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

mind.” He went to get paper, quill, and inkhorn. “Just sign yer name and write down who ye are and where ye live on the bottom of the bill.”
    Franz did so eagerly. The bill was large, but the man had been kind and was taking a risk.
    “How’re ye going to get home?” the innkeeper asked.
    Franz looked down at his crippled legs. At least the three villains had left him his boots, no doubt because they did not fit them. “W-walk.”
    The innkeeper shook his head and left. Franz started toward the door. He needed his second crutch because he could not put weight on his right leg at all and his left leg was still too weak to bear his weight and push him forward.
    “Wait, sir.” A maid ran after him, a bowl of milk and a chunk of white bread in her hands. “Ye’ll need yer breakfast, sir,” she said, her eyes filled with pity.
    Franz hated the pity but thanked her for her kindness, and sat down on one of the benches to eat. At this hour, the inn’s main room was still empty of guests, and he was in no one’s way. He finished the milk and bread quickly. He had hardly eaten the night before but hurried more out of shame than hunger. When he was done, he staggered up to return the bowl to the kitchen. Those dependent on charity, learn to be humble before their benefactors. The thought reminded him unpleasantly of the sycophancy of the three soldiers the night before.
    The maid was kind, though. She saw him coming and rushed to take the bowl, waving away his stuttered thanks. “A safe journey, sir,” she said with a smile, just as if he had been an ordinary customer and not a begging, penniless cripple.
    And then more kindness.
    The innkeeper returned. “There’s a wine wagon outside,” he said. “The carter’s going south as far as Kempten. He says ye can ride with him if ye like.”
    Tears came to Franz’s eyes. He could not speak, but he shook the innkeeper’s hand, then hobbled outside, the innkeeper holding the door for him, to meet a graybeard in rough woolen clothes and knitted stockings, master of a team of sturdy draft horses and a wagon loaded with wine barrels.
    Franz got up on the seat with the help of the graybeard and the innkeeper and started on the next leg of his homeward journey.
    The graybeard’s name was Anton. He was taciturn, and Franz was grateful for this and sat for the long day, sunk into misery. He no longer feared that he would die somewhere in a ditch, but the homecoming now loomed even more hatefully in his imagination. They would see a hopeless cripple who brought them debts instead of his lieutenant’s pay. Perhaps this was his punishment‌—‌and given his offense, it was mild indeed‌—‌so he bore up under it.
    The advantage of traveling with a carter who carried wine to customers at various inns on his route was that he was invited to share his meals and found a dry bed in the straw of the inn’s stable in Kempten. His companion broke his silence only once, to ask about Franz’s regiment, where he got wounded, and where he was bound to. The fact that Franz had trouble speaking put an end to other conversation.
    In Kempten, Anton found Franz another form of transport in a farmer’s cart. This carried him only a few miles westward, but it brought him the gift of bread and a hunk of cheese. He set out on foot after that. It was a dry, warm spring day, and he moved by leaning on his crutch and swinging his left foot forward. He thought he was becoming handier with the single crutch until he had to rely on it for any distance. The pain the crutch caused to his underarm and shoulder within the first mile was so great that he had to rest frequently. Dying in a ditch seemed once again a possibility, even a release.
    But there were kind people everywhere, and someone else found him, took him a little ways, and passed him on to another person. In this manner, he finally reached the lake at sundown.
    He was riding backward on the servant’s seat of a fast carriage and only