The King's Justice Read Free

battles than he cares to remember.
    The mother is anxious now. “Forgive her, sir,” she says. “She will learn courtesy when she is older.”
    At the same time, the girl says, “I see them.” She points at his chest. “They are there and there”—she points repeatedly—“and there and there.”
    Still gently, Black says, “You surprise me, child. There are few who see me. Even fewer see me clearly.”
    His manner encourages boldness. “Ma can’t see what I see,” she proclaims. “She thinks I make it up. But it is all true.
    â€œYour holes hurt you. If they get bigger, you will die.”
    Black frowns, considering her words. After a moment, he admits, “That is certainly true.”
    The girl extends her hand. She means to touch him. “I can make them go away.” Then she becomes less sure of herself. “They are too big. I can make one of them go away. When I am older, I can do more.”
    Before her hand reaches him, Black rises to his feet. Now he faces the mother, who is beginning to pull on her daughter’s arm. “You are wise, madam,” he tells her with less of gentleness, more of warning. “You have a gifted child. A precious child. You do well to protect her. She will have time enough for her gifts when she is a woman.”
    He knows now that this child
can
heal him. But he also knows that doing so will blight her childhood. She is a seer, one who sees. True seers are more rare than shapers. They do not cause imbalance. Rather they draw strength from within themselves. The girl is indeed precious. But she is too young to suffer the cost of what she can see and do.
    The mother feels sudden tears in her eyes. She has been troubled for her daughter, disturbed by a child who pretends to see things which do not exist. But the stranger believes that such sight is not a pretense. This both comforts and frightens the woman. She casts one more glance at the man to confirm that he is serious. Then she hurries her daughter away.
    Black
is
serious. However, he does not consider the child’s presence dangerous, except to herself. Certainly he craves her healing. He aches for it when she is gone. Yet her gift has nobearing on his purpose. Her scent is as clean as her person. He does not regret sparing her.
    Touching his hat to all who pass by, he continues toward the tavern.
    Like the town itself, the tavern is much as he expects it to be. It has a wooden floor strewn with sawdust, a long bar with ale-taps along its inner edge and shelves of bottles and flasks behind it, a number of round tables with chairs for four or six, and an increasing count of patrons, some of whom have settled themselves for a night of drink. All this is indistinguishable from other taverns around the kingdom. The only differences here are the general affluence of the patrons, the consequent comeliness of the barmaids, and the room’s air of unresolved distress. These men and their few women take comfort in drink rather than in each other. Comradeship, jests, roistering, and songs do not numb their fears.
    Many of them look at Black as he enters, and of those many stare. But he touches his hat to them and leaves them alone. He already knows that the cause of the town’s alarm is not present. If it were, he would smell it.
    Its absence, also, he does not regret. He is patient. And he has been taught by blood and pain that no good comes of confronting his foes before he has prepared himself.
    To begin his preparations, he seats himself at the bar one stool away from a man who is already dedicated to drowning his concerns in ale. Black does not remove his cloak, though his arms are covered by the heavy sleeves of his calfskin shirt. Hishat he wears to cover the scars on his scalp. From the barkeep, a large man too well fed and lubricated by his own wares to contain his sweat, Black requests ale. He asks a bowl of stew, and bread with it. And when