needed an excuse to remain a bit longer. He knew if he went upstairs he’d feel Kirin’s absence too keenly and besides, it had been a very long time since he’d shared life among ordinary people. He was enjoying the anonymity and the relief of not having to watch his every move, every word, as he did in and around the palace. But, he reminded himself, he needed to stay alert. His reason for being here remained clandestine and with a very real purpose—he must not slip into the mindset that he was on some sort of holiday.
The girl arrived with a pitcher of ale and a mug. ‘I thought yours looked a bit stale, sir.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ Freath replied, accepting the fresh mug as the darkly golden liquid fizzed into its depths, releasing a musty smell.
‘There you go,’ she said, beaming, and moved on.
As Freath half-smiled back at her, he caught the gaze of the fellow next to him. ‘Your health!’ he said politely.
‘And yours,’ the man replied, grinning before he took a draught of his ale.
Freath noticed his barbarian escorts enter the inn. The Green looked around until they saw Freath. Freath nodded, subtly dismissing them, then returned his gaze to his new companion who had turned his back to the door. ‘Are you local?’ he asked. Without Kirin’s company he would look every inch the dour city dweller if he didn’t try and fit in. What’s more, he could use some company, even if it was small talk with a complete stranger.
The man shook his head. ‘But I like this town. I pass through it for work.’
‘Oh yes, and what line of work are you in?’
‘A merchant.’
‘Ah, it seems everyone here but myself is a merchant of sorts,’ Freath commented.
‘And you, sir?’
‘I am a scribe from the city,’ he lied. ‘On my way through the north offering my services to a number of the wealthy families.’
The man scratched at his beard. ‘You have very clean fingertips for a man of ink.’
Freath forced a smile. ‘Sand and vinegar, with a dash of almond oil, make a wonderful cleaner. I bleach my fingers in pure lemon juice each day. As you can see, it makes a difference.’ Where he found the capacity to lie so convincingly or compile such credible-sounding nonsense was beyond him. His mother would turn in her grave. She would turn, anyway, to know the danger he had been living through these past anni, he thought sourly.
‘Impressive,’ the man said, staring at his own grubby hands. ‘I mention it only because I work with a lot of linen dyes. These fingers were orange a few days ago. Now they’re just fading to brown.’
Freath tapped his nose. ‘Sand and vinegar.’
The man raised his cup again and grinned. ‘I’ll remember that. Look out, it seems we have a contest on our hands,’ he said, nodding towards the main counter.
Freath looked over and right enough the huge man was taking bets; coins were exchanging hands rapidly. He glanced at his companion. ‘What’s funny?’
‘I’ve seen this big fellow before. He never wins but still he plays.’
‘Plays what?’
‘Arrows.’
‘Arrows?’
The man turned to stare at Freath as though he were simple. ‘You don’t know the game Arrows?’
He’d just made an error. Freath fumbled to correct himself. ‘Er, well, I’ve spent the past few years working for the Drosteans. It hasn’t reached that far east yet.’
His companion’s nod suggested his excuse was plausible. ‘It was begun here in the north. Watch. See over on the bar, that pot of arrowheads?’
‘They’re not full size.’
‘No, that’s right. Deliberately shortened with a sleeker point.’
Freath frowned. ‘Why?’
‘To throw them.’
‘At what?’ Freath asked, intrigued.
His new friend pointed again, this time at a man who was rolling out a wine barrel. He pushed it against the rough stone wall on its side so one end faced into the main room. ‘The target is the bottom of the wine barrel.’
‘He has to hit that circle painted on it, I see,’ Freath said, fascinated.
His companion grinned. ‘Except he never does. I’ve seen him now a couple of times. He loses badly. I hope he bets against himself.’
‘It can’t be that hard, surely?’ Freath wondered. ‘I’m sure even I could do it.’
‘Really? Blindfolded?’
‘What?’ Freath exclaimed, nearly choking on his ale.
The man laughed easily. ‘That’s the point. Best you stay here and well behind him, Master Scribe, as those shortened arrows can be flung anywhere from that fellow’s wild throw.’
‘Lo, save me. Is this his invention?’
The man snorted. ‘No. The proper game requires the throwers to get as close to the middle of that spot as possible. You bet against each other on three throws.’ He finished his mug of ale. ‘The game’s developed, though, over the last decade. Quite a few people in the north play it and some have worked out a system of marking. You throw the arrows at rings painted on the barrel. The middle point is the highest and the further out you go from the middle the lower the score. It’s more complicated than that but I myself have never played it so I don’t fully understand the scoring. It’s popular, though. Mark my words, Master Scribe, you lot will be playing this in the city and as far as Droste before you know it.’
‘I dare say,’ Freath said, watching with great interest as the huge man allowed himself to be blindfolded.
‘Now the bets will be taken,’ his bearded companion said.
As if on cue, pandemonium broke out among the patrons as the innkeeper gleefully watched money exchanging hands furiously.
‘The innkeeper gets a cut of all the money laid down,’ Freath’s new friend explained.
Freath nodded, eyes riveted on the big man, who was being turned on his heels several times.
‘Lo’s breath! He could throw it our way,’ he exclaimed.
‘As I warned.’
Freath watched as the arrow-thrower, now appropriately giddy, was baited by his audience to choose his position. The big man roared his intention and then turned slowly, lurching once, before planting his feet solidly. The crowd stifled its laughter, and silence reigned as the big man took aim at the wooden counter, the innkeeper rolling his eyes and ducking below it for safety. The real target sat forlornly forgotten and as the arrow hit timber with a dull thud, the room erupted into hilarity, hats flung in the air, mugs clanked against each other, voices yelling and just about everyone on his feet.
In the midst of the noise, Freath’s friend stood up and grabbed Freath’s jacket-front. ‘What the—?’ Freath spluttered.
‘Let’s go, Freath. Time is of the essence.’
‘But—?’ Freath found himself being dragged out of the inn, unnoticed amidst all the cheering as men surged to their feet to watch the contest. The giant took his second shot as they exited, and Freath was convinced the second arrow landed in the door as it closed behind them. And before he could digest that, he found himself being hauled up onto a horse by a stranger.
‘Hold on,’ the stranger growled and within moments Freath was being galloped out of the town. Another horse, presumably with his companion from the inn, gave chase, but he dared not risk a look because his seating was already unsteady behind the rider. A fall at his age and from this height—and