Chapter 6: Whose Cloak

"I haven't cursed anything," Naho said, in the rain, in front of the whole square. "I've only been given a spoon."

"The sword went dull the moment you took the spoon," Alric had said.

"The sword went dull when you said you built a wall."

There was a murmur, and the guildmaster stopped trying to hold the silk rope up.

Brant stepped in to end it, and ended it by sending the entire column to the inn.

The inn's common room smelled of wet wool and onions.

The soldiers took the benches along the walls, and the town's old men took the fire.

Alric stood in the middle of the floor with water running off his tabard and Dawnbrand hanging from his hand.

Naho had been doing sums since the gate.

Three claims, three failures, on the steps.

One claim about the tonic, and his boots opened.

One claim about the wall, and the sword lost its edge.

Five claims, five failures, none of them in the same place twice, and none of them when he had stayed quiet.

She did not like a pattern she had not tested.

"I can prove it isn't me," she said. "Will you answer some questions?"

"I've nothing to hide," said Alric, and a few soldiers coughed.

"Who made your boots?"

"The cobbler, in Highwell. He's called... it's stamped inside."

He turned a boot over and read the stamp aloud. "It's a good boot. He did good work."

Nothing happened.

The boot stayed a boot.

Naho checked the stitching, and went on.

"Who made your tonic?"

The common room waited.

Alric's mouth worked, and the room heard him choose.

"Sella Brindle," he said. "Mixed at her own fire."

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