“Well then, the gods’ speed to you, and if you ever return to Krondor, drop by and tell me how you’re doing.” To Roo he said, “You’re a rogue and a liar, boy, but you have the makings of a good merchant if you’d just stop thinking everyone else around you is slower than yourself. That will be your undoing, you mark my words.”
Roo laughed and waved good-bye to Grindle as Erik shouldered his travel bag. They walked down the line of wagons until they were sure they were out of sight of the merchant, and then they angled off, away from the King’s Highway and toward a small farm to the north.
Erik swatted a persistent fly that refused to stay away from his face. “Got the little bastard!” he said with satisfaction.
Roo waved away several others and said, “Now, if you could manage to kill all his little brothers and sisters, as well . . .”
Erik lay back on a bale of straw. The farm was deserted, looking as if the entire household had gone into the city for some reason. It was a well-tended smallholding with a house, two outbuildings—one a privy and the other a root cellar—and a barn. They had found the barn unlocked and wagon tracks leading away, so Erik supposed the farmer and his family had been stuck somewhere in that long line of people waiting to get into the city or had gotten there earlier in the day.
Erik and Roo were waiting for sundown before attempting to cross the open fields to the east of the city and make their way into the foulburg. Roo was confident that once they found a likely inn he could find someone to show them the way into the city for a small fee. Erik wasn’t as certain of the plan, but had nothing to offer by way of an alternative, so he said nothing. They sat at the rear of the barn, beneath the hayloft.
“Erik?”
“Yes?”
“How do you feel?”
“Not bad. My shoulder feels like new.”
“No, I don’t mean that,” said Roo, nibbling on a long straw. “I mean about everything—killing Stefan and the rest.”
Erik said nothing for a long while; at last he said, “He needed killing, I guess. I don’t feel much of anything. I felt very strange when he went all limp after you stuck him. I felt a lot worse when that bandit got in the way of my sword point. That made me feel sick.” He was quiet for a minute. “It’s odd, isn’t it? I hold my own half brother so you can kill him and don’t feel much—not even relief because of the way he abused Rosalyn—but a complete stranger, a murderer probably, and I feel almost like vomiting.”
Roo said, “Don’t be so hard on murderers. That’s us, remember?” He yawned. “Maybe you have to be holding the blade; that robber dying didn’t bother me, but I can still feel the way it was when I stuck my dagger into Stefan. I was sure mad at him then.”
Erik let out a long sigh. “It doesn’t do to dwell on this, I think. We’re outlaws and there’s nothing to do for it but try to get to the Sunset Islands. There’s a legacy of some sort waiting for me at Barret’s Coffee House, and I mean to go there, then find the first ship heading west.”
“What legacy?” Roo sounded intrigued. “You never mentioned it before.”
“Well, ‘legacy’ may be too big a word. My father left something for me with a solicitor and litigator at Barret’s Coffee House.”
The sound of a wagon in the distance brought both young men to their feet. Roo peered out the door. “Either the farmer got tired of waiting in the line or he’s back from morning market in the city, but either way the entire family seems to be riding in the wagon and we can’t get out without being seen.”
“Come on,” said Erik, climbing the ladder to the hayloft. Roo followed and found what Erik had been looking for, a door outside. He knelt and said, “Stay back against the wall until they’ve unhitched the wagons and gone inside. Then we’ll jump down from here and head into the city. It should be about time, anyway.”
Just then the door to the barn was heaved open, and a child’s voice shouted above the loud creaking, “Papa! I didn’t get to see the Prince.”
A woman’s voice said, “If you hadn’t been hitting your sister, you would have seen him ride by.”
Another male voice, an adult’s, said, “Papa, why do you think the king named Nicholas Prince instead of Erland?”
“That’s the business of the Crown, and none of mine,” came the answer as the wagon rolled into the barn, backed in by the farmer. Erik peeked over the edge of the loft and saw the farmer sitting in the wagon seat, letting his eldest son push the horses backwards as he kept an eye on things. They had obviously done this hundreds of times, and Erik appreciated the ease with which they ensured the horses did exactly what was asked, keeping the wagon intact and those riding in it safe. They continued to talk.