And that led to another, sobering thought. What if all those trips down into Haven on the part of the bodyguards had NOT been to get drunk, but to scout out potential places where they could all go should they need to abandon the Court?
He hoped that Nikolas had thought of that.
Never mind. Concentrate on what he could do; that was the important thing right now.
He picked up his begging bowl and held his staff out in front of him, sweeping it back and forth in little arcs to “feel” his way. Which he wasn’t actually doing, of course, he was using other peoples’ glimpses of him to figure out where he was going. It could have been disorienting had he not gotten used to it while he sat in his corner this afternoon; it was a bit difficult to do, but not disorienting—like trying to thread a needle by looking at it in the mirror.
That only made him go slowly, and with the appearance of fumbling a bit, which was all to the good; it added to the realism of his performance. It amused him a little to think that all he needed now would be for some kind-hearted soul to take his elbow and offer to lead him where he wanted to go.
He had made sure to get up and move only when the crowds had thinned out so as not to inconvenience folk too much. No one appeared terribly irritated by him, and most simply cleared out of his way with no fuss.
Since the last place that his quarry had been was that section of inns on the Trade Road, that was where he headed; his first position hadn’t been too far from there, so that was all to the good. It took him about a candlemark to slowly walk there, find a reasonable place to set up—visible, but out of traffic—and settle in. He thinned his mental shields a little more, this time hoping to pick something up specifically about his quarry. A few moments later, he heard someone speaking—to him.
“What happened to you?”
The tone sounded more suspicious than concerned. He re-focused on the nearer stray thoughts, and got an image from people around him as well as the man himself. Ah, the person in question was a City Constable, checking to be sure that he was an “honest” beggar. He hadn’t known that they checked on beggars; good thing that he had made his preparations!
“Burnt, sir,” he said softly, and slipped his bandage a little. It was dusk, and what looked passable by daylight was hideously convincing by twilight. “Accident.”
He felt the man’s involuntary recoil and had to suppress a smile of satisfaction. He pulled the bandage back up.
“I’m sorry for you, lad. You can set up here,” the man said, and Mags heard his footsteps going off.
Once again, Mags set to listening in on unguarded, errant thoughts. It was a lot like working in the mine, actually. A lot of tedious chipping and sifting through things you couldn’t use and didn’t want, hoping for a sparklie.
The Constable returned—this must have been a regular patrol for him—and paused. Through the eyes of a curious passer-by, Mags watched him lean down and felt something warm placed in his hand; a chance thought from the Constable himself told him what it was—a meat pie!
“Oh, thankee, sir!” he said, his voice warm with very real gratitude. It had been a very long time since that half pie this morning, and this was what some of the inns called a “Drover’s Pie,” twice the size of the normal ones, with meat in one half and apple in the other. “Been a good bit since brekky.”
“Eh, inns on the Row feed Guards and Constables free,” the man said with a trace of embarrassment. “They give us too much, and I thought you could use it.”
“A kindness still be a kindness, sir,” Mags replied. “Ye took thought, aye? Many wouldn’t. Thankee.”
The man was pleased, if still embarrassed, and moved off on his rounds.
Mags savored the aroma of the pie; it was a good one. He bit into it, by purest chance getting the meat end, and slowly chewed and swallowed. It was a very good pie, made all the better by the fact of the Constable’s kindness.
Mags almost laughed.
He stayed there until long after dark, “listening,” waiting, patient. A few more coins dropped into his bowl, he got some tantalizing hints about his quarry when someone asked about the increased patrols and the inn servants talked about horde of Guard and Heralds that had descended on an inn further down the road.
So whatever it was that—damn it, he had to give his quarry a name.
Temper, he decided. For the man certainly was in a towering temper.
. . . whatever it was that Temper had left behind, it hadn’t been at the last inn. And he learned that the Constables and the Guard had been to every inn on the row with descriptions of the foreigners, asking if they had stayed there. They had, of course. But again, they had left nothing behind. In fact, they were careful not to leave so much as a stray hair or a nail paring behind, which had struck the innkeeper whose thoughts Mags was watching as being odd.
He got nothing more after that—well, nothing pertinent, although he did learn that at astonishing number of married men brought clandestine lovers to these places... As the night weathered on, and the inn common rooms began to empty out, he caught the thoughts of the Constable again. The man was approaching, a bit reluctantly... hmm. Mags wondered what he was about to say.
“If you were to curl up farther back in that nook to sleep,” the Constable said, standing over him, “You’d be out of the way and I wouldn’t need to ask you to leave for the night.”
Mags chuckled. “Thankee sir, but I got a safer place. Time fer me t’ be gettin’ on then?”
“I’m afraid so,” the man said apologetically, as Mags got to his feet with the help of his staff, and picked up his bowl. “We’re not supposed to allow people to sleep on the street. Rules are rules.”
“Rules’re there fer a reason, sir. Reckon it keeps them like me safe, too. Be fair easy fer someone to decide he didn’t care for the look’a me an’ give me a kick or three. Goo’night t’ ye.”
“And to you,” the Constable replied, relieved that Mags had made no fuss. “And good luck.”
Mags made his way down the street, a little hampered by the fact that there weren’t a lot of people about whose eyes he could use. But as soon as he was well out of sight of the Constable, he ducked into a darkened doorway, and with relief, peeled the wax off his eyes.
With wax and bandage tucked away safe, and his bowl and staff under his arm, he made for the part of town where he had found his cozy sleeping spot at a quite brisk pace, energized by the unexpected bonus of that pie. On the way he had the good fortune of running into a street vendor who was just packing up, who was happy to sell him the remainder of his stock for the handful of small coins Mags had been given today. Though the skinny sausages and tiny, bite-sized pies the man handed over were beginning to dry out, and had been made of the cheapest possible scraps and innards in the first place, nevertheless Mags had not scrupled to eat a half pie dropped in the dirt this morning, and he wasn’t going to cavil at eating these now.
He got a drink at a public fountain and horse trough in a square on the way to his goal, after devouring the sausages (since the pies would keep better). There was a line of workmen having a bit of a wash-up at another public horse trough, and he took advantage of the opportunity to do the same.
By now, inns were closing their doors, and he was in a good position to scramble up to his chimney pots without being noticed as drunks who were disinclined to pay for a spot on the floor to sleep off their liquor were turned out into the street. With the staff tied to his back and the bowl inside his shirt, he made it up before the local Constable came by on his round.
He tucked his pies right up against the chimney-pots to keep them warm and settled in.
