Oliver sat on Tobin's bed and wiped the long saber clean.
Alben tried several times to talk to him. Questions, little scraps of conversation, anything that might bring him closer to his prospective master. Oliver answered only that he needed to save his strength. Eventually the boy gave up. He picked stones from the floor, found a stick, and made a game for himself. Oliver let him. So long as he stayed in the shed, it didn't matter.
The sun sank beyond the hills on the western bank of the White Knife. When darkness filled the broken window, Oliver strapped on his breastplate, covered it with his coat, and slung the saber across his back.
“Come on.”
“Yes, Master!”
Alben dropped the stick and hurried to the door.
They followed the deserted passages to the outer harbor. Among the taverns stood a noisy two-story building. Alben pointed.
“The Fishhook. That's their gambling house. They'll all be there now. The boss as well.”
Oliver rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Go home. Whoever asks, you haven't seen me.”
He gave the boy two silver deer and walked toward the noise.
The saber felt right for a place like this: a long blade, room enough to use it, no open ground for men to scatter across.
* * *
The outer harbor was full of men with money in their pockets and little reason to keep it there. Ships brought sailors; cargo brought stevedores. Most were young men a long way from home, and the streets supplied cheap meals, ale, women, and gambling before loneliness could suggest anything more useful to do with their wages.
The Eelmen took their share.
They owned the Fishhook. After the day's work, their men came upstairs to report and collect their pay, then stayed to gamble, drink, and discourage anyone who thought a strong arm entitled him to cause trouble.
Broadmouth Rask sat in his carved chair and listened to another account of a quarrel with another gang. Before that, somebody had described cutting a debtor's hamstring. There was nothing interesting in any of it. Still, listening was part of being the boss. Even when he had nothing to say, sitting in this chair proved that the men reporting to him belonged to him.
“What happened to Raddan's catch?” he asked. “That fat fish from yesterday.”
The men looked at each other. At last a curly-haired youth spoke.
“Didn't you send them to find out about him, boss?”
“Did I?”
Rask rubbed his temples. Yes. Something like that.
Yesterday he had gone into the inner city, where Ser Darric had given him a dressing-down. He had come back and drunk too much. Then there had been news of a rich stranger, and Raddan had taken him to the child who had led the man around the silversmiths' street.
Rask had hit the boy himself.
Perhaps he had been heavy-handed. But the little bastard had refused him. Refused the boss of the Eelmen. What did he imagine his life was worth beside that sort of insult?
Still, he was only a child. Rask regretted it a little now. Tomorrow he would have somebody take him a couple of fresh fish. Build his strength back up. Once he was better, they could find him work. That would settle it.
Tomorrow. Tonight he wanted a woman, perhaps two, and some relief from the day's aggravation.
As for whether the boy lived that long, well. The Seven watch over him.
A crash and a chorus of screams rose from downstairs. A man stumbled into view on the steps.
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“Boss! Somebody's killing—Jemren and Dorren are dead! He's—”
Steel came through his chest. He reached for it, but it vanished before his hands closed, and he folded onto the stairs.
A tall man followed him up, soaked in blood, carrying a long saber.
“Which one's Broadmouth Rask?”
Everyone looked at the chair.
Rask swore.
“You, then. Sorry to turn up without an invitation. I hadn't time to find a proper gift.” The stranger stepped into the room and tossed something onto the table. “Perhaps this will do.”
Blackfist Rauk's head rolled to a stop in front of Rask.
His best fighter. Rask pulled back before he could stop himself.
“Who are you?” He made his voice steady. “What have I done to offend you?”
The stranger kept walking.
“This morning, men calling themselves the Eelmen tried to rob me. And my new servant was beaten to death in his bed. Either of those sound familiar?”
Raddan. Useless bastard. No money, no report, and now nobody here to take the blame. What was the point of being boss if everything came back to him?
“I think there's been a misunderstanding.”
The saber swept across the table. Two men threw up their arms, and the blade took them off.
Oliver had come close enough to reach all six men before he struck. Rask trusted nobody with a weapon in these meetings; the men upstairs were less dangerous than the ones below. Oliver put one hand on the unsharpened lower blade and shortened his grip. Now he could turn it in the cramped room, thrust, recover, and strike again without fighting its length.
When nobody else remained standing, the window was open and Rask was gone.
Outside, the gang leader landed badly. His ankle cracked beneath him. Pain drove him to the ground, but he dragged himself up and tried to run.
Oliver was in front of him.
“My lord.” Rask swallowed. “I was wrong. I shouldn't have sent them. I'll pay. Whatever you lost, twice as much. Ten times. Just let me live.”
Oliver touched the torn sleeve on his right arm.
“Look at that. Hurt my sword arm. I've killed your brothers, and you won't even try?”
Rask managed a crooked smile.
“Brothers? I'm an only child, my lord. Do you know Ser Darric?”
His hand moved behind him toward his dagger. Oliver cut his throat before it reached the hilt.
Rask fell, clutching his neck. Oliver watched him struggle until he stopped, then searched him. A handsome dagger, gold ornaments, a few gold and silver coins. He took them.
The gamblers were coming back, with city guards and spears among them.
Oliver looked toward the corner where he had left Alben. Nobody there. Relief came with a shabby little thought: he hadn't broken his promise. The boy had failed to take his chance.
He sheathed the saber and ran for the docks. At the water's edge he jumped, leaving his pursuers a brief glimpse of him before he went under.
* * *
He stayed submerged until his lungs would bear no more. When he surfaced, the harbor was a dim shape behind him.
Something slipped out of his clothes and bobbed on a wave. The wooden duck.
Oliver reached after it, then stopped. The breeze carried it beyond his hand. Let it go. Out here nobody would break it for kindling, or grind it into the mud as something worthless. It could float where it pleased.
“Goodbye, little duck.”
Moonlight caught it on the water. Then the darkness took it.
Twenty minutes later he crawled onto a mudflat outside the walls.
He had told Rask the truth about the wound. There were others, cuts and punctures and even a bite, wherever the breastplate hadn't covered him. One man against a dozen in a building, no working magic to carry him through it: what had he expected?
Surprise had saved him. Killing the man who led the downstairs fighters in the first attack had shaken the rest. Without that, he might have killed a few and fled. He was fleeing anyway. Getting the man who had beaten Tobin was more than he had been entitled to expect; paying for it seemed reasonable enough.
He walked inland for over an hour. Cold seawater clung to his clothes, blood ran from his wounds, and the road shifted under his feet. At the turn outside town, Kellan was looking anxiously into the dark.
“Hey, lad.”
Oliver fell facedown before he could say anything else.
* * *
Thirst woke him. He lay still at first, listening. Horses. Nothing threatening. When he opened his eyes, a straw mat hung above him and bundles of hay stood beside him. Kellan slept against one of them. Somebody had bandaged his wounds.
“Kellan.”
Even that thin croak woke the boy.
“Master!”
“Where are we?”
“A farmer's stable. Bellwick.” Kellan leaned closer. “The inn wouldn't let us stay after you were hurt by the robbers. Afraid of trouble. This family took ten coppers for the stable.”
Robbers. So they were unfortunate travelers now, with nowhere else to go. Oliver could hardly complain about his pupil's quick thinking.
“How long?”
“Since you fell? Most of the night. It isn't dawn yet.”
Most of a night lost to this frail body. Oliver tried to rise.
“We need to leave.”
Kellan protested. He had never seen his teacher suffer so much as a scratch before; now the bandages were everywhere. Surely riding would make it worse.
Oliver cared less about that than about whoever might come looking for him. The Eelmen, their patron, anyone who could trace him to this house. He had involved one Tobin already.
He bound his wounds again. In the first gray light, they left quietly with their luggage and three horses.
The road divided outside Bellwick. Oliver couldn't read either sign and asked Kellan what they said.
“Left takes us south. King's Landing. That's ours.”
“And the other?”
“North. Winterfell.”
“That one.”
“But we've been trying to get to King's Landing.”
“And telling everybody in White Harbor about it.” Speaking scraped his throat. “We asked about ships all over the docks. If anyone's after us, they can wait there or watch the southern road.”
He looked along the way north.
“Perhaps nobody's coming. I'm in no state to find out.”