Alistair spent the next three nights discovering that the cobblestones of Ponteverde were considerably harder than the mud of his old pigsty. He had slept under bridge arches where the dripping water marked the hours, on stairways that reeked of sour wine, and, finally, in an abandoned stable where the scent of rotting hay brought an unwanted nostalgia.
– I'm developing a truly intimate relationship with urban architecture – he muttered, trying to straighten his back, feeling every vertebra protest. – If this continues, I'll be able to distinguish every innkeeper by the taste of the mud at their front door.
At dawn on the third day – the day when fate, or a lack of sense, would lead him back to Roderick – Alistair felt that familiar chill on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the morning mist. He felt he was being followed, but the figure kept its distance, moving between fish crates and the shadows of the eaves. Alistair decided to ignore it, maintaining his relaxed pace.
If it's an assassin, he thought, adjusting the vest that now felt like a second skin of filth, I hope he has more style than he looks to have. A bit of poison in a gold chalice would be preferable to a blunt dagger in a muddy alley.
Entering a street so narrow the roofs seemed to touch, Alistair stopped suddenly. He leaned against the damp stone wall and crossed his arms over his chest, letting out a theatrical sigh that echoed in the morning silence.
– You can stop this dance – he said, loud and clear. – I'm warning you now: I've no coins to give you, no secrets worth your time, and no patience to last until noon. If you intend to kill me, do it quickly, for I've an appointment and I detest being late.
There was a stifled gasp. The follower, caught off guard by the abrupt halt, tripped over his own feet and tumbled forward, landing heavily in the mud at Alistair's feet.
It was then that he could see it wasn't a master of death sent by the brotherhood of the bone, but rather the mischievous boy from the river. His face was dirtier, his clothes had more patches than original fabric, but the look remained the same: cunning, hungry, and as slippery as an eel.
Alistair arched an eyebrow, an ironic smirk appearing on his face.
– Ah! My travelling tailor – he remarked, observing the miserable figure on the ground. – I see you're still prospering in the second-hand clothing industry. Have you come to measure me for a new set of rags, or merely to admire how well this vest sits on a man of my standing?
The boy, realising he'd been found out, tried to scramble up and bolt in a fit of desperation, but Alistair was faster. With an agility that surprised even himself, he snatched the boy by the collar of his patched tunic before he could take a second step.
– Where are you going in such a hurry, little rat? – Alistair asked, holding him suspended with surprising ease. – We have so much to talk about… and you owe me, at the very least, an explanation for this sudden obsession with my shadow.
The boy thrashed like a fish out of water in Alistair's grip until exhaustion made him yield. He looked up with eyes that were too large for a face hollowed by hunger.
– My name is Lucius – he hissed, his voice pitched high like someone who has already learned that the world is made of teeth and claws. – I stole what I stole because the belly understands nothing of laws, and I followed you because… because you looked like the sort of man who can survive things that would kill normal people. I thought if I followed you, the crumbs you left behind would be better than nothing.
Alistair eyed him from top to bottom with a cynical gaze, letting out a sigh that reeked of disdain and fatigue.
– Survive? Lucius, my little worm, I'm not surviving; I'm merely postponing the inevitable with refined sarcasm – Alistair replied, tightening his grip on the boy's collar slightly. – Your plan doesn't show courage; it only shows persistent incompetence. If you want a shadow to shelter under, you've picked one that's about to get stabbed.
The boy let out a dry laugh that sounded more like a choke.
– Incompetent? I know things you and your friends are sniffing around for like hounds. I know who the men with the mark are.
Alistair froze. The mocking tone vanished from his voice, replaced by a coldness that seemed to emanate from the very metal of his rusted sword.
– Speak, then, before I decide your tongue is an unnecessary weight for your head.
– They call themselves the Mad Dog Brigade, but they aren't simple highwaymen who bolt at the first sign of guards. They say they're shadows of the past: old soldiers who forgot their oaths, deserters from wars no one wants to remember, and mercenaries kicked out for being too cruel. They're organised like a war company, with sergeants and captains.
Lucius leaned forward, his tone now a conspiratorial whisper.
– And they don't sleep under the stars like beggars. They say the Brigade has a small fortress hidden in the heart of the woods, somewhere between Verdejante and Boschetto. They built it over old ruins, or perhaps an old watch post that time forgot, and that's where they operate from.
Alistair let go of the boy's collar, letting him drop back into the mud. He looked at the grey sky, feeling the weight of the wax seal in his pocket suddenly become unbearable.
– Of course they have a fortress – Alistair commented to nothingness with a bitter smile. – Everyone who is truly dangerous has a fortress. It's practically a professional requirement, like having a scar on your eye or a horse that smells of death. All that was missing was for you to tell me they have a dragon in the cellars to complete the picture. Tell me something: how does a gutter rat like you know the name of these people's company and the location of their fortress when even professional scouts can't find them? – Alistair enquired, tightening his fingers slightly on the boy's shoulder.
Lucius didn't try to run, but his eyes darted like caged birds.
– I run errands for whoever pays copper – the lad replied, his voice low and hoarse. – I deliver messages, I clean boots, I serve wine. People think kids don't have ears, or that our tongues don't know how to form words, but you hear a lot when you're invisible, master, and I learned early on that speaking little is the only way to keep hearing the next day.
Alistair narrowed his eyes. Mistrust was a bitter taste in his mouth, but there was a precision to the boy's words that didn't smell of tavern lies. It's easier to watch a problem when it walks in front of you than when it bites your heels, he thought, deciding the boy would be his shadow for a while longer.
– Are you a knight? – Lucius asked suddenly, looking at Alistair's rusted sword with a hint of hope that bordered on the pathetic.
Alistair let out a short, dry laugh, devoid of any joy.
– A knight? – he repeated. – No, Lucius, I never received the holy oils nor swore to protect the innocent. I've been mistaken for many things in this life: a third-rate mercenary, a first-rate liar… and, for a good part of my youth, a pig… but I can assure you the pig had a simpler life and, quite possibly, a more balanced diet.
Moments later, as they walked, the burnt mill emerged through the mist like the skeleton of a colossal beast. The blackened oak beams pointed to the sky like accusing fingers. Inside, the smell of damp ash and mould was suffocating. Roderick, Marcus, and two other mercenaries waited in the shadows, hands never far from their steel.
Alistair reported what Lucius had told him, his voice echoing softly against the charred stone walls. When he spoke the name 'Mad Dog Brigade', the silence that followed was heavy.
– The lad's right – Roderick confirmed, his face carved by the shadows of the beams. – I've heard that name whispered in dark corners. They talk of caravans that enter the woods and never come out, and of local officials buying new horses and expensive silks with gold that doesn't come from their pay.
Marcus, leaning against a broken millstone, was picking a tooth with the tip of a dagger.
– Boschetto," Marcus murmured. – That village has vital trade links with the northern mines. If the Brigade has a fortress between Verdejante and Boschetto, they're sitting right on the jugular of the region's trade. It's the perfect route to move whatever was in those barrels without the local guard ever laying eyes on them.
– We aren't an army – Roderick pointed out, observing the mill ashes beneath his boots. – We haven't the men to storm stone walls or challenge archers on battlements, but we need to know if this fortress exists and if the Brigade is just a pack of curs or an organised pack of wolves. But we only go to gauge the scale of the threat, nothing more.
Alistair, leaning against a charred beam, watched Lucius. The boy moved through the corners like a rat, passing Roderick's mercenaries as if he were made of smoke and air.
– He has a natural talent for social invisibility – Alistair remarked, arching an eyebrow. – It's a blessing. Most people need a leather cloak and years of training to be so ignored, and he only needs to exist.
Roderick fixed his icy gaze on Alistair, then on the boy, and back again to his most troublesome mercenary.
– Why did you bring a kid here, Alistair?
– I didn't bring him, captain – Alistair replied, spreading his arms in a gesture of helpless surrender. – He simply appeared. That's how all the worst stories begin: with a stranger at the door or a kid who refuses to starve to death somewhere else.
After long minutes of discussion, the plan was drawn up with the precision of a hangman. Alistair would set off north within two days with no sword in sight and no leather vest. He would go only with his worn clothes and his sharp tongue, feigning to be a traveller down on his luck, a bard without music, or an heir to nothing, hunting for rumours between Verdejante and Boschetto.
– I'm going with you – Lucius declared. It wasn't a request, nor a plea; it was a dry statement, said with the confidence of one who has nothing left to lose. Alistair let out a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.
– Marvellous – he muttered to the blackened ceiling. – Apparently, my career has undergone a new and bizarre mutation. I've gone from incompetent mercenary to unpaid tutor for wandering orphans… the gods must be laughing so hard they can barely hold onto their lightning bolts.
As the other mercenaries abandoned the mill ruins, melting into the fog rising from the river, Alistair felt the small figure of Lucius beside him. He turned to the boy, and for the first time, there wasn't just sarcasm in his gaze, but the seriousness of one who knows the edge of the blade.
– Right then, lad – he hissed. – If you've truly decided to damn yourself by following me, learn the main rule now: when everything goes tits up, and believe me, in this business, it always does, walk with confidence, straighten your back, and stride as if you own the bloody road. It either scares people or confuses them enough not to kill you on the spot. In our case, either will do.