Devlin's Justice by Patricia Bray Page B

if he were coming off a duty shift that had lasted months, not mere hours. The long trip to Duncaer had demanded his constant vigilance. And even the return had been tense, though the presence of Saskia and her sword arm had been a welcome addition to their party. Jorsk was his homeland, but there were those among his fellow countrymen who wished Devlin ill, and it had been Didrik’s responsibility to keep him safe. A charge he had failed when he foolishly allowed himself to become injured. Instead of watching over Devlin, he had become a burden.
    He understood why Devlin had left him behind, though he had chafed mightily during the week that the healer had kept him in bed. And even when they resumed their journey, Stephen had insisted on a slow pace, coddling Didrik as if he were a cripple. Didrik had protested, but allowed himself to be overruled when it became clear that he did not have the strength for a full day of riding. Still, he had grown stronger with each day, and they had agreed to press on in hopes of reaching Kingsholm by sundown.
    He urged his horse to a faster pace, ignoring the curses of the few pedestrians who had to scurry away or risk being stepped on. Had he been in a proper uniform they would have yielded at once, but the hardships of the journey were reflected in his garb. He wore a dark blue cloak that had been gifted him in Duncaer over his much-abused uniform. Stephen had acquired plain but serviceable clothes for them both in Kronna’s Mill, which they had worn for the past fortnight. But Didrik’s pride insisted that he appear in his uniform when he made his report to Captain Drakken.
    At last he was forced to slow, when their way was blocked by a knot of people. The southern gate was only partially open, forcing those entering and leaving to file through a narrow gap that was flanked by a pair of guards. Didrik waited their turn with some impatience.
    “I’m for a hot bath, a fresh-cooked meal, then I’ll sleep for a week,” Stephen declared.
    It was a tempting vision, but Didrik had his duty. He had to seek out Devlin and inform him of his return. Then once Devlin released him, he would have to make his report to Captain Drakken. It would be many hours before he would be free to seek out his own quarters.
    “You’ll be at the Singing Fish? Or staying with your sister at the palace?” Didrik asked. It was possible that Devlin might wish to speak with Stephen, though unlikely.
    “At the Fish,” Stephen replied. “Solveig would insist on hearing every detail. Time enough to see her on the morrow.”
    At last they reached the front of the queue.
    “Anders Kronborn, you wretched sod, what are you doing here?” Oluva called out.
    Didrik, who had opened his mouth to greet her, closed it firmly. Her left hand was resting on her sword belt with two fingers pointed down, the hand sign for caution.
    He looked over at the other guard, but the man was a stranger to him. Too old to be a novice, yet what else could he be? The leather of his sword harness was unworn, and his cloak unstained by weather or the exigencies of service in the poorer quarters.
    Was it her comrade Oluva did not trust? Or the possibility of spies in the crowd? What was going on?
    “It’s been a long time. I never thought you’d have the nerve to show your face,” Oluva continued.
    “A man has a right to go where he pleases,” he said, scratching his chest with his left hand, as he signaled
explain.
    Stephen, for once, was silent, and he gave thanks for the minstrel’s quick wits.
    “I can’t believe you kept your old uniform. Captain Drakken isn’t going to be happy to see you. We may be taking on newcomers, but there’s no room for a man who cheats his bunkmates.” Oluva’s hand made the signal for an unknown enemy.
    Didrik shrugged, as if he were well used to such insults. Anders Kronborn had been thrown out of the Guard four years ago, after he had been repeatedly caught cheating in a game of dice. The first