sighed heavily. ‘Yesterday was an ugly day. I would not base any life decision on it.’ He swung his head to look toward me. ‘Whatever it is, Cob, I think time will make it better. It does most things, you know.’
‘Some things,’ I muttered distractedly. ‘Other things don’t get better until you … mend them. One way or another.’
‘Well.’ He held out his hand to me, and I took it. ‘Good luck to you then. At least this fighter’s hand has a sword to grip now. That can’t be bad fortune for you.’
‘Here’s the door,’ I said, and opened it for him. ‘Good luck to you as well,’ I told him as he passed me, and closed it behind him.
As I stepped out into the open street again, I felt as if I had tossed a burden aside. Free again. I would not soon weight myself down with anything like that again.
I’m coming, I told Nighteyes. This evening, we hunt.
I’ll be watching for you.
I hitched my bundle a bit higher on my shoulder, took a fresh grip on my staff and strode down the street. I could think of nothing in Crowsneck that I could possibly desire. My path took me straight through the market square however, and the habits of a lifetime die hard. My ears pricked up to the grumbles and complaints of those who had come to bargain. Buyers demanded to know why prices were so high; sellers replied that the trade from downriver was scarce, and whatever goods came upriver as far as Crowsneck were dear. Prices were worse upriver, they assured them. For all those who complained about the high prices, there were as many who came looking for what was simply not there. It was not just the ocean fish and the thick wool of Buck that no longer came up the river. It was as Chade had predicted; there were no silks, no brandies, no fine Bingtown gemwork, nothing from the Coastal Duchies, nor from the lands beyond. Regal’s attempt to strangle the Mountain Kingdom’s trade routes had also deprived the Crowsneck merchants of Mountain amber and furs and other goods. Crowsneck had been a trading town. Now it was stagnant, choking on a surplus of its own goods and naught to trade them for.
At least one shambling drunk knew where to put the blame. He wove his way through the market, caroming off stalls and staggering through the wares lesser merchants had displayed on mats. His shaggy black hair hung to his shoulders and merged with his beard. He sang as he came, or growled, more truly, for his voice was louder than it was musical. There was little melody to fix the tune in my mind, and he botched whatever rhyme had once been to the song, but the sense of it was clear. When Shrewd had been King of the Six Duchies, the river had run with gold, but now that Regal wore the crown, the coasts all ran with blood. There was a second verse, saying it was better to pay taxes to fight the Red Ships than pay them to a king that hid, but that one was interrupted by the arrival of the City Guard. There were a pair of them, and I expected to see them halt the drunk and shake him down for coins to pay for whatever he’d broken. I should have been forewarned by the silence that came over the market when the guards appeared. Commerce ceased, folk melted out of the way or pressed back against the stalls to allow them passage. All eyes followed and fixed on them.
They closed on the drunk swiftly, and I was one of the silent crowd watching as they seized him. The drunk goggled at them in dismay, and the look of appeal he swept over the crowd was chilling in its intensity. Then one of the guards drew back a gauntleted fist and sank it into his belly. The drunk looked to be a tough old man, gone paunchy in the way that some thickly-set men do as they age. A soft man would have collapsed to that blow. He curled himself forward over the guard’s fist, his breath whistling out, and then abruptly spewed out a gush of soured ale. The guards stepped back in distaste, one giving the drunk a shove that sent him tottering off balance. He crashed against a marketstall, sending two baskets of eggs splatting into the dirt. The egg merchant said nothing, only stepped back deeper into his stall as if he did not wish to be noticed at all.
The guards advanced on the unfortunate man. The first one there gripped him by the shirt front and dragged him to his feet. He struck him a short, straight blow to the face that sent him crashing into the other guard’s arms. That one caught him, and held him up for his partner’s fist to find his belly again. This time the drunk dropped to his knees and the guard behind him casually kicked him down.
I did not realize I had started forward until a hand caught at my shoulder. I looked back into the wizened face of the gaunt old woman who clutched at me. ‘Don’t make them mad,’ she breathed. ‘They’ll let him off with a beating, if no one makes them angry. Make them angry, and they’ll kill him. Or worse, take him off for the King’s Circle.’
I locked eyes with her weary gaze, and she looked down as if ashamed. But she did not take her hand from my shoulder. Like her, then, I looked aside from what they did, and tried not to hear the impacts on flesh, the grunts and strangled cries of the beaten man.
The day was hot, and the guards wore more mail than I was accustomed to seeing on City Guards. Perhaps that was what saved the drunk. No one likes to sweat in armour. I looked back in time to see one stoop and cut loose the man’s purse, heft it, and then pocket it. The other guard looked about at the crowd as he announced, ‘Black Rolf has been fined and punished for the treasonous act of making mock of the King. Let it be an example to all.’
The guards left him lying in the dirt and litter of the market square and continued their rounds. One guard watched over his shoulder as they strode away, but no one moved until they turned a corner. Then gradually the market stirred back to life. The old woman lifted her hand from my shoulder and turned back to haggling for turnips. The egg merchant came around the front of his stall, to stoop and gather the few unbroken eggs and the yolky baskets. No one looked directly at the fallen man.
I stood still for a time, waiting for a shaky coldness inside me to fade. I wanted to ask why City Guards should care about a drunkard’s song, but no one met my querying glance. I suddenly had even less use for anyone or anything in Crowsneck. I hitched my pack a notch higher and resumed my trek out of town. But as I drew near the groaning man, his pain lapped against me. The closer I came, the more distinct it was, almost like forcing my hand deeper and deeper into a fire. He lifted his face to stare at me. Dirt clung to the blood and vomit on it. I tried to keep walking.
Help him. My mind rendered thus the sudden mental urging I felt.
I halted as if knifed, nearly reeling. That plea was not from Nighteyes. The drunk got a hand under himself and levered himself higher. His eyes met mine in dumb appeal and misery. I had seen such eyes before; they were those of an animal in pain.
Maybe we should help him? Nighteyes asked uncertainly.
Hush, I warned him.
Please, help him. The plea had grown in urgency and strength. Old Blood asks of Old Blood, the voice in my mind spoke more clearly, not in words but images. I Witted the meaning behind it. It was a laying on of clan obligation.
Are they pack with us? Nighteyes asked wonderingly. I knew he could sense my confusion, and did not reply.
Black Rolf had managed to get his other hand under himself. He pushed himself up onto one knee, then mutely extended a hand to me. I clasped his forearm and drew him slowly to his feet. Once he was upright, he swayed slightly. I kept hold of his arm and let him catch his balance against me. As dumb as he, I offered him my walking staff. He took it, but did not relinquish my arm. Slowly we left the market place, the drunk leaning on me heavily. Entirely too many people stared after us curiously. As we walked through the streets, people glanced up at us, and then away. The man said nothing to me. I kept expecting him to point out some direction he wished to go, some house claimed as his, but he said nothing.
As we
