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later Bast brought a bowl to his
master’s room, reassuring him that everything was well downstairs. Kote nodded
and gave terse instructions that he not be disturbed for the rest of the night.
    Closing the door behind himself, Bast’s expression
was worried. He stood at the top of the stairs for some time, trying to think
of something he could do.
    It is hard to say what troubled Bast so much. Kote
didn’t seem noticeably changed in any way. Except, perhaps, that he moved a
little slower, and whatever small spark the night’s activity had lit behind his
eyes was dimmer now. In fact, it could hardly be seen. In fact, it may not have
been there at all.
    Kote sat in front of the fire and ate his meal
mechanically, as if he were simply finding a place inside himself to keep the
food. After the last bite he sat staring into nothing, not remembering what he
had eaten or what it tasted like.
    The fire snapped, making him blink and look around
the room. He looked down at his hands, one curled inside the other, resting in
his lap. After a moment, he lifted and spread them, as if warming them by the
fire. They were graceful, with long, delicate fingers. He watched them
intently, as if expecting them to do something on their own. Then he lowered
them to his lap, one hand lightly cupping the other, and returned to watching
the fire. Expressionless, motionless, he sat until there was nothing left but
grey ash and dully glowing coals.
    As he was undressing for bed, the fire flared. The
red light traced faint lines across his body, across his back and arms. All the
scars were smooth and silver, streaking him like lightning, like lines of
gentle remembering. The flare of flame revealed them all briefly, old wounds
and new. All the scars were smooth and silver except one.
    The fire flickered and died. Sleep met him like a
lover in an empty bed.
     
    The travelers left early the next morning. Bast
tended to their needs, explaining his master’s knee was swollen quite badly and
he didn’t feel up to taking the stairs so early in the day. Everyone understood
except for the sandy-haired merchant’s son, who was too groggy to understand much
of anything. The guards exchanged smiles and rolled their eyes while the tinker
gave an impromptu sermon on the subject of temperance. Bast recommended several
unpleasant hangover cures.
    After they left, Bast tended to the inn, which was
no great chore, as there were no customers. Most of his time was spent trying
to find ways to amuse himself.
    Some time after noon, Kote came down the stairs to
find him crushing walnuts on the bar with a heavy leather-bound book. “Good
morning, Reshi.”
    “Good morning, Bast,” Kote said. “Any news?”
    “The Orrison boy stopped by. Wanted to know if we
needed any mutton.”
    Kote nodded, almost as if he had been suspecting
the news. “How much did you order?”
    Bast made a face. “I hate mutton, Reshi. It tastes
like wet mittens.”
    Kote shrugged and made his way to the door. “I’ve
got some errands to run. Keep an eye on things, will you?”
    “I always do.”
    Outside the Waystone Inn the air lay still and
heavy on the empty dirt road that ran through the center of town. The sky was a
featureless grey sheet of cloud that looked as if it wanted to rain but
couldn’t quite work up the energy.
    Kote walked across the street to the open front of
the smithy. The smith wore his hair cropped short and his beard thick and
bushy. As Kote watched, he carefully drove a pair of nails through a scythe
blade’s collar, fixing it firmly onto a curved wooden handle. “Hello Caleb.”
    The smith leaned the scythe up against the wall.
“What can I do for you, Master Kote?”
    “Did the Orrison boy stop by your place too?” Caleb
nodded. “They still losing sheep?” Kote asked.
    “Actually, some of the lost ones finally turned up.
Torn up awful, practically shredded.”
    “Wolves?” Kote asked.
    The smith shrugged. “It’s the wrong time of year,
but what