Binary, Jay Caselberg [top business books of all time txt] 📗

bar in that outfit. You'll put the customers off. You never know, in that stuff, one of them might just take a disliking to you. We've had more than enough of your sort passing through here in the last couple of weeks. S'pose I really shouldn't be surprised to see you."

It was like a stopper had been pulled from Benjo's mouth. The words flowed out one after the other.

"Tchardo, you said your name was, right? All right, come with me." He beckoned Sandon inside. "I think I might have some old trousers and a shirt around here somewhere. They might be a little loose on you, but once you've got the apron tied on, nobody'll know the difference right? So, what brings you to Bortruz, Tchardo? You just passing through? Good idea trying to find somewhere to hole up. The storms are getting pretty bad this Season aren't they?"

Sandon nodded mutely and stood looking about the sparsely equipped kitchen. Benjo rummaged around in a storeroom and tossed some old clothes out to him, followed by an apron. He appeared moments later bearing a bucket, some old greasy rags and a broom.

"We're not busy yet. Won't be for another couple of hours, but until then, you can busy yourself with these. When the customers come in, you can help by collecting empty mugs and jugs. Bring them back here and wash them, then bring them out to the bar. After shift, things get pretty busy in here, so you'll want to be quick about it. And no matter what Milana says, I don't know you from the Prophet. So, don't go thinking of helping yourself to anything along the way. I'll know."

Sandon suddenly realized he had a problem. Alise's paste had worked on his face, hands and his arms. He'd also applied it to his neck, feet and lower legs, but beneath the robe he was as pale as the day he'd been born.

Benjo stood in the middle of the kitchen, his fists on his hips, watching. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Sandon cleared his throat, then seeing Benjo was not going to give him any privacy, he stepped into the small storeroom and behind the wall. Benjo gave a loud guffaw from where he stood. "All right then," he said. "You be like that."

Sure that he couldn't be seen, Sandon quickly slipped off the robe and clambered into the old clothes and then stepped out from concealment, wrapping the apron around himself. He held the robe, looking for somewhere he could hang it.

"No, no," said Benjo. "Give that here." He took the proffered robe, and holding it at arm's length in one hand, deposited it unceremoniously in the storeroom. Sandon still had been given barely a chance to get a word out.

"But what about my padder?" he asked.

"You've got it out the back there?"

Sandon nodded.

"Oh, it'll be fine. You can go out and check on it every once and a while if you want, but I don't think it'll go anywhere. Plenty for it to eat out there." Benjo gave a great belly laugh, then immediately sobered. "Take these and sweep the bar. Wipe down the tables, and when you're done there, we'll see about getting you something to eat before the crowd starts. Not much else to do in Bortruz, see? Everybody ends up at my place some time or other."

Sandon could easily imagine that was the case. And if so, Benjo had every reason to be jovial and full of his own importance. Sandon reached for the rag and broom and headed out into the bar proper, with Benjo still standing there, his fists on his hips watching him. Sandon caught him shaking his head as he left, muttering something to himself. "Strange times we're living in. Strange times indeed," Sandon thought it sounded like.

As he entered the bar, Milana looked up at him from behind the counter, pursed her lips, favored him with an assessing look, then nodded and gave him a smile. He returned it easily. If it wasn't for her, he might not be standing here at all.

The bar proper was a broad unpartitioned room. The bar itself, polished wood, stretched along one side and Milan stood propped at one end behind it. The only other thing that broke up the broad expanse of floor was a haphazard cluster of tables, both high and low. Stools sat around the high ones, and rough wooden chairs around the lower ones. Windows ran along the front of the room, currently shuttered, and the little light that remained struggled through the cracks. Broad double doors sat closed at the center. Sandon grunted to himself, tossed the cloth on one of the higher tables, then set to with the broom. Who would have thought it? Sandon Yl Aris reduced to wearing someone else's old clothes and wielding an old broom in a miner's bar. He smiled to himself. It was a far cry from life in the Principate and the Guild rooms, but then a lot had happened to change the way he viewed things over the past few weeks.

Milana stood watching him for a while, then pushed herself from the bar and started lighting lamps and setting them on shelves in the room's corners. She had obviously caught his smile, because she stopped in the middle of what she was doing and turned to face him.

"Tchardo," she said. "I have the name right?" When he nodded, not interrupting his progress across the dirty wood-stripped floor, she continued. "I don't know anything about you, and dressed like that, you could almost be a normal person, except for the beard of course, and your hair." She peered closer. "And that scar across your nose, but I just want you to know, we're simple people here and we don't want any trouble."

He stopped what he was doing and leant on the broom, meeting her gaze. "I don't mean any trouble, Milana," he said quietly, genuinely.

She nodded at that, then turned back to busy herself with lighting the rest of the lamps. Sandon went back to sweeping, once again struck by how much he had been removed from so much that went on in the world. Milana finished with the last of the lamps and returned to her position behind the bar. She was joined a few moments later by Benjo, who giving an appraising look at the room and at Sandon's progress, nodded to himself. Within moments, he was in yet another conversation with Milana, who did little more than nod or make little sounds of agreement in response to the constant torrent of words.

As soon as he had finished sweeping, Sandon grabbed the old rag and started polishing the tabletops, moving from one to the other unhurriedly, all the time thinking about what he was doing here. Why had he come with the Atavist family in the first place? All right, in a way it made sense. The logical thing would have been to go straight to Men Darnak's private estates, but he couldn't have gone there by himself, and nothing would have been stranger than a lone Atavist turning up there. Here, reasonably close to an Atavist community, near to the mines, as Tchardo, he was at least in context. It was all about context, after all. An Atavist in the right setting was less likely to be recognized as something else. It still left the problem of the Principal's movements. He might just be relying on sheer luck that Men Darnak would be anywhere near the mines, but knowing him, knowing his need to insert himself into every problem personally, Sandon believed he had a fair chance that sooner or later, the Principal and his retinue would be paying a visit to the area. The other thing was Tarlain. Despite the banishment, despite the hot burst of anger that had sent the youngest son scurrying away, Sandon knew that Leannis Men Darnak cared for his children. He would have a double reason for visiting the area. The Kallathik disturbances, their impact on local mining activities and Tarlain's own apparent involvement with their cause would lead Men Darnak to have reasonable suspicion that his son might be somewhere nearby. The Kallathik hive not too far from Bortruz would be a logical choice for the boy to seek refuge, especially if he was committed to going ahead with his mysterious plans.

No, Sandon was comfortable with his reasoning; now all he had to do was find the opportunity. It might mean hanging around for a few days, but any news of a visit by the Principal would quickly pass through a town this small. He could keep an eye on the official building across the way quite easily from here. It would be the most likely place for Men Darnak to show up, if he made it as far as Bortruz. And if not, then Sandon would just find some other way to track him down.

"Tchardo, bring me some mugs from the back."

Benjo's call snapped him out of his thoughts. He'd been absent-mindedly concentrating on the stained cloth in his hand and the table surfaces beneath it and had totally missed the arrival of several locals. Already they sat around tables or clustered at one end of the bar, deep earthenware mugs or jugs propped in front of them. He quickly shoved the rag into his back pocket and headed out to the kitchen. The new arrivals had been so quiet. They were huddled in conversation, subdued. Not what he'd expect from a bar at all, but Storm Season did that to you. It dragged on the consciousness, taking you down and within yourself, away from the darkness and gloom -- away from the constant threat of what the weather or land might throw at you next. Perhaps the mood would pick up later.

He brought back a tray of mugs and started stacking them behind the bar, casually attempting to pick up as much of the conversation as he could. For the most part, these men would be supervisors or gang chiefs, overseeing work crews of the Kallathik miners. They'd have work to do themselves, but they should provide a good measure of the Kallathik mood as well. There was talk of water level in the mines, of trying to keep the pumps working to capacity. There was more than one passing reference to an Atavist presence in the area, and Benjo glanced at him meaningfully. Sandon pretended not to notice. All of it seemed the usual stuff a group of mine workers might talk about. Nowhere was there any mention of Men Darnak or his men. Then someone said something that caught his attention.

"Too much of that damn sleep-stand thing they do. Doesn't seem to matter when. Right in the middle of something, and you've got another bloody statue. You know what I'm saying?"

Sandon wiped diligently at the bar top.

Another spoke this time. "Sure, most of the time you expect one or two of them. But whole groups over the past couple of days."

"You've been getting it too?"

"Yeah. Damned right I have. Doesn't matter what you do. You yell at them, you ask them, try and prod them into action. Doesn't matter. They just stand there like a group of trees. I've had whole crews go at the same time. Why, just this morning..."

Sandon edged away. That was interesting. So, it seemed like there really was something going on with the Kallathik.

Noise levels were starting to pick up now as the bar filled and the patrons consumed more ale and wine. He made the rounds more frequently, collecting the empties and ferrying them back to the kitchen to wash and stack on new trays. As he passed, he managed to pick up snippets of