Raccciman’s World

Allma's heart jerked painfully to a halt. “Oh, please gracious sir...”

“I won't hide you from your master, lad. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Allma trailed along behind Pier as the tall inlander made his way to the forecastle. A the melancholy twanging of Master Bectus's lute filtered through the door of one of the cabins. Pier knocked briskly, and when Bectus called, “Come in!” waved Allma on ahead of him.

Allma took a deep breath and then opened the door. Rushing into the cramped cabin, he threw himself at Bectus's sandals. “Please, O wisest and kindest of masters, please don't send this forlorn and faithful one away.” He looked pleadingly up into Bectus's dumbfounded face. Master Bectus wasn't usually too impressed by his wheedling, but he really meant it this time. “This one will do anything: help the cook again, copy the Book of Dix, memorize the longest saga!”

“Actually,” Bectus murmured, resting the lute on the folds of his toga, “I had planned to replace saga memorization with lessons in the elvish language for this trip. I even packed some books.” He blinked twice and then scowled fiercely. “Allma, what are you doing here?”

Pier, still in the doorway, cleared his throat. “Seems the lad didn't like being left behind, your grace.” He ducked his head, and eased himself through the low door.

“I didn't do it because he would like it,” Bectus explained gently. “I did it because I couldn't trust him to behave.”

“Well now, if he has stayed out of trouble for a whole twenty five days, like he was tellin me, then maybe he can stay out of trouble for a little while longer.”

Allma looked hopefully at the Bard. “This one didn't go to Atisva,” he offered.

Bectus didn't seem too impressed. “I told you to stay in Revenhew.”