'Perhaps he thought you would know the law,' remarked Chareos as the lash sounded once more.
That's enough,' said the Captain. 'Cut him down.' They dragged the villager out through the postern gate and left him lying beside the path.
Chareos helped him to his feet. Thank you,' the man whispered.
'You'll not get home in that state,' Chareos told him. 'You'd best come with me. I'll book a room at the Grey Owl tavern and we'll see to your back.'
The Grey Owl tavern was a rambling building, built around an ancient inn which sat on the mountain road leading to Gulgothir. At its centre was an L-shaped hall, where drinkers and diners were waited upon by serving-maids. Two new buildings had been constructed on the east and west sides, and a stableyard added to the rear.
As Chareos eased his way through the milling taverners, his jutting scabbard cracked against a man's leg.
'Watch what you're doing, you whoreson!' hissed the drinker. Chareos ignored him, but as he walked on he gripped the hilt of his sabre, holding the scabbard close to his leg. It was a long, long time since he had worn a sword-belt and it felt clumsy, out of place.
He passed through a doorway and mounted the circular stair to the first-floor corridor. At the far end he entered the double room he had paid for that afternoon. The villager still slept, his breathing deep and slow; the draught of lirium administered by the apothecary would keep him unconscious until dawn. Chareos had cleaned the whip wounds and covered them with goose-grease, pressing a large square of linen to the villager's back. The lash cuts were not deep but the skin around them had peeled back, burnt by the leather of the whip.
Chareos banked up the fire in the hearth on the south wall. Autumn was approaching, and a chill wind hissed through the warped window-frames. He removed his sword-belt and sat in a wide, deep leather chair by the fire. Tired now, yet his mind would not relax. The sanctuary of the monastery seemed distant, and depression hit him like a physical blow. Today the Earl had tried to have him killed — and for what? All because of the actions of an arrogant child. He glanced at the sleeping villager. The boy had seen his village razed, his loved ones taken, and had now been whipped to add to his agony. Justice was for the rich… it always had been. Chareos leaned forward and threw a chunk of wood on the fire. One of the three lanterns on the wall guttered and died and he checked the others. They were low and he pulled the bell-rope by the west wall.
After some minutes a serving-maid tapped at the door. He asked for oil and ordered a meal and some wine. She was gone for half an hour, in which time a second lantern failed.
The villager groaned in his sleep, whispering a name. Chareos moved over to him, but the youth faded back into slumber.
The maid returned with a jug of oil. Tm sorry for the delay, sir, but we're full tonight and two of the girls have not come in.' She refilled the lanterns and lit them with a long taper. 'Your food will be up soon. There is no beef, but the lamb is good.'
'It will suffice.'
She stopped in the doorway and glanced back. 'Is he the villager who was scourged today?' she whispered.
'He is.'
'And you would be Chareos the monk?'
He nodded and she stepped back into the room. She was short and plump, with corn-coloured hair and a round, pretty face. 'Perhaps I shouldn't speak out of turn, sir, but there are men looking for you — men with swords. One of them has a bandage upon his brow.'
'Do they know I am here?'
'Yes, sir. There are three men in the stable and two others are now sitting in the main hall. I think there may be more.'
'Thank you kindly,' he said, pressing a half silver piece into her hand.
After she had gone he bolted the door, returned to the fire and dozed until there was another tap at the door. He slid his sabre from the scabbard. 'Who is it?' he called.
'It's me, sir. I have your food and wine.'
He pulled back the bolts and opened the door. She came in and laid the wooden tray on the narrow table by the chair. They are still there, sir. And the man with the bandage is talking to Finbale — the owner.'
'Thank you.'
'You could leave through the servants' quarters,' she offered.
'My horses are in the stable. Do not fear for me.'
She smiled. 'It was good what you did for him,' she said and then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. Chareos pushed home the bolt and settled down to his meal. The meat was tender, the vegetables soft and overcooked and the wine barely passable; even so, the meal filled his belly and he settled down to sleep in the chair. His dreams were troubled, but when he awoke they vanished like smoke in the breeze. Pre-dawn light had shaded the sky to a dark grey. The fire was almost dead, the room chill; Chareos added tinder to the glowing embers, blowing the flames to life, then piled on larger chunks. He was stiff and cold, and his neck ached. With the fire blazing once more, he moved to the villager. The youth's breathing was more shallow now. Chareos touched his arm and the villager groaned and opened his eyes.
He tried to sit up but pain hit him and he sank back.
'Your wounds are clean,' said Chareos, 'and though they must be painful I suggest you rise and dress. I have bought a horse for you. And we leave the city this morning.'
'Thank you… for your help. My name is Kiall.' The youth sat up, his face twisted by the pain clawing at his back.
'The wounds will heal well,' Chareos told him. 'They are clean and not deep. The pain is from the whip-burns, but that will pass in three or four days.'
'I do not know your name,' said Kiall.
'Chareos. Now get dressed. There are men waiting who will make our departure troublesome.'
'Chareos? The hero of Bel-azar?'
'Yes,' snapped Chareos, 'the wondrous giant of song and tale. Did you hear me, boy? We are in danger. Now get dressed.'
Kiall pushed himself to his feet and struggled into his troos and boots, but could not raise his arms to pull on his shirt. Chareos helped him. The lash marks extended all the way to Kiall's hip and he could not fasten his belt. 'Why are we in danger?' he asked.
Chareos shrugged. 'I doubt it is to do with you. I had a duel with a man named Logar and I would imagine he is feeling somewhat humiliated. Now I want you to go down to the stable. My horses are there. Mine is the grey and the saddle is by the stall. You know how to saddle a horse?'
'I was once a stable-boy.'
'Good. Make sure the cinch is tight enough. Two stalls down, there is a swaybacked black gelding; it was the best I could find for you. He's old and near worn out, but he will get you back to your village.'
'I will not return to the village,' said Kiall softly. 'I will hunt down the raiders who took Ravenna and the others.'
'A sound and sensible idea,' said Chareos irritably, 'but for now be so good as to saddle my horse.'
Kiall reddened. 'I may owe you my life, but do not mock me,' he said. 'I have loved Ravenna for years and I will not rest until she is free, or I am dead.'
'The latter is what you will be. But it is your life. My horse, if you please?'
Kiall opened his mouth, but said nothing. Shaking his head, he left the room. Chareos waited for several minutes and then walked down the stairs to the kitchen where two scullery servants were preparing the dough for the day's bread. He summoned the first and asked her to pack some provisions for him — salt beef, a ham, corn biscuits and a small sack of oats. With his order filled, he paid her and wandered through the now deserted main hall. The innkeeper, Finbale, was hanging freshly washed tankards on hooks above the bar. He nodded and smiled as Chareos moved towards the door and Chareos stopped and approached the man.
'Good morning,' said Finbale, a wide grin showing the gaps in his teeth.
'And to you,' responded Chareos. 'Will you have my horse brought to the door?'