Egrin immediately recovered his stance and brought the blade up again. Simultaneously, the bench collapsed into two halves and Vakka Zan’s head landed with a thump on the platform.
The crowd let out a spontaneous roar of approval. The cost of the Ackal-Pakin war had been high, in lives lost, in misery, and in grievous trade disruptions. One less Pakin seemed a fine idea to those watching.
Egrin descended the steps, the unsheathed sword held at his side. His hands were spattered with blood. More blood coated the blade. Without a word, he presented the weapon hilt-first to Lord Odovar. The two men’s eyes did not meet, but Odovar took the sword by the handguard and tossed it to Morthur, beside him. Lips curled in distaste, Morthur held the Silvanesti sword for his liege lord. Crimson droplets fell from its tip.
Odovar turned his horse around and rode away. His entourage was slow to follow, as the long line of women and household retainers sheltering under the awning shuffled awkwardly around, trying to keep out of the weather.
Egrin’s second-in-command, Manzo, brought Old Acorn forward. Tol stepped up and took the reins. He led the horse to the warden, still standing where he’d handed Lord Odovar the gilded sword. Egrin accepted the reins and laid a strong hand on Tol’s shoulder. It remained there only a moment, then was withdrawn.
At Manzo’s command, the Householders formed up and rode out. Next, the corporal of the footmen ranked his men and pushed the curious onlookers out of the square. Soon the only people left were Egrin, Tol, and the two men from the town charnel house, come to take the body away. Vakka’s head Odovar had reserved for display in his hall.
After the body had been removed, Egrin mounted Old Acorn and departed. Tol ran after him, feet splashing in puddles.
The square was empty at last. Despite the rain, bloodstains remained on the platform for a long time.
In spite of all the wonders he had seen, and the kindness and good fellowship of Egrin and the stableboys, Tol decided to leave Juramona. Lord Odovar’s cruelty, matched by the viciousness of the condemned Pakin noble, left him feeling sick and disgusted. Life with his family, even amid the farm’s ceaseless toil, was better than the wonders-and incomprehensible ways-of this town.
He had made the decision to leave by the time he’d returned to the boys’ hall after the execution. The place was empty, as everyone was out working, but Tol huddled by one of the fires and dried his sodden clothing. The only food was the leavings of the boys’ communal breakfast-dried-out oat porridge and some crusts of black bread. Tol ate all the porridge left in the pot and put what crusts he could find in a scrap of old cloth. He would need food for the journey.
The master of the boys, Zolamon, found Tol in the hall, and drove him out with shouts and buffets. He was given a wide wooden fork and set to mucking out the horse stalls with four other boys his size. The work was no worse than what he did every day at the farm, and he quickly outstripped his fellows, clearing two stalls to every one they managed. He welcomed the labor; it kept his mind from dwelling on Vakka Zan or, worse still, his severed head. He could’ve sworn that, as the head rolled free on the platform, the dead man’s strange, pinkish eyes had shifted as though he were still alive and searching for someone…
Zolamon returned. He was called “Big Stick” by the stable-boys, and the origin of the nickname was obvious. He tapped a thick hardwood cudgel against his thigh as he strolled down the line of stalls, inspecting the boys’ progress. Tol thought Zolamon would be pleased with what he’d done, but the taskmaster yelled at him just as he did the others. Still, he didn’t hit Tol as he did two other boys, so Tol decided his work must have been satisfactory after all.
Supper in the boys’ hall was a noisy, confusing affair, but what surprised Tol was the quantity of food available. Certainly not as rich as the capons, venison, and beer consumed by the Riders of the Horde, but the boys’ stew and black bread were plentiful and filling. He’d never starved on the farm, but he never seemed to get quite enough to eat, either. And he seldom got real bread, only flat, hard disks of firecake, so even these coarse loaves were a treat. As he ate his fill among the raucous boys, Tol had no trouble secreting away several hunks of bread.
When supper was done, the healer arrived. Felryn served the marshal’s entire household, from Lord Odovar down to the least stableboy. He was middle-aged, with curly black hair and dark bronze skin. Over a brown linen robe he wore a pantherskin tabard, tied with a heavy sash. His most striking feature was his hands. They were unusually large and powerful, with very long fingers. As he worked his way down the row of boys, those strong hands proved surprisingly gentle.
Reaching Tol, Felryn said, “You’re new. What are you called?”
“Tol, my lord.”
“I’m not your lord.” He grasped Tol’s chin and pushed his head back, peering into the boy’s eyes. “I’m a physician. I work for my living, so don’t call me ‘lord.’ ”
“Yes, sir.”
Felryn did not mention the cut on Tol’s cheek. Instead, the healer said, “Show me your hands.”
Tol did so, and Felryn grunted. “They tell me you cleared more stalls than three boys of long residence here. How is it you have no blisters?”
“I’m used to work,” Tol replied. He glanced away at the high slit windows. It was already dark and he was impatient to get away.
“Farm lad?” said the healer. Tol nodded.
Felryn lifted Tol’s arms from his sides, prodded the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, and asked his age. When Tol could only shrug, the healer said, “No matter. You’re a well made lad. Where did you dwell before coming to Juramona?”
Tol’s gaze strayed to the west window. “My family’s farm is in the hills between the forest and plain,” he answered.
Felryn pursed his lips thoughtfully. He took a ribbon of cloth from his sash, and bade Tol stand up straight. With another boy to help him, Felryn stretched the ribbon from Tol’s feet to the crown of his head. From under the panther-skin tabard he drew a small board covered with wax. He made a few marks in the wax with a metal stylus then tucked the board away.
“Very good,” he said, one large hand toying with the stylus. “I will see you again, Master Tol.”
Felryn moved on to the next boy, whose hands were covered by blisters. The healer buttered them with a pungent salve that made the lad wince, then wrapped his palms with strips of rag.
When Felryn departed, the boys at last settled down. Weary older youths crawled into their low berths while the youngest boys banked the fires. Before long the first snores began, but Tol waited, making sure everyone was fast asleep.
Judging the time was right at last, he dropped soundlessly to the floor, his food bundle tucked under his arm. No one stirred as he padded outside.
Cold wind had scoured the rain away, leaving the heavens bright with stars. Tol pulled on the hide moccasins he’d been given in place of his farmer’s clogs, then hastily wrapped his woolen leggings up to his knees. Ready at last, he straightened-and found himself facing a looming dark shape.
Even as he gasped in shock, the figure moved forward into a patch of moonlight. It was the healer, Felryn.
“Can’t sleep?” Felryn asked, brown eyes crinkling in amusement.
Tol began to stammer excuses, but the healer waved them away, his expression becoming serious. “You want to go home, boy?” he said.