The pronouncement startled me awake again. “That’s the sort of nonsense I could have off Dr. Taproot’s old fortune-teller for half a copper.” More yawning, more scratching. “What prince? What doom?”
“The thorn prince. He whose line will spill heaven into hell and rip the world asunder. His gift is the death of angels, the death of . . .” And blessedly he trailed off, the sun having cleared the horizon somewhere out beyond the musty confines of my room.
I stretched, yawned, scratched, contemplated the end of all things, and went back to sleep.
We left the inn after a breakfast of liver and fried potatoes washed down with small beer. So far the famed cuisine of Ancrath had proved the least appealing aspect of the country, but riding a horse day in, day out for weeks on end gives a man an appetite of the kind that’s ready to try anything. Even horse.
Joining the Roma Road once more from the dirt track to the inn, I fell into my customary daydreaming, the sort that’s apt to get you killed in the wilds but is the kind of luxury civilization affords us. I realized simultaneously that I had no idea what a liver was for and that I also didn’t ever want to eat one again, especially not for breakfast with garlic.
Snorri stopped me pursuing that line of thought any further by drawing up in the road directly ahead of me. A ragged group of travellers were heading north towards Crath City, blocking the road, some pulling handcarts, others labouring under their possessions, others still flapping along in just the tatters they wore. And amongst them not a clean limb showed: All were black with filth of some kind.
“Refugees,” Snorri said.
Dark travellers. An echo of Baraqel’s prophecy ran through my mind.
As we caught them up I saw many bore wounds, still raw and open, and each of them—man, woman, child—was black with soot, or with dried mud, or black with both. Snorri nudged Sleipnir in amongst them, offering apologies. I followed, trying not to let any of them touch me.
“What happened here, friend?” Snorri leaned from his saddle towards a tall fellow, peasant-thin, an ugly rip along the top of his scalp.
The man offered a blank-eyed stare. “Raiders.” Little more than a mutter.
“Where away?” Snorri asked, but the man had turned from him.
“Norwood.” A woman on the other side, grey-haired and hobbling. “They burned it down. There’s nothing for us now.”
“Baron Ken’s troops? Is Ancrath at war?” Snorri frowned.
The woman shook her head and spat. “Raiders. Renar men. Everywhere’s burning. Sometimes it’s knights and soldiers, sometimes just rabble. Road scum.” She turned away, head down, lost in her misery.
“I’m sorry.” Snorri didn’t try to cheer her or claim her lot would soon improve—but he said something. More than I would know to do. A shake of reins and he moved on.
We made our passage through the refugees, thirty of them maybe, and picked up speed. It was a relief to be clear of the stink. I’d been poor for a day or three and hadn’t liked it one bit. The survivors of Norwood had been poor enough to start with, and now they had nothing but need.
“They’re hoping to throw themselves on the mercy of King Olidan,” Snorri said. “That’s the measure of their desperation.”
It still irked me just how much the Norseman knew about lands that lay across the sea from his. I’d heard of Olidan, of course. His reputation had reached even into my cosy world: Grandmother complained of his manoeuvring more than enough for that. But who ruled in Kennick and how relations stood between Ancrath and its muddy neighbour I had no idea. Snorri had upbraided me about my tenuous grasp of empire history, but I told him history’s just old news, prophecy that’s well past its sell-by date. Current affairs were more my thing. Especially my current affairs, and Crath City could improve those no end. There would be wine, women, and song, all much missed on our long and miserable trek so far—women in particular. In addition, where better to find some wise men to strike off the shackles the Silent Sister had bound me to Snorri with?
The Roma Road bore us swifter than a river and we came in sight of Crath City as the sun plunged behind its towers, making a black architecture of spires and spans. I’d heard Olidan’s capital rivalled Vermillion for the grandness of its buildings and the wealth spent there in bricks and mortar. Martus visited on an embassy two years previously and described the Ancrath palace as the stump of some Builder-tower, but my brother was ever full of lies and I’d be able to make my own judgment on that soon enough.