A few weeks later, Sarka was working on an enormous project: an embroidered shawl for one of Rohk's wealthier patrons. There were so many flowers, curling vines, and feathery leaves that Sarka was sick of it all. She had thought upon arriving in Galdren that she would never grow tired of the rampant greenery that flourished on every corner, but now she would gladly go the rest of her life without seeing so much as a petal.
Nevertheless, work was work, and this shawl would fetch a great price. For commissions like these, half of the payment was due up front, and Rohk gave her what he said was her share. Her savings were growing, and that was something to hold onto. Because Rohk gave her food and washing-water and she saw a need for nothing else, she had not spent so much as a copper.
Sarka was executing a hundredth tiny leaf in emerald floss when she heard the bell above the door in the shop. She strained her ears out of habit. She was coming to understand the true worth of the pieces she created, despite Rohk's efforts to conceal such trivialities as prices from her. She was trying to pick up on something, anything, that would prove to her that Rohk was a thief.
So far, her efforts had been in vain. While they were free with greetings and conversation, the polite folk of Galdren tended to lower their voices when they talked about money.
She heard an older man's voice, faint: "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon!" Rohk replied. He turned on the cheer when patrons came in, the better to get his hands on their coin.
"I could not help but notice that tunic in the window, sir. I wonder..."
"Ah, the display. If you'd like something similar, it can be done especially for you, sir, to your measurements."
The man chuckled. "No. As you can see, I'm a priest; I've no need for tunics, however pretty they may be. I noticed the pattern, and it seemed familiar, that's all. Did you do it yourself, sir?"
"Yes," said Rohk.
Sarka scowled. She stabbed her needle through the fabric she held, wishing it were Rohk's face.
"I see." There was a brief silence. "I wonder...where did you learn?"
Without missing a beat, Rohk said, "It was a very long time ago. I recently came into possession of a stash of truly vibrant threads. It would have been a shame to waste them on plain sewing, so I decided to do something more elaborate. It's strange, isn't it, how what one learns comes back, even after so long?"
Sarka tucked her needle into the fabric for safekeeping and lowered her work. She turned her face toward the door, listening. She wondered if the priest could hear the lies in Rohk's voice. He had a silver tongue.
"Who taught you?"
Rohk sounded like he was smiling, but his voice had become tighter, as if he did not appreciate the questions. Sarka stood and went to the doorway to the shop, lingering behind the curtain as Rohk explained, "I've done my share of traveling, Father."
"Just Konn, please," said the priest. "I serve-"
Sarka stepped out of the back room. "Rohk, have you any-oh. Good afternoon," she said, pretending to notice the priest for the first time. She smiled sweetly-as sweetly as she could manage with the ruined face Rohk pretended to want to hide. But he wanted to hide her talent even more than her ugliness. No matter. He'd claim credit for the work of her hands no longer. She carried the embroidered shawl in one hand, and her needle glinted in the light.
"Sarka, get back there!" Rohk snapped. "You're not to bother the patrons!"
"Bother?" The priest lifted his brows, glancing from Sarka's face down to her work in progress. He was of middle height and advanced age, with a balding pate and a lined face that seemed kind. He wore a coarse brown robe tied at the waist with rope, the plain kind one might use to tether a dog, and his feet were bare. He smiled at Sarka. "Good afternoon. I don't suppose you are responsible for the lovely work in the window?"
Sarka looked at Rohk as she replied. "I am."
Rohk pressed his lips together, grasping the service counter, white-knuckled.
The priest looked at Sarka for a moment, thoughtfully, as if trying to see inside her mind. Then, he took a step toward her and held a hand out over the counter that divided them. Sarka took it, and the priest slid his palm along hers to grasp her wrist. She returned the gesture without hesitation.
"My name is Konn," said the priest. He glanced down at their hands.
"I'm Sarka. Thank you for your compliment."
The bell above the door tinkled again, and a boy entered the shop with a bag slung over his shoulder. He raked a hand through his hair and stood for a moment, blinking and shaking his head, as if trying to steady his wits. "It's chaos down at the docks, Rohk," he said.
Rohk diverted his attention from Sarka, although she knew he would not let this matter go. He'd throw her out, most likely, but she didn't care any more. She needed to get her bag, her money, and then she'd leave this thief behind. She couldn't prove that he'd taken more than his fair share of her profits, but he'd stolen credit for her hard work, and that, she could not stand.
The boy was rummaging through his satchel. He extended a few folded papers toward Rohk, who took them. Thumbing through the papers, Rohk said, "Is this from that Sayorian cloth-merchant? The ungrateful beggar. He's overdue. What's going on at the docks?"
"Dunno," said the boy. "Shipwreck, that's what they're saying. One of the Annari's, I think. I want to go down to have a look, but I got to get my work done first."
Sarka's blood went cold. "The Annari?" she echoed.
The boy looked at her as if he hadn't noticed her before. "Dunno," he repeated. "That's what they're saying, and lots of dead, too. Crashed right up on the rocks. I can't think what they were doing. The Annari are supposed to be the world's best sailors."
Sarka dropped the shawl. Numb, she turned back into the work room.
"Are you alright, Sarka?" Konn asked. When she did not reply, he called more loudly: "Sarka?"
With shaking hands, Sarka gathered up her flosses, her folder of needles, her shears. She stuffed them into her bag. Then she came out of the work room, darted round the counter, shouldered her way past Konn, and ran out into the street, ignoring the sound of her name.