AS ERROL MOVED ALONG THE RIVERBANK, a man came toward him with his head held forward and down like the ram at his heel. A woman had the same restless eyes as her ferret. An old toothless woman limped along, with a disheveled starling hopping on her shoulder. More than before, he was aware of the similarities in the eyes, gait, and the sounds between the people he saw on his path and the beasts who trailed them.
“I have a pair of iron spikes in my pack,” Errol said, as he had said to everyone he had seen.
“Who cares?” the starling’s woman said.
“I’m sure you know someone who cares,” said Errol.
He saw her twitch. He left her and walked to the riverbank. He sat in the grass and waited for news to travel.
As he waited, he played with something in his pocket. He took it out and saw the shatranj piece—the faras, the horse—the one he had given to the kitchen girl. Who had put it there?
Out of nowhere he was hit from behind. He spun around. He had known this was coming. He was curious to see who they had sent.
“Pollux.” Errol could hear himself talking as if his head were underwater.
“Why didn’t you stay on the roofs? You are nothing but one runner against a whole city.” Errol felt himself drool. He tried to wipe his mouth but missed. “You’ve got what Utlag wants. And the regnat. And the abbot.”
“They have my city. And I want it.”
Pollux charged at him again, and this time Errol took the force straight on, then watched his fingers twitch as his body folded up and sank to the dirt.