Here.”
His gesture indicated the interior of his tent; the flap was open and fastened back.
Strick glanced back to see the two men, swords sheathed, heading toward the city’s wall. He nodded. “Saw it all. Noticed the arm.” Ducking his head, he entered.
“Uh-huh. You notice a lot, don’t you.”
“Only one of ’em was dangerous. I never glanced at the other. He cot that: contempt. When I called, you kept your eyes right on them. You know what you’re doing, Fulcris. Might want to be careful, in Sanctuary.”
“Cot” was “caught,” Fulcris realized. “You too! They don’t like either of us, now. Here you go.” Fulcris started to pass Strick the cloth-wrapped water skin, then changed his mind. He decanted cool water into the tin cup he had carried for years. The cup showed it. “You didn’t think I was a ‘mean-lookin’ criminal’?”
Strick shrugged. He drank, uttered the predictable “ahh,” and drank some more.
“I wanted to interrupt and that was something to say. Didn’t want to come galloping and embarrass you. Let’s see about that arm.”
“It’s all right.”
“Wouldn’t have started leaking if it was all right. Clotted now. Hmm.” Strick had pushed up the other man’s sleeve and bent a little closer to peer at the wound. “Spear cut. Not one of those two?”
“No. Little trouble just this side of Aurvesh, four days ago. Six idiots thought we looked attackable and played bandit. Two of them got away. One of the dead ones gave me this. It’s all right.”
“Looks all right. Give me some wine, though, so I can give you a sting.”