directions at
once. “They’re all staring at us,” he hissed.
MichaelOff scanned the crowd casually. “Yes
they are, aren’t they?” He smiled, looked back at Morgin and shook
his head sadly, took a deep, considered breath. “You’re going to
have to get used to that, you know. Anistigh is the capitol city of
the Lesser Council, which is made up of the four Lesser Tribes. Of
those four tribes, ours is the foremost, and our clan is held in
high regard for that. You are an Elhiyne. You are of the ruling
house of the foremost clan of this city, and wherever you go people
will stare. So get used to it and learn to ignore it.” MichaelOff
turned to a nearby stall. “Come. Let’s spoil our appetites a
little. I’m buying.”
Morgin found he couldn’t ignore the staring
eyes. No one was rude enough to stare directly into his face, but
if he turned quickly, he always caught several of them watching him
from behind. At one point a young boy of eight or nine ran across
his path, stumbled, and fell into the dirt. And without giving it a
thought Morgin reached down to help the lad to his feet. Once up
the boy turned to see who had helped him and froze suddenly. His
eyes grew wide and he hissed “Witchman!” then said no more.
An old woman, as filthy as the boy, stepped
out of the crowd and grabbed him by an ear. She gave the ear a
twist. “I’ve told ya not to bother the gentlemen,” she
bellowed.
She gave the ear another twist and turned to
Morgin. “Fergive me boy, yer worshipfulness. He’s a brute, he is.
I’ll punish him rightly.”
“Oh no!” Morgin said. “No. Don’t. He did
nothing wrong. He just stumbled in front of me.”
“Well,” she said. “If ya say so, yer
wizardness. I’ll let him go this time.” She turned back to the boy
and gave the ear one final twist. “And you be more careful.” Then
she released him, and in an instant he disappeared into the
crowd.
Most of that afternoon was a strange
kaleidoscope of images and events that faded into a single overall
impression of a lot of poor people, surviving through this day and
into the next, though there was one incident that Morgin would
remember well.
He was browsing through the stalls at the
center of the square, thinking he might find some little trinket
for Annaline with the few pennies he had. He stopped at one stall
to look close at some small amulets. He could sense the stall’s
owner hovering nearby in anticipation of a sale. He looked into the
man’s face to ask his prices, and was suddenly struck by terror,
for he was looking at a face that would always make Rat’s heart
jump, a man whom he remembered as the cruelest of the vendors, with
a sharp throwing rock always at hand.
Rat back-stepped quickly, eyes wide, looking
for the safety of a nearby shadow.
“Is something wrong, your lordship?” the man
asked.
Rat, still back-stepping, stumbled over
someone. They both fell to the ground in a tangled heap. Rat stood,
ready to run, but found instead poor Mathal sprawled at his
feet.
She looked up fearfully. “Forgive me, you
worship. I didn’t see you coming. Stupid me! Stupid me!” Then she
began picking up the fruit he’d knocked from her hands.
“Out of his lordship’s way, old hag,” the
man shouted. “You made him stumble. Be gone.”
The vendor lifted a hand to strike her, and
in that instant something crawled up the back of Morgin’s spine,
something alive and deadly. “Hold,” Morgin shouted angrily, feeling
the power of magic sparking among his fingertips as he raised his
own hand high.
The vendor froze into a fearful stillness.
“It was I who made her stumble,” Morgin said. He looked into the
man’s eyes. “And if you strike her—” He borrowed an expression from
the first time he’d ever seen Roland in these same streets. “—then
you’ll face my wrath.”
The man bowed meekly. “Yes, your lordship,”
he said, then disappeared into the crowd.
Morgin was stunned by how quickly he’d
once. “They’re all staring at us,” he hissed.
MichaelOff scanned the crowd casually. “Yes
they are, aren’t they?” He smiled, looked back at Morgin and shook
his head sadly, took a deep, considered breath. “You’re going to
have to get used to that, you know. Anistigh is the capitol city of
the Lesser Council, which is made up of the four Lesser Tribes. Of
those four tribes, ours is the foremost, and our clan is held in
high regard for that. You are an Elhiyne. You are of the ruling
house of the foremost clan of this city, and wherever you go people
will stare. So get used to it and learn to ignore it.” MichaelOff
turned to a nearby stall. “Come. Let’s spoil our appetites a
little. I’m buying.”
Morgin found he couldn’t ignore the staring
eyes. No one was rude enough to stare directly into his face, but
if he turned quickly, he always caught several of them watching him
from behind. At one point a young boy of eight or nine ran across
his path, stumbled, and fell into the dirt. And without giving it a
thought Morgin reached down to help the lad to his feet. Once up
the boy turned to see who had helped him and froze suddenly. His
eyes grew wide and he hissed “Witchman!” then said no more.
An old woman, as filthy as the boy, stepped
out of the crowd and grabbed him by an ear. She gave the ear a
twist. “I’ve told ya not to bother the gentlemen,” she
bellowed.
She gave the ear another twist and turned to
Morgin. “Fergive me boy, yer worshipfulness. He’s a brute, he is.
I’ll punish him rightly.”
“Oh no!” Morgin said. “No. Don’t. He did
nothing wrong. He just stumbled in front of me.”
“Well,” she said. “If ya say so, yer
wizardness. I’ll let him go this time.” She turned back to the boy
and gave the ear one final twist. “And you be more careful.” Then
she released him, and in an instant he disappeared into the
crowd.
Most of that afternoon was a strange
kaleidoscope of images and events that faded into a single overall
impression of a lot of poor people, surviving through this day and
into the next, though there was one incident that Morgin would
remember well.
He was browsing through the stalls at the
center of the square, thinking he might find some little trinket
for Annaline with the few pennies he had. He stopped at one stall
to look close at some small amulets. He could sense the stall’s
owner hovering nearby in anticipation of a sale. He looked into the
man’s face to ask his prices, and was suddenly struck by terror,
for he was looking at a face that would always make Rat’s heart
jump, a man whom he remembered as the cruelest of the vendors, with
a sharp throwing rock always at hand.
Rat back-stepped quickly, eyes wide, looking
for the safety of a nearby shadow.
“Is something wrong, your lordship?” the man
asked.
Rat, still back-stepping, stumbled over
someone. They both fell to the ground in a tangled heap. Rat stood,
ready to run, but found instead poor Mathal sprawled at his
feet.
She looked up fearfully. “Forgive me, you
worship. I didn’t see you coming. Stupid me! Stupid me!” Then she
began picking up the fruit he’d knocked from her hands.
“Out of his lordship’s way, old hag,” the
man shouted. “You made him stumble. Be gone.”
The vendor lifted a hand to strike her, and
in that instant something crawled up the back of Morgin’s spine,
something alive and deadly. “Hold,” Morgin shouted angrily, feeling
the power of magic sparking among his fingertips as he raised his
own hand high.
The vendor froze into a fearful stillness.
“It was I who made her stumble,” Morgin said. He looked into the
man’s eyes. “And if you strike her—” He borrowed an expression from
the first time he’d ever seen Roland in these same streets. “—then
you’ll face my wrath.”
The man bowed meekly. “Yes, your lordship,”
he said, then disappeared into the crowd.
Morgin was stunned by how quickly he’d
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