travelers—and one another—to find the precious jewel.
In the course of their searchings, they had uncovered many a thief and villain, and the trees along the borderlands were festooned with bodies since thievery was rewarded with hanging in those times. It was a heavy harvest.
But that did not worry our traveler. He boldly stepped up the line and had himself searched. He winked at one soldier with a steady eye and let them rip through the innocent seams of his coat. They even cored his apple and examined the pips. He thanked them for preparing his meal and waved as he walked through the orchard of ripe souls. He was careful not to run.
And when he got to the other side of the dark wood, where Dun D’Addin’s hill began, he smiled. Then he popped out the staring false eye into his hand; the real one had been put out in the war. He winkled the diamond from his eyesocket and, whistling, went to sell the jewel at an eye-catching price to the Fence-Who-Lives-On-The-Hill.
“Did he really?” asked the innkeeper, forced to use three words instead of one but still sure of the bargain.
“I knew a man with a blind eye once, but never a socket that could glitter like that,” said a listener. “And I’ve lived in Dun D’Addin all my life, high on it, as they say.” He slapped his thigh. He was a storekeeper by trade and a gambler by inclination and thus poor at both.
Jok smiled at the storekeeper, at the innkeeper, at the fat man awallow in the chair, and then at his newly filled glass, but did not answer. Instead he took a sip of his drink.
“That was a bit of a joke rather than a pointer,” said the florid fat man. “I expected more.” He signed again with his mutilated hand.
“Wounded in the war, sir?” asked Jok at last, staring at the hand without flinching.
“No,” said the fat man. “Caught it in my uncle’s till when I was but a boy. I’ve learned a lot since.” He smiled. “But I’ve come up on the hill, to the home of prosperous thieves, to learn more. So—what is your second point of roguery?”
Jok stared at the grotesque hand with the puckered knuckle in place of a nail. “Point two—the hand,” he said. “Fast and mobile and quicker than the eye.”
“Quicker than a fake eye?” called out a listener, a miller who had given false weight and been driven out of his town before settling atop Dun D’Addin’s hill. They all chuckled, ready to listen again.
Two: The Hand
There was a surgeon’s apprentice (continued Jok) who lined his pockets with the buying and selling of body parts. Hanged murderers, suicides buried at crossroads, and the pickings after battle were his stock in trade. He did not traffic in the appendages of steady husbands and faithful wives, but had a rather brisk business along the border of Dun D’Addin with the sawn-off limbs of felons, miscreants, and malefactors.
Who bought these parts? For the most, it was alchemists and devil’s worshipers, trespassers in the forbidden zone. I do not think he asked, nor would they have answered him. What he did not know could not hurt, was his motto. His was a grisly but profitable trade.
It happened late one night when he was applying his singular skill and saw to the body of the late and unlamented Strangler of Hareton Heath, a corpse that had one leg shorter than the other because—it was said—he had lived so long on Dun D’Addin’s hill. There came a loud knock on the door, a veritable drumroll of knuckles.
Startled, the surgeon’s apprentice cried out.
“Who is there?” His voice was an agony of squeaks.
“Open in the name of the king’s own law,” came the call.
It was, of course, too late to hide the evidence of his night’s work for that was spilled all about him. And there was no denying his part in it. Evisceration is a messy business; it leaves its own bloody calling cards. Gathering his wits about him—and leaving the late Strangler’s on the table—he donned his black coat and black hat, a
In the course of their searchings, they had uncovered many a thief and villain, and the trees along the borderlands were festooned with bodies since thievery was rewarded with hanging in those times. It was a heavy harvest.
But that did not worry our traveler. He boldly stepped up the line and had himself searched. He winked at one soldier with a steady eye and let them rip through the innocent seams of his coat. They even cored his apple and examined the pips. He thanked them for preparing his meal and waved as he walked through the orchard of ripe souls. He was careful not to run.
And when he got to the other side of the dark wood, where Dun D’Addin’s hill began, he smiled. Then he popped out the staring false eye into his hand; the real one had been put out in the war. He winkled the diamond from his eyesocket and, whistling, went to sell the jewel at an eye-catching price to the Fence-Who-Lives-On-The-Hill.
“Did he really?” asked the innkeeper, forced to use three words instead of one but still sure of the bargain.
“I knew a man with a blind eye once, but never a socket that could glitter like that,” said a listener. “And I’ve lived in Dun D’Addin all my life, high on it, as they say.” He slapped his thigh. He was a storekeeper by trade and a gambler by inclination and thus poor at both.
Jok smiled at the storekeeper, at the innkeeper, at the fat man awallow in the chair, and then at his newly filled glass, but did not answer. Instead he took a sip of his drink.
“That was a bit of a joke rather than a pointer,” said the florid fat man. “I expected more.” He signed again with his mutilated hand.
“Wounded in the war, sir?” asked Jok at last, staring at the hand without flinching.
“No,” said the fat man. “Caught it in my uncle’s till when I was but a boy. I’ve learned a lot since.” He smiled. “But I’ve come up on the hill, to the home of prosperous thieves, to learn more. So—what is your second point of roguery?”
Jok stared at the grotesque hand with the puckered knuckle in place of a nail. “Point two—the hand,” he said. “Fast and mobile and quicker than the eye.”
“Quicker than a fake eye?” called out a listener, a miller who had given false weight and been driven out of his town before settling atop Dun D’Addin’s hill. They all chuckled, ready to listen again.
Two: The Hand
There was a surgeon’s apprentice (continued Jok) who lined his pockets with the buying and selling of body parts. Hanged murderers, suicides buried at crossroads, and the pickings after battle were his stock in trade. He did not traffic in the appendages of steady husbands and faithful wives, but had a rather brisk business along the border of Dun D’Addin with the sawn-off limbs of felons, miscreants, and malefactors.
Who bought these parts? For the most, it was alchemists and devil’s worshipers, trespassers in the forbidden zone. I do not think he asked, nor would they have answered him. What he did not know could not hurt, was his motto. His was a grisly but profitable trade.
It happened late one night when he was applying his singular skill and saw to the body of the late and unlamented Strangler of Hareton Heath, a corpse that had one leg shorter than the other because—it was said—he had lived so long on Dun D’Addin’s hill. There came a loud knock on the door, a veritable drumroll of knuckles.
Startled, the surgeon’s apprentice cried out.
“Who is there?” His voice was an agony of squeaks.
“Open in the name of the king’s own law,” came the call.
It was, of course, too late to hide the evidence of his night’s work for that was spilled all about him. And there was no denying his part in it. Evisceration is a messy business; it leaves its own bloody calling cards. Gathering his wits about him—and leaving the late Strangler’s on the table—he donned his black coat and black hat, a
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