loose flagstones.
Shay rode up to the Jug at unremarkable pace, and left his horse in the yard. There was a rich, fat smell there, and his instinct was assuming horse shit while something in his brain told him he was wrong. He stepped into the inn. It was a warm morning and the fire wasn’t lit, but the chairs were more comfortable by the chimney and he sat there for an hour, drinking steadily. There were three other customers for different periods of his stay, and he responded to their casual bites of conversation.
Then he left: watching the little details of the rooms, the faces, the movements of people in the street outside, he left – got on his horse, trotted steadily out of town.
The following day, at around the same time, Henry Farthing heard faintly the sounds of an arrival in his yard – the calling for the ostler, the whinnying of a horse – and glimpsed movement through a small back window. A moment later the new arrival was in the main room of the Jug Inn.
A man getting on in years, but big and healthy by the look of him. A man of power, Farthing felt. Did he remember the man from before? Yesterday, even? So many faces.
The man ordered a drink, and sat – the chair wasn’t a strong one, and it creaked badly as he dropped into it – ruminating near the door.
There was another drinker in the room – a trader from the square, in out of the day just for a moment’s ease, been here a quarter-hour already and wouldn’t be much longer – and then sure enough he was gone.
The big man still sat in silence; half asleep, sort of. Eventually he seemed to find himself. He looked around the room – at the window, at the door – then stood and walked towards the bar. Farthing watched the looming figure, tried to read the expression.
‘I’m looking for Henry Farthing.’
‘Me, sir.’
It was a strong face in front of him – big-featured, and worn, the lines deep between the brows and crackling around the eyes. ‘You keep messages, papers: have you anything for Peter Staurby?’
Farthing felt his eyes widening in his face. That name. So rarely heard – sometimes letters were collected in person by one of two faces he’d come to recognize, and sometimes the letters just disappeared during a busy day – and hearing it revived an old unease.
‘I – I’ll check, sir. One moment.’ He turned away into the back room.
The name was an ulcer, flashes of discomfort and never quite forgotten. He was doing nothing wrong – surely, he was doing nothing wrong. But the Staurby correspondence was trouble and, in an age without law, trouble preyed unpredictable and vicious like a snake.
When he returned to the main room, the stranger was halfway between bar and door, watching him intently, somehow on edge. A man alert to surprises; a man who would be trouble and attract trouble.
He swallowed. ‘Just two, sir.’ The man was back at the bar, nodding once. ‘I don’t – I don’t recognize. . .’
Grey, cold eyes stared into him. Then the old man lifted his fist, and Farthing saw the ring: a flash of the first remembered pain of this business, years ago now. He looked up into the eyes, nodded with a little frenzy, eager to placate. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to remember.’
The man took the papers. ‘Don’t remember too hard, Master Farthing.’
‘No. No, sir.’
‘I don’t know that Staurby will be getting many more letters. I might need to collect for other friends, time by time.’
‘Of course. Anything, sir.’ He opened his mouth to speak – couldn’t manage it – tried again. ‘Some papers have been destroyed, sir. It was the instruction. Burned. After every week, if not collected.’ He waited for the reaction.
A pause, and then the curtest nod. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. For now you will continue the same system of precautions exactly.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Something rapped on the bar, and Farthing’s eyes snapped down.
A gold coin. ‘Thank you – thank you
Shay rode up to the Jug at unremarkable pace, and left his horse in the yard. There was a rich, fat smell there, and his instinct was assuming horse shit while something in his brain told him he was wrong. He stepped into the inn. It was a warm morning and the fire wasn’t lit, but the chairs were more comfortable by the chimney and he sat there for an hour, drinking steadily. There were three other customers for different periods of his stay, and he responded to their casual bites of conversation.
Then he left: watching the little details of the rooms, the faces, the movements of people in the street outside, he left – got on his horse, trotted steadily out of town.
The following day, at around the same time, Henry Farthing heard faintly the sounds of an arrival in his yard – the calling for the ostler, the whinnying of a horse – and glimpsed movement through a small back window. A moment later the new arrival was in the main room of the Jug Inn.
A man getting on in years, but big and healthy by the look of him. A man of power, Farthing felt. Did he remember the man from before? Yesterday, even? So many faces.
The man ordered a drink, and sat – the chair wasn’t a strong one, and it creaked badly as he dropped into it – ruminating near the door.
There was another drinker in the room – a trader from the square, in out of the day just for a moment’s ease, been here a quarter-hour already and wouldn’t be much longer – and then sure enough he was gone.
The big man still sat in silence; half asleep, sort of. Eventually he seemed to find himself. He looked around the room – at the window, at the door – then stood and walked towards the bar. Farthing watched the looming figure, tried to read the expression.
‘I’m looking for Henry Farthing.’
‘Me, sir.’
It was a strong face in front of him – big-featured, and worn, the lines deep between the brows and crackling around the eyes. ‘You keep messages, papers: have you anything for Peter Staurby?’
Farthing felt his eyes widening in his face. That name. So rarely heard – sometimes letters were collected in person by one of two faces he’d come to recognize, and sometimes the letters just disappeared during a busy day – and hearing it revived an old unease.
‘I – I’ll check, sir. One moment.’ He turned away into the back room.
The name was an ulcer, flashes of discomfort and never quite forgotten. He was doing nothing wrong – surely, he was doing nothing wrong. But the Staurby correspondence was trouble and, in an age without law, trouble preyed unpredictable and vicious like a snake.
When he returned to the main room, the stranger was halfway between bar and door, watching him intently, somehow on edge. A man alert to surprises; a man who would be trouble and attract trouble.
He swallowed. ‘Just two, sir.’ The man was back at the bar, nodding once. ‘I don’t – I don’t recognize. . .’
Grey, cold eyes stared into him. Then the old man lifted his fist, and Farthing saw the ring: a flash of the first remembered pain of this business, years ago now. He looked up into the eyes, nodded with a little frenzy, eager to placate. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to remember.’
The man took the papers. ‘Don’t remember too hard, Master Farthing.’
‘No. No, sir.’
‘I don’t know that Staurby will be getting many more letters. I might need to collect for other friends, time by time.’
‘Of course. Anything, sir.’ He opened his mouth to speak – couldn’t manage it – tried again. ‘Some papers have been destroyed, sir. It was the instruction. Burned. After every week, if not collected.’ He waited for the reaction.
A pause, and then the curtest nod. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. For now you will continue the same system of precautions exactly.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Something rapped on the bar, and Farthing’s eyes snapped down.
A gold coin. ‘Thank you – thank you
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