Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [71]
His hair was done up in the typical kender topknot. The tail straggled down behind him. He wore more subdued colors of clothing than was usual with kender, having on a dark vest and dark britches. (In this Rhys was mistaken. In the darkness, he mistook them for black. He would later come to find out, in the light of day, that they were a deep, but vibrant, shade of purple.)
Rhys was curious, now. He walked toward the graveyard, deliberately stepping on sticks and shuffling his feet through the leaves so that the kender would hear him coming.
Her nose twitching at the unusual smell of kender, Atta ranged alongside him.
“Hello—” Rhys began.
To his astonishment, the kender leapt to his feet and retreated behind a tall grave marker.
“Go away,” said the kender. “We don’t want your kind here.”
“My kind?” Rhys said, pausing. “What do you mean—my kind?” He wondered if the kender had something against monks.
“The living,” said the kender. He waved his hand as though he were shooing chickens. “We’re all dead here. The living don’t belong. Go away.”
“But you are alive,” said Rhys mildly.
“I’m different,” said the kender. “And, no, I’m not afflicted,” he added, offended, “so wipe that pity-look off your face.”
Rhys remembered hearing something about afflicted kender, but he couldn’t recall what and so he let that pass.
“I am not pitying you. I am curious,” he said, threading his way around the grave markers. “I mean no disrespect to the honored dead, nor do I mean them any harm. I heard you talking to them—”
“I’m not crazy, either,” stated the kender from behind his grave stone, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Not at all,” Rhys said amiably.
He sat down comfortably near the grave marker of Simon Plowman. Opening his scrip, Rhys drew out a strip of dried meat. He broke off a share for Atta and began to chew on a piece himself. The meat was highly spiced and the pungent smell filled the night. The kender’s nose wrinkled. His lips worked.
“Odd place for a picnic,” the kender observed.
“Would you like some?” Rhys asked and he held out a long strip of meat.
The kender hesitated. He eyed Rhys warily. “Aren’t you afraid to let me get close to you? I might steal something.”
“I have naught to steal,” Rhys answered with a smile. He continued to hold out the meat.
“What about the dog?” the kender asked. “Does he bite?”
“Atta is a female,” Rhys answered. “And she harms only those who do harm to her or those under her protection.”
He held out the meat.
Slowly, cautiously, his distrusting gaze on the dog, the kender crept out from behind the stone. He made a dart at the meat, snatched it from Rhys’s hand, and devoured it hungrily.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, his mouth full.
“Would you like more?” Rhys asked.
“I—Yes.” The kender plopped down beside Rhys and accepted another piece of meat and a hunk of bread.
“Don’t eat so fast,” Rhys cautioned. “You’ll give yourself a belly ache.”
“I’ve had a belly ache for two days,” said the kender. “This tastes really good.”
“How long has it been since you’ve had a proper meal?”
The kender shrugged. “Hard telling.” He put out his hand and gave Atta a gingerly pat on the head, to which Atta submitted with good grace. “You have a nice dog.”
“You’ll forgive me for saying this,” Rhys said. “I don’t mean to offend, but usually your people have little difficulty acquiring food and anything else they want.”
“You mean borrowing,” said the kender, growing more cheerful. He settled down comfortably beside Atta, continued to pet her. “Truth is, I’m not very good at it. I’m ‘all thumbs and two left feet,’ my pap used to say. I guess it’s because I hang around with them all the time.” He gave a nod toward the graves. “They’re much easier to get on with. Not one of them ever accused me of taking anything.”
“Who do you mean by ‘them’?” Rhys asked. “The people who are buried here?”
The kender waved a greasy hand. “People who are buried anywhere. The living are mean. The dead are much nicer. Kinder. More understanding.”
Rhys