Rupert stood still, taking the verbal abuse with a detached calm that was almost eerie. He looked less like a cheap laborer and more like a carefully crafted statue built for war. His gaze was fixed on the space over the short man's head.
"I told you to stack the crates of spice before the crates of textiles, Rupert! Spices go in the back, away from the humidity! Do you think I pay you to daydream, you overgrown ox?" The short man spat on the ground near Rupert's worn-out boot.
Rupert's gaze finally dropped, landing on the muddy spot. His voice, when it came, was low and resonant.
"I did as instructed, Master Grem. The new crates arrived an hour ago and required immediate inspection due to water damage. The textiles are still dry."
"Lies! Excuses!" Master Grem shrieked, his face turning purple. He swung a thick, ornate cane, intending to strike Rupert's arm.
Rupert reacted with minimal effort. He didn't block; he simply shifted his weight back half an inch. The cane whooshed harmlessly through the air. The movement was so fluid and economical that it looked less like avoiding a blow and more like a gentle adjustment of balance.
Grem, enraged by the near-miss, lost his footing and stumbled forward, shrieking again.
Bethel watched the entire exchange, her interest piqued. This man named Rupert was clearly intelligent, physically dominant, and too composed while being berated on basic warehouse work by a clown like Grem.
He must have his reasons for letting himself be talked down to. There isn't a slave collar on his neck, is there? It's not easy to tell from this direction.
She barely had time to finish the thought when Rupert's head tilted up, toward her hiding spot. Behind the cluster of trees, Bethel went still, holding her breath. He hadn't been watching Grem; he had been listening.
Crap! Surprised at being noticed, she pressed herself deeper into the shadows. He knew she was there. How was he able to pinpoint her location when she had barely made a sound on the way here?
Does he have a Warrior Aura? No, that wouldn't make sense. Those people are in extremely high demand for wealthy families. He must have a sensitivity to unfamiliar presence, she thought.
Knights and mercenaries develop this trait to survive an ambush. The initial shock remained, through only Grem's voice continued to fill the night air.
Bethel shut her eyes, trying to ease her racing heartbeat. Its frantic beating can be felt in her ears. She took hold of the small, heavy sledgehammer, keeping it ready as a precaution.
Grem, oblivious, continued his tirade. "What are you looking at, idiot? Get back to work!"
He was no longer paying attention to Bethel's hiding spot. Rupert walked two steps to his left, grabbed a crate of textiles one-handed, and lifted it as if it were a basket of bread. He then spoke, his voice carrying clearly into the night air, addressing the short man.
"The textiles will be stacked now, Grem. And I believe Lord Ramsey should be arriving about now. I could hear the sounds of horses pulling in his carriage by your office."
Rupert's voice, announcing the arrival of a noble, instantly drained the bluster from Master Grem. The short man spun around, his attention completely diverted from Rupert and his crates.
"Ramsey? Now? You should have told me! I need the ledgers! The good port!" Grem shrieked, his mind cycling through excuses for his unkempt appearance.
He didn't waste another second berating Rupert; he waddled hurriedly toward the office, his cane tapping frantically on the cobbles.
Rupert waited until Grem's rushed footsteps had faded into the silence of the large warehouse. Then, without turning his body, he spoke. His voice was low, carrying just enough to reach Bethel's hiding spot but sounding like a continuation of the night air.
"It's okay to come out. Master Grem may seem like a puffed-up rat, but he's mostly harmless."
He wasn't the one I was worried about! She mentally scoffed as she stepped out of the shadows.
Rupert continued moving the stacks of crates. "I'm harmless as well. There's no need to swing around a construction tool. Did you need something, Young Lady?"
Young Lady? What am I, fourteen?
Hiding her weapon of choice—the sledgehammer—behind her cloak, she walked over to the man. She realized he was even taller than she originally thought. His face was obscured by his fringes and a beard, making it difficult to discern his features.
"How did you notice me? I barely made a sound earlier," she asked, jumping immediately into the question that mattered most. Her curiosity was piqued, overriding her usual caution.
Rupert set the massive crate down gently, the landing silent despite the weight. He finally turned his imposing frame fully toward her. His eyes met hers, though the shadows still veiled the rest of his face.
"You're right. You didn't make a sound," he confirmed, his low voice resonating. Picking up a small crate as he moved toward Bethel, he caused her to step back as he dropped the crate he was holding in her arms.
"Oof!" The sudden weight of doing manual labor made Bethel stumble a bit. He carefully steadied her, letting go as quickly; his touch was almost ghost-like, lacking any warmth.
"Whatever questions you wish to ask, the least you can do, Young Lady, is help out. My pay is going to get docked regardless." Shamelessly putting Bethel to work as a free helper, this left her mouth wide open at the audacity of this stranger's behavior!
"Hey! I don't need to ask questions in exchange for doing your work!" she snapped, quickly shifting her hold on the crate. The wood bit into her ribs, but she held it steady.
"Of course you're not doing all my work," Rupert replied, completely unperturbed. He was already several yards away, his back to her, effortlessly stacking a huge textile crate.
"Clearly the textile crates would be too much. But those spice crates weigh around five to eight pounds—hardly a challenge for a Young Lady who carries a sledgehammer." He didn't look back, but his voice was a warm, rolling challenge.
Bethel's jaw tightened. "There's an option for me to leave."
"Then leave. I'm not losing anything. Maybe I will finish sooner without your help," Rupert told her in his eerie calm voice.
Bethel glared at Rupert's retreating, the small spice crate feeling heavier than its actual weight due to her annoyance. The man was infuriatingly composed and unnervingly perceptive.
She shifted the crate and followed him, a grudging sigh escaping her lips.
I need to not get worked up by this. He seemed to be aware of the surroundings. There might be a chance he noticed Josephine at some point.
Holding on to that slim possibility. Bethel followed behind him. "Fine. I'm going to help since your pay is going to be docked anyway. I have some questions, if that's not too much to ask?" She accepted the exchange, hoping to preserve some dignity.
A small smile appeared, hidden in his beard. He didn't turn, but the slight inclination of his head acknowledged her words.
"Okay, now, put that crate right there, Young Lady. Back wall, second shelf from the floor."
Bethel walked over and set the crate down. "I'm not a 'Young Lady.' I'm too old to be called that," she stated firmly, pulling her cloak to hide the outline of her sledgehammer. "And you still haven't answered my question. How did you know I was there?"
He picked up another colossal textile crate and began his fluid, silent movement toward the stacking area.
"Well then, Miss." He emphasized the last word with a dry chuckle that barely broke his composure.
"If one spent enough time in the middle of nowhere, where there is only the sounds of rustling leaves, wouldn't others also be sensitive to anything lurking nearby?"
So it was the latter then. But why couldn't he just say that instead of being cryptic! She bit back what she really wanted to say.
Clearing her throat, "Your Master Grem, he yelled that you've only been working here for a week. Does that only involve the warehouses? Or do you transfer the goods over to the traders when customers are around?"
He turned, leaning one massive hand on the now-stacked crate, the gesture casual.
"Yes, when a trader is running low on a popular stock, Master Grem would have me running back and forth—." Rupert paused, considering Bethel's line of questioning.
"Are you looking for a customer? Wouldn't it be better to come while the traders are here? Though they will make sure you purchase their wares in exchange." He took a step closer, and Bethel instinctively held her ground. The shadows around his face made him seem menacing.
Yet she felt it wasn't his intention to intimidate her. What is he thinking about? She wondered.
"I'm trying to find my old friend, Josephine." Spinning a tale, "Her family is concerned for her well-being as they haven't received any letters for months. So they reached out to me in hopes that I could see how she had been doing."
"Sadly the home address her parents received the letters from has a change of ownership. The current owner passed over the letter's address to Josephine. They didn't have any idea where she had gone. Not even the landlord that were still expecting five months' worth of overdue rent."
As Bethel goes deeper into her storytelling. Rupert listened to her woven tale, his massive frame utterly still. The silence that followed when Bethel finished was heavy, broken only by the faint clip-clop of the approaching carriage from Lord Ramsey's party near Grem's office.
He leaned his massive frame down toward Bethel and whispered.
"I don't buy it."