man, smiling hideously, ‘and I’m not hurrying you. But if I were you I’d leave here as quickly as possible. I
wouldn’t want anything ill to befall you.’
Aplegatt also had a tried and tested answer to comments like that. Short and blunt. Not aggressive, calm; but emphatically reminding the listener who the royal messenger served and what was
risked by anyone who dared touch him. But there was something in the white-haired man’s voice that stopped Aplegatt from giving his usual answer.
‘I must let my horse rest, sir. An hour, maybe two.’
‘Indeed,’ nodded the white-haired man, upon which he lifted his head, seeming to listen to the sounds which reached him from outside. Aplegatt also pricked up his ears but heard only
crickets.
‘Then rest,’ said the white-haired man, straightening the sword belt which passed diagonally across his chest. ‘But don’t go out into the courtyard. Whatever happens,
don’t go out.’
Aplegatt refrained from further questions. He felt instinctively it would be better not to. He bent over his bowl and resumed fishing out the few bits of pork floating in the gruel. When he
looked up the white-haired one was no longer in the room.
A moment later a horse neighed and hooves clattered in the courtyard.
Three men entered the inn. On seeing them the innkeeper began wiping the beer mug he was holding more quickly. The woman with the baby moved closer to her slumbering husband and woke him with a
poke. Aplegatt grabbed the stool where he had laid his belt and short sword and pulled it a little closer.
The men went over to the bar, casting keen glances at the guests and sizing them up. They walked slowly, their spurs and weapons jangling.
‘Welcome, good sirs,’ said the innkeeper, clearing his throat. ‘How may I serve you?’
‘With vodka,’ said one of them, short and stocky with long arms like an ape’s, furnished with two Zerrikan sabres hanging crossed on his back. ‘Fancy a drop,
Professor?’
‘With the utmost pleasure,’ responded the other man, straightening a pair of gold-framed glasses made of bluish-coloured crystal, which were perched on his hooked nose. ‘As
long as the liquor hasn’t been adulterated with any additives.’
The innkeeper poured. Aplegatt noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. The men leaned back against the bar and unhurriedly drank from the earthenware cups.
‘My dear innkeeper,’ began the one in the glasses suddenly. ‘I conjecture that two ladies rode through here not long ago, speeding their way towards Gors Velen?’
‘All sorts ride through here,’ mumbled the innkeeper.
‘You could not have missed the aforementioned ladies,’ said the bespectacled one slowly. ‘One is black-haired and exceedingly fair. She rides a black gelding. The other is
younger, fair-haired and green-eyed and journeys on a dappled grey mare. Have they been here?’
‘No,’ interrupted Aplegatt, suddenly going cold, ‘they haven’t.’
Greyfeathered danger. Hot sand . . .
‘A messenger?’
Aplegatt nodded.
‘Travelling from where to where?’
‘From where and to where the royal fortune sends me.’
‘Have your travels adventitiously crossed the path of the women on the road about whom I enquired?’
‘No.’
‘Your denial is too swift,’ barked the third man, as tall and thin as a beanpole. His hair was black and glistened as if covered in grease. ‘And it seems to me you
weren’t trying especially hard to remember.’
‘Let it drop, Heimo,’ said the bespectacled man, waving his hand. ‘He’s a messenger. Don’t vex yourself. What is this station’s name, innkeeper?’
‘Anchor.’
‘What is the proximity of Gors Velen?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘How many miles?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever measured it. But it’ll be a three-day journey . . .’
‘On horseback?’
‘By cart.’
‘Hey,’ called the stocky one suddenly in a hushed voice, straightening up and looking out onto the
wouldn’t want anything ill to befall you.’
Aplegatt also had a tried and tested answer to comments like that. Short and blunt. Not aggressive, calm; but emphatically reminding the listener who the royal messenger served and what was
risked by anyone who dared touch him. But there was something in the white-haired man’s voice that stopped Aplegatt from giving his usual answer.
‘I must let my horse rest, sir. An hour, maybe two.’
‘Indeed,’ nodded the white-haired man, upon which he lifted his head, seeming to listen to the sounds which reached him from outside. Aplegatt also pricked up his ears but heard only
crickets.
‘Then rest,’ said the white-haired man, straightening the sword belt which passed diagonally across his chest. ‘But don’t go out into the courtyard. Whatever happens,
don’t go out.’
Aplegatt refrained from further questions. He felt instinctively it would be better not to. He bent over his bowl and resumed fishing out the few bits of pork floating in the gruel. When he
looked up the white-haired one was no longer in the room.
A moment later a horse neighed and hooves clattered in the courtyard.
Three men entered the inn. On seeing them the innkeeper began wiping the beer mug he was holding more quickly. The woman with the baby moved closer to her slumbering husband and woke him with a
poke. Aplegatt grabbed the stool where he had laid his belt and short sword and pulled it a little closer.
The men went over to the bar, casting keen glances at the guests and sizing them up. They walked slowly, their spurs and weapons jangling.
‘Welcome, good sirs,’ said the innkeeper, clearing his throat. ‘How may I serve you?’
‘With vodka,’ said one of them, short and stocky with long arms like an ape’s, furnished with two Zerrikan sabres hanging crossed on his back. ‘Fancy a drop,
Professor?’
‘With the utmost pleasure,’ responded the other man, straightening a pair of gold-framed glasses made of bluish-coloured crystal, which were perched on his hooked nose. ‘As
long as the liquor hasn’t been adulterated with any additives.’
The innkeeper poured. Aplegatt noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. The men leaned back against the bar and unhurriedly drank from the earthenware cups.
‘My dear innkeeper,’ began the one in the glasses suddenly. ‘I conjecture that two ladies rode through here not long ago, speeding their way towards Gors Velen?’
‘All sorts ride through here,’ mumbled the innkeeper.
‘You could not have missed the aforementioned ladies,’ said the bespectacled one slowly. ‘One is black-haired and exceedingly fair. She rides a black gelding. The other is
younger, fair-haired and green-eyed and journeys on a dappled grey mare. Have they been here?’
‘No,’ interrupted Aplegatt, suddenly going cold, ‘they haven’t.’
Greyfeathered danger. Hot sand . . .
‘A messenger?’
Aplegatt nodded.
‘Travelling from where to where?’
‘From where and to where the royal fortune sends me.’
‘Have your travels adventitiously crossed the path of the women on the road about whom I enquired?’
‘No.’
‘Your denial is too swift,’ barked the third man, as tall and thin as a beanpole. His hair was black and glistened as if covered in grease. ‘And it seems to me you
weren’t trying especially hard to remember.’
‘Let it drop, Heimo,’ said the bespectacled man, waving his hand. ‘He’s a messenger. Don’t vex yourself. What is this station’s name, innkeeper?’
‘Anchor.’
‘What is the proximity of Gors Velen?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘How many miles?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever measured it. But it’ll be a three-day journey . . .’
‘On horseback?’
‘By cart.’
‘Hey,’ called the stocky one suddenly in a hushed voice, straightening up and looking out onto the
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