The Eyes of God by John Marco Page A

cleaning glasses with a rag, pretending not to be listening.
    “Who are you?” Aral whispered. “How do you know me?”
    “It’s not important,” replied the woman. She sat back and closed her coat, shutting away the amulet and its radiance. Instantly, Aral grew alarmed as reality snapped back into focus. He coughed, shaking his head, sure that the ale had sickened him. The woman was no longer staring. Instead she and her companion sipped their drinks, ignoring him. The woman made small talk, chuckling convivially. Aral loosened his collar. The room was very warm and he felt flushed. He tried to relax and catch his breath.
    “Barkeep,” called the woman. She banged her tankard on the table. “Another, please.”
    The proprietor drew another ale and brought it to their table. As he set it down, the woman said to him, “You have a nice place here.”
    “Thank you,” replied the man suspiciously.
    “Koth is very nice.”
    “Yes.” He shrugged. “It is nice here.”
    Aral couldn’t help but overhear their strange conversation. He toyed with his drink, pretending not to care.
    “Such a tragedy at the castle, though,” the woman continued. She spoke too loudly, deliberately raising her voice.
    The barkeep frowned. “Tragedy? What would that be?”
    “Hadn’t you heard? The castle has a new baby. One of the king’s servants gave birth just the other evening.” The woman shook her head as if it were the saddest thing in the world. “Deformed.”
    “Is that right? I wouldn’t know much about the castle folk.” The barkeep laughed. “They don’t come in here much! How do you know about it?”
    The woman slowly turned toward Aral. “Oh, I make it my business to know such things,” she said softly.
    The barman shrugged and strode away. Aral swallowed hard under the woman’s accusing gaze.
    “What are you staring at?” he demanded. His tone finally got the big man to stir. The woman held up a hand to keep her companion down.
    “No, Trog, it’s all right,” she said. Her expression lost all its prior grace, and her little mouth curled back in a snarl. “Like I said, I make it my business to know things about the children born around here. And I know what you did, Aral Vale.”
    Aral could bear no more. He rose from the table, shoving back his chair so hard that it tumbled over, and headed for the door. He was eager to be away from the bizarre woman, eager to escape her incriminating gaze. Pushing open the door, the night and its cold air swallowed him instantly. He took a deep, cleansing breath, then ran down the abandoned street, fleeing the Red Lion and its freakish patrons.
     
    Aral walked for an hour more, ignoring the chill and the lateness of the hour. A breeze blew down the avenue, sending bits of rubbish tumbling toward him, and the candles in the windows above had all been snuffed out long ago, lending the street an eerie stillness. In the distance, Akeela’s castle rose above the common housing, sending a moonlit shadow over the city. Aral considered the castle. He was sick with himself, sick with what he had done, and he thought about the words of the odd woman in the inn, and how a deformed baby had been born within the castle’s walls. An epidemic of bad luck had hit the city, apparently, and he wondered what the parents of the newborn felt. Rage? Enough to drive them to . . .
    “Forget it,” he growled. It was done, and he wouldn’t torture himself about it. It was time to go home.
    He rounded a corner and headed to the south side of the city, where he hoped to catch a carriage home to his farm. He was far too tired to walk the whole way again, and he had just enough money left to pay the fare. Moving quickly, he went the way most familiar to him, heading for the alley that would shorten his time. He was in a bleak part of Koth, where the buildings were close together and smelled of decay. As he reached the alley, the slime-covered walls of the structures rose up around him. He