resting lightly on the keys at his belt. Fingering them casually, suggestive of his ease with such power. Her son, her baby, stuck mouldering in Sounis' prison for the foolish theft of an amphora of wine. The landlady laid her head on the table, shaking.
Strong arms enfolded her from behind, and she leaned back into the embrace of her oldest son who had quietly entered the house. He said nothing. Like his sister, he had no words that could relieve his mother's suffering. He hesitated to speak, for the news he brought her would only cause more grief.
"Did you see him?" she whispered. She heard his sigh in her ear, and felt him shake his head.
"They would not let me in," he said, sliding around to sit backwards on the bench next to her. He placed a bundle on the table. "And they would not let me send this in." The jailer had leered at him, offering to take the package in to the prisoner himself, but the image of the fat man gorging on his mother's meat pies had sickened him and he had refused, returning home in defeat. "I'm sorry."
She took his hand in hers, laying her head on her son's shoulder. The coarse fabric of his army tunic scratched at her cheek as she worked to bury her fears. After a long minute she rose, smoothed her skirts and hair, and touched her son's face.
"We must must keep hoping, my eldest," she murmured. Her eldest son. She tried not to think that he was now her only son. He stood and took both her hands in his and kissed the top of her head. When he was little he used to clamber up on the table to kiss his mother on the head, just as his father always did. Now he had to stoop to reach her, his indomitable mother. Now he seemed to look at her from a great distance, and saw she was not as unbreakable as he had always thought.
He left her there, carrying his sword and helm as he clattered off down the alley.
She went back to work, but the bundle on the table kept drawing her attention; accusing her, blaming her.
Their family had been through hard times. When their old inn burned to the ground there were several unsteady years, and when her husband was ill she had done the work of two and gone to her bed every night weeping with fatigue. But through it all she had always been able to feed her family. She could not bear to think of her failure, of her son growing thinner and sicker in the prison when here before her there was food. Finally she pushed the bundle to the far end of the table went out to see to her guests.
She dredged up some of her usual vigor and bustled up to the table where the wealthy landholder was breakfasting with his party. She started to ask if they would like a packed lunch, but her voice trailed off as the smelly boy turned to look at her.
The last traces of dirt were erased, and he now smelled pleasantly of lavender and soap. He had forced his hair into some semblance of submissive order, and his revealed face was bright, his eyes clear. He was eating an orange, digging out the pips before popping the whole wedge into his mouth at once and chewing, open-mouthed, with rapturous delight. He reminded her so strongly of her own young son with his wild hair, cheerful face and dedication to culinary appreciation that she faltered and stared at him. He grinned back.
"I clean up nicely, don't I?" he said.
She smiled back, seeing her lost son in his face.
"Yes, you do. Where did you get so dirty?"
"Prison," he said.
"Ah," she said. People went to prison all the time. Probably his family had not bribed the tax collector enough. "I expect you're glad to get out," she added lamely.
"Yes, ma'am, especially because the food is so good."
She laughed at that, and remembering herself turned back to the landholder's frowning countenance. "Was there anything else that you needed, sir?"
"No, we'll stop in Evisa for lunch, thank you."
She walked away, glancing back several times to look at the boy sitting at the table with the landholder as their companions went out to see to the horses and gear. He looked so small, and despite his companions he seemed very, very alone.
*****
The landlady watched through the kitchen window as the party mounted their horses, smiling as the boy lurched up into the saddle, almost falling off the other side before the old soldier steadied him. She wished she could do something for him, protect him, or at least show him one small bit of kindness. As they walked their horses toward the gate into the alley she spun around and stared at the bundle of meat pies still sitting on the table. She hesitated only a moment, then snatched it up and ran to the front door. She met them just as the boy rode out of the gate, and she reached up to stop his horse.
"A little something to eat while you're riding. It's a long way to Evisa." She handed him the bundle and added, by way of explanation, "My youngest is down in the prison."
"Oh," was all he said. She searched his face, looking for reassurance, for some hint of her own son to come to her again through this boy. As she gazed at him hungrily the landholder grabbed the boy's horse jerked him away. No, please don't take him from me again, she thought wildly, reaching out instinctively for his hand.
"Don't worry too much," the boy said as he was led off. "It's not so bad." And he gave her a slow, sweet smile.
It was just the sort of outrageous lie her own son would tell. In her mind she saw him, finally released from prison in many years' time, coming home to her dirty and sick and telling her that it was really not so bad after all. She held onto this vision of the future, of her son returning to her just the same as he left, and her smile lit up her face.
The boy grinned back. Then he was gone.
That boy had a mother somewhere. She wondered if his mother was worrying about him, weeping through the night and struggling to hold her life together through the day, waiting for the time he would return, fearing the day she would hear that he never could return. She wondered if his mother knew that he was being led away by unfriendly strangers. She wondered if his mother would ever get to see her son again.
She stood in the street as the sun rose above the houses, watching until the boy and his companions wound out of sight. Closing her eyes, she sent a wordless prayer to the god of mothers, to Earth the mother of all. She prayed for her own son and for this boy whose name she never even knew. She thanked the mother god for bringing him to her when she needed him most, and prayed that someone somewhere was watching over her own son. Thinking back to the boy's smile she felt a serene strength flow into her, and knew her prayer had been heard.
She lifted her head, turned, and went back into the inn.
fine