Free The Left-Handed God by I. J. Parker

provide three pallets and blankets on the floor of his room.
    This act eased Franz’s guilt a little more. He fell into bed in his breeches and boots and slept deeply and without his usual nightmares.
    He woke at dawn, heavy-headed, and scratching. The innkeeper deserved a lecture for overcharging him because of vermin-ridden companions when the inn’s beds were infested with bedbugs or fleas, or both. Then he became aware of the silence in the room. In the gray light filtering through the closed shutters, he saw that the pallets were empty. He was alone.
    Franz sat up and felt for his money purse under the pillow. It was gone. Then he groped for his crutches. He had left them leaning against the side of his bed. No crutches. He got off the bed and hopped to the window to throw back the shutters. Daylight from an overcast sky filled the room. His guests were gone, and so were his cloak and hat from the back of the chair. His leather satchel lay near the door, limp and empty. The old single crutch that had belonged to Moser stood in a corner. Apparently, Moser had traded it for Franz’s new ones.
    Cursing himself for a fool, Franz checked the room thoroughly. The only things they had left were the clothes he wore and the empty satchel.
    The thieving bastards! The ungrateful dogs! So that was what came of charitable gestures. They had taken what he had offered them out of pity and a feeling of brotherhood, and they had made off with his clothes and property.
    Now how was he to pay his bill and theirs? Franz had visions of being arrested and thrown into the local prison, to linger there the rest of his life. He could not ask his mother and sister to help him. No, that would be too much. The thought of suicide, carefully kept at bay these many months, surfaced again. A day ago, he had had little enough to live for. Now he had nothing. Nothing but trouble!
    But common sense returned. Awkward on one crutch, Franz made his way downstairs, showed the empty satchel, and demanded that the gendarmes be called. Because he was excited, it took him a while to make himself understood. The innkeeper looked at the satchel and the old crutch and shook his head.
    “I warned ye,” he growled. “But ye young officers are all alike. Ye think nobody but a soldier matters in this world. Now see what ye’ve come to. And ye a wounded man, too. They’ll be long gone by now.”
    *
    The assassin received Moser’s report and the papers taken from Franz with disbelief.
    “What d’you mean, that’s all there was, you oaf?” he shouted. “The letter I want isn’t here. Who in damnation had the gall to keep it? Was it you? Are you holding out for more silver? Curse you for a goddamned thieving swine!” In a fury, he drew his sword and put the point to Moser’s throat.
    In the end, he had to accept that they had either overlooked the letter in the dark, or that the lieutenant no longer had it. He thought over his options, decided to bribe a maid at the Goldene Adler to search the room and, if the letter did not turn up, to go back to Mannheim to make a thorough search of the hospital. He wished he had done the job himself, killing the man and searching the body, but he had been forbidden to use violence.
    Foolishness, but best not to inform the great man of another failure. Next time he would do things his own way.
    *
    Despite the innkeeper’s gruff manner, Franz thought he detected signs of kindness. He offered, “I-if y-you’ll allow m-me, I sh-shall pay f-f‌—‌you when I r-reach – h-home. M-my f-family l-lives in L-lindau.” He made a gesture of writing.
    The innkeeper raised his brows. “Lindau, did ye say?” He pointed to Franz’s uniform. Ye’re from Kurpfalz, ain’t ye?”
    “Y-yes, b-b‌—‌.” Franz took a breath and started again. “I w-was a s-stu – ah‌—‌u-univ-vers‌—‌ty – ah – H-hei‌—‌d-d‌—‌b-b‌—‌.” The last came out as a mere garbled breath.
    The innkeeper sighed. “Never