The stranger watched Gull assessing the sword. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said quietly.
Gull could think of no reply. The stranger's voice was deep and weary, and it had a familiar lilt. Bear was right: this man came from around here. Setting down two wooden thumb cups, Gull said, "My name is Gwillern Moler and I own this tavern. How can I help you this night?"
The man s face remained unchanged as Gull spoke, and Gull realized he had told the stranger nothing he did not already know. Silence followed. Gull made himself useful by pouring the malt. Behind him, the stove was still sending out black smoke that smelled faintly of damp. Liddie must have fed it more wood.
During Grass Watch it was custom to sprinkle rye seeds on the first meal and drink of the night. Padric the Proselyte had spent thirty days sitting in a rye field in late winter waiting for the first shoots of grass to poke through the thawing earth. Every morning when he awoke to find nothing but bare soil he denied God. Finally, on the thirtieth day, tiny, pale-green points emerged at sunset. That was the day Padric received God. Gull was generally disinterested in the stories of the First Followers, but Padric s tale always moved him. Something about the man's quiet dignity as he sat and waited struck a chord with Gull Not many men would ask for proof of God and then sit in the cold for a month to get it. It had always seemed to Gull that Padric had proved himself by waiting, and that God probably wouldn't have revealed himself to a man who had waited one day less.
In any event. Gull liked to honor the custom of the seeds. Just this evening he had stocked apron pouch with long, strpy seeds-the best they had in the market. Now he found himself hesitating to use them.
"Go ahead. You will not offend me»
Taken aback, Gull stared at the stranger's face. The copper eyes glinted for a moment, sharp as tacks, before he veiled them.
How could he know what I'm thinking? Gull wondered if perhaps the stranger had seen him reach briefly for his apron pouch. But no that couldn't be. No one watched anyone that closely.
Anyway, he had to do it now. As he scooped up a dozen seeds and sprinkled them over the two thumb cups, the first strains of Clyve Wheat's song filled the tavern. Clyve was not a great thinker and couldn't hold his drink, yet no one could deny he had a talent for music. Nothing fussy or complicated, mind, that wasn't his style. He knew the simple shepherd songs and played them well. This one, Gull recognized, was an old cradlesong.
Sleep and in the morning all will be well, my daughter.
Sleep and all will he well.
Abruptly, the stranger reached forward and grabbed his cup. Without waiting for the customary toast, he threw the malt down his throat. He did not breathe for a moment, Gull realized, simply tipped his head back and waited. When whatever relief he was waiting upon failed to arrive he returned the empty cup to the table.
"My name is Angus Lok. And I am looking for my daughter."
What was it Burdale Ruff had called him? Half-skinned, that was it. Gull had seen many men in many states during the thirty years he'd spent running Drover Jack's, but this man was different. He lived but he was also dead.
Gull took a mouthful of the malt. It was warm, peaty and golden, and it made him very sad. For a moment he thought of saying many things to this stranger before him, telling him that he too had lost a daughter; that not four weeks ago his Desmi had run off with some freebooter from the Glaive. Silly, headstrong girl. Barely seventeen. Also Gull thought of showing the stranger to the door and telling him, I have enough problems. Do not bring me any more.
Instead, he said, "How can I help?"
Angus Lok searched Gulls face with such force that Gull felt as if his skin were being pulled across the table. "What do you know of a man named Thurlo Pike?"
Gull was surprised at the question. "Thurlo? He used to roof around here last winter. Haven't seen him in a couple of months."
"What sort of man is he?"
Although he did not normally speak ill of former patrons, Gull told the stranger the truth. "He was a dishonest roofer and a short-tempered man. Caused trouble here last time I saw him. Insulting the good name of my tavern, asking all sorts of questions, spilling ale." Angus Lok leaned forward in his chair. "What sort of questions?" Gull shrugged. "About some women, I think. Women living alone or something. You'd really have to ask Maggy that. She's the one who spoke with him."
Something happened to the stranger's face as Gull spoke. His mouth tightened and a muscle in his cheek began to pump. "Where is this Maggy?"
"Gone. Went missing a couple of days after Thurlo. No one's seen hide nor hair of her since."
"What was her full name?"
"Maggy Sea. The best tavern maid ever to set down a tankard in Ille Glaive." Gull couldn't seem to stop himself from lauding her, and would have continued singing her praises if it hadn't been for the strange, dangerous look in Angus Lok's eyes.
"What do you know of this woman?"
Gull opened his mouth to speak and then closed it as he realized he knew absolutely nothing about Maggy Sea.
Angus Lok rested for a moment, as if Gull's lack of words were a blow he had to absorb. Gull took the opportunity to refill his cup.
"How long did she work here?"
For a reason he could not understand, Gull was reluctant to give the answer. "Thirteen days."
Angus Lok sucked in breath. He had not shaven in a month and his beard was growing in. The hair on his head was lighter than the beard stubble. 'Tell me what she looks like."
Now, here was a question Gull could answer. Maggy Sea had simply appeared one day in the tavern and set about cleaning his copper bath. As he remembered it he had need of help and she was willing, and he hired her on the spot. Best thing he ever did. Maggy Sea had been a treasure, a fine woman who knew the value of hard work. She'd cleaned his pumps, mended his roof and cooked a lamb stew so fine and dense that it just about ate itself. "Well Maggys tall, but not really tall. More medium height, now that I think of it. But she's definitely slender-except for her shoulders and hipswhich are round." Gull couldn't understand why he was fumbling. The picture he had in his head of Maggy Sea was crystal clear. It just wasn t easy to describe it, that was all Gamely, he tried again…"She was certainly comely, but more often than not she looked plain, if you understand what I mean. And her eyes."
"It does not. matter." The finality with which the stranger spoke made Gull jump.
"Gull. I need your help. I can't get the tap in the keg." Liddie Lott drew abreast of the the table. Sweat was beading above her upper lip and she looked a little frayed around the edges. She had never been left to work alone lor so long,
"He will help you later,"
Both Laddie and Gull turned to look at the strangef. t Mil railed an eyebrow and then turned to Gull.
"Go on, Liddie. If anyone complains that they cant have their pre-ferred beer give them a free pint of something else." "But'
"Go" Gull shooed her away.
Angus Lok waited until she was out of earshot before he said." The woman's voice, was it unusual?"
At last. Here was something Gull Moler could get his teeth into. "Yes. Yes. Golden, like maple syrup. Made you start nodding your head before she'd even asked a question."
Angus Lok reached for his sword. It was a beautiful weapon; the blade forged from patterned steel that scattered light, the single, cen tral fuller cut so unusually deep that it looked as if it might bisect the blade. Resting it across his lap, Angus ran a finger along the trench. "What do you know of the people who died in the farmhouse fire a day east of here?"