Laird Thomas's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Thomas had one boot in the stirrup when he saw the beggar. The man crouched by the mill's water trough, wrapped in a sack coat, watching the winged unicorns the way a starving dog watches a butcher's door. His eyes moved from the horns to the reins to the hilt at Thomas's hip, and then, slower, to the two women beside the mounts. The ginger princess was closest, still turned toward the thin miller's daughter on the step. Her red hair caught the morning. She had no blade on her. Fancy Pants stood a pace off, one hand on her unicorn's neck, golden trousers dulled by road dust. She had already seen the beggar. She did not move. Thomas took his boot out of the stirrup. The beggar stood. He held a short whittling knife low against his thigh. He was thin enough that the knife looked heavy. He took one step toward the princess. "Wait," Thomas said. The beggar did not wait. He took another step. Thomas walked between him and the women. He did not draw. He pulled the coin purse from his belt and let it hang open in his palm so the man could see the silver inside. "You want the horses," Thomas said. "You can't ride them. You want the sword. You can't lift it long. Take the purse and eat for a month." The beggar's eyes flicked to the princess again. His knife hand twitched. "Look at me," Thomas said. "Not her." Behind him, Fancy Pants spoke, flat and quiet. "He's deciding." "I know." "Don't kill him." The princess did not speak. Thomas heard her breath stop. She had asked him once already, over another man, in another yard. He had not promised. The beggar lunged. Not at Thomas. Past him, at the princess. Thomas caught the knife wrist with his left hand and turned it down. The blade went into the dirt. He drove his knee into the beggar's ribs and the man folded. Thomas pinned the wrist under his boot and did not draw his sword. He pressed the purse into the beggar's free hand. "Go east. Don't come back to this yard. If I see you again I won't stop at the ribs." The beggar took the purse. He ran, one arm across his side, and did not look back. Thomas picked up the whittling knife and drove it point-down into the trough's rim. His hands were steady. That surprised him. The princess touched his sleeve. "Thank you." "Don't." He would not be thanked for the one he did not kill. Fancy Pants was already at the mill door, speaking low to the thin woman inside. She turned back with a folded scrap of paper in her fingers. "She says the oracle left a track," Fancy Pants said. "A boy saw it. He wants coin to say where." Thomas looked at the empty purse hook on his belt, turned something low, the ward provided, the purse was instantly replenished with gold coin, he tucked it away discreetly, and said, "Let's find him. I can cover the coin."