"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."