The carriage wheels grated against the packed dirt road as they finally entered the small, provincial town of Descate. The transition from the quiet isolation of the Lodge grounds to the modest bustle of the town was abrupt. Heads turned. Conversations hushed, replaced by a low murmur that rippled through the small square they entered. Malrik, seated across from the ever-watchful Sir Kaelen, remained outwardly impassive.
He felt the weight of their gazes, the collective shock and curiosity that his unexpected presence ignited. He was the Duke's son, yes, but he was also the 'Young Master' who rarely, never, left the confines of the Lodge unless under the strictest, most controlled circumstances – usually for medical consultations in the capital, a journey far longer and more arduous than this one. To see him here, in their unremarkable town, without the usual retinue, seated opposite only Sir Kaelen... it was an event.
He heard the whispers, soft but distinct in the sudden lull.
"Is that… the Young Master?"
"Duke Gareth's son? Here? What for?"
"He looks so pale… frail, just like they say."
"First time I've ever seen him outside the walls."
Malrik allowed his gaze to drift over the faces – a baker wiping flour from his apron, a woman clutching a market basket, a group of children momentarily pausing their game. Their surprise, their speculation, their simple existence in this small bubble of the world held no intrinsic interest for him. They were just… people. Distant, irrelevant to his pain, his past, his future. He felt no connection, no desire to interact. What they thought was of no consequence. Let them wonder. Let them gossip. Their opinions were dust motes in the grand scheme he was slowly, painstakingly, constructing.
(Internal Monologue: Let them stare. Let them whisper. Their petty curiosity is a useful distraction. They see only the 'frail Young Master,' the silent invalid. They see the obvious, the surface. Good. The less they understand, the better. This town is merely a canvas, these people potential tools, or obstacles to be circumnavigated. Their opinions of me are irrelevant. What matters is what I can glean here, what seeds I can plant.)
As the carriage moved slowly through the main street, Malrik's eyes scanned the surroundings with a different kind of intensity. He cataloged the establishments: the stout stone building of the blacksmith, the cheerful awning of a fruit and vegetable stall, the discreet sign of a potioner, the rough-hewn timber of an inn, rows of simple houses nestled together. He noted the flow of foot traffic, the placement of alleys, the general rhythm of the town's life. These details, seemingly mundane, were pieces of a potential map, elements he might need to navigate later. Yet, his initial survey wasn't focused on a specific target within these familiar types of businesses.
(Internal Monologue: Blacksmiths, markets, potion shops… the staples of any settlement. Useful in their own way, perhaps, for supplies or information channels, but not my immediate priority. I need something more specific, something... overlooked. A place where connections can be forged away from the prying eyes of the Duke's household, away from Kaelen's constant scrutiny.)
He felt Kaelen's gaze on him again, sharper now. The knight was clearly growing more puzzled by Malrik's silence and lack of direction now that they were actually in town. Malrik knew he needed to provide a plausible reason for this unprecedented outing, something that fit the 'frail, naive boy' persona Kaelen believed him to be. He needed to throw Kaelen off the scent of his real objective.
Suddenly, Malrik tapped gently on the carriage wall, a signal to the coachman. The carriage slowed and stopped near a cluster of shops. Without a word, Malrik gestured towards a small, unassuming shop displaying various vials and herbs – the potioner's.
Kaelen's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, but he disembarked, his hand subtly resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the street. Malrik followed, moving with his practiced, slightly stiff gait, maintaining the illusion of physical vulnerability.
Inside the potion shop, Malrik pointed to a few basic healing salves and a small bottle of something labelled 'calming draught.' He paid with coins from a small pouch he carried, his movements deliberate and slow.
Emerging from the potion shop, Malrik paused on the street. He then pointed towards a fruit stall, then to a small shop selling simple wooden carvings, and finally to a stall selling lengths of sturdy twine and other practical goods. At each stop, he selected a few innocuous items – ripe apples, a small carved bird, a coil of strong twine. Four stops, four random purchases. It was enough of a pattern, or lack thereof, to seem like impulsive, naive shopping rather than a targeted search.
When they were back in the carriage, the purchased items placed carefully on the seat between them, Kaelen finally broke his silence, his tone carefully neutral, though Malrik sensed the underlying question.
"Young Master… these items. Salves, fruit, a carving, twine… May I ask the purpose?"
Malrik turned his head slowly to look at Kaelen. He held the knight's gaze for a moment, his expression calm, unreadable to the casual observer, but carefully conveying a quiet earnestness. Then, with a small, controlled movement, he raised his hand and pointed a finger directly at Kaelen. After a beat, he shifted his finger to point at himself.
It was a simple gesture, a silent, wordless explanation. You protect me.I need to be well.These things help me be well.Therefore, they help you do your duty.
Kaelen watched the gesture, a flicker of understanding, or perhaps misinterpretation, crossing his face. He looked at the items, then back at Malrik. He saw the pale face, the quiet eyes, the controlled movements necessitated by the boy's apparent frailty. He saw the logic, simple and direct, born of a sheltered life where self-care was paramount for survival.
(Internal Monologue: He buys salves and potions? For his own health? Fruit for sustenance? Twine? Perhaps to fix something in his room? And the carving… a simple trinket? He is… preparing himself? Believing these small items will truly fortify him? He thinks… he thinks if he is well, it makes my job easier? What a peculiar, sheltered perspective. Kaelen shook his head inwardly. So naive. He truly believes these minor comforts and cures are significant preparations for... what? Life outside the Lodge? He has no concept of true danger, true struggle. He is merely a child playing at practicality. This trip is exactly what I suspected – a whim born of boredom and isolation. But… he is thinking of his own well-being, however misguidedly. It's not the worst reason for a venture out. Better than some foolish, risky endeavor.)
Malrik watched Kaelen's reaction, the subtle shift in his posture, the slight relaxation around his eyes. He read the knight's thoughts as clearly as if they were spoken aloud. Naive child. The perfect cover.
(Internal Monologue: Naive? Yes, Sir Kaelen, believe me to be naive. Believe me to be a simple child concerned with salves and fruit. The twine could be for anything – binding a loose board, securing a package... or perhaps for something more restrictive. The carving is meaningless, a touch of innocent indulgence. These purchases are smoke and mirrors, a performance to reinforce the image you already hold of me. They are the mundane reason for my presence in the marketplace. But the marketplace was never the destination. It was just the convenient facade. My true reason for coming to this town, the real hunt I am undertaking, begins now.)
Malrik leaned back slightly against the carriage seat, his gaze still directed outwards, though no longer focused on the shops they passed. His eyes were now scanning the less commercial areas, looking for specific indicators. A certain kind of building, a certain kind of neglect, a certain kind of presence or absence of people.
He subtly adjusted his position, a small, almost imperceptible movement of his hand. It wasn't towards the purchased items. It was a silent signal to the coachman, a slight inclination of his head in a different direction from the main thoroughfare. Towards the edge of town, where the poorer districts lay, where the structures were less grand and the faces perhaps less guarded. Towards a place where the overlooked resided.
(Internal Monologue: He thinks I'm done, content with my childish purchases. He thinks we will perhaps return to the Lodge now, my strange curiosity satisfied. He does not understand that this was merely the opening gambit. The scattering of irrelevant pieces to distract the opponent. Now, the real game begins. I need pliable minds, unnoticed hands. Who better than those with nothing to lose? Those who have been cast aside? The marginalized, the desperate... the children of the orphanage.)
The carriage, responding to the subtle, silent direction, turned down a narrower, less-trafficked street, leaving the small town square and its whispering inhabitants behind. Sir Kaelen shifted in his seat, his watchful air returning, slightly more pronounced now that they were deviating from the obvious path back to the Lodge. He glanced at Malrik, a question forming on his lips.
But before Kaelen could voice it, Malrik made another small, clear gesture – pointing down the street they were now on, his expression one of quiet purpose, his gaze fixed ahead. There, nestled amongst the simpler dwellings, stood a building that, even from a distance, bore the unmistakable air of institutional poverty. A place of last resort.
The orphanage.
Kaelen followed his gaze, his initial surprise deepening into suspicion once more. The orphanage? What possible interest could the Duke's son, the frail Young Master, have in that place? This was a turn he had not anticipated. He settled back in his seat, his hand moving closer to his sword hilt again. His eyes never left Malrik. The carriage rumbled forward, carrying them towards the next stage of Malrik's silent, calculated hunt. The pawns were waiting.