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Old 04-25-2004, 02:33 PM   #182
piosenniel
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Rôg

Out of the cooking pan, into the fire . . .

That old saw kept running through Rôg’s mind as he stared at the hissing embers of the small fire just beyond their little lean-to.

Lean-to! Hmmmmph! Prison, I should rather say!

Huddled against the back of the small enclosure, he screwed up his courage and inched forward, taking a peek at the guard stationed to the side of them. Narayad! The one who had wanted to kill him! The fellow was dozing, muttering something under his breath as his chin nodded near his chest. ‘I’m warning you . . .’ he snorted in his dream. Rôg leaned closer to hear the ending to the threat, and ducked back just as quickly, his heart pounding. The man slept with his eyes only half closed, lids twitching; the fire’s light glinting off his unseeing orbs. It was a sight to send shivers down the young man’s spine, and he made the old sign to ward off the evil eye.

‘Rôg,.....psst.....Rôg!’ With a slender finger to his lips, Aiwendil gave a ‘shhh!’ as his companion turned toward him. Nodding his chin toward the dozing guard, the old man fumbled in the folds of his robe and brought out an incense pot.

‘Fur and Feathers!’ thought Rôg. ‘He’ll have us pegged as thieves now!’ He grabbed his right wrist, already feeling the quick slice from the clansman’s blade which would strike off his offending, thieving hand. He could feel the fiery pain already as the bloody stump was plunged against the pan of hot coals to stanch the bleeding . . .

‘I wanted you to look at this,’ the old fellow went on, inching closer to the fire.

Rôg pulled his thoughts away from their depressing downward spiral to watch as Aiwendil turned the pot carefully in his hands. He drew Rôg’s attention to the clasp on the grate within. Curious now, the younger man took the pot and examined the grate and its latch closely. How strange!’ he murmured as he lifted the hinged grate up from the bottom half of the container. Turning the pot over, he inspected the maker’s markings on the bottom – a crossed tong and hammer with two vertical slash marks beneath them. Moving closer to Aiwendil, he spoke low, saying his father’s younger brother, a metals’ worker as were all the males in that family, had made this pot. ‘I have seen these particular pots made,’ Rôg went on. ‘They are a common design of his; well built; made to withstand the constant packings and movings on of the desert peoples. And all of them have a sturdy clasp . . . right here,’ he said running the tip of his finger along the front rim of the pot. He took Aiwendil’s finger and ran it over the smoothed edges of the grate and the rim against which it should have been tightly secured. They were both a little rough where the clasp and its latch point had been forced off then poorly filed.

‘This didn’t break of itself,’ Rôg said, placing the pot on the ground between them. ‘And someone would have noticed almost immediately that there was a problem when new incense was put in and the old ashes cleaned out.’ He raised his brows at Aiwendil. ‘Unless, of course, the last one to do so was very lazy and unobservant . . .’

‘Or unless the last one to fill the pot and light it was the one who removed the clasp . . .’ finished the old man.

‘A snake in the nest . . . you think?’ murmured Rôg. ‘But who will believe us here if we tell them?’

Last edited by piosenniel; 05-11-2004 at 11:10 AM.
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