Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(39)

Ash had no stomach for killing thieves. He was hunting bigger game.

The blackbirds grew thicker as he neared the citadel gate. A line had formed there, seeking admission to the castle close. Ash merged into it. The southern sun was hot, even in this season, and Ash was grateful for the broad-brimmed hat he’d bought to cover his newly mud-dyed hair. The line crept along, processed through by a clutch of blackbirds and a long-nosed steward who checked off names on a list. Most people were being turned away.

When Ash reached the front of the line, the officer in charge demanded his name and business.

Ash kept his eyes on the ground so that his hat shaded his face. “Adam Freeman, healer, seeking work in the royal service, sir.” Ash touched the brim of his hat.

The steward scanned his list. “There’s no Adam Freeman on here,” he said. “As for the infirmaries, Master Merrill prefers to choose his own apprentices.”

“Of course,” Ash said. “If I could just speak with Master Merrill, perhaps he—”

“Do you have a letter of recommendation?” the steward demanded. “A diploma from the Temple School?”

“I’ve attended Spiritas, the healer’s school at Oden’s Ford,” Ash said, thinking that Taliesin would be unlikely to give him a recommendation just now. “I’ve not graduated yet, but I do have some skill with—”

“Merrill is a busy man,” the steward snapped, eyeing Ash’s bulging bags. “He does not have time to entertain every traveling herbalist who wants to see the big city. Perhaps one of the country estates would be better suited to your credentials. Or lack thereof.” He looked over Ash’s shoulder. “Next?”

One of the blackbirds gripped his arm, meaning to hustle him on, but Ash set his feet. He was not about to be turned away when he’d waited in line for so long. “What about the stables?” he blurted.

The steward shifted his eyes back to Ash. “What about them?” he asked in the manner of a man who had lost patience a long time ago.

“I meant, do you need help in the stables?”

“Make up your mind, boy,” the steward said. “Are you a healer or a muck-shoveler? Or both?” The blackbirds all snickered.

“I’m a healer of horses as well as people, and a farrier, too.” Ash patted his carry bag. “I do have a letter of recommendation from the stable master at Fetters Ford.”

The steward was already shaking his head, but one of the blackbirds spoke up.

“Lord Pettyman,” he said. “Marshall Bellamy was complaining last night that the regular farrier got kicked by a horse and now he’s got nobody until the man wakes up. If he ever does. Might be this one could fill in.”

Pettyman took another look at Ash. “What was your name again?”

“Adam Freeman.”

“Where are you from?”

“Tamron. But I’ve traveled to all parts of the Seven—of the empire.”

The steward heaved a great sigh. “Well,” he said in a foot-dragging way, “I suppose it couldn’t do any harm to let you talk to Bellamy. But if he says no, you will be on your way, understood?”

“Of course.”

The blackbird who spoke up was detailed to lead Ash to the stables. And, presumably, to boot him back out of the gate if the master of horse said no. As Ash passed through the outer gate into the bailey, the back of his neck prickled. He’d come there on purpose, but still—he couldn’t help but feel like a trap was closing around him.

As soon as he set foot in the stables, Ash could tell that it was well managed. The bedding was fresh, and the horses well fed, bright-eyed and alert, poking their heads out of their stalls as he passed by. The horse marshall was outside the granary, arguing with a tradesman.

“This is not what we agreed on,” Bellamy said. He opened his fist, displaying a handful of oats crawling with weevils. “You told me this shipment would be clean and free of chaff and straw and dirt. This looks like you scraped it off the floor.”

“This is the best I could find,” the broker whined. “You try and find quality feed anywhere in the empire. The army swallows it all up.”

“It’s your job to find it, not mine,” the marshall replied. “I paid a quality price, I should get quality grain. I wouldn’t feed this to my worst enemy’s dogs. Now take it away.”

The broker turned away, still muttering excuses.

“Lord Marshall,” Ash’s blackbird said, giving Ash a push forward. “This boy says he’s a farrier.”

“Does he now?” Bellamy looked Ash up and down. “Where have you worked before?”

“Oden’s Ford and Tamron, sir,” Ash said. Digging in his bag, he produced his letter of recommendation.

Bellamy scanned the page, then handed it back. “It sounds like you’re some kind of miracle worker,” he said drily. “If so, can you conjure up some good grain?”

Ash shook his head. “I wish I could, sir.”

“Well,” the marshall said. “Let’s have a look at your work. Come with me.”

When the blackbird made as if to follow, Bellamy put up his hand. “I’ll nanny this one,” he said. “I promise I’ll toss him back if he doesn’t suit me.”