‘No,’ interrupted Aplegatt, suddenly going cold, ‘they haven’t.’
Greyfeathered danger. Hot sand . . .
‘A messenger?’
Aplegatt nodded.
‘Travelling from where to where?’
‘From where and to where the royal fortune sends me.’
‘Have your travels adventitiously crossed the path of the women on the road about whom I enquired?’
‘No.’
‘Your denial is too swift,’ barked the third man, as tall and thin as a beanpole. His hair was black and glistened as if covered in grease. ‘And it seems to me you weren’t trying especially hard to remember.’
‘Let it drop, Heimo,’ said the bespectacled man, waving his hand. ‘He’s a messenger. Don’t vex yourself. What is this station’s name, innkeeper?’
‘Anchor.’
‘What is the proximity of Gors Velen?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘How many miles?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever measured it. But it’ll be a three-day journey . . .’
‘On horseback?’
‘By cart.’
‘Hey,’ called the stocky one suddenly in a hushed voice, straightening up and looking out onto the courtyard through the wide-open door. ‘Have a butchers, Professor. Who would that be? Isn’t it that . . . ?’
The man in glasses also looked out at the courtyard, and his face suddenly tightened.
‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘It’s indisputably him. It appears fortune smiles on us.’
‘Will we wait till he comes in?’
‘He won’t. He saw our horses.’
‘He knows we’re—’
‘Silence, Yaxa. He’s saying something.’
‘You have a choice,’ a slightly gruff but powerful voice resounded from the courtyard, a voice which Aplegatt recognised at once. ‘One of you will come out and tell me who hired you. Then you may ride away without any trouble. Or all three of you may come out. I’m waiting.’
‘Whoreson . . .’ growled the black-haired man. ‘He knows. What do we do?’
The bespectacled man put his mug down on the bar with a slow movement.
‘We do what we’re paid to do.’
He spat on his palm, flexed his fingers and drew his sword. At the sight of it the two other men also bared their blades. The innkeeper opened his mouth to shout but quickly shut it on seeing the cold eyes peering above the blue glasses.
‘Nobody moves,’ hissed the bespectacled man. ‘And keep schtum. Heimo, when it all kicks off, endeavour to get behind him. Very well, boys, good luck. Out we go.’
It began at once. Groans, the stamping of feet, the crash of blades. And then a scream of the kind that makes one’s hair stand on end.
The innkeeper blanched, the woman with the dark rings under her eyes screamed too, clutching her suckling to her breast. The cat behind the stove leapt to its feet and arched its back, its tail fluffing up like a brush. Aplegatt slid into the corner on his stool. He had his short sword in his lap but didn’t draw it.
Once again the thudding of feet across boards and the whistle and clang of blades came from the courtyard.
‘You . . .’ shouted someone wildly, but even though it ended with a vile insult, there was more despair in it than fury. ‘You . . .’
The whistle of a blade. And immediately after it a high, penetrating scream shredded the air. A thud as if a heavy sack of grain had hit the ground. The clatter of hooves from the hitching post and the neighing of terrified horses.
A thud on the boards once more and the quick, heavy steps of a man running. The woman with the baby clung to her husband, and the innkeeper pressed his back against the wall. Aplegatt drew his short sword, still hiding the weapon beneath the table. The running man was heading straight for the inn, and it was clear he would soon appear in the doorway. But before he did, a blade hissed.
The man screamed and lurched inside. It seemed as though he would fall across the threshold, but he didn’t. He took several staggering, laboured steps forward and only then did he topple, falling heavily into the middle of the chamber, throwing up the dust gathered between the floorboards. He fell on his face, inertly, pinning his arms underneath him, his legs bent at the knee. The crystal glasses fell to the floorboards with a clatter and shattered into tiny blue pieces. A dark, gleaming puddle began to spread from beneath the body.
No one moved. Or cried out.
The white-haired man entered the inn.
He deftly sheathed the sword he was holding into the scabbard on his back. He approached the bar, not even gracing the body lying on the floor with a glance. The innkeeper cringed.
‘Those evil men . . .’ said the white-haired one huskily, ‘those evil men are dead. When the bailiff arrives, it may turn out there was a bounty on their heads. He should do with it as he sees fit.’