The King's Justice by Stephen R. Donaldson

into Dark Enduring’s agony.”
    To an extent, Black believes her. He does not doubt that she will hurl her lamps and lanterns at him, as many as she can reach. He does not doubt that her aim will be good. But he also knows that he will not burn. His cloak and his shaping will ward him. Still he seeks to calm her. If she acts against him, her house will become conflagration. He will be forced to rescue her. He may be forced to find aid for her before he can resume his purpose.
    In his mildest tone, his softest silk, he asks, “Who speaks of evil? I did not.”
    â€œBlackguard,” she snaps. As her fright fades, her bitterness grows. “Do you think to confuse me? I know you. You are the canker that rots the heart of this town. You do not speak of evil
now
. You are too cunning for that. But you did
then
. You were not so bold to say it to my face, but you said it. You said it behind it my back, a gods-fearing woman’s back. You said it and did not admit your wrong. You did not ask my forgiveness.”
    Sweat gathers on her brow. It trickles into her eyes. But she does not blink it away. It is not sorrow or regret. It is an old woman’s trembling fury.
    â€œIf you had said it to my face, I would have told you that I see as clearly as you, indeed I do. And I have a clearer sight of myduty. There
was
evil in him then. He was a wicked boy, cursed son of a cursed father. Did you think me blind to it? But there is no evil
now
. With my own love and my own strength, I ripped it from his heart after his father forsook us. With punishment and prayer, I drove it out.
Out
, do you hear me? I scarred him with my love until he had no room in him for evil.
    â€œHe is a good man
now
.” She smacks her lips in satisfaction, but does not ease her clutch on her shawl. “A good neighbor with a good living. A kind man who aids the less fortunate. A hard-working man who provides for his gods-fearing mother, his lonely mother, his blind mother. He cares for her with the diligence of a priest.
    â€œWhen he catches you, he will drive you from the house. He will drive you to your ruin. When he is done with you, you will beg me on your
knees
for forgiveness”—quavering, she summons the fullness of her anger—“
and I will not give it
.”
    Black has heard enough. Such men as Haul Varder do not spring from the earth. They are shaped much as Black himself has been shaped, though by different means. If his purpose and his circumstances permit it, Black will take pity on Haul Varder, for surely the wheelwright’s mother did not.
    Tracing a pattern across his chest with one hand, Black grips the edge of his cloak with the other. “He will not catch me,” he assures the old woman. “I will catch
him
.”
    Then he swings his cloak in a sweeping gesture that extinguishes every light in the house. When the woman begins towail, he turns his back on her, strides outside, and leaps for his horse. At a gallop, he rides in pursuit of his quarry.

    H e cannot gallop when he enters the forest. The trees are thick, and the day’s light becomes dusk quickly among them. If he turns aside until he comes to the road, he will make better haste. Nonetheless he stays within the woods, following the scent of Haul Varder’s crimes. He is on a track the wheelwright has taken many times. It will lead him to his destination. Trusting his horse to give him as much speed as it can, he sharpens his senses so that errant breezes or undiscovered corpses will not urge him astray.
    He expects an ambush. He knows nothing of the old man who calls himself Sought. He knows only what Kelvera has told him of the man’s bodyguards. It is possible that they are ignorant of him. They have come from a land far to the west, where the King’s mediation does not hold sway. Their ignorance may be complete. Yet Black thinks otherwise. He will be surprised if Haul Varder has not been in Settle’s