The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Read Free Page B

shared his looks with the Darronwayn, he knew none of its cities.
    “Thynbell,” he said finally.  “A while back.”
    “ Thynbell in Wyndon?”
    “ Yeah.”
    “ But you don’t have papers.”
    “ No.  I lost ‘em.”  Along with Morshoc.
    For a moment the memory swarmed him: the screams of horses and men, the vivid energy-wings, the corpse’s spine shattering in his clench.  His own blood streaming from freshly opened scars.  He swallowed bile and fixed his gaze on the guard, hoping his grimace would be mistaken for embarrassment.
    The satchel-man hrmed and added a few more scribbles to his entry.  Cob forced himself to focus on the charcoal marks, wishing he could read.  He had a feeling the guard was not writing good things.  “And your wolf?” the man said.
    “ He’s not a wolf.  He’s a big dog,” said Cob.
    “ It’s a wolf,” said the pikeman flatly.
    Cob glanced down at the wolf, who sat and lolled his tongue out in a fair impression of doggishness.  “He’s a dog,” he tried again.
    The guards exchanged looks, then the satchel-man shook his head and made another note in the logbook.  “Don’t have to bullshit us,” he said.  “Some lunatic from the hills brought in a bear a few weeks ago.  Tame bear.  Had the papers for it though.  I don’t know what you people do up there with your critters and I don’t want to, but you’re going to need papers for your wolf too.  Just admit it to the embassy and don’t try to pretend it’s a dog.”
    “ But—  All right,” Cob said lamely.  “Does that cost much?”
    “ Probably.  And if it bites anyone, you’re both dead.  Now pay the toll.”
    “ You toll pilgrims?”
    “ We toll everyone.”
    With reluctance, Cob pulled the coin-pouch from his belt and tugged it open.  There was mostly brass in it, and a few bronze bits.  “How much?”
    “One man, one beast, no trade goods: five nar.”
    "Nar, that's the—"
    "The little brassy one."
    Cob nodded and counted them into the satchel-man’s hand.  “So the embassy is…?”
    “Over the bridge, two streets north, big stone place with the blue and yellow banners.  Get your papers before the morning or you’ll have to ransom yourself out of jail.  Wolf too.”  He noted the payment, snapped the logbook shut and tucked it away, then pulled out what looked like a stick of red chalk and gestured for Cob to extend his hand.  Blinking, Cob did so, and the man sketched a mountain and a five above his knuckles with the stuff.  It felt greasy.  “Don’t wash that off.  Shows you came in today.  And keep your beast under control.”
    Earth’s-day the fifth , thought Cob, examining the mark.   It’s Cylanmont, then.  Been out of the army less than a month.
    “ I’ll do my best, sir,” he said out loud.  The wolf, fortunately, made no comment.
    The satchel-man gave him a curt nod and retook his spot, and Cob passed between them with the wolf on his heels, trying to ignore the nervous roil in his gut.  In the distance, Cantorin proper looked anything but foreboding, but it would be his first true Imperial experience; while Thynbell was also an Imperial city, Cob had spent most of his time there either unconscious or locked-up, with only a glimpse of the city sights through the barred window of his prison-carriage.  Entering a real Imperial Heartlands city on foot and free was something else entirely.
    He desperately wanted it to be a nice place.  He had been brought up on stories of the Empire’s greatness and benevolence, and though he had seen the sour side of it, he still believed in the sweet.  There had to be some truth to the tales.  After all, why would so many people live in the Imperial Heartlands if it was bad?
    A few yards past the guards, his sharp ears caught the pikeman mutter, “Darker than the usual woodsfolk.”
    “Probably ogre-blood,” the satchel-man replied.  “You know them northerners.  Shack up with anything.”
    The pikeman