The boy patted the flank of one of the harnessed horses. “That one tethered, nasty as could be, just like you said, but after a time she and me worked something out. Others were easy enough.”
Braylar opened his pouch. “You can be sure I’ve looked them over, nose to tail, and true to your word, the care appears to have been exemplary.”
The boy wasn’t quite sure what to do with that, but when Braylar tossed him two coins instead of the promised one, his face lit up. “You’re a fair dealer, by my account. I’ll tell anybody that asks, too, maybe a few that don’t.”
“And I’ll be sure to tell anyone that travels this way, a stay at the Three Casks will involve bad food, bad drink, and good horse care.” Braylar flicked the reins and we were off.
I noticed a package alongside Braylar, wrapped in felt. He saw me eyeing it and said, “It’s a gift.” And when I didn’t respond, or move, he added, “For you. Meaning, you should open it.”
I picked the package up, finding it surprisingly heavy, and slipped the small cords off the cloth and unwrapped the object. I didn’t have a particular thing in mind, but what I found would have exceeded even the greediest expectations. It was a large brass box, inlaid with fantastic scenes of silver and niello. On the top, two horsemen carrying crossbows and a pack of hounds bringing down a huge stag. On one side panel, a unicorn lying down, legs folded serenely beneath it, and on the other, a gryphon at rest in much the same position, with its wings down across its back and a large collar around its neck. The box (or case, as it turned out to be) was a metalsmithing masterwork of exquisite and elaborate detail, the likes of which I’d seen only in the inventories of some of the highest of nobles who had interviewed (but never retained) me.
I tried thanking Braylar, but he interrupted me before I said two words. “Do you know what this is?”
After examining the case again, I said, “No. I can’t say that I do.”
He pointed to finely worked clasp on the front. “Open it. Your gratitude should double.”
Freeing the clasp, I lifted the lid. There were several small holes along the upper right side, perfect for holding sharpened quills. Below those were two rectangular openings with small hinged lids, one for sand and another for a container of ink. Alongside the small compartments for ink, a polished smooth writing surface flashed in the sun, with a small lip running along the bottom to keep pages from sliding off. Then I saw the small clasps on the inside of the lid, designed to hold any finished pages as they dried. I turned back to Braylar again, but he indicated that my inspection wasn’t complete. Turning the brass box around, I noticed the gryphon panel was actually a cleverly disguised drawer that held extra sheets of vellum, some quills, and a small knife for keeping them sharp.
I also noticed two knobby legs that popped out from the rear of the pen and parchment case that enabled the whole station to sit at a slight incline, perfect for writing. Braylar had been wrong-my gratitude more than doubled. The generosity was almost appalling. I said, “Thank you, Captain Killcoin. But this is much too fine.”
“You’re not wrong,” he replied. “It’s a lordly gift so I expect you to perform well enough to warrant its gifting. Fill it with whatever supplies you need.”
Having thanked him again, and retrieved the necessary supplies, I reclaimed my seat at the front of the wagon. I was fiddling with the case, trying to set it on my legs to eliminate as much movement as possible, when Braylar said, “Perhaps I’ve not thought of everything, but what is the category just beneath everything? That’s what I’ve thought of.”
He handed me a thin board and I set it under my writing case. I was sure I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank him again, so I did, and then set to recording.
Braylar took us out of the alley and into the traffic on the thoroughfare. Even with the board, it wasn’t like writing on a secure table or desk. The quill tip made countless unseemly scratches with every small bump and shift of the wagon, skipping across the page in small jumps as of its own volition.
I noticed that Lloi had ridden off as well. “I thought you said she’d be accompanying us.”
Braylar replied, “She won’t ride with us. Or seldom enough to count as a passenger. As you can see, Rivermost is crowded, even at this early hour. She moves among those strangers, looking for any that might show any… unusual interest in my passing. If it sounds as if I have a good many enemies, you can be sure there are a good many reasons. So, if you happen to see her ride past, don’t hail her, don’t address her, and do your best to pretend that you haven’t noticed her at all. Do you understand?”
I nodded, not understanding. We rode down narrow dirt streets, the stone and timber keep shouldered against the river to the east, looming behind us, its tall towers stark in the new morning light. Even at that early hour, the city was awake. Odors were everywhere: fish and a heavy mud smell from the river, urine a sharp undernote, excrement sometimes mingling with the mud, bread baking, horses, the poor and unwashed. Shops opening, small wagons of apples and oranges rolled out by sleepy merchants, awnings raised, tables of furs and spices and ceramic pots and bolts of cloth set up. Hammers striking steel in smithies. A courier ran by in a crisp court tunic, a cylindrical pack of summons and missives bouncing on his back. Three feral cats darted between boots and hooves, their fur matted and muddy. Guards leaned lazily against the walls, waiting for their shift to end. A heavy wagon pulled by a team of tired-looking oxen rolled by, creaking with its burden of barreled ale. The last patrons left whorehouses and returned to their work, caravan guards, miners, magistrates.
Once we joined the flow of traffic, I asked, “We are obviously leaving. As you said. But you never said where we were going. Exactly.”
“I didn’t even say vaguely, did I?”
I laughed, mostly forced. “So, where are we headed?”
He pointed straight ahead in exaggerated fashion. “That way.”
Seeing the look on my face, he added, “A destination doesn’t matter until you get there, yes?”
I didn’t understand the need for this secrecy-was there a practical purpose or was he doing it simply to torment me? — but it was clear I wouldn’t accomplish anything by protesting further.
He drank some weak wine or strong water and flicked the reins, and we turned down another street in the city, the dirt turning to cobblestones beneath our wheels. It was obvious we were traveling through a newer section of the city. On our left masons began ascending what looked to be a rickety scaffold on the north facade of a monastery, their heads wrapped with dirty cotton cloth or covered in floppy straw hats to protect them from what promised to be an unrelenting sun. The monastery was several hundred years old, but all the buildings around it-a hospital alongside the monastery, a glassblower’s shop alongside that, a grain silo a little further down, the curtain wall behind the silo-were of newer construction.
We rode only a few more streets, once nearly running over a man leading a mule laden with baskets. I thought I saw Lloi walking her shaggy mount down a street running parallel, but it was only for an instant before the person disappeared from view as we passed the connecting street, so I couldn’t be certain.
We turned down another street, closing in on the gates, and traffic was thickening. Men bent over with bundles and baskets of all manner of things on their backs, small carts and large wagons, most laden with goods, some leaving empty, shoeless dirty children chasing each other or fleeing their mothers, women hawking trays of sweetmeats, beggars begging, guards in quilted jerkins ushering them off and generally looking disinterested in anything else. I looked at Braylar, examined him in the sunlight, and little had changed since the previous night. A new tunic, though of the same cut and ash color as the previous one. The same scarf around his neck, hiding the inked noose. The same tics around the corner of his mouth. I noticed his eyes-gray-green like mossy stones, and about as friendly or revealing. Much like they’d been when he arrived at the Three Casks, they were constantly moving, like a predator’s. Subtly, to be sure, but moving nonetheless, a measured sweep past every face without any noticeable stop, although I’m sure he was registering more than the casual air admitted. Perhaps dreading to see a look of recognition. Perhaps hoping to.