‘I’ve a notion I might not be smart to hear more.’ One-Thumb laid his mutilated
hand on Cappen’s shoulder. ‘Care to get drunk? On the house. I’ll have to take
your money or the rest will want free booze too, but I’ll return it tomorrow.’
‘No, I – I thank you, but – but you’re busy, and I need someone I can talk to.
Just lend me a lantern, if you will.’
‘That might attract a robber, fellow, what with those fine clothes of yours.’
Cappen gripped swordhilt. ‘He’d be very welcome, the short while he lasted,’ he
said in bitterness.
He climbed to his feet. His fingers remembered to gather the coins.
Jamie let him in. The Northerner had hastily thrown a robe over his massive
frame; he carried the stone lamp that was a night light. ‘Sh,’ he said. ‘The
lassies are asleep.’ He nodded towards a closed door at the far end of this main
room. Bringing the lamp higher, he got a clear view of Cappen’s face. His own
registered shock. ‘Hey-o, lad, what ails you? I’ve seen men pole-axed who looked
happier.’
Cappen stumbled across the threshold and collapsed in an armchair. Jamie barred
the outer door, touched a stick of punk to the lamp flame and lit candles,
filled wine goblets. Drawing a seat opposite, he sat down, laid red-furred right
shank across left knee, and said gently, ‘Tell me.’
When it had spilled from Cappen, he was a long span quiet. On the walls
shimmered his weapons, among pretty pictures that his housemates had selected.
At last he asked low, ‘Have you quit?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ Cappen groaned.