recognizes me.”
“Is that smart?”
Hecht shrugged. He crossed the room, stepping over and around sleeping men and men who had enjoyed too much of the heavy, dark, foul beer brewed by the Knight of Wands. Renfrow appeared disinterested at first, then started and swore, “Eis’s bloody ass boils! What the hell are you doing here?”
Hecht settled beside the Imperial. “The very question I asked myself about you.”
“I’m here on my lord’s business.”
“And I as well. With an added touch of the personal.”
Renfrow contained his shock. “You’re outside your home territories.”
“Outside the Emperor’s, too. Might be Sonsan.”
“The Counts of Aloya, theoretically. But they haven’t been seen since you and I were pups. Nobody’s moved in because that would be more trouble than leaving the territory to rot.”
Which would lead to banditry and chaos, eventually. Of course.
“I’ve had a long day. I just wanted you to know I’m here.” Hecht headed for his quarters before Renfrow could respond. Ghort stayed where he was.
“He left right after you did,” Ghort reported. “He looked like he’d had a major shock. I don’t think he recognized me.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Who’s always around when I’m somewhere?”
“Go teach granny to suck eggs. Put the kids on him. He won’t expect them.”
Hecht nodded. “Warn them. So he doesn’t see the connection right away.”
Ferris Renfrow did not turn up next morning. Hecht asked a few questions but soon stopped. Questions about fellow guests were not well received. He assumed questions about himself would find equally small favor.
Renfrow did not reappear till the ownership opened the evening pot.
Prepared meals could be had any time but cost extra. Budget-minded guests lived out of the bottomless porridge and goulash pots. The ingredients of the latter varied according to what leftovers from custom cookery were available. One had to beware small bones.
Renfrow drew a portion and retreated into the same shadows as the night before.
Hecht had assumed his place in his own dark clot a half hour earlier. His day had been unproductive. The children had discovered nothing — though they did feed his suspicions of the men he and Ghort had tagged as probable villains. They were from farther north or west, by their accents. They had horses stabled behind the inn. The stable boys had been paid to keep their tack ready for instant use. They prayed a lot. Pella considered that the most damning thing about them.
Hecht told Pella to arrange for some of that tack to disappear.
The suspects did not seem unusually wary.
Sometime during their second morning there the Knight of Wands began to buzz. A Grolsacher mercenary force, supposedly armed with letters of marque from Sublime V, had come to a bad end in the Connec. Only a handful survived — by running faster than Count Raymone Garete could chase. One survivor was a dastardly coward of a bishop, Morcant Farfog of Strang. The band’s captain, Haiden Backe, had been among the first to fall. Prisoners willingly betrayed the Patriarch’s role in their bad behavior. Documentary evidence had been thin in the Grolsachers’ camp, however. The actual letters of marque had vanished. Of course, they were extremely valuable instruments.
Ghort whispered, “Your boss is a raving madman, Pipe. What the hell was he thinking? That Raymone Garete was one of the guys who made the Calziran Crusade work. What kind of gratitude is that?”
“Typical gratitude. The gratitude of kings. Sublime has never been out of Brothe. He’s never been outside his tiny little clique of family and associates. He only hears what they think he wants to hear. He honestly believes that most of the world thinks just like he does. That they’re longing for a champion who’ll lead them into the fray. He thinks big things will go his way because little things have ever since he was in diapers. He’s absolutely convinced of
“Is that smart?”
Hecht shrugged. He crossed the room, stepping over and around sleeping men and men who had enjoyed too much of the heavy, dark, foul beer brewed by the Knight of Wands. Renfrow appeared disinterested at first, then started and swore, “Eis’s bloody ass boils! What the hell are you doing here?”
Hecht settled beside the Imperial. “The very question I asked myself about you.”
“I’m here on my lord’s business.”
“And I as well. With an added touch of the personal.”
Renfrow contained his shock. “You’re outside your home territories.”
“Outside the Emperor’s, too. Might be Sonsan.”
“The Counts of Aloya, theoretically. But they haven’t been seen since you and I were pups. Nobody’s moved in because that would be more trouble than leaving the territory to rot.”
Which would lead to banditry and chaos, eventually. Of course.
“I’ve had a long day. I just wanted you to know I’m here.” Hecht headed for his quarters before Renfrow could respond. Ghort stayed where he was.
“He left right after you did,” Ghort reported. “He looked like he’d had a major shock. I don’t think he recognized me.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Who’s always around when I’m somewhere?”
“Go teach granny to suck eggs. Put the kids on him. He won’t expect them.”
Hecht nodded. “Warn them. So he doesn’t see the connection right away.”
Ferris Renfrow did not turn up next morning. Hecht asked a few questions but soon stopped. Questions about fellow guests were not well received. He assumed questions about himself would find equally small favor.
Renfrow did not reappear till the ownership opened the evening pot.
Prepared meals could be had any time but cost extra. Budget-minded guests lived out of the bottomless porridge and goulash pots. The ingredients of the latter varied according to what leftovers from custom cookery were available. One had to beware small bones.
Renfrow drew a portion and retreated into the same shadows as the night before.
Hecht had assumed his place in his own dark clot a half hour earlier. His day had been unproductive. The children had discovered nothing — though they did feed his suspicions of the men he and Ghort had tagged as probable villains. They were from farther north or west, by their accents. They had horses stabled behind the inn. The stable boys had been paid to keep their tack ready for instant use. They prayed a lot. Pella considered that the most damning thing about them.
Hecht told Pella to arrange for some of that tack to disappear.
The suspects did not seem unusually wary.
Sometime during their second morning there the Knight of Wands began to buzz. A Grolsacher mercenary force, supposedly armed with letters of marque from Sublime V, had come to a bad end in the Connec. Only a handful survived — by running faster than Count Raymone Garete could chase. One survivor was a dastardly coward of a bishop, Morcant Farfog of Strang. The band’s captain, Haiden Backe, had been among the first to fall. Prisoners willingly betrayed the Patriarch’s role in their bad behavior. Documentary evidence had been thin in the Grolsachers’ camp, however. The actual letters of marque had vanished. Of course, they were extremely valuable instruments.
Ghort whispered, “Your boss is a raving madman, Pipe. What the hell was he thinking? That Raymone Garete was one of the guys who made the Calziran Crusade work. What kind of gratitude is that?”
“Typical gratitude. The gratitude of kings. Sublime has never been out of Brothe. He’s never been outside his tiny little clique of family and associates. He only hears what they think he wants to hear. He honestly believes that most of the world thinks just like he does. That they’re longing for a champion who’ll lead them into the fray. He thinks big things will go his way because little things have ever since he was in diapers. He’s absolutely convinced of
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