The King's Justice Read Online Free PDF Page B

the man with the cutlass. In a voice of silk, he asks, “Do you require a second warning?”
    For a moment, the man stares. Then he drops his weapon and runs, leaving his fellows bloody on the grass.
    When Black sees Jon Marker prone beside his writhing attacker, the veteran is truly vexed. He is on the trail and means to follow it. Yet he cannot forsake the man who has aided him. Moving swiftly, he retrieves his longsword and causes it to disappear. Then he stoops to examine Jon Marker.
    He sighs again as he finds the man unhurt. Jon Marker is only prostrate with exhaustion. All his wounds are within him, where Black cannot tend them. Still Black gives what care he can. Lifting the unconscious man in his arms, Black carries him back to his empty house. There he settles Jon Marker in the nearest bed.
    Though Black’s purpose urges him away, he watches over the man who has helped him until dawn.

    W ith the night’s first waning, Black leaves Jon Marker asleep and returns to the stables where he bedded his horse.
    The mount that awaits him there is altered since the previous evening. The ostler remarks on this as he hands the reins to Black. “Much changed he is, sir,” the man says, “much changed. A different horse, I judged, that I did. A substitute for your sorrynag. Some fool plays a trick on me. But look, sir. The markings are the same. The scars here and here.” The man points. “The white fetlocks. The notched ears. Notched like sword-cuts they are, sir. And the tack. I am not mistaken, sir, I swear it. There is no accounting for it. Rest and water and good grain are not such healers.”
    Black’s only response is a nod. He has no reason for surprise. His mount has been shaped to meet his needs, as he has. For his long journey, and to enter the town, he required an aged and weary steed that would attract no notice, suggest no wealth. Now he means to travel with speed. The distance may be considerable. Also he may encounter opposition, though he does not expect it. Thus his mount must be a stallion trained for fleetness in battle, and so it has become.
    When he has saddled his horse, tightened the girth, and swayed the ostler to refuse payment, he mounts and rides.
    While he passes through Settle’s Crossways, retracing the street that brought him here, he goes at a light canter, though the dawn is still grey, and he encounters few folk early to their tasks. Once he leaves the sleep-stunned guards behind, however, he gallops hard. He hopes to return before the morning is gone.
    A league into the forest, he halts. For a time, he studies the air on both sides of the road with his sharpened senses. Then he turns his horse to enter among the trees and deep brush, heading east.
    Though he has no cause to remember it, he has not forgottenthe lonely mountain that fumes over Settle’s Crossways in this direction.
    Through the close-grown trees and the tangled obstructions of brush, creepers, and fallen deadwood, he makes what haste he can. For the moment, he seeks only a path, one seldom trodden. A deer-track will suffice. When he finds one, he goes more swiftly.
    The trail wanders, as such things do, yet he does not doubt his choice. Within half a league, the vague whiff that he detected from the roadside becomes more intelligible. It is still faint, obscured by wet loam and dripping leaves and passing animals. The rain masked it while he rode toward Settle’s Crossways the previous day. Also it is diluted by time and other odors. Nevertheless it is the scent of his quarry’s rituals. Sure of his discernment, he follows it.
    His mount canters dangerously among the trees. It leaps in stride over fallen boles, intruding boulders, slick streams. Sunrise slanting through the forest catches Black’s eyes in quick glints and sudden shafts, but he lowers the brim of his hat and rides on.
    The smell of wild beasts grows stronger, and also a growing reek of rot. Abruptly he