“Of course. Just consider the tent yours while I take care of business. Have some more of that, if you want.”
“I don’t.”
I didn’t think so. Fulcris thought, and left the tent.
* * *
He was surprised, a couple of hours later, at sight of his new friend. Fulcris had seen him an hour ago, putting his stripped pack-animal into the temporary enclosure the cara-vaners had set up.
Now Strick’s tunic of drab, undyed homespun had given way to a considerably nicer one in medium blue wool. He had buckled on his sword again, an unremarkable weapon with a brass-ball pommel in a worn old sheath, but he had replaced his worn old belt with a newer one, black with a silvered buckle. Never mind the dagger. That was an everyday utensil no one saw as a weapon until one came at him. Strick’s was plain of handle and pommel. Merely utilitarian; a working man’s tool. The stained leather leggings were gone, replaced by snugly fitting cloth, dun-colored. What calves and thighs the man had! His light boots were medium brown, and well worn.
Aside from his bronze-red moustache and ruddy face, a quite drab man despite the handsome tunic of Croyite blue. He still wore that odd, napped skull-covering cap, too.
Jaunt stood nearby, saddled and bridled anew-with worn old leather that had been unremarkable even when new-and wearing a smaller version of the traveler’s pack.
Shield and the big sword were not in evidence.
“Left a few things inside,” he said, so quietly and half apologetically.
“Good,” Fulcris said, and introduced the wealthy man and the two women.