old man with arrows. They laughed at it.’
‘See me laughing?’ said Lamb, cuffing him again.
The red-haired lad held up one useless, shaking hand. ‘I didn’t laugh none! We didn’t want no part of all them killings so we split off! Supposed to be just some robbing,
Cantliss told us, but turned out it was children we was stealing, and—’
Lamb cut him off with a slap. ‘Why’d he take the children?’ And he set him talking with another, the lad’s freckled face cut and swelling down one side, blood smearing
his nose.
‘Said he had a buyer for ’em, and we’d all be rich men if we got ’em there. Said they weren’t to be hurt, not a hair on their heads. Wanted ’em perfect for
the journey.’
Lamb slapped him again, opening another cut. ‘Journey where?’
‘To Crease, he said, to begin with.’
‘That’s up at the head of the Sokwaya,’ said Shy. ‘Right the way across the Far Country.’
‘Cantliss got a boat waiting. Take him upriver . . . upriver . . .’
‘To Crease and then where?’
The red-haired lad had slumped in half a faint, lids fluttering. Lamb slapped him again, both sides, shook him by his shirt. ‘To Crease and then where?’
‘Didn’t say. Not to me. Maybe to Taverner.’ Looking towards the man nailed to the counter with the knife handle sticking out his back. Shy didn’t reckon he’d be
telling any tales now.
‘Who’s buying children?’ asked Lamb.
Red Hair drunkenly shook his swollen head. Lamb slapped him again, again, again. One of the trader women hid her face. The other stared, standing rigid. The man beside her dragged her back down
into her chair.
‘Who’s buying?’
‘Don’t know,’ words mangled and bloody drool dangling from his split lip.
‘Stay there.’ Lamb let the lad go and crossed to Tall Hat, his boots in a bloody puddle, reached around and unbuckled his sword, took a knife from his coat. Then he rolled Handsome
over with his foot, left him staring wonky-eyed at the ceiling, a deal less handsome with his insides on the outside. Lamb took the bloody rope from his belt, walked to the red-haired lad and
started tying one end around his neck while Shy just watched, numb and weak all over. Weren’t clever knots he tied, but good enough, and he jerked the lad towards the door, following along
without complaint like a beaten dog.
Then they stopped. The Keep had come around the counter and was standing in the doorway. Just goes to show you never can quite figure what a man will do, or when. He was holding tight to his
wiping cloth like it might be a shield against evil. Shy didn’t reckon it’d be a very effective one, but she’d some high respect for his guts. Just hoped Lamb didn’t end up
adding them to Handsome’s, scattered bloody on the boards.
‘This ain’t right,’ said the Keep.
‘How’s you being dead going to make it any righter?’ Lamb’s voice flat and quiet like it was no kind of threat, just a question. He didn’t have to scream it. Those
two dead men were doing it for him.
The Keep’s eyes darted around but no heroes leaped to his side. All looked scared as if Lamb was death himself come calling. Except the old Ghost woman, sat tall in her chair just
watching, and her companion in the fur coat, who still had his boots crossed and, without any quick movements, was pouring himself another drink.
‘Ain’t right.’ But the Keep’s voice was weak as watered beer.
‘It’s right as it’s getting,’ said Lamb.
‘We should put a panel together and judge him proper, ask some—’
Lamb loomed forward. ‘All you got to ask is do you want to be in my way.’ The Keep shrank back and Lamb dragged the lad past. Shy hurried after, suddenly unfroze, passing Leef
loose-jawed in the doorway.
Outside the rain had slacked to a steady drizzle. Lamb was hauling Red Hair across the mired street towards the arch of crooked timbers the sign hung from. High enough for a mounted man to pass
under. Or for
‘See me laughing?’ said Lamb, cuffing him again.
The red-haired lad held up one useless, shaking hand. ‘I didn’t laugh none! We didn’t want no part of all them killings so we split off! Supposed to be just some robbing,
Cantliss told us, but turned out it was children we was stealing, and—’
Lamb cut him off with a slap. ‘Why’d he take the children?’ And he set him talking with another, the lad’s freckled face cut and swelling down one side, blood smearing
his nose.
‘Said he had a buyer for ’em, and we’d all be rich men if we got ’em there. Said they weren’t to be hurt, not a hair on their heads. Wanted ’em perfect for
the journey.’
Lamb slapped him again, opening another cut. ‘Journey where?’
‘To Crease, he said, to begin with.’
‘That’s up at the head of the Sokwaya,’ said Shy. ‘Right the way across the Far Country.’
‘Cantliss got a boat waiting. Take him upriver . . . upriver . . .’
‘To Crease and then where?’
The red-haired lad had slumped in half a faint, lids fluttering. Lamb slapped him again, both sides, shook him by his shirt. ‘To Crease and then where?’
‘Didn’t say. Not to me. Maybe to Taverner.’ Looking towards the man nailed to the counter with the knife handle sticking out his back. Shy didn’t reckon he’d be
telling any tales now.
‘Who’s buying children?’ asked Lamb.
Red Hair drunkenly shook his swollen head. Lamb slapped him again, again, again. One of the trader women hid her face. The other stared, standing rigid. The man beside her dragged her back down
into her chair.
‘Who’s buying?’
‘Don’t know,’ words mangled and bloody drool dangling from his split lip.
‘Stay there.’ Lamb let the lad go and crossed to Tall Hat, his boots in a bloody puddle, reached around and unbuckled his sword, took a knife from his coat. Then he rolled Handsome
over with his foot, left him staring wonky-eyed at the ceiling, a deal less handsome with his insides on the outside. Lamb took the bloody rope from his belt, walked to the red-haired lad and
started tying one end around his neck while Shy just watched, numb and weak all over. Weren’t clever knots he tied, but good enough, and he jerked the lad towards the door, following along
without complaint like a beaten dog.
Then they stopped. The Keep had come around the counter and was standing in the doorway. Just goes to show you never can quite figure what a man will do, or when. He was holding tight to his
wiping cloth like it might be a shield against evil. Shy didn’t reckon it’d be a very effective one, but she’d some high respect for his guts. Just hoped Lamb didn’t end up
adding them to Handsome’s, scattered bloody on the boards.
‘This ain’t right,’ said the Keep.
‘How’s you being dead going to make it any righter?’ Lamb’s voice flat and quiet like it was no kind of threat, just a question. He didn’t have to scream it. Those
two dead men were doing it for him.
The Keep’s eyes darted around but no heroes leaped to his side. All looked scared as if Lamb was death himself come calling. Except the old Ghost woman, sat tall in her chair just
watching, and her companion in the fur coat, who still had his boots crossed and, without any quick movements, was pouring himself another drink.
‘Ain’t right.’ But the Keep’s voice was weak as watered beer.
‘It’s right as it’s getting,’ said Lamb.
‘We should put a panel together and judge him proper, ask some—’
Lamb loomed forward. ‘All you got to ask is do you want to be in my way.’ The Keep shrank back and Lamb dragged the lad past. Shy hurried after, suddenly unfroze, passing Leef
loose-jawed in the doorway.
Outside the rain had slacked to a steady drizzle. Lamb was hauling Red Hair across the mired street towards the arch of crooked timbers the sign hung from. High enough for a mounted man to pass
under. Or for
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