CHAPTER 72: 72: THE STRANGER RETURNS XIV

The man’s gaze flicked to Gael, who had stepped into the doorway of the back room in his apron and shirt sleeves, hair iron-gray and beard still smelling faintly of smoke. Then the gaze slid to John, paused with a visible measure, and moved on as if he had found a stain and decided not to acknowledge it.

"You are not safe," the man said. "I am your protector. I am responsible for your person and your reputation. You will come with me. Now."

"No," Sera said.

"You cannot spend a night in a forge," the man said. "With an old man and a boy who does not know his place."

Fizz made a sound like a kettle beginning to scream. "He did not."

John’s hand tightened minutely. "Stay," he said, "quiet," to Fizz.

Fizz whispered through his teeth. "I can bite that clasp off his cloak and feed it to him letter by letter."

"Stop," John repeated without looking away from the man.

Sera’s eyes hardened by a shade. "You will not speak about them in that tone."

"I will speak in any tone necessary," the man said. "Your assignment here is complete. Your room at the temple is prepared. The High priest will expect you to keep discipline while you await your next posting. Come with me."

"No," Sera said again, and there was winter in it this time. "I am staying."

The man stared at her for a heartbeat as if she had spoken in a language he had never heard. Then he glanced past her shoulder toward the lamplight and the tools and the ledger on the table, as if the room were an accomplice.

"This is foolish," he said.

"It is my decision," Sera replied.

The man squared his shoulders and tried again, this time lowering his voice to something that wanted to sound like care and kept sounding like command. "Priestess, you know the way tongues work in towns like this. Sleep in a forge and you will hear your name in mouths that never learned to be clean. Come back to the temple resting room. I cannot protect you here."

"I do not need you to protect me," Sera said. "I need you to leave."

His jaw flexed. "You are under temple discipline."

"I am," she said. "And I am not under yours."

Fizz, unable to keep entirely quiet, drifted close to John’s ear and hissed, "He is so lucky I am practicing non violence today. I could roll him up like a carpet if you were a bit stronger. I could tie his boots together with righteous fury. I could—"

"Be quiet," John murmured.

"Let me insult him at least," Fizz whispered. "Your face is doing such a good job being dignified that the world needs my balance."

The man looked between them, and in his glance John read the sentence he did not speak. He saw three bodies and sorted them by rank without knowing anything about their work or their worth. John had seen that look in larger halls. It always put all its faith in furniture.

"This door is not yours," Sera said. "Leave it."

He held her gaze two seconds too long and then stepped back. If he were thirty, he had learned to lose without appearing to retreat. He put two fingers to the clasp on his cloak as if to remind himself that he belonged to a symbol larger than the room.

"I will inform the High priest that you are being willful," he said.

"You may inform the High priest that I am helping a friend," she answered. "Leave now and close the gate behind you."

He hesitated, perhaps to collect the last word, then turned and went, boots crisp on the lane, cloak straight, shoulders stiff, the shape of a man who had not gotten what he came for and would invent a reason to call it virtue.

Fizz exploded the moment the footsteps faded. He erupted into whispers so intense they were almost a dance.

"I will inform the High priest that he is a barking broom," Fizz said. "I will inform the dawn that he smells like boiled cabbage. I will inform the moon that he has the heart of a kicked bucket. I will paint his face on an onion and then cry when I cut it, not for love but because onions do that."

"Fizz," John said.

"I will write a song about him," Fizz continued, "called The Tale of a fool who Takes Himself Too Seriously. Verse one: he mistakes rank for spine. Verse two: he trips over his own shadow and blames the sun. Chorus: la la la you are a cabbage. I am a genius I know."

"Fizz," John said, firmer.

Fizz huffed, cheeks puffed, ears tilted. "Fine. I am done. For now."

Sera exhaled and let her shoulders drop the inch she had held. She looked at Gael first and then at John.

"I am sorry," she said. "He should not have brought his tone to your door."

Gael waved it away with two fingers. "I have had worse tone from others."

Sera’s mouth tugged. Then she faced John. "You did nothing to deserve that."

"I have done many things to deserve many things," John said. "That was not one of them."

Fizz, incapable of letting an insult die a natural death, peeked back out the door and made a face at the lane. "Imagine calling Gael an old man like it is a problem. He is a premium vintage. He is an oak barrel full of competence. And imagine calling John a boy who does not know his place. His place is wherever he decides to stand and the world can move around him like a polite cart."

Sera tried not to smile and failed. The fail was small and honest. She stepped away from the door and rubbed a thumb along the edge of her sleeve, thoughtful again.

"May I ask for a favor," she said. "And may I say it in a way that does not sound like I am using you."