Free Raven's Warrior by Vincent Pratchett Page B

on season and circumstance. In cities he sat cross-legged for brief periods of time at the center of life’s busy world. Skinny fingers held the bowl in his lap, and his head nodded grateful acknowledgement for each small contribution it received.
    His life was defined by the concept of enough. Enough to eat, enough to carry, enough to rest, and enough to move on; he was a migratory bird.
    He heard the distant marching of soldiers in formation growing louder and getting closer. He watched the passing ranks of the infantry and smelled the sweat and dust of their rhythmic cadence. He pressed closer to the walls that lined the street, his delicate frame hugged a bricked-up archway so that the cavalry could now pass without trampling him. The common people looked down and away from the sound of the passing military procession to minimize the risk of confrontation.
    This beggar, however, was far from common, and so looked up and directly into the spiritless dark eyes of its mounted commander.
    The powerful steed whinnied and rose in fear, while its rider tugged the reins and fought to bring it under his control. The commander struggled to regain his balance and once again in charge, reached down to the blade at his waist. The steady coal eyes of the beggar did not shift or loosen their grip and seemed to look past the wrecked visage of face and eyes and into the depths of a soul in torment.
    Rethinking the actions of reflex, the leader justified his inability to act decisively with the logic that the black-garbed vermin before him was indeed valueless and not worth the time or trouble of killing. He pulled the reins tightly and with a kick of the triangular stirrups, horse and rider moved quickly on.
    The times were indeed strange, pockets of sanity in a world gone largely mad. Power was now stolen by sword edge, and human worth measured by the accumulation of material wealth. Both the world and the universe, however, exist in a constant state of shifting balance. The dry dust settled, and the sounds of daily life returned quickly and filled the silent hollow left by the military passage. Hawkers again cried out to pitch their wares, and the sounds of animals mixed once more with human speech. The timeless noise of children playing and laughing soon echoed freely along the city streets. Life moved all around him. The coins in the brass bowl drank up the sunlight and were enough. It was his time to move on.
    To those that study simple things the act of walking is a straightforward one. It requires a decision, a direction, and little more. It is the steady and continuous process of releasing and regaining balance, a methodically controlled free fall.
    Very few acknowledged his arrival, presence, or passage. His awkward gait caused people to look away uncomfortably, rather than look closely or empathetically. The blackness of his filthy garments set him apart, so different yet so perfectly invisible. With concentrated effort the beggar swung his frame into an uneasy forward direction.
    None saw this man, none saw this bird, and none saw the many pockmarked scars that littered his ancient parchment skin.

The Needle Points North
    An emperor does not retain power by being uninformed, and so in high imperial circles information has always been a commodity of extreme value. One high-ranking minister in particular had the emperor’s ear. This man was a kind and gentle soul and was always in the company of his eldest son. This boy was being groomed for life within the imperial court; he would follow naturally in his father’s footsteps. The generational passage of cyclic power would continue.
    The minister was honest and above reproach, and he held nothing back as he shared his true opinion with his emperor. It was not malicious or self-serving. It was a warning of the most serious kind. Ambition is a plow with two edges, outwardly it is promoted and rewarded, and inwardly it is distrusted and feared because the fruit of