DAIN RUTTERKIN

Chapter 7

Doxy and I arrive in Fenfork by mid-afternoon. It is a walled town with its own militia and a lordling in residence who rules the surrounding lands and the serfs who dwell there. We are southeast of Haven now, not far from the Sogothian border as it is marked at its northern edge by the Red Fen. The stench of leagues of bog washes over us in a noxious wave.

There is a market square at the center of town where I sell the remaining pigs, wagon and all, to a dark-eyed breeder who gives me thirty-two silver crowns for the lot.

Leading Doxy by her reins, I then visit the area of the bazaar devoted to clothiers. I purchase new linen: shirt and trousers and light woolen cloak. The shirt is the color of wine, the trousers dun, the cloak black. None of the cobblers has a pair of boots that will fit me, so I am stuck with my worn leather shoes. I also purchase a pale gray balaclava, a mask and hooded wrap that covers the neck and shoulders, from an easterner who has managed to cross the Spine to sell his wares here. When I ask him about the unusual garment, he tells me the folk of the marshland towns employ balaclavas as a defense against the huge bloodsucking flies that come in on the wind during the warm spring and summer months.

"What do folks wear in the summer on the Princely Isle?" I ask.

"What would make you think I know of such things?" replies the easterner.

"Nought, save that you hail from beyond the Spine. I thought you might know of it."

"No soul either side of the Spine knows of any such place, stranger. And you would do well to forget about it."

"I do not mean to frighten you," I say. "But I must go there."

The easterner laughs and spits as one. "I know nothing. If there is indeed something to know, then only the luminari would know it. Or perhaps they have brought your heels close to the fire already." The easterner is grinning now. "The sweat of the chase clings to you. Seek the inquisitor if you dare, before he seeks you."

I extend my hand to thank the easterner, but my open palm is met by his upturned one.

"Three silvers," he says. "For the balaclava. And for misdirecting those who would find you first."

I give him three crowns and his smile is broad and yellow as they clink into his palm.

Before leaving the market to seek lodging for Doxy and myself, I stop at a smithy. The grizzled armorer has all manner of knives, poniards, and dirks laid out, but nothing larger. Swords and other weapons used purely for making war are only allowed to soldiers, knights, and the highborn within city limits, he tells me. I buy a long, broad-bladed dirk for six crowns and lead Doxy away.

The Gilded Hen is not far from the center of Fenfork, in the part of town reserved for wealthier residents. For one, it is further north and therefore farther upwind from the noxious bog. For another, its streets are indifferently paved gray stone thoroughfares rather than simply stretches of mud and feces. The owner tells me, laughing as he takes the coin for mine and Doxy's lodging, that the hostel's poorer twin, the Shitfaced Cock, lies on the southern side of town and is owned by his cousin Gentry should I have any interest in saving a few coppers.

I need not ask where I might find the town luminar. From the window of my room I can see a likely prospect, a spired tower faceted in opalescent white stone, a stone's throw from the Lord of Fenfork's own keep. The dull gray bastions of the latter structure appear crumbled and decaying in the waning orange sunlight, suggesting the gleaming white tower as the true seat of power. Precisely as the luminari would have it.

After scrubbing the road grit away with a clean washcloth and a bucket of warm water fetched by a serving boy, I change into my new clothes and go downstairs to have my supper. The balaclava about my shoulders completely conceals my throat from unwanted scrutiny. I find a small table by the hearthfire. The heat of the blaze takes the chill of the early spring night from my bones.