Adventure of Garindan 1

Cold dawn breathes through the tent flap. Garindan steps inside and finds the friar and the knight locked in a hard, low argument over a heavy iron box on the table.

The knight does not look at the box. He watches Garindan instead, still as a drawn blade.

The iron box sits dead between them, lid banded tight, its seams dark with old wax. The tent canvas stirs again as the wind finds a gap.

Both men hold their ground, one pleading, one measuring. Outside, boots scrape past the tent, and the cold grows sharper at the opening.

Garindan steps between them and drives the iron box off the table. It slams to the floorboards with a dull, final clang, skidding to a stop by the friar's boots.

The knight shifts at once, hand tightening at his side. The friar's face drains pale as he looks not at Garindan, but at the fallen box.

Cold air pours through the flap. The friar takes one stumbling half-step toward the box, then stops himself, jaw clenched, as if the floor itself might accuse him.

Garindan holds the friar in place with a steady stare, and the man breaks first. His mouth works around a dry swallow, then he looks from the box to the knight as if measuring which lie will hurt less.

The friar flinches at that, but keeps speaking. His boots edge back from the iron box, yet his eyes stay fixed on it with a kind of scared devotion.

The knight's hand leaves his belt. He gives Garindan a short, intent nod, as if the confession fits a shape he already suspected.

The friar shuts his eyes for a heartbeat, then opens them on Garindan alone, raw and cornered, no longer pretending the box is only cargo.

Garindan draws steel in one smooth motion, the blade catching dawn. He points it low, not at the friar’s throat, but at the lock itself, and the tent seems to shrink around the iron box.

The friar goes still. His hands rise a little, empty and trembling, then one of them drifts to the inside of his robe as if by habit he would protect what he fears most.

The friar’s gaze flicks to the knight, then back to Garindan’s sword. At last his fingers close on a cord beneath his habit, and he pulls free a small iron key, dark with use.

He holds the key out over the bare table, not offering trust so much as surrender. The knight watches, satisfied but wary, while the friar’s face betrays the truth he can no longer bury, he serves the chapel’s treasury, but he fears the treasury far less than whoever he believes will judge him for it.

Garindan takes the key in one rough grip. The friar lets it go too quickly, as if the iron bites his skin. Garindan crouches, fits the key to the box, and turns it.

The lock gives with a dry click. Garindan lifts the lid, and stale linen and waxed cloth crowd the air, not plague stench, not poison, only hidden church goods wrapped tight against a rough journey.

The friar jerks back a half step, his eyes fixed on the opened box as if it has named him in public. The knight’s mouth tightens, and his satisfaction turns sharp.

Garindan holds the lid open a moment longer. The key is warm in his palm, the cost of the act plain enough, and the tent feels smaller now that the truth has weight.

The friar swallows hard. His hand creeps toward the box, then stops when he sees Garindan's sword still near his knee.

The tent goes still around the question, and the friar's answer hangs there, waiting to decide whether he is a thief alone or a man serving someone higher.

Garindan steps in and fists the friar’s robe at the throat. Cloth bunches hard in his grip, and the little man jerks upright with a startled gasp.

The knight makes a short, disbelieving sound. Garindan keeps the friar held fast, close enough to smell the sour panic on him.

The friar’s eyes dart to the knight, then back to Garindan’s hand on his robe. He does not deny it.