After Strick had re-reopened the wound and treated it with wine-it stung-he rearranged and re-tied the bandage. “It will be fine in two days,” he said with casual confidence. “Won’t leave a scar, either.”
More like another week, and there will be a scar, Fulcris mused, but certainly didn’t say it. Instead: “Saying ‘thanks’ is getting to be a habit. What about putting some of that wine on the inside?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Fulcris filled the tin cup. Noticing that Strick asked no questions, he decided to emulate that, though naturally he wondered where the big fellow was from and why he’d come here. From how far, alone? He even managed not to volunteer his own business. After a couple of minutes he remembered: “Oh. You mentioned a favor.”
Strick looked at him, lowering his cup. The lines around his eyes, Fulcris thought, put the big man up in his thirties. Maybe forty, depending upon how much of his life he’d spent traveling. Fulcris was thirty-eight, but years of escorting caravans had lined his face so much that he could pass for forty-nine or fifty.
“I’d like to leave my horse here, along with the shield and saddle-sword.” His eyes gazed straight into Fulcris’s and his moustache writhed in a smile it concealed. “Don’t want to ride into a town looking like a dangerous man of weapons.”
“Who rode here alone, from… someplace that gave you an accent I can’t place.”
Strick shrugged. “True. Will you name me a charge for keeping my horse for a few days?”
“You looking for work as a-for weapon work? There’s a mere camp not too far from here, and another in the city.”