Chast could not unsee the men in chains. Nor could he fool himself into imagining their fate was anything other than the obvious. As a frequent traveler, the old trader had long been well aware of the rebellion, but it did not do for business to mention it. Even expressing knowledge of the rebellion’s existence would have been a death knell to the most profitable aspect of his business. Traders sometimes spoke of it among themselves, but Chast avoided even these conversations, as Island spies were everywhere and it didn’t hurt to be too cautious.

-No, he said across the thick slab of unstripped oak that served as bar top in Winthrop. I don’t suppose I’ve got any idea of it.

-Come now, the stranger said. Let’s not be that way.

The stranger had sat down next to Chast some time earlier in the evening, to which the old trader had no particular issue. He wasn’t picky when it came to his drinking. As long as folk minded their business. This stranger wasn’t abiding by the latter rule.

-I’m not being any particular way, friend.

-You mean to tell me you’ve not a clue what I’m talking about. You’re being entirely sincere? Because I don’t believe you.

-Believe whatever you like.

The stranger brought his face closer to Chast’s, turning on his bar stool and looking resolutely at the side of the old trader’s face, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. Chast had seen the man come in. Tall, young, swaggering. He had a shadow on his cheeks the girls would go wild for, and boots big enough to store cupboards in.

-We could use men like you, he said quietly. Those with discretion. I bet you see a score of towns every season.

Chast made no reply but drained the rest of his ale from the mug.

-Will you not even favor me with a response, old man?

-A piece of advice, Chast said, turning to face the stranger for the first time. He put a condescending hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Be more careful. Not all old men in country tavern houses are as kind as me.

With that, he stood up, threw a few coins on the oak slab and made his way to the exit, his rocking gait causing an audible squeak in the wood shake floors.

-Coward! The stranger called after him, standing up from his stool. You’re naught but an old fraud.

Chast paused with one hand on the heavy door into the road, but he did not look back over his shoulder. He simply pushed open the door and went on his way.

Chast’s short leg came down awkwardly on a root and the old man went tumbling to the forest floor. He scraped his right palm on a handful of rocks and his left knee found another hard, unfriendly root. His eyes watered in pain as he struggled to get to his feet. Guilt and psychic pain mingled in a toxic brew anathema to forward progress. He sat up on his aching knees and looked into the middle distance. Nothing but the low-level gloom of a canopy beneath an overcast sky. There was an occasional flutter of leaves as a small creature made its way from branch to branch. In the low light, the dark green of broad leaves appeared black. It was amenable to the old trader’s mood.

Finally to his feet, plodding back along in his uneven gait, Chast made a decision. He was not going to be rash, but he wanted to have another look, follow the prisoners and their captors for a short way to see if there was ever a chance he could help those in chains. It was not impossible, he thought, that there would be a miniscule opening in which, if he acted creditably and swiftly, Chast could be the architect of a minor jailbreak. He turned once more to the East, chuckling to himself at the thought of his own travels on a map, of his red dotted line going East and then West and then back East again with no apparent motivation.

He pulled a piece of willow bark from his vest pocket with more relish, and somehow, beyond reckoning, it tasted less bitter this time.