But she had never seen anything like Gent: a prosperous cathedral city crammed with twice or three times its usual population, the refugees fled within the walls from the countryside, and living constantly on the edge of terror. Siege was an ugly business.
Now she walked through this chaos every day.
Mayor Werner was a vain man, spoiled by his mother and accustomed to getting his own way. He was overjoyed at the opportunity to have a King’s Eagle at his beck and call. In the evenings, Werner expected Wolfhere to attend him at the feasts he held every night. Werner was—reasonably enough—terribly impressed by Wolfhere’s age and knowledge and reputation as a man who had once been King Arnulf the Younger’s most favored counselor. So in the evenings Wolfhere could not question Liath about the life she and Da had led for the last eight years.
Liath made sure she came to Werner’s attention, and so during the day she waited on Werner and ran messages here and there within the walls of Gent. Most of the messages were pointless, but it gave her something to do—and it kept her out of Wolfhere’s way. She had many questions she wanted to ask Wolfhere, but as Da said, “Always measure the ground before you jump the stream.” She was not fool enough to think she could outwit Wolfhere and she did not yet feel confident enough to face him. So she avoided him.
But, running messages for Werner, she could not avoid the city. This day she felt an undercurrent of madness running like ground lightning through the streets. On her way to the armory to get the daily count of swords forged and spears readied and to find out how their fuel was holding out, she had to shove her way along the plank walkways despite that she wore the red-lined cloak of a King’s Eagle. Folk crammed the streets, some of them carrying their earthly belongings on their backs as if they had no place to rest them. Others spoke, gesticulating, shouting, in pockets at corners or under the shelter of overhanging houses or bursting out of ale-houses.
“Make way!” she said, trying to force her way through a knot of men gathered at the corner of the marketplace. “I am an Eagle.”
“Cursed Eagle!” shouted one of them, lifting a staff threateningly. “You’re well fed enough, up there at the palace!” He was ragged and thin, stooped by hunger, but anger is its own food. And Liath became aware at once that his many companions, at his back, stared at her with hostile expressions. One fingered a knife.
“Come now, my friend.” Another man stepped forward, a stout artisan with smudged hands and a grim face. “This Eagle is but the King’s messenger. She is not responsible for the mayor’s faults. Let her by.”