5/21/2023 0 Comments The Blacksmith by Barbara HoweI figure they want to brag that they’ve seen it and lived to tell. But even they don’t go to Quays unless they’ve been summoned, or got kinsfolk on trial. What’d you expect? They ain’t got as much sense as a donkey. We’ve had aristos complain that they’ve been to Quays and back, and never saw the damned thing. He said, With the fog, you should be safe enough going through Quayside. I could be in Crossroads with hours to spare. Capped with paving stones all the way from London, it was a fast, easy ride. It’s either the track over the hills-slow going and dangerous in the fog-or the road to Quayside.Įarth wizards kept up the Quayside Road, along the shore, as a favour to the Water Guild. But if you’re that hot to get there… He shrugged. To get to Crossroads, the ostler said, I’d go west, around the hills. The next morning, standing in the inn’s stable door with a grey wall of fog outside, I couldn’t avoid it. When the news he was dead reached me, a day and a half down the coast, I left my gear in the smithy, promised the master to be back inside a week, and rode north through low clouds and drizzle, too wrapped up in memories and worries to think much about the road. We buried my uncle the last week of August, the year after the Fire Warlock retired.
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