A horseman coming alone, with seeming consummate confidence, from the northeast Aurvesh? A man of weapons. He kept his mount pacing easily, while his calm gaze remained on the two men before Fulcris. He never glanced at Fulcris at all.
An experienced man of weapons, Fulcris thought.
"Just interested," the quiet voice said equably. "No blow's been struck but his arm just started leaking. Got yourself a man with a recent wound, hmm. Two of you. You calling him opponent or quarry?"
Abder of the green tunic said, "Huh?"
Homespun said, "Listen, you-"
And then he had to back a couple of paces, because the big-dun colored horse paced right in between him and Fulcris. Fulcris was on the horse's left. The mounted man stared down at homespun. Abder tried to be unobtrusive about backing two more paces.
"Came here to ask a favor. You with the caravan?"
The two men exchanged a look, homespun having to turn a little because his companion had backed farther away. Homespun looked back up at the interfering newcomer.
"Naw. He is."
"Mind if I tock with him, then?" He had said "talk," but part of his accent was that the aw sound came out as short o.
Abder moved away from his companion. His arm hung straight down; the one with the sword in it. Homespun exchanged stares with the nosy newcomer a while, then glanced at Abder. He was surprised to see that the latter was several paces behind him and well to his right.
"Huh! Leaving me alone, huh, Ab?"
"Pardon us," the mounted man said, "while we lock." On Fulcris's side the newcomer's left hand moved in a little waving gesture.
When the dun horse began pacing forward again, between Fulcris and his accosters, Fulcris paced too. He noticed that the newcomer never so much as glanced at him. They took about twenty steps without anyone's saying a word. By that time, the other two were well behind them. The newcomer leaned back to swing a big-thighed leg over the pommel of his saddle, which was molded in the shape of a turtle's head. He dropped to the ground a foot from Fulcris. Surprisingly blue eyes looked into the very brown ones of the caravaner. They were about the same height. The traveler was bigger.
"You a caravan guard?"
"Aye. Those two-"
"Mean on strong drink. You took a wound a few days ago?"
"Aye. You just-"
"I could sure use some wotter, and your arm could use something."
Not much for talking, Fulcris thought, and nodded. "Right. Just over here."
"Uh. Wait here. Jaunt."
Fulcris assumed that was the name of the big man's horse. He tried not to talk as they walked toward his old tent of faded blue and dull yellow stripes, but just now that was impossible.
"I started with the caravan in Twand. Those two joined us in Aurvesh. Just a little trouble the first night, and me'n another guard had to forbid them anything stronger'n water. Caravan stopped here to break up; sort ourselves out. You know. They went right on into Sanctuary last night lookin' for what we kept from them. They obviously had some more this mom-ing."
"Urn."
Sure not a talker, Fulcris mused. "Oh-name's Fulcris."
"Strick."
Guess that's his name, Fulcris thought. And didn't this man speak quietly and in an unusually matter-of-fact voice, no matter what he was saying or talking about! "The arm's not bad, but it could've made a difference. Thanks, Strick. Here."
His gesture indicated the interior of his tent; the flap was open and fastened back.
Strick glanced back to see the two men, swords sheathed, heading toward the city's wall. He nodded. "Saw it all. Noticed the arm." Ducking his head, he entered.
"Uh-huh. You notice a lot, don't you."
"Only one of 'em was dangerous. I never glanced at the other. He cot that: contempt. When I called, you kept your eyes right on them. You know what you're doing, Fulcris. Might want to be careful, in Sanctuary."
"Cot" was "caught," Fulcris realized. "You too! They don't like either of us, now. Here you go." Fulcris started to pass Strick the cloth-wrapped water skin, then changed his mind. He decanted cool water into the tin cup he had carried for years. The cup showed it. "You didn't think I was a 'mean-lookin' criminal'?"
Strick shrugged. He drank, uttered the predictable "ahh," and drank some more. "I wanted to interrupt and that was something to say. Didn't want to come galloping and embarrass you. Let's see about that arm."
"It's all right."
"Wouldn't have started leaking if it was all right. Clotted now. Hmm." Strick had pushed up the other man's sleeve and bent a little closer to peer at the wound. "Spear cut. Not one of those two?"
"No. Little trouble just this side of Aurvesh, four days ago. Six idiots thought we looked attackable and played bandit. Two of them got away. One of the dead ones gave me this. It's all right."
"Looks all right. Give me some wine, though, so I can give you a sting."
After Strick had re-reopened the wound and treated it with wine-it stung-he rearranged and re-tied the bandage. "It will be fine in two days," he said with casual confidence. "Won't leave a scar, either."
More like another week, and there will be a scar, Fulcris mused, but certainly didn't say it. Instead: "Saying 'thanks' is getting to be a habit. What about putting some of that wine on the inside?"
"I wouldn't mind."
Fulcris filled the tin cup. Noticing that Strick asked no questions, he decided to emulate that, though naturally he wondered where the big fellow was from and why he'd come here. From how far, alone? He even managed not to volunteer his own business. After a couple of minutes he remembered: "Oh. You mentioned a favor."
Strick looked at him, lowering his cup. The lines around his eyes, Fulcris thought, put the big man up in his thirties. Maybe forty, depending upon how much of his life he'd spent traveling. Fulcris was thirty-eight, but years of escorting caravans had lined his face so much that he could pass for forty-nine or fifty.
"I'd like to leave my horse here, along with the shield and saddle-sword." His eyes gazed straight into Fulcris's and his moustache writhed in a smile it concealed. "Don't want to ride into a town looking like a dangerous man of weapons."
"Who rode here alone, from... someplace that gave you an accent I can't place."
Strick shrugged. "True. Will you name me a charge for keeping my horse for a few days?"
"You looking for work as a-for weapon work? There's a mere camp not too far from here, and another in the city."
"No, that's not what I want to do. You know a few things about this town."
"Just a few," Fulcris said, thinking that the man was not telling the truth but that he even lied well, in that same matter-of-fact way. "You leam things from people you pass on the road, and I listened, up in Aurvesh. This town's had a real mess in the past year or so. Fire, flood, a war among witches trying to take over and the Stepsons-mercenaries under someone named Tempus who has sort of taken over 'defense' and peace-keeping; and all the while the town's really been taken over by some odd invaders from oversea. The Empire's not as strong as it was."
"Ranke?"
"Right."
"So I heard. Odd invaders?" Even "odd" sounded odd; this man's short o was extremely short.
"Freaks, or half-humans, or something. Guess we'll find out. Listen, you know I'm not going to charge you to take care of your gear and horse for a few days. But here's a thought, unless you're in a hurry. A man and a couple of women are riding into town later, and they've already asked my caravan master if he'd give them an escort. He asked me. Sure; that trio's rich!" Fulcris flashed a smile and noticed that the other man only nodded. "Anyhow, if you care to rest here while I see to a few things I have to do, the five of us can ride in together. You'll be a lot less noticeable-people will take you for another from the caravan."
"Fulcris, well met and I thank you. I can waste some time knocking the dust off and leaving the shield and big sword- here?"
"Of course. Just consider the tent yours while I take care
of business. Have some more of that, if you want."
"I don't."
I didn't think so. Fulcris thought, and left the tent.
* * *
He was surprised, a couple of hours later, at sight of his new friend. Fulcris had seen him an hour ago, putting his stripped pack-animal into the temporary enclosure the cara-vaners had set up.
Now Strick's tunic of drab, undyed homespun had given way to a considerably nicer one in medium blue wool. He had buckled on his sword again, an unremarkable weapon with a brass-ball pommel in a worn old sheath, but he had replaced his worn old belt with a newer one, black with a silvered buckle. Never mind the dagger. That was an everyday utensil no one saw as a weapon until one came at him. Strick's was plain of handle and pommel. Merely utilitarian; a working man's tool. The stained leather leggings were gone, replaced by snugly fitting cloth, dun-colored. What calves and thighs the man had! His light boots were medium brown, and well worn.
Aside from his bronze-red moustache and ruddy face, a quite drab man despite the handsome tunic of Croyite blue. He still wore that odd, napped skull-covering cap, too.
Jaunt stood nearby, saddled and bridled anew-with worn old leather that had been unremarkable even when new-and wearing a smaller version of the traveler's pack. Shield and the big sword were not in evidence.
"Left a few things inside," he said, so quietly and half apologetically.
"Good," Fulcris said, and introduced the wealthy man and the two women.
All three of them looked dressed for court. The not-unhandsome man in matching tunic and leggings of yellow-green silk wore a fine cloak of a blue so pale it was nearly white-not from age or wear. Strick was polite, greeting each woman with a little inclining of his head, speaking quietly as ever. The bosomy, steatopygous one in pink to the collarbones, along with garnets set in silver, was the wife of this Sanctuarite nobleman. Chest on her like a shelf for displaying fine glassware, Fulcris thought. The lean, dimply young blonde in blue, Fulcris saw, was interested in Strick. Despite both his and Strick's efforts to avoid it, she rode beside the big man with the bronze moustache as they walked their horses the sixth of a league or so to the city walls.
"Where are you from, Strick?" Her voice was girlish and her dimples glorious.
"North."
She shot him a look. "Oh. Do you intend to settle in Sanctuary?"
"Might."
After a few moments of silence, she tried again: "Will you, uh, go into business here, Strick?"
"I'm considering it."
Riding in front of them beside the wealthy Noble Shafra-lain of Sanctuary just back from a lengthy stay in Aurvesh, Fulcris smiled. The Noble Shafralain's doubtless noble wife was chattering away about what son of shape the house might be in. The lean young blonde had gone silent, doubtless wracking her brain for a way to get Strick to converse. Politeness forbade her pursuing any of the previous questions, since he apparently was not minded to volunteer any information on those subjects.
At last her voice piped again: "Do you know where you plan to stay, Strick?"
"I don't know, my lady. Perhaps-"
"Oh goodness, Strick, do call me Esaria!"
A glance to his left showed Fulcris how Noble Shafralain's well-molded face went grim in disapproval. From behind them the quiet voice spoke as if Strick had seen that expression: "Perhaps you could suggest an inn, my lady Esaria. It need not be the city's fanciest!"
"Oh. Father-would you recommend an inn to this traveler from afar?"
"My dear," the silken-cloaked man beside Fulcris said stiffly, "we do not know this foreigner's means. The prices of Sanctuary's inns vary as greatly as the quality of their food. The Golden Oasis, I should say, is our best."
"Oh darling, it's been so long-let's do take dinner there tonight!"
"A moment, Expimilia," Shafralain said, with mild impatience.
"I am from Firaqa to the northwest. Noble Sir, and hardly of your means. What are second- and third-best?"
Fulcris smiled.
"Could we do that, darling? I really don't relish opening the house just in time to have to eat there! Who knows what the servants have done with the place-and what shape the larder's in!"
Fulcris's smile broadened at Lady Expimilia's importun-ings.
Her husband continued to stare straight ahead, chin nobly high. Without turning so much as his head in replying to the man riding behind him where Shafralain doubtless thought he belonged, he named two other inns.
"A grateful foreigner's thanks," Strick said, with only the hint of stress on the third word.
"Are we going to sup at the Golden Oasis, Father?"
"For all we know," Shafralain said, this time with a slight turning of his head, "the Golden Oasis has been destroyed, or sadly damaged."
"I'd be glad to ride straight there and have a look," Esaria said. "I'd be perfectly safe, too; Strick would ride with me, wouldn't you, Strick?"
"That," her father said, "will not be possible."
They rode in silence, approaching the wall of Sanctuary. Abruptly the nobleman's noble wife turned partway around and spoke in a determinedly pleasant voice.
"Well, Strick of Firaqa, will you please escort me to the Golden Oasis? Yes, Esaria, you may come along. Aral," she said to her husband in a different voice, "we will be fine and will join you later at home."
The Noble Shafralain gave his wife a long, slow stare.
"My lady," Strick said softly, "I regret that I already have other plans."
"Oh-h!" Esaria said, in clear exasperation. Obviously Strick had chosen diplomacy and deference to her father over touching off family problems.
For the first time, Shafralain turned to give the foreigner a fleeting glance. It was not an unpleasant look.
"Firaqa," he said, turning back. "Firaqa... oh. That where the pearls come from?"
"Aye."
"Freshwater pearls," Expimilia exclaimed. "Of course! Firaqan Souls of the Oyster!" Abruptly she half-turned to look at the quiet man. "You didn't come here to sell any of those beauties, did you?"
Shafralain snorted. Strick made a chuckling noise. "Sorry, my lady."
They entered the city and within a few hundred feet were accosted by two young men. Each wore a cloth band of the same color around his upper arm and bore a crossbow in addition to sheathed sword.
"Welcome to Sanctuary! You will need a pass in this area, gentle travelers," one glibly told them. "We offer five armbands for two pieces of silver."
"A pass!" Shafralain snapped. "Likelier you'll be ridden down! Since when does the Noble Shafralain need to wear a dirty patch of cloth in order to move through his own city?"
The faces of their accosters underwent unpleasant changes. The one who had not spoken stepped back and showed that his crossbow was cocked. Passersby were carefully not-seeing the tense encounter. Most wore brassards matching those the two youths wore and offered for sale.
"Since quite awhile, Noble," the spokesman said. "Maybe you left town when things got nasty last year and're just coming back, hmm? See, citizen security is sort of divided up amidst serveral pertection groups, and we just can't gamtee yer safety here without but you're wearing onea these handsome armbands."
"Oh, I think they're quite pretty armbands really," Esaria said.
Her mother said, "If it's what people are wearing this season. .."
Shafralain, however, was Shafralain: "You threaten us, fellow?"
"Here is a piece of silver," a quiet voice said. "It should suffice. See that nothing happens to these people, whether they consent to wear your armbands or no. I will."
"So will I," the surprised Fulcris heard himself say, even as they heard the ring of silver off a thumbnail and saw the young man before him throw up a hand to catch Strick's coin.
He examined it. "Huh! Never seen onea these before. What's this on it, a fire? Whur's it from at?"
"Firaqa," Strick told him. "Way up northwest. Not part of Ranke's Empire. Mints its own coins, with the sign of th
e Flame. It will spend; it's silver."
Immediately after his last word came the sound of his clucking to his horse. Fulcris swallowed, but at once made the same sound in his cheek. That worked; the horses moved forward and the two accosters stepped back on either side. The speaker extended a number of armbands.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he told Strick, as the latter accepted the "passes."
"Fulcris," Strick said, and passed one to the caravaner. "Noble Shafralain?"
The nobleman would not turn or glance at the proffering hand. "I had far rather chop the arm off that arrogant snot than put one of his dirty rags on my arm!"
"Me too," Strick said, equably as ever. "But while we did that, the other would have flicked his trigger and sent a crossbow bolt into... one of us."
"Those boys?! Likelier he'd have missed!"
"Father-r..."
"Agreed," the quiet voice said from behind stiff-backed Shafralain, "and alone, Fulcris and I might have taken that chance. I'm very aware of being in the presence of a noble of this city-and of two women."
The only way out of that one was for Shafralain to take offense by pretending to have been accused of cowardice. Either he chose not to do or he didn't think of it. "Hmp," he muttered. "What has become of my city while I have been out of it?"
Coincidence or that goddess known as Lady Chance chose to let Strick and milady answer in chorus: "We had better find out," and she went on, "and be careful the while."
"Good advice, my Lord," a nervous Fulcris said. He was beginning to wonder how soon a caravan might be heading east and need a guard. Or north, or west either. Or even south, right into the sea.
Abruptly Shafralain's arms tightened. "Whoa," he said, and turned-with stiff dignity-in the saddle to look back at the big man beside his daughter. After studying him for a moment, the noble asked, "Can you use that sword, foreigner?"
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