brought him a huge steaming bowl of fried
goose feet. Goose feet! His stomach turned at the sight of them. All that talk
in Rorn about northerners being barbarians was obviously true. "Eat
up," said the man who could be Cobb. "There's plenty more where they
came from."
Nabber wasn't
generally a fussy eater, but he drew the line at trotters, tongues, and feet.
The innkeeper hovered over him, anxiously awaiting his first taste. Nabber took
a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.
"What's the
matter, my boy?" The innkeeper was instantly concerned.
"It's the
goose feet," said Nabber, shoulders shaking. "I thought I'd be able
to face them after all this time, but the sight of them reminds me too much of
my dead mother."
"She had feet
like a goose?"
Nabber buried his
head deeper. "No, she used to cook them for me just like this. They were
my favorites. The sight of them is more than I can bear."
The innkeeper
ordered the bowl to be removed. He placed a comforting hand on Nabber's
shoulder. "I understand, my boy. I'll have something else prepared, no
extra cost."
"Thank you,
kind sir. I'm most grateful. Could you make sure it's pork or lamb?"
Goose feet! What
sort of place has goose feet as its special? Nabber took a draught of ale and
waited upon his second course. His ears strayed back to the merchants.
"The pits
have been dead this season," said the one named Fengott. "It's hardly
worth placing a bet. I haven't seen a good fight all month."
"You're
right. There's been no decent challengers to the duke's champion for half a
year now. They're all fighting like women who don't want their dresses
creased."
"I did see
someone who might be promising," said the fat one.
"When?"
"Just last
night. Big golden-haired fellow, not from round here by all accounts. He fought
like a madman. Tore his opponent's arm off right before my very eyes."
"What's his
name?"
"No one
knows. Some say he's a knight. He keeps a rag bound to his forearm. You know,
the place where knights are branded with their circles."
"He can't be
a knight," said the third one. "They're not allowed to fight for
profit." The other men grunted in agreement.
"Where was he
fighting?" asked Fengott. "I wouldn't mind taking a look at
him."
"Chapel Lane
is where I saw him, but I think he's a free lance, so can fight where he
pleases."
"Well, I'll
keep an eye out for him. I'm always looking for a fair wager."
"Here, have
you seen that new road they're building ... "
Nabber withdrew
his hearing and sat very still. Before him a dish of spiced lamb went
unnoticed. The fighter was Tawl. He was sure of it. But where there should have
been gladness, there was despair instead. What had become of his friend? The
man he knew would never fight in a pit like a mercenary. Nabber knew it was
time he faced the truth. Tawl had murdered Bevlin. He had stowed this fact in
the deepest recess of his mind, hoping it would eventually be forgotten. But truths,
particularly ugly ones, burrowed like worms and eventually found their way to
the surface.
Still, Tawl was
his friend, and friendship was sacred. At the tenderest spot in his still young
heart, Nabber could not believe Tawl had acted willingly.
He laid a gold
coin on the table--more than enough to cover the cost of the geese feet as well
as the spiced lamband took his leave. He asked a passerby the way to Chapel
Lane and set his path accordingly.
Jack sat alone on
the straw-filled pallet that was now his bed. They had given him a room of his
own; judging from the furnishings it was normally the women's bedchamber.
He didn't know
what they wanted with him. He suspected he'd merely been caught up in some
internal squabble between the Halcus. None of that mattered. Melli was dead.
"She's
dead," the girl had said. Her voice cold and without compassion. So
similar to the last time he'd heard those words.
His mother had
died when he was nine summers old. A growth forming first in her breast and
then spreading to her lungs.
goose feet. Goose feet! His stomach turned at the sight of them. All that talk
in Rorn about northerners being barbarians was obviously true. "Eat
up," said the man who could be Cobb. "There's plenty more where they
came from."
Nabber wasn't
generally a fussy eater, but he drew the line at trotters, tongues, and feet.
The innkeeper hovered over him, anxiously awaiting his first taste. Nabber took
a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.
"What's the
matter, my boy?" The innkeeper was instantly concerned.
"It's the
goose feet," said Nabber, shoulders shaking. "I thought I'd be able
to face them after all this time, but the sight of them reminds me too much of
my dead mother."
"She had feet
like a goose?"
Nabber buried his
head deeper. "No, she used to cook them for me just like this. They were
my favorites. The sight of them is more than I can bear."
The innkeeper
ordered the bowl to be removed. He placed a comforting hand on Nabber's
shoulder. "I understand, my boy. I'll have something else prepared, no
extra cost."
"Thank you,
kind sir. I'm most grateful. Could you make sure it's pork or lamb?"
Goose feet! What
sort of place has goose feet as its special? Nabber took a draught of ale and
waited upon his second course. His ears strayed back to the merchants.
"The pits
have been dead this season," said the one named Fengott. "It's hardly
worth placing a bet. I haven't seen a good fight all month."
"You're
right. There's been no decent challengers to the duke's champion for half a
year now. They're all fighting like women who don't want their dresses
creased."
"I did see
someone who might be promising," said the fat one.
"When?"
"Just last
night. Big golden-haired fellow, not from round here by all accounts. He fought
like a madman. Tore his opponent's arm off right before my very eyes."
"What's his
name?"
"No one
knows. Some say he's a knight. He keeps a rag bound to his forearm. You know,
the place where knights are branded with their circles."
"He can't be
a knight," said the third one. "They're not allowed to fight for
profit." The other men grunted in agreement.
"Where was he
fighting?" asked Fengott. "I wouldn't mind taking a look at
him."
"Chapel Lane
is where I saw him, but I think he's a free lance, so can fight where he
pleases."
"Well, I'll
keep an eye out for him. I'm always looking for a fair wager."
"Here, have
you seen that new road they're building ... "
Nabber withdrew
his hearing and sat very still. Before him a dish of spiced lamb went
unnoticed. The fighter was Tawl. He was sure of it. But where there should have
been gladness, there was despair instead. What had become of his friend? The
man he knew would never fight in a pit like a mercenary. Nabber knew it was
time he faced the truth. Tawl had murdered Bevlin. He had stowed this fact in
the deepest recess of his mind, hoping it would eventually be forgotten. But truths,
particularly ugly ones, burrowed like worms and eventually found their way to
the surface.
Still, Tawl was
his friend, and friendship was sacred. At the tenderest spot in his still young
heart, Nabber could not believe Tawl had acted willingly.
He laid a gold
coin on the table--more than enough to cover the cost of the geese feet as well
as the spiced lamband took his leave. He asked a passerby the way to Chapel
Lane and set his path accordingly.
Jack sat alone on
the straw-filled pallet that was now his bed. They had given him a room of his
own; judging from the furnishings it was normally the women's bedchamber.
He didn't know
what they wanted with him. He suspected he'd merely been caught up in some
internal squabble between the Halcus. None of that mattered. Melli was dead.
"She's
dead," the girl had said. Her voice cold and without compassion. So
similar to the last time he'd heard those words.
His mother had
died when he was nine summers old. A growth forming first in her breast and
then spreading to her lungs.
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