Free Lord of the Silent Kingdom by Glen Cook

little weasel with a swift, bright smile, maybe eight or nine. “Where we headed, Matt?”
    At the moment Piper Hecht was Mathis Schlink from Schonthal and Ghort was Buck Fantil.
    “It’s a great name,” he had told Hecht aboard Lumberer. “I always wished I had one of them names like Dirk or Steele or Rock. Pinkus Ghort. My momma ought to be spanked. What the hell kind of name is Pinkus Ghort?”
    “You tell me,” Hecht had responded. “You made it up.”
    “You want to know the sick, sad truth, my friend? I didn’t. It really is the one my momma hung on me.
    Though nobody never believes me when I tell them.”
    Hecht remained firmly established in that class. He was sure that Pinkus Ghort would be wanted in more than one principality farther north, under other names.
    About the boy, he asked, “What are you doing, Buck?”
    “You know your way around this dump? I don’t. Besides, the kid reminds me of me in my better days.
    What’s your handle, Shorty?”
    “Pella, Your Honor. Pella Versulius.”
    Pella’s competitors laughed. One advised, “Don’t turn your back on the little turd, Outlander. He’ll steal the hair off your ass.”
    “He’s got shorter legs than me. I can run him down and break his neck.”
    Hecht caught a flicker of admiration from the urchin. “We need to come to a place called the House of the Ten Gallons in Karagos Middle Street. You know where that is?”
    The boy lied easily and glibly. “Absolutely, Your Honors. My own mam was born in Cuttlebone Close an’ that’s practically next door. Just follow me, Your Honors.”
    Ghort murmured, “As long as he’s out front my butt hairs are safe.”
    “I’d still keep an eye on our back trail. And not follow him into any place that’s narrow or dark.”
    “You don’t need to teach me how to dance. I told you, I used to be this kid. Watch how he gets just far ahead enough so we can’t hear him ask people how to get to Karagos Middle Street.”
    “And how they eyeball us before they decide to help him fleece us.”
    “Yeah. You feel like there ain’t much love for foreigners going on here?”
    There was anger under Sonsa’s thick despair. The waterfront was moribund. Many of its warehouses appeared abandoned.
    Hecht shuddered suddenly.
    “What?”
    “I don’t know. I got one of those feelings like you get when some night creature is watching you.”
    The truth, though, was that the boy had led him past a site where two friends had been killed by sorcery during his previous visit.
    “Yeah? What did you think of the kid’s name?”
    “Sounds a little classical.”
    “A little, huh? He insulted us, you know.”
    “How so?”
    “Basically, he told us we’re too damned unlettered to recognize the name of the poet who wrote TheLay of Ihrian.”
    “You know what? He’s right. In my case.”
    “You are ignorant and unlettered up there in the Grand Marshes, aren’t you?”
    “I never denied it. That’s why I left.”
    ‘There’s a damned lie if I ever heard one. Nobody runs away from home on account of … Anyways, if I was honest, I’d admit that the only reason I know is because life around Doneto’s dump is so damned dull there that there ain’t nothing else to do but read. Because you got me hooked on that shit when we was locked up in Plemenza.”
    “You don’t need to make excuses. Reading isn’t a bad thing.”
    “Now you sound like the Principatè. Hey! Kid! Pellapront. How’s Alma?”
    The boy froze in place, eyes big. He stared at Ghort, bewildered. “Your Honor?”
    “Never mind. Go on. And stay on the paved streets. I don’t care if it is longer that way.” To Hecht, he said, “The Lay of Ihrian is this long-ass comic poem about a guy who goes on a tour of the Holy Lands.
    But only in his dreams. Guided by a ghost who lies about his name all the time.”
    “I can see where you’d be amused by that.” Hecht eyed his surroundings uneasily. This was a different Sonsa. Too many surly men stood