I passed through a small town where the day’s market was just being set up, the destination for all that local produce. At least if it was market day everywhere, I wouldn’t stand out on the road so much. People waved at me in that guardedly cheery way rural folks greet strangers. On the other side of town a few late farmers headed in with their produce. They also waved.
I galloped over a hill and down into a low stretch. To my left I glimpsed a small burst of flowers along the otherwise grassy shoulder. From the midst of them protruded what looked like the hilt of a sword. I figured I was making good enough time, so I wheeled the horse around and returned to look it over.
It was a sword, old, weathered, and driven deep into the ground among the planted flowers. Several pieces of vellum, some so old the rain had beaten them into the dirt, were tied to the hilt. I dismounted and knelt so I could read them.
The first read, We miss you, Daddy. Another, in a child’s hand, said, Sleep well, Grandpa. I wondered how the honored dead had met his end.
This isolated and empty stretch of road seemed perfect for bandits, but I saw none. My horse whinnied impatiently, anxious to return to work. I also had a sudden flash of Thomas Gillian sharpening his sword while he watched an hourglass drain away my time, so I returned to the saddle.
I topped a hill and saw a line of wagons impeded by something. With the barest tug on her reins, the horse hopped the ditch and proceeded along the shoulder as if this were nothing unusual. The ground was too soft for the heavily laden carts to take the same detour, so they had to wait for the way to clear. The farmers and peddlers glared jealously at me as I passed them.
Finally I reached the reason for the backup: a cart bearing new flagstones, and three men watching a fourth as he replaced broken ones in the road. Slowly.
“Come on, guys, my taxes pay for this!” one farmer yelled from the seat of his two-wheeled cart. It had no visible effect on the workers.
“You can’t travel five miles on this goddamned road without getting caught behind construction,” the farmer said. I heard murmurs of assent from his fellow travelers. I doubt it sped things up.
We returned to the road, which was clear all the way to the next low hill. I felt the morning wind on my newly bare cheeks.
At midmorning I arrived at a crossroads village where two of the stone thoroughfares met. A sign announced it as Astolat, and the road that crossed at its center traveled north/south just as mine did east/west. Farmers and merchants busily sold their wares at the edge of town, but the few buildings were quiet. The tavern was open for business, though.
At the transfer station I climbed down and stretched my legs, wincing at the pain in my lower back. That had become more frequent the older I got and had nothing to do with how seldom I rode horses. It was the lingering reminder of a spine-crushing blow delivered by a club the size of a calf, wielded by a black-haired maniac against a cocky young mercenary who had ignored the advice of older, smarter soldiers. That mercenary, now a much wiser sword jockey, subsequently paid a lot more attention when other people spoke. And when he started to forget this lesson, his back reminded him.
I narrowly avoided being drawn into conversation with the young man on duty at the station. He wanted to know all about the situation at Nodlon, and I was amazed all over again at how fast and thoroughly bad news could spread. I made polite excuses and decided to take a quick break for a drink. Surely Thomas Gillian wouldn’t begrudge me that.
The tavern, called the Crack’d Mirror, was smaller and dirtier than anyplace else I’d been in Grand Bruan. When I walked in, I had to wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness; there seemed to be no light other than the hearth fire, and what sunlight managed to pierce the cracks in the walls and ceiling. Luckily there were a lot of those, and in the hazy air the light shafts resembled chaotic prison bars.
I hung my jacket on a wall hook beside a hooded cloak, then sat at one of the tables. My butt and backbone were both grateful for something that wasn’t bouncing. I rested my injured hand on the tabletop, glad to no longer feel the weight of the cast tugging at my shoulder. Still, I was alert. Even coated with road dust I was overdressed for the place, and that could lead to trouble.
A large human shape moved back and forth behind the counter, but made no move to ask me if I wanted anything. No one else was in the room, so at last I whistled for his attention. When he turned my way, I said, “What’s a fellow got to do to get some ale in this place?”
He did not reply, but picked up a mug and opened the tap to a keg. I turned and nearly jumped out of the chair.
A woman had appeared next to my table. I hadn’t heard her approach or sensed her nearness, both of which were uncharacteristic of me. Were people in Grand Bruan just stealthier than anywhere else? I said, “If you scare me to death, I can’t pay my tab, you know.”
She put one foot brazenly on the chair beside me, which hiked her tattered skirt enough to show a smooth, surprisingly clean calf. She leaned down to give me a clear view of her admirable cleavage. “All by yourself today, stranger?” she said, her accent heavy, raw, and untutored.
“Yeah. Just stopping for a drink.”
Her hair fell down in her eyes and hung close to her cheeks. I couldn’t tell how old she was, only that she wasn’t elderly. The parts of her I could see were certainly worth the look. She asked, “What’d you do to your hand? Rub it raw pulling your ladle?”
I smiled and said nothing.
“My name’s Elaine. I’ve got all my teeth. Want some company, then?”
“No, thanks. I’ve only got a few minutes.”
She grinned and licked her lips. “I only need a few minutes, love. I can take you from trickle to fountain before you know what hit you.”
“No thanks,” I repeated.
She glanced at the silhouette behind the bar, who stood immobile. I couldn’t be certain he watched us, but what the hell else would he be looking at? “Please,” she said softly, her smile fixed and fearful, “look around. Nobody ever comes in here, and he takes it out on me. One day he’ll knock out my teeth, and then where will I be? I promise, you won’t regret it, I’ll let you do anything you want to me, just please don’t let him see you turn me away.”
The hairs on my neck stood up the way they always did to alert me to danger. I slouched in the chair as if trying to appear cool and sophisticated, when really I just wanted to get my good hand close to my boot knife. “You don’t look like he beats you.”
“He doesn’t do it where customers can see it,” she said, eyes down.
She could be telling me the truth; she could also be playing on my sympathies to get me alone and slip a knife between my ribs. “Why do you stay?”
She shrugged again. “He’s my father; where would I go?” She sidled behind my chair and began to rub my shoulders through my clothes. “Oh, you’re a strong one, aren’t you? You don’t look like you would be, all dressed up like that. Usually people in these sorts of clothes are soft as butter. Everywhere, ” she added with a lascivious chuckle.
I didn’t like the idea of not being able to see her. “I’m full of surprises,” I said, took one hand, and pulled her back in front of me. I pressed a gold coin in her hand. “Show this to your father, it should make him happy. And then bring me my ale.”
She looked at the coin, and her eyes widened. “Is this real?” she whispered.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t have flashed so much cash in a place like this, but it was the smallest coin I had. “It’s real. Now go get my drink.”
I winked and slapped her on the behind, for her watching father’s sake. She jumped and for a moment glared at me with a superior, overwhelming outrage that was totally out of character for a tavern whore. It vanished at once, replaced by a cool smile, and she flounced over to the counter for my drink.