Assassin's Quest

"It's not that. I simply have something that I must do. Something I have put off for a long, long time. Yesterday I realized that until I have done it, there will be no peace for me."

Josh sighed heavily. "Yesterday was an ugly day. I would not base any life decision on it." He swung his head to look toward me. "Whatever it is, Cob, I think time will make it better. It does most things, you know."

"Some things," I muttered distractedly. "Other things don't get better until you … mend them. One way or another."

"Well." He held out his hand to me, and I took it. "Good luck to you then. At least this fighter's hand has a sword to grip now. That can't be bad fortune for you."

"Here's the door," I said, and opened it for him. "Good luck to you as well," I told him as he passed me, and closed it behind him.

As I stepped out into the open street again, I felt as if I had tossed a burden aside. Free again. I would not soon weigh myself down with anything like that again.

I'm coming, I told Nighteyes. This evening, we hunt.

I'll be watching for you.

I hitched my bundle a bit higher on my shoulder, took a fresh grip on my staff, and strode down the street. I could think of nothing in Crowsneck that I could possibly desire. My path took me straight through the market square, however, and the habits of a lifetime die hard. My ears pricked up to the grumbles and complaints of those who had come to bargain. Buyers demanded to know why prices were so high; sellers replied that the trade from downriver was scarce, and whatever goods came upriver as far as Crowsneck were dear. Prices were worse upriver, they assured them. For all those who complained about the high prices, there were as many who came looking for what was simply not there. It was not just the ocean fish and the thick wool of Buck that no longer came up the river. It was as Chade had predicted: there were no silks, no brandies, no fine Bingtown gem work, nothing from the Coastal Duchies, nor from the lands beyond. Regal's attempt to strangle the Mountain Kingdom's trade routes had also deprived the Crowsneck merchants of Mountain amber and furs and other goods. Crowsneck had been a trading town. Now it was stagnant, choking on a surplus of its own goods and naught to trade them for.

At least one shambling drunk knew where to put the blame. He wove his way through the market, caroming off stalls and staggering through the wares lesser merchants had displayed on mats. His shaggy black hair hung to his shoulders and merged with his beard. He sang as he came, or growled, more truly, for his voice was louder than it was musical. There was little melody to fix the tune in my mind, and he botched whatever rhyme had once been to the song, but the sense of it was clear. When Shrewd had been King of the Six Duchies, the river had run with gold, but now that Regal wore the crown, the coasts all ran with blood. There was a second verse, saying it was better to pay taxes to fight the Red-Ships than pay them to a king that hid, but that one was interrupted by the arrival of the City Guard. There were a pair of them, and I expected to see them halt the drunk and shake him down for coins to pay for whatever he'd broken. I should have been forewarned by the silence that came over the market when the guards appeared. Commerce ceased, folk melted out of the way or pressed back against the stalls to allow them passage. All eyes followed and fixed on them.

They closed on the drunk swiftly, and I was one of the silent crowd watching as they seized him. The drunk goggled at them in dismay, and the look of appeal he swept over the crowd was chilling in its intensity. Then one of the guards drew back a gauntleted fist and sank it into his belly. The drunk looked to be a tough man, gone paunchy in the way that some thickly set men do as they age. A soft man would have collapsed at that blow. He curled himself forward over the guard's fist, his breath whistling out, and then abruptly spewed out a gush of soured ale. The guards stepped back in distaste, one giving the drunk a shove that sent him tottering off balance. He crashed against a market stall, sending two baskets of eggs splatting into the dirt. The egg merchant said nothing, only stepped back deeper into his stall as if he did not wish to be noticed at all.

The guards advanced on the unfortunate man. The first one there gripped him by the shirtfront and dragged him to his feet. He struck him a short, straight blow to the face that sent him crashing into the other guard's arms. That one caught him, and held him up for his partner's fist to find his belly again. This time the drunk dropped to his knees and the guard behind him casually kicked him down.