Sword in the Storm Read Online Free PDF Page B

told the children he was a wizard who would turn any young thief into a toad. The tale was widely believed, and the youngsters of Three Streams generally steered clear of Banouin’s house.
    Intrigued, Banouin had moved silently into the warehouse, where he saw Conn delving into the saddle packs stacked against the far wall. Banouin waited in the shadows. At last Conn came to the pack containing ornate weapons and drew out a bronze dagger with a hilt of hand-worked silver crafted by Gariapha. Slashing the air, the boy began to move through a mock fight, twirling and leaping as if surrounded by enemies.
    At last he stopped, then walked to the window and waved the blade in the air. This last move surprised Banouin, as did the next. Rather than climb out and make off with the dagger, the boy came back and returned the blade to the pack.
    “Why did you not steal it?” asked Banouin, his voice echoing in the rafters.
    The boy swung around, fists clenched. The merchant emerged from the shadows and sat down on a long wooden box. Conn darted back to the pack, drew out the blade, and stood ready.
    “You intend to fight me?” inquired Banouin.
    “You’ll not turn me into a toad, foreigner,” said the boy.
    “I would have if you had tried to leave with my knife. However, since you did not come here to steal, why did you come?”
    Conn shrugged. “It was a dare. Do they have dares where you come from?”
    “Yes,” said Banouin. “A friend once dared me to climb a rock face without a rope. Sixty feet high it was.”
    “Did you do it?”
    “Almost. I fell and broke my leg. After that I avoided stupid dares.”
    At that moment a large rat scuttled from behind the packs. Banouin drew something from his sleeve. His right hand swept up, then down. A bright blade flashed across the room, and the boy saw the creature impaled against the far wall. Conn peered at the body and the small iron throwing knife jutting from it.
    “Rats spread disease,” said Banouin. “Now, what were we talking about?”
    “Stupid dares,” said the boy.
    “Ah, yes. Put back my dagger, retrieve my knife, and come into the house. There we will talk—if you are still not frightened, that is.”
    “I’ll be there,” promised the boy.
    Banouin doubted it and returned to his house. Moments later Conn appeared, carrying the throwing knife, cleaned of blood. They sat and talked for an hour. At first Conn was ill at ease, but soon he was all questions. Could he learn to throw a knife? Would Banouin teach him? Where had the foreigner come from? What were the lands like to the south? From that day they had struck up a friendship they both enjoyed.
    Often, in the evenings, he and Conn would sit on the boardwalk outside Banouin’s home and talk of events in the wider world, a world of mystery and adventure to the Rigante youngster. Banouin had journeyed far and often traveled on ships that crossed the great water to the lands beyond. Conn had never seen a ship and found the prospect of journeying on such a vessel dangerously exciting. Also, he had been amazed to learn, the people across the water spoke different languages. When Banouin had first told him, he had thought it to be a jest of some kind, and when the foreigner had spoken in his own tongue, it had sounded like gibberish and Conn had laughed aloud. Yet after a year he had learned many phrases in Banouin’s language.
    “You have a gift for learning and language,” the foreigner said one day after a short conversation in Turgon. “Mosttribesman have difficulty mastering the placement of our verbs.”
    “It is fun,” Conn told him.
    “Learning should be fun,” said Banouin. “Indeed, so should life. The gods know it is short enough.” His dark eyes fixed to Conn’s gaze. “You don’t laugh as much as you did,” he said. “What is wrong?”
    Connavar did not want to talk about the private grief in his household, but all the fears and anxieties caused by the separation suddenly flooded his