Free A Cast of Stones by Patrick W. Carr Page A

in a lather about something. Why should this time be any different?”
    The Basqu leaned in, lowered his voice. Errol strained to hear. “They say someone’s been poisoning readers. They may not have enough come the succession to choose the new king.”
    The other man rolled his eyes. “By heaven’s dome! They? Who is ‘they’?”
    The Basqu refused to be put off. “Men from my village who’ve overheard the church’s messengers talking where they think no one can hear.”
    The other man waved one hand in dismissal. “You know how villagers are, Paolo. They grab a morsel and make it a meal to help themselves feel important. Who can tell what they really heard? All these stories of strange things are just fancies. Tomorrow they’ll be talking about something else.”
    â€œI’ve seen things myself,” the Basqu said. “Things that look like men but act like beasts hide in the swamps near Madera and the neighboring townsfolk too afraid to go near the place.”
    â€œPeople are always fearful—especially villagers. They rarely see past the ends of their noses.”
    The merchant from Basquon flushed and ground his teeth. “That’s not all. Spring looks fine here, but down south the plants have a yellowish cast to them, blighted, and the winds across the Forbidden Strait bring a foul smell.”
    For the first time the other merchant looked alarmed. His eyes widened and his face paled, but he quickly schooled his features. “Yellow? It’s probably just a trick of the light. Everything looks strange under a cloud of dust.”
    The first speaker shook his head. “It’s not just Basquon, you know. Two weeks gone I ran into Jarl Pencivik.”
    â€œThe ice merchant from Soeden?”
    The first man nodded. “The very same. I bumped into him two weeks ago at Longhollow. He says spring is coming late up north.”
    The features of the second merchant relaxed at this, though Errol failed to see why. He took another long pull from the first tankard, set it down after it emptied, and started on the next one. The merchants’ voices faded into the background, swallowed by ale-induced lassitude.

    Hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, pulled him up from the table and back into his chair.
    Martin’s voice came from his left. “Let’s go, boy.”
    Errol looked around. Customers still sat at most of the tables in the inn. He blinked in confusion. When did he ever leave a tavern before it closed? A tankard still sat in front of him. Tilting it, he noticed it still held ale. It wasn’t like him to be wasteful. He hoisted it, opened his mouth in preparation—and watched as those hands left his shoulders to cover his tankard, forcing it back to the table.
    Luis’s face came into view. “I think I’d prefer my guide to Callowford be functional in the morning.”
    Errol blew his lips like a horse. “Guide? You don’t need a guide. Just follow the road.”
    Luis’s face clouded, but he didn’t say anything more.
    Martin pulled the tankard from his hands and moved it beyond his grasp at the far edge of the table. “Berea’s priest has sent word for the nuntius to await our arrival tomorrow morning and has given the three of us lodging for the night. Come, Errol, you can sleep better in a bed than on the floor of a tavern.”
    Martin hauled him bodily out of the chair and guided him into the night.

 5  The Road from Berea
    E RROL WOKE the next morning, his face pressed against the unfamiliar softness of bedding and his legs and feet warmed by a thick wool blanket. Martin had been right. He rose, pushing aside the unaccustomed covering. A draft raised gooseflesh on his skin, and he looked with longing back at the blanket, gave brief consideration to begging Berea’s priest for it. With a sigh, he dismissed the thought. The people of Berea and Callowford knew