Free The King's Justice by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

town.
    There near the fringe of the forest, Settle’s Crossways is a haphazard collection of buildings. The shifting sunlight shows him several large warehouses belonging, no doubt, to prosperous merchants. It shows him hovels where the town’s poor scrabble for shelter, hoping that their proximity to the warehouses will ease their efforts to find work. And among the hovels and warehouses, he discovers a scattering of more sturdy homes. These lack such amenities as roofed porches. Their owners are not reluctant to enter with mud, dirt, and the droppings of horses and cattle ontheir boots. Still they are solid houses, made to last. They belong to men or families who do not care for appearances, but who mean to be secure in their homes.
    Black does not expect to see lights in the windows at this time of day. They face the westering sun. Their occupants do not yet need lamps. But the windows of one house glow. Covered as they are with oiled cloths, they give him no glimpse of what waits inside. With the sun on them, they should not glow as they do. Yet they are unmistakable in the dwindling afternoon.
    The scent of evil leads Black to the lit house.
    He dismounts. Silent as nightfall, he approaches the door. When he places his palm there, he knows at once that his quarry is absent. This is Haul Varder’s house. The odor of his doings permeates the door, the walls, the glowing windows. Black is sure. But the wheelwright is not here.
    Someone else occupies the house. Someone else lights lamps against the coming darkness. That someone, alone, has lit a profusion of lamps.
    Black considers departing as he came, in silence. He can follow the obscenity of Tamlin Marker’s murder unaided. He does not fear the men who killed the brigands. But an impulse overtakes him, and he knocks.
    The quaver of an old voice calls, “What?” An old woman’s voice. “Go away. He is not here. Leave me to my prayers.”
    Black does not ask permission to enter. Lifting the latch, he steps into a room lit by a noonday sun of lamps, lanterns, and candles.
    The old woman sits in a comfortless wooden chair surrounded by many lights. Her hearth is cold, but she does not need its warmth. The flames give abundant heat. A dew of sweat glistens on her brow and gathers in the seams of her face, giving her the look of a woman who has labored too long in the last years of her life. Nevertheless she wears a heavy shawl over her shoulders, and she clutches it to her breast as though she imagines that it will protect her.
    She turns her head unerringly toward Black, and he sees at once that she is blind. The milky hue that covers her eyes is too thick to permit sight. Still she has heard him. She knows where he stands, just as she knows every lamp, lantern, and taper around her. She keeps them lit at every hour of the day and night. When one or several go out, she refills or replaces them with no fear that she will set herself or the house aflame. It is not Haul Varder who desires them, though the woman does not need them. They are her prayers.
    â€œYou dare?” she croaks at Black. She sounds both querulous and frightened. “Be gone. Leave me. When he catches you, he will teach you to respect his mother.”
    â€œI do not fear him,” Black replies like the coming night. “You have no cause to fear me. Only tell me what he does, and I will go. Only tell me where he is, and I will go.”
    â€œ
Tell?
” the old woman retorts. The puckering of her mouth betrays her toothless gums. “
I?
Tell
you
? I will tell you nothing. You are a blackguard who preys on weakness. I am a gods-fearing woman, gods-fearing. I do not go to the temples. I cannot walkso far. But that does not make me evil. I worship
here
, do you understand? I worship
here
. There is no temple-goer more devout.
    â€œIf you do not go—if he does not catch you—I will call down Bright Eternal’s light to consume you. I will cast you