Another guard poked his head out of the gatehouse. Who is he, Raf? he demanded.
A Pandion Knight, the first guard replied nervously.
Whats his business in Cimmura?
I dont question the Pandions, Bral, the man named Raf answered. He smiled ingratiatingly up at Sparhawk. New man, he said apologetically, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder at his comrade. Hell learn in time, my Lord. Can we serve you in any way?
No, Sparhawk replied, thanks all the same. Youd better get in out of the rain, neighbour. Youll catch cold out here. He handed a small coin to the green-cloaked guard and rode on into the city, passing up the narrow, cobbled street beyond the gate with the slow clatter of the big roans steel-shod hooves echoing back from the buildings.
The district near the gate was poor, with shabby, rundown houses standing tightly packed beside each other with their upper floors projecting out over the wet, littered street. Crude signs swung creaking on rusty hooks in the night wind, identifying this or that tightly shuttered shop on the street-level floors. A wet, miserable-looking cur slunk across the street with his ratlike tail between his legs. Otherwise, the street was dark and empty.
A torch burned fitfully at an intersection where another street crossed the one upon which Sparhawk rode. A sick young whore, thin and wrapped in a shabby blue cloak, stood hopefully under the torch like a pale, frightened ghost. Would you like a nice time, sir? she whined at him. Her eyes were wide and timid, and her face gaunt and hungry.
He stopped, bent in his saddle, and poured a few small coins into her grimy hand. Go home, little sister, he told her in a gentle voice. Its late and wet, and therell be no customers tonight. Then he straightened and rode on, leaving her to stare in grateful astonishment after him. He turned down a narrow side street clotted with shadow and heard the scurry of feet somewhere in the rainy dark ahead of him. His ears caught a quick, whispered conversation in the deep shadows somewhere to his left.
The roan snorted and laid his ears back.
Its nothing to get excited about, Sparhawk told him. The big mans voice was very soft, almost a husky whisper. It was the kind of voice people turned to hear. Then he spoke more loudly, addressing the pair of footpads lurking in the shadows. Id like to accommodate you, neighbours, he said, but its late, and Im not in the mood for casual entertainment. Why dont you go rob some drunk young nobleman instead, and live to steal another day? To emphasize his words, he threw back his damp cloak to reveal the leather-bound hilt of the plain broadsword belted at his side.
There was a quick, startled silence in the dark street, followed by the rapid patter of fleeing feet.
The big roan snorted derisively.
My sentiments exactly. Sparhawk agreed, pulling his cloak back around him. Shall we proceed?
They entered a large square surrounded by hissing torches where most of the brightly coloured canvas booths had their fronts rolled down. A few forlornly hopeful enthusiasts remained open for business, stridently bawling their wares to indifferent passers-by hurrying home on a late, rainy evening. Sparhawk reined in his horse as a group of rowdy young nobles lurched unsteadily from the door of a seedy tavern, shouting drunkenly to each other as they crossed the square. He waited calmly until they vanished into a side street and then looked around, not so much wary as alert.
Had there been but a few more people in the nearly empty square, even Sparhawks trained eye might not have noticed Krager. The man was of medium height and he was rumpled and unkempt. His boots were muddy, and his maroon cape carelessly caught at the throat. He slouched across the square, his wet, colourless hair plastered down on his narrow skull and his watery eyes blinking nearsightedly as he peered about in the rain. Sparhawk drew in his breath sharply. He hadnt seen Krager since that night in Cippria, almost ten years ago, and the man had aged considerably. His face was greyer and more pouchy-looking, but there could be no question that it was Krager.
Since quick movements attracted the eye, Sparhawks reaction was studied. He dismounted slowly and led his big horse to a green canvas food vendors stall, keeping the animal between himself and the nearsighted man in the maroon cape. Good evening, neighbour, he said to the brown-clad food vendor in his deadly quiet voice. I have some business to attend to. Ill pay you if youll watch my horse.
The unshaven vendors eyes came quickly alight.
Dont even think it, Sparhawk warned. The horse wont follow you, no matter what you do but I will, and you wouldnt like that at all. Just take the pay and forget about trying to steal the horse.
The vendor looked at the big mans bleak face, swallowed hard, and made a jerky attempt at a bow. Whatever you say, my Lord, he agreed quickly, his words tumbling over each other. I vow to you that your noble mount will be safe with me.
Noble what?
Noble mount your horse.
Oh, I see. Id appreciate that.
Can I do anything else for you, my Lord?
Sparhawk looked across the square at Kragers back. Do you by chance happen to have a bit of wire handy about so long? He measured out perhaps three feet with his hands.
I may have, my Lord. The herring kegs are bound with wire. Let me look.
Sparhawk crossed his arms and leaned them on his saddle, watching Krager across the horses back. The past years, the blasting sun, and the women going to the wells in the steely light of early morning fell away, and quite suddenly he was back in the stockyards outside Cippria with the stink of dung and blood on him, the taste of fear and hatred in his mouth, and the pain of his wounds making him weak as his pursuers searched for him with their swords in their hands.
He pulled his mind away from that, deliberately concentrating on this moment rather than the past. He hoped that the vendor could find some wire. Wire was good. No noise, no mess, and with a little time it could be made to look exotic the kind of thing one might expect from a Styric or perhaps a Pelosian. It wasnt so much Krager, he thought as the tense excitement built in him. Krager had never been more than a dim, feeble adjunct to Martel an extension, another set of hands, just as the other man, Adus, had never been more than a weapon. It was what Kragers death would do to Martel that was what mattered.
This is the best I could find, my Lord, the greasy-aproned food vendor said respectfully, coming out of the back of his canvas booth and holding out a length of rusty, soft-iron wire. Im sorry. It isnt much.
Its just fine, Sparhawk replied, taking the wire. He snapped the rusty strand taut between his hands. Its perfect in fact. Then he turned to his horse. Stay here, Faran, he said.
The horse bared his teeth at him. Sparhawk laughed softly and moved out into the square, some distance behind Krager. If the nearsighted man were found in some shadowy doorway, bowed tautly backward with the wire knotted about his neck and ankles and with his eyes popping out of a blackened face, or face down in the trough of some back-alley public urinal, that would unnerve Martel, hurt him, perhaps even frighten him. It might be enough to bring him out into the open, and Sparhawk had been waiting for years for a chance to catch Martel out in the open. Carefully, his hands concealed beneath his cloak, he began to work the kinks out of his length of wire, even as he stalked his quarry.