“Good advice, my Lord,” a nervous Fulcris said. He was beginning to wonder how soon a caravan might be heading east and need a guard. Or north, or west either.
Or even south, right into the sea.
Abruptly Shafralain’s arms tightened. “Whoa,” he said, and turned-with stiff dignity-in the saddle to look back at the big man beside his daughter. After studying him for a moment, the noble asked, “Can you use that sword, foreigner?”
“Name’s Strick. From Firaqa.”
The two men gazed at each other, each maintaining a practiced serene look from wide-open eyes that each had learned obtained this or that result. The moment stretched on, with four people watching the lean, thin-moustached face of Noble
Shafralain with its high cheekbones and sculptured brows. Suddenly those features moved in a small smile.
“I was hoping you would answer my question. Can you use that sword, Strick of
Firaqa?”
Stick shrugged and made a depreciatory gesture. “When I must.”
“Until we know more about the situation in my city,” Shafralain said, “we shall not be going to the Golden Oasis or anywhere else save our home. My family and I can not stoop to giving aught to scum who demand ‘protection’ money with crossbows. I would like to double what you gave that scum if you would ride with us, Strick ofFiraqa.”
Strick nodded.
“Good, then. Let us-“
“Perhaps you could change a few of these Firaqi coins for me,” Strick said, just as Shafralain started to turn back to face front. “Collector’s items for you, and I attract less attention as a foreigner. If we exchanged ten for ten, I believe I’d owe you a difference; a few coppers.”