Dismay, then, and worries, and mourning, but none of that would last long. Snell would become the precious one, the one still with them, the one they needed to take care of, protect and coddle. The way it used to be, the way it was supposed to be.
Smiling under the bright morning sun, with long-legged birds pecking mud on the flats out on the lake to his left, Snell ambled his way back home. A good day, a day of feeling so alive, so free. He had righted the world, the whole world.
The shepherd who found the small boy in the grasses of the summit overlooking the road into Maiten and then Two-Ox Gate was an old man with arthritic knees who knew his usefulness was coming to an end, and very soon indeed he would find himself out of work, the way the herdmaster watched him hobbling and leaning too much on his staff. Examining the boy, he was surprised to find him still alive, and this brought thoughts of what he might do with such an urchin in his care.
Worth the effort? He could bring his wife back here, with the cart, and together they could lift the body into the bed and wheel him back to their shack on the shore of the lake. Tend to him and see if he lived or died, feed him enough if it came to that, and then?
Well, he had thoughts, yes, plenty of thoughts on that. None of them pleasant, but then, whoever said the world was a pleasant place? Foundlings were fair game and that was a rule somewhere, he was sure of it, a rule, just like finding salvage on the beach. What you found you owned, and the money would do them good, besides.
He too concluded that it was a good day.
He remembered his childhood, running wild in the streets and alleys, clambering on to the rooftops at night to stare about in wonder at the infamous Thieves’ Road. So inviting this romance of adventure under the moon’s secret light, whilst slept all the dullards and might-be victims in the unlit rooms below.
Running wild, and for the child one road was as good as another, perhaps bet shy;ter so long as there was mystery and danger every step of the way. Even later, when that danger had become all too real, it had been for Cutter a life unfurling, revealing a heart saturated with wonder.
Romance was for fools, he now knew. No one valued the given heart, no one saw that sacrifice for the precious gift it was. No, just a thing to be grasped, twisted by uncaring hands, then wrung dry and discarded. Or a commodity and nothing more, never as desirable as the next one, the one in waiting, or the one held by someone else. Or, something far worse, a gift too precious to accept.
The nature of the rejection, he told himself, was irrelevant. Pain and grief ar shy;rived in singular flavours, bitter and lifeless, and too much of them rotted the soul. He could have taken other roads. Should have. Maybe walked Murillio’s path, a new love every night, the adoration of desperate women, elegant brunches on balconies and discreet rendezvous beneath whispering leaves in some private garden.
Or how about Kruppe? A most wily master to whom he could have appren shy;ticed himself yet further than he already had, in the art of high thievery, in the disposition of stolen items, in the acquisition of valuable information available to whoever was willing to pay and pay well. In the proper appreciation of wines, pas shy;tries and inappropriate attire. A lifetime of cherubic delight, but was there really room in the world for more than one Kruppe?
Assuredly not!
Was it preferable, then, this path of daggers, this dance of shadows and the tak shy;ing of lives for coin without even a soldier’s sanction (as if that mattered)? Rallick would not agree. And Murillio would shake his head, and Kruppe waggle his eyebrows, and Meese might grin and make another grab for his crotch, with Irilta looking on with motherly regard. And there’d be that glow in Sulty’s eyes, tinged now with the bitter truth that she was no longer enough for one such as him, that she could only dream, that somehow his being an assassin set him upon such a high station that her lowly existence as a serving wench was beneath all notice. Where even his efforts at friendship were perceived as pity and condescension, sufficient to pitch her into tears at the wrong word, the missed glance.
How the time for dreams of the future seemed to slip past unnoticed, until in reviving them a man realized, with a shock, that the privilege was no longer his to entertain, that it belonged to those younger faces he saw on all sides, laughing in the tavern and on the streets, running wild.
‘You have changed,’ Murillio said from the bed where he reclined, propped up on pillows, his hair hanging unbound and unwashed, ‘and I’m not sure it’s for the better.’
Cutter regarded his old friend for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s better?’
‘What’s better. You wouldn’t have asked that question, and certainly not in that way, the last time I saw you: Someone broke your heart, Crokus — not Challice D’Arle, I hope!’
Smiling, Cutter shook his head. ‘No, and what do you know, I’d almost forgot shy;ten her name. Her face, certainly. . and the name is Cutter now, Murillio.’
‘If you say so.’
He just had, but clearly Murillio was worse for wear, not up to his usual standard of conversation. If he’d been making a point by saying that, well, maybe Crokus would’ve snatched the bait. It’s the darkness in my soul. . no, never mind.
‘Seven Cities, was it? Took your time coming home.’
‘A long journey, for the ship I was on. The north route, along the island chains, stuck in a miserable hovel of a port for two whole seasons — first winter storms, which we’d expected, then a spring filled with treacherous ice rafts, which we didn’t — no one did, in fact.’
‘Should have booked passage on a Moranth trader.’
Cutter glanced away. ‘Didn’t have a choice, not for the ship, nor for the company on it.’
‘So you had a miserable time aboard?’
He sighed. ‘Not their fault, any of them. In fact, I made good friends-’
‘Where are they now, then?’
Cutter shrugged. ‘Scattered about, I imagine.’
‘Will we meet them?’ Murillio asked.
He wondered at this line of questioning, found himself strangely irritated by Murillio’s apparent interest in the people he had come back with. ‘A few, maybe. Some stepped ashore only to leave again, by whatever means possible — so, not any of those. The others. . we’ll see.’
‘Ah, I was just curious.’
‘About what?’
‘Well, which of your groups of friends you considered more embarrassing, I suppose.’
‘Neither!’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. . Cutter. You’re just seeming somewhat. . restless, as if you’d rather be elsewhere.’
It’s not that easy. ‘It all feels. . different. That’s all. Bit of a shock, finding you nearly dead.’
‘I imagine besting Rallick in a knife fight was rather shocking, as well.’
Cutter didn’t much want to think about that. ‘I could never have imagined that you’d lose a duel, Murillio.’
‘Easy to do, when you’re drunk and wearing no breeches.’
‘Oh.’
‘Actually, neither of those is relevant to my present situation. I was careless. Why was I careless? Because I’m getting old. Because it’s all slowing down. I’m slowing down. Look at me, lying here, healed up but full of aches, old pains, and nothing but cold ashes in my soul. I’ve been granted a second chance and I intend to take it.’
‘Meaning?’
Murillio shot him a look. Seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and said something else. ‘I’m going to retire. True, I’ve not saved up much, but then, I should be able to live with more modest expectations, shouldn’t I? There’s a new duelling school in the Daru. I’ve heard it’s doing rather well, long lists of applicants and all that. I could help out, a couple of days a week.’
‘No more widows. No more clandestine trysts.’