Iamerge found his way back to the warmth of the fire and the attentions of the monks.  Hebrews saw him first and quickly saw to his cut.  Iamerge was relieved there were no questions, but Hebrews’ curious glances built a need in him to confess.

When he could stand it no more he blurted out, “I couldn’t bear to see Conal die right there beside me, I don’t know why.  I ran off and got tangled in the brush.”  The heat on his neck wasn’t from the fire.

Hebrews’ brow furrowed in thought, “Is that the fellow who had his legs crushed by the ox cart?  I think he is well as can be expected.”

“Surely not, he was all blood and bandages and slipping off to sleep, I thought forever.”

“Not so.  God is good.  He slept for a bit, but he woke as we sang office and I brought him some strong birch tea.”

Perhaps a god who would let a man so mauled live was not so kind as all that, Iamerge thought to himself but said, “That is good news.”

“Perhaps you can see him, if you like.  He asked after you.” Hebrews’ smile was guileless and without reproach, but Iamerge wondered if he in fact intended to heap coals of guilt on his head for abandoning the man.  Whether he meant it or not the effect was the same, Iamerge was guilty.

“I will,” Iamerge allowed.  He began to rise and Hebrews was standing beside to help him up.  “Thanks.” Iamerge turned away as he spoke so he wouldn’t have to see Hebrews or be seen by the man.  His face was hot with embarrassment.

Fortunately, the blue light of Spark hid the color on his face.  Gospels caught him to hand him two bowls of gruel and asked after the bandage on his head.  He had to admit to his cowardice again.  Gospels seemed unfazed and directed him to take the other bowl to Conal as if the monk hadn’t heard him say that he’d run off into the night to avoid the man.

The blue light made Conal look ghastly.  His eyes closed, Iamerge couldn’t believe that the mangled man wasn’t dead, but after a pause to stare, Iamerge saw that Conal’s chest was rising and falling with quick shallow breath.

“Is that breakfast I smell?” said Conal in a weak voice.

Iamerge was pretty certain he jumped, but Conal’s eyes were closed and he rallied well enough, “Yes, I think Gospels made it for us both with his own hands.”

“Truly?” murmured Conal, blood shot eyes opening and a smile spreading across his haggard face, “Did Gospels really do that?  That’s nice.  Thanks for bring’n it Iamerge.”

Iamerge wasn’t sure what to do.  He had never been a nurturer, not naturally.  He sat down awkwardly near enough to feed the other man, he assumed he would have to and fretted about how one should do so.  Before he could set his own bowl aside and take up the spoon, Conal reached for the nearest bowl and balanced it on his chest with practiced ease.

Conal winked, “I lost my other arm years ago.  I’ve got pretty good with the one.” With not another word the one armed man began to eat eagerly.

The town was coming alive.  Iamerge thrilled to it.  There was the pulse of commerce here, a beat that Iamerge had learned to hear so well that he made himself rich by it over and over.  The carters and the merchants were setting up in the square if they hadn’t been selling since dawn.  Iamerge wandered, noting what was selling, and what was left.

When he got his money from Ua Birlinn he would need to make some purchases.  A set of knives at least, perhaps a sword too, if he could find something not too cumbersome.  He would need clothes, not too ostentatious, but of a quality to give the right impression, of solidity and stature, without revealing superciliousness or foolish pride.

There were many fine garments in the used items he was shuffling through.  He glanced around the offerings he saw. The weapons caught his eye and he scanned them.  He reached for an iron blade with a ebon handle and what looked to be a good balance. 

“What would a man of the Christian God need with such a knife?  That blade is not for cutting potatoes or buttering bread, its for cutting men.”  The woman who spoke chuckled derisively before adding, “Or maybe its true what they say, that all you brothers are gelded.  Still, if that is the case, there are better blades than that one for such purposes.  Has your gelding blade gone dull monk?”

“You do not like the brothers, I hear it, I am sorry to trouble you.”  Iamerge cursed himself for failing to be observant yet again.  He wasn’t even sure where the voice was from.  It had been far too long since he needed to live by his wits.  He turned away from the weapons on the table and almost ran into the woman who had taunted him.

She was beautiful, despite her age, and despite the venomous look on her face.  “You dress like one of those bell ringing eunuchs, but you aren’t one, are you?” She said, “What an odd thing, to gaze on these pretty things, but dress like one of those foolish scribblers.  Who are you trying to fool?”

“I beg your pardon, I do not wish to give offense,” Iamerge tried to retreat, but the woman, tall and graceful, countered his attempts to disengage without making a scene of it.  “I am not of the brotherhood, though I have been staying with them. . .”  The woman countered each move he tried to win free.

Finally, the woman seized his habit and pulled the cowl off his head. ”Well, if you are one of them or just among them it matters naught, what is your business here?”

“Please, I just wished to see the town. . .”

“You are a spy?”

“No no, not at all,” He stammered, then before he could stop himself from saying it he blurted, “I do have a small matter of business in town, but the man isn’t here. I thought I’d see what wares were for sale is all.  I, I, I am sorry. . .”

“Well if that is all, why be sorry? This is a place where people buy and sell, generally people with coin or something to trade. I see no coin purse. . .”

“. . . Perhaps tomorrow, if I conclude my business.”

The woman looked at him oddly, “Well, when you have coin you aught not waste it on these cast offs and seconds.  You will find far better there.”  The woman pointed toward a shop front. “Ua Birlinn has this and better and all of it for less than this robber.  Isn’t that so Jered?”

In his fixation on the things for sale he had not even seen the red faced owner of the little booth, Iamerge cursed his inattention again. The man fumed but only mumbled, “What ever you say, Mongfind.”  Iamerge turned to look at the man and took the opportunity to step back from the table.  The man was angry, but would say nothing more, though hatred burned behind his eyes.

“You see? Even the proveyor of Jered’s Junk is forced to acknowledge it.  So, when you have the coin, come see me.  I’ll make you a better deal than this felon or my name isn’t Mongfind Ua Birlinn.  Isn’t that so Jered?” 

Iamerge stepped back again, but his eyes met the woman’s and she held his gaze until Jered mumbled a sullen, “Whatever you say.”

The woman held Iamerge’s gaze a moment more before turning  her contempt on the merchant and making him look away.  She turned her back, dismissing them both with a shrug, but not another word and sauntered away toward Ua Birlinn’s.

“Ruaridh Ua Birlinn, what can you tell me about him?” asked Iamerge.

Jim took a swig of his ale and then thumped it down on the bar, “Ruaridh is a fine fellow.  As it turns out he’s a better trader than his father.  He runs his business tight like he used to run the ships for his Da.”  Jim picked up his ale and looked at Iamerge as he took another drink.

“Just that?  A better trader than his father?  Runs a tight ship?  You aren’t telling me much, what about the man.  What’s he like?

Cooper chuckled, “Well, I knew his Da, Rod Ua Birlinn.  Let’s just say that Ruaridh is no Roderick, but that might be age.  Might be, but I think it is more like that he takes after his mother.”

“So, its a debt I’ve come to claim.  A deal was struck a long time gone and with the father.  What are my chances, collecting from the son?  If I’m to have aught to pay back your kindness it will come from that.”

“Oh you’ll likely have no trouble.  And as to my fee, I told you, I like to know what’s what, if you’ll tell me what I don’t, I’m more than grateful.  Right now, I’ve told you that Ruaridh ain’t Rod, and that the worst of him might come from Mongfind, the mother.  A boy always wants to live up to the the father and Ruaridh is no exception, he’s a good Celt, open-handed.”

“So avoid Mongfind.  Fair enough.”

“Avoid letting the woman into the business end.”  Cooper shivered and looked back to his ale, “So that’s what I know, now tell me what I don’t know my good friend Iamerge, who looks like a monk but isn’t.  I can tell there’s a story and I’ll hear it.” Jim winked and nursed his ale.

“You’re into town early, brother.” The fellow lounged just inside the gate of a paddock, apparently associated with the nearby rhamshackled inn.  “What brings you to Bellhaven so early?” 

Iamerge stopped and looked at the fellow.  “Well, I’m looking for somebody.  A business matter. . .”

“Business?  Well, then you’ve met your man.  Why, I’m the mayor of Rat Town.”

“Rat town?”

“Sure sure, this ain’t Fish Town, this ain’t the Square, this ain’t the Hill, it’s Rat Town.” The man chuckled to himself, “Truth is t’was rats voted me mayor, so it ain’t rit down or noth’n.  Still, you ask anybody who’s the mayor of Rat Town and they’ll say old Jim is.

“Yes, well good to meet you. . .”

“Jim, Jim Cooper is my name.  I make my way, sure I do.  I know what’s what, and who, that I do.  If you need know’n you talk to old Jim. You ask anyone who the mayor of Rat Town is, they’ll tell you, old Jim is, sure enough.

“I’ll remember your honor.”

Cooper laughed at that and jumped to his feet, “I like you.  Most of them brothers don’t want noth’n to do with old Jim, but you ain’t no brother at all are you?”

Iamerge whirled on the man who was standing in the gate now, not lounging, on his guard, “Why do you say that?” 

Cooper laughed again,  “Well you can take the monk out of the habit, but you can’t take the habits out of the man.  Most of your brothers cut the front of their hair off.  You look like nobody cut your hair for awhile.”  Cooper’s chuckle lost its humor, “No brother’d have much to do with old Jim, but that don’t mean we in town don’t know their worth.  You aren’t likely to find no friend around here if you did them ill.  So how’d you come dressed like a brother to Bellhaven lad, and don’t try to tell Jim no tale.” 

“I’m looking for a man, just looking for him,”  Iamerge stepped back toward the center of the street.

“Now that’s not what I asked,” And Jim Cooper, or whoever he was, moved after, staying closer than Iamerge liked.

“I’m staying with the brothers, with Gospels,”  He said, defensively. There was a rumbling, but Iamerge’s attention was on old Jim, who moved like a fighter and not that old either.  The rumbling sound was louder, drawing his attention, He saw horses and men bearing down, and in that moment Cooper had a fist full of Iamerge’s garment and was yanking him into the paddock.

The monks were chanting morning offices and had not yet set out for work so that Smoke, Iamerge he had to remind himself, was free to grab a few bites off of the table in the guest house and head for town.

The yellow sun was tinting the thin veil of clouds in morning colors and the air was fresh and clean as he walked out from the beehives and stacked stone oratories.  Iamerge whistled as he walked toward docks and people and noise of the little port.  He was penniless and in borrowed clothes, but he had planned for nearly this condition though loosing his boat and the things he had aboard was a blow.

Still, he was alive, despite the odds.  He had made a friend, he felt, that would reward him personally and perhaps with the sort of information that had helped him in the past when it had become necessary to shed a life, like a snake sheds his skin, and begin anew.

“Iamerge,” He tasted the new name in his mind and laughed, “odd how chance brings about a path, like this one.  Iamerge.  Iamerge.  Iamerge the Merchant?  Maybe.  Iamerge the scribe?  Iamerge dressed like a monk today.” he thought. 

“I am Iamerge” and saying it made it so.

Iamerge’s beginnings, it appeared as he approached the small port, would be humble.  He had grown up in the stinking narrow streets of a port city, perhaps the largest in the world.  This was far from that in more ways than one on the face of it.

There were a few boats drawn up to the quay.  None of them looked like a trader to Iamerge.  Fishing seemed the mainstay of the harbor though the quay was a little larger than what fishing boats would need.  There were a few large buildings near the stone and wooden artificial spit that reached out into the calm waters. 

As Iamerge approached the town, nodding to the occasional farmer on his way out to his fields, he saw that the fishing fleet mostly used the beach and not the quay at all.  The town ran along the beach so that from the end as Iamerge had approached it had looked much smaller than it truly was.  Much of the town was hidden behind the large quayside warehouses.  The farmers he was passing turned out to be from a community, of sorts, before the town proper, a small attached farm village.

He was somewhat surprised by the lack of interest in a stranger, as he passed, until an old woman heading for the well bid him, “Good morn’ brother,” and he remembered he was dressed in the borrowed habit. Beyond the well there was a low palisade of logs atop a slight bank.  The gates were actually movable parts of the wall rather than true working gates with hinges and bolts.  It looked to Iamerge that they were never closed and stood wide as he walked through into the town.

The yellow sun was a good hour passed dawn and the town, as towns tended to be, was behind the farm village, but was beginning to shake itself from slumber.  Immediately within the gate was a larger than normal house that Iamerge guessed was an inn.  Likely it was cheap and shoddy, relying on its position not its service.  Then too it was away from the quay, which he expected would, anchor a trade district or market square along with the warehouses.  Traders and the moneyed would look for lodging there.  Iamerge walked on.