the animal in the hands of a kindly farmer with plenty of spare pasture.
He rode at a slow, plodding walk through the crowded streets, until he reached Two-Ox Gate. Passing through the archway's shadow, he collected the horse into a steady trot on the cobbled road, passing laden wagons and carts and the occasional Gadrobi peasant struggling beneath baskets filled with salted fish, flasks of oil, candles and whatever else they needed to make bearable living in a squalid hut along the roadside.
Once beyond the leper colony, he began scanning the lands to either side, seeking the nearest active pasture. A short distance on he spied sheep and goats wandering the slope of a hillside to his right. A lone shepherd hobbled along the ridge, waving a switch to keep the flies off. Murillio pulled his mount off the road and rode towards him.
The old man noticed his approach and halted.
He was dressed in rags, but the crook he carried looked new, freshly oiled and polished. His eyes were smeared with cataracts from too many years in the bright sunlight, and he squinted, wary and nervous, as Murillio drew up and settled back in the saddle.
'Hello, good shepherd.'
A terse nod answered him.
'I am looking for someone—'
'Nobody but me here,' the old man replied, flicking the switch before his face.
'This was a few weeks back. A young boy, up here collecting dung, perhaps.'
'We get 'em, out from the city.'
The furtiveness was ill-disguised. The old man licked his lips, switched at flies that weren't there. There were secrets here, Murillio realized. He dismounted. 'You know of this one,' he said. 'Five years old. He was hurt, possibly unconscious.'
The shepherd stepped back as he approached, half raised the crook. 'What was I supposed to do?' he demanded. 'The ones that come out here, they got nothing. They live in the streets. They sell the dung for a few coppers. I got no help here, we just working for somebody else. We go hungry every winter – what was I supposed to do?'
'Just tell me what happened,' said Murillio. 'You do that and maybe I'll just walk away, leave you be. But you're a bad liar, old man, and if you try again I might get angry.'
'We wasn't sure he was gonna live – he was beat up near dead, sir. Woulda died if we hadn't found him, took care of him.'
'And then?'
'Sold him off. It's hard enough, feedin' ourselves—'
'To who? Where is he?'
'Iron mines. The Eldra Holdings, west of here.'
Murillio felt a chill grip his heart. 'A five-year-old boy—'
'Moles, they call 'em. Or – so I heard.'
He returned to the horse. Lifted himself into the saddle and roughly pulled the beast round. Rode hard back to the road.
A thousand paces along, the horse threw a shoe.
The ox lumbered along at the pace of a beast for which time was meaningless, and perhaps in this it was wise indeed. Walking beside it, the man with the crop twitched its flank every now and then, but this was habit, not urgency. The load of braided leather was not a particularly onerous burden, and if the carter timed things right, why, he might wangle himself a meal at the camp before the long return journey back to the city. At least by then the day would be mostly done and the air would've cooled. In this heat, neither man nor beast was in any hurry.
Hardly surprising, then, that the lone traveller on foot caught up with them before too long, and after a brief conversation – a few words to either side of the jangle of coins – the load on the cart grew heavier, yet still not enough to force a groan from the ox. This was, after all, the task of its life, the very definition of its existence. In truth, it had little memory of ever being free, of ever trundling along without something to drag behind it, or the endless reverberation in its bones as wheels clunked across cobbles, slipping into and out of worn ruts in the stone.
Languid blinks, the storm of flies that danced in the heat, twitching tail and spots of blood on the fetlocks, and pulling something from one place to another. And at its side, squinting red-shot eyes, a storm of flies dancing, spots of blood here and there from midges and whatnot, and taking something from one place to another. Ox and driver, parallel lives through meaningless years. A singular variation, now, the man sitting with