The Crown of the Usurper Read Free Page B

traffic that was pouring into newly conquered Salphoria. Leraates' overt reason was to talk to the headman and headwoman – a welcoming, aging couple named Rainaan and Thyrisa – about the construction of a Brotherhood precinct to attend to the rapidly growing town's administrative and judicial demands. This provided an explanation for the presence of Leraates, a senior member of the brethren, in a backwater like Thedraan.
      His real reason was to find a man. Lakhyri had been very specific, and his message-dream had brought Leraates back from Salphoria to hunt for this fellow. His face had been fixed in the Brother's thoughts since he had received the dreamcall from his master, and he spied the chubby features of his goal across the stalls of the market. He did not know the man's name – the dream-image had been too vague for such details – but he was important to Lakhyri's plans.
      The target was selling garments for women from a handcart about fifty paces away, his voice louder than all of the other traders as he yelled his seller's banter. He was wide of girth, dressed in a strange mix of Salphorian and Ersuan clothes – a bright red shirt that was clearly made in the empire, over checked woollen trousers woven on the handlooms of the Salphors. On his head he wore a black and white bandana, darkened with sweat from his curly blonde hair. The man was constantly looking around and his gaze fell upon Leraates for a brief moment. His reaction was immediate, his spiel coming to a stop and becoming apologies to disappointed customers as he swept a canvas cover over his cart and started to waddle off through the crowd.
      Leraates quickened his pace, but the throng of people meant that he lost sight of his quarry on a couple of occasions. After the second time, the man was nowhere to be seen. Leraates broke into a jog, heading up the main road from the market, following the direction he had last seen the fleeing man. Though the town had seen high fortunes of late, Thedraan was still smaller than many settlements in the empire, and there was no warren of roads or maze of back alleys that could provide shelter for a fugitive.
      Darting down the gap between two buildings, Leraates came upon an upended handcart. He pushed it out of the way and rounded the corner in time to see the fat man, or at least someone in a similar scarlet shirt, entering one of the food tents pitched up on the town's outskirts for the duration of the market.
      Leraates had spent much of his life walking from one precinct to another across the length and breadth of the empire, but he was no trained runner. He was short of breath by the time he reached the tent. The door flaps were open to let smoke and the steam of kettles and cauldrons seep out. He ducked into the fume, the sweat-sodden collar of his robe itching against his neck.
      The light was poor beneath the canvas roof, despite the window openings in the sides of the tent, and the eating area showed no sign of the red-shirted man. Leraates saw that there was another doorway opposite and headed towards it. He stopped a couple of paces later as he heard raised voices from behind the reed screen that separated the dining customers from the kitchen fires. There was an angry shout and the noise of a large pan being dropped.
      Leraates headed around the partition and almost ran into a red-faced woman picking up chopped onions from the floor.
      "Have you seen a large man in a red shirt?" he demanded.
      The woman looked up with a scowl, about to unleash abuse for this further disturbance. Her expression became one of surprise and then contrition when she saw the Brother's robes. She pointed to a door flap behind set of shelves laden with dishes.
      "He spilt my onions," said the woman, her frown returning. "I hope you cut off his balls."
      "Thank you for your help," said Leraates. He made no comment on the suggested punishment, and stepped past the woman to head for the