A Flight of Ravens by John Conroe (books to improve english .TXT) 📕

“Most of them had no idea of what to do, but two of them stepped up when I was getting a beer at the bar.  They had a name, although they were mighty worried about saying it out loud.”

“Do you really have to drag this out?” Soshi asked.

He frowned at her.  “I’m a bard.  It’s what we do,” he said.  “Anyway, they say there is a newcomer in town.  Goes by Andru.  Just one name.  They thought the king should know about him.”

I looked at Freyla.  She was still frowning, but now it was more puzzled then annoyed.  “I know the name but he’s just a merchant.  Sells clothes, nothing fancy, just tough, simple stuff like dock workers and fisherfolk need. I’ve never heard even a whisper of suspicion about the man.”

“How long has he been in town?” I asked.

“A couple of years, maybe a bit less,” she said.

“Sylvanian?” Cort guessed.

“No,” Freyla said.  “You don’t think I watch every Sylvanian who enters this town?” she challenged him.

“Where’s he from?” I asked.

“Up north is all I know.”

“Mandrigo, then?” I pushed.

She frowned again.  “I can’t say for certain.  All I know is he refers to a home up north.  Could be Mandrigo, could be Monstshire; hell, it could be Drodacia for all I know.”

“You can’t tell if he’s Drodacian?” I asked.

“I’ve seen him twice.  He’s a short little troll of a man.  Ugly as sin.  But he minds his business, sells good quality work clothes to common people, and doesn’t seem to venture out.  Lives above his shop.”

I thought about her words.  Freyla was a Raven and despite that meaning she was a pain in my ass by definition, she was experienced and ran an important spy station.  The fact that she couldn’t identify his origin was worrisome.  I glanced at my crew.

“Drew, you’ve got a hole in your pants, right there at the knee.  Looks like we gotta shop for some new work clothes tomorrow.”

He looked down at the little worn spot on his work pants.  The tip of his little finger would just barely fit in the hole.  He suddenly pushed hard, and the sound of fabric ripping came as his finger pushed through the tear.  “Yup, right you are.  Time for some shopping.”

Chapter 25

The central marketplace for Porye was six blocks from the Lobster, a quick walk in the midmorning sunshine that was trying its best to dry at least some of the moisture from last night’s rain and mist.  Trying was the appropriate word because Porye’s ancient blackstone streets were almost uniformly covered in a finger’s-thick layer of filth that seemed equal parts mud, manure, and unidentifiable trash.

“Cap, you think you could drop a word with the princess?” Drew asked, his eyes on the filth squelching around his boots.  “This reflects badly on the kingdom.”

“It does seem as if the mayor is letting public sanitation slide, doesn’t it?” I said, noting an oil-fired streetlamp whose pole was leaning precipitously over the roadway it was supposed to illuminate.  The last time we had passed through Porye, maybe five months ago, it had been much cleaner and better kept than this. “Freyla mentioned that the mayor has become something of an up-for-bid kind of official.”

“Squaar-sh, turnips, and cabbage!” a barrow boy yelled out up ahead where the street widened to almost double, his hand-pushed load of vegetables just passing another boy whose own wheelbarrow was full of baskets of mussels, clams, and seaweed-packed lobsters.  Pop-up booths lined both sides of the central market, their vendors selling everything from fresh bread to roasted chestnuts to handcrafted goods of all sorts. White and gray gulls called out to each other as they wheeled and soared above the market, keen eyes looking for any scrap of food, unguarded booth or wagon, or even a pastry-munching pedestrian caught off guard.

“There,” Drew said, keeping his voice low.  I turned my eyes in the direction he was looking and spotted a wooden sign carved with the words Wearable Wovens.  It was tucked between a candlemaker’s shop and a tiny sliver of space barely twice the width of a man’s shoulders that contained a knife and tool sharpener’s business.

The clothing store had one wide window of good clean glass, as opposed to the candlemaker’s window, which was half boarded up.  Taking up most of the window display was a wool fisherman’s shirt hanging over a pair of canvas pants, both suspended with string from the ceiling of the shop.

I pushed open the door, triggering a crabshell rattle attached to its upper corner. A voice immediately called from the back of the shop, “I’ll be right with you.”

Without a word, we split apart, each moving down a separate row of stacked clothing, heads up and scanning for trouble.  Halfway through the shop, we passed the proprietor’s counter, which was abandoned, then one short display of simple yet warm cloaks before finding that the rear of the shop opened up into a sewing workshop.

The man standing behind a worktable, amidst numerous spans of thick cloth, shelves holding spools of thread, and racks of scissors, was stooped and elderly, with a thinning head of white hair, long white mutton chops, and a bushy grey mustache that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the end of a broom handle.  He had light grey eyes that looked up at us through a pair of actual spectacles, with real metal wire holding in the thick lenses.  He wore a workman’s apron and had a cloth measuring tape hanging around his neck.

“Oh, there you are. Right there,” he said in a surprised voice.

“Good day, good sir,” I said, studying the old man who looked nothing like Freyla’s description.

“Well, good day to you fine gentlemen,” he said, looking from me to Drew and back again.  I could see him trying to place our position in society, the same exercise that virtually all merchants go through with new customers.

We were both dressed in the worn