At sunrise they walked Fesk two miles down a side mule-track where an old alum seam opened into a sheltered hollow. A low stone hospice stood beside the settling ponds, kept by three grey-habited sisters who treated quarrymen’s crushed fingers and rock-dust lungs.
Before they reached the hospice gate, Ysabet counted out two of the four silver temple advance-coins from Fesk’s own belt pouch and handed them to Osha to pay the sisters for ten days of clean straw, broth, and fresh linen dressings. Chaska poured the ivory gambling counters back into the leather pouch and tucked it into Fesk’s dry left pocket.
At the stone wall outside the courtyard, Ashaun lifted the confiscated bow and its quiver of broadhead bolts onto her right shoulder. Then she looked down at Fesk’s feet, where the thick, fleece-lined winter boots had come unlaced during the climb up from the canyon ledge.
Fesk followed her gaze and grimaced, bracing himself to hop into the hospice barefoot across the frost. “Go on, then,” he muttered. “Take the leather too. Good mountainhide fetches four copper in Kesh.”
“Keep your boots,” Ashaun said flatly, kneeling with one knee on the gravel to pull the rawhide laces taut around his ankles with her right hand so he would not trip on the cobbles. “A man with one working hand and no boots freezes on the high road before he reaches the valley, and I have no use for your toes. The bow stays with me.”
