Furthermore, the watchers atop the towers could see farther than a soldier on the ramparts.
But walking the wall was a tradition, and it did serve a purpose both for discipline and for maintenance-it was an active but not unpleasant duty, useful for keeping bored soldiers busy, and those soldiers had strict orders to report any signs of wear and damage along the route.
Deran hadn't been particularly bored, but he'd been assigned the duty and accepted it without complaint. He strolled along the wall, whistling softly, taking his time on the long walk out to the Beachgate tower and back. He studied the stonework as he walked, peered out over the surrounding countryside, and paused every so often to look down at the city itself, at the ragged inhabitants of the Wall Street Field, the tawdry homes and shops on Wall Street, and the rooftops and streets beyond.
By the time he neared the line between Northangle and Grandgate on his return trip, the sun was well down in the west and the shadows were lengthening dramatically. Deran paused and leaned on a merlon, looking down at the Field.
Since it was still daylight, almost all the huts and tents were unoccupied, and the broad patches of mud where blankets were spread at night were bare. Most of the people who slept in the Field were elsewhere in the city, working or begging or doing whatever they did to sustain themselves.
A few people lingered, though. Four ragged young women were fighting over something; a fifth was standing back and shouting at the others. A line of children was running through the maze of huts and tents, intent on some sort of following game. Half a dozen old people, men and women, were huddled together on a faded red blanket, dickering over a pile of vegetables.
Off by himself, a big man in a brown tunic was sitting on the mud, leaning against the side of a shack, watching the others. A bandage heavily stained with dried blood was wrapped around his left thigh, and Deran realized that was the man he had found in the alley the night before.
That was interesting. A chat with him about just how he had come to be stabbed might be a pleasant diversion, Deran thought. He looked about for the nearest stairway-the city wall was theoretically equipped with a stairway every two hundred feet, either down into the interior of the wall itself or on the inward face, down into the Field, but not all the stairs actually existed. Deran was unsure whether this was a result of neglect, or if some had never been built.
There was a wooden stair down to the Field not far away; Deran used it, putting his foot through the bottom step. He shook his head; the step was rotten right through. He would have to report that.
Which meant he would have to explain why he had come down from the wall. He sighed and headed for the man in the red kilt.
The man looked up as the soldier's shadow fell across him, but said nothing.
"Hai," Deran said, "remember me?"
The man in the brown tunic frowned. "I don't think so," he said.
"I was the one who got you out of that alley last night," Deran explained.
"Oh," the man said. He glanced down at the bandage on his thigh and grudgingly added, "Thank you."
"Are you a veteran?" Deran persisted, pointing a thumb at the man's red kilt.
"What business is it of yours?"
Deran's expression hardened-not because he was actually angry, but because it was a useful trick. It worried people, made them more likely to cooperate. Deran had needed more than a year to really get the hang of it.
"I needed to report why I was late getting back to barracks last night," he said. "The lieutenant gave me a hard time because I didn't know your name or who you were."
This was not true, but that bothered Deran not a whit.
"Oh," the man said again. He hesitated.
Deran glowered.
"My name's Tolthar of Smallgate," the man said. "And yes, I was in the guard, but they kicked me out for being drunk while on duty. About five years back."
That was a year or so before Deran had signed up. " Were you drunk?" he asked.
"Oh, I guess I was," Tolthar admitted, "but it wasn't my fault. We were walking the wall, and my buddy had a bottle with him, and that's so boring, what else was there to do but drink?"
Deran nodded. Drunkards always had an excuse; he knew that. And he knew how much weight to give it; just because the bottle was there didn't mean they had to drink it.
And he noticed that Tolthar didn't say that his "buddy" had been kicked out of the guard. From what Deran knew of the guard, he doubted that anyone would be expelled for being drunk on duty once.
But there was no point in arguing about it. Other matters were more interesting.
"So, who stabbed you?" he asked. "Pick the wrong girl, did you? Or did you make a grab for someone's purse?"
Tolthar frowned. "I don't want to say," he said. "I'll take care of it myself."
Deran frowned back. "You better not mean that the way it sounds," he warned. "We don't like it when citizens stab each other."
"I won't stab anyone," Tolthar mumbled. "That's not what I meant." His rather feeble wits recovered belatedly, and he added, "At least, I won't stab anyone with a blade."
"Oh, it is a girl, then?" Deran's frown turned to a wry smile. "Just make sure she says yes first, and means it."
Tolthar mumbled something Deran didn't catch.
They talked a few moments longer, saying nothing of any consequence; then Deran turned back to the stairs.
At the barracks he reported to the lieutenant on duty, and gave a warning about the rotten step. As he had expected, the lieutenant wanted to know why he had used the stairs.
Deran explained, not trying to quote the entire conversation, but simply describing the incident the night before and reporting Tolthar's name and that he refused to say who had stabbed him.
"He wouldn't say?"
"No."
"Why in Hell not?" the lieutenant demanded.
Deran turned up an empty palm.
"You think he's planning to ambush whoever it was?"
Deran shook his head. "No," he said, "Tolthar wasn't going to hurt anyone. He just didn't want to say who it was."
"Do you think there's anything odd going on?"
"No."
The lieutenant frowned, then shrugged. "Well, to Hell with him, then. I'll put it in the report and if anyone higher up cares, they can worry about it." He pulled a sheet of parchment from the box and began writing out his report.
CHAPTER 11
Tabaea watched the man in the red kilt with interest as he downed the ale someone had bought him. She had been sure he would return to the tavern eventually, and here he was, just two days later.
He hadn't seen her, she was sure; she was wearing her working clothes, which is to say she had turned her black tunic and black skirt inside out, so the gold and red embroidery didn't show. Her feet were bare, for better traction.
The man she watched, on the other hand, wore heavy boots- badly worn boots-and the same greasy brown tunic and old red kilt he had worn when he attacked her.
He was walking better now-and so was she. His left leg looked stiff; hers felt loose and limber, more so than usual.
She understood it now, at least partially. As the drunk got his strength back, she lost hers.
At least, that was how it appeared. She was still stronger than normal, but less than she had been, and the decline in her vitality seemed to correlate with the healing process of the man's wounded leg.
So what would have happened if she had killed him? The dead never got their strength back.
And what if she killed someone now? Was the dagger's magic still potent, or had she wasted it on that minor flesh wound?