“Yessir.”
Balustrus’ crutches scraped along the broken stone. Walegrin and Thrusher
flattened against the walls and let him pass. They’d never get the truth from
the metal-master, but the messenger was another matter. They crept around the
wall.
The stranger was dressed in dark clothes of unfamiliar style. He was adjusting
the stirrup when Walegrin fell upon him, wrestling him to the ground. Keeping a
firm hand over the stranger’s mouth and a tight hold on his arm, Walegrin
dragged him a short distance from his horse.
“What’ve we got?” Thrusher asked after a cursory check of the horse.
“Too soon to tell,” Walegrin replied. He twisted the arm again until he felt his
prisoner gasp, then he rolled him over. “Not local, and not Nisibisi by the
looks of him.”
The young man’s features were soft, almost feminine and his efforts to free
himself were laughably futile. Walegrin cuffed him sharply then yanked him into
a sitting position.
“Explain yourself.”
Terrified eyes darted from one man to the other and came to rest on Walegrin,
but the lad said nothing.
“You’ll have to give him a search, eh?” Thrusher threatened.
“Aye-here’s his purse.”
Walegrin ripped the pouch from the youngster’s belt, noticing as he did that the
youth carried no evident weapon, not even a knife. He did, however, have some
large heavy object under his jerkin. Walegrin tossed the purse to Thrusher and
sought the hidden object. It proved to be a medallion, covered with a foreign
seeming script. He had made nothing of the inscription before Thrusher yelped