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‘But I do,’ Freath said, scowling.
‘Then the sooner I go, the easier on your troubled mind.’
‘Kirin, I—’
‘Don’t. There’s nothing more to say. We both know what we have to do and you know why I have to leave. I will make contact again and I won’t leave it too long, either—that’s a promise.’
‘Find him for me, Kirin.’
‘And you find his brother,’ Kirin replied.
Freath nodded. ‘An aegis would be helpful.’
Kirin grinned. ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’
‘How will you take care of yourself? You know…’ Freath didn’t want to be obvious but he could see Kirin understood all the same.
‘I’ve been lucky this past decade; you haven’t asked much of me. We both know it will get worse if I practise. But that’s my decision on when and how to use my skills and you’re not to worry over my health.’
Freath sighed. ‘Well, I’ll just sit here and comfort myself with that thought,’ he replied, unable to fully disguise his bitterness. ‘Be safe. I shall miss you.’
Kirin stood, then surprised Freath by leaning down and hugging his old friend. ‘I’ll see you soon enough, I promise.’
All Freath could do was nod. He wasn’t used to being touched in such an intimate way; in fact, the last person who had hugged him had been his lovely Genrie. And she was dead within hours. He felt the familiar bile rise but forced it back as he lifted a hand in farewell to Kirin, who had turned at the inn’s doorway for one last sad smile in his direction. Freath watched a huge man step across the inn’s threshold, pushing past Kirin, his size forcing one of the Vested’s shoulders to swing backwards. Freath saw his friend shake his head at the poor manners and then he was gone. The big man moved deeper into the inn and although Freath’s gaze absently followed him, he was more focused on how the inn had filled since he and Kirin had come downstairs. Suddenly he was aware of the noise of men drinking, the voices of serving girls laughing and teasing their patrons gently as they set down food. He heard the clatter and bustle from the kitchen and the clank of pitchers of ale and mugs of spiced dinch. He decided to free up his table, now that the debris of his meal was being cleared. He watched as the woman worked with quiet dexterity, piling up plates and mugs on a large tray.
‘Thank you,’ he said and she looked up at him with surprise. She must not be used to such politeness, Freath thought, removing himself from the dining area to a corner of the main part of the inn. A shelf was set at chest height right around the room’s main chamber, accompanied by high stools for anyone who wanted to perch with a drink, though most men just leaned their elbows against the shelf. It was still relatively early so no one was rowdy. The patrons looked to be mainly travellers on their way through the town so none of these people would be looking for trouble. Instead, they seemed keen on swapping tales of the pass, or conditions in the mountains or news from the other cities and provinces.
Compasses! That’s what Loethar called Barronel, Garamond, Cremond and all the other once proud realms of the Set. He scowled into his ale and as he settled back into the dark nook his eyes fell on the huge man who had entered as Kirin was leaving. What an enormous specimen he was. He had to be a bodyguard at that size and yet he seemed very relaxed, not at all unfamiliar with the surrounds. Freath watched how the man took in everyone with his loud remarks and equally loud jests. No one seemed to mind his brashness. Freath noticed how the man’s brightly burning personality seemed to attract other men like moths to a flame. Soon enough a large group of them were clanking mugs of ale and laughing uproariously together.
The man sitting next to Freath, also alone, ordered an ale and as the girl arrived with his mug, she glanced at Freath enquiringly. ‘Another, please,’ Freath agreed. He didn’t want more ale but he needed an excuse to remain a bit longer. He knew if he went upstairs he’d feel Kirin’s absence too keenly and besides, it had been a very long time since he’d shared life among ordinary people. He was enjoying the anonymity and the relief of not having to watch his every move, every word, as he did in and around the palace. But, he reminded himself, he needed to stay alert. His reason for being here remained clandestine and with a very real purpose—he must not slip into the mindset that he was on some sort of holiday.
The girl arrived with a pitcher of ale and a mug. ‘I thought yours looked a bit stale, sir.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Freath replied, accepting the fresh mug as the darkly golden liquid fizzed into its depths, releasing a musty smell.
‘There you go,’ she said, beaming, and moved on.
As Freath half-smiled back at her, he caught the gaze of the fellow next to him. ‘Your health!’ he said politely.
‘And yours,’ the man replied, grinning before he took a draught of his ale.
Freath noticed his barbarian escorts enter the inn. The Green looked around until they saw Freath. Freath nodded, subtly dismissing them, then returned his gaze to his new companion who had turned his back to the door. ‘Are you local?’ he asked. Without Kirin’s company he would look every inch the dour city dweller if he didn’t try and fit in. What’s more, he could use some company, even if it was small talk with a complete stranger.
The man shook his head. ‘But I like this town. I pass through it for work.’
‘Oh yes, and what line of work are you in?’
‘A merchant.’
‘Ah, it seems everyone here but myself is a merchant of sorts,’ Freath commented.
‘And you, sir?’
‘I am a scribe from the city,’ he lied. ‘On my way through the north offering my services to a number of the wealthy families.’
The man scratched at his beard. ‘You have very clean fingertips for a man of ink.’
Freath forced a smile. ‘Sand and vinegar, with a dash of almond oil, make a wonderful cleaner. I bleach my fingers in pure lemon juice each day. As you can see, it makes a difference.’ Where he found the capacity to lie so convincingly or compile such credible-sounding nonsense was beyond him. His mother would turn in her grave. She would turn, anyway, to know the danger he had been living through these past anni, he thought sourly.
‘Impressive,’ the man said, staring at his own grubby hands. ‘I mention it only because I work with a lot of linen dyes. These fingers were orange a few days ago. Now they’re just fading to brown.’
Freath tapped his nose. ‘Sand and vinegar.’
The man raised his cup again and grinned. ‘I’ll remember that. Look out, it seems we have a contest on our hands,’ he said, nodding towards the main counter.
Freath looked over and right enough the huge man was taking bets; coins were exchanging hands rapidly. He glanced at his companion. ‘What’s funny?’
‘I’ve seen this big fellow before. He never wins but still he plays.’
‘Plays what?’
‘Arrows.’
‘Arrows?’
The man turned to stare at Freath as though he were simple. ‘You don’t know the game Arrows?’
He’d just made an error. Freath fumbled to correct himself. ‘Er, well, I’ve spent the past few years working for the Drosteans. It hasn’t reached that far east yet.’
His companion’s nod suggested his excuse was plausible. ‘It was begun here in the north. Watch. See over on the bar, that pot of arrowheads?’
‘They’re not full size.’
‘No, that’s right. Deliberately shortened with a sleeker point.’
Freath frowned. ‘Why?’
‘To throw them.’
‘At what?’ Freath asked, intrigued.
His new friend pointed again, this time at a man who was rolling out a wine barrel. He pushed it against the rough stone wall on its side so one end faced into the main room. ‘The target is the bottom of the wine barrel.’
‘He has to hit that circle painted on it, I see,’ Freath said, fascinated.
His companion grinned. ‘Except he never does. I’ve seen him now a couple of times. He loses badly. I hope he bets against himself.’
‘It can’t be that hard, surely?’ Freath wondered. ‘I’m sure even I could do it.’
‘Really? Blindfolded?’
‘What?’ Freath exclaimed, nearly choking on his ale.
The man laughed easily. ‘That’s the point. Best you stay here and well behind him, Master Scribe, as those shortened arrows can be flung anywhere from that fellow’s wild throw.’
‘Lo, save me. Is this his invention?’
The man snorted. ‘No. The proper game requires the throwers to get as close to the middle of that spot as possible. You bet against each other on three throws.’ He finished his mug of ale. ‘The game’s developed, though, over the last decade. Quite a few people in the north play it and some have worked out a system of marking. You throw the arrows at rings painted on the barrel. The middle point is the highest and the further out you go from the middle the lower the score. It’s more complicated than that but I myself have never played it so I don’t fully understand the scoring. It’s popular, though. Mark my words, Master Scribe, you lot will be playing this in the city and as far as Droste before you know it.’
‘I dare say,’ Freath said, watching with great interest as the huge man allowed himself to be blindfolded.
‘Now the bets will be taken,’ his bearded companion said.
As if on cue, pandemonium broke out among the patrons as the innkeeper gleefully watched money exchanging hands furiously.
‘The innkeeper gets a cut of all the money laid down,’ Freath’s new friend explained.
Freath nodded, eyes riveted on the big man, who was being turned on his heels several times.
‘Lo’s breath! He could throw it our way,’ he exclaimed.
‘As I warned.’
Freath watched as the arrow-thrower, now appropriately giddy, was baited by his audience to choose his position. The big man roared his intention and then turned slowly, lurching once, before planting his feet solidly. The crowd stifled its laughter, and silence reigned as the big man took aim at the wooden counter, the innkeeper rolling his eyes and ducking below it for safety. The real target sat forlornly forgotten and as the arrow hit timber with a dull thud, the room erupted into hilarity, hats flung in the air, mugs clanked against each other, voices yelling and just about everyone on his feet.
In the midst of the noise, Freath’s friend stood up and grabbed Freath’s jacket-front. ‘What the—?’ Freath spluttered.
‘Let’s go, Freath. Time is of the essence.’
‘But—?’ Freath found himself being dragged out of the inn, unnoticed amidst all the cheering as men surged to their feet to watch the contest. The giant took his second shot as they exited, and Freath was convinced the second arrow landed in the door as it closed behind them. And before he could digest that, he found himself being hauled up onto a horse by a stranger.
‘Hold on,’ the stranger growled and within moments Freath was being galloped out of the town. Another horse, presumably with his companion from the inn, gave chase, but he dared not risk a look because his seating was already unsteady behind the rider. A fall at his age and from this height—and at this speed—would mean broken bones and a lot of explanation. No, he would not take the chance, so he closed his eyes and clung on as the horse he was sharing began to slow and climb. Presumably these were Faris’s men. He would have to trust his instincts. The noise of all the hooves died away until he was sure there were just two beasts.
‘Didn’t mean to frighten you,’ a familiar voice said, drawing alongside.
Freath opened his eyes, expecting to see his acquaintance from the inn. Although the clothes were identical, he would not have recognised the man. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ his companion explained, seeing Freath’s shock at his transformation.
‘Your disguise is impressive,’ Freath said, watching as the man pulled padding from around his girth and shoulders to reveal a much leaner frame. The gingery sideburns and reddish grey beard had already disappeared, along with the bright mop of auburn hair. ‘You’ve forgotten your eyebrows,’ he added.
‘We’re here,’ the man said, glancing over Freath’s shoulder as he dealt with the last of his disguise.
‘Here?’ Freath repeated, looking around. He saw nothing but a thickly wooded area, which was dark and foreboding now that the moonlight had been obliterated by clouds scudding over it. ‘Where?’ he asked.
His companion grinned. ‘This is where we shall talk,’ came the reply. ‘You can get off your horse, for we go no further.’
Freath obediently slid off his mount, ignoring his fellow rider’s hand of help.
‘This is Tern,’ his host introduced.
‘Obliged I’m sure,’ Freath said somewhat ungraciously to the man who had abducted him. ‘And who are you? I had hoped to meet the outlaw Kilt F—’
‘I’m Faris.’
Freath felt something coalesce inside into an excitement he had not permitted himself so far. ‘How can I be sure of that?’ he asked.
‘Because I am a man of my word.’
Freath saw that the man called Tern was busying himself with some sort of shelter that was hidden in the trees.
Faris noted his gaze. ‘It is a hideout. You will forgive us our low light. We are always careful this close to a town.’
‘But we must be miles from Francham.’
‘Nevertheless—’
‘You can never be too careful,’ Freath said at the same time as Faris.
The outlaw smiled. ‘Join us, Master Freath. I can offer you something to warm old bones.’
Freath ducked into the small space created by a cunning canopy of slim branches woven together, their leaves creating a dense wall. Small stools were placed inside and tiny candles had been lit to offer a small measure of comfort. ‘Must be tough in the cold months,’ he commented.
‘We are never this far down in the blow,’ Faris replied. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he offered dryly.
Freath perched on one of the low stools. ‘Was the inn not rough enough for you?’
Faris gave a low chuckle. ‘Speaking of Rough, let me invite you to try some.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Freath replied.
‘A small nip will not hurt you,’ Faris said, taking tiny shot cups that Tern had miraculously produced. A small flask appeared as well from a saddle-bag. ‘It is a custom in this part of the realm to take Rough together.’
‘This is no realm, Master Faris. We live in a compass,’ Freath said, his mouth twisting into a shape of disgust, ‘or hadn’t you realised?’
‘I answer to a king, Master Freath, not an emperor.’
Freath’s belly flipped. ‘How can I know you are not an impostor? That this whole thing has not been a clever charade?’
‘Why would anyone go to the trouble?’
Freath frowned.
Faris sighed. He removed a chain from around his neck. ‘Do you recognise this?’
The low light made no difference. Freath could clearly see that the man was holding Queen Iselda’s chain and locket. ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded.
‘From a king.’
‘Which one?’ Freath breathed.
