Thrand (Part Twelve)

[Something Like a Krett]

The young Morg babbled on brightly for the rest of the journey back to the Halls of Justice, much to Thrand’s bemusement. The chief topic was at first the big news of the King’s passing and what that might mean to the City; to Kettle it seemed to bode little change to the street folk except as a new subject for gossip. Already it was seen among them as a fresh dodge to ask for alms; folks in mourning cloaks were apparently sentimental touches, willing to give a few kretts in memory of Taryn or as a sort of pledge for good luck in the future. Thrand was able to enlighten the child (in a distant way, craftily avoiding his own involvement in the matter) about certain details and high consequences surrounding the subject. Along the way he revealed that he was, indeed, an officer of the Courts of some kind. Kettle took it all in easily, making some sound observations and asking a few canny questions in return, bright eyes alert, never distracted but constantly darting about the passing street.

Thrand, in turn, was able to find out quite a bit about the child, who showed no embarrassment or reluctance to answer any question, and indeed volunteered details with ease and an almost detached manner. Kettle was ten years old or so; hard to tell, exactly, being a true orphan and not a mere runaway as many of the other kids were. No, not a member of a gang, not a Mad Lad, or at least not yet, though hardship might force that in time.

Kettle had one accomplishment, though, that lifted things above most fellow street urchins’ prospects. Somewhere along the line (memory would not supply how or who) the child had been taught to read, at least in a fashion, a talent that Kettle clung to and improved at every chance that came along. Indeed every street sign and merchant’s hoarding was rattled off proudly as they passed.   

  

Notes and Excuses

Looking at this passage I can see that I probably should have done more showing and less telling, After all, I am introducing Kettle, who will be a major character from now on, and I've written slightly less dialogue for the child than the cloak salesman. Perhaps I will, when I go back for rewrites. But right now, I'm frankly too tired.

Monday is always a heavy work day for me. And now, even with my usual physical debilities, I'm facing weather that has plunged forty degrees over night, with a threat of rain to complicate things. It's the end of the month, I have scarcely anything in the bank, with several medicines that need refilling, as well as the specter of Covid lurching through the family again. 

So I'm grateful, as far as writing goes, that I'm able to at least walk a bit if I can't run at the moment. I mean to take this day a step at a time, until at last I can snuggle down into bed with the fewest anxieties and undone tasks possible.