As he watched and waited, the clip-clop of hooves preceded a mule cart driven up the Winding Way by a man hunched over the reins in his fists. The cart wheels creaked and wobbled as though the whole contraption was about to fall apart. The mule looked no better, underfed and swaybacked. The man reined the mule to a halt in front of the Cock and Hen. When he set the brake, he painstakingly climbed down from the cart. His limbs shook and jerked seemingly without control.

No sooner had he planted his feet on the ground than two toughs—not the two Amberhill had been awaiting, alas—appeared from around the inn’s corner. Among the rumors Amberhill heard, these two figured prominently, for they sought fights unbidden and robbed the weak. They’d probably been following the old man for some time, sizing up their prey. Considering the condition of mule and cart, it wouldn’t have been difficult for them to keep up.

“Hey, old man,” one said, sauntering up to the cart. “What you got to give us?”

“Go away,” the man said. “I’ve got nothing.”

The second tough peered into the cart. “Not much back here,” he said. “But look at this bow.” He withdrew a longbow from the cart.

“Leave that be!” the old man cried.

“What else you got?” the first tough asked.

“Nothing, I tell ye! Give me my bow.” He reached for it with a shaking hand, but the second tough held it just out of reach and laughed.

Amberhill saw the glint of a knife as the first one drew it from his belt.

“You got some coins, old man?” He waved the knife in the man’s face.

Amberhill knew these thugs would think nothing of killing the man for no other reason than it amused them, which just would not do, so he swept out from the close, his cloak billowing behind him. He drew his rapier in a movement as natural as breathing.

“Leave,” he said.

“Who’s this?” one of the toughs asked, unimpressed.

“I’ve told you to leave, but you do not listen.”

The thug opened his mouth to speak, but before any words crossed his lips, Amberhill’s rapier flicked across the back of his hand and the knife clattered to the street. The thug cursed and held his bleeding hand close. Amberhill pivoted just in time to knock a knife from the other man’s hand. He held the tip of the rapier to the thug’s throat.

“Return the bow to its owner.”

“All right, all right. Just watch it with that sword.” He handed the bow to the old man.

“Now leave,” Amberhill commanded. “If I catch you bothering this gentleman again, or anyone else, I shall be far less polite.”

This time the two listened and ran off down the street. The old man wiped his brow with a trembling hand. He gripped the bow so tightly with the other his knuckles turned white. Amberhill noted it was indeed a handsome bow, with graceful curves and intricate carvings decorating it.

“I ... I don’t know how to thank ye, sir,” the man said. His accent was of the west.

“No need to worry about it. Those two have been asking for trouble for some time.”

“Name’s Miller. Galen Miller.” He offered his hand and Amberhill shook it. It was a bowman’s hand and he was taken aback by the strength in it, despite the man’s apparent infirmity. Galen Miller then straightened; rose to his full height. He was tall and broad shouldered, but he could not control his trembling. He reminded Amberhill of an uncle of his who suffered from the shakes and declined over the years, his body deteriorating, his mind afflicted with senility, until eventually he wasted away, not at all resembling the proud, strong man he had once been.

“My pleasure to meet you,” Amberhill said, not offering his name in kind. “This is not the safest of neighborhoods to linger in after dark.”

“I’ve traveled a long way,” Galen Miller said. “Aye, a long way. I am lodging at this place.”

“Here?” Amberhill asked, thinking the accommodations very rough.

“It is the right place,” the man replied with conviction. He raised his gaze toward the roofline. “Aye, the right place.”

“If you find it not to your liking, these will help you find better.” Amberhill folded three silvers into the man’s hand.

Galen Miller’s eyes went wide. “Sir, I couldn’t! It’s too much.”

“It is but a trifle. A welcome for a traveler to the city.”

“Th-thank ye. This ... this means a great deal.”

Amberhill nodded, wondering how to gracefully conclude the conversation so he might slip back into the shadows and resume his vigil.

“You must try the bitter ale,” he said. “The inn is not the finest, but it has the best bitter ale in the city.”

The man nodded. “Thank ye again.” He glanced at the inn, and while his attention was diverted, Amberhill melted back into the concealment of the shadows. He watched Galen Miller turn around as though to speak to him, then scratch his head at his absence. With a quavering shrug, the old man folded into himself again before entering the Cock and Hen.

Amberhill smiled. He had not often gone out of his way to aid someone in need. He’d mostly been about helping himself, but after the debacle of Lady Estora’s abduction, something had changed within him. Maybe it was that he saw how one deed could affect others for good or ill. Maybe because he witnessed how the king’s Weapons and Green Riders—especially that G’ladheon woman—selflessly endangered themselves both out of duty and the desire to do the right thing. A part of him thought them mad, and another part of him thought them admirable.