Ruthal

FROM THE MANUSCRIPT · READING EXCERPT

Enter the story

By the time Lott found the broken fastening, the freight-yard owner had described the missing Vorthdorn as stolen, vicious, and worth more than everything Lott possessed. The man had offered considerably less for its return.

Lott turned the fastening over in his palm. The metal had worn thin where the retaining pin passed through it, and the fresh break showed bright beneath a rim of old dirt. Someone had wound cord around the weakened joint. The cord had parted too, leaving a pale strand caught against the buckle.

“How long has this been like that?” he asked.

The owner stood beneath the shade cloth with his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of a saffron robe. “It was sound yesterday.”

“Yesterday it was tied together.” Lott held it out, but the man did not take it. Beyond him, a young handler kept rubbing the side of one thumb with the other. The rest of the yard had found urgent reasons to work within hearing distance. Two porters shifted the same stack of empty baskets, while a woman at the water trough scraped sediment from a channel that was already clean.

The handler said, “I told the morning foreman.”

“And he told you to watch the animal.”

Lott looked past them to the loading place. A drag mark ran diagonally across the dust, ending where the ground had been swept. One basket remained beside a post. Its lid had split, and pale stalks protruded from the opening. On the wall above it, a crooked line showed where the Vorthdorn's load had scraped the plaster.

“What was he carrying?”

“Reed matting. Two bundles, balanced.”

The handler opened his mouth, then closed it. Lott waited. From the street came the rattle of a handcart and a quarrel about who had the right to pass first. The sun had not yet cleared the roofs on this side of the yard, but warmth was already collecting under the cloth.

“One bundle was taken off,” the handler said at last. “Before they brought the second down. He moved when the basket fell.”

Lott set the fastening on the post. “Which way did he go?”

The owner pointed toward the street. “If we knew that, we wouldn't need you.”

“You know which gate he used.”

The handler pointed to a narrow opening beside the trough. Its lower hinge hung loose, and the wood bore a fresh scrape. Lott crouched by it. Beneath the confused prints of sandals and cart wheels, one broad hoof had pressed deeply into damp earth. A second lay farther out, shallower at its forward edge. The animal had not been running when it left the yard. It had been walking with an uneven load.

“Keep someone here with a sound halter,” he told the handler. “And clear the baskets away before I bring him back.”

“If,” said the owner.

Lott rose. “The price is still the price.”

He collected his Zhaldorn from the shaded wall outside. The charcoal hide was warm beneath the saddle straps, its darker markings almost lost in the morning shadow. Lott ran his fingers under the girth, checking for grit, and loosened it one hole before leading the mount into the street. The animal turned its head toward the trough behind them. “Later,” he said. It stood a moment longer, considering whether he meant it, then followed.

The broad prints continued through spilled wash water and vanished where the lane met a paved road. Lott stopped at the edge rather than choosing a direction. On the far side, a bread seller was laying round flat loaves beneath a strip of clean cloth. A boy beside her held a brush in one hand and a long reed in the other.

“A Vorthdorn come through here?” Lott asked.

The woman did not look up. “Several.”

“On his own. Matting over one side.”

She pointed with her chin. “He took the corner off my awning.”

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End of excerpt. This site presents a selection from the manuscript.