Sandon hesitated a few moments outside the door. He had no idea how they would react. Still, there was nothing else for it. He had practiced the speech in his head several times. Lifting a hand, he gave a solid knock and waited. The sounds of shuffling came from inside, and then faded again. His hand still poised, Sandon knocked on the hard wooden door again. This time, there were steps, the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the door creaked slowly open. A big, square, stubbled face peered out.
"What is it?" said a gruff voice. Then a pause as the owner of the voice registered surprise, disbelief and then suspicion. The door opened wider, revealing a beefy man dressed in an apron, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head.
There was a long pause, then the man spoke again. "What do you want?"
"I am Tchardo," said Sandon. "I am seeking any honest work you might have. I can clean. I can carry. I can help with whatever you need. All I ask is some food, a place to sleep, perhaps enough to purchase some feed for my animal. I would be grateful of anything you can provide, if the Prophet wills it."
Confusion flitted across the man's face, and then he called back over his shoulder. "Hey, Milana. Come and look at what we've got here."
A moment later, and a short stocky woman with ruddy cheeks, also wearing an apron, poked her head around the man's broad frame.
"Would you believe it?" said the man. "It's an Atavist. Says he's looking for work."
"I can see what he is, Benjo. What's he asking for?"
The woman, Milana, seemed less flustered by his appearance than her companion, so Sandon addressed the next to her. "I can clean. I can carry. Any help you need. I am Tchardo."
"Says he wants a place to sleep, some food, maybe a little credit."
"Let him speak," she said.
"As he has said, Sister. That is all I want."
"I thought you people wanted nothing to do with honest folk like us," said Benjo. "What do you think, Milana?"
"Well..." she said. "I never knew any harm to come from their type, and from what I've seen, they work hard enough. It's not as if we couldn't use the help. How's it different from the other workers who come through here?"
The man called Benjo grunted. There was a pause.
"It's up to you," said Milana.
Benjo pursed his lips and scratched at one cheek. "I guess... yeah, why not. It's not as if it's going to cost us much. Here, but we'll have to find you something to wear. We can't have you getting around the 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?"
