Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
If that’s how the mutilations happened, I also imagine whoever it was didn’t survive to tell the tale.
“Thank you.” His voice is surprisingly soft, and I pick up on an accent. “I am hungry.”
Coming back to attention, I realize I’ve just been standing in front of him, and I place the plate on the table. When he doesn’t move to take the food, I’m forced to lean over and push the meal toward him. Up closer, his chest is massive under the leather and steel of his fighting garb, and his arms seem thick as tree trunks.
Is he from Prosperitus? I doubt it. From what we’ve heard here, King Rehm the Just keeps strict control of his populace, and mercenaries aren’t allowed inside the territory to disturb the order.
Well, most of the territory. A transgression here in our village wouldn’t be so much excused as irrelevant to the King.
I clear my throat. “Would you care for more ale—”
“I would, yes.”
He holds out the tankard instead of letting me pick it up. I’m careful not to make contact with him as I take the weight, but he moves his forefinger at the last moment. The stroke over my thumb is a shock, something sizzling between our flesh.
“I’ll keep using this particular tankard,” he says softly. “If you don’t mind.”
In a trance, I turn away, and I can feel his eye on me as I return to the bar. When I put the tankard in front of the tender, the man recoils as if it’s contaminated, and I know what he’s thinking. I’ve already been sacrificed to disease, and he doesn’t like the idea of touching anything I have unless it’s been washed first.
“He wants to use this one,” I explain.
“Then you fill it.”
Shuffling behind the bar, I take a cloth and cover my hand so as not to be accused of contaminating the drink. Then I draw the ale from the barrel’s base, and too soon, I’m back over at the table. The mercenary nods as I place the serving by the plate, and as he shifts to the side, I jump out of range on instinct.
Although given the size of his shoulders, there is no out of range for him.
He stops in mid-motion. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
The copper he takes out and slides forward makes a rasping noise over the rough wood planks. Everything about him seems very loud. Then again, he’s sucked the sound out of the rest of the continent.
“For you,” he tells me.
I shake my head and back away just as the pub door opens. Everyone except the mercenary looks to see what is arriving. What else is arriving—
The farrier steps through and locates me with ease through the subdued stragglers, his big belly turning toward me like it’s homing in. I glance at the winding clock over the bar. At least he’s on time.
“Friend of yours?” the mercenary asks me.
“Enjoy your meal.”
I duck my head, even though it’s covered by my hood, and hustle off for the back of house. No one stops me, not even Mr. Lewis.
Out by the stairwell, I bend down and spring the latch on my crawl space’s panel. Squeezing through, I orient thanks to the light that filters through the gaps in the steps overhead. I have a sleeping pallet that I keep scrupulously clean, and an array of cloaks that hang from pegs I have driven into the underside of the staircase. Then there’s my worktable, which is little more than a discarded board I have set on two stacks of bricks.
A collection of small earthenware pots contain various unguents, and my pestle is filled with dried leaves that I’ve not had time to continue working with. The collection of wads I have managed to prepare for Elly are bundled in one of my collection sacks, and I grab the medicine.
Reemerging, I confront the farrier, pressing the satchel into his meaty paw. “She must have a fresh one of these put into her mouth every four to five hours. Tell your niece to do it. I will bring more on the morrow.”
He looks down at the little bag as if he’s never seen one before. “And I shall bury my son at the Resting Place—”
“I care only about your wife who still lives. This will change her pupils so I’ll know whether or not it’s been given to her—”
We have an audience. Both Mr. Lewis and the scarred mercenary who brought the storm inside with him are standing in the archway. The plate I delivered is in the man of war’s left hand and he holds the heavy pewter weight laden with food as if it’s but a leaf.
“Take him to number eight,” Mr. Lewis orders me.
The farrier drops his head and lumbers away like something that should be in a forest, not inside a pub or lodging house. Mr. Lewis makes room for him to pass. The mercenary does not. Him, the farrier squeezes against the dirty wall to get around.