From that day onward, Jarvas saw a change in Grince’s personality. Though he was still the same amiable, rather shy to to his cronies at the refuge, he smiled rarely, and never laughed at all. He became more furtive and secretive in his doings. His stealing, which he had once treated in the light-hearted spirit of a game, suddenly turned into a deadly serious business. Grince was playing for higher stakes now—whereas previously he had contented himself with food and clothing, and small amounts of money to buy his needs, he was now stealing gold and jewels, and raiding the cashboxes of the fat, wealthy merchants to spirit away a month’s profit at a time. At first, Jarvas had decided that he must be amassing a hoard, to buy himself—what? Companionship?—Security? Escape from the rootless life of poverty that was his lot? Now, though, it had become clear that Grince had extended the scope of his operations for another purpose. He had been rehearsing last night’s job.—Pendral had deprived the thief of what he loved best in the world, and ever since that day, Grince had been planning his revenge on the High Lord of Nexis.
A shiver ran through Jarvas’s bony frame. Poor Grince! He might have his faults, it was true, and he had certainly been in the wrong to steal those jewels, but the danger into which he’d put himself made the big man’s heart quail. Petty criminals might be flogged, or set to work for a number of days or months with the gangs of laborers who were gradually rebuilding the damaged areas of the city. For such a serious crime as stealing from Lord Pendral, however, there could be only one penalty. Tomorrow, if he had been arrested, they would cut off Grince’s hands.
By the time he finally reached the top of the Long Stairs, the muscles in Jarvas’s calves were beginning to knot in cramp, and his face was running with sweat. He was badly out of breath, but there was no time to stop and recover.—With every passing minute he had grown increasingly certain that Grince had been caught. Each morning, the names of the miscreants who had been arrested the previous day were posted on the gates of the Garrison, and though he dreaded the tidings he was about to receive, it was better to know at once—though his knowing would make little difference to the thief, who would be doomed in any case. Jarvas sighed and braced himself. Turning right, he left the steps and made his way toward the Garrison as fast as his aching legs would carry him.
The postings went up at dawn, with those who’d been arrested the previous day listed in order of the severity of their crimes—and with the consequent penalties they would suffer. A small knot of people were already clustered in front of the great, arched Garrison gates. Some wept silently, while others cursed and shouted abuse, from a safe distance, at the two stone-faced sentries who stood there on guard duty. Now that he was finally here, Jarvas felt an uneasy reluctance to go any further. Cursing himself for a coward, he gritted his teeth and began to shoulder his way through the crowd, toward the ominous square of white that was pinned to the heavy timbers.
There were not many names that day—a number of floggings and one execution, for tomorrow’s dawn. Jarvas sagged with relief and felt his weary knees begin to buckle. Groping like a blind man, he pushed his way back out of the crowd.—Suddenly feeling as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he stumbled down the street toward the Invisible Unicorn. Had his legs been working properly, he felt as though he might have danced.
When Jarvas arrived at the tavern, once so rough, rundown, and grimy, he was impressed, as always, by its current look of cleanliness and prosperity, with its sparkling windows, gleaming paintwork, and new shutters. The taproom, once so rough and dingy, was a haven of cleanliness and comfort, and a gleaming new wooden counter that stretched across the far side of the room. Behind the counter, in the host’s position and radiating contentment and prosperity, stood Hargorn.
The taproom was already beginning to fill with the regular, early-morning customers who came for breakfast—mostly traders and laborers from the city, and the occasional Garrison soldier just off the night watch. Nowadays, the Unicorn had become one of the most popular inns in the city. Despite his advancing years, Hargorn maintained a reputation as a man who could take care of both himself and his premises. After the vanishment of the Magefolk, the veteran had decided to retire from military life, and had taken on the tavern in partnership with—of all unlikely people—Vannor’s old cook Hebba.—When Lord Vannor had returned to the city following the disappearance of the Mages, his cook had come with him—but not to stay. She had hatched a plan with Hargorn when the veteran had forsworn the sword, and with generous assistance from Vannor they had purchased the Unicorn. In its finer days it had been the favorite haunt of the troopers—Hargorn in particular—but following the depredations and shortages of Miathan’s rule the tavern near the Garrison had become badly run-down. In the hands of its-new owners, however, the business had soon begun to flourish once more.
Hargorn and Hebba made an odd combination—particularly to those who knew the couple well. How would the practical, laconic, imperturbable soldier ever manage to put up with the vapors, panics, and incessant chatter of the rotund little cook? How could such a fussy, house-proud woman ever stand for his rough soldier’s ways, learned during a lifetime spent in barracks and camps?—But though it was only a business partnership it had gone from strength to strength.
Word soon got around the citizens of Nexis that they would find the warmest of welcomes at the Unicorn. Hargorn had been a well-respected and popular soldier at the Garrison. He was easy to get along with—and one way and another he had been specializing in ale for most of his life. He was qualified in every respect to be the host of an alehouse—right down to his ability to deal with any trouble that might arise.
Hebba had turned the tavern’s interior into a haven of homely comfort, with sparkling brass lamps replacing the dim rushlights of former days, and the scarred old tables polished each day to a blinding sheen. Not only that, but she believed in mothering her customers—which included feeding them. The meals that she served had become a legend throughout the city.
Hargorn had been a good friend to Jarvas over these last difficult years, and, in addition, his tavern was also a trading post of gossip and rumor, information and innuendo. If there had been any word of Grince at all, Jarvas knew he would find it here. Just as he was approaching the counter, however, Hebba came bolting out of the back room, in even more of a flutter than usual—and pale as if she’d seen a ghost. Grabbing Hargorn’s arm in a viselike grip, she reached up on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear.
Jarvas saw his friend’s expression alter from the usual look of long-suffering patience with which he greeted Hebba’s fussing. Hargorn blanched, and went absolutely rigid, swaying alarmingly on his feet as though he had received a blow. For a dreadful moment, Jarvas thought the older man was about to have some kind of seizure; then Hargorn seemed to collect himself all of a sudden.—His face split into the biggest grin that Jarvas had ever seen and he grabbed hold of Hebba, lifting her right off her feet and dancing her round in the confined space behind the bar, oblivious of her shrill protests and squeaks of alarm. The room rang with cheers, jeers, and catcalls as customers began to whistle and applaud. Hargorn, beaming all over his face, looked up and noticed his audience at last. “What are you lot all staring at?” he demanded belligerently, and there was a sudden clatter of knife on plate as the regulars turned back to their food with great industry and interest. The Unicorn was such a pleasant, homely place that no one wanted to get on the bad side of the landlord.