It had taken a surprising amount of strength, and number of people, to transfer Mr. Chubs from the tavern to their room. It was a good thing that when Tully’s father had withdrawn his purse, he hadn’t thought to withdraw his bodyguards. Between the three of them and another two who were at least half as inebriated as Mr. Chubs, they managed to transfer him onto the bed.
It had taken twenty minutes for the ordeal and Tully had resolutely kept his thoughts away from the drunken revelation. But now that the rest of the party had left, his master in no immediate danger and the decent buzz he had, had all but evaporated, Tully found himself imbued with a nervous energy.
He forced himself to sit on the floor, there was very little furniture in the room, so he could think things through. He looked at his hands, crossed over his knees. He couldn’t believe they were his hands; that brown they were from being exposed to the elements because of his travels. Unable to bear the sight he turned his eyes to his master.
It wasn’t that he was shocked. He had known, right from the beginning that something did not quite add up about his master. It was one of the main reasons he had pursued him so relentlessly. The aura of intrigue had excited him and he had thought he was embarking on an epic adventure where he would tell stories, woo handsome maidens and have someone to keep his cups filled at all times.
What he hadn’t expected was the tedium. The nomad life was the first thing that had got to him. As someone who had spent the first fifteen years of his life with feet firmly planted in Harkness, moving every fortnight, sometimes as frequently as three-four days, soon lost all its sheen. The second thing that had got to him was how much he missed Harkness and its busyness and the sea. Growing up with the sea to one side of him had changed him in ways he had only understood when no sea stood next to him. He felt claustrophobic without its smells and sights.
The coin too had diminished and though Mr. Chubs had repeatedly cautioned him, he hadn’t thought there would come a time where his father would stop financing him or they would have to live in less-than-ideal circumstances. It had come to him as a rude shock that storytellers and performers weren’t paid as handsomely as carvers or painters. There was an element of risk with storytellers that was too immediate, too public and too uncontained. One could hide away an ugly painting. One could burn a carving. What was one to do if a storyteller performed a piece in front of an audience in a nobleperson’s house that was provocative?
Had he known that the only reason he hadn’t had to sleep under a tree in the past one year was Mr. Chubs’ planning, Tully would have goggled, certain they were lies.
The nervous energy snatched his attention, demanding release. So he got up to pace, two steps left, two steps right. What could he do of this unexpected windfall, he thought, twisting his hands as his eyes took in the dismal state of the room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had washed properly, or slept in a bed he wasn’t sharing with Mr. Chubs.
He raked his hands through his hair. They came away grimy. Grimacing, he wiped his hands on his pants. Mr. Chubs grunted on the bed, shifted but did not wake up. He looked at his master, trying to see Banes, like he was trying to lift a curtain and peek at what it was hiding.
He knew Arthur Uriel Banes had been someone important, once upon a time. If there was even a grain of truth in all the stories surrounding the renegades and why the royal guard was searching for him, then Banes was a dangerous fellow.
And if the clue Mr. Chubs had given him through the story of Galahad, Banes had been the right-hand man of a king. It couldn’t be King Janah so it must have been the late King Reifire. But if that was the case, and Galahad and Banes were the same people, did it mean that Mr. Chubs was a horrible human too?
Just the thought of adorable, red-faced Mr. Chubs being a diabolical human made Tully want to laugh out loud. He was a travelling librarian for god’s sakes who only wanted to tell people stories. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body! It was ridiculous to think they were one and the same.
Mr. Chubs face was slack, mouth ajar, and he was snoring softly. He looked like he had no cares in the world. He had travelled with this man for a year. Studied with him. Broken bread with him. Drunk with him…told stories with him. He had come to mean quite a lot to Tully, if Tully ever allowed himself to be sentimental.
Who are you, really, thought he with some trepidation. Had he ever truly known his master? He had formed an incomplete picture of Mr. Chubs from the morsels he had been fed and picking apart every story that he ever narrated, searching for the truth hidden underneath.
What am I to do now?
This is Chapter 9 of 26 of The Travelling Librarian series. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z.
Psst: I also have 2 ebooks on Kindle – and if you’re on Kindle Unlimited, they’re free!
- Read The Gunslinger here.
- Read 23 Letters of Love here.
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