The King's Justice Read Free Page B

hear.”
    Black lifts his hand to Bailey, points at Trait’s flagon. Bailey understands. He refills the flagon at an ale-tap and replaces it in front of Trait.
    Still revealing no great interest, Black asks, “What do you want to hear?”
    Trait gulps at his drink for a moment. Then he says with satisfaction, “Revenge. Retribution.
    â€œThat other priest. Father Whorry. He promises glory. He preaches that poor Jon Marker’s boy is with Bright Eternal, alllight and happiness. He says if we have faith what we lose will not grieve us. Who takes comfort in slop like that? Father Tenderson speaks truth.”
    From somewhere behind Black, a man calls out, “Enough, Trait. He is a stranger. He has his own concerns. Jon Marker’s loss means nothing to him.”
    Trait grins sourly. He enjoys the reprimand. It makes him more substantial in his own eyes. “Father Tenderson,” he tells Black more distinctly, “demands punishment. He prays every day for the King’s Justice. He wants the man who butchered that boy burned alive.” He knocks his flagon on the bar. “We all do. We pray for the same thing.” Again he claps the bar with his flagon. “Revenge will comfort us.”
    Then he snorts more quietly, “Glory will not.”
    Black does not say, The King’s Justice is not what that priest thinks it is. Instead he remarks, “Father Whorry sounds judicious. He values peace.” Then he asks, “Can a stranger meet with him? I, too, value peace.” His tone is noncommittal. “Does he frequent a tavern of an evening?”
    The man behind Black responds loudly, “The good Father will be at his prayers. Settle’s Crossways is his concern. Wait for the morrow, stranger. Your desire to accost him at such a time is unseemly.”
    Black does not apologize. While he considers his reply, Trait mutters into his flagon, “At his prayers, aye—if they belong in a common house. If not, he labors for peace by other means.”
    â€œ
Enough
, Trait,” commands the man behind Black again. Heapproaches the bar. “Is this a fit occasion for your spite?” He slaps a heavy hand on Trait’s shoulder. “Show respect, man, for Jon Marker if you have none for the priest.”
    Trait smirks into his flagon, but does not retort.
    The man rounds on Black. “Do you mean to mock us, sir?” he demands. He is large, granite-browed, and muscular. His apparel suggests wealth by its fineness, and indeed he owns a well-stocked general store. Others consider him a bully, but he believes himself a man often justly offended—and able to act against insult. “Our concerns are none of yours.”
    Knowing the man, Bailey hastens to placate him. “Be easy, Ing Hardiston,” he says in his most soothing voice. “This is a trying time at its best. A stranger might well give offense without the intent to do so.”
    Black ignores the barkeep. He faces Hardiston’s anger. Still disinterested in his manner, he says, “Father Tenderson, then. Is
he
a drinking man?”
    Trait stifles a guffaw with ale.
    Ing Hardiston bristles. He has blows in mind. Like many another man, he fears for his sons, and his fear incenses him. He desires to deny that he is afraid. But Black’s lightless gaze weakens him. Though he clenches his fist, he does not swing.
    Casting a glare at Bailey, the storekeeper then returns to Black. “Ask him yourself, sir,” he says with knotted jaws, “when you see him on the morrow. You will not trouble the folk of this town at night.”
    Black does not acquiesce. Nor does he refuse. He has takenIng Hardiston’s measure and is not threatened. Rather than prolong the man’s ire, he turns to Trait.
    â€œWill you guide me to an inn, friend? I am unquestionably a stranger. Without aid, I may find myself in a flea-ridden bed when I prefer comfort.”
    For a moment, Trait