Chapter 14

 

 

Innowen leaned his back against the cool stone of Parendur's high wall and waited for the dawn. By the faint light of the moon he could make out the fine gray ribbon that was the road through the main gate. It stretched across the plain and broke apart, sending smaller roads onward into the valley beyond and into the foothills on either side.

He stared at the gate again and thought of Taelyn. A pang stabbed his heart. Not one of the soldiers in Taelyn's last command had been seen or heard from. No doubt all were dead; theirs had been a suicide assignment.

Cursing silently, he let his head sag forward onto his knees as he drew a few deep, dust-filled breaths. The drought had reasserted itself. The last few days had been scorching, and all evidence of any rain had vanished. Only night brought the slightest relief from the crushing heat. Even so, a fine sheen of sweat dampened his skin.

From high atop the wall came a scuffling and the murmur of low voices. Innowen listened to the changing of the watch guards. Soon enough, the night was quiet again. He stretched one leg out before him, rested one hand on his bent knee, and waited.

The Crown of the Heavens cut a pale swath across the black sky. In the north, the Great Scythe turned slowly, its seven stars blazing. He had known the names of those stars once. Drushen had taught him. In the handle, Shalaka, Bandal, Paros. The others eluded him now, though he tried to remember.

Voices came to him again, from above. Snatches of a conversation drifted down from the wall, then faded into silence once more.

He brushed a hand over a small ceramic bowl, where it lay in the dirt beside his outstretched leg, and moved it a little closer. His finger moved idly in the dust. With a start and a pang of guilt, he realized he'd written Razkili's name.

Leaning his head against the wall, he shut his eyes and called up Razkili's features. It was so easy to remember the smell of him, his touch. Razkili had filled his thoughts in the time since he'd left Whisperstone. For five years they'd ridden together. Five days without him had been almost unbearable.

What must Rascal have thought when he read the single word that Innowen had left carved in the wax tablet? Wait. That had been the entirety of his message, and then he had contrived to slip away on a pretext, made his way to the stables, left a second message for Minarik with a slave there, and departed his father's keep.

The second message would assure that Razkili was in no way responsible for Riloosa's death. It also promised that he, Innowen, would return to face Kyrin's wrath. He was not running away. There was, however, something he had to do that could no longer be put off. Something he had to do alone.

He turned his gaze up toward the moon again. It was well over half-full. Some nocturnal bird flitted briefly across its face, a dark silhouette, then something more beautiful as it climbed away with the silver light limning its wings.

Please, Rascal, he prayed silently as he watched the bird disappear. Understand.

Another sound drew his attention back to the road. The uneven creaking of dry axles and the steady plod of an ox's hooves echoed out of the darkness. It was a few more moments before he made out the dim outline of an approaching cart. It pulled up before the sealed gates and stopped.

Innowen surreptitiously pushed his legs out before him and lifted the small bowl in one hand. "Selats?" he said quietly, "a few coppers for an unfortunate cripple?"

An old man peered down at him from his seat on the cart, then slowly lifted his bulk and stepped down with a grunt. "Early for a beggar, you are," he answered finally, offering no coins. "I'm usually the first one here." He reached over the side of his cart and began to unload, pulling down a stool and a potter's wheel, which reeked of strong-smelling clay. He set them by the roadside near Innowen's feet and went back to his cart again. "What's your name, beggar?" he asked as he lifted out a bundle of blankets and spread them on the ground.

"Petroklos," Innowen lied easily, careful to keep his legs still.

The old potter began to place various pots and vessels upon the blankets, knowing even without benefit of a lamp or torch just how he wanted each piece displayed. "Well, Petroklos," he said as he worked. "You're in my spot, now, and if you were another merchant I'd give you a sound drubbing and drive you right off for your impertinence." He turned to Innowen with an oinochoe jug in one hand and shook it at him. "But seeing as how you're a poor miserable cripple, you can beg there and I won't bother you. Mind, though, you don't annoy my customers. What are you doing outside the gates, anyway?"

"Waiting for them to open," Innowen answered truthfully. "Your spot, you say? You're here every morning?"

"Unless it rains, or there's war," the old potter affirmed as he unrolled a small tent and began to erect it near the blankets. "There's been some of both lately, but now the sun's out again as hot as ever, and if the fighting's settled down for a bit, this poor man's back in the business of providing for his family." He flashed a showy grin, pleased with his own speech. "Waiting to get in, lad? Where'd you come from?"

"Kabari," Innowen answered, naming the nearby village where he'd left his horse and the few belongings he'd brought on his journey. He felt inside the rag he wore as a tunic to reassure himself his purse was safe, and the thin dagger he had secreted was still there. "Are things already so normal, with Parendur full of invaders, that you feel secure doing business in the shadow of the city gates?"

The old man used a mallet to drive four metal rods into the ground at the corners of his encampment. That done, he ran a rope through loops at the tops of each rod, and his shop was complete. He paused to survey his work and gave a satisfied sigh. The sound of wheels and voices made him turn—more merchants coming up the road bringing their wares from the countryside. The potter led his wagon around to the back of his tent, unhitched the ox, and tethered the beast to the rearmost rod.

"Normal?" he answered, finally resuming the conversation. He shrugged as he bent to adjust the positioning on his blanket of a tall rhyton, whose urfirnis glaze caught the glint of the moonlight. It was the centerpiece of his display. "All I care about is, is it peaceful? Right now, it's calm enough, so I come here, set up my shop, sell a few pots, and go home. Wife gets fed, children get fed. That's my only worry."

Innowen's brow furrowed as he watched the man rearrange his wares and rearrange them again. "You don't care that King Kyrin is in hiding, and an invader sits on his throne?"

The old potter shrugged again and grunted as he moved the tall rhyton aside to put a huge skyphos bowl in its place. "What's that to me?" he said bluntly. "Kings' business is kings' business, but a poor man's got to look out for himself. You live as long as I have, you'll learn that. It's hard enough, especially in these times, for a man to get by and feed his family. If somebody can keep things peaceable, then let him be king. Don't matter to me what his name is. Kings come and go, but the common people got to make a living." He gave Innowen a long look. "Besides, everybody knows Kyrin got the throne by poisoning old Koryan. Took the crown by murder, he did. Now someone else has taken it from him and made himself king." He wagged a finger at Innowen. "And there'll be someone come along later to take it again."

"It's a woman," Innowen muttered.

The potter looked at him with a show of surprise before he plopped down heavily on his stool behind the wheel. "Hmmmph. Well, the gods will deal with a bitch for not knowing her place. It's still not my worry."

Innowen planted his hands on the ground and pushed up to brace his back more comfortably against the wall. He was careful not to move his legs. That made him grin, however. He hadn't counted on company out here so early. It was hard not to move, and the irony was not lost on him that he had to pretend to be crippled—at least until sunrise, which couldn't be far away.

Another merchant had pulled up near the gate and begun to unload his wagon on the opposite side of the road. He marked off the boundaries of his shop with a rope just as the old potter had done. In one corner, he arranged his cobbler's tools and a selection of sandals. In another, he placed a rack of brooms, the handicraft, probably, of a wife trying to help with the family income.

Innowen turned back to the potter. "You say Kyrin poisoned his father?"

"Common knowledge," the potter told him as he wiped down his wheel with a dirty cloth.

"But they say the Witch of Shanalane killed him."

The old potter gave a loud cackle and stopped his work. "Maybe you come from Kabari, now, and maybe you don't. Maybe you don't live around here at all. If you weren't but half a man, I might think you were an agent of this unnatural woman you say is sitting on the throne, and you're trying to test us."

The cobbler from across the street joined in unexpectedly. "That's the tale Kyrin tried to spread across the Countryside, boy, blaming that Witch. Maybe some is green enough to believe it, too. But you listen to Rarus, there." He gestured with a wave at the potter. "He's a fool old buzzard, but he's here everyday. So am I, and so are a lot of us. If the Witch of Shanalane had come riding into this city the day Koryan died, don't you think we'd have known it? We got eyes, haven't we?"

Innowen pursed his lips and tried to think. Was it because he personally disliked Kyrin so much that he found the old man's story easy to believe? Did he simply want to believe it? He wondered suddenly if Minarik had heard this story.

"She's here now, though," Rarus said at last. "I got eyes to see that. Didn't know she was the one wearing the crown, I admit, and like I said, the gods will punish her for that arrogance. I thought it was that big one in the black armor, and she was just along for comfort, so to speak." He shrugged and turned away. "Doesn't mean anything to me, so long as things stay peaceable and I sell a few pots."

"That's truth," the cobbler said from the other side of the road.

The first hints of dawn began to color the eastern sky. In the distance, a line of carts trundled up the road, more merchants, craftsmen and farmers, come to sell their products outside the walls of Parendur.

Innowen felt the life seep from his legs. He drew a breath and bit his lip, no longer pretending to be crippled. He could almost feel Vashni and the Witch stirring in their beds on the other side of the wall, rising to meet the day, as if he were somehow attuned to their movements, their spirits. He felt them as surely as he felt his legs dying in the sunlight, and he knew they were near, and that the end of his long quest was finally at hand.

A small village of encampments grew rapidly on either side of the road as merchants and farmers set up stalls and booths and spread their goods for sale. Wagon wheels creaked in the morning. A hammer rang on an anvil. Someone groaned under a heavy burden. Down the road came a line of oxen with a farmer and two little boys waving willow branches to drive them along. The smell of leather rose as the cobbler fell to work. Rarus' potter's wheel began to hum, and the old man began to shape a mound of rich, wet clay.

No one approached Innowen. His beggar's bowl kept them at bay as effectively as a lance or sword.

A shout came from the top of the wall. Wood suddenly grated on wood, and Innowen imagined huge beams being withdrawn by teams of ten soldiers. He waited expectantly, adjusting the rags he'd tied around his elbows and knees, grasping his bowl. He chewed his lip.

The gates of Parendur swung inward. A captain of the guard appeared in the entrance, the horsehair crest of his helmet stirring in a slight breeze. He cast a brief, dispassionate gaze over the motley assortment of traders and vendors, then turned his back and disappeared. Six soldiers with lances took his place, marching to the entrance in single file, then dividing smartly into teams of three. With crisp, sharp strides, they took up posts on either side of the roadway, the massive gates at their backs.

Innowen flopped over onto his belly and crawled, pushing his bowl before him. He kept his head high, both to avoid eating the dust and to study the guards as he approached them. They had the look of several lands. Shaktar, Nimrut, Dardanus, as well as Ispor.

"Out of the way! Out of the way, there, you low-bellied maggot!"

The loud trundle of wagon wheels swelled suddenly in his ears, and the ground seemed to shake beneath him. Innowen rolled hastily out of the middle of the road as a huge cart drawn by four horses and laden with massive pithoi jars bore down on him. The driver leaned from the side of his cart and cracked his whip over Innowen's back. "Idiot!" the wasp-faced man cried angrily.

Innowen flung a handful of dust uselessly after the departing cart, but bit back any invective. He lay there for a moment, breathing heavily, watching the great terra cotta vessels shake and shiver on the wagon bed. They were empty, then, held in place only by stout ropes. If he could secret himself inside such a jar, gaining entrance to the palace might be easy. But no, he had no reason to believe these particular ones were bound for the palace. They might as easily be on their way to a warehouse or some merchant's private stores.

He crawled forward again, this time keeping to the side of the roadway. As he approached the three nearest guards, he paused and held up his bowl. "Selats?" he said, playing his role.

The three looked at him, and at each other, and at their comrades by the opposite gate, and they laughed. "Coppers, you want, beggar?" one of them answered. "Here's copper!" He spun the butt of his lance upward and thrust the burnished point down through the space between Innowen's neck and his outstretched arm.

Innowen glared, but did not flinch. "You shouldn't use a poor beggar so, sir," he commented dryly, running his gaze up the shaft of the lance until he met the eyes of its owner. "I see by the look of you that you're from Dardanus."

The guard fingered the long slender braid that trailed from under his helmet and draped over one shoulder. It was barely as thick as a child's little finger, but according to Dardan faith, it guaranteed his passage to heaven. "What of it?" he scowled suspiciously.

"I visited there once," Innowen answered. He glanced at the guard beside the Dardan and raised one eyebrow confidentially. "Their sheep are better looking than their women, and used accordingly."

Several of the guards laughed in response, but the Dardan gave Innowen a hateful glare and raised the butt-end of his lance. "Filth!" he uttered between clenched teeth as he gripped the shaft of his weapon in both hands and prepared to swing it downward.

Instinctively, Innowen cringed, bringing one arm up to protect his head, realizing too late that he had dared too much. He didn't have his legs now. He was a worm to them, unable to defend himself. He set his teeth against the expected blow.

"Stop!"

The force of command behind the shout was so great that even Innowen obeyed, dropping his arm without thinking about it so that he could look up at the speaker. The breath he'd held leaked slowly out of him, and he felt his heart wither within his chest. He lowered his face and, at the same time, strained to look through the upper corner of his eyes.

Vashni gazed down sternly from the back of a huge black warhorse. He looked just as much the demon as Innowen remembered him on that time of their first meeting. The morning sun cast fiery rays onto the edges of his black lacquered breastplate and one side of his finely crafted helmet, and his huge dark eyes glittered angrily on either side of a narrow nasal bar. His size and strength had actually increased over the years, Innowen was sure.

But more, there was a presence, a power, about Vashni that compelled Innowen to forget any fear that the Witch's man might recognize him. Slowly, he lifted his head again to drink in the sight.

"You have been told." Vashni's voice was the sound of ice cracking at the bottom of the deepest chasm in the world. Yet he spoke slowly, deliberately, as if the air were too insubstantial to support the weight of his words. "Treat these citizens well. You are liberators, not conquerors." He raised one huge hand from where it rested by the reins on his horse's withers and pointed his finger.

The Dardan turned pale, trembling visibly in the shadow of that outstretched limb. He set the end of his lance against the ground again and came to attention as best he could.

Vashni lowered his hand. "Don't give me cause to remember you, Dardan. This is your warning." He looked at each of the guards on Either side of the road one by one, locking each of their gazes in turn. He repeated, "You have all been warned."

The thumb and forefinger of his left hand disappeared for just an instant inside the broad metal-studded belt that encircled his waist. He stared down suddenly at Innowen. The hardness seemed to dim in his eyes, and his hand flicked outward.

A gold cymoren clinked neatly into Innowen's begging bowl, slid around the rim, and finally settled in the bottom. Innowen stared open-mouthed at the giant figure in the black armor, thinking how strange it was that Vashni had, yet again, after so many years and so many miles, become his benefactor.

But Innowen had a role to play. Carefully, he lifted the triangle-shaped coin with its gently rounded corners between his dirty fingers and bit it with his front teeth. "Thanks, warrior," he mumbled, nodding his satisfaction as he closed his fist around the cymoren. That was all he said, holding back a sharp remark about the price of a conqueror's conscience. It wouldn't do to speak too much with Vashni. How good was the man's memory of that night five years ago? Innowen's voice might give him away or spark a remembrance that would spell ruin for his purpose.

Vashni stared at him a moment longer, making Innowen increasingly nervous. Could the Witch's man somehow read his thoughts? Or had he, as he had at first feared, been recognized? Vashni tugged on the reins, turning his mount's head, and rode a few steps closer until his sandaled foot dangled freely just above Innowen's head, and Innowen could see the thin pattern of inlaid gold on his black lacquered greaves.

Innowen fought with himself to keep his gaze in the dirt, yet still he felt that powerful compulsion to look up and meet this man face to face. The sun burned just behind Vashni's head, creating at the same time a bright, eye-numbing corona and a mask of darkness that hid all his features from Innowen.

Innowen wished fervently that it were night and that he had legs to stand.

For an eternity of heartbeats, he waited in Vashni's shadow, but not a word more did either speak. Finally, rider and horse turned and cantered away, leaving Innowen to watch Vashni's broad, proud back and the long streamer of horsehair that trailed from the crest of his helmet down between his powerful shoulders.

"Get on with you," one of the gate guards said at last. "You're blocking the road."

Innowen only half heard. He looked up at the guard, still dazed from the encounter, then over his shoulder to where a group of merchants, including old Rarus, had gathered in the roadway to watch. Already, though, they were dispersing, returning to business.

"Are you deaf as well as crippled?" the guard said again, louder this time, openly threatening. Vashni was out of sight now. It was time for the guards to reassert their authority.

Innowen didn't argue. He dragged himself on his elbows, clutching the cymoren in one hand, pushing his bowl before him in the other. Out into the wakening streets of Parendur he went, making his way slowly, keeping as close to the ditches and the walls of buildings as he could, out of the more dangerous paths where carts and oxen and horses ran. For a time he forgot about Vashni and the Witch, forgot about everything, as he concentrated on his safety, avoiding the feet that threatened to mash his fingers, or the wandering hogs and dogs that tried to nip at him.

In this earliest part of the morning, women were allowed outside unaccompanied. They hurried about their duties, eyes cast always downward, their backs bent under bundles and burdens. Their thick skirts swirled the dust as they went by, erasing the prints of their bare feet. The fine clouds of brown powder they raised choked Innowen if they ventured to pass close to him. That did not happen often. Most of them spied him early and cut a circle away, refusing to meet his gaze. For all that he was a cripple and a beggar, he was still a man and a stranger.

A sharp stone penetrated the cloth padding around his right elbow. He gave a quiet yelp. Dragging himself into a narrow alleyway and propping himself up near the entrance, he paused to examine the wound. A small trickle of blood discolored the filthy strippings.

Carefully, he unwound the wrappings and piled them in his lap. He spit on the tip of one finger, placed it against the cut, and leaned his head back against a stone wall. When the bleeding was stopped, he would move on. It was a small wound, but he was mindful of Riloosa and the foul infection he had seen in the dead man's flesh.

He rolled his head to the side and gave a small sigh as he watched the traffic in the street just beyond the alley entrance. It was already hot in the alley, and the air was still. Trickles of sweat began to form on his face. They oozed down his neck and into his tunic. Still, he waited and observed the mingled press of citizens and soldiery that passed in the street.

Suddenly, his sweat seemed to freeze on his skin. He caught his breath and held it, not daring to move, his gaze glued to the entrance. When he did move, it was to turn his head from side to side, wondering if he should crawl farther back into the still-dark depths of the alley or toward the opening to check what he thought he'd seen or to make a run for it

Rather, a crawl for it, he reminded himself in disgust, opting finally to settle back again and let calm return. He had to remind himself he was a cripple until the sun went down, and on his own. He couldn't afford to act rashly or let panic overtake him. Taunting that Dardan guard had been stupid. Foolish, in fact.

He was no fool.

Hugging himself, he stared back at the alley entrance, this time intently watching the faces of those who passed, watching for one remembered face in particular, fearing it might return while he was still helpless.

He had cause enough, he reflected, to fear Chohlit, and cause enough now to wonder what he had stirred in the man's soul that night on the plain of Kenay when his dancing had destroyed the rebel leader's army. Was he here in Parendur? Why?

Could he have been on the same road, just moments behind me?

Innowen felt for the dagger secreted inside his tunic and drew a measure of comfort from it. It wasn't much of a weapon. Even so, it was more than a beggar would usually have. He fingered his purse beside the dagger and looked back up the alley again. Biting his lower lip, he pulled it out, loosened its strings and dropped the gold cymoren into it with his other coins, mostly copper selats and a few egg-shaped silver phalens. Returning the purse to its hiding place, he leaned back and thought.

Parendur was a big city. Why shouldn't Chohlit be here? Innowen tried to put aside his fears and suspicions, yet they nagged at him. He shouldn't stay in this alley much longer. If Chohlit was actually following him—an unlikely possibility—the man might double back.

He bit his lip again as he glanced up and down the alley. His hand settled on his begging bowl. He lifted it, studied it for a moment by holding it close to his eyes in the faint light, then slammed it forcefully against the wall. It broke into several pieces.

Seizing the largest shard, he ran his thumb along the clean, sharp edge. The rolled rim of the broken bowl made a safe grip. It wasn't as good as a sword or a quality dagger, but if he swung it quickly and surely, he had no doubt that it would cut, and he felt better having two weapons. He thrust the shard down into his knee wrappings. He could get at it quickly there.

Hastily, he wrapped his elbow again. The bleeding had stopped. It hadn't been much anyway, he chided himself. But if he hadn't stopped to tend it, he might have fallen into the arms of his enemy.

He frowned. Vashni and maybe Chohlit in the same morning, both close enough to spit on if he'd dared. Perhaps he had made a mistake in coming to Parendur alone. Well, no matter now. Here he was, and he intended to stay alive.

He flopped over on his belly again and crawled back into the crowded street. He paused long enough to examine the sky, at least the piece of it he could see between the roofs of the buildings that lined the road. It was still early morning. Lots of sunshine left. Lots of time before he was whole.

He crept along with all the strength and speed he could muster, taking the first turn that bore him away from his previous path, assuming, of course, Chohlit would have continued straight ahead. That wasn't necessarily a sure bet, Innowen admitted, so he turned down yet another street, taking a random way, and finding among several burned out buildings the first evidence of the fires caused by the storm of nights before. He continued slowly past, staring at the blackened timbers and scorched stones, and turned down yet another street.

He found himself on the edge of one of Parendur's many small squares. Heat shimmer rose from the paving stones that suddenly lined the way. He was glad it was morning. Later in the day, the stones would be too hot for him to crawl on. They'd sting his flesh too severely. Only sandaled people would walk there after noon.

For now, though, he could tolerate the heat. He set his gaze on the low well that stood at the center of the square. A potent thirst, born of wiggling his way through the dirt and dust, seized him. He waited until he saw no carts, no beasts of any kind that might trample him, then began to navigate a veritable forest of legs and feet toward his goal.

A low circle of stones ringed the well. Eagerly, he dragged himself up, taking all his weight on his forearms, and peered over the side. His lips felt ready to crack, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

The well was dry, another victim of the drought.

Innowen wished that he knew all the names of all the gods of Ispor, that he might curse them in the most personal terms.

He twisted his body around and leaned against the well. His useless legs were tangled, and he bent forward to position them better. When he looked up again, another man had sat down beside him on the well's wall. The man was thin as a branch, and he had about him a desperate look. His cheeks were sunken, and his narrow lips were parchment dry. A ragged beard sprouted unevenly from his chin, and his eyes shone with a feral greed. His clothes were little more than tattered rags.

Innowen knew he was about to be robbed. Beggars, especially crippled beggars, were easy marks. It didn't matter how secret his purse was. This man would be happy enough with a tunic that had fewer holes than his own.

His heart thundered inside his chest as the man moved his hand slowly, surreptitiously along the wall toward Innowen's shoulder. It would happen any moment now.

Innowen turned his head and smiled at the man. A puzzled expression turned up the corner of the would-be thief's mouth as he moved his hand casually back to his lap. Innowen waited an instant, then crooked a finger, beckoning the man closer. A furrow appeared between the thief's eyebrows. He looked both ways around the square, which was not too crowded at the moment, then smiled with sudden amiableness and bent down over Innowen.

Quick as he could, Innowen caught the man's collar and jerked with all his strength. Off-balance, he flipped heels over head into the road beside Innowen, grunting in pain as his back struck the hard paving stones. Innowen's right hand tangled in the dirty mop of black hair, lifted the thief's head, and cracked it smartly on the ground to get his attention again. With his other hand he waved the sharp pottery shard in front of the man's eyes before he set it at his throat.

"Next time you plan to rob a cripple," he said as lightly as he could, despite the trembling that coursed through his body, "remember, they may not be as helpless as you think. Now get out of here!"

Innowen let him go, and the man jumped up, shaken and angry. He looked as if he might try to kick Innowen. His fists clenched at his side, and his lips curled back over his teeth. But then his eyes flickered to the shard and to Innowen's own gaze. It was in that moment when their eyes locked that Innowen knew he'd won.

With as much dignity as he could gather, the thief hurried away.

Innowen let go a long breath as he returned the shard to its place in his knee wrapping. The street life of Parendur went on around him, oblivious to what had happened. What was it to any of them if a thief robbed a worthless beggar?

He looked around the square, sure that if there was a well, close by he would find an inn. He was not disappointed. On the farthest eastern side of the square, still in a narrow band of shadow, he spied a sign and started his slow journey toward it.

Before he reached that door, he was twice stepped on by women, whose averted gazes prevented them from seeing him until it was too late. He hesitated there, nursing the fingers of his left hand in his mouth. Finally, he rose up as high as he could and knocked on the rough wooden surface.

A large fat man in a dirty apron answered. His head was bald, and a bright scar ran down from the crown of his brow past his left eye all the way to the lobe of his ear. He looked out, then down at Innowen on the ground and scowled. "Get away from here! No hand-outs!" He started to slam the door.

"I can pay!" Innowen called back as loudly as he dared in the crowded street. "I want a room, not a hand-out!"

The door opened a little wider, and the proprietor poked his head out. "How would a beggar like you come by money to pay?" he sneered. He pushed the door completely open as he leaned against the jamb, filling the entrance with his imposing bulk. He pulled a rag from the waistband of his apron and began to wipe his hands.

"I'm a veteran," Innowen lied, eyeing the man's scar. "It's my discharge pay. I've kept part of it." He glanced back over his shoulder as he dragged his body against the wall and propped himself up.

The proprietor sneered again, still wiping his hands. "Veteran of what?" His eyes narrowed suddenly. "You part of this bunch of animals that's moved in on us?" His bulk took on menacing proportions as he drew himself erect. "I'll kick the guts out of you! Get away from my wall!"

Innowen cringed back, bringing his hands up to protect himself as best he could. "No! I fought to keep them out!" he lied again.

The fat man relented. "You're one of Taelyn's men?"

Innowen nodded. That long night outside Parendur's gate had made Taelyn a hero, and by extension, the men who fought with him. Maybe he could play on that. He didn't like lying, but a crippled beggar had few enough cards to play.

"Get in here then."

To Innowen's surprise, the man bent down and lifted him in massive arms and carried him inside.

The interior was dimly lit by a few oil lamps that dangled on chains from the low beamed ceiling. The smoke from their burning lingered like a wispy fog in the air. A confusing assortment of stale odors assailed the senses. Some tables and chairs lay scattered about. A couple of stools were overturned in a corner. One of the tables had a broken leg and stood at a crazy angle.

"We had a little excitement last night," the proprietor said gruffly, placing Innowen in one of the safe chairs. "Excuse the mess."

He went behind the bar that stood at one end of the room and returned with two mugs of foaming barley beer. Innowen lifted one and peered at the dirty rim, grateful, after all, for the poor lighting. When his host wasn't looking, he used the ball of his thumb to rub at the place where he intended to put his lips.

"Taelyn," his host said by way of a toast.

Innowen hoisted his mug and drank deeply. Even if the mug was filthy, the beer was cool and washed the street dust from his throat. When he set it back again, half the contents were gone.

"You're a veteran, all right," the proprietor commented. "You one of the wounded that got left behind?"

Again, Innowen nodded. Another lie.

"Can't blame him for leaving," his host went on. "Too few soldiers and too many invaders, and that chicken-shit Kyrin to look after. Actually did us a favor going, the way I see it now. If the fighting had come into the city, it would have been a lot harder on all of us. As it is, that big black bastard that commands them is trying to win us over by being nice to us." He tossed off the rest of his beer, grabbed Innowen's mug, and refilled them both. "Not that it stopped one of his Nimrut mercenaries from raping and killing my youngest daughter a couple nights ago." He came back and sat down heavily in his chair and stared at Innowen.

"What's that I see in your eyes?" Innowen said suddenly. He looked at the broken furniture again and turned back. "What did you do?"

A nasty grin crossed his host's lips. "The bastard that did it had the nerve to come back last night. He had a room here, 'cause we were forced to put some of them up. Still, I didn't think he'd have the nerve to show his face here again. I gave him all the free beer he wanted, and everything else, too. Got him good and drunk." He hesitated, lifting his mug, watching Innowen over the rim. When he set it down again, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "They might find his body in a day or two at the bottom of that empty well out there. Or maybe they won't."

Innowen raised his own mug again in a toast to the proprietor.

"What's your name?" the other man said, changing the subject. "You say you got money?"

"Petroklos," he answered. He pulled his purse from inside his tunic and let it fall on the table. It made a heavy thunk on the coarse wood.

The proprietor eyed the leather pouch. "I'm Baktus. How long do you plan to stay, Petroklos?"

Innowen studied his host and the red scar that trailed down one side of his face, wondering just how much to trust him. Slowly, he opened the purse and took out the gold cymoren. He slid the triangular coin across the table and left it beside Baktus' mug.

"Just overnight," he said.

Baktus touched the coin with the tip of one finger, but he didn't pick it up. "That's too much money," he said slowly. "More than a veteran's discharge pay."

Innowen ignored that. "I'd like you, or someone you trust, to pick up a few things for me." He opened the purse again and pulled out the bird-shaped ring which was the sign and seal of Lord Minarik. He placed it on his finger and laid his hand flat on the table. The light from the oil lamps seemed to seek out the ring and dance on its stylized wings.

Baktus' eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed cautiously. He took another drink of his beer, never looking away from Innowen. "You're no cripple," he said at last.

Innowen thought about that. "Maybe you're right," he answered. He leaned forward on the table and peered intently into Baktus' eyes. "Maybe you are right."

He grinned, and settled back in the chair with his beer. Baktus grinned suddenly, also, and the two men drained their mugs.