jeriendhal | Fic: Twenty Roads Cazaril Did Not Take

Cazaril stared at the heavy purse that lay in the mud of the road, dropped by the now aghast soldier of the Daughter's Order. Carefully, he kneeled down to pick it up, the adhesions on his back aching. He rubbed off a bit of mud that clung to it with the edge of his sleeve, then stood again to hand it back to the man. If it had been just a coin or two that had fallen from the man's fingers, he might have accepted the gods' largess and be happy for it. To take the whole purse would have been to invite their wrath instead, probably delivered through a servant's cudgel.

"Forgive me for startling your horse, milord," Cazaril said, ducking his head as he handed back the purse.

"No harm done, old man," the soldier said gruffly, both embarrassed by his slip in front of his fellows, and resentful at having to express gratitude for a passing beggar's caution. He reached into the coin purse again, careful this time to keep a firm grip on his errant mount's flanks with his legs, and pulled out a copper vaida. At a look from the troop's commander, he reluctantly added a second vaida to it, and handed them both to Cazaril.

"May the blessings of the Lady of Spring fall upon your head, young sir, in the same spirit as your bounty to a roadside vagabond, and as little begrudged," Cazaril intoned, bowing slightly to the man. It probably wasn't the wisest thing to do. The soldier-dedicat's bull headed expression did not imply much of a sense of humor. If he'd been able to puzzle out the mockery, Cazaril might have earned a horsewhip across his face. But the troop's captain merely shook his head in exasperation and waved his little company onward down the road.

Once they were safely from sight, Cazaril considered the two coins carefully, before dropping them into his hollow purse. Two copper vaidas would not purchase him much. Two oil cakes to settle his growling stomach, or perhaps, if he was lucky, a bucket of soapy water and the borrowing of a pair of scissors to trim his scraggle of a beard, though he didn't relish attempting such a feat with his crabbed and cramping hands.

With a weary sigh, Cazaril began to trudge down the road, past the looming and decrepit windmill, following the path the soldiers had taken. Perhaps the bucket at least. He may or may not be granted entry to the Provincara's household, but he would at least not stink when he came a begging.