“We get strangers all the time.” Rodaf gave a small smile. “Even the evening before Bohdan’s Night. Bistari sits at the edge of the Great Forest, on the shores of the Scabbard, and between the Kett and the Rassor. During the course of a single turn I see peddlers and merchants from almost every dukedom in every kingdom in the Forelands. Asking me if I’ve noticed a stranger is like asking a Wethy trader if he noticed a five-qinde piece.”

“You might remember this man,” the Qirsi said. “He’s a musician. Long black hair, beard, pale blue eyes. He’s slightly taller than I am, lean but powerfully built.”

Rodaf shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone like that, at least not recently.”

“Think harder,” the younger one said.

“Xaver-”

“Well, he didn’t even consider it,” the lad said, turning to Grinsa. “He just said no.”

Rodaf looked the boy up and down. The odd clothes made more sense now. He recognized the accent.

“You’re from Eibithar,” he said, the words coming out as an accusation.

“South Wethyrn actually,” the Qirsi said quickly. “We both are.”

The accents were similar. For some it was easy to confuse Jistingham and Glyndwr. But Rodaf knew better. As he’d said a moment before, running an inn in Bistari, he met men from every part of the Forelands, including Eibithar. He wasn’t mistaken, and he could see from the look in the boy’s eyes that his companion had warned him not to speak.

The innkeeper stood. “You’re free to finish your meal,” he told them. “But you won’t be buying a room. Not here, not tonight.”

The Qirsi grabbed his arm. “Wait. You said you hadn’t seen anyone like the man we described, and then you said, ‘at least not recently.’ What did you mean?”

Rodaf pulled his arm free, glaring at the man. For a moment he considered just walking away, or better yet, demanding that they leave the Ironwood immediately. But Grinsa pulled a ten-qinde round from his pocket and tossed it on the table, where it sat glittering with the glow of the candles that lit the room.

After eyeing it briefly, the innkeeper picked it up. “There was a man like the one you describe who used to sing in one of the festivals. It’s been a few years now, but it could be the same man.”

“Do you remember his name?” Grinsa asked.

Rodaf searched his memory for some time. “No,” he said at last. “I’ve forgotten.”

“Corbin, perhaps?”

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow. “Yes, that was it. I guess it was the same man.”

Grinsa nodded. “Thank you, Rodaf. We’ll leave after we’ve eaten, and we won’t return. You have my word.”

Rodaf turned away and walked back to the bar, wondering if he had been rash in telling the men to leave. The boy might have been from Eibithar, but he certainly didn’t look like the northern kingdom had treated him well. The innkeeper was just about to tell them that he had reconsidered, and that they could stay the night, when the door to the inn opened again and four of the duke’s soldiers stepped in from the wind and cold.

Immediately, both Grinsa and the boy lowered their heads, as if intent on their food and ale. The guards glanced at them as they made their way to the ale tap, but they showed no sign that they were actually looking for the pair. Grinsa stared after the men, his head still down so that he could watch the soldiers without being too obvious. Whatever had brought them to Bistari, Rodaf wanted no part of it. Let them find beds at one of the other inns. He considered pointing the pair out to the soldiers, but though the lad was a northerner, he immediately thought better of it. He didn’t want trouble, and he couldn’t afford a reputation as a man who couldn’t be trusted by his patrons. Nothing ruined a tavern’s business faster than that.

The soldiers didn’t stay long. As they did most nights, they drank their ales and returned to the castle. Once they were gone, Grinsa and the Eandi boy pushed back from their table. The boy stepped to the door, but the white-hair walked over to Rodaf and handed him another five qinde, more than enough to pay for their food and drink.

“That’s a lot of gold you’ve given me,” the innkeeper said. “I told you before, I can’t tell you anything else.”

“I realize that. But you could have pointed us out to those men, and you didn’t. I’m grateful.”

Grinsa held his gaze a moment longer, then turned to go.

“What is it you want with the singer?” Rodaf called after him.

The Qirsi faced him again. “He killed a friend of ours and left the boy to take the blame. We’d like to discuss that with him.”

Rodaf nodded, wishing he hadn’t asked. He didn’t start to breathe again until the door closed behind them, and he found himself alone with Winso and the others.

It seemed to have grown colder just in the short time it took them to eat supper. The wind still howled through the city streets, carrying the chill, damp scent of the Scabbard, and a fine rain had begun to fall. Tavis couldn’t imagine how it didn’t turn to snow, so frigid was the air.

He and the Qirsi walked through the streets of Bistari, skirting the marketplace so as to keep their distance from Castle Bistari.

“I told you not to speak,” Grinsa said, his voice tight, as if he were fighting to control his temper. “What’s the good of using a false name if you’re going to give away the fact that we’re from Eibithar?”

“I’m not certain there’s any good in it at all,” he said. He had never liked the idea of using an alias. He was Tavis of Curgh, son of a duke and heir to one of the great houses of Eibithar. Why should he have to hide his true name like some road brigand on the moors? Using Xaver MarCullet’s name helped a bit. At least this way he could honor his friend and liege man, maybe even atone in some small way for the knife wound he gave the boy after his terrifying Fating several turns back. Still, he would have preferred to stop hiding and travel the countryside openly as a noble. Let the Aneirans be damned.

“We’ve spoken of this before, Tavis,” the Qirsi said wearily. “You’re an Eibitharian lord in the heart of your kingdom’s most bitter enemy. Your scars already make you an object of interest.”

Tavis looked away. He didn’t need the gleaner to tell him that. Everywhere they went he felt the stares, and each day he cursed Aindreas of Kentigern for the torture that had so marked him.

“Using your real name would be far too dangerous,” Grinsa went on. “All we need is for one person to recognize you and all would be lost.”

“If you’re so worried about others noticing us, perhaps you should stop throwing my father’s gold around like a drunken baron. You gave that man fifteen qinde for old meat, hard cheese, and stale bread. You learned nothing from him of any importance.”

“Actually that’s not true. I learned that Corbin had been here before, albeit not necessarily when Chago died. And I satisfied myself that the man we’re looking for and the man we’re describing are one and the same. It may not be much, but it’s something. It’s more than we had before we went in.” He grinned. “And you forgot the ale. Your father’s gold bought that as well, and I thought it was rather good.”

Tavis had to smile. “It was all right,” he admitted, “for an Aneiran brew.” They walked in silence for a few paces and he glanced at the gleaner, trying to gauge his mood. “Where are we going now?”

“To another tavern, one where we’ll be able to get a room.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a Qirsi inn. The Silver Marten.”

The boy nodded, but said nothing. He had grown used to this by now-sleeping and eating among white-hairs. They stared at him as well, but at least in the Qirsi taverns he could convince himself that they did so because he was Eandi, rather than because of the marks on his face.

“You still think Corbin killed Bistari’s duke?” he asked. “The innkeeper seemed certain that it was the king’s men.”