Amzil hurried ahead of me; I walked more slowly. I stopped. I turned to look back at the two cottages that had, for a few moments, been in my imagination an inn. Yet, why not here? I asked myself. Why should I not build the inn, just as I had imagined it, but for myself and eventually for Yaril? And if my efforts here produced benefits for Amzil and her children as well, that would simply be an additional good. “I could stay here and build a life for myself,” I said softly.

At my words, lightning flashed through me. I remembered my dream, all in that instant. In the next moment, I stood trembling in full daylight, possessed of a knowledge I did not want. I could not stay here. I couldn’t build an inn or make a place for Yaril. I was supposed to go on, to the land of the Specks. If I did not, evil would befall me. No. Not just me. Evil would befall any who held me back from that quest.

The corollary to that axiom fell into place for me. Misfortune had befallen my home and family in Widevale because they had sought to keep me there. The plague had come to Widevale, and scoured me of my family because I had defied the magic. The magic had cut me free of my old life. I shook my head. It could not be true. It was a stupid uncivilized superstition, something an ignorant man or a savage might believe.

My gut cramped with guilt and pain.

I bent over, clasping my great wobbly belly in my hands, sickened with the knowledge that filled me as much as by the emptiness of the hunger that suddenly assailed me. It was not a hunger for simple sustenance. I needed to eat to feed the magic that dwelt in me. It demanded food, and it demanded that I continue on my way to Gettys, to the territory of the Specks.

“You. You! Help me! In the name of the king. Help me.”

The voice was faint, both from distance and weakness in the man who called. I looked around me, and then lifted my eyes to look up the hillside, past the stump field to where the uncut trees began. A man stood there, leaning heavily on a tough little horse beside him. He was bearded and without a hat, dressed in rough, ragged clothing. His head wobbled on his shoulders. When he saw me looking at him, he took two steps toward me, and then collapsed. He rolled a short way and then lay still.

I ran toward him. For a very short way. Then I stopped, caught my breath, and hurried on as best I could, through the crooked lanes between the ramshackle houses and across the stump field and then up the steep rise of the hill. In all that time, the man did not move. When I reached him and knelt beside him, I saw he was a larger man than I’d thought. He’d finished his tumble flat on his back. His eyes were closed. His clothing was not ragged from long use, but hung in tatters where something had attacked him and torn his garments with its claws. His cavalla trousers were stained with blood and dirt. He’d bound rags from his shirt across his chest and his upper right arm. Lesser gashes scored his belly, and showed on his legs through his torn trousers. The cuts were crusted dark with scabs and soiled with leaves and dirt. It was hard to guess his age through his whiskers and shaggy hair, but I thought him a man of middle years. “Sir! Wake up!”

He groaned, his chest rising and falling with it. His eyes fluttered a bit and then opened. “Big cat got me,” he said, as if I’d asked him. “I’d just downed a fat grouse. I was plucking it. Cat decided that me and the bird would make a nice meal for him.”

“Let’s get you down the hill and into the house.”

“I got to get to Gettys. I was due there today. Supposed to report in.”

I took his shoulders and raised him to a sitting position. He silently snarled his pain as I did so. “You’re a scout?”

He caught a ragged breath. “Lieutenant Buel Hitch.” He grunted with pain, and then found breath to speak again. “And by the king’s authority, I can order you to help me. I got to get to Gettys.”

“You don’t have to order me. I’d help you anyway.”

“I’m sure you would,” he replied with tight sarcasm. “You just love the king and his soldiers, don’t you?”

“I am loyal to my king. And as a second son, it is my fate to be a soldier. Not that I’ve had much success at it. But if you have finished insulting me, I’ll take you down to where your injuries can be cleaned and properly tended.”

He looked at me for a few moments. His hoarse breath sawed in and out of him. Then he said, “You’re no convict. What are you doing in Dead Town?”

“I was passing through on my way to Gettys. I ran out of supplies. So I stopped for a few days, to barter work for food.”

“This town, I’m surprised you got anything at all for your trouble, other than a rock behind the ear. Stoop down and let me get my arm across your shoulders. You’re a big one, aren’t you?”

There seemed little need to reply to that observation. I did as he asked, and once he had his grip, I grasped his belt and raised him to his feet. He swayed against me. I carried most of his weight, but he tried to walk. He gasped and groaned as we tottered along. It was slow progress down the hill. I glanced back to see his horse following us.

Halfway across the stump field, I shouted for Amzil to put water on to boil. I called twice before she came to the door of the cottage. Her eyes widened, and she darted back inside. When we approached the door, I was shocked to see her standing in it, her huge gun once more leveled at my midsection. “What?” I asked her.

“You’re not bringing him in here.” She spoke the words flatly.

“But he’s hurt.”

“This is my home. I’ve my children to protect. You’re not bringing that stranger in here.”

I just shook my head at her. Then I turned and started limping him toward the other hut I’d inspected that morning. “Put my panniers outside your door, then,” I said, and did not bother to hide the disgust in my voice. Behind me, I heard the door of her cottage slam shut.

I took Lieutenant Hitch into the cottage that had the sound fireplace. I eased him down, and then went to the shed for Clove’s saddle blanket. I made it into a flat pallet and then fetched kindling and firewood from the pile I’d made for Amzil. My panniers were outside her closed door, along with a tumble of my other possessions I’d left inside her home. The message was plain. I carried them all back to the hut where the soldier waited.

“Looks like you pissed her off right good,” he observed. I couldn’t tell if he was grinning or gritting his teeth with pain.

“It’s a talent I have with women,” I told him.

He hissed through his teeth and then fell silent.

I made a fire, and then fetched water and set my small pan over the flames. When the fire had warmed the room a little and the water was hot, I helped him undress.

I tended the minor wounds first, washing the ragged scratches as best I could. Every one of them was warm to the touch and suppurating. He hissed and swore as I washed them clean. The deeper ones bled a bit.

When I reached to undo the bandage on his chest, he stopped my hand with his. “Got anything to eat or drink?” he asked me shakily. “I could do with a bit of fortifying before we take this on.”

“I think I have a little bit of tea left. That’s about it out of what I can call mine.”

“That would be good, then. There’s some dried meat in my saddlebags. Could you bring them in?”

I took the saddlebags from his horse’s back, and then slipped his bit so he could graze easily on the weeds between the huts, carefully moving him away from the half-choked vegetable garden. As I passed the garden again, I found two overgrown carrots and tugged them from the ground. When I carried them into the cabin, the lieutenant looked at me curiously. “Soup,” I explained. “They’re too tough to eat any other way. With the dried meat tossed in, they ought to stew up fine.”

That was easier said then done. They were so woody I had to chop them up with my hatchet. I cut them fine and tossed them in a pot of hot water. I then went into Hitch’s saddlebag. He watched me, and as I took out a large packet tightly wrapped in several layers of oilcloth, he said, “No. Not that one. Put that one back.” The second packet, wrapped in greasy brown paper, proved to be the smoked meat. I took a slab of it the size of my hand, chopped it fine, and added it to my carrots. By then my kettle was boiling. I made the lieutenant a cup of hot tea and waited while he drank it. When he set down the empty mug, he nodded to me. “Let’s get at it,” he said grimly.