The next morning soft sunlight spilled in through the windows of town hall, across the planks in the floor and across the array of papers on the desk. The oil lamp was smoldering. And Tarc was slouching in his chair, his eyes closed behind his glasses and his mouth hanging open. His lungs were so big and his breathing so slow and deep that the back of his chair rocked and squeaked with every breath.
When a knock came at the door he sat up with a start. “Come in,” he said, wiping his chin dry with the back of his hand.
Jaysynn walked in the door. “You said I was to report here this morning.”
“That’s right,” said Tarc. “The special projects man should be here soon. What time is it anyway.” Tarc leaned back to look out the window as Jaysynn answered.
“About a quarter till seven, I suppose. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” said Tarc. He lifted at his glasses to rub at his eyes, and then looked down to notice a spot of drool on his lapel. “And yourself?”
Made over by sleep deprivation, Jaysynn looked ten years older and wearier. “I’m ready to get moving,” he said.
“Good,” said Tarc, tiredly. “That’s what I like to hear.” He brushed at the damp spot on his clothes and then cleared his throat. “Listen, Elric.” He had switched into friendly mode. “As one rule-breaker to another, let me tell you, your life is in danger all the time…. And if you wake up, say, tomorrow morning, and everything is not what you wanted it to be, just…take note that you’re alive. Be thankful for it.”
Jaysynn stood not far inside the doorway with a questioning gaze. “Are you trying to tell me something?” he said.
“Nothing in particular,” said Tarc with a slow shaking of the head. “Just some general advice.”
Jaysynn took a deep breath. “Do you know who I am, sir?”
“Yes,” Tarc said. Jaysynn exhaled. His shoulders fell.
“You’re the man who’s going to start my bakery,” Tarc went on. “As for who you were yesterday…” he tapped his pointer finger on his chest, “I don’t care.”
Jaysynn nodded thoughtfully. “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Dammit. If I had more to say I would have said it. Now shut up and take a seat until the projects man shows up.”
Jaysynn moved toward a chair against the wall, but before he was in it another man came in the door. He was young, energetic, with the enthusiasm of a salesman, and carried a binder of papers that appeared to be much more organized than anything within Tarc’s reach.
“You must be Elric,” he said, shaking Jaysynn’s hand. “I’m Martynn. Today we’ll be taking a look at the site where the bakery will be built and talking about its size, its layout, and the equipment you’ll need.”
Tarc stood and said, “If you need me I’ll be in the back room.”
“You look like you could use it,” said Martynn cordially. He turned back to Jaysynn and went on: “I understand you have someone you want working with you. Should we consult her about the building details?”
“Yes,” said Jaysynn. “She will know more about it than me.”
The door shut behind Tarc, and Martynn’s voice grew quiet and his face, which had so far been a fashionable smile, turned suspicious. He glanced about with his brow drawn tight and tension in his cheeks.
“Now that he’s out of the room,” he said, “there’s a message I was asked to deliver to you—from one of the higher-ups. He says, ‘I can take you back where you belong. Meet me tomorrow night under the branches of the cottonwood. Elthor… Elthor be praised.’ That’s what he said. He didn’t tell me another word. I even asked if you would know what all that meant, and he just said it was nice weather and walked away. And that’s fine with me. I don’t want to know about any secrets that might get me in trouble. Tomorrow night under the cottonwood. That’s what he said.” He became loud and happy once again. “Now let’s find your helper so we can start laying out this building, what do you say?”
So far this morning Jaysynn had been told that he might wake up somewhere strange tomorrow, and that in two nights he should meet with, apparently, someone who would take him back to Thyrion. His enthusiasm toward the project was dwindling. He wanted now to get caught up in the intrigue, to figure out what was at play behind the scenes, but found he was too exhausted for all that. They didn’t seem like personal problems: They seemed political. They seemed Imperial.
He didn’t have the strength to care. So he looked at the day ahead as a day of labor, and followed the project man to the work site.
Martynn’s notes told him right where to find Kyrie, who was excited to hear the news that she and Jaysynn would be running a bakery. They spent much of the rest of the day on a grassy knob, the future building site, making drawings and laying out walls by stretching ropes across the ground.
At the end of the day they went back to the town hall, where Martynn turned over the final drawings to Tarc. He also took a short stack of books from one of the other rooms and handed them to Jaysynn.
“We don’t have much of a library,” Martynn said, “but we’ve gotten our hands on a few pieces of practical literature. This is everything we have on site that talks about large-scale baking. You’ll do some unskilled construction work until this thing is built, but you’ll also have a little time to study. Good luck. I’ll be in touch.”
Martynn left and Jaysynn and Tarc remained in the building. The light coming through the windows now was indirect, the soft light of late evening.
“Have a good night, sir,” Jaysynn said as he reached for the door, holding his stack of books in one arm.
“Oh, yes,” said Tarc. “Of course. Um…thank you.”
Jaysynn turned the knob, but waited for Tarc to say something more, but he was absorbed in his work, blotting names out of his books and adding other names.
A gentle push, the door was opened. Jaysynn walked across the dust and to his bunkhouse. He was beaten by the day and by the last two nights.
But just as Tarc had worked himself to exhaustion the night before, had sacrificed true rest for the camp at his command, and had at last fallen asleep in his office chair; so Jaysynn labored over his bakery. It was a little thing, a paltry responsibility compared to what Kyrie believed was his true purpose. But somehow he found he could care about a little thing more than a big one. So, ready for sleep as he was, he picked up one of the books that Martynn had handed him and read about oven temperatures until the words drifted into space. The moon rose and the last traces of light disappeared from the room, and at last he fell asleep.
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