Then a trumpet blast barreled from another tower, signifying the end of the prayer. The Pardoness bowed to them all. She disappeared back into her chamber, and for a moment no one moved. The rain fell, and an indifferent silence filled by the sound of shoes shifting in mud, a mule shaking its mane. At last a woman sneezed, and the racket of the courtyard trading booths began once again.
Marvel’s eyes fell at once on the offending guard again. He slumped against a pole. His chin nodded toward his chest. Marvel sighed again and went toward him, nearly knocked over in his haste by a handcart full of citrus greenery, likely meant for a courtier’s bedroom. He weaved away from the cart and swore under his breath as the wheel splashed mud on his cassock. He was not angry, but it felt right to act as though he were.
He poked the guard in the stomach when he reached him. The man gasped and doubled over. On the ground lay the orange peel. The guard stood up angrily and glared at Marvel, not a shred of recognition in his eyes. “What the hell’s wrong with you, eh?”
Marvel folded his arms. “Why have you stolen from your countryman?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“More importantly, why have you not addressed me honorably?”
The guard seemed confused. His face was unshaven; patches of wheat-colored hair growing out of tanned skin. Something about him off. That uniform, up close, looked years out of date. He shook his head slightly.
“Don’t play stupid. I saw you,” Marvel barked.
“Sir, I—”
“‘Sir’? I’m no one’s ‘sir.’” Marvel paused. The man looked even more baffled. Marvel said, “Do you know who I am?” He had a deep voice, almost croaking, and knew he sounded intimidating. He was also tall, somewhat hulking, and only just a bit overweight. In his cassock he looked regal, though the garment was plain. Anyone should know who he was, Marvel thought, annoyed. His image was circulated.
“You’re—” The guard’s eyes darted left, then right. His head sat upon his neck like a goblet-bowl. “Obviously someone important.” He tried to smile and mostly succeeded. He was a head shorter than Marvel, soft-skinned and loosely jointed. “I’m new to the job, please forgive me.”
His accent was foreign—he might indeed be new. Marvel didn’t concern himself with hiring guards, he had men for that. But this man could be a spy. Something about him bothered Marvel, apart from the stealing and the sleeping. Was it his clothing after all? With the thought came an unwelcome tremor. Who would send a spy wearing out-of-date clothing? Marvel could think of one place.
Kansas.
But how could the monks at the Black Watchtower have learned of his plans to return when he had told no one? Impossible. He leaned back on his heels and smirked, as he often did when he wasn’t sure what to do. His presence was large; usually this was enough to cow his adversaries.
“Where is your firearm?” Marvel asked after a moment.
“My what?”
“Your gun. You’re an elite guard. That’s the uniform you’re wearing, even if it’s old. Or did you not know?”
“They didn’t give me one. A gun, I mean,” the man replied.
“Who is ‘they’?”
The guard shrugged. “Whosoever’s in charge of handing out weapons. Like I said, I’m new.” The younger man looked at him buoyantly. Something striking about his eyes. It may have been cockiness; he didn’t know who Marvel was, after all. How long since anyone had looked at Marvel that way? That sent another tremor through him. The man turned his head when he realized Marvel was still staring: the moment had stretched on inappropriately. “I just came here a few days ago.” The guard shrugged. “I asked for a job and they gave me one. I didn’t ask for a weapon. Should I have?”
“I see you have a knife right there.” Marvel pointed to the guard’s belt.
“That was mine. From before.” The man’s eyes were green. His hair was pale brown, cut poorly. Marvel rubbed his own chin. He hadn’t shaved that day, or the day before. Suddenly he stepped back, aware of the gray in his beard, the other man’s proximity. “Who hired you, again?”
“O, I don’t remember his name. He was middle height?” the guard said. Then, more eagerly, “I used to go with the carnivals. If that’s why you’re staring at me like that.” He gestured to his clothes. “I know I look bad.”
“Carnival men can be … difficult to reason with. We don’t often hire them as guards.” Marvel raised his eyebrow. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
Another cart jostled them as it passed. A palm frond fell from its overloaded basket and lay beside the orange peel. The guard’s smile turned sheepish. He shook his head.
Surely a spy would know who he was, unless of course it was all an act. He crossed his arms. “Which carnival did you come from, I asked.”
The younger man shrugged. Pale light filled the guard’s eyes from the side, and with a jolt Marvel realized he had not looked at anyone for a long time, not really. He was thoroughly enjoying the experience.
His gaze fell on a tiny sack just peeking from the folds of the man’s tunic. It hung from a cord tied to his belt, no bigger than a money-purse. The guard brushed it with his hand but that was all. A long moment passed. “I got work in the carnivals, that was all,” the guard said finally. “It’s better than nothing, eh? This was the only Head I ever made.”
“The life of a guard will suit you better, then?”
“I think so.”
A silence opened between them. It occurred to Marvel that this man might have spent all his life outside. His cheeks were roughened and red. Even if he was not from a carnival—which Marvel suspected—he had most likely walked long miles to get here. It was a hard way across the continent. Marvel had traveled it. When at last
