The Last Knight by Hilari Bell

tunic,” the boy went on more confidently. “Remember how ragged he was? I thought I’d seen that pattern of patches before, on Long Tom’s clothes, though Tom’s patches were brighter, and these were better fabric. The clothes didn’t fit well, so I wondered if he’d stolen Long Tom’s clothes and repatched them. But that didn’t make sense, and they’d have called me a simp, so I didn’t say anything.”
    “Who’s Long Tom?” I asked.
    “He’s a beggar, sir, comes through here in spring and fall, for he works a regular route. He left a few days before Master Hackle came. He tells me stories of his travels in exchange for what I sneak out of the kitchen, and when I recognized the tunic I worried a bit for Tom,” the lad finished in a rush. “But I know it’s silly. Who’d want a beggar’s clothes?”
    Fisk’s eyes met mine. A man who needed a disguise to get past Lord Dorian’s border guards.
    “You’ve won yourself a roundel, lad.” He caught it with a joyful squeak. “Just one more thing. You say Long Tom works a regular route. Do you know where he’d be now?”
    “Not for certain,” the boy admitted. “But he winters in Uddersfield, most times.”
     
     
    Fisk and I passed a second night at Mistress Edda’s, much of it spent in argument, though I can’t think why we quarreled, for we agreed on everything.
    We agreed that Hackle had bought the beggar’s clothes to pass Lord Dorian’s border. We agreed that he’d then replaced the beggar’s gaudy patches with something more respectable, so he could stay in town without exciting comment.
    We also agreed that it was cursed unlikely that Hackle, who’d been so closemouthed with the townsfolk, had said more to a chance-met beggar, so pursuing him was a waste of time.
    Unfortunately neither of us had any better ideas.
    The sun was still bright next morning, but the wind that had come up during the night was rattling the last leaves out of the trees like a housemaid beating dust from a rug. ’Tis fine weather for travel in my opinion, though Fisk pulled his cloak tight and prophesied storms.
    For all his pessimism, Fisk was a good companion, able to talk or be silent as the mood took us. ’Twas in one of the silent times that the feeling came upon me, so soft I’d scarce have noticed it had not Fisk said, “That’s the fourth time you’ve looked over your shoulder. Did you forget something?”
    “No.” I pulled Chant to a stop and turned to look back, watching and listening carefully now.
    The road behind us was empty. The woods held only trees, brush, and two squirrels chasing each other through the branches. The wind carried a steady stream of leaves to the forest floor and blew my hair into my eyes. But in the cellars of my mind, where Gifts reside, was a nagging feeling that someone watched me.
    The sensing Gift is a steady, reliable thing, for magic is either there or it isn’t, and you can tell with a single touch. Other Gifts are more…ambiguous. I learned not to ignore them on the day a dog with a happily wagging tail turned and sank its teeth into my wrist. But I’d also learned that this vague disquiet could be caused by many things. Mayhap someone was thinking of me—I’ve felt such things before, even when the person was half a county distant. At all events, there was nothing to be done about it, though I resolved to sleep in safe shelter tonight if the feeling lingered.
    But my uneasiness had passed off long before we made camp that evening, and I had forgotten about it. So I was taken unawares when Fisk, who was unpacking the saddlebags, exclaimed in disgust and dropped something.
    “What under the two moons is that?” he asked, wiping his hands on his britches.
    The light was dimming. I had to go stand beside him to make out the crumpled dark thing that lay at his feet.
    “It looks like hide.” A rank stench reached my nose and I grimaced. “Boar’s hide, uncured.” I dropped to my knees. The moment I