‘We sold to traders mostly. They liked an easily concealable weapon, so they could take highwaymen by surprise,’ Fletcher said, admiring his handiwork. It was one of his better pieces.
‘All right, lad, you’re free to go. It’s not like you’ve discovered much anyway. To make amends for my bad manners, we will make you a scabbard free of charge. You will need to leave your blade with us, but it should be back with you in a few days. My wife will organise a new uniform for you too. It won’t be tailored but it’s better than that moth-eaten thing you’re wearing now. We won’t have anyone saying our son’s companions are vagrants. No offence,’ Uhtred asserted with a smile.
‘How much do I owe you?’ Fletcher asked, digging out his purse.
‘Just this dagger and your promise to look out for my boy. You seem like a rare sort, Fletcher. It is people like you that give me hope for reconciliation between dwarves and men,’ Uhtred said.
Rain had begun to pour when they reached the meeting place, but there was no sign of the others. Othello kicked the wall as they shivered in a narrow doorway, planning their next move. There were no carts in sight, and the streets were nearly deserted.
‘Damn this rain,’ Othello grumbled. He was in a foul mood and the rain and lack of transport were not the only causes. In their rush to leave the Pinkertons, Othello’s tomahawk had been left on the ground. It had not been there when they returned the same way.
‘Damn the Pinkertons too. My side is as stiff as a ramrod and I’ve lost one of my father’s finest pieces,’ Othello continued, squinting through the deluge.
‘I’m sorry, Othello. I’m sure your father will make another one for you,’ Fletcher said, grimacing with sympathy.
‘How would you feel if you lost your khopesh?’ Othello sounded bitter, striding out into the street.
Fletcher didn’t know how to answer, so he kept his mouth shut. He followed the dejected dwarf through the rain. They were now chilled to the bone despite their jackets, and Fletcher knew that the journey home was going to be a cold and miserable affair.
‘I think our best bet is Valentius Square,’ Othello shouted as thunder began to rumble in the air. ‘That’s where most of the stables are.’
‘All right, let’s go! I just want to get a move on.’ Fletcher yelled back, eyeing the tumultuous sky.
They ran down the empty streets, splashing in the puddles that gathered on the road. Every few seconds the street would freeze with a flash of lightning, followed by a loud crash of thunder.
‘The lightning is close, Othello! There must be a real storm brewing,’ Fletcher cried, his voice almost snatched away by the wind.
‘Nearly there!’ Othello yelled back.
Finally they turned into a small square with an enormous awning, which kept the worst of the rain at bay. It was filled with a crowd of people, taking shelter from the storm and listening to a man on a raised platform. He was shouting, but Fletcher was too tired to listen.
‘They auction the horses off from that stage, if you ever feel the need to buy me one,’ Othello joked, wringing out his beard.
‘Hah, maybe a potbellied pony, that’s all you could manage,’ Fletcher joked back, glad that the dwarf had perked up again.
As they looked around for a cart, Fletcher caught the last words of the irate man’s speech.
‘. . . yet the elves drag the war on, costing both nations many times over what the tax would have been! But instead of taking the war to them, our King talks of peace, never realising the elves’ true intentions! They want us to lose the war, don’t you see? When Hominum falls, they will be free to take our lands from us! The orcs don’t want it, they just want us dead. When blood runs in the streets of Corcillum, the elves will rejoice in our deaths!’
The crowd roared back in approval, waving their fists in the air. Fletcher looked on, distracted from the task at hand. He had never seen a man talk so openly against the King, nor with such hatred for the elves. Not even Rotherham had been as vehement.
‘So what do we do about this? How do we force the King’s hand? I’ll tell you! We march on their embassy and kill every one of those pointy-eared bastards!’ the man howled, his passion so fervent that it verged on a scream.
This time the audience was less incensed. This suggestion was so audacious that a shocked hush fell on the crowd, accompanied by perturbed muttering. The man raised his hand as if he needed silence.
‘Oh, I know, the first step is always the hardest. But let us take it together. Let us seize this moment!’ he roared, accompanied by a smattering of cheers from the crowd, warming to his rhetoric. ‘But first, let me show you how it is done. Grindle, bring out the prisoner!’
A fat, baldheaded man with arms as big as Uhtred’s emerged from a door behind the stage and dragged a screaming elf on to the front of the platform. Even from his position, all the way at the back, Fletcher recognised the struggling figure.
‘Sylva!’ he cried.
30