#measly and thrush are here too

[leather-field]

Assorted patho stuff

[the-pen-pot]

A nod and a smile, the clink of coin -- too few, in Hans' opinion, but he was in no state to argue -- and the job was done. Really, it was no wonder so many turned to poaching. Peasants at least probably did it to fill their bellies, but was there a decent living to be made in it if you could avoid the noose. Not enough to become wealthy, perhaps, but adequately profitable that Hans was truly starting to believe his plan would work.

The tailor clucked and complained over the hides, but he handed over his money after haggling hard enough to make Hans sweat. Back home, merchants fell over themselves to be the ones to serve him. Here, it was an entirely different story. There was a distinct air of superiority from the townsfolk, as if they were doing him a charity by even deigning to trade with him. It was enough to make him fantasize about riding back into town upon a splendid horse, dressed in his absolute best, just to watch them all grovel.

He was so lost in his daydream that he almost overlooked the grey mare hitched to the picket outside the Rathaus. Of course, it would be an easy mistake to make. She was a tired old nag of no particular breeding; he only looked twice because he recognised her.

'Pebbles?'

Hans gaped stupidly at Henry's horse, taking in the cracked saddle and the bridle that had definitely seen better days. She clearly had a rider, and his belly burst into a thousand anxious butterflies as he heard a very familiar voice making a promise to the bailiff. They were in the courtyard, from the sounds of it, tucked out of sight of the main road, yet their words carried.

'I'll see if I can get the bandits to clear off, sir.'

'You, lad?' The doubt in Bailiff Thrush's voice was far from flattering, and despite himself, Hans bristled at the implied criticism of Henry's skills. 'Are you sure?'

'Aye, sir. It shouldn't be any trouble.' 

Was it his imagination, or was there a vein of uncertainty in Henry's tone?

'Very well. Come back to me when you're done.' There was the sound of one man clapping another on the shoulder: a clink of chainmail. 'There's coin in it if you can bring me proof that they're -- ah -- no longer a problem.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The scuff of footsteps sent Hans into a flurry of panic. Before he could so much as think, he ducked into the narrow space between two houses, pressing his back to the wall as he hid himself away. It was one thing to ask after Henry's welfare, which it turned out had been unnecessary, but quite another to actually run into him. Especially now, when he had nothing to show for himself. Stolen gear, a few measly groschen and a distinct lack of hygiene were nothing to brag about, whereas Henry, it seemed, was doing business with the God damn bailiff!

'Here you go, old girl.' There was the sudden familiar crunch of a horse relishing a carrot, and Hans sucked in a breath before risking a glimpse from where he had ferreted himself away.

He was not sure what he had imagined: Henry, resplendent, landing on his feet the same as always, he supposed. Instead, he saw a man dressed in a hodgepodge of armour: a rusty hauberk and a dented kettle hat, the straps swaying loose beneath his chin. His padded chausses had more than one patch to their name, and his shoes were the same ones he had been blessed with at Bozhena's. The sword that hung from his belt, at least, looked to be of reasonable quality, though a far cry from the longsword he'd wielded when they rode out of Rattay.

God alone knew where he had got the armour, such as it was. More than one piece looked as if it had been rotting in a grave prior to adorning Henry's back. Perhaps its true origins were not quite so macabre, but if a soldier turned up in that at Rattay, Captain Bernard would have a conniption. He had to admit it was a small improvement from thin linen and little else, but it seemed that perhaps Henry was struggling as much as Hans himself. 

Maybe even more so.

A sneak peak at Chapter 5 of From Fortune's Wounds 👀