Rathe took no offense. “Then I take it you haven’t seen any shadows?”
“Oh, I see ‘em all the time.” Stiny rubbed a hand through his tangled nest of wheat-colored hair, making it stand up in greasy knots. “Course, they ain’t really shadows, so much as folk who think if they stay in the dark, no one will know what they’re up to.”
Rathe’s interest sharpened. “Who?”
Stiny bobbed his head. “Nina the cobbler’s wife, for one. She creeps out after most decent folk are abed, and then sneaks like a cat all the way across the village to Aeril’s shack-he’s a woodcutter. By all Nina’s moaning and crying when she’s there, Aeril must be a mean whoreson.”
Rathe hid a smile. Nina, the cobbler’s cuckolding wife, was of no interest to him. By Stiny’s smirk, Rathe suspected the boy also knew what Nina was up to at the woodcutter’s shack. “Nothing else?”
Stiny’s face screwed up in concentration. “Morning before last, I saw a few strangers. I’d judge they’re too stupid to be dangerous.”
Rathe was not so sure. King Nabar had put quite the reward on his head, and that much gold would tempt all manner of bounty hunters. “What did they look like?”
“Outlanders from the south, like most outlanders hereabouts. I’d guess they’re merchants.”
“Why?”
“They’re too well-fed, and their clothes are too fine, to be otherwise,” Stiny said, casting a pointed glance at Rathe’s garb.
Rathe had seen many mercenaries and men who earned their way collecting bounties. These strangers didn’t sound the sort. Likely, Stiny had the way of it.
“So, you haven’t seen anything else I should know about?”
“You mean to say shadows?” Stiny asked, a hint of a smile turning his lips.
“Strange shadows, boy, those shaped like men, but when you look at them, they vanish.” Fear hones a man to his sharpest. That was something the mysterious swordsman had said once, and Rathe believed it. But at Ravenhold, it was he who had put fear into the Shadowman’s heart. From what little he had gathered of the man’s ways, Rathe suspected the fellow hadn’t enjoyed the reversal. In time, he would come again.
“Shadows shaped like men?” Stiny offered another lopsided shrug. “Ain’t seen nothin’ like that. An’ the only strangers in Iceford besides merchants are you, your friends, an’ a few sailors off that accursed ship.”
The Lamprey had gotten a reputation for bad luck around Iceford, but Rathe was sure Captain Ostre’s troubles had nothing to do with luck, good or ill.
Rathe rummaged through his purse until he found a silver coin. It was ten times the amount he usually paid Stiny and his friends, but theirs was necessary work that he greatly valued. He held it out, and Stiny wrapped his grimy fingers around the coin with a comical look of awe.
“You’ve done well,” Rathe said.
“For this much, I s’pose I could find a man or three who’d poke a knife into any shadow that troubles you.”
Rathe went still, mind working. It took less than three heartbeats to decide how best to keep Stiny from doing something that might get his throat slit.
“Keep the coin for yourself, boy, for there’s no more coming. Forget about shadows, forget about me. You’ve done all I asked, and our arrangement is finished.”
With a final shrug, Stiny collected his dung bucket and headed toward the tannery. Looking after him, Rathe shouted, “If you see a shadow, especially one that looks like a man, you run.”
Stiny turned a little, waved a dismissive hand. “Shadows are everywhere,” he said, grinning wryly. “I’ve one, an’ so do you. Every man casts a shadow. To run from them all would make for a pair of awful tired legs.”
Rathe found himself hoping Nesaea was right about the craftiness of such children. After the boy disappeared into the tannery, Rathe made his way back through Iceford, hurrying to another appointment.
Chapter 4
Master Abyk, renowned as the finest tailor in Iceford, and a better than average armorer in a former life, used his hand to slash a few errant white hairs back from his wrinkled brow and gave his handiwork a critical glare.
Rathe had never been knowledgeable of fashion, but in his estimation, the garb Loro wore had looked better before he stretched it over his girth.
“We must start over,” Abyk said after a long consideration, and reached for a measuring string tucked into a pocket of his woolen vest.
Looking put out, Loro fingered one of six straining buckles on his new jerkin, the front and back of which were covered in burnished steel scales. Rathe decided it was best not to tell his companion that he resembled a gleaming, overfed trout.
“What did you do wrong?” Loro asked.
At Abyk’s pained look, Rathe spread his hands in sympathy. He was more than satisfied with his own clothing. It was not nearly as extravagant as Nesaea preferred, but he had been a soldier too long to change. His heavy woolen coat was red, and the shirt beneath it brown linen and plenty warm. His leather trousers and stout boots, both lined with wool, were black. Simple garb, if better than what most of the folk of Iceford wore.
“I made no mistakes,” Abyk said, scowling more fiercely than ever. “The problem isn’t with my workmanship, but with you. You’re built all wrong, and-” his forefinger circled around Loro’s prodigious belly “-and exceedingly bloated besides.”
Loro frowned as he scratched his bald head. Generally, he did the insulting. Being on the other end seemed to have fouled his mood. “Listen here, you twiggy little fool, if you want payment, then you’d better make this right.”
“How can I?” Abyk blurted, and promptly jabbed a finger into the bulge of Loro’s gut, making him retreat, eyes wide, mouth opened in shock. The tailor gave chase, every step of the way using his finger like a dagger to prod the portly warrior.
“Your arse is smaller than your belly, which forces your trousers to fall.”
Loro slapped at the man, trying to ward him off. “That’s why I have a belt, idiot!”
Another jab. “Your teats sag worse than my grandmother’s!”
“Teats!” Loro yowled, cupping his hands to his chest. “I’ve the strength of a bull!”
Another poke. “Your legs are stumpy and broad as barrels.”
“You ought to see what’s nested between them, you wilted bastard!”
Another stab, driving Loro into a corner hung with samples of cloth. “Your neck is a flabby pillar of suet.”
“It only looks bunchy because you made the collar too tight, you ham-fisted buffoon!”
This time Abyk delivered a ringing slap to the side of Loro’s skull. “Your head is like a fat, brown egg.”
“What difference does that make? I didn’t ask for a hat,” Loro growled, hauling out his sword and slashing it under the Abyk’s nose. “Now back away, or I’ll chop off that finger of yours, and stuff it up your bony arse!”
Rathe suppressed a chuckle, but chose not to intervene. Presently, Loro didn’t have that particular crazed light in his eye that signaled he was ready to cut a man’s life short.
Abyk danced back. Once he gained a safe distance, he pressed his fists to his hips, looked Loro up and down. With a sniff, he pointed a finger at Rathe. “Your companion is the picture of what you should seek to attain in yourself. He’s lean where he should be, tall and straight, and proportioned after a sculptor’s vision of an ideal hero.”
“My thanks,” Rathe said, bowing to hide a grin from Loro.
“He’s barely off his mother’s teat,” Loro countered. “Why, when I was that young, I looked the same-better, even.”
Abyk eyed him doubtfully.
“Be that as it may, heroes come in different shapes and sizes,” Loro said defensively. “Why, if it weren’t for me, Rathe wouldn’t be standing here soaking up all your sunny praise.”